Always Kiss the Corpse (4 page)

Stockman folded his hands and leaned toward the others. “Thank you all for making the time. Yesterday I went to the viewing for Vasiliadis. I'm afraid the event became a bit of a botch-up. The mother didn't believe it was her son in the coffin.” He glanced from Lorna to Richard to Gary.

“Shit,” said Gary.

Richard's head was shaking. “They had the coffin open?”

“Apparently that's usual in Greek Orthodoxy,” Stockman said.

“Damn it,” said Gary, “why couldn't—”

“Hang on,” Lorna broke in. She turned to Stockman. “Is there a problem here?”

“I'm not sure. I don't think so.”

“Course there's a problem,” Gary said. “We sure don't need negative publicity.”

You should know, Gary, thought Lorna; the mess he'd left at the Seattle clinic—She addressed Stockman again. “But didn't that nurse say it was definitely Vasiliadis?”

“Of course. And everybody else who got a glance agreed. It's a minor thing.”

Richard sighed. “It's a terrible thing. And I take full responsibility.”

Lorna lay her hand on his arm. “Stop it, Richard.”

“It was my fault. If I'd administered the dosage over a longer time, three-four weeks maybe—”

“Richard, Richard,” Stockman interrupted, “you were brilliant with the others. Johnson is perfect, and so is Gustavson. We all agreed on Vasiliadis' course of treatment.”

Richard said, “I should have re-analyzed the tests.”

“That's my job! And Terry's!” Lorna's hands were clenched tightly on the table.

“We'll learn from Vasiliadis,” said Stockman. “We already have.”

”We have to do something, Stock,” said Gary.

“Why? What?” Gary in active mode: Stockman felt wary.

“No we don't,” Lorna said. “We were his physicians. We did what we thought best. The only thing is to continue our work.” She glanced around the table. Gary's right hand clamped itself into a fist, then he stretched his fingers. Richard stared at the table. In Stockman's eyes she saw agreement. “Okay?”

Stockman said, “I think yes. If we could bring Vasiliadis back, we'd all do everything we could for him. But he killed himself.”

“With a hormonal stew tearing up his brain and his body,” Richard muttered.

Stockman turned to him. “What would you like to do about it, Richard?”

Richard Trevelyan stared at the backs of his hands. He shrugged. “It's too late for Vasiliadis.” He glanced from one to the other, his eyes damp. “The work has to go on, that's the important thing.”

“Shit,” said Gary. “I really thought he was calmed out.”

“We are none of us perfect.” said Stockman.

“But we try to get there,” said Lorna. And knew she meant it.

Stockman nodded, as did Richard. Gary raised both arms, hands palms out, his I-give-up gesture, and stood. “I've got a patient. Anything else?”

“Nothing. Thank you, Gary.”

Richard too stood. “Yeah,” he said, and walked from the room. Gary followed him out.

“And thank you too,” Stockman said to Lorna.

Lorna nodded. Back in the office she read an article by a colleague in South Africa. Baldini had followed up some groundbreaking work on mating patterns of a fish called
Serranus fasciatus
. He detailed the transformation of
S. fasciatus
from its hermaphroditic birth stage to a pure male stage by the reabsorption of ovarian tissue. This process, he'd shown, occurs in only one male of a group, who then becomes dominant. The remaining hermaphrodites comprise his harem. His role was to mate daily with each of them. Easy as pie. For a fish.

≈  ≈  ≈

From Kyra's balcony Noel stared out across roofs below, the bay and islands. She'd taken his advice, Buy a place with a vista, it's relaxing on the eyes and the spirit. He turned back to face her. “Great location.”

“Thanks. You like the space, too?”

He took in the living room, dining room, kitchen, and glanced down the hall at the closed bedroom doors. “It's very good.”

“And?”

“And what?”

“My question precisely.”

“I'm taking it in.”

“Okay. Want a drink to take it in with?”

He checked his watch. “In a bit.”

She opened a door. “My office. Your bedroom.”

Just the makeshift desk, phones, electronics. A reading lamp on the edge of the desk. He hoped the pullout couch made into a firm bed. “Great. No distractions while working or sleeping.”

She mock-scowled. “I've just moved in, Noel.” She picked up the business phone and tapped out Maria Vasiliadis' number for Garth Schultz. Not there. Not even a machine.

“It'd be good to see him today.” Noel looked at his watch. “What do you want to do about supper?”

“Out. Lebanese. With the potluck in a couple of days, I've got to conserve my energy.”

“Right. And it's important to keep the kitchen clean.” He caught her small smile. “I'll unpack.” He headed for the office and opened his case. Nowhere to hang anything. He draped his gray slacks over the back of the chair. Ah well. She'd caught his reservation about the condo and was going to ask him to elaborate. Long ago he'd learned that when someone has a new toy she likes a lot, don't criticize its imperfections. But the living room made him uncomfortable—something inharmonious about it. He picked up the phone, pressed Redial. Still no answer.

Kyra, arms folded, was waiting. “I don't think you're impressed with the place.”

“I am. It's a great space.”

“I don't hear a lot of enthusiasm.”

“No, I like it a lot. Just . . .”

“What?”

“I guess, the furniture. I mean—”

“All top of the line.”

“I don't mean that. I mean it feels, well, a little out of balance.”

“What's that mean?”

An edge now to her voice. Nowhere to back off. “That wall? It's too short for the sofa. And the loveseat, I think it should be across from the sofa, not at right angles. Also, your dad's chair, if you had it by the window, it'd be sort of relaxing to sit there and stare out.”

She squinted. “I thought this was the most natural arrangement.”

“Nothing's natural except when we make it so. Right?”

“Maybe.”

They spent the next fifteen minutes rearranging furniture, Noel's mood forced light, Kyra's from irked to neutral. Okay, the new layout didn't look bad. And he was right about the chair.

At five-thirty Noel tried Garth Schultz again. A woman's voice came on, raised over a baby's wail. “Garth Schultz, please.”

The woman yelled, “Garth, phone!”

“Sounds like a madhouse,” Noel whispered to Kyra.

Yes, Garth agreed, seven-thirty, supper would be over by then.

≈  ≈  ≈

Andrei Vasiliadis stared out the large window of his fourteenth-floor office. Late afternoon sun glittered off Lake Washington. His arguments against the new headquarters for Cascade Freightways had nothing to do with the view from the floor-to-ceiling windows looking east and south. Just, he didn't belong on Sand Point Way, and he didn't like the fact that the head of the company had to be called a CEO and had to have an office in some ritzy building far from where the job got done. For thirty-six years he'd worked out of the warehouse down by the docks, just as his father had for nearly five decades. Down where the ships came in and the trucks got loaded. Even today, this minute.

He still used that phrase, getting them loaded, but it was all containers now. Far from the old docks, the longshoremen strikes, the union halls, the fights. He'd weathered those times, had the scars, to the ego and some sewn-up cuts as well. He'd even weathered the container battle. First he was opposed, containers would kill the dockside jobs. Then, when he recognized the inevitability of it—a ship arrives with containers pre-loaded, crane them down, set them on trailers and they zip off on x-teen wheels—he bought in and did his best to placate those redundant longshoremen who were his friends, getting some of them jobs with Cascade.

That's what he was good at, helping people. And why Cascade had outlasted most of the competition. If you take care of your people they end up caring for you. As true for business as for the family. Your neighborhood, your Church.

Sure, he knew the kids had to find their way. But where he could help, he did. Brought them into Cascade if they wanted, nieces, nephews, whoever. Didn't have to become truckers, truckers have a hard life, some guys like it, some don't. Vasily, his nephew, was strong, but Andrei wouldn't put that kid on the road. Vasily had a different kind of strength, troubleshooting strength; Andrei could relax a bit knowing Vasily was around. His other sister Delia, her husband had converted, Chuck Livingston the lawyer, he'd taken on Cascade as half his practice. Chuck didn't come cheap but he'd saved Cascade's hide a few times. Andrei could trust Chuck. And Andrei's kid brother Dom's wife Marina, Marina the looker—Marina's brother, Dr. Philip Deriades, was a wonder. Andrei had convinced Philip to take a two-year residency in industrial medicine and paid him full salary while he was in school. Now Philip was a national leader in the field. Great for Philip, and good too for the company except when he was off to some conference. Just back from one last Friday. Now due in ten minutes. Philip would be more comfortable here than down in the old refurbished ratty office with the white-painted windows where everything smelled of harbor. Where Andrei would much rather be.

It felt good to reflect on success. And right now, because he wanted to keep yesterday's image of Sandro out of his memory. Andrei had given Sandro his first job. Sandro was a good driver, not big but tough, the kid had acted tough even when he didn't have to. Never could figure out why Sandro hadn't lasted. Kid needed the job, baby on the way, and that shouldn't have happened either. Carla must be, what, ten, eleven by now. And Sandro had divorced Diana. Poor little Carla had been barely four. Did it without consulting anyone. Didn't talk with his father or his mother, how can a man divorce his wife without talking to his parents?

Soon as Sandro's death was confirmed, he'd see Diana and tell her.

If Sandro had wanted it, Andrei would have been there to listen, to help. Sandro didn't even murmur about a problem. There are very few problems in the world that can't be worked out. Not if there's a bit of good will. Relationships aren't all that difficult. A lot of listening, sometimes giving in, a little niceness, what's so hard about that? Poor Diana had told her mother-in-law that Sandro hadn't even told her, his very own wife, his intentions! Just announced at breakfast: I'm leaving. It had do with sex, Andrei had learned that much. He'd called Sandro in, closed the door, demanded to know what this divorce idea was all about. Sandro didn't talk much, didn't answer Andrei's questions, some platitudes about starting over, wanting a career, medicine maybe— Medicine! The kid had finished high school, but that was it! And you don't walk away from the mother of your children. For a couple of minutes Andrei felt he'd broken through, Sandro admitting Diana wanted more kids, Sandro saying he wasn't interested in sex with her— What a dumb idea. Gorgeous girl like Diana. Anyway, you don't need a lot of sex with your wife to get kids, choose your time, suddenly she's in the family way, she doesn't care about you for the duration of the pregnancy and long after. Break up a family because your wife doesn't turn you on? Crazy.

Yes, Sandro looked weird in the coffin. But Andrei had seen his share of the departed and a good undertaker can make the face look healthy. Maybe the Whidbey funeral home didn't have a good undertaker, maybe the Protestants and the Catholics don't have open coffins. Ridiculous, should've brought him down right away to Sporo's place. It all started years back when Maria and Kostas moved up to Bellingham, away from the community. Andrei knew Maria didn't want to leave Seattle but Kostas was a rebel, always had been. Part of why Maria loved him, Andrei figured, Maria always wanted to rebel but she never dared.

A knock on the door startled him. “Come in!”

A man in his mid-forties entered, bald pate gleaming, three-quarters of a circle of thick black hair ear to ear around the back of his head. A bushy black mustache. Suit and tie. “Andrei. Good to see you.”

“Hello Philip. How was the trip?”

“Fine, fine.” They sat in the two big chairs and watched dying light stroke water. An exchange about the paper he'd given, the three kinds of industrial rehabilitation, outgrowth of Dr. Deriades' experimental treatments for potential repetitive stress among Cascade workers. “Some disagreement but I think I convinced my colleagues prevention is what it's about.”

Andrei sighed. “Philip, I need your help.”

“Of course.”

“Sandro.”

“Ah.”

“You've heard?”

“Just a bit. Maria thinks it's not Sandro's body?”

Andrei described Sandro's face, and Maria's reaction. They should bury him quickly, but with Maria's doubts, she was wrong but—

“I suppose you've started with the assumption this wasn't Sandro. Tried to locate him? Call him?”

“I'm sure I saw Sandro's body. But still I drove by his house on my way to the ferry. Locked, no one there. No answer on his phone. No car. I spoke to the police in Coupeville this morning. His body was identified by a co-worker, a nurse. I called her, she confirmed what she'd told the police. But Maria doesn't believe it.

“The police say he overdosed. Heroin?”

The shame the boy had brought on them. He expelled a loud breath. “Yes. But maybe worse. If he did it deliberately—”

Philip finished, “—he can't be buried in hallowed ground. The protopresbyter and the community will not be pleased.”