“At least it wasn’t in action,” Bunny said suddenly. “They just send you the dog tags. At least he’s here.”
They went straight to MacDonald’s room, not bothering with the front desk, but it had been emptied out, the stripped bed not yet remade, the personal things in the bedside cabinet already taken away. Ben thought of his mother’s hospital room, another body whisked away before anybody could say good-bye, the white loneliness of it. Danny wouldn’t know until a cable reached him, an ocean away, and by that time Ben had arranged the burial, all the family gone now except for the thin stream of flimsy V-mail sheets, the last blood tie. But how close was blood?
“Where is he?” Bunny said to the nurse who’d hurried after them.
“He’s—downstairs. They’re preparing the body. He’s going to be—”
“I know. I want to see him.”
“We’re not supposed to—”
“I want to see him,” Bunny said, not any louder, but in control. Ben remembered that first day at Continental, people making way as Bunny walked by.
He waited in the room, smoking on Jack’s balcony while Bunny went downstairs. No mention of how it had happened. But people never liked to talk about that. How easy it had been to make Danny an accident, convenient for everybody. He touched the rail, thinking of the Cherokee. Why kill him if he were passing on the list? Unless he wasn’t, another Danny fast one, but not fast enough. Or unless they were just covering traces, wiping every pawn off the board, Danny not important enough to be worth the risk of what he knew. Better if it died with him, everyone safe.
He turned, hearing Bunny come back. “You okay?”
“Yes, fine,” Bunny said, his own voice again, embarrassed to be asked. “Thank you for coming.” A polite, receiving-line phrase, as if the panic choking and the drive out had never happened.
“It’s not easy. I’ve done it.”
“What?”
“Been with somebody. After.”
Bunny walked closer to the bed. “I had a scene once. In a picture. My grandfather, I think. Everybody upset, in floods. But it’s not like that, is it? They’re not really there. Just a body.”
“I’m sorry, Bunny.”
Bunny glanced up at this, then let it in, nodding. He touched the bed frame. “There wasn’t anybody here. When it happened. He was alone.” He stared at the bed for another minute. “Did I tell you? His playing—he had the lightest touch.”
“Mr. Jenkins? Sorry to intrude.” A woman in a suit, not a nurse. “Some papers to sign.”
She looked over at Ben, hesitant, someone she hadn’t expected, not next of kin, either, and for a second, less than a blink, Ben felt what it must be like to be Bunny, every quick disapproving eye movement, trying to explain him.
“Papers,” Bunny said.
“Yes, for the shipment. The additional charge. The expense isn’t covered in the monthly rate.”
“I pay to ship him?”
“I’m sorry. I understood you were the responsible party. My records say all expenses.”
Bunny looked at her, a final twist in. “Yes, that’s right. All expenses. Yes.”
He looked down at the bed again. For a minute everyone just stood there, not moving, and yet it seemed to Ben that he and the woman were disappearing, wisps of fog, the room itself receding, so that Bunny was completely alone.
“I’ll be with you in a minute,” Bunny finally said, an executive dismissal, then turned to Ben. “You’d better get back. Mr. L will want watching.”
“I can wait.”
“No, we have some things to do here,” he said. “Did his mother give any instructions?”
“She said, whatever you decide.”
“Did she. The navy blue, then, I think. The worsted. Not the uniform. Where did you put his ties?” He turned to Ben. “We’ll be a while.”
“But how will you get back?”
“I’ll have the studio send a car,” he said, in charge again. “It doesn’t really matter now. If anyone knows.” He stopped, glancing at Ben. “Still. It’s nobody’s business.”
Ben met his eyes. “Nobody’s,” he said.
He started back down to the coast highway but had to pull over at the second curve, unable to see through a new bank of thick fog. He felt back in the hospital room, everything white, gauze and empty sheets, Bunny standing in a void. But this white was moist air, beginning to drift, the other had been still, an absence. The dead are gone. And yet we hold on—a loyalty, a debt, to make up for something. Didn’t he owe Danny that much, to let it die with him, a crime that could only bring shame now. Paid for. But who had decided that? What do we owe the dead? Dress the body, the blue worsted, keep the memory intact. What did he owe Henderson, willing to use him as bait? There were all kinds of debts, even, finally, one to yourself. Do the expedient thing. Or the crime would go on, maybe taking him with it. Danny’s name was a price, but the dead never blamed you.