bit. That was good, but she couldn’t wait to be out. She seldom visited Back Half, because her presence was unnecessary; the commander of an army rarely needed to visit the front lines as long as the war was going well. And even though she felt better, being in this bare round room was still flat-out horrible.
Hallas also seemed better, no longer Heckle but the man who had spent twenty-five years as an Army doctor and won a Bronze Star. He had straightened, and he had stopped touching his finger to the side of his mouth. His eyes were clear, his questions concise.
“Is she wearing jewelry?”
“No,” Mrs. Sigsby said, thinking of Alvorson’s missing wedding ring.
“I may assume she’s dressed?”
“Of course.” Mrs. Sigsby felt obscurely offended by the question.
“Have you checked her pockets?”
She looked at Stackhouse. He shook his head.
“Do you want to? This is your only chance, if you do.”
Mrs. Sigsby considered the idea and dismissed it. The woman had left her suicide note on the bathroom wall, and her purse would be in her locker. That would need checking, just as a matter of routine, but she wasn’t going to unwrap the housekeeper’s body and expose that protruding impudent tongue again just to find a ChapStick, a roll of Tums, and a few wadded-up Kleenex.
“Not me. What about you, Trevor?”
Stackhouse shook his head again. He had a year-round tan, but today he looked pale beneath it. The Back Half walk-through had taken a toll on him, too. Maybe we should do it more often, she thought. Stay in touch with the process. Then she thought of Dr. Hallas proclaiming himself an Aquarian and Stackhouse saying there were tons of beans in Beantown. She decided that staying in touch with the process was a really bad idea. And by the way, did September 9th really make Hallas a Libra? That didn’t seem quite right. Wasn’t it Virgo?
“Let’s do this,” she said.
“All righty, then,” Dr. Hallas said, and flashed an ear-to-ear smile that was all Heckle. He yanked the handle of the stainless steel door and swung it open. Beyond was blackness, a smell of cooked meat, and a sooty conveyer belt that angled down into darkness.
That sign needs to be cleaned off, Mrs. Sigsby thought. And that belt needs to be scrubbed before it gets clogged and breaks down. More carelessness.
“I hope you don’t need help lifting her,” Heckle said, still wearing his game-show host smile. “I’m afraid I’m feeling rather weakly today. Didn’t eat my Wheaties this morning.”
Stackhouse lifted the wrapped body and placed it on the belt. The bottom fold of the canvas dropped open, revealing one shoe. Mrs. Sigsby felt an urge to turn away from that scuffed sole and quelled it.
“Any final words?” Hallas asked. “Hail and farewell? Jenny we hardly knew ye?”
“Don’t be an idiot,” Mrs. Sigsby said.
Dr. Hallas closed the door and pushed the green button. Mrs. Sigsby heard a trundle and squeak as the dirty conveyer belt began to move. When that stopped, Hallas pushed the red button. The readout came to life, quickly jumping from 200 to 400 to 800 to 1600 and finally to 3200.
“Much hotter than your average crematory,” Hallas said. “Also much faster, but it still takes awhile. You’re welcome to stick around; I could give you the full tour.” Still smiling the big smile.
“Not today,” Mrs. Sigsby said. “Far too busy.”
“That’s what I thought. Another time, perhaps. We see you so seldom, and we’re always open for business.”
10
As Maureen Alvorson was starting her final slide, Stevie Whipple was eating mac and cheese in the Front Half cafeteria. Avery Dixon grabbed him by one meaty, freckled arm. “Come out to the playground with me.”
“I ain’t done eating, Avery.”
“I don’t care.” He lowered his voice. “It’s important.”
Stevie took a final enormous bite, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and followed Avery. The playground was deserted except for Frieda Brown, who was sitting on the asphalt surrounding the basketball hoop and drawing cartoon figures in chalk. Rather good ones. All smiling. She didn’t look up as the boys passed.
When they arrived at the chainlink fence, Avery pointed at a trench in the dirt and gravel. Stevie stared at it with big eyes. “What did that? Woodchuck or sumpin?” He looked around as if he expected to see a woodchuck—possibly rabid—hiding under the trampoline or crouching beneath the picnic table.
“Wasn’t a woodchuck, nope,” Avery said.
“I bet you could squiggle right through there, Aves. Make an excape.”