Nobody Knew They Were There

by Ed McBain

  Epstein appears, in fact, to be man of many contradictions. Considered excellent scholar, uninspired teacher, but invites language students to his home evenings, reads to them aloud from French poetry, novels. Described as quiet, withdrawn, he nonetheless organized W.M.U. Language Department strike following police bombing freshman dormitory Tufts University, October 1972. In February 1973 he raised funds for full-page advertisement New York Times protesting Supreme Court reversal Miranda-Escobedo Decision. Also introduced motion at Conference Modern Language Association, March 1973, that membership beseech White House for urgent meeting on pending Murdock-Abelson Bill. Together with sixty professors universities all parts America, went to Washington after bill had passed House. He was there at time of W.M.U. campus disturbances, returned May 1, to participate at request of Hester Pratt in defense of David Hollis. Willingness respond to Pratt’s urgent pleas for assistance clearly indicated by Epstein’s earlier sympathy Negro causes—witness his article campus newspaper following Templeton Garage Massacre, Atlanta, Georgia, September 1972. But close friend in Language Department says Epstein, disappointed after failure of Washington talks, saw little hope rallying to cause of solitary black. (Seeming contradiction here, too, since Epstein later went to alma mater Harvard at request of black group there just prior to riots, and was in Cambridge when tanks moved onto campus.)

  During World War II, Epstein entered U. S. Army Intelligence as translator, second lieutenant’s commission. He worked with resistance group in occupied France, operating out of Rouen with Josette Rivière, known to Germans as “Das Fräulein.” Le Monde correspondent, Lucien Faivre, contacted New York, reports Mlle. Rivière died Paris spring of 1954. Faivre says Mlle. Rivière was then completing book about war experiences. (Sud Aux Pyrénées published posthumously Press de la Cité, Paris, 1958.) There is no evidence that Epstein, who was in Paris 1953–54 on fellowship, attempted to renew acquaintance with her. He returned to America abruptly, a full month sooner than expected. He left Columbia, and went to Western Methodist U. in the fall to occupy chair Foreign Language Department as full professor.

  Epstein plays violin, is member of amateur campus quartet. Fellow musicians are Professor Frank Bencher (cello), Miss Isabel Langley (viola), and Professor Cornelius Raines (harpsichord). When asked at benefit for scholars what kind of music he preferred, Epstein replied, “Music to suit the times. Minuets, gavottes, and so forth.”

  In my hotel room, I sit reading and drinking scotch. I have not had lunch. I have not heard from Sara since leaving her at Hester’s house, and though I have called her apartment several times, there has been no answer. When the telephone rings, I am certain it is she. I put down the report. Eagerly, I lift the receiver.

  “Hello?”

  “Sam?”

  I recognize the voice at once. I am speechless. I stare at the receiver in disbelief.

  “Sam, this is Eugene. Are you there?”

  I am tempted to hang up. Eugene? That’s impossible! And yet if is Eugene, I would know his voice anywhere, and he is on the telephone, he has called me here in this town at this hotel in this room, it is Eugene and he knows where I am, he has found me. This is a day for people finding me.

  “Yes, Eugene,” I say. “I’m here.”

  “Surprised?” he asks. He is positively gloating.

  “I am surprised, Eugene. That I am.”

  “Want to know how I found you?”

  “Not particularly,” I say. The truth is I am dying to know. And he is dying to tell me. We have been partners and friends for a very long time, Eugene and I. We know each other too well. I know what he is going to say next, even before he says it.

  “Okay then, I won’t tell you. How’ve you been, Sam?”

  “How’d you find me, you bastard?”

  “I have to admit I’m very clever,” Eugene says, and chuckles. “Would you really like to know, Sam? Okay, here’s how. When I spoke to you last night, three important things happened. One: You told me it had snowed the day before, Friday. Two: You told me the temperature was sixteen above zero. Three: The bell tower began chiming.”

  “So?”

  “So … the bell tower bonged six times. That meant it was six o’clock wherever you were, whereas it was already eight in New York. Which further meant that you were two hours behind us and therefore somewhere in the Mountain time zone. Salt Lake City still a possibility, though barely.”

  “All right, how’d you …?”

  “Patience, patience. I then checked Friday’s New York Times for the summary of weather reports and indicated areas of precipitation, and deduced that it had snowed that day in Montana, Minnesota, and Colorado. I eliminated Utah—no snow—and also Minnesota—Central time zone—and was left with Montana and Colorado. So this morning I checked the Times for yesterday’s temperature reading for the twenty-four hour period ending at seven P.M. …”

  “Get to it, Eugene.…”

  “And discovered that Great Falls had recorded a high of forty-one and a low of twenty-six, whereas Denver had recorded a high of twenty-four and a low of fourteen. Which seemed to indicate that Colorado was my best bet. Then just a few hours ago, I called Bernice at home to ask how the typing on the Mulholland brief was coming along, and she told me there’d been a long-distance call for you late Friday afternoon. From a lady named Hester Pratt, who left a number where she could be reached. That pinpointed the town for me, Sam. All I had to do then was find the hotel. The first one I called was a dud. But I asked the clerk which hotel was closest to the bell tower.” He pauses. He is positively gleeful by now. “Elementary, my dear Watson,” he says, and chuckles. “Just one question, Sam? How come you didn’t register under a phony name?”

  “I did.”

  “You did? That’s funny. I asked for Sam Eisler, and they put me right through.”

  “Well,” I say, “I’ve achieved a certain amount of notoriety since I got here. Eugene, I’m very busy. What is it you want?”

  “I want you to come home.”

  “I can’t come home right now. I’ll be home in a few days, Eugene.”

  “When?”

  “November second.”

  “That isn’t a few days, Sam. And it may be too late by then.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve been talking to Abby. Your son’s serious about running off with this pusher friend of his.…”

  “He’s not a pusher, Eugene. David says the stuff was planted.…”

  “Pusher or not, I don’t care,” Eugene says. “My father made bootleg whiskey.”

  “Your father?”

  “Yes, my father. What’s the matter with that?”

  “Nothing, Eugene. Nothing.”

  “The important thing is that they’re planning to run damn soon. Like before the week’s out, Sam.”

  “Ask him to wait.”

  “Until when?”

  “Tell him I’ll be home on the second, and we can talk about it then. Maybe the situation will seem different to him then. Would you do that for me, Eugene?”

  “I don’t think he’ll wait.”

  “Ask him to trust me.”

  “I’ll see what I can do.”

  “And, Eugene, please don’t tell Abby where I am,” I say, but he has already hung up.

  I have tried on too many occasions to reconstruct Adam’s death, and can never visualize its particulars. Here, in the labyrinth of nightmare, he dies at first in a plunge to the snow below when the cable on the gondola snaps. He tumbles violently in the air, and I reach out for him and try to grasp him, but our outstretched hands never touch. He dies the instant he slams into the frozen ground. Miraculously, I am saved. And then, in the instant change of scene that is commonplace in nightmares, he is trapped in a railroad car that plunges into Henderson Gap, the same agonized silent scream frozen on his mouth as the car tumbles through space and lands in a slow motion crash, crumbling, crumbling. Never in my nightmare does he die on a rotted jungle floor.

&
nbsp; I awaken.

  I am fully clothed and lying on my bed. Across the room, Rembrandt’s man, the tissue having fallen loose from his eyes, glares at me. The bell tower is striking nine. It will strike the hour only once again tonight, as it does every night, at ten. And then it will be silent until eight in the morning.

  I stumble to my feet, and rub my eyes.

  In a little while, I try Sara’s number again. There is no answer. I try it for the next hour, and then I walk to the corner pharmacy where I order a vanilla malted and a bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwich on toast. There is one other person at the pharmacy counter, a young man with a Fu Manchu mustache, who sits poring over an open chemistry textbook.

  I am in bed by eleven o’clock, watching the news on television. I try Sara again before turning out the light.

  There is still no answer.

  Monday, October 28

  I have forgotten to draw the drapes, and sunlight is streaming into the room. Someone is knocking on the door. I look at my watch. It is seven o’clock.

  “Who is it?” I ask.

  “Me,” she says.

  I get out of bed and move through dust motes climbing long golden shafts of sunlight (the gondola moving up the steep face of Sugarbush into the glaring sun, Adam saying, “I expect a religious miracle,” the twisted, silvered branches of the trees at the summit). I open the door. Sara is wearing blue jeans, boots, and a shawl-collared cardigan sweater. The collar is pulled up around her ears. Her hands are thrust deep into her pockets. She looks wind-raw and cold; her nose is running.

  “May I come in?” she asks.

  “Please.” I step back into the room. I am wearing my blue cotton nightshirt, one of the two I brought here with me.

  “I’m freezing,” she says.

  I go to my closet, take my coat from a hanger, and help her into it.

  “Thank you,” she mutters, and sits on the edge of the bed. “Were you trying to get me?” she asks.

  “Yes.”

  “I slept at Seth’s last night.” She hesitates. “I slept with Seth,” she says. “This time we didn’t just neck.”

  “Okay,” I say.

  “No, it’s not okay.”

  “You’re right. It’s not okay.”

  “So why don’t you hit me or something?”

  I hit her suddenly and unexpectedly, openhanded, my slap catching her on the side of her face and jerking her head back. She is shocked and angry, and she comes up off the bed with her fists clenched, and then subsides immediately, sitting again and bowing her head, her hands widespread on her thighs.

  “You really did it, you son of a bitch,” she says.

  “Yes.”

  “I guess I asked you to,” she says. “But you didn’t have to.” She touches the side of her face. “It hurts.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “You’re not.”

  “No. Actually, I’m not. What do you want here, Sara? Why don’t you go back to Seth’s place and look up at his stars?”

  “I only went there because of you.”

  “That makes sense.”

  “Only because you make me feel so wretched.”

  “Did Seth make you feel any better?”

  “No, he made me feel worse. I left while he was still asleep. I was so afraid of waking him, I forgot my coat. I walked all the way from his house here, and I’m freezing cold, and all you can do is abuse me.”

  “Oh, come off it, Sara.”

  “You didn’t have to hit me, Arthur.”

  “It’s Sam. You know it’s Sam.”

  “I know it’s Sam, but I don’t have to call you Sam if I don’t want to.”

  “Why’d you betray me, Sara? Why’d you get that boy to listen in on my calls?”

  “If you were betraying the plot, you deserved to be betrayed.”

  “I wasn’t betraying anything or anybody.”

  “Except yourself. If you don’t know how to blow up a fucking bridge, you’re asking to be killed.” She shakes her head. “That’s suicidal, Arthur.…”

  “Sam.”

  “Sam, Arthur, who cares? You’re suicidal. Which is what I told you at the very start. But I am sorry I helped Hester, I am truly sorry. It’s just …” She pauses again. When she looks up, her face is troubled, her eyes very pale. I realize that she is not wearing her contacts. Did she take them off at Seth’s and put them in her little plastic case with the one blue stone missing? Did she sleep with her legs scissored around his thigh? Was her mouth there and waiting for him each time he wanted it? “I thought, you see, that the plot was more important than you,” she says, and shrugs. “That’s what I thought.”

  “And what do you think now?”

  “Now, I’m not sure any more. You make me very confused, Arthur.”

  “It’s Sam.”

  “I can’t get used to calling you any damn Sam!” She suddenly puts her hands into the pockets of my coat. “I’m still cold,” she says.

  “Why don’t you get under the covers?”

  “Yes, I will,” she answers, and takes off her boots, and climbs into bed wearing all of her clothes and my overcoat as well. She is asleep in ten seconds flat. I pull the blanket up over her shoulder and kiss her gently on the cheek. She nods.

  While she sleeps, I refuse to speculate on why she is so tired. I think instead that I am very glad she is here, and I wonder why she says I confuse her. I have always thought of myself as a very simple man. Brilliant, but simple. Kind, sympathetic, understanding, supportive—but simple. And yet she says I confuse her. She also says I am suicidal, which I know I am not. Was it suicidal to have chosen the railroad bridge instead of the depot? I must ask her this when she awakens. I must point out to her that the possibility of a successful withdrawal from the bridge is infinitely higher than the possibility of getting away from a crowded railroad depot. Does that sound suicidal?

  She is snoring lightly. I find that amusing. It does not seem to me that young people should snore. I can understand them smoking pot and taking LSD and sleeping around and what-have-you, but I cannot accept them snoring. I must remember to ask her if she knows that she snores. Or perhaps I should not. She is huddled under the blankets like a hibernating bear. She sleeps with her eyes partially open. It is quite eerie. I walk close to the bed and wave my hand back and forth in front of her face. She does not stir. She looks like a zombie, whites and pupils partially showing. I sit in the chair beside the bed, and watch her, and listen to her snore. In a little while, I am asleep again myself.

  I awaken to the sound of Sara singing in the shower. Her voice is jubilant.

  “Oh dear, what can the matter be?

  “Seven old ladies locked in the lavat’ry.

  “They were there from Monday till Saturd’y.

  “Nobody knew they were there.”

  She goes on and on, bellowing the song endlessly. I am enjoying the concert, and I tiptoe around the room for fear she will stop singing if she knows I’m awake and listening. When she emerges from the bathroom, she is wearing only panties.

  “Hullo, hullo,” she says, and walks to me and hugs me and kisses the side of my neck and says, “I can’t resist men in nightshirts.” She looks up into my face. “How are you this morning, dear Arthur?”

  “I’m fine, thank you. How are you?”

  “Wonderful. I purged myself with Seth, and now I feel grand.”

  “Do we have to start talking about other men first thing in the morning? If it isn’t Roger, it’s …”

  “Shush,” she says, and puts her hand over my mouth. “Go get dressed. I’m cutting all my classes today, Arthur, we have a million things to do.”

  “Like what?”

  “Leave that all to me,” she says. “Go shave. You look positively brutish.”

  “I feel positively brutish,” I tell her, and bend my head to her mouth.

  “Not now,” she says, turning her face away. “Too much to do.”

  “How come you always decide when?” I
ask.

  She looks at me in surprise. “Do I?” she asks. She immediately falls backward onto the bed in a mock swoon, legs and arms spread wide in surrender. “Take me, Arthur,” she says, “take me whenever you want to!” and I burst out laughing. She scrambles in frantic haste to remove her panties, feigning breathlessness and repeating, “Now, Arthur, take me now, do what you will, take me, take me!” and tosses the panties across the room, arm dramatically outflung, and then wets her lips, and narrows her eyes, and suddenly we are neither of us joking. I fall upon her as though she is a waterfront whore, and she shouts, “Oh, Arthur, oh, Sam, oh, Jesus Christ!”

  We are quick and savage and gratified at once.

  She sighs heavily afterward, and incongruously says, “You are a nice man.”

  While I shave, she calls a bicycle rental place. Bike riding is a very popular sport in these parts, she explains, and it is necessary to make a reservation. She watches me shave with great interest. When I cut myself, she says, “Ooooh!” as though in pain herself, and hastily applies a small patch of toilet tissue to the wound. She watches as I comb my hair. She watches as I dress. I do not discourage her. Correctly or not, I feel adored, and I have not felt this way for a long long time.

  At breakfast in the hotel coffee shop, she says, “I want to tell you why I went to Seth’s last night.”

  “I’d rather you didn’t.”

  “I want you to know.”