The Saint Louisans (35 page)

“Good, Mutti Bridger. It was a pleasant flight. Much room. It was Lufthansa, and they're considerate to passengers who are
schwangeschaftlich
.”

She rubbed her expanding belly. It means pregnant, but the word reminds me of swans. Ballerinas. Tchaikovsky in the delivery room. I blinked. “Amazed you found me here.”

Pierce nodded. “We drove by Aunt Mary's, and I guessed you'd visit.”

“So why the very pleasant surprise?”

Pierce leaned against the car. “Antje and I have news.”

They're moving to America. I crossed my fingers without thinking.

He watched a cardinal chirp above us then his eyes came back to me.
“Antje found Ike.” I was open mouthed and speechless. Pierce nodded. “I thought you'd say that.”

“Ike. You mean …
Ike
?”

“Yes. Grandfather. After all the emails we'd gotten about this thing with the Desouches, Antje and I decided we had to tell you in person. Is there somewhere we could talk?”

I recovered. A little. “You mean sit down?”

“Yeah. You aren't faint? Glass of water, and all that? You always were the Iron Mom.”

“I'm … okay. Still ferrous. What do you mean, you found him?”

We drove to a local fry pit where semis whooshed by and
Hello, my name is Leeza
took our order. Antje unbuttoned her long, black wool coat, the one with puffed sleeves and Euro cut … sexy as all hell, but posing obvious drawbacks for her baby bump that is now the Matterhorn.

“I was on that trip to the Ukraine,” Antje said as she nursed her coffee. “The one my group made in January. We found another mass grave site, and many of the dead were identified as German soldiers. There were helmets, things here and there. Along with Russians.”

I nodded. “You sorted them out?”

“Not that hard. Their effects, you know … Germans had things like egg spoons, condoms … Russians had nothing like that. And the skulls. Germans had tooth decay from sugar, the Russian's teeth are more worn down from a corn-based diet. So, as we exhumed nine bodies, a man watched us. When we took a break, he approached us, and said he had information about a body. A very important body.” She sipped her coffee.

“For a price,” said Pierce. “Five hundred American dollars, plus a list of rock videos. He was building a disco, the man with the information.”

“Disco,” I said.

“Ukrainians are behind the times,” Antje shrugged. “You want rap, you have to go to Moscow. I had a few tapes. We use them for trading. So.”

“Okay,” I leaned closer, “and?”

“There was an air base near the town. Abandoned. When the Soviet Union went kaput, everyone took off. He led me to a grave, isolated behind
some bunkers. He explained that the body had been moved around many times. It was an important body.”

I waited as Antje continued.

“The skeleton was in a tin coffin. A few effects were inside. Among them was an identity disc.”

“Dog tag,” said Pierce.

“Yes, dog tag. It read Dwight Taylor.”

I chilled. “But he was shot down. Wouldn't they have kept better tabs on the body?”

“They might have gotten careless. At the end, no one was paid, and they left. It wasn't as efficient as we thought, that empire. Not when its soldiers drank their motor fuel for the alcohol. To report or not to? Each regime change decided one way or the other, and he ended up there. The KGB probably handled things, but when there was no money, even they left.”

I nodded. “Is there a positive ID?”

Antje nodded. “I got the body out with Germans returned for burial in the
Heimat
.” Homeland. Never translated by Antje, like a sacred word. “At the Dienststelle, we separated the body. It made for unpleasantnesses, since the body wasn't German or
Volksdeutsche
, but I knew we had to get him out before the authorities became wise and took him back … or wanted a bribe. Or just ground him up. There's a big market for ground-up bones in Russia. Goes into the most interesting things.”

Pierce nodded. “I went to the US embassy and turned on the old Bridger charm. The military attaché took one look at the skeleton and dog tag, and got the ball rolling. The skeleton was flown to Rhein-Main Air Base.”

Our coffee cups were refilled. Pierce continued.

“The skeleton is similar in age and build. The dental records match. So, Mom, Grandfather's coming home.”

“This is in … present tense?”

“Yes. They flew him out right away. Hitching with some dead from Afghanistan, I understand. Scott Air Base is waiting, and there's going to be a burial at Jefferson Barracks. I think there was some media coverage, but it was on page ten or past midnight. Ike's old news, or no news.”

Antje twisted a lock of her hair. “People like new wars. They are more interesting.”

Pierce nodded. “The funeral should be in two days.”

“So,” Antje sighed. “Can we go now to St. Louis? I want some decent coffee. This is dreck.”

Before we hit the road, I filled them in on things as they were. Pierce did a rare frown, looking so unnatural, not hiding his anger well. “Vess Moot threatened you?”

Antje's blue eyes blazed for battle. “Go to the media.”

“Vess has media, too.” I closed in. “If there's someone buried under that mansion, I need to know.” There was so much going on, but I had to prioritize, and the human factors came first. “But first I have to tell Margot about Ike.”

Jefferson Barracks is south of St. Louis on the banks of the Mississippi. It was one of America's oldest military posts. Lee, Grant, Sherman, Pershing, Marshall, they all served here at one time or another. Now the post is mainly known for its cemetery. Long rows of stone teeth set in the Earth's jaws, intermittent trees like flagpoles sprouting leaves and branches. Below, the somber pomp of generals, an honor guard in the deep blue of the Air Force's ceremonial uniform, and a film crew. Ike Taylor had come home.

The words of the chaplain floated over me as I sat, Margot next to me in her wheelchair. The open sun revealed her frail and sunken form.

Rainer dutifully stood to one side, carefully tucking quilts around her. Quilts like in the dream Aunt Mary had of her by the sea. For a moment, I thought I smelled salt air, but it was only a whiff of the Mississippi. The usual Midwestern fantasy of other places, exotic and meaningful. Pierce and Antje sat on the other side.

Ike Taylor was my father, but the casket before me brought no tears. I thought of the older veterans who comforted me and Margot. Ike's fellow wingmen who served with him in their splendid youth a half-century ago. They said he was a good pilot, a fine drinking partner. I imagined what Margot must have been thinking—of Dad in bed with her, midsummer light creeping over their fresh, young bodies, sighing and moaning as they created me.

The ceremonies continued. Airmen raised their rifles in stiff ceremony, firing a twenty-one gun salute, the echoes of gunfire floating across the sky.
I thought of Ike's last day. His jet soaring, camera clicking Soviet sites. Then from a corner of heaven come the MiGs. He breaks off for Turkish airspace. Too late. Another MiG breaks from cloud cover and bushwhacks. Rockets shoot from its wing. Ike's jet is hit, he tailspins and maneuvers, but it screams down as the earth yawns open. I close my eyes and rewind the film, making a second take where the missile streams over the wing and Ike shoots into Turkey. No. Cut to that afternoon at the air base, the car in front of our house, its officers approaching our door. And things begin, things that sent me to Union Station, to the Seven Dwarfs, to Dubourg, then St. Louis, the hundreds of things that molded Lee Bridger into what she is, and brought her to this spot.

The casket was lowered. A general bent to me and placed the flag in my hands, a spangled wedge of American pie. Margot nodded dutifully, her hand stroking the flag's corner. I smiled back. My father, younger than me, forever a sky god. Taps sounded. Goodbye, Dad.

Past the bugle's mournful notes, a horn bleated from the river. The goddess still has her business to tend to. So do I. I will bury my mother before the leaves on these barren trees bud.

Taps ends. A long sigh from mourners.

Margot looked into my eyes. “I'm so glad I lived to see this day. This is good.”

“It is,” I whispered back.

“Ike is home. Oh, Lee, I'm so happy he's home.”

As the ceremony broke up, I called Saul, but there was no answer. I assumed he was on his way back, so I'd live with his silence. Then, I looked beyond the crumbling knot of mourners, blinked and swallowed.

There was Sky, my ex. He stood tall as always, face seamed and smooth, like tanned leather. Silver and brown hair scraggled over his ears, goatee trimmed. Sky looked like a country singer done with his glory days and happy to go back to the little gigs, daring you to call it hard times. His gray duster was rumpled, like he'd just come back from a bank robbery with the James gang. Of course, this is an ex-wife's musings. Sky is a towboat captain, married to the river. It's a second marriage that works.

Rainer wheeled Margot back to the car. Pierce and Antje already greeted Sky, Sky being affable to Antje. After 'Nam, he spent a year stationed in
Bavaria. It was a happy tour. Flag under my arm, I walked to him as I mulled things over; things Saul and I talked about, especially the body on the mansion grounds. Saul hadn't called me, and I needed to take matters into my own hands, but still, a man's touch was needed. I looked at Sky as he rested on his right leg in a casual slouch, like he did when we'd shoot the breeze on night shift.

“Just got off the river?”

“Yeah. For a couple of days. Another barge clearing the locks, and I'll be going south.” He nodded at the grave site, at the airmen in full dress and the benevolent winter sky.

“I assume you know about my predicament.”

“This shit made the news, and when I heard the TV, I grabbed a copy of the
Post
, and here I am.” His face showed new wrinkles, the eyes unusually sympathetic. “Glad Ike made it home. Too many of us didn't. I suppose that's good with you. So now, you got this crazy shit with the mansion.”

Usually here, our conversation dies of natural causes, but that idea demanded it continue. “Look, I need you.”

His eyes cocked their trigger. “Been awhile since I heard that one. What's the problem?”

“We have a baker's dozen, but for starters, Jama's back in town, and she's in deep shit.”

“So what else is new?”

“No, this time, she's really scaled Everest.”

His shrug was habitual. “With Jama, it's always in Technicolor.”

“The situation here has gone far beyond hitting the fan. Now, in regard to the mansion, I do need you.”

“What's in it for me?”

I shrugged. “The chance to redeem yourself in my eyes.” He laughed. Well, hell, so would I.

“I'll pay you. Something.”

“Okay, that sweetens the tea, as Mom said.” He sighed. “So what's with you and the Jew? No marriage, or we still just doing sleepovers?”

I bit my tongue. “Sky, I'll ignore that because we've got work to do.” The moan from the river echoed.

Back at the mansion, Margot winced in pain as she nodded to Sky. “You're Lee's ex-husband? The second one?”

Sky raised an eyebrow. “Yes, ma'am. I'm captain of a boat on the river. Wheat, oil, corn, you name it, I get it to New Orleans.”

Margot's curiosity was apparent, surprised I'd married a mortal. “Well, Mr. Bridger,” she said, “that must be interesting.”

“Yes, ma'am. It can be. But not like being a nurse. As I'm sure Lee's told you.”

That was one of Sky's digs at me, but since his tone is more Mark Twain than good-old-boy, it got smiles.

Margot fought another groan of pain. She put on a brave front at the burial, and was overjoyed to meet Pierce and Antje who were taking a tour of the house. Rainer wheeled in tea and cake as Sky took in the decor, studying portraits and bric-a-brac as if he were planning a heist. Another stab of pain came from my head. I gulped aspirin, and steadied myself.

“Margot … Mom. I think it's time we had the truth.”

“What do you mean?”

“This mansion is going to be wrecked because of a body buried on its grounds.”

“Not if we fight these ridiculous lawsuits and rulings,” Margot said with a rally of strength. “And you carry on the fight.”

“Mom … did Lucas bury someone there?” Margot stared, and it wasn't a face of outraged shock and disbelief. “Okay, I think he did. I also think you know all about it, and now's the time to tell.”

A long pause from Margot, then I went on. “This is a very delicate subject, but we know Lucas was into drugs.”

Margot solemnly nodded. “He did glue. Pot. Acid. Speed. Heroin. I know what my son was, so I'm beyond being shocked.” Her fingers knotted the end of her sheet. “You'd have to ask Marc Anthony Hollis.”

I frowned. “Who?”

“His supplier. Drug supplier. Back in 1972, December 22nd. That awful night of the Veiled Prophet Ball.” Margot's eyes centered on the ceiling. “Lucas was dealing. He was on the streets near Cote Brilliante. A popular locale for dealing then, so I was told. Something went wrong. A rival dealer, a change in price. Shots were fired. Lucas escaped, but took Marc Anthony Hollis along with him. In the car.”

Sky, who'd listened with quiet but intense interest, slurped his tea and spoke. “So Lucas panicked, like any rich kid, and drove straight home, I guess. With a problem dying in his back seat.” He turned to me. “Isn't that right … dear?”

I sighed and ignored my ex. “This Marc Anthony died in the car. Lucas panicked. He didn't want to be caught. He took Hollis out and buried him.”