Authors: Thomas Cater
: The pigment in iris cells spreads out in bright
light, but concentrate at the top when light is dim.
“On a dark night, we can see shapes, but no color.
Cones operate in bright light and they are responsible for greater and higher
acuity in vision.
“Any color in the spectrum visible to man can be
matched by mixing the colors red, green and blue.”
So what about that invisible spectrum; why are they
out of sight?
“The retina has more than one hundred million rods and
cones
.
Rods function in low light, provide night vision; Cones
are responsible for color vision in center of retina. The inability to
distinguish red and greens indicates a degree of color blindness, a problem
caused by certain chemical fluids”
He was after something. I got the distinct impression
he was researching and trying to fashion a custom set of designer eyeballs for
Elinore! The solution I suspected was within his grasp, but the methodology was
elusive.
I skipped a badly faded section and skipped a few
pages ahead of myself. I was looking for words that might indicate she received
her new eyes, but stumbled on to what I believed was the procedure:
“Enucleation of the globe: conjunctiva is incised at
the cornea. Enlarge incision all around. With blunt dissection, the conjunctiva
is suppurated from the sclera. This will expose the rectus muscles. Insert a
muscle hook beneath the tendon, beginning with the superior rectus, moving to
the medial and inferior. Cut as close as possible to the globe. The last muscle
to be severed is the lateral rectus. Leave enough muscle attached to the
eyeball to grasp with a tooth forceps. Rotate the eye medially and insert
scissors along the temporal side of the eyeball, between it and the separated
conjunctiva. With the scissors behind the globe, search for the optic nerve, a
firm cord-like structure. Cut. Pull eyeball and cut restraining tissue. Watch
for hemorrhage after nerve is cut; suture conjunctiva together.”
He summarized the ‘coupe de grace’ in the next sentence:
“Cut all eye muscles, feel for optic nerve, remove the
globe and tie all muscles together: 3:15.”
The numbers probably referred to the length of time
required to perform the operation. If science hadn’t made many inroads by 1922,
it wasn’t Ezekiel Grier’s fault. I got the feeling he was conducting private eye
transplant research on wards of the state. Undoubtedly, he was within his
rights, even if this particular area of research did not come under the
auspices of the state or institution.
The Raines file ended with a copy of a death
certificate listed as post-operative trauma. I made a mental note to keep an
eye peeled for that cause should I inadvertently examine a similar file.
I returned her records to the cabinet and considered
the problems involved in tracking the Alberichs down, but I could not forget
his research on eyes. I glanced at my watch and noticed that it was close to
noon, and I did have a date for lunch, the first in months. I decided to put
off the interview with the three gnomes until later.
Constance was sitting on the desk’s edge waiting,
jacket and purse in hand.
“I was about to come after you,” she said.
“Where is the restaurant?” I asked, anxious to return
to the journals.
“Not far, about ten minutes by car.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
It was an old Victorian mansion that had been
remodeled once too often. It too had seen a better day. There was not much original
architecture left to recall from that forgotten era. An attorney and his wife
had turned it into a French restaurant that resembled an elegant wine cellar.
She was from the Bordeaux region of France and had brought her knowledge of food
and wine to the mountains and hollows of West Virginia. They had spent time,
effort and money bringing a little piece of France to Vandalia, but from the
size of the luncheon crowd, the effort was in vain.
There was another couple in the restaurant, a young
man wearing a pest control uniform and his high school girlfriend. He was
drinking coffee and eating pie. The young lady sitting opposite him was
munching on a cream-filled Twinkie. She was nearly forty pounds overweight and
the pastry wasn’t helping her cause.
We chose a table a discrete distance away from the
other happy couple. A lady in an apron peeked around the corner, discovered our
presence in the hall and vanished into the kitchen. A few seconds later, she swept
into the dining room. She was wearing a formal dress, a lot of costume jewelry
and bearing two coffee cups. She carried one arm in a sling.
“Cocktails?” She asked in English, but with a delicate
accent.
I nodded, uncertain how well my high school French had
survived the decades.
“Been fending off attacks by the local bourgeoisies?”
I asked, indicating her bandaged arm.
She raised the disabled limb.
“I slipped on the stairs,” she said, “a fracture.”
I nodded. “Too bad; I sympathize. I’ve broken a few
bones myself.”
She shrugged. “It is not important. I’m as good with
one as two.”
“I’ll bet,” I said and then wished I hadn’t.
Constance was casting blind eyes over the menu.
“See anything you like?” I said.
“Yes, lots of things,” she said, “I can’t decide.”
“Let’s leave it to the hostess. I’m sure she has a
luncheon special,” I said, wondering if French restaurants followed local
formats. “I’m too tired to make a decision right now, especially about food.
Bring us whatever you’re serving for lunch.”
She nodded.
“I hope you like quiche.”
“Love it,” I said, although I couldn’t remember the
last time I’d eaten it.
She vanished into the kitchen and I turned toward
Connie, who was chewing on her lower lip.
“You like quiche?” I asked.
“Love it.” She mimicked, and closed the menu abruptly.
“She’s pretty, isn’t she.” she commented.
I sensed some danger in the question and shrugged. “Getting
a little long in the tooth, but easy to look at … from a distance.”
“Do you feel more comfortable around women your own
age?” she asked.
I felt the hook go in, but she did it so artfully that
I did not give it a second thought. I tried to tough my way through her
question, but I should have known better.
“It’s easier to relate with an older woman. They are
more likely to be less involved in themselves and more interested in others.”
Connie fiddled silently with the silverware. I made
another big mistake and baited her with a similar question.
“Do you feel more comfortable around boys your own
age?”
Her eyes locked into mine and held them remorselessly.
“They are usually in good enough shape and stay ‘hard’
a lot longer,” she said.
I had it coming. I tried to look calm and in control, but
it was not very convincing.
“Please, not so loud,” I whispered.
“Why not?” She said crisply. “No one can hear us.”
I looked at the only other couple seated across the
room. Their eyes were dancing nervously back and forth and, every once in
awhile, they cast a curious smile in our direction.
“I think they heard you.”
She smiled at them and then bent her head toward me.
“Let me give you a some advice, Mr. Case, don’t get too friendly with other
women when you’re with the one you plan to ‘hump’ that evening.”
I nodded humbly. She stopped glaring and resumed
playing the game with her silverware.
“Was I bad?” she asked coyly.
“Frightening,” I replied, relieved.
She covered her mouth with her hands and laughed
silently. “How old are you, anyhow? You should have learned that lesson years
ago.”
“How old do I look?”
She cocked her head thoughtfully: “Late thirties, or early
to mid forties; where were you born and why do you always say your parents, or
guardians?”
I felt a tightness slip around my throat. “You’re not
going to believe this, but I’m a foundling.”
“A what?” She said.
“A foundling; I was abandoned by my birth mother on a
doorstep.”
You’re not a foundling: who says so?”
“My adoptive father, every time I asked him where I
came from, he’d answer, ‘you were found on a doorstep, or in a dumpster, or in
a garden under a cabbage leaf.’”
“He was joking with you! Where were you born?”
“I was born in DC, I think, in ‘27’.”
“What?” She said abruptly.
I repeated my words: “I was born in Washington DC in ‘1937’.”
“You did not!
You said you were born in 1927.”
“I did?”
“Yes, you did.”
“If I did, it was a
‘lapsus linguae’
,”
A very big slip,” she said. “If you were born then,
you’d be more than … 50 years old.”
“My dyslexia is acting up.”
She gave me a doubtful look. “You’re not dyslexic.”
I am too.”
She raised an eyebrow and tilted her head.
“I’m also astigmatic,” I said and added,
“astig-lexia.”
She lifted a spoon and stirred her coffee slowly. “How
do you expect anyone to believe you?”
“I get confused,” I said, “and I also have a lousy
long-term memory. Can you see the nose on your face?” I asked.
“Yes, I see it;” she replied impatiently, “what about
it?”
“You can’t see it, but you know it’s there.”
“Because I can’t see it doesn’t mean it isn’t there.”
“Precisely,” I said. “You take it for granted because
you can see it whenever it serves your purpose. What about the other things you
cannot see, but also think they are there. You accept them on a consensus, or faith.”
“You mean like god?” She said mockingly.
“What if you were blind and didn’t have a mirror, and someone
said you were beautiful, or ugly; would you know what they were talking about?”
Returning to her coffee, she gave my words a brief thought
and then smiled.
“Okay, you win. You’re a 50-year-old dyslexic with a
bad astigmatism, and I’m a girl without a nose; are you happy now?”
I forced a mile. I was not content with my example and
disappointed with my companion’s response. I thought briefly about the woman
whose name I did not know or could not remember. She grew old and vanished from
my sight in the DC home where I spent most of my disturbing and confusing youth.
“She must have been was 60 or 70, with a cigarette
dangling from her lips and a drink in her hand on nearly every occasion, and
that was a long time ago.”
“Who are we talking about?” Connie said.
“The woman who was rehabilitating, while I was
supposed to be growing up,” I said.
“You mean your … caretaker?”
I smiled and nodded before continuing: “No one
bothered to inform me when she died. I was out of the country at the time. I
didn’t know she was gone for two years.”
“That’s too bad,” she said.
“We weren’t a close family,” I said. “There wasn’t
much going on in our lives. Everyone seemed pre-occupied with work, jobs, or education”
Did you get a public or private school education?” She
asked.
“I was home schooled, in someone else’s home. Then I went
to Georgetown, traveled and worked at English teaching and writing jobs
overseas. I can’t remember them all. You could almost say, I was eager and
willing to forget the past.”
“I hope you won’t forget me that easily, or take me
for granted.” She said. “Jeffrey’s father did that. He would ignore me and ogle
every female on the street. I put up with it, but eventually tired of it. I
promised myself never to let it happen again.”
“It is rather insensitive,” I said, though I had all
but forgotten our brief ogling conversation. I also thought she might want to
consider her own good advice.
“You don’t have to apologize,” she said. “I’m not
accusing you. I just want you to know how I feel.”
Her interest returned to the coffee cup and its
contents, while I dealt with conflicted feelings. I did not know if I felt
deeply about her, but it was my turn to show remorse for the faux pas, so I
touched the little finger on her hand, but did not get much of a response.
“It’s been a while since I’ve considered another
person’s feelings.” I said.
Her smile appeared somewhat ajar from the rest of her
features, and her eyes were not willing to settle and focus. Her fingers escaped
and grasped a convenient coffee.
“So, tell me,” she asked sipping; “How is the
investigation progressing?”
I slowly drew my lame hand away and unfolded a linen
napkin. “I’m getting involved,” I said. “George and I conducted a séance at the
house the other night.”