The Undertaker's Daughter (Ilka #1)(32)

But she had checked everywhere. Ilka was sure he hadn’t been lying on the floor. She fought down her uncertainty. It must have happened after she’d gone back to bed.

She considered again whether to leave the body there until Artie came, let him decide what to do. Her palms were sweaty, the back of her T-shirt wet. Her eyes darted around the garage, into the nooks and crannies.

She gave it one more shot, but it was impossible to lift him by herself. Instead of going back to bed, though, she opened the garage door and walked over to the addition. It was much too quiet outside, in contrast to all the noise in her head. It felt all wrong. And then there was the mauled body on the floor a few yards away.

The darkness made it difficult to make out what was written on the doors, but the one down at the end seemed to be the main entrance. She pushed the doorbell hard, let go, pushed it again. And again, and again, until a light came on in a room facing the parking lot.

She retreated a few steps and waited until Sister Eileen came to the door in a nightgown.

“I’m sorry,” Ilka began. Suddenly she realized she was standing there in a sleep shirt, her hair tangled up. “Something’s happened in the garage. I need your help.”

The nun frowned and shook her head. She pulled the door shut behind her, as if she was afraid Ilka might push past her and make an even bigger nuisance of herself.

“Someone has been in there. Someone pulled Mike Gilbert out of the refrigerator and left him on the floor.”

“Wasn’t the door locked?” the sister asked, as if that changed something about the fact that he was lying on the floor.

Ilka shrugged. “He’s lying over there; you have to come help me. I can’t pick him up by myself.” She was tired, but this had to be done. Now.

Sister Eileen nodded and went back inside. A moment later she came out wearing her practical office shoes, with a long cardigan wrapped around her.

They walked back to the garage without speaking. The garage door was still open; the light inside fanned out into the yard.

“I don’t like being woken up in the night,” the nun finally said when they reached the garage.

“I don’t either,” Ilka replied shortly. She made a gesture, signaling that she wanted Sister Eileen to grab his legs, while she would take his arms. “If we can lift him up on the stretcher, we’ll find a way to get him over on the steel tray.”

They counted to three and lifted. This time Ilka ignored the feel of the dead body.

After carrying him to the refrigerator, the nun asked, “Is he wet?” She pointed to the large wet blotch covering his battered chest. Ilka leaned over and felt his hair, which was wet and sticky. It gleamed in the glaring ceiling light. She pulled her hand away.

Gasoline, was her first thought. She straightened up and looked around. If someone had planned to cremate Mike Gilbert directly on the garage floor, the entire funeral home would probably have burned down. But she should have been able to smell gas right off when she’d leaned over and lifted. She crouched down again and sniffed; then she sat for a moment and gathered herself before standing up and drying her hands on her T-shirt. “Urine. Somebody pissed all over him.”

Ilka studied the broken face for a moment, the entire right side caved in. Not that she was an expert on these things, but it looked like his cheekbone was crushed. There was a hollow under his eye, as if a bone was missing or had been pulverized just under the skin.

She looked away and closed her eyes. Hoped that Artie would show up early so he could make Mike Gilbert look presentable before his mother saw him. Otherwise there was a rough day ahead for Shelby. Ilka took a deep breath and nodded at Sister Eileen to help lift him onto the steel tray; then they pushed him back into the refrigerator.

After shutting the door, the nun shook her head in irritation and left without a word of good-bye.

“Okay, well, good night, then,” Ilka said to the closed door.





13



It was a terrible night’s sleep. Adrenaline surged through Ilka’s body, and several times during the night she had convinced herself she was hearing sounds in the garage. Half-asleep, she heard the dead coming to life and walking around the building, pulling each other out of the refrigerator, drinking coffee in the kitchen. She hadn’t dared go down, and anyway, she knew it was all in her head. In the moments she was wide awake, she’d pulled the comforter tightly to her and thought about how strange it was, being stuck in the middle of the daily life her father had led for so many years, so far away from her. All those years she had needed him in her own life.

It wasn’t because she was any closer to understanding him after these few days in Racine. But his physical presence felt strong to her. She was surrounded by her father, his odor and belongings and the people he’d been with every day. Still, though, she hadn’t learned more about him, nor did she have the faintest idea how abandoning them had left its mark on him.

He had asked for a divorce less than two years after he left. At that time her mother was still struggling to turn the funeral home into a profitable business that could be sold without too big a loss. Ilka hadn’t been aware of her reaction to his request—Ilka hadn’t even known about the divorce before it was final. One evening her mother came into her room while she was doing homework.

“Your father and I are divorced,” was all she said. Ilka still remembered the first thing she thought: He must have come home. Which meant she could see him. But her mother explained that he was still in the US, that their lawyers handled everything.