Marine Corpse Page 8

  He sighed and crossed his legs. I noticed for the first time that he was wearing blue jeans and cowboy boots with elevated heels. “Why? What’s the problem?”

  “No problem, really. We had a mutual friend—a man by the name of Stu Carver. He was killed a couple of weeks ago. I haven’t seen Altoona since then. I wanted to ask him a few questions. I also wanted to see how he’s doing. I got to know him pretty well, I thought, and I’ve been concerned about him.”

  The priest frowned. “Stu Carver, did you say?”

  “Yes.”

  “Should I have known him? Was he one of our, er, patrons?”

  “He went by the name Cutter, I think.”

  He nodded. “Oh, sure. Altoona had him in a few times. Young fellow. An outsider.”

  “How do you mean?”

  He chuckled. “These men, they’re private, cliquey types, you know. Not what you’d call sociable. Get a bunch of them in this room, you’d hardly hear a word passed in an evening. But this Cutter, he was different. He’d go around introducing himself, asking questions. Trying to be friendly, I guess. But, of course, they didn’t trust him. One evening—it was one of the times he stayed the night—he sat with the Puerto Ricans chattering away in Spanish at them. They just looked at him with their stone faces. Another time it was the blacks. Same thing. Altoona, I think, tried to tell him how it was. These are troubled people who don’t like themselves very much. They’re defeated. Running away from life. Losing themselves in a bottle. They want to forget their past. They don’t want to think about their future. All those clichés are really apt. Anyway, someone like this Cutter sticks out like a sore thumb. Makes them uncomfortable, wary. He was just too interested in things. I remember hearing about his death.” He paused. “He wasn’t really a bum, was he?”

  “No. No, he wasn’t. He was studying them.”

  Father Barrone nodded. “They’d know that immediately. They don’t like being studied.”

  I shrugged. “Altoona didn’t seem to mind.”

  “Altoona isn’t typical.”

  I nodded. “I don’t suppose he is.” I noticed ashtrays spread out on the tables in the room, so I shook a Winston out of my pack and lit it. “Didn’t the police question you about Carver’s death?”

  He shook his head. “No. I wouldn’t have been able to help them.”

  “Still, you’d think…”

  “Mr. Coyne, I don’t know these people. I don’t even pretend to know them. I provide some warmth at night for the first fifty of them that show up. I can handle eighty for meals. First come, first served. Three times a week one of the residents from City Hospital—Dr. Vance, a real saint—comes over. All these sick men, but not many take advantage. See, they don’t even want a doctor getting to know them. He starts trying to get a medical history, they walk away. So I couldn’t help the police. I can’t help the men, either. Not really. I respect their privacy. Try to give them a little spiritual sustenance. Some of them’ll come to Mass. ‘Singing for supper,’ they call it. They’re not sincere, I know that.” He sighed. “It’s not what I bargained for. As a pastor to them, I’m a failure.”

  “Can you tell me how I might get in touch with Altoona?”

  He laughed. “I can take you to him, if that’s what you mean. As for getting in touch with him, that may be a bit more difficult.”

  “What do you mean?”

  He stood up. “Come on. Follow me. You’ll see.”

  He led me back into the hallway and then put his hand against one of the closed doors. “Altoona’s a regular,” he said back over his shoulder to me. “He sweeps up, does a few odds and ends—nothing very taxing. He’s very sick. He needs medication. Neither Dr. Vance nor I can persuade him to accept the appropriate treatment. But I can keep him inside in the winter, usually.”

  “I knew he was sick.”

  “He’s worse now.”

  Father Barrone pushed on the door. It opened into an L-shaped room which was sprinkled with an eclectic collection of old straight-backed chairs and overstuffed sofas, a large television set, and faded curtains and rugs. It was what, in institutions, they called a day room. A place to sit around while waiting to heal.

  I heard the whistling first, and then I saw Altoona. He had on the same red flannel shirt and baggy pants and oversized boots that he wore the first time he appeared in my office. He was standing in the alcove formed by the leg of the L, where the three walls were lined from top to bottom with books. He was miming a basketball player. He bent over, pretending to dribble an imaginary ball—behind his back, through his legs, forward and back, one hand to the other, all the while whistling. I recognized the tune. “Sweet Georgia Brown,” the theme song of the Harlem Globetrotters.

  Father Barrone and I stood and watched for a moment. “I don’t get it,” I whispered to the priest. Barrone shrugged.

  Altoona looked over. “Ah. Goose Tatum,” he said. “Catch, Goose.”

  He mimed a pass to me. I pretended to catch the ball and passed it back to him. He caught it and resumed his mock dribbling. He began to sing in a raspy monotone. The tune was “Sweet Georgia Brown.” The refrain was “Sweet Georgia Brown.” The rest of the lyrics were vulgar, so out of character for the gentle, refined man I had thought Altoona to be that it saddened me.

  “Hey, old friend,” I said softly. “Can we talk?”

  He bent at the knees and pretended to take a two-handed set shot. He watched the flight of the imaginary ball and pounded his fist into the palm of his hand when it missed. Then he looked over at me and the priest.

  “Ah, it’s the good Father Joe on his pastoral rounds.” He struck a pose and began to sing again:

  Christianity hits the spot

  Twelve disciples, that’s a lot,

  Jesus Christ and a virgin, too

  Christianity’s the thing for you.

  Holy, holy, holy, holy, holy.

  “Forgive us our trespasses, Father,” said Altoona. “More of your opiate for the people.”

  “See what I mean?” whispered the priest.

  I walked over to where Altoona stood. I reached to touch his arm, and he jumped away from me.

  “Cutter is dead,” I said.

  “Alas, poor Cutter. Hey, nonny, nonny.”

  He sat suddenly on one of the wooden chairs and began to cough. This spasm seemed to last longer than those I had witnessed before, and I sat beside him, my arm across his shoulders, until he finished. When it was over, he turned to look at me. “Ah, dear Brady. My late lamented patron. Yes. Cutter is dead.”

  “Who killed him?”

  “Ah. Mum’s the word, my man. Keep it in your armpit. The gendarmes took their rubber hoses to me. They flayed my flesh, screwed my thumbs, stocked and pilloried these poor old limbs, but ol’ ’Toona was too much of a man for them. Now here comes the good guy.” He shook his forefinger in my face. “Now, now. These lips are sealed.”

  “Do you know something? He was your friend, you know. Others may be in danger. You know you can trust me.”

  He glanced toward Father Barrone, who had sat on one of the sofas, and then he looked at me sharply. I wondered just how crazy he really was. “Cutter asked too many questions. Bound to offend. Talked too much. Not me.”

  “Who? Who did he offend?”

  He put his hand over his mouth and squinted slyly. “Let’s discuss books.” He waved his hand around at the rows of old volumes against the walls. The books looked faded and dusty and unused. He hummed “Sweet Georgia Brown,” and for a moment I thought he had forgotten I was there. Suddenly he jabbed at me with his forefinger. “Spinoza, for example. Do you know Spinoza, Brady Coyne, attorney at law? The good Father Barrone here knows Spinoza. Most intelligent fellow, Spinoza. Jewish boy. Died of consumption, he did. TB, that is. Foul disease. At the callow age of forty-five. You and I’d be dead by now if we died at the callow age of forty-five. At least I would. Wrote things in Latin, Spinoza did. He was a book writer. I don’t think this institution carr
ies the works of Spinoza. They have some interesting tomes here. But no Spinoza.”

  “I’m not familiar with Spinoza,” I said.

  “More’s the pity.”

  “What about some lunch? Let’s go have lunch.”

  “Oho! Oh, no you don’t, sir.”

  “I’d like to buy you lunch, my friend. For old time’s sake.”

  “You don’t owe me. I don’t owe you. We’re even. The slate is clean. Tabula rasa.”

  “Coffee, then, at least. What do you say?”

  “I have no information to sell.” He whistled a bar of “Sweet Georgia Brown.”

  “Dammit, I’m not trying to buy you.”

  He twisted his head so that his face was close to mine. “You are a good man,” he said in a low voice. “We have exchanged favors. Value for value. Now we’re done.”

  “I’m disappointed.”

  He shrugged. “As am I.”

  “Did Cutter leave any more notebooks with you?” I persisted. “Or any other notes? A diary, perhaps?”

  Altoona stood up and began to dribble the imaginary basketball again. “Do you remember Cousy? Marvelous talent, Cousy.” He darted back and forth among the chairs, dribbling and whistling “Sweet Georgia Brown.” I sat for a few minutes, watching him. Then I got up and left the room. Father Barrone followed me out.

  We went back into the dining room. The priest frowned at me. “Are you all right?”

  “I’m a bit shaken, to tell you the truth,” I said. “Can we talk some more?”

  “Sure. Let’s sit.”

  I lit a cigarette. “How long has he been like this?”

  “Since around New Year’s. Few weeks, now.”

  “Since Stu Carver died, then.”

  “Yes, just about that.” He cocked his head and peered at me. “If you’re reading something into that, you should know that Altoona has a history of mental disease. He was institutionalized for several years. He was released only because of Reagan’s cutbacks. He was never considered cured.”

  “Yes, he told me that.”

  “He’s a very sick man. In many ways.”

  I nodded. “That is evident, just how sick is he?”

  The priest shrugged. “You probably should talk to Dr. Vance about that.”

  “I’d like to,” I said.

  Barrone glanced at his watch. “He should be almost done. He has taken special interest in Altoona. He’s quite an unusual person, Mr. Coyne. Dr. Vance, that is. Donates his services. Do you know where places like this would be without the good will of lots of skilled professional people?”

  I shrugged. “I can imagine.”

  He looked sharply at me. “We can use all sorts of help.”

  “About Altoona,” I said.

  The priest smiled.

  “You’ll continue to take care of him?”

  “Sure. As long as I’m here, he’s got a home.”

  “Are you planning to leave?”

  The priest grinned. “Mr. Coyne, priests don’t make plans. They pray. I have been called to serve. I go where I’m sent, I serve whomever I find there.”

  “I admire the work you do.”

  His eyes glittered in a cynical smile. “Don’t. I didn’t choose it. I dream of a little rural parish near the sea, where there are birds and sunshine and fields, and young matrons come to me crying over their petty marital spats.” He looked at me. “I trust that doesn’t shock you.”

  “No.” I smiled. “I indulge myself in daydreams, too.”

  “Well,” he said, “I guess that’s what keeps us going. These men, they don’t have daydreams. Well. Let me take you to Dr. Vance now. He can fill you in on Altoona.”

  “Good.”

  I followed the priest to the end of the narrow corridor. He rapped lightly on the door and then pushed it open. The room was small and square and windowless. The walls were lined with shelves and glass cabinets holding bottles and vials and medical gear. It smelled of antiseptic.

  A big bear of a man dressed in a white jacket stood beside an older man who was perched up on an examining table. The doctor had skin the color of dark tanned leather. His black beard had streaks of white in it. The hair on top of his head had receded about halfway back. The patient had skin the color of school paste, except for feverish patches of red on his cheeks and a bulbous red nose. Both men looked up when the priest and I entered.

  “With you in a minute,” said Dr. Vance, his voice rumbling in the fifty-gallon drum that was his chest. He turned to his patient. “Now, Charles,” he murmured, “This been hurtin’ you some, I ’magine.” The doctor’s accent was Caribbean—Jamaican, I guessed, with a British seasoning.

  “Hurtin’ like a sumbitch,” the older man whined. “Can’t sleep. Even the spirits don’t help none.”

  “Well, then, my frien’, you shouldn’ worry about my takin’ a li’l nick out of it, make all that pain go away.”

  The doctor peered at the man’s neck, touching it tenderly with rubber-gloved hands, and I saw the problem. A boil the size of a silver dollar and the shape of Mt. St. Helen’s threatened to erupt just at his hairline. It hurt me just to look at it.

  “Don’t touch it,” said the man. “I don’t think I could stand it. Just give me some pills.”

  “Pills ain’t goin’ help you, Charles. You let Doctor Adrian take care of you right now.”

  “You’ll make it better?”

  Vance chuckled. “All better. Promise.”

  He swabbed the neck with a bright orange antiseptic, then went to one of the cabinets and removed a slim surgeon’s lancet from a container where, I assumed, it had been bathing in alcohol. When Charles saw it he started to climb down from the table.

  “Sit still, there, Charles. It’s just going to make you feel better.”

  “You gonna hurt me.”

  The doctor turned to the priest. “Give me a li’l hand, here, Father Joe,” he said. “You just give Charles your hands for him to hang on to for a second, while I make him all better.”

  The priest stepped around so that he stood directly in front of Charles. He said, “Give me your hands, now, Charles.” The other man did. “Would you like to say a little prayer?”

  Charles shook his head. “He’s gonna fuckin’ hurt me, Father, ’scuse me.”

  “He’s going to fix you up,” said the priest, and both he and the doctor murmured soothingly. Vance held a piece of gauze in his left hand and the lancet in his right. He stood behind Charles. He placed the gauze against the boil. When he touched his neck, the old man cringed.

  “Hold tight,” said the priest.

  “Nasty carbuncle, there, Charles,” said the doctor, and as he spoke he touched the tip of the scalpel to the white center of the boil. Charles screamed, a sudden cry of pure pain. I turned my head away.

  “It’s done,” rumbled the doctor.

  “My good God,” said Charles, breathing rapidly. “Oh, Christ, that hurt.”

  When I looked again, the doctor was swabbing the area with more antiseptic. He bandaged it tenderly. Charles had broken out in a sheen of perspiration.

  “You all better, now,” said Vance. He handed him a paper towel. “Wipe off your face, Charles.”

  Vance peeled off his rubber gloves and dropped them into a wastebasket. Then he turned to one of the cabinets and extracted a bottle, from which he took a small handful of pills. He gave two of them to Charles, then got him a paper cup of water. “Take these right now, Charles. I’m going to give you some more. You take two every eight hours until you run out. Understand, now? This is important for you. You got a li’l staph infection in you, and these pills’ll take care of it. Tha’s why you got that ol’ boil on your neck.”

  Charles swallowed his pills and accepted the little bottle that Vance handed to him. “Take ’em when?” he said.

  “Every eight hours. Can you remember that?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll remember. Don’t want to get another one of them things.”

  Fathe
r Barrone helped Charles down from the table and walked out the door with him while Dr. Vance went to the sink and rinsed off his hands.

  The doctor glanced at me. “He’s goin’ try to sell those pills.”

  “What are they?”

  “Penicillin. Don’t matter. He’ll try to sell ’em, and somebody’ll buy ’em, lookin’ for a high or a low. Either one. Don’t matter. That’s how these men are.”

  Father Barrone came back into the room. “Poor fella’s still shaking. Well. Have you met? Adrian, this is Mr. Coyne. He’s an attorney, and he came by to visit Altoona.”

  The doctor’s smile was as broad and strong as the hand he offered me. “Pleasure, sir.” His voice rumbled as we shook hands. “You a frien’ of ol’ Altoona, eh?”

  “Yes. I’m concerned about him.”

  Vance nodded somberly. “He’s a dyin’ man.” He pronounced it “mahn.”

  “So Father Barrone told me. TB, is it?”

  “Yes. Many of our patients have it. It’s a plague.”

  “He won’t accept treatment?”

  “He shoul’ be in the hospital. I can’t treat him properly here. He won’ take his medicine. Like he wants to die.”

  “What about his mental condition?” I said.

  “I’m no expert on that, Mr. Coyne. But I can tell you this much. He’s a schizophrenic, ol’ Altoona. This is his syndrome. Fairly typical, I un’erstand. These periods of—what would you call it?—lunacy, I guess. Maybe only last a few hours. Maybe years.” The big doctor shrugged. “Maybe forever. But the ol’ man’s harmless. He won’t hurt nobody. He won’t hurt himself, either, Mr. Coyne. He jus’ needs lookin’ after, he does. And, who knows? Maybe tomorrow he’ll be lucid again.” He shrugged. “Or maybe he never will. Better, maybe, if he never does, actually.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He don’ know he’s dyin’.”

  I nodded. “I see what you mean. You know, if it’s a matter of money…”

  “It’s not,” said the Doctor. “We could find a way to take care of that.” He glanced sharply at me. “Not that we can’t always use money. But ol’ Altoona, he’s scared of hospitals. He was in one once.”