David Ohle: The Old Reactor

There was a letter from Ozzie:

Dear Moldenke ,

I went up on charges yesterday for organizing the milkmen and now I’m going to be exploded next Friday, or maybe the next, depending on how they schedule it .

I wonder what it feels like. A quick sense of expansion, then nothing. Is that it? What did I do? Organized? Looked out for the poor working stiff? You would have done the same if you were here. It’s all a political thing. I was a threat to them as an organizer. They could see the liberation coming. So I get exploded. What’s fair?

If the liberation doesn’t come very soon, this will be my last letter to you. After they explode me, the two jellyhead artisans living in the Esplanade house will be in charge until you come home, which I hope will be very soon .

When you get this, I could be dust.

Yours ,

Dead Ozzie

Near dusk, after waking from a nap beside Sorrel, Moldenke heard a rapping on the Dutch door. As concierge, it was his duty to receive would-be tenants, especially Heeney survivors. This could be one of them.

The rapper, however, was Salmonella, with singed hair and a scorched blouse. “I want a room.” Her canvas bag, too, was scorched.

“Did you set the fire?”

“He was no good. He was trash. So I burned him.”

“If you want a room, show me your pass card. I’ll give you a key. But here’s a warning, there are men up there whose friends perished in the fire. They won’t excuse what you did.”

“I don’t care. I’m freeborn. I’m not afraid of anything. Why are you in charge here?”

“Things happen. The concierge was called back to Bunkerville. I’m watching out for the Tunney while she’s gone. We don’t have facilities, so you’ll have to use public ones.”

“Yeah, I know — same as the Heeney.”

“A lot of free people died.”

“He ran all around till he fell down the stairs and set the carpet on fire. I didn’t know he was going to do that. Please let me stay in your room. I’m tired. I won’t have trouble sleeping on the floor.”

“You escaped from the Home, then.”

“It’s easy. The Sisters drink bitters and get sleepy. I took a can of turpentine from the tool shed at the Home and went to look for Daddy at the Heeney. He was drunk with bitters and half asleep on a torn-up old mattress with a lit Julep in his mouth. I sloshed him with turpentine and the Julep caught him on fire.”

“That explains it,” Moldenke said.

“I hated him so much. Now I won’t ever know who my mother was.”

He handed Salmonella a key. “The room hasn’t been cleaned. Things have been so busy. I’ll be sleeping down here.”

“I don’t care. I could sleep in a rat’s nest.”

“Keep an eye out for those men up there. They may want to hurt you.”

“Here.” Salmonella reached into her bag for an apple, which she handed to Moldenke. “They grow on a tree at the Home.” She began her ascent of the stairs and stopped. From that vantage, she saw the apartment bathroom and the commode.

“It’s not for tenant use,” Moldenke said.

Passing the fingers of one hand through her singed hair, Salmonella continued to the second floor.

Moldenke could now return to Sorrel and hope there would be no more check-ins for a while. He thought she might be a little peckish when she awoke and he went into the apartment kitchen to see what might be there to eat and drink. He had never seen the concierge at Saposcat’s and concluded she must have eaten in.

The kitchen was small, but there was a coal-fired brazier for cooking, pots and pans, and a fresh-box that opened to the outside cold. In the box were cans of meat, meal mix, salted mud fish, a quart of green soda, and on a shelf above the fresh-box, a bottle of bitters. There wouldn’t be any real need to go to Saposcat’s for dinner. He and Sorrel could stay in, have some meat, a couple of mud fish, soda, an apple, possibly a glass or two of bitters, then get some needed rest.

Things were falling into place for Moldenke, at least for the moment. The concierge in the basement shelter remained something to think about now and then. If the weather turned hot, there could be an urgency to take care of her in some way, either bury her or move her elsewhere.

He sat on the edge of the bed. Sorrel was still asleep, still clinging to Big Ernie’s ashes, some of which had spilled from the badly sealed container on to the bed sheets. He leaned close to the pillow, planning to give her a little kiss on the cheek, a brotherly kiss, nothing to frighten her. But when his puckered lips neared her flesh, he felt heat. He touched her forehead. She was feverish. He shook her shoulder gently. “Sorrel? You’re hot as a stove. You should be drinking something. We have green soda.”

She lifted her head, leaving strands of hair on the pillow, then turned to the side and vomited foamy, rosy bile over the edge of the bed.

Moldenke handed her the corner of the quilt to wipe her mouth.

“Sorry, Moldenke. I couldn’t help it. I’m so sick.”

“It’s probably a bug. The weather’s been cold.”

“It’s radio poisoning. I bathed in that pond so many times. What about you, Moldenke?”

“Only that once and not for long.”

“Let me sleep here. It hurts to move.”

“Would you like anything to eat or drink? I have a kitchen. There’s meat, there’s green soda. Even bitters if you want something stiff.”

Sorrel didn’t answer. Her head sank back into the pillow and she was asleep in moments.

Moldenke was in a quandary. If Sorrel was suffering radio poisoning, there was nothing he could do other than let her sleep and make her as comfortable as possible. He tucked the blanket around her and put a second pillow under her head.

As Sorrel slept, Moldenke ate a couple of mud fish along with a few gulps of bitters and settled on the idea of doing something about the concierge. It was nearly dark outside, so what little light came into the basement windows would soon be gone altogether. He had three or four Juleps left and a few matches. He searched the apartment, hoping to find a candle. There was a box of waxed-paper matches near the pellet stove, but no candles that he could find.

Now the bitters were making him dizzy. He descended the basement stairs carefully, his ankle throbbing, holding to the rail with one hand and trying to keep a match burning with the other. The matches cast light in a small circle. Anything a few feet away lay in darkness. He almost stepped on a slug before crushing a fat, brown basement cricket underfoot. When the flame reached his finger, he would stop, blow out the stub, and light another. Once down the stairs, the footing was paved with rounded stones that were damp, uneven and with a slippery skin of mold. He had to take each step with the skill of a mountain goat. A sprained or broken ankle could lay him up for weeks or months.

On reaching the shelter area, he had two matches left, which lighted his way to the body. He stood beside it, regretting he’d come all this way without a thought-through plan for disposing of it in a sanitary way. Several options occurred to him. One, to leave her where she was, do nothing, and hope she would shrivel and dry, though in such a damp environment that was unlikely. She was sure to mold, perhaps even liquefy after a while. In the meantime, there would be cadaverous odors wafting up. The roomers would complain.

The other possibility, dragging her up the stairs and out of the building and who knew how far, would be quite strenuous. He wasn’t feeling all that well, and if he were to exhaust himself, he could easily lapse into something far more serious. He made the decision to leave her there. If he detected any odor, the plan would be reconsidered. Until then, it was best to go back to his duties as concierge, to taking care of Sorrel, and to dealing with whatever trouble Salmonella might bring.