Wendy Hornsby - The Color of Light

“Sure,” he said when I showed him what I needed moved. “That’s nice stuff. You just going to leave it out in the garage?”

“Eventually it’s going to my house.”

“Where’s that?”

I told him, up in Malibu Canyon, not far from where he was taking the piano.

“When I take the piano down, I won’t have a full load,” he said. “I can haul your stuff at the same time for you. We have a concert hall job for the next couple of days so we won’t head south until Friday. If that’s okay with you.”

I told him that was just fine, and it certainly was. One less thing for me to contend with. We negotiated a price, shook hands, and I went out to sweep the garage floor while Hong’s crew loaded Dad’s chairs, the pretty marquetry table, a few other pieces of furniture and about two dozen boxes of random stuff, much of it to be sorted later, when I had time.

Before Hong got into his truck, he scooped a collection of fast-food wrappers out of the truck’s cab and took them to the Dumpster.

“Pee-yoo,” he declared after lifting the Dumpster lid enough to drop in his trash. “Haven’t smelled anything that rank since some guy ran over the neighbor’s dog and dumped it in my trashcan. Like to never got the stink outta the can.”

“It does smell,” I said, looking up from sweeping. “The Dumpster is supposed to go away today.”

Still carrying the broom, I went out front and directed Hong’s wheels away from the flower borders as he pulled out onto the street. After I waved the movers good-bye, I went over to the Dumpster and lifted the lid to see what was causing the horrible stench. Had someone dumped in some domestic roadkill? A Fluffy or a Rover who strayed into the street at the wrong moment? Whatever was in there did smell dead.

The stench hit me like a hot, viscous wave. I turned my head to fill my lungs, then holding my breath, with the end of the broom handle I started pushing aside refuse to see if I could find the source. Under a pile of old kitchen gadgets, Dad’s outdated professional journals, and various junk cleaned out of bathroom cupboards, there was an opened-up sleeping bag that I did not recognize. I reached in and lifted a corner of the bag.

I don’t know how I got there, but next thing I knew, I was on my butt, on the driveway, back against the Dumpster, vision blurred, ears ringing, bowels threatening to let go. Anoxia, maybe? I tried to stand but seemed to have left my legs somewhere else.

Max was beside me somehow.

“Jesus Christ.” He slammed down the Dumpster lid before he grabbed me under the arms and half dragged, half carried me across the driveway to the patch of front lawn. I saw Karen Loper hobbling down her front steps and summoned enough presence of mind to raise an arm, point at her and croak, “Go away,” loud enough for her to hear. Reluctantly, she went.

I lay back on the cool grass and tried to breathe.

“I heard you scream,” Max said. “What the hell happened?”

“Call 911.”

“Maggie, honey.” Worry clouding his face, he looked me all over, checked the back of my head for blood, felt my limbs. I reached into his pocket and took out his phone. I was connected to the 911 dispatcher before he finished his examination.

“What is your emergency?” the dispatcher asked.

“It isn’t exactly an emergency,” I said. “Not anymore. But could you please ask the police to get over here, right now?”

“What is your emergency, ma’am?”

“A man is dead.”

I handed the phone to Max and tried to sit up. That horrible smell coated the inside of my mouth and nose and seemed to prevent new air from getting into my lungs. I lay back down, looked up at the clouds, and tried to breathe.

From somewhere in the distance, I heard Max talking to the emergency dispatcher on his phone. Next I heard the squeal of the Dumpster lid rising, heard him utter, “Holy Jesus, Mary and Joseph,” and then the lid slammed back down. Sirens approached almost immediately. And the refuse haulers arrived to pick up the Dumpster.

The sirens stopped and there was some shouting before the refuse haulers went away again. I just pulled up my knees, spread out my arms on the grass and looked up at the sky. Was I supposed to have intuited when George Loper said the Dumpster stank and I heard that Larry Nordquist was MIA that the missing church cook, childhood bully, and adult felon was taking his eternal nap among my family’s castoffs in that big green iron box on the driveway? It seemed that he wanted to be brought inside our family circle, but, man, had he chosen the wrong way to do it.

I felt tired. Psychically, physically tired. Too many people coming and going, too many people hovering. Too many family relics to deal with. Too much good-bye. I knew that Mom was right when she said that some bodies need to be left as they are, where they are. Except that Larry, after sweltering in that box in my front yard for a while, did need to be removed. Soon.

Dark blue-uniformed Berkeley cops came pouring out of black-and-white cars and Max went to meet them. More arrived on bicycles, others ran up the steep street. They all converged around Larry Nordquist’s less than auspicious catafalque. I intended to stay as far away from the activity as I could.

I don’t know how long I lay there, quietly working things through. Sooner or later one of those badge-wearing people was bound to come over and yank me back into the here and now, so I savored my moments of solitude.

Kevin lay down on the grass next to me and rested his head on his hands. “Looking for the Big Dipper?”

“Too early for that,” I said, watching the shapes I conjured out of the few sparse stratocumulus clouds above me morph into new shapes, change again.

“You want me to call Father John?” he asked.

“Not for me,” I said. “And it’s a little late for Larry. Besides, Father John is busy making soup. I thought you might be helping him.”

“He called,” Kevin said. “But unlike some people, on Monday mornings I have to go to work. My daughter went over with a couple of her friends to help out. I thought she could use a little time with the padre.”

“She okay?”

He bobbed his head, maybe yes, maybe no. “Any idea how Larry ended up where he is? And when?”

“Maybe,” I said. “Can we talk about it later?”

“Take your time.”

I sat up, stayed still for a moment until my head adjusted to the new altitude. The driveway looked like a police convention.

“I hope at least one of your guys stayed behind at the cop house to turn out the lights and lock the door.” I looked over at Kevin. “When was the last time you had a murder in Berkeley?”

“It happens, even here,” he said. “You think Larry was murdered?”

“Did you get a look at him?”

He nodded.

“Then you know.”

Probably because nothing else was happening in Berkeley on that beautiful Monday in summer, a fire department paramedic truck pulled up. With nowhere else to park, it stopped in the middle of the street. Two excruciatingly young men got out. One ran toward the Dumpster, the other ran to me. As I sat on the lawn next to Kevin, the medic took my vitals, shone a flashlight into my eyes and asked me what day it was.

“Monday,” I said. Uncle Max came over when he saw the ministering paramedic. “I don’t remember having lunch, so it must not be noon yet.”

“Everything check out?” Max asked as the paramedic rolled up his blood pressure cuff.

“A little shocky, but she’s okay.”

“Then excuse us, please.” Max took me by the hand and helped me to my feet. “Anyone who wants a word with my niece will just have to wait.”