Death in McMurdo

In the middle of February, during an extremely cold spell, a little after midnight, a middle-aged man parked his Chevy in a side street off Boston Post Road By-pass in the small historic town of Weston, Massachusetts.  He got out of the driver’s seat and shut the door softly.  He looked about him.  No movement, hardly a light.  He opened the rear door, took hold of a duffel bag from the seat and lifted it out.  He shut the door and locked the car with his key.  Carrying the bag, he carefully negotiated the slippery ice and slowly headed in the darkness to his destination near the river.

            Carlo Carbone was sad.  His plan had gone awry.  His orchestration of secretive steps after the devastating news had backfired.  His daughter was dead.  Tonight was the grand finale of the tragedy.

            Over his wife’s objections, Carlo had taken command of Sophia’s pregnancy, sending her to a family on a small Pennsylvania farm, where she was to give birth in privacy.  He was to arrange for adoption and there would be no shame.  Life would be normal again and everyone could go about their business.

            Carlo thought of himself as a compassionate man.  When he first set eyes on his grandchild, he had a moment of loving, thinking kindly of its mother at birth.  Sophia too was born with a mop of brown hair.  But he realized he could not assume guardianship of the baby.

            He was overcome with guilt.  His demand for secrecy, necessary to protect the family’s good name, led to his recruitment of a local midwife to assist with the delivery.  When things went wrong, she was not equipped to prevent the worst.  Sophia died giving birth.  John Doe survived.

            Earlier in the night, his wife had wrapped the boy in layers of wool blankets so its tiny eyes, nose and mouth were the only exposed features.  He placed the bundle in a carry bag, partially zipped it and took it to his car.

            Before he reached the brown brick building that was the town precinct, his tears froze.  He brushed them clean with his gloved hand.  He climbed up the seven stairs to the lobby of the Weston police department.  Moving quickly now, he swung open the storm door of the main entrance and felt the warmth in the enclosed foyer.  He scanned the area.  No one.  He deposited the bag softly on the floor, turned to leave and heard a muffled gurgle.  He paused momentarily.

            Retreating to his car in the still of the night, Carlo hoped that his illegitimate grandson would be well looked after and that he would have a life longer and happier than his mother.

            Back home, instead of his usual glass of red wine, Carlo downed a bottle of Chianti before going to bed.