Requiem for the Bone Man. R. A. Comunale M.D.

      

      Requiem

      for the

      Bone Man

      R.A. Comunale, M.D.

      MOUNTAIN LAKE PRESS

      MOUNTAIN LAKE PARK, MARYLAND

      REQUIEM FOR THE BONE MAN

      COPYRIGHT © 2011 R.A.COMUNALE

      ALL RIGHTS RESERVED

      PUBLISHED IN EBOOK FORMAT BY

      MOUNTAIN LAKE PRESS

       http://www.mountainlakepress.com

      CONVERTED BY

       http://www.ebookit.com

      ISBN:13: 978-0-9846512-5-2

      COVER DESIGN BY MICHAEL HENTGES

      ALSO BY R.A. COMUNALE

      Requiem for the Bone Man

      The Legend of Safehaven

      Dr. Galen’s Little Black Bag

      Clover

      In memoriam: Leni, Cathy, Country Boy

      CHAPTER 1

      The Calling

      He was eight years old when the dead lady found him.

      He and Angelo had been watching the old Mustache Petes playing bocce in front of Myers Tavern, their baggy patched pants held up by suspenders, twisting and turning like grotesque ballerinas, as they pitched the wooden ball while the two boys laughed at the sight. But Youth is easily bored by Age, so they quickly ditched the game to sneak through the trash-filled alleyway between the tavern and the timeworn row houses that fronted the river. They slid down the muddy bank to walk along the shallow waterway toward the concrete bridge abutments. It was fun to hunt there for coins, buttons, and soda pop bottles to redeem at the store for money.

      This time, in the shadows of the overhanging bridge, they saw a bundle of rags caught on a raised pylon. The increased speed of the water flowing venturi-like through the passageway stirred the bundle, and he noticed it had arms. One seemed to move, beckoning him forward, almost pleading.

      “Angie, look!”

      The other boy stared briefly before turning and running away, but he was drawn to it, moth to flame. He moved closer and saw her face. Even in death, belly beginning to bloat from the gas in her bowels, she retained some of her beauty, her long golden hair framing an oval face and narrow nose. Traces of light pink lipstick contrasted the death-blued lips and mottled pasty skin. Her long delicate fingers, artist’s fingers, were a mixed palette of blues, reds, and grays. She registered the final rictus of agony frozen forever in those staring green eyes, with forearms drawn together as if to ward off Death’s scythe.

      Why was she here?

      Surely she belonged in one of the big houses farther down the river where the people with money lived, not here in his neighborhood of soot-covered brick buildings.

      Her eyes would not leave him, sunken, no longer vibrant, but planting within him a cry for help.

      Don’t leave me!

      He ran back up the riverbank, trousers wet from stepping in the water. As he passed the old men spending their remaining days in pursuit of childhood pleasure playing the ancient game, one of them called out, chuckling:

      “Hey, Gallini, you piss your pants, kid?”

      He turned toward the old man.

      “I’m Galen, Robert Galen.”

      “Yeah? You like you papa, boy. He too good now to roll ball with us, con il suo nome Americano. I remember him in old country, boy. Gallini good enough for him there. Good enough for him here!”

      He didn’t stop. He had learned early on that you don’t argue with the Old. He began to run the final stretch to the four-story tenement where his mama and papa lived. He knew he wasn’t fast like the other kids with their long, thin legs. His were what his papa called marching legs, thick but not fat—yet. Papa used to tell him about all the marching men back in the old country.

      Mama would watch Papa as he told the stories of their former hometown, of the drums beating loudly and the young men marching through the streets, arms raised and waving flags wildly.

      “Give us war,” they had cried, and Papa now knew they had gotten what they wanted, and that all it had meant for many of them was death, and he was grateful he and Mama had escaped to America.

      That was in 1914, Papa had said.

      “Mama, Mama!”

      “What’s the matter, Berto?”

      She looked at her son with pride. He was strong already and smart, just like his father. Antonio could have been a dottore back home, but they both knew they could not stay there. Now her Tonio ate the fire every day for them.

      “There’s a dead lady in the river! She’s under the bridge, and Angie and me saw her! She’s sad, Mama, she doesn’t want to be there!”

      “Antonio, come quick, listen what your son say!”

      Antonio Gallini sat tired from his evening shift work at the foundry, but he rose from the patched-up chair his Anna had sewed and fixed. He had brought it home from where he’d found it in front of the rich man’s house. His powerful arms, strengthened by countless hours forging the heavy metal tools at work, easily carried the chair atop his stocky body.

      “Che cosa, cara mia?”

      He listened as his son repeated the sad story. Then he put on his street clothes and walked the four blocks to the police station—they didn’t have a telephone—and returned. Soon the boy heard the wail of the siren as the police wagon headed toward the river. By then his papa, too tired to do anything else, had returned to the old chair, which Anna stood behind rubbing his neck until he fell asleep.

      Poor Tonio, she thought, but it was worth telling the police. Her Berto would be a big man, an important man, someday. He would live in a big house. He wouldn’t live like this.

      She smiled at her son. Already he looked like his papa did when they first met. She handed him the last apple from the bare table as he ran outside again.

      But he wasn’t going to play. He made a beeline for the police station, where he knew they would take the dead lady. That’s where the dottores would examine her and try to find out what hurt her. He had read that in a book in the library, a book he wasn’t supposed to read because it was in the grown-ups’ area, but he had read it anyway.

      He saw the police wagon in the driveway behind the red brick building and ran to the large double-door side entrance. It was open and he looked each way before walking along the darkened corridor. He heard the voices of policemen in the different rooms but he was careful not to get caught.

      He saw a light shining under another set of big doors. He read the letters on the door: MORGUE.

      Like morta, he thought.

      Slowly he pushed one of the doors partway open and saw them, two men dressed in long white gowns like the priests at Easter Mass. They moved slowly, talking quietly to each other in words he didn’t understand, their heads covered in white caps, their hands enveloped up to their mid forearms in heavy dark brown rubber gloves.

      Then he saw her, lying stretched out on a table in the middle of the room. A sheet covered part of her, leaving her feet, stomach, chest and head exposed. She looked like she was sleeping.

      He saw one of the men in white take a big knife and make a cut right into her belly. The other man spoke