The Wax Man in my Basement

My husband Anthony was a beautiful man. At thirty, you’d still call him boyishly handsome, though he had the sort of strong jawline that you’d usually only see on sporting goods store mannequins. I often kidded with him, that he’d just need to grow some stubble (and age a few decades) to pass for a young Jon Hamm. He’d retort that he couldn’t have facial hair because of his volunteer firefighter duties—the necessity of creating a tight seal between oxygen mask and skin—though we both knew that it would take him an eight-day week to grow a five o’clock shadow.
Anthony and I had always been a quirky couple. We both gravitated toward the strange and macabre in our choices of art and entertainment. We toured cemeteries, went on ghost walks, and chose lodging based on advertised hauntings. On our way to the Jersey Shore for our honeymoon, we took a full day to tour the Mütter Museum in Philadelphia, to see all the ghastly medical and anatomical oddities on display there.
When we began looking for our first house, we knew we weren’t going to live in a typical ranch home in a typical neighborhood. We first sought out old churches, small chapels, and renovated funeral parlors, and almost purchased a former Methodist chapel on the banks of the Tioughnioga River. Before fate intervened in the form of a once-in-a-century spring flood, only days before we were supposed to close on the property. Anthony and I were relieved that we hadn’t been underwater on a mortgage and with the property—though we were still disappointed, as we had grand ambitions for that little chapel and its working bronze church bell.
It was almost too perfect when a few months later, a former train station-turned-museum came up for sale. It was in our price range and only a town away from where we were renting at the time. Small towns in New York had been dissolving for years, villages that had been around since the 18th and early 19th centuries were fading away, and historical societies, like churches, were selling off properties at bargains. The purchase and our move into the mint green train station went smoothly.
There were quite a few pieces of furniture and general clutter leftover from the building’s turn as a museum, and even from its time as a train station. Anthony loved the yellowed books and papers that he’d find tucked away in the beaten wooden furniture and 20th century filing cabinets. He read up on the history of the property at the library, which was only next door, and would often come home on a weekend afternoon with some new story or anecdote.
“’Binghamton was jarred at 9:45 o'clock on Saturday night and the western sky, for a moment, was aflame. Buildings trembled, people ran into the streets, and there was talk of an earthquake,’†said Anthony, reading aloud from a newspaper clipping he had found on microfiche, one Saturday morning.
“So, was it an alien invasion?†I joked, interrupting his flow.
“No, Sherry, two trains collided here in 1901, and one of them happened to be carrying dynamite!†he stated. “Listen to this: ‘A flash as if the Heavens were on fire followed and before it had died away a deafening roar which sent its vibrations for seventy-five miles announced that the ruin had been complete.’â€
“Anyone die?†I asked, morbidly curious.
He nodded. “‘The dying groaned as they writhed in awful pain on the ground in the fields nearby where they had been thrown by the explosion.’â€
“That’s intense…†I said.
Anthony grinned at me, not veiling his excitement in the slightest. “This place has to be haunted," he stated. "It sat abandoned for decades after the fire, and the historical society only brought more stuff in after the renovation. There’s still so much here that I haven’t gone through…â€
“Anthony, I love the place—you know I do—but we’re going to have to get a dumpster and start throwing out some of your ‘historical’ stuff,†I said. “We’re going to need space too.â€
It’s burned into my memory, the way he smiled at me then. I still get weak in the knees thinking about it.
“Yes, there’ll be space for everybody. We’ll need room for a couple kids, a pack of dogs, maybe even a cat…†I stopped him from going on and on by kissing him.
It was a few weekends later that we got to the nuts and bolts of clearing out Anthony’s ‘historical stuff’ from the basement. It was mostly broken furniture, filing cabinets full of the day to day operations of the museum, and cardboard boxes full of junk. But what I had my eye on—and what I had wanted to toss out since the first time I stepped foot into that basement—was a life-size wax figure of a train conductor.
“Tony, please tell me that Mr. Conductor can go today?†He furrowed his brow, which was his way of letting me know that he’d at least consider it.
“Tony, he’s all droopy,†I pleaded. “We couldn’t display him anywhere like that. People would think we’re shabby—and he’s creepy.â€
I was right. The blue suited, elderly conductor had been through one too many hot summers tucked away down there. He was already partially melted; his face mimed the worst of the stroke patients I’d seen at the hospital where I worked.
Anthony went over to the wax figure to inspect him up close. After a few quiet moments, he placed his hand on the man’s shoulder and turned to me. “Yeah, he is pretty creepy looking. But he is a conductor, and this was a train station…â€
I was genuinely irritated, that my husband didn’t immediately agree to toss the damaged wax man out. “Please, Anthony, he’s got to go. I don’t know that he won’t star in my nightmares. Just look at him.â€
Anthony put his arms around the conductor and tried to lift him. “Christ. This thing’s heavier than I thought it would be.â€
“Well, don’t strain yourself, Tony,†I said. “We’ll get a dolly or something and then get him out of here.â€
“Sure thing, babe.â€
Over the next couple weeks, I thought little of our conductor in the basement. I knew eventually Anthony would get rid of it—if only to please me—and he and I were busy with work and decorating the main living areas of the house, anyway. I was exceedingly happy with how things were going at the time. We were even talking about a timeline for us getting pregnant.
When I came home from work one Friday evening with a bag of groceries, I parked in the little lot next to my quaint, green train station. I thought it was strange that Anthony’s car was gone. He was always home before me and he rarely went out without sending a courtesy text. As I unlocked the kitchen door, I considered that maybe he’d gone out on a call for the fire department. He’d recently been promoted to deputy fire chief at the engine company and had recommitted himself to responding to every call.
As soon as I opened the door and stepped foot into the house—before I could even turn the light on—I spotted a man standing in the kitchen! I dropped my groceries and flipped the light on, ready to defend myself... I clutched my chest and released a ragged sigh, when I realized it was only the wax form of the train conductor. It took me a few moments to gather myself, and I grimaced at the egg yolk that was seeping out of the bag and onto the hardwood floor. I couldn’t believe that Anthony had done that to me, and I was livid when he came through the door a few minutes later.
“That wasn’t funny, Tony! I practically had a stroke when I saw that thing in here!â€
Anthony paused in the doorway—a pizza box in hand—unsure whether he should make a run for it. “Oh, the conductor… Sorry, babe. I got him upstairs, but then I wasn’t sure what to do with him. I don’t think we can just put him out to the curb for garbage pickup.â€
I huffed at him, still shaken from my encounter.
“I got pizza!†He grinned dopily, which caused me to lose most of my head of steam.
“The wax man has to go!†I pouted. “He looks even more disfigured in the light up here.â€
“I’ll take care of it in the morning—I swear.â€
We settled in for the night watching Netflix—eating in the living room at my suggestion—I thought I’d get sick to my stomach if I had to dine within view of our melted-cheese-faced housemate.
It was around five the next morning when Anthony got called to a fire. He scrambled out of bed and we barely exchanged ‘I love yous’ before I was back to sleep. When I awoke at seven, and padded downstairs, I didn’t immediately notice that the conductor was missing from the kitchen. I made coffee and was headed toward the living room, when I was once again startled by the sight of the wax man. The conductor was now in the rear hallway, facing me, and positioned as if he were guarding the rear door.
“****!†I burned my hand when some of my scalding coffee spilled out. I rushed to the kitchen and ran cold water over my injury. I didn’t care why Anthony had taken the time that morning to move the wax man into the hallway. I was determined to finally get the damned thing out of my house.
I couldn’t get around the conductor to get to the back door, so I tried pushing him in order to get by—but he was too heavy. After some time struggling, trying to make any type of headway, I thought of a much easier route.
I went outside and grabbed a length of rope from the shed and went up the back stoop. The door opened out, so I figured all I had to do was secure the rope around the conductor’s torso and give him a good pull to get him to topple down the back steps. When I had the wax man tied, I heaved on the rope and was surprised when he came tumbling down with minimal effort! I had to jump out of the way as he broke into a myriad of pieces on the stairs. I laughed at his clean decapitation—his warped face staring up at me, a bizarre mix of placidity and agony—and even kicked his deformed head across the grass.
I then considered how I could dispose of him. We didn’t have unlimited garbage removal, so I knew he wouldn’t all fit in the trash bin the following week.
“You’re wax. You can burn!†I stated, gleefully, when I remembered that we kept a gas can in the shed for the lawnmower.
I used a snow shovel to pile up the broken pieces of our train conductor on the nearby blacktop, then doused him in gas and set him on fire. I watched him become engulfed in intense flames and he soon eerily melted away into a thick pool of blue and white—the pool itself burned for some time, and I watched it in a trance-like state, satisfied with what I had done.
After the fire finally extinguished itself, I let the wax puddle cool, and as I was considering what I’d now do with the tar-like globs—which I knew I’d have to scrape off the parking area—my cell phone rang.
“Hello?â€
“Sherry. This is Ronnie,†came the familiar voice. Ronnie was Anthony’s fire chief. “Anthony’s been hurt and he’s on his way to the hospital. Do you want me to send someone to pick you up?â€
I began to panic. My whole body went limp and I really didn’t know if I could drive to the hospital. “Memorial?â€
“Yes. He should already be there,†said Ronnie.
“Is it bad, Ron?â€
“It’s bad, Sherry. I’m sorry.â€
“I’ll be there sh- shortly,†I stammered.
I raced to the hospital. I was furious when they didn’t let me go and see him right away. Ronnie tried to console me, but I was a mess, as anyone in my situation would be. All the guys from the firehouse were there. They all looked rough. An abandoned furniture factory had caught on fire, and it has been one hell of a morning for every firefighter in the county.
A nurse named Gloria came out periodically to give me brief updates. I worked in medical billing, so I didn’t really understand the technical things she was telling me. I was relieved when she finally said I could go up his room in the intensive care unit to see him.
“Mrs. Kearns, your husband is stable, but he is in critical condition,†said Nurse Gloria. “His physician will likely advise that we fly him to Syracuse’s burn unit.â€
For all the talk in the waiting room about the fire, no one had let slip the extent of Anthony’s injuries. I was sweating profusely even before we entered the hot hallways of the ICU.
“What percentage of his body is damaged and to what degree?†I did know the magic numbers of survivability, being a firefighter’s wife. I was hoping for second degree burns, less than 50% of his body, some serious lung issues due to smoke inhalation…
“Right now, we’re estimating that 60% of his body has received third-degree burns.â€
I collapsed against the wall as we walked. Gloria steadied me and took me down the hall to his room.
Anthony was being attended to by two nurses in the small room. They were giving him shots, running multiple IVs, I can’t remember the details—I was strangely ecstatic, giddy even, when I saw his beautiful, unmarred face.
“Anthony?†I said it softly; I didn’t dare touch him. He opened his eyes. He couldn’t talk, the machines were breathing for him. He was covered in bandages. We made eye contact. It was enough at the time. He was aware of me.
Anthony remained stable for the next twenty-four hours. The doctors were planning on airlifting him to a major hospital an hour away in Syracuse. I thought that he had a fighting chance. I hadn’t left the hospital. I’d just gone to get a coffee. When I returned, I saw that he had yanked the tubes out of his throat. He was gasping for air.
I reached to hit the emergency button to call the nurse, but his bandaged hand grasped mine before I could.
“I… love… you… Sherry.†His voice was barely a whisper. I leaned in and told him that I loved him, that we needed to get his tubes back in.
He nearly sat himself up. I gently nudged him back to the bed. “What is it? You have to take it easy, Tony. I can’t believe you…â€
“I tried to get to you. I couldn’t get through,†he wheezed.
“What are you trying to say, Tony?†I leaned in closer, staring into those endless green eyes of his. There was terror there. Fear of the unknown.
“Sherry!†he gasped. “I saw you…in the fire!†He began coughing horribly, it was only moments before Gloria and another nurse rushed in to put his tubes back in.
Soon after, Anthony closed his eyes for the last time. He passed away early in the morning while I slept soundly in a chair by his side. I didn’t want to stick around the hospital after that. I shook off the grief counselor, held in my tears, signed what I needed to sign so they’d let me go home. I just wanted to be in our bed, hug his pillow and smell him—then maybe I could cry for a couple days.
But when I returned home, I was astonished to discover that he was there waiting for me. No, not the conductor; he was still a hardened, waxen smear on the pavement outside. Standing in the back hallway, in full firefighter kit, was my beautiful Anthony—a pristine wax replica, every intimate detail down to the mole behind his right ear.


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