Detective Huston just nodded.
“So why am I here anyway?” I asked. “Am I under arrest?”
“No, of course not. Didn’t you just hear me? You’re a hero. As far as we’re concerned, you should get the fucking key to the city.”
Detective Percy was overdoing it. Trying too hard to be my friend, to act like nothing bad was coming my way. And who knows, maybe it was the truth. But I had been in this room for nearly three hours, which gave me a lot of time to think and process recent events and decide on the best course of action. Which, now that the two detectives were finally in the room, was still unclear.
“So then… I’m free to leave?”
The smile slipped off the detective’s face. “Not quite. First we want to get your side of things.”
“I’ve already given my statement.”
“Yes, and that was much appreciated. Wasn’t it, Jimmy?”
Detective Huston grunted his agreement.
“Fine,” I said. “What do you guys what to know?”
“Simple. Tell us how this all started.”
****
I first met Norman Jones on a Friday afternoon. I know for a fact it was Friday because Fridays I went down to the library with my laptop and found a quiet corner where I wouldn’t be bothered and spent several hours working on whatever I was currently working on.
I’d seen Norman a few times before. The city library is a magnet for the homeless and eccentric. I knew most of the staff by name, and I knew most of the regulars by face. They’d wander the narrow aisles or flip through months’ old magazines or page through yesterday’s paper, scanning every article as if they might recognize their own names, despite the fact many of them probably couldn’t read.
Norman, however, was different.
He clearly wasn’t homeless. He was well groomed, though his gray hair was sometimes ragged and his full beard unkempt. He’d wear chinos and a button-down shirt, always tucked in, and his glasses were always perched just so on his nose that you knew he took great care of them.
Like I said, I’d seen him a couple of times, but it wasn’t until a few months passed that he first spoke to me.
“Writing anything good?”
I looked up at him over my laptop screen.
He forced a smile. “You’re a writer, aren’t you?”
I nodded absently, annoyed at the interruption.
“I’m a writer, too.” He extended his hand. “The name’s Norman. Norman Jones. Good to meet you.”
We shook.
“So what do you write?” he asked. “Any particular genre?”
I wanted him to leave, but I didn’t want to be rude, either. It went against my nature, despite all the times rudeness would have come in handy.
“Mystery,” I told him. Then: “Well, more crime, I guess.”
He smiled again. “There is a distinction, isn’t there?”
I nodded, hoping he would make this short. Fortunately, he did. He said it was nice meeting me. He said he wished me great luck on my story. He said he might see me around some other time. Then he wandered away, and I turned my focus back on my work.
****
I expected to see him the next Friday, but it was two Fridays later that we ran into each other. Literally.
I had finished and packed my laptop and was starting up the stairs to the first floor when I went around the corner and ran into someone coming down the steps. This person was gripping the railing and let go in surprise. He started to fall back. I reached out and grabbed him before he fell.
“My goodness,” Norman Jones said, breathless. “That was certainly a close call.”
“I’m sorry about that.”
He shook his head. “Not at all. Stairs can be a great tool, but also a dangerous tool.”
A moment of awkward silence passed.
“Well, sorry again,” I said and started past him up the stairs.
“Did you ever finish your story?”
I reached the top of the stairs and turned back. “What story?”
“The one you were working on the last time we spoke.”
“Yes.”
“I’d love to read it sometime.”
I wasn’t sure what to say to this. As a professional writer, I have no problem letting strangers read my work. But usually those strangers are readers finding my stuff in bookstores or magazines or online. Almost never does a stranger ask to read something that hasn’t yet been published–something that, quite honestly, was still a first draft.
“It’s, um, finished, but it’s not really finished. If that makes sense.”
He smiled and nodded. “Of course, of course. Well, once it is finished, I’d love to read it.”
“Sure,” I told him, but I had no intentions of showing him the story. In fact, I decided right there and then I wouldn’t be returning to the library. Not next week. Not the following week. I had only been coming to the library to get out of my apartment. It was a nice change of scenery. But the city was big, and I knew I could easily find scenery elsewhere.
****
Not even a month passed before I ran into him again. Not at the library–I had stopped going–but at a bookstore downtown. I was browsing the shelves when I turned the corner and there he stood, paging through a book.
“Hello,” he said, before I had a chance to turn away.
I returned the greeting. Then, not having anything else to say, I asked him what he was looking at.
He showed me the cover. It was American Pastoral by Philip Roth. He asked, “Have you read it?”
“I have.”
“Is it as good as everybody says it is?”
“It is.”
He smiled thoughtfully. “Then you’ve convinced me. This is today’s purchase.”
“Today’s?”
“Yes. I purchase a book every day. Don’t you?”
I laughed. “I wish.”
“Tell me, did you ever finish your story to your satisfaction?”
“I did what I could with it. It’s as good as it’s ever going to get.”
“So it’s not perfect?”
I shook my head. “There’s no such thing as a perfect story.”
“Ah, Robert, but that’s where you’re wrong.”
****
As far as I know, I never gave him my name. That should have been my first warning.
Actually, my first warning should have been running into him at the bookstore. Granted, there aren’t that many bookstores in the city, and yes, this one was one of the more popular ones, but what were the chances I would run into him here, after having literally run into him weeks before at the library?
Or maybe I was just being paranoid. Chances were he was a fan. My picture was on my website. It was rare, but readers sometimes recognized me.
“How do you know my name?”
He smiled–it seemed like he was always smiling.
“You told me when we first met. I gave you my name; you gave me your name. That’s usually how introductions work, yes?”
I still didn’t remember giving him my name, but I admitted that yes, that was how introductions worked. From there Norman talked about some of the books he liked, and I talked about some of the books I liked, and the tension that had been there–at least on my side–quickly faded.
Norman Jones was, I had to admit, a fairly nice and affable guy. He seemed sharp, too, and when he mentioned that he’d attended Harvard, that he’d taught English at Stanford for nearly a decade, I began letting down my defenses. I’m not sure why. Maybe it was because for several years I had been university-minded, having attended an MFA program. I had done my work and received my degree and now I spent my days not teaching like my peers but locked up in my apartment, staring at my computer screen. I was a full-time writer, which was what I always wanted to be, but it had come with a price. Countless hours spent by myself. No friends besides the few I knew online and in writing circles. No consistent girlfriends. My parents lived across th
e country and I hardly ever talked to them. So, as pathetic as it sounded, I was lonely and unconsciously looking for friends, and with my defenses down like they were, Norman Jones seemed to be the right fit.
“Do you drink coffee?” I asked.
****
We ended up at a coffee shop a few blocks away, and it was there that we continued our discussion about books and writing and, well, the usual stuff writers talk about when they get together.
“So tell me about the perfect story.”
“What about it?”
“I maintain it doesn’t exist.”
“And why is that?”
“Just… because. Writing and reading are such subjective things. What one person likes, another person will dislike, or hate, or just be indifferent about. There isn’t any story or novel or even poem that is universally liked by everyone.”
Smiling, Norman took a sip of his coffee. “A perfect story doesn’t mean it’s universally liked.”
“Then what does it mean?”
He shrugged. “Just that it’s perfect.”
“Right. So what does that even mean?”
Norman laughed, a deep, hearty chuckle. “Oh, Robert, where should I even begin?”
****
Our friendship started there, I suppose. I didn’t see him all the time, but usually once a week we met for coffee or to browse books, and I would bring along the latest thing I had written and Norman would read it right there in front of me, a pen in hand, and mark up the pages as he went along.
The thing about writers–we’re an insecure bunch. We want everyone to like what we write, but know at the same time everyone is just as likely to hate it. The idea of sitting within close proximity of someone reading what you wrote with the intention of pointing out its flaws is cringe-worthy.
And yet, for some reason, when Norman read and marked my stories right in front of me, I wasn’t nervous. The first time, yes, but after I had gone through his notes, saw his comments and his corrections, I realized he knew what he was talking about. Most times when someone gives me feedback, I agree with that person less than half the time. Here I agreed with Norman one hundred percent of the time. It impressed me so deeply I asked him why I hadn’t yet read any of his work.
“In due time.”
“So you’re working on something?”
“Of course. I’ve been working on it for quite a while.”
“And what is that?”
He smiled. “The perfect story.”
****
I don’t want to bore you with many more details. You know how it ends. You know who Norman Jones turned out to be.
Truthfully, I thought of him as a friend. I never would have imagined he was capable of doing what he did. Never once did he say or do anything that sent up red flags. Obviously, now I know better. That from the very start he was stalking me. Following my every move. Confirming that I was a loner with hardly any friends or family, so that when I did go missing it wouldn’t raise too many eyebrows. I mean, sure, there’s my agent and publisher and all my readers, but it’s not like I’m close to any of them. All my communication is through email or phone. If I just happened to disappear one day, it would be a week or more before anyone noticed. I’m a mid-list writer, and mid-list writers are a dime a dozen. Or a dime a thousand, really.
Eventually someone would contact my parents. They would fly out, or maybe they wouldn’t. Maybe they would first get in contact with the super of my building. He would let himself into my apartment. He would find it empty. Nothing disturbed. Or, who knows, maybe Norman would have a letter there explaining I had just run off. I mean, how did he do it with the others?
Right. You don’t know who they are just yet. But still, they no doubt had friends and family, and then one day they just disappeared. People became worried. They tried finding them until they eventually lost hope. I figure it would have been the same with me.
At least until I killed Norman Jones before he had a chance to kill me.
****
As you know, Norman lived in a house on the east side of the city. We had known each other for maybe three months before he invited me over. But we didn’t go inside. He apologized, saying the place was a mess. So we sat out on the porch and drank coffee and watched the traffic and people on the sidewalk and just talked about the usual stuff.
“So when can I read it?”
Norman knew exactly what I meant.
“Soon,” he said.
I smiled, then laughed.
“What’s so funny?”
“You’re really serious about this, aren’t you?”
“I told you it’s possible.”
“But it’s not. I figure someone of your intellect should know better. I mean, Christ, you graduated from Harvard. I thought all you eggheads were supposed to be smart.”
“Name-calling now, Robert?”
“Fine, sorry. But you can’t honestly believe that you’ve written the perfect story.”
“You’re right, I haven’t.” He smiled. “At least not yet.”
Yes, I now know this “perfect story” Norman kept talking about was simply his way of luring me into his house. Just as a pervert lures children into his van with candy. Only, you know what? Children love candy, and writers love the idea of a perfect story. Rationally we know it’s impossible, that there’s just no way the perfect story exists, but still, we have hope. That’s why we keep doing what we do. Why day after day we go through the torture of sitting in front of a computer and forcing ourselves to type letters which will form words which will form paragraphs which will, hopefully, form a coherent story. We want to entertain, no doubt about that, but mostly we strive to tell the best story we can. And, if possible, we’d love for that story to be perfect.
So yes, I fell for it. Not at first, of course. I kept up a healthy level of skepticism. At least until the day Norman told me he had finally completed his story.
****
This, as you know, was just yesterday. We were sitting on his front porch, sipping coffee and watching traffic. Then finally Norman cleared his throat and made his announcement.
“I’ve done it.”
“What’s that?”
“The perfect story. I’ve completed it.”
“When?”
“Just last night. Would you care to see?”
Well, of course I did. I told him to bring it right out.
Norman shook his head. He said that unlike me, he didn’t use a computer. He couldn’t simply press a button and wait for a printer to spit out pages. He used a typewriter, an Underwood Touch-Master 5, so there was only one copy of the story. He didn’t want to take the chance of bringing all those pages–all those pages on which he had worked tirelessly and endlessly–outside where they might scatter into the wind. Not that he didn’t trust me, he assured, but nature was a fickle beast, and he just didn’t want to take the chance.
“So,” he said, clearly embarrassed, “the place isn’t as tidy as I would like it to be, but you’re welcome to come inside. That is, of course, if you still want to see the story.”
I was on my feet before I even knew it. “Let’s go.”
****
For some reason I was thinking he would have trash strewn everywhere, like he was one of those hoarders you see on TV.
As you know, that was far from the truth. Well, I guess in a way he was a hoarder, though, wasn’t he? Just not with useless crap.
There were books everywhere. On shelves, yes, but on the floor too, stacks nearly as tall as me. Thousands and thousands and thousands of books.
“Holy shit.”
Norman chuckled. “I told you I bought a book every day. Sometimes I buy more than one.”
He led me through the stacks of books toward the back of the house. The farther we went, the more I began to smell it. Initially I’d been overcome with the tang of all that paper in one place. People like to say they love the smell of books, but after smelling all that paper, in that place, the
fond, welcoming scent that recalls long, dedicated hours of working in a library or the joy of browsing a secondhand bookstore looking for copies of my out of print titles will forever be associated with the nausea that came to the back of my throat. But as we neared the back of the house, I began to smell something… off. I still wasn’t sure what it was as we reached the kitchen, which also had books stacked everywhere. Norman went to the basement door, and it was as he opened it that it really hit me.
“My God,” I said, holding my nose, “what is that smell?”
“A pipe burst just the other day. I put a call in for a plumber but they haven’t come out yet.”
He held the door open and motioned for me to go down.
I shook my head. “Why don’t you bring the pages up here?”
“Don’t you want to see my work space?”
“You work in your basement?”
“Is that so hard to believe? If I remember correctly, when our paths first crossed, you were typing on your laptop in the basement of the library.”
He had me there.
Breathing through my mouth, I braced myself for the stench and began to descend the stairs.
****
When I reached the bottom, I saw that this was indeed his workspace. There was a desk set up with an Underwood Touch-Master 5 just like Norman said. A desk lamp sat beside the typewriter. Papers were scattered across the desk and on the floor.
But that, as you know, was hardly anything.
The rest of the basement was filled with canvases. Over one hundred of them, spread out around the basement, leaning against walls and each other. They had once been blank but now each had an eerie face drawn in maroon paint. While the faces all looked different, they all looked the same. One canvas was close to me, and I took a hesitant step forward, squinting down at the paint.
Only, I realized a second later, it wasn’t paint.
“What the hell?”
I started to turn back when I realized Norman was right behind me. He had a knife in his hand, raised above his head. He brought it down, aiming for my throat. I sidestepped him, spinning away. He stumbled forward, then regained his footing, turned and rushed at me.
Better Weird: A Tribute to David B. Silva Page 23