The Tattered Thread, Page 3

CHAPTER THREE

  Carl’s favorite straight razor had been dropped at his feet, the edge of the blade catching the tile on the floor. The tip of the brown and yellow handle was burning, the small flame greedily consuming the rest of the celluloid. Just two short weeks ago Tasia had used the same razor to cut her wrists.

  Each step Elaine took crackled underfoot, the fragments of glass being spread out so far. Blood streamed down the right side of Carl’s body, spreading over the side of the tub like a red sheet. Edging down and collecting under his right thigh, the blood tacked the bathroom mat to the floor, and a tattered and well-worn piece of thread had been tied around the fingers of his right hand, netting them together like one impervious web. His fingers bled because the thread had been tied tight enough to cut them.

  Parts of the bathroom had been reduced to rubble. The lion head, marble toilet bowl sat gray with plaster dust, and a roll of tissue was burning beside it. A mirror had shattered above the vanity. Once beige, the pressed-tin ceiling and cornice were blackened by flames and soot; the detail of the fleurs-de-lys motif displayed above was enhanced by its having been torched, like a lead pencil shading. Floor tiles had lifted and broken where the blast had occurred, leaving a hole almost ten inches in diameter and six inches deep.

  An enclosure under the black walnut sink was missing one of its doors; the door had been blown against the barber’s chair. The marble countertop had collapsed into the cabinet, taking the crosshandle taps and china basins down with it. One of the double vanity’s basins was cracked, but the thick slab of marble had been left unscathed. Exposed brass pipes beneath the sink gleamed in the meager light coming from the wall sconces. Water dripped from one of the crystal faucets, a slow, meandering motion drumming against the left oval basin. It blurred the pretty pink rose pattern painted on the ivory-colored china.

  “Tasia,” Carl said woefully through a pair of battered lips. He could have mentioned his wife, but his mistress’s name was the only one he could manage. Lois took that declaration like a final affirmation of her insignificance; even as he lay dying, her husband had managed to embarrass her once again. She looked down at him with a scowl, her top lip twitching.

  Elaine went inside the room, waving smoke and plaster dust away from her nose and eyes. “Mr. Kastenmeier,” she said, coughing as she knelt beside him. She opened his jacket and then eased him back to a more comfortable position against the tub. When she loosened his tie, he gazed up at her. Expecting to be thanked, she was surprised to see him start thrashing about as if he hadn’t wanted to be touched. She let go of him and then backed off, glancing over her shoulder at the others.

  “Go…!” he mumbled, so she faced him again.

  “Yes, sir? Go, what?”

  “Go to hell!” he said, straining to use his last energy to do what he did best. “Bitch!” he proclaimed also, and then seemed proud to have mustered that much defiance while in such a horrible state. Then he ended the feat by pulling up the corners of his mouth to form enough of a smile for his intention to be understood. As he drew in a last breath and then exhaled slowly, the fingers of his left hand opened, exposing a piece of plastic in his palm.

  “Hah!” Cameron said, standing behind Elaine.

  Around the corner, where a Lady’s chair, settee, and an occasional table added Victorian plushness to an already well-furnished bathroom, the rose-patterned, stained-glass window flashed bright for a second. “Did you see that?” Elaine asked, but no one seemed to understand the question.

  “Sure did,” Cameron said, staring down at Carl’s body while chewing the gum in his mouth a little faster. “The boss just died.” He blew a bubble. “It’s like something you’d see in a dream.”

  “No, no,” Elaine said. “Something was shining on that window.”

  “An act of God, no doubt,” Cameron said, taking note of Betty’s amused visage. His voice boomed off the scarred walls. “No chance of redemption, an express ticket to hell…. Pleasantries for the rest of us to look back on fondly for the rest of our lives.”

  Silence ensued as Silas poked his head through the door. When Elaine saw him, she stood away from his father’s body. Coughing and wheezing a bit, Silas was still weak from the one-hundred-and-three-degree fever he’d had earlier in the day. His ashen complexion enhanced the redness of the rash covering his body, which was especially localized on his small, pallid chest. “Dad?” he said, entering and discovering Carl slumped dead at his feet. Silas knelt beside him and then checked for a carotid pulse.

  “Has anyone called for help?” he asked, turning to look at his mother. Lois Kastenmeier was staring off into space as if more concerned with estimating the cost of repairing the room rather than getting her husband any medical treatment. Perhaps she should’ve been wondering if the house was hers now that Carl was gone.

  Elaine looked at Cameron. All he did was sigh and fold his arms tighter against his chest. Chewing his gum harder, he didn’t rush to a telephone. It would’ve been difficult to drag him to one. Betty and Vic weren’t moving, either.

  “I’ll make the call, Silas,” Elaine said, walking out of the bathroom with glass crackling underfoot. As she dialed 911 from Katerina’s phone in the outer office, she could hear the longcase clock chiming one full verse of taps in the family room, marking the eleventh hour.