“Agit’s death,” Sam says. “So that’s what this is about.”
“That was the writing on the wall.”
“That was depression and anniversary time coming up. It’s the mission of the Phoenix Club to stop any more of those from happening.”
“If they could get to Agit because he published a book, if they can reach out and pull strings in Bombay, it’s just a matter of time. One by one, they’ll get us all.”
“Unless we get to them first,” Sam says angrily. “What am I saying? What’s them? Who’s they? You’re fucking with your own mind, Jacob. Like Agit did. You’re making up your own mindgame and losing.”
“There’s been a game master right from the start. We’re pawns on his board.”
“Bullshit! You’re not the only one who lost Agit. We both lost him, the Phoenix Club lost him, we all lost him. And now you’re going off with the fairies too. How’s that going to help us? How’s that going to keep the rest of us alive and sane?”
“I had to find a safe place,” Jacob says.
Sam is furious. She grabs Jacob’s hand and pushes up the sleeve of his shirt. “Fuck!” she says. “Fuck you!” A road map of needle tracks graphs his forearm. All the tracks lead to the same dead end. “Why don’t you just jump under a train like Agit did?”
“You think he jumped?”
“If he was pushed, he should have fought back. We have to fight. Don’t you dare quit on me, don’t you dare.”
Jacob returns to his bedroom and takes the bow from the violin case. “Listen,” he says. He tucks the violin under his chin and plays. “I couldn’t do it for a long time,” he says. “I couldn’t play it. But it’s where I belong.”
He plays Schubert, the String Quintet, the second movement. He is not a maestro like his father, but he does play well.
“You have to find a safe place too, Sam. The key is being invisible, you understand?”
“Never,” Sam says.
Jacob puts down his father’s violin. He takes Sam’s face between his hands. “We need each other,” he says.
“Exactly,” Sam says. “Exactly. Don’t do this to me.”
“You’re dangerously naive,” Jacob says. “You think you lead a charmed life.”
“I don’t,” Sam says. “I don’t think that for a minute. That’s why I fight. If I stopped fighting for a minute, I’d go under.”
“It’s the people who struggle that drown,” Jacob says. “They’re the ones who go under. You have to stop fighting the current. You have to give yourself to it, go with it. I want you to promise me.”
“Okay,” Sam says, humoring him. “I promise.”
“Listen,” he says. “I’ll take you somewhere safe.”
He tucks the violin under his chin and she sits beside him and strokes his hair as he plays. On Christmas night, they sleep in each other’s arms.
4.
Lowell is folding the canvas drop cloths and stacking them neatly in the back of his truck. From habit, he reaches between them for the backpack, and when his hand finds nothing, panic fizzes through his blood and his heart cavorts. Sudden dizziness overwhelms him and he has to lean against the side of his truck. Then it comes to him, with a great lifting of the spirit, that he has taken care of all that. He feels like someone waking from a nightmare. He does not need to worry anymore. The ring binders are safely sealed into his walls. They could stay there for a decade and the only risks would be from insects and damp. As for the backpack and the tapes: they are back where they started, where his own father had deemed them to be perfectly safe, in a locker at Logan Airport. He put them there yesterday and he alone has the key, which he has threaded on a thin gold chain around his neck. He touches the key through his T-shirt and its outline cheers him so much that he whistles as he folds and stacks canvas. I saw Mommy kissing Santa Claus … underneath the mistletoe last night …
He levers the aluminum extension ladders off the roof rack, balancing them against his gut, lowering them to the ground. They are awkward, but not heavy. He drags them down the drive to the cement-block storage shed that is shared by all tenants. He has his own key for the padlock, and his own section inside. He hangs the ladders on steel hooks high on the wall. He goes back to the truck for his paint cans. In the shed, he pries open a ten-gallon drum of oil primer, tilts it, and pours from its spout to top up a small gallon can.
“Hey, Lowell,” Kevin says from the doorway.
“Hey, Kevin. How’s things?”
“Great,” Kevin says. “Things are great. Great time in Buffalo. Great Christmas. And you?”
“Best Christmas in years. When d’ya get back?”
“Got back this morning, just after you left for work, probably. Met a girl at my brother’s Christmas party. Could be the one.”
“Go for it, pal. What’s her name?”
“Shannon.” He smiles when he says it. “Kevin and Shannon McCarthy. I’ve been trying it out. Has a good sound, don’t you think?”
“Sounds meant to be.”
Kevin grins. “She’s coming east next month, so I was thinking, you know, got to fix the apartment up a bit.”
“Hey.” Lowell grins. “Serious stuff.”
“You better believe it. So I was wondering … I mean, that’s your thing. I was wondering if we could trade some way. Like, you paint my apartment, I can get you box seats at Fenway Park for a game. I can get ’em from where I work, through my boss.”
“You got yourself a deal,” Lowell says. “I love to take my kids to Fenway Park. Hey, Rowena might even come.”
“Hey. Must have been a really good Christmas.”
“Fantastic,” Lowell says. “Best ever. Got my fingers crossed.”
“Looks like a good year coming up all around,” Kevin says. “Going to be the year for the Sox too. I got a good feeling about that.”
“I think so,” Lowell says. “Great lineup. I think it’s going to be a Red Sox year.”
“So, d’ya think maybe next weekend we could get a start on my place? Cream, I think. Almond. Whatever they call it.”
“Well, I don’t know, Kevin. I mean, I hope I’ll have the kids this weekend.”
“Oh, right. Well, yeah, your kids come first. So, ah, when d’ya think …?”
“How about late on weeknights, instead of weekends?”
“Sure. Sure. No problem. I mean, I can pitch in too. Can’t be that much to it.”
“Stick a roller in your hand, you can do it.”
“Great,” Kevin says. “Oh, listen, nearly forgot. The guys came with your sink today.”
“Came with my sink?”
“Yeah. The new one. They got it installed.”
“Not me. I didn’t order a new sink. Must be Darlene.”
“It was your apartment,” Kevin says. “They showed me the specs. I had to get the master key and let them in.”
Lowell can feel foreboding move through his body like heavy blood. “Must be Rowena, then,” he says clumsily. His tongue feels wooden in his mouth. “Must be a New Year surprise.”
“That must be it,” Kevin says. “Well, let me know what night you can start.”
“Right. Night, Kevin.”
“Night.”
Lowell padlocks the shed. He pulls the cover across the back of his pickup and fastens it down. His hands are shaking. The muscles in his legs feel weak, stretched too far. They feel like elastic gone slack. His whole body aches. Dread rises with him up the stairs.
He opens his door and knows instantly. The worst has happened.
White powder floats everywhere like smog. Drywall has been pulled from the studs. The apartment has been stripped and ransacked. He knows without looking, but he looks anyway. His pantry shelves are bare, the milk safe empty. In the storage room, the pegboard lies in fragments on the floor. There is nothing in the space between the studs.
He feels for the chain around his neck. The key to the locker is there.
Very quietly, he closes his front door, pu
lls off his shoes, and walks downstairs in his socks. On the porch, he slips his feet back into his sneakers. He does not go to his truck. Keeping to shadows, he moves down the street. He is wearing the old paint-spattered running shoes that he uses for interior jobs, and the shoes slip and slide on the snow. He breaks into a run, making for the subway stop in Union Square. He begins to plan his route. He will take the Red Line to Park Street, but he will not take the Blue Line direct to the airport. He will need to be more devious and more cunning. He will need to plan a roundabout route.
5.
On New Year’s Eve, Samantha buzzes Jacob’s apartment from the lobby. She sets the champagne in its insulated sleeve on the shelf beneath the mailboxes because she anticipates a wait. She pushes buttons randomly and waits for someone, anyone, to let her in. No one responds. Everyone is out. Everyone is partying, she thinks. A couple in evening dress (long velvet gown, tuxedo) emerges from the inner locked door.
“Oh, thank goodness,” she says brightly. “A friend in 807’s expecting me, but he must be in the shower or have his headphones on. Would you consider …?” She holds up the bottle of champagne. “You can frisk me if you like.”
“No problem,” the guy laughs. “You look harmless,” and he unlocks the inner sanctum and lets her through. The elevator takes her straight to the eighth floor without a stop. She knocks at Jacob’s door and rattles the knob.
She waits.
She tears a cheque out of her chequebook and scribbles Let me in on the back. She pushes it through the fine crack beneath the door.
She puts her ear to the lock, but hears nothing.
She takes the elevator back to the ground floor and bangs on the door of the super’s apartment. There is no answer. She goes back to the lobby and dials 911.
“My friend’s expecting me, but he’s not answering the door,” she explains to the police. “I’m afraid something’s happened to him in there.”
“What kind of thing?”
“Well, I’m half afraid he might have taken an overdose, or something like that. He’s been depressed.”
“Have you called him on the phone?”
“He keeps the phone unplugged,” she says. “Because he’s, ah, he’s been working on a project, he doesn’t like interruptions, and … as I told you, I think he’s been depressed. But he wouldn’t … not when he’s expecting me, and on New Year’s Eve. If he were okay, he’d answer the door.”
There is a silence at the other end. She has a sense of someone’s hand over the receiver, of a conferral going on.
“Officer?”
“You’re on our list,” the policeman tells her. “We’ll get to you, ma’am. Might take a while. I mean, New Year’s Eve. A lot of calls, a lot of high priorities. But we’ll get there eventually.”
And then she waits. And waits.
“Kind of a heavy night, New Year’s Eve,” two policemen explain nearly an hour later. “We have to prioritize.”
When they force the lock and enter Jacob’s apartment, there is no sign of him. Nor is there any sign of disorder.
“Well, ma’am,” one policeman says awkwardly. He coughs into his hand. “I think you’ve been stood up for your New Year’s date.”
“No,” Sam says. “It’s not like that. He wouldn’t do that. Something’s happened, I know it has.”
“Does he have a car?”
“Yes,” she says.
“Does he keep it in the basement garage?”
“Yes.”
“Do you know his license number?”
“Yes,” she says.
“Let’s go, then.” But Jacob’s car is not in the basement garage.
“We’ll let you know,” the police promise. “As soon as we hear anything.”
“Hello?” Samantha says, starting awake on her sofa and groping for the receiver in the dark. “Have you found him?”
“Samantha? This is Lowell. I’m calling from a pay phone beside—”
“Who?”
“Lowell. Lowell Hawthorne.”
“Lowell? Oh, Lowell.” She blinks at the sun beyond her window. “What time is it?”
“Time? It’s, uh, about eleven, I think. Listen, I’m in a pay phone booth beside the Mass Pike—”
“Eleven. Oh my God. Look, Lowell, I’m sorry, but I’m in the middle of an emergency here. I have to make a call. Sorry.”
She cuts Lowell off and calls the police department.
There is no information, she is told.
At midday on New Year’s Day, Samantha rouses the superintendent of Jacob’s building. The superintendent is hungover, and none too pleased.
“Police have already been here,” he tells her irritably. “I don’t need this kind of shit.”
“Did you see Jacob Levinstein yesterday?” she asks.
“I can’t remember if I did or I didn’t,” he says. “I got a hundred apartments in this building, lady. I don’t sit all day and watch who’s going out, coming in. Especially not on New Year’s Eve.”
Samantha fills her car with Renaissance songs. Cass’s mother is singing, Jacob’s father plays violin. Sam turns the volume up to leave no space for anything else. She drives almost blindly, east of the city and then south around the curve of Chesapeake Bay, oblivious to road signs, sometimes wondering with a start if she has missed her exit, watching for the next signpost but then forgetting to attend to it. Nevertheless, instinct brings her to the stretch of salt marsh and to the small unpaved road that leads to the reed-sucking edge of the bay where the boathouse is. There is no sign of Jacob’s car.
Samantha parks and climbs the ladder to the loft.
The heaped fishnets and the orange life vests remain undisturbed.
It is cold. The damp of the wooden roof has whitened to a wafer of frost. Sam puts on a life vest for warmth and drapes one of the nets around her shoulders like a shawl. She huddles into the tangle of knotted rope and stares for hours at seagulls and marsh. The flash of wings and the soft slurp of water against wood pylons mesmerize her. She listens for Jacob’s car.
She takes two oars from the rack and drops them carefully, one by one, so that they fall onto the boardwalk edge of the shed below. She climbs back down the ladder and tests the rowboat. She and Jacob and Cass have used it before. It is old and weathered but does not seem to have sprung any leaks. She gets in, unhooks the mooring rope, and pushes herself off with one oar. The mooring rope is crusted with ice and thin wafers of ice float between the reeds. Within a few yards of the boat shed, she enters the labyrinth and has vanished from the view of anyone who might have been watching from the shed. The brittle brown stalks of the marsh weeds, four feet high, close in around her and she peers ahead for the scribbled blue thread of the channel. The channels shift with the tide, sometimes closing behind or ahead of careless boaters. She does not plan to get lost. She rests the oars, lies back in the boat, and looks up at the bleak wintry sky.
Clouds telegraph messages. One looks like a violin, another resembles a row of children hurrying along behind a nurse. She sees towers, high-rise apartment buildings, a map of North Africa. She sees Jacob hunched over a desk. She lifts the oars and rows back to the boat shed, sometimes batting at the canyon of reeds, once ramming an oyster bed and having to push herself off it with an oar.
Twilight already. She drives back into the city and parks and checks her answering machine as soon as she lets herself in the door. Not a single message waits for her. She feels desolation. She cannot concentrate on television, she cannot read. She lies on her bed and closes her eyes and summons up the school gymnasium in Germany in minute detail: the smell of the cots, the smell of the blankets, the ammoniac smell of wet underwear. She recalls the nurses, the slim blondes and the big heavy ones with dark hair. She walks up and down between the cots, concentrating, remembering each row, seeing Agit here, Cass there, Jacob there. She and Jacob sit together on a cot.
The phone rings and she falls off the bed in her haste to reach it.
“Can
I speak to Samantha Raleigh, please?” a voice asks, official.
“Speaking,” she whispers.
“I’m afraid we have bad news,” the voice says.
6.
Samantha is sitting on the floor of her apartment, arms hugged across her stomach, rocking herself back and forth. What does that mean: identify the body? She sees pieces of Jacob, disconnected, like a puzzle that must be put together: that impatient little grimace he had, for example, when he was exasperated with her. You’re reckless, Sam. More accidents … His lips float in front of her, grimacing. She remembers the pressure of them, and the taste. She tries to summon up Jacob’s face, but all she can remember is his lips.
Car found in Rock Creek Park, the police said. Hose from exhaust … stereo still playing, one of those automatic recycling types, classical music, Schubert or something, the same piece over and over …
She can see the back of his hand as he reaches to adjust the balance of treble and bass. One knuckle is lumpy and swollen. It was broken when he fell down the chute from the plane because he was more concerned with protecting his father’s violin. He shielded it with his body as he fell. I’ve found a safe place, Sam. It’s where I belong.
The phone rings and she reaches for it in a dazed automatic way.
“Sam,” a voice says. “Thank God I’ve reached you again. Don’t cut me off this time.”
“What do you want?”
“Something terrible’s happened.”
“Yes, I know.” She frowns, her thinking sluggish. “I have to identify the body.”
“Sam?”
“Yes,” she says. “Is this the police or the morgue?”
“Sam, this is Lowell.”
“Lowell?”
“Lowell Hawthorne.”
“Oh, Lowell.”
“I tried to call you on New Year’s Eve, but you—”
“Yes. Sorry I couldn’t—”
“I was calling from the Mass Turnpike then. I’ve been coming south on 87, and now I’m in the Greyhound Terminal in Jersey City. Damn pay phone won’t take a card and I’ve used all my coins, so we have to be quick—”
Due Preparations for the Plague Page 20