by Robert Roper
Blinking, exhausted, he stumbled into his kitchen. Freddy had been fed. There was a flat, bluish light in the room—it was a light he recognized, what he thought of as the light of things as they are, his Ding an sich light. He had seen this light seven, eight times in his life. The light, and the automatic outpourings from his brain that sometimes accompanied it, were the core of what he was. Good to be reminded. The answering machine was flashing but making no noise: Melody had turned off the ringer. Now, why hadn’t he thought of that? Some genius.
The bluish light with aura-like vaporings persisted, like a subtle chord at the end of a solo piano piece. When at last it began to fade he found himself thinking of Deena. Deena, are you contacting me, is that what this is? Is your spirit leaving us, venturing into the beyond, at this instant? But I won’t let that happen—I forbid it. I will give up all math intensities, all light shows in my head, if only you’ll stay around. I need you, my friend. You are my dear friend.
From Richard Flense came a message about a funeral. It was to be held Monday, the normally rapid Jewish interment delayed by the Sabbath and a police necropsy. Harold Blodgett had been Jewish, despite his resemblance to Ralph Waldo Emerson. Landau had known he was, but still it was a shock to be reminded.
He took a taxi, not wanting to drag Melody into everything. Was Blodgett a Jewish name? It had been Brustein, before, he now recalled—Brustein or Blodgettstein, something ethnic. Raised in Davenport, Iowa, the son of a scrap dealer. BA Iowa State. He was the least Jewish-seeming man Landau knew, but here at the end, at the interment end, yes, he was Jewish.
Many people milling uncertainly on the gentle hillside. It was like one of their famous parties, only outside. University people predominating. Many had thought to bring umbrellas.
Hard to say whether it was raining or not. Landau’s face got wet just from being outdoors, but the sky was part blue, with stringy clouds. Here was Katherine Emerald of KRON, not wearing a headset today but rather a dark hat, dark clothes, no jewelry, no makeup. Madly beautiful, what an extraordinary face. Had she known Harold personally? Been one of his law students? Anything was possible.
Everyone left Landau alone, as if by prior agreement. You cad, you monster: so he imagined them all thinking. But a few cast semi-benign looks his way, remembering, possibly, the article in the Chron, or something they’d heard on TV. Wait, he didn’t do it, isn’t that right? Isn’t that what the authorities are thinking now? In that case, just avoid him. He might still be the Cragmont Ripper, and anyway there’s something unseemly about him.
There it was, the grave, the immemorial grave. Two overalled men with mud on their knees stood nearby, on either side of a backhoe. They were Mexican. At another funeral he had attended some years ago, two arrant Irishmen had been the gravediggers, and Landau could still recall their smirking eyes, their slicked-back biker hair, although not who it was who was being buried. The Mexicans had laid down outdoor carpet. They weren’t smirking, no, their expressions were respectful, and both had assumed the classic stance, the Mexican handworker stance. It was a reasonable way to stand, after all, at the edge of a deep hole. Eyes downcast to avoid tripping in.
Now began a slow, reluctant-seeming movement toward the grave. The university would be staging an elaborate memorial service in a few days, so this was just the planting, the basic act. My God, but this is all wrong, Harold, I can’t believe this, thought Landau. You have been murdered, you, Professor Blodgett? I thought you’d live forever. You were quietly enduring, like the Washington Monument. Like the Constitution.
An apparatus hung over the grave, it’s purpose to lower the coffin in a controlled way. It looked like a bed frame made of galvanized pipe, which put Landau in mind of plumbers, flooded basements. Six men brought forth the coffin, made of stark unvarnished wood, one of the six, remarkably, the right-wing law professor who had been at the soiree some weeks ago, the reputed Bush White House torture-memo writer. He was a broad-backed fellow, tall for a Chinese, well able to bear his part of the load.
Rain definitely falling now. This winter has played us a clever game, Landau thought, starting out mild, fooling us, lulling us. A rabbi began to intone in Hebrew, and he turned his gaze in that direction. The rabbi was standing under a tarp the Mexicans had erected. In front of him were two tall, impressive-looking young women, Harold’s daughters, Landau knew, and there was Richard Flense, not a special friend of the deceased but at the forefront whenever someone was passing over—he was writing his Big Book on Death, you know. Landau began to notice other people he knew, professors and their white-haired spouses, departmental secretaries, deans, admins, a vice provost—look, over there was a contingent from the East Asian Institute, Deena’s little office. He noted a tranche of liberal law scholars, Harold’s “poker boys,” as she had called them, and the Chinese man was now quietly, unashamedly weeping—that was not mere rain on his face, no, the man was moved.
Georges’ head of gray curls loomed up ahead, darker than usual because of the rain. He was five yards closer to the grave, with his friend Heather by his side. Landau wondered if the murders had brought them closer. Either they were strong in their effect, a rash of local murders, or they were part of the background noise, the general world awfulness, something that you endured—cruelty’s toll. Hard to believe that you, yourself, would be taken, you amongst all these people. The Angel of Death had passed over you so many times before, therefore, probably it would again.
He listened to the Hebrew. He liked to hear it, the mellifluousness, the ancient-sounding-ness. Maybe prayers were better in a language that you couldn’t understand. You could imagine an immense, profoundly satisfying eloquence being perpetrated, words achieving magical force. An umbrella opened over his head. He turned to find Graciela, Heitor’s young friend, the preschool teacher, close by his side. She looked not shy today so much as southern Italian, in an Empire-waisted black dress, black net stockings, black gloves, and medium heels despite the soggy going underfoot. She smiled with her beautiful chocolate eyes.
“Hello, Professor.”
“Hello there, Graciela. Thank you. I was about to steal that lady’s umbrella, and that wouldn’t have been nice.”
Heitor was on her other side. Bareheaded, bespectacled. He looked like a thoughtful young public-health researcher, which was what he was. Had he known Harold personally? Landau couldn’t put that together. All of Berkeley knew all of Berkeley, somehow, somewhere.
“Professor, hello,” he said softly.
“Glad to see you, Heitor. Though not glad about the occasion.”
Graciela kept trying to include Heitor in the umbrella coverage. But he stood apart, unconcerned for the wet.
“Did you know him well, Heitor?”
“No. I knew her better.”
“You knew Deena? How?”
“You introduced us. Boxing Day, 1992. You told me that she was your best friend ever. I remembered that.”
“Hmm.”
Later, a procession. People lined up and threw dirt upon the lowered casket, everyone who wished to did. Landau took the shovel and tossed down a sodden clod. Never thought it would come to this, Harold. Surely a mistake has been made. Many others had dropped down shovelfuls before his, so Landau’s made hardly a sound. One of the daughters stood before him, staring at him in a seeming cold fury. She met the eyes of each mourner as he or she approached, signaling recognition, appreciation, but the look she gave Landau was not gracious, was not appreciative at all. He understood how immensely presumptuous it was for him to be here today, acting like any mourner, just another clod-thrower. I know I’m innocent, but can these people be expected to think that? No, they bloody well can’t.
Later, outside the cemetery gates. He looked around for a taxi. Heitor and Graciela pulled up in a little car. They wanted to drive him home, get him in out of the wet.
Heitor drove, Graciela beside him up front. The backseat
contained a folded blanket that exuded a strong floral scent, as if from a recent dry-cleaning.
“Professor, how is Mrs. Blodgett, will she recover? The paper said that it was very bad,” said Heitor.
“Yes, I’m afraid it is, Heitor. I think she’ll survive, but there may be brain damage. Have you been to see her?”
He said nothing. Maybe he hadn’t heard.
“Heitor,” Landau continued. “What happened in Brazil? I was surprised to hear you weren’t working down there anymore.”
He inclined his handsome head. “It’s all a political thing, Professor, you know that. Me, I’m more of a private guy. I just want to go to the lab and play the numbers. I did that job but I didn’t like it.”
“Big jobs are big opportunities. You don’t want to be like me, Heitor, riding a theory horse into irrelevance.”
“Irrelevance, Professor? No, I don’t think so. Not you.”
One of the more attractive things about him: that he admires me, unreasonably esteems me. I must once have spoken to him in the right tone of voice, Landau reflected, given him “space” in which to grow as a junior colleague. Therefore, I now have credit with him. It’s the mysterious mentor-disciple dynamic, and by happy happenstance I never had to step on him professionally. Why don’t I have the same credit with my own son, though, where it really matters? I spoke to him in the same tones, I was careful not to step on his abnormally big feet, yet he and I are always under the Indian sign. Completely bolloxed.
“Wally said that you were onto something, Heitor, with the mosquitoes.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Working out your old paper, I guess. Trying to.”
“My old paper? But that was just a spoof. Surely you know that.”
“Okay—if you say so.”
Graciela turned around. “Are you cold, Professor? Please, use the blanket.”
“No, I’m fine, thank you. How’s the teaching going? You still at Bright Beginnings, Lakeshore Bright Beginnings, whatever they call it?”
“Yes, but I’m quitting. I’m getting a degree in library science.”
“You are? Well—how smart of you. The modern world is all about library searches, isn’t it? Digital ones especially. Have you ever had to engage with the Dewey decimal system? It’s an old curiosity from back in the Stone Age, from my time.”
She laughed: “Yes, I know what that is, but that’s only for local libraries now. On the university level, it’s more the Library of Congress system. Epidemiology, that’s in the RA643s, RA649s. I looked you up already.”
“Thank you. I’m honored.”
Jad’s house was nearby. We could stop, Landau thought, I could say hello. But I can’t just drop in on him, and besides, I need to get him and his wife over to my place, have them on my turf for a change. Remind them of the patriarchal splendor. Maybe have a party. But Deena wouldn’t be there to help me with it, and my celebrations in the past were always about doing something with Deena, like Judy Garland and Mickey Rooney putting on a show. Without her I will have no social existence to speak of, I will be but a rough, dark brute, shunned by the family of man. A Heathcliff, a Grendel.
“Professor, I got something I want to show you. If you would look at it sometime.”
“Sure, Heitor, what?”
“Just a little something. Bunch of notes. Maybe you’d take a look at it.”
“Of course. Whatever you want to show me, I’m always happy to look, Heitor. Your stuff’s always intriguing.”
“Okay. That’s good.”
Could barely keep his eyes open. Suddenly wrung out, exhausted. He tried to think of Harold, Harold in the cold, cold ground—his mind veered away from that, was unwilling to undertake the labor of parsing the meaning of that, if any. Thought of lunch instead. Mentally went through his refrigerator, constructing a plausible sandwich. A plate of hors d’oeuvres to go with. Some honey ham in the refrigerator if he wasn’t mistaken. Deli-bought ham.
He invited the young people inside, to be polite. Heitor gnawed a cold chicken leg. Graciela bit daintily at a gherkin.
“Wait a minute—wait. I’m remembering something,” Landau said. “‘The waitress was a vampire named Perkins. Was extremely fond of small gherkins. While she served the tea, she ate forty-three. Which pickled her internal workin’s.’”
Not sure what she’d heard, Graciela smiled shyly. Heitor made no response, stood up from his chair, went over to the deck door, where the cat Freddy often showed himself.
“Don’t let him in, please. He goes absolutely mad for ham,” Landau warned.
Heitor looked right and left. “No, nobody is here, Professor. I don’t see anybody.”
“My cat. Actually, you could let him in if you want. He doesn’t eat all that much.”
Heitor slid the door open. “Professor, this door was unlocked. The latch was completely open.”
“Oh?”
“Somebody could come in here, like that woman. The crazy one that sliced your face.”
“Probably I failed to lock it myself. I’m not a very locking-up sort of person. I’m easily breached.”
On a whim, he joined the young man at the door.
“If you were last here some years ago, probably you’ve never had the full-on deck tour, have you, Heitor. I’m most excessively proud of my deck, anyone who knows me will tell you that. Come on. Let’s look around.”
Landau led him outside. The rain was still dripping.
“This whole backyard, this was as nothing in the old days. A scrub jungle, an eyesore. Tall weeds and trash trees and things like that. I grew up on the hard streets of London, so to come in possession of a patch of authentic California hillside in its native state was for me a thrill. I was too in awe to touch it, almost. I rejoiced in the savage animals that came to visit, deer, skunks, wood rats, squirrels. By the mid-nineties my back-to-the-land phase was over, though, and I began to think of improvements.”
He took Heitor by the arm. “First thing, we tore out the brush. Put in a flagstone walk and a terrace, but beware what you start haphazardly—the stones called out for more than just a rickety back stoop. This lovely deck was the result, a standard California white-wine deck you might say, but it has individuality, a real architect designed it. Let’s go down beneath it, shall we? I want to show you something.”
Here came Freddy the cat. He came hopping out from underneath, stepping sprightly in the rain.
“Freddy, I’ve told you a thousand times not to go down there, haven’t I? Yet you disobey me. You are a bad animal.” His pet eluded Landau’s grasp, Heitor’s also. Squirted off into the yard.
“As I was saying. The planking is redwood from Mendocino County, second-growth, kiln-dried. Every two years I treat it with polymerized tung oil, which requires hours of hand-rubbing according to a recondite protocol handed down by the Cistercian fathers, I believe. I have a Mexican crew come do it, since it’s far beyond me physically. Tung oil, as you probably know, is a marine product, used on oceangoing yachts. People debate tung versus urethane, but for me it’s the best of the UV-resistant stains by far, and a potent fungicide-mildewcide to boot. Gives you that breathable yet water-repellant surface. Circa 1850 Exterior Varnish is the best brand, and once you’ve taken the high road, you can never go back, regardless of the expense. You’ve done the best possible for your deck, and you feel fulfilled.”
Some mad energy was upon him. He kept hold of Heitor’s upper arm when he tried to turn away.
“The maid was down here, Heitor, the maid Elfridia. Some people have speculated that she was being butchered in the kitchen when Samantha Beevors arrived, but Samantha was already upstairs, I think, having a nap. She heard something, came downstairs to investigate. Then ran back up with the killer at her heels. Coronary event. Heart attack. The killer may have stood above her watching her die, we can’t be sure. Some heart attacks are lightn
ing fast, like a light being turned off, but others take a while. The pain is said to be horrific.”
Here came Freddy again. He rubbed up against Landau’s leg, then Heitor’s, afterward circling them both twice.
“Here’s where it gets a little tricky, though. He goes back downstairs. The maid is bleeding to death on a tarp, and I say that because they didn’t find her blood on the kitchen floor or anywhere, so either he mopped it up extremely well or it was spilled on a removable surface. He took her away with him because he didn’t like to leave her here, and he didn’t like being in the house himself, either, because Samantha had spooked him. A few days later, he brings the body back, though, which was dangerous to do, because the police were watching. It must have answered some deep need in him, to run that risk.”
Perfectly immobile, Heitor waited for him to finish. The professor needed to say these things, to work these sad possibilities out in his mind; the least he could do was to listen.
“A deep need, a compulsion, I say. He’d already sliced her, so the fun part was over. Psychopaths are very particular about the remains—TV teaches us that. Some care more for them than for the living body. They must be treated properly else the whole exercise is a failure, a catastrophe. Freddy, leave me be, I tell you, just stop that,” and Landau half-kicked at his cat, sending it scooting out into the yard again.
He could see Heitor’s face better now. It was dark beneath the deck, but his eyes had been adjusting to the light. Heitor looked morose; he had heard the professor’s words, and there was wisdom in them, he was ready to admit that, although, the whole topic was unfortunate.
“And then, he tried to blame you. Put this on you,” said Heitor commiseratingly. “But it isn’t because of you that this happened, Professor—the crazy man, he just wants someone to hide behind.”
Landau nodded. “If only I could prove that, Heitor. To everyone’s satisfaction.”