Tar Heel Dead

by Sarah R. Shaber

  It was made almost entirely of cast iron, like the base of an old-fashioned sewing machine, and it was upholstered in worn plush.

  With its high back and elaborate ironwork, it looked like a mobile throne, and the man who occupied the regal wheelchair presided with the imperious air of a monarch. It conflicted absurdly with his shabby clothing.

  To our surprise this was the attraction that lured SuSu. She chirped at the man, and he leaned over and stroked her fur.

  “She recognizes me,” he explained to us, speaking with a haughty accent that sounded vaguely Teutonic. “I was-s-s a cat myself in a former existence.”

  I rolled my eyes at Gertrude, but she accepted the man’s statement without blinking.

  He was far from attractive, having a sharply pointed chin, ears set too high on his head, and eyes that were mere slits, and when he smiled he was even less appealing. Nevertheless, SuSu found him irresistible. She rubbed against his ankles, and he scratched her in the right places. They made a most unlikely pair—SuSu with her luxurious blond fur, looking fastidious and expensive, and the man in the wheelchair, with his rusty coat and moth-eaten lap robe.

  In the course of a fragmentary conversation with Mr. Van we learned that he and the companion who manipulated his wheelchair had just moved into a large apartment on our floor, and I wondered why the two of them needed so many rooms. As for the companion, it was hard to decide whether he was a mute or just unsociable. He was a short thick man with a round knob of a head screwed tight to his shoulders and a flicker of something unpleasant in his eyes. He stood behind the wheelchair in sullen silence.

  On the way back to the apartment Gertrude said: “How do you like our new neighbor?”

  “I prefer cats before they’re reincarnated as people,” I said.

  “But he’s rather interesting,” said my sister in the gentle way that she had.

  A few evenings later we were having coffee after dinner, and SuSu—having finished her own meal—was washing up in the downglow of a lamp. As we watched her graceful movements, we saw her hesitate with one paw in midair. She held it there and listened. Then a new and different sound came from her throat, like a melodic gurgling. A minute later she was trotting to our front door with intense purpose. There she sat, watching and waiting and listening, although we ourselves could hear nothing.

  It was a full two minutes before our doorbell rang. I went to open the door and was somewhat unhappy to see Mr. Van sitting there in his lordly wheelchair.

  SuSu leaped into his lap—an unprecedented overture for her to make—and after he had kneaded her ears and scratched her chin, he smiled a thin-lipped, slit-eyed smile at me and said: “Goeden avond. I was-s-s unpacking some crates, and I found something I would like to give you.”

  With a flourish he handed me a small framed picture, whereupon I was more or less obliged to invite him in. He wheeled his ponderous chair into the apartment with some difficulty, the rubber tires making deep gouges in the pile of the carpet.

  “How do you manage that heavy chair alone?” I asked. “It must weigh a ton.”

  “But it is-s-s a work of art,” said Mr. Van, rubbing appreciative hands over the plush upholstery and lacy ironwork and wheels.

  Gertrude had jumped up and poured him a cup of coffee, and he said: “I wish you would teach that man of mine to make coffee. He makes the worst zootje I have ever tasted. In Holland we like our coffee sterk with a little chicory. But that fellow, he is-s-s a smeerlap. I would not put up with him for two minutes if I could get around by myself.”

  SuSu was rubbing her head on the Hollander’s vest buttons, and he smiled with pleasure, showing small square teeth.

  “Do you have this magnetic attraction for all cats?” I asked with a slight edge to my voice. SuSu was now in raptures because he was twisting the scruff of her neck.

  “It is-s-s only natural,” he said. “I can read their thoughts, and they read mine of course. Do you know that cats are mind readers? You walk to the refrigerator to get a beer, and the cat she will not budge, but walk to the refrigerator to get out her dinner, and what happens? Before you touch the handle of the door she will come bouncing into the kitchen from anyplace she happens to be. Your thought waves reached her even though she seemed to be asleep.”

  Gertrude agreed it was probably true.

  “Of course it is-s-s true,” said Mr. Van, sitting tall. “Everything I say is-s-s true. Cats know more than you suspect. They can not only read your mind; they can plant ideas in your head. And they can sense something that is-s-s about to happen.”

  My sister said: “You must be right. SuSu knew you were coming here tonight, long before you rang the bell.”

  “Of course I am right. I am always right,” said Mr. Van. “My grandmother in Vlissingen had a tomcat called Zwartje just before she died, and for years after the funeral my grandmother came back to pet the cat. Every night Zwartje stood in front of the chair where Grootmoeder used to sit, and he would stretch and purr although there was-s-s no one there. Every night at half past eight.”

  After that visit with Mr. Van I referred to him as Grandmother’s Ghost, for he too made a habit of appearing at 8:30 several times a week. (For Gertrude’s coffee, I guessed.)

  He would say: “I was-s-s feeling lonesome for my little sweetheart,” and SuSu would make an extravagant fuss over the man. It pleased me that he never stayed long, although Gertrude usually encouraged him to linger.

  The little framed picture he had given us was not exactly to my taste. It was a silhouette of three figures—a man in frock coat and top hat, a woman in hoopskirt and sunbonnet, and a cat carrying his tail like a lance. To satisfy my sister, however, I hung the picture, but only over the kitchen sink.

  One evening Gertrude, who is a librarian, came home in great excitement. “There’s a signature on that silhouette,” she said, “and I looked it up at the library. Augustin Edouart was a famous artist, and our silhouette is over a hundred years old. It might be valuable.”

  “I doubt it,” I said. “We used to cut silhouettes like that in the third grade.”

  Eventually, at my sister’s urging, I took the object to an antique shop, and the dealer said it was a good one, probably worth several hundred dollars.

  When Gertrude heard this, she said: “If the dealer quoted hundreds, it’s probably worth thousands. I think we should give it back to Mr. Van. The poor man doesn’t know what he’s giving away.”

  I agreed he could probably sell it and buy himself a decent wheelchair.

  At 8:30 that evening SuSu began to gurgle and prance.

  “Here comes Grandmother’s Ghost,” I said, and shortly afterward the doorbell rang.

  “Mr. Van,” I said after Gertrude had poured the coffee, “remember that silhouette you gave us? I’ve found out it’s valuable, and you must take it back.”

  “Of course it is-s-s valuable,” he said. “Would I give it to you if it was-s-s nothing but rommel?”

  “Do you know something about antiques?”

  “My dear Mevrouw, I have a million dollars’ worth of antiques in my apartment. Tomorrow evening you ladies must come and see my treasures. I will get rid of that smeerlap, and the three of us will enjoy a cup of coffee.”

  “By the way, what is a smeerlap?” I asked.

  “It is-s-s not very nice,” said Mr. Van. “If somebody called me a smeerlap, I would punch him in the nose.… Bring my little sweetheart when you come, ladies. She will find some fascinating objects to explore.”

  Our cat seemed to know what he was saying.

  “SuSu will enjoy it,” said Gertrude. “She’s locked up in this apartment all winter.”

  “Knit her a sweater and take her to the park in winter,” said the Hollander in the commanding tone that always irritated me. “I often bundle up in a blanket and go to the park in the evening. It is-s-s good for insomnia.”

  “SuSu is not troubled with insomnia,” I informed him. “She sleeps twenty hours a day.”

&n
bsp; Mr. Van looked at me with scorn. “You are wrong. Cats never sleep. You think they are sleeping, but cats are the most wakeful creatures on earth. That is-s-s one of their secrets.”

  After he had gone, I said to Gertrude: “I know you like the fellow, but you must admit he’s off his rocker.”

  “He’s just a little eccentric.”

  “If he has a million dollars’ worth of antiques, which I doubt, why is he living in this run-down building? And why doesn’t he buy a wheelchair that’s easier to operate?”

  “Because he’s a Dutchman, I suppose,” was Gertrude’s explanation.

  “And how about all those ridiculous things he says about cats?”

  “I’m beginning to think they’re true.”

  “And who is the fellow who lives with him? Is he a servant, or a nurse, or a keeper, or what? I see him coming and going on the elevator, but he never speaks—not one word. He doesn’t even seem to have a name, and Mr. Van treats him like a slave. I’m not sure we should go tomorrow night. The whole situation is too strange.”

  Nevertheless, we went. The Hollander’s apartment was jammed with furniture and bric-a-brac, and he shouted at his companion: “Move that rommel so the ladies can sit down.”

  Sullenly the fellow removed some paintings and tapestries from the seat of a carved sofa.

  “Now get out of here!” Mr. Van shouted at him. “Get yourself a beer,” and he threw the man some money with less grace than one would throw a dog a bone.

  While SuSu explored the premises we drank our coffee, and then Mr. Van showed us his treasures, propelling his wheelchair through a maze of furniture. He pointed out Chippendale-this and Affleck-that and Newport-something-else. They were treasures to him, but to me they were musty relics of a dead past.

  “I am in the antique business,” Mr. Van explained. “Before I was-s-s chained to this wheelchair, I had a shop and exhibited at the major shows. Then … I was-s-s in a bad auto accident, and now I sell from the apartment. By appointment only.”

  “Can you do that successfully?” Gertrude asked.

  “And why not? The museum people know me, and collectors come here from all over the country. I buy. I sell. And my man Frank does the legwork. He is-s-s the perfect assistant for an antique dealer—strong in the back, weak in the head.”

  “Where did you find him?”

  “On a junk heap. I have taught him enough to be useful to me, but not enough to be useful to himself. A smart arrangement, eh?” Mr. Van winked. “He is-s-s a smeerlap, but I am helpless without him.… Hoo! Look at my little sweetheart. She has-s-s found a prize!”

  SuSu was sniffing at a silver bowl with two handles.

  Mr. Van nodded approvingly. “It is a caudle cup made by Jeremiah Dummer of Boston in the late seventeenth century—for a certain lady in Salem. They said she was-s-s a witch. Look at my little sweetheart. She knows!”

  I coughed and said: “Yes, indeed. You’re lucky to have Frank.”

  “You think I do not know it?” Mr. Van said in a snappish tone. “That is-s-s why I keep him poor. If I gave him wages, he would get ideas. A smeerlap with ideas—there is-s-s nothing worse.”

  “How long ago was your accident?”

  “Five years, and it was-s-s that idiot’s fault. He did it! He did this to me!” The man’s voice rose to a shout, and his face turned red as he pounded the arms of his wheelchair with his fist. Then SuSu rubbed against his ankles, and he stroked her and began to calm down. “Yes, five years in this miserable chair. We were driving to an antique show in the station wagon. Sixty miles an hour—and he went through a red light and hit a truck. A gravel truck!”

  Gertrude put both hands to her face. “How terrible, Mr. Van!”

  “I remember packing the wagon for that trip. I was-s-s complaining all the time about sore arches. Hah! What I would give for some sore arches today yet!”

  “Wasn’t Frank hurt?”

  Mr. Van made an impatient gesture. “His-s-s head only. They picked Waterford crystal out of that blockhead for six hours. He has-s-s been gek ever since.” He tapped his temple.

  “Where did you find this unusual wheelchair?” I asked.

  “My dear Mevrouw, never ask a dealer where he found something. It was-s-s made for a railroad millionaire in 1872. It has-s-s the original plush. If you must spend your life in a wheelchair, have one that gives some pleasure. And now we come to the purpose of tonight’s visit. Ladies, I want you to do something for me.”

  He wheeled himself to a desk, and Gertrude and I exchanged anxious glances.

  “Here in this desk is-s-s a new will I have written, and I need witnesses. I am leaving a few choice items to museums. Everything else is-s-s to be sold and the proceeds used to establish a foundation.”

  “What about Frank?” asked Gertrude, who is always genuinely concerned about others.

  “Bah! Nothing for that smeerlap! … But before you ladies sign the papers, there is-s-s one thing I must write down. What is-s-s the full name of my little sweetheart?”

  We both hesitated, and finally I said: “Her registered name is Superior Suda of Siam.”

  “Good! I will make it the Superior Suda Foundation. That gives me pleasure. Making a will is-s-s a dismal business, like a wheelchair, so give yourself some pleasure.”

  “What—ah—will be the purpose of the foundation?” I asked.

  Mr. Van blessed us with one of his ambiguous smiles. “It will sponsor research,” he said. “I want universities to study the highly developed mental perception of the domestic feline and apply the knowledge to the improvement of the human mind. Ladies, there is-s-s nothing better I could do with my fortune. Man is-s-s eons behind the smallest fireside grimalkin.” He gave us a canny look, and his eyes narrowed. “I am in a position to know.”

  We witnessed the man’s signature. What else could we do? A few days later we left on vacation and never saw Mr. Van again.

  Gertrude and I always went south for three weeks in winter, taking SuSu with us. When we returned, the sorry news about our eccentric neighbor was thrown at us without ceremony.

  We met Frank on the elevator as we were taking our luggage upstairs, and for the first time he spoke. That in itself was a shock.

  He said simply, without any polite preliminaries: “They took him away.”

  “What’s that? What did you say?” we both clamored at once.

  “They took him away.” It was surprising to find that the voice of this muscular man was high-pitched and rasping.

  “What happened to Mr. Van?” my sister demanded.

  “He cracked up. His folks came from Pennsylvania and took him back home. He’s in a nut hospital.”

  I saw Gertrude wince, and she said: “Is it serious?”

  Frank shrugged.

  “What will happen to all his antiques?”

  “His folks told me to dump the junk.”

  “But they’re valuable things, aren’t they?”

  “Nah. Junk. He give everybody that guff about museums and all.” Frank shrugged again and tapped his head. “He was gek.”

  In stunned wonderment my sister and I reached our apartment, and I could hardly wait to say it: “I told you your Dutchman was unbalanced.”

  “Such a pity,” she murmured.

  “What do you think of the sudden change in Frank? He acts like a free man. It must have been terrible living with that old Scrooge.”

  “I’ll miss Mr. Van,” Gertrude said softly. “He was very interesting. SuSu will miss him, too.”

  But SuSu, we observed later that evening, was not willing to relinquish her friend in the wheelchair as easily as we had done.

  We were unpacking the vacation luggage after dinner when SuSu staged her demonstration. She started to gurgle and prance, exactly as she had done all winter whenever Mr. Van was approaching our door. Gertrude and I watched her, waiting for the bell to ring. When SuSu trotted expectantly to the door, we followed. She was behaving in an extraordinary manner. She craned her
neck, made weaving motions with her head, rolled over on her back, and stretched luxuriously, all the while purring her heart out; but the doorbell never rang.

  Looking at my watch, I said: “It’s 8:30. SuSu remembers.”

  “It’s quite touching, isn’t it?” Gertrude remarked.

  That was not the end of SuSu’s demonstrations. Almost every night at half past eight she performed the same ritual.

  I recalled how SuSu had continued to sleep in the guest room long after we had moved her bed to another place. “Cats hate to give up a habit. But she’ll forget Mr. Van’s visits after a while.”

  SuSu did not forget. A few weeks passed. Then we had a foretaste of spring and a sudden thaw. People went without coats prematurely, convertibles cruised with the tops down, and a few hopeful fishermen appeared on the wharf at the foot of our street, although the river was still patched with ice.

  On one of these warm evenings we walked SuSu down to the park for her first spring outing, expecting her to go after last year’s dried weeds with snapping jaws. Instead, she tugged at her leash, pulling toward the boardwalk. Out of curiosity we let her have her way, and there on the edge of the wharf she staged her weird performance once more—gurgling, arching her back, craning her neck with joy.

  “She’s doing it again,” I said. “I wonder what the reason could be.”

  Gertrude said, almost in a whisper: “Remember what Mr. Van said about cats and ghosts?”

  “Look at that animal! You’d swear she was rubbing against someone’s ankles. I wish she’d stop. It makes me uneasy.”

  “I wonder,” said my sister very slowly, “if Mr. Van is really in a mental hospital.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Or is he—down there?” Gertrude pointed uncertainly over the edge of the wharf. “I think Mr. Van is dead, and SuSu knows.”

  “That’s too fantastic,” I said. “Really, Gertrude!”

  “I think Frank pushed the poor man off the wharf, wheelchair and all—perhaps one dark night when Mr. Van couldn’t sleep and insisted on being wheeled to the park.”