Chapter 12 - Seattle

Polly’s underwear was showing. I think what she was wearing was called a thong. She was leaning over the lookout railing at the observation deck of the Space Needle, taking in the tourist-eye view of Seattle, when the underwear appeared. I had no idea what to do. I wondered if you were supposed to tell someone when this happened. Chloe always told me I should tell her if there was something in her teeth. She said that the initial awkwardness was better than being embarrassed in front of other people. The pink strap that looked up at me from her hip seemed different than lettuce in a bicuspid, though. I decided that if I got her to face me, the thong would turn to the other tourists for their enjoyment.

“You know Polly, you seem to be pretty strong.” Happy that I didn’t say “pretty thong.”

“How is that, Mr. Burnkey.” She smiled and turned to me, moving close enough for me to smell the mint of her chewing gum.

“After Morton died, I fell apart. I was essentially rolled up in the fetal position, figuratively and sometimes literally for the first year.”

She pulled back a few inches. “Do you do small-talk? Ever?”

“I’m not known for my small-talk. No. I can try …”

“BE YOURSELF.”

“I’m trying …”

“That’s what the sweatshirt said.”

“What sweatshirt?”

“The one that my mom made for me when I was fifteen. Back in Detroit. My mom was a strong woman in a tough situation, her second marriage. My dad was no great catch. But she somehow managed a positive attitude and all this was years before the age of daytime self-repair television. The sweatshirt also said ‘YOU ARE STRONG’ and ‘KID POWER’ on the sleeves, and ‘I’M THE BOSS OF ME’ on the back.”

“She sounds like a cool lady.”

“She still is. Yeah. She lives down in Tacoma now. She got out of Detroit before I did. Anyway, after Jake decided that my services were no longer needed, and chose to check out the underside of the dirt, I thought about that sweatshirt. YOU ARE STRONG. And so I became strong.”

“It was that easy?”

“I’ll let you know.”

“OK. Your underwear is sticking out.”

“I know.”


We’d checked into a nicer hotel than any I’ve used since I’d left Boston. I realized, as I produced my credit card, that I should probably start to take a look at the status of my funds. Polly had offered to share a room. I laughed. She wasn’t joking. She looked at me and told me she made a good roommate, that she would stay on her side and everything would be cool. She told me that if I was cool, that she would be cool. The situation came down to how cool Theo Burnkey could be. One room or two. Twenty minutes later, I knocked on her room door. She had a better view of the city than me.


The reason that we were in Seattle instead of Detroit was because even though Jake killed himself in Detroit, the records showed he had grown up in Seattle. So the body would be flown back here for burial. On the drive here, Polly told me she pictured the coffin on the plane. She said that even though she had never met Jake, and had only heard his voice, she could picture him. And so, she pictured him, blue skin in a black suit tilting as the plane took off, then climbing to cruising altitude in the cargo hold. She picture his face calm, although the tie he wore would be covering the neck wound. She could see icicles forming on the glossy parts of his fingernails, then she pictured him slowly descending into Seattle, as the rain fell. So he fell from the sky and back, nearly to the ground that would soon hold him.

“But I won’t know if I even pictured him right until I see him.”

“And why is that so important?”

“Because of Jake’s pet cat Linc. Because I’m very good at what I do. Because I can read people, and because I was wrong. Because people who express that level of concern for a pet, aren’t ready to die. I misread the signs. Now, to begin to forgive myself, I need to see Jake and let him die before I can start my own process.”

“But isn’t it a bit morbid?”

“Theo, Jake is not alive. Morbid thoughts are those forced on the living. Imposing something on Jake is like imposing it on this piece of luggage,” she said, kicking the case at her feet. I winced.



Medical examiners can keep late hours. We were lucky this one’s assistant told us we could still see him the night we arrived in Seattle. In the glow of the phosphorus lights, you could tell the building was painted in that shade known as Government White, but that the paint wasn’t holding up. His office was at the end of a row of labs, and his name, Paul Dante, M.E. was on a placard outside of his door. My dad used to watch that program “Quincy” when I was a kid. Quincy was a medical examiner, and in the title of the show it actually read “Quincy M.E.” As a kid, I always thought it should be read “Quincy, that’s ME.” I wondered if I should ask Dr. Dante if he ever saw Quincy, but before I could even shake his hand, Polly was talking.

“Oh, thank God we’ve finally made it to your office.”

“Yes, and you are?”

“On the trip up from Tacoma I nearly cried the entire way, although I’m fine now, and my husband Theo, strong as a rock, just kept saying ‘there, there, pumpkin, Jakey’s gone to a better place.’ Didn’t you honey?”

“Well, actually, I … never … liked the way you called him Jakey. He was Jacob. Strong, like from the Bible.”

“Oh, you must be here to talk about an exhumation? Jacob Phillips? I was rather surprised to hear the request you’d started on this.” He held a paper, whose apparent purpose was situations just like this.

“Well, Dr. Dante, can I call you Paul?”

“I guess.”

“Can I tell you the story of Jakey’s life back in Detroit? And how it was that my brother lost hope enough to end his tragic existence, even though his sister Polly and brother-in-law Theo were, themselves, experiencing the hopefulness of new life, even as we speak, nestled within the whom of yours truly?”

Dr. Dante’s eyes widened, and he leaned back in his chair to listen. I think that I must have had a similar expression on my face as I listened to the story Polly was beginning. The tale, it turned out, was of Jake in the military, his Purple Heart award, his time as a fireman and his struggle with dyslexia. After she was finished, if I were a medical examiner, I’m not sure if I would have granted an exhumation or a Tony award for acting.

“And that, you see, Dr. Dante, is why I need to see my brother’s face one last time.”

She had managed to produce tears by this point. He offered her a box of tissues, then stared at her for a few seconds, it seemed he was unable to figure exactly what had just happened. Then the spell was broken, and he looked around the room and straightened a few objects on his desk.

“That’s a remarkable story, about a remarkable young man. I don’t know what to tell you. We just can’t authorize an exhumation, though. The rules are very clear. If we could, I might even help you myself.”

“Thank you for your time,” I said getting up.

I looked at Polly. She looked defeated, as if the race she’d been winning had just been cancelled. She looked at me, and then forced a smile. I realized how deep this ran for her. She was not so different from me. We got up to leave the office.

“You know, it’s a shame they didn’t even give Jacob the Purple Heart distinction on his monument.” Dante was looking at a file that had lay closed on his desk the entire time.

“The Tranquil Rest Cemetery has a lovely monument just for war heroes, you should mention to them that your brother was a veteran.”

I looked to Polly. Some aspect of her face had returned to life. Her spirit exhumed.

“Yes. Really? You know, we were also heading there to talk to them doctor. The Tranquil Rest Cemetery, you say?” He nodded. “Yes, that’s where we were heading first thing in the morning.”



Polly insisted we celebrate. Somehow, she thought that learning which cemetery held the body of Jacob was an excellent start. We drove around Seattle for a little while until we found a place called the Sunset Tavern. A band was playing. They were a bit loud, but that made Polly all the more interested.

I order two beers and brought them over to Polly as she danced in her spot, her eyes on the band. They were three girls performing in red dresses. A singer, bass guitarist and drummer. I believe it was technically called punk rock, although I’m no expert. The name on their drum was “The Hot Rollers” and Polly danced like it was her favorite band.

When she saw I’d brought her a beer, she slid her arm behind my back and I felt her hip move toward my own. She was touching me. When her movement continued, I understood. We were dancing. Beside the guitars being one-quarter out of tune, the band was fun. The crowd was so happy to hear them, including Polly, that I started to enjoy them as well.

Later, I entertained Polly, by telling her which of the couples in the room were likely to go home together. It was innocent enough. I’ve sworn off finding patterns in people, but these were innocent enough: the mating ritual of self-concern. I could sense a lot by the way they touched their ears or shifted their bodies. Many couples in the room showed only one-sided interest, a few were mutual. I pointed them out and we watched the mutually interest sets leave together.

“What about us Theo? What’s our pattern?” Polly asked with a smile and widening eyes. I didn’t answer.


Later that night, at the hotel, I stood near Polly’s door to say goodnight. Both of us smelling like beer and cigarettes. I found the edge of the doorway and held it with my hand behind me. Polly leaned in to kiss me and she succeeded. It was a short kiss and then she turned to go into her room.

“What ever happened to the sweatshirt your mom made? Do you still have it?”

“Theo honey, that thing was ugly. I threw it away years ago. It makes a better memory than a clothing option.”

I made it to my own room and bed and then fell asleep.



I awoke to a persistent knocking on my door. For some reason, the pitch of a knocked hotel room door in the morning, whether it be a friend or a woman shouting “Housekeeping” was particular offensive to the ears.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” Polly said through the door.


The Tranquil Rest Cemetery was near the Arboretum, on the north side of town. Set on a hill, it offered a lovely view of the lake below. Seattle, I was discovering, was actually full of rather steep hills. So much so, that I wondered how San Francisco, with its reputation for hills, could be any worse.

The management office of the funeral home offered us a printed out map of the plots and how to find “our loved one,” and we looked down from a small hill to compare the map to the plot that lay before us. The style of the cemetery was newer, it was less crowded with monuments than the ones I’d seen on the East Coast. Polly was visibly excited. Why, or what she expected to do next, I had no idea. Her finger was set on the map, and beneath it was the name Jacob Phillips. After a minute she pointed off to a corner of the valley, green and dotted with granite.

“Over there.”

I looked at the map then at the terrain and something in my senses started to react. It surprised me. A pattern? Here in a cemetery? I decided to stop the sensory process. I followed Polly. She ran to a plot on high ground near the back corner of the area and under the boughs of a fir tree. There, a rectangle of bright green grass grew before a stone marked “Jacob Phillips.” The stone was flat and rose three inches from the ground like a shoe box and on it showed the passing of Jake’s thirty-one years.

“There he is,” she said. “He’s really dead.”

I was surprised to hear her say it. Had she doubted the fact? I put my hand on her shoulder. Her face was blank.

“Well, that’s over then.” She let out a deep sigh as if the ghost of Jacob Phillips were passing out of her lungs, and she bent down and slapped the stone.

“You shouldn’t have quit so early, my friend. I’m sorry you did. But, it wasn’t my fault.”

I looked at her, amazed. She wasn’t looking for something to believe, she was just looking for Jacob so she could tell him the truth. Polly knew she hadn’t killed Jake, but the symbolism was important. That’s why what happened next was so hard for me.

We walked back to the small hill where we’d looked down on the cemetery earlier and Polly pulled out the map again.

“So many dead people!” She laughed. “Where would you be buried in this place, Theo, if you had a choice?”

I looked at the land, and then I looked at the map. My sense started to engage and I didn’t see how any good could come of it. The printout contained the years the deceased were born and when they’d passed. The numbers glowed through the paper as if the ink were ignited. The digits floated into my perception and then lay themselves across a geometric representation of the land before me. Something was wrong. The cemetery followed a strict pattern. I guessed it was to prevent settling of the ground in the rainy climate or to best handle earthquakes. Whatever the reason, over the years, they had consistently placed heavier crypts on higher ground. This meant that the older the person, the higher the ground they were placed upon. Children would be less likely to settle, their vaults containing less cement. Less weight. Thus, they occupied the lower ground. The difference between birth and death dates confirmed the pattern in every plot except one. Jacob Phillip’s plot should have contained a child, or an unrealistically small adult. I knew at that moment with surprising certainty that Jacob wasn’t in his crypt.

A few minutes earlier, Polly had claimed that his death wasn’t her fault. Would she still be so sure if this wasn’t the body of Jacob? I decided she deserved to know.


That night I slept in Polly’s room, but only to try help her stop crying. It was as if the quest to find Jake was the only thing that had been keeping her going, from Detroit to Portland and now to Seattle. If the body of Jacob Phillips were propped against a door, its absence had allowed that door to swing open and reveal everything that Polly had feared.

It is horrible to know that you may have let someone die. To know that in your arrogance, you decided for them by not taking them seriously. I knew exactly how Polly felt, and I knew why Mike Vestal had called to send me here. Polly was like me, and she was trying to do something about her pain. Her method was to hunt the actual body of her demons. I wasn’t sure where my demons lived or how I’d find them. Somehow, though, it didn’t seem like Morton Petes was finished with me yet either.

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