A Noise Downstairs

by Linwood Barclay

  Paul smiled with curiosity. “Okay.”

  She aimed her thumb at the door. “Go on in.”

  Josh said, “Can I open it?”

  “Yeah, okay,” Paul said. To Charlotte: “Should I close my eyes?”

  She shook her head.

  Josh turned the knob and pushed the door open.

  Sitting on the desk, beside the closed laptop and hidden beneath a tea towel adorned with Christmas trees, was something the size of a football helmet, although far less rounded.

  “So it’s a Christmas present,” Paul said.

  Charlotte shrugged. “It was the biggest dish towel I had, and it was too awkward to wrap properly. Take a guess.”

  Paul grinned. “I got nuthin’.”

  Josh had squeezed himself in front of his father, wanting to reach out and pull the towel away, but knowing he had to let his dad do it.

  “Here goes,” Paul said, grabbing the corner of the towel and flicking it back like a magician whipping out a tablecloth from a fully set dining room table.

  Josh said, “What is it?”

  “Oh, my God,” Paul said. “It’s amazing.”

  “You like it?” Charlotte said, putting her palms together, as though praying, the tips of her fingers touching her chin. “Seriously?”

  “I love it.”

  For a second time, Josh asked, “What is it?”

  “That,” Paul told him, mussing his hair, “is a typewriter.”

  “A what?”

  “You must have needed a crane to bring it in here,” Paul said, running his fingers along the base of the machine. “It looks like it weighs a ton.”

  Charlotte did her best Muscle Beach pose. “Strrrong vooman. Like ox.”

  Paul dropped his butt into the computer chair and gave the antique a thorough examination.

  “This is so funny,” he said. “I was just thinking about one of these old typewriters.”

  “Seriously?” Charlotte asked. “I’m like a mind reader. Why were—”

  Paul shook his head to suggest it didn’t matter. Besides, he was too busy inspecting the machine to reply.

  It was an Underwood. The name was stenciled onto the black metal just above the keys and, in much bigger letters, across the back shelf that would prop up a sheet of paper, had one been rolled in. The machine was almost entirely black, except for the keypad— Paul wondered if that was strictly a computer term—but anyway, all those keys, marked with letters and numbers and punctuation marks, each one perfectly ringed in silver.

  “What does it do?” Josh asked.

  Above the keys, a semicircular opening that afforded a view of the— Paul wasn’t even sure what they were called, those perfectly arrayed metal arms that struck paper as one pounded on the keys. But there was a kind of beauty in how they were arranged, like the inside of a very tiny opera house. Those keys were the people, the paper the stage.

  “It writes things,” Paul said.

  “How?”

  “Grab a sheet of paper from the printer.”

  Charlotte said, “I tried it. There’s still some ink in the ribbon, but I don’t know if you can even buy typewriter ribbons anymore.”

  “Ribbons?” Josh said, handing a sheet of paper to his father.

  “Okay,” he said, taking the sheet and inserting it into the back of the machine. He twisted the roller at the end of the cylinder, feeding the paper into the typewriter until it appeared on the other side, just above where the keys would hit it.

  “I don’t get this at all,” Josh said.

  “Watch,” Paul said. “I’m going to type your name.”

  He raised his two index fingers over the keys.

  Chit chit chit chit.

  “God, I love that sound,” Paul said.

  Josh watched, open-mouthed, as JOSH appeared, faintly, on the sheet of paper. “Whoa,” he said as his father pulled the sheet out and handed it to him. “That’s cool. But I still don’t get it.”

  “This is what we used before computers,” Paul said. “When we wanted to write something, we used this. And you didn’t have to print out what you wrote, because you were printing it as you wrote it, one letter at a time.”

  Josh studied the machine. “But how does it go onto the Net? Where do you see stuff? Where’s the screen?”

  Charlotte laughed. Josh looked at her, not getting the joke.

  Paul struggled to explain. “You know how if you want to write something on the computer, like, you use Word or whatever. That’s what you would use this for. But that’s all it did. You didn’t surf the Web with it. There was no Web. You didn’t figure out your mortgage on it, you didn’t use it to read the Huffington Post or watch a show or look at cat videos or—”

  “But what does it do?” Josh asked.

  “This machine does one thing and one thing only. It lets you write stuff.”

  Josh was unable to conceal his disappointment. “So it’s kind of useless, then. How old is it?”

  Paul shook his head. “I’ve got no idea.”

  Charlotte said, “I looked all over it for a date and couldn’t find one. But I’m guessing maybe the nineteen thirties, forties?”

  Paul shook his head in wonder. “Who knows. But it’s older than any of us in this room, that’s for sure.”

  “Even Charlotte?” Josh asked.

  “Josh!” Paul said, and shot his wife a look of apology.

  “I’ll get you for that,” she said, giving the boy a grin.

  Paul asked Charlotte, “What made you . . . why did you get this?”

  She smiled. “I told you, I wanted to inspire you. How many times have we been in an antique shop and you’ve stopped and looked adoringly at one of these? I know you love these old gadgets.”

  His eyes misted. “When I was a kid, we had a typewriter like this, well, it was a Royal, not an Underwood. But just like this, it weighed about as much as a Volkswagen.”

  “I can attest to that,” Charlotte said. “I think there’s more steel in that thing than in our stove.”

  Paul continued. “I liked to write stories, but writing them out by hand took so long. When I was ten, before every house had a computer, I asked my dad to show me how to use the typewriter. I got the world’s fastest lesson. Your fingers go here, this one hits this key, this one hits that key, and so on. I remember him holding his hands over mine.”

  He put a hand over his mouth, took a moment to compose himself.

  “Anyway, that was it. That was my lesson. Been typing ever since.” He smiled wistfully. “All the bad habits I learned at that age, I still have.” He ran his hand over the top of the typewriter. “Just think of all the things that may have been written on this. School essays, love notes, maybe letters from a mother to her soldier son fighting somewhere in France or Germany, if she wasn’t into handwriting. A machine like this, it has a soul, you know?”

  “What does that mean?” Josh asked.

  Paul struggled to find a way to explain. He turned his son so he was standing directly in front of him.

  “You know how—how do I put this—you see things with your eyes”—he pointed to Josh’s—“and you take them in, and they’re just there. Like, watching a bus go by or something like that. But other times, you see things, and you feel them in here.” He placed his palm on the boy’s chest. “Like, a beautiful sunset. Or an eagle, or even when you hear a magnificent piece of music.”

  Josh stared blankly. “I like buses,” he said.

  Paul looked at Charlotte with amused dismay.

  She smiled. “I wasn’t thinking you’d actually write on it. It’s not exactly easy to do cut-and-paste with scissors and a bottle of glue. And you could wear out what’s left of that ribbon and never get any replacements. I thought of it more like a work of art. Like I said, it’s meant to inspire.” She cast her eye about the tiny room. “If you can find any place for it.”

  “Oh, I’ve got a spot for it. And I like your idea. I’m already inspired. And considering what I’ve
been researching lately, you could have hardly found something more appropriate.”

  Josh got into the chair and began tapping away madly at the keys.

  Chit chit. Chit. Chit chit chit.

  “I love you,” Paul said, putting his lips to Charlotte’s.

  “Right back at ya.”

  Chit chit chit. Ding!

  “Whoa!” Josh said. “What was that?”

  “You have to hit the carriage return.”

  “The what?”

  Paul reached around his son to hit the lever on the left side of the machine to move the cylinder back to the right. Josh resumed typing.

  Chit chit chit chit.

  “Where did you find it again?” Paul asked.

  “Someone selling their house had a garage sale to clear out their stuff. Less stuff to pack, right? I stopped because, you know, you never know what you might find, and if they haven’t found a new place yet, they might just need an agent, so I thought I might hand out my card. And then I spotted this little beauty and immediately thought of you.”

  “Well, I’m glad you—”

  “Ow!”

  They both turned to see Josh’s right hand deep into the heart of the typewriter. His fingers were entangled in a collection of keys fighting to get to the ribbon.

  “Everything’s stuck!” he cried, looking at the antique as though it were a dog that had bit him.

  “Hang on, hang on,” Paul said. “The letters got jammed. It’s not a big deal. Just let me carefully pull apart those—”

  “It hurts!” Josh said. Before Paul could help him, Josh jerked his arm back to free himself. Blood spurted from the index finger of his right hand. The skin was torn on the side, just back of the nail.

  “Shit!” Paul said as blood dripped onto the keys and the top of his desk.

  “Why did it do that?” Josh asked.

  “If you hit too many keys too fast—”

  But Josh wasn’t interested. He’d turned to Charlotte, who had grabbed a handful of tissues from a box on the desk and was wrapping them around her stepson’s finger. “Come into the kitchen. We’ll get you fixed up.”

  Paul watched as they left his cramped office, then at the blood-spattered typewriter.

  Josh could be heard saying to his stepmother, “That thing sucks. You should have got him a new computer instead.”

  Ten

  Bill Myers dropped by that evening with a folder full of real estate flyers that Charlotte had forgotten to bring home with her for an open house she was holding the following afternoon.

  Paul went down and answered the door to let him in.

  “How’s it going?” Paul said.

  “Good. Can you give these to Charlotte?”

  “No problem. Come on in, have a cold one.”

  Bill hesitated, then said, “What the hell.”

  Bill was in his early forties, a full head of blond hair morphing into gray. When Paul first met him, back when they both attended UConn—the University of Connecticut—up in Storrs, east of Hartford, Bill was the classic jock and looked the part. Six-foot, lean, one of those classic chiseled jaws. Nearly twenty years later, he wasn’t the athlete he once was but remained trim, keeping himself in shape by running five miles most days.

  While always friends, they’d barely kept in touch—Christmas cards, the odd email, maybe meeting up for a drink every couple of years—but had renewed their connection since Charlotte joined the real estate agency where Bill worked. Up until Hoffman’s attack on Paul, there had been a weekly squash game, and whenever Bill had a new girlfriend he wanted them to meet, the four of them would plan a dinner out.

  Paul took two beers from the fridge and guided Bill through the living room to the balcony that looked onto Long Island Sound.

  “Charlotte’s upstairs, getting ready to head out tonight,” Paul said as they sat down on modern Adirondack chairs. He tossed his bottle cap into an empty coffee can he kept nearby. “This one couple, she’s shown them at least twenty places, but they want to go back one last time and see some house in Devon just off Naugatuck.”

  “I know it,” Bill said. “Been on the market thirteen months. Handyman’s dream. Someone should buy it for the lot, tear the place, and start over.”

  “Josh and I are gonna watch a movie. How’s your weekend looking? Out with Rachel?”

  Bill shook his head. “That’s kind of cooled off. She thinks a guy who’s been married once before is not a good prospect.”

  “I can’t imagine why.”

  Bill grunted.

  The glass door slid back and Josh stepped out.

  “Hey, pal,” Bill said, gripping the boy’s shoulder and giving him a small shake. He spotted Josh’s finger and said, “What’d you do there?”

  “A typewriter bit me,” he said.

  Bill raised a puzzled eyebrow. Paul said, “A surprise from Charlotte. An old Underwood. Josh got his finger caught in it.”

  Bill nodded. “Okay. Old typewriters are becoming a thing. Not that I’d want to use one. I’m a fan of find-and-replace.”

  “We talking about women now?”

  Josh chuckled.

  The door slid open again and this time it was Charlotte. “Hey, Bill,” she said as Josh scurried back into the house.

  Bill turned around in his chair. “Left those flyers for your thing tomorrow on the counter.”

  “Thanks.” She gave Paul an apologetic look. “I hope I won’t be too late.”

  Paul smiled ruefully. “No problem.”

  Charlotte withdrew, sliding the glass door into the closed position.

  “Uh, good-bye,” Bill said.

  Paul felt obliged to offer an apology. “She’s got a lot on her mind. Me, mostly.”

  “How’s it going with the shrink?”

  The term brought a sigh from Paul. “Okay.”

  “Good. ’Cause we don’t want you doing anything stupid.”

  Paul narrowed his eyes. “Christ, I’m not going to kill myself.”

  Bill leaned back in his chair and raised his palms as though under attack. “Sorry. It’s just, you’ve kind of been on edge. Depressed, the nightmares, forgetting shit. Like the other day, I returned your call, and you’re all ‘What, I never called you’ except you did.”

  Paul bristled. “Okay, yeah, I admit, the last eight months have not been the best. But I’m working through it. I’ve got a plan.”

  “Okay, great, that’s all I wanted to hear.” He smiled. “What you need is to get that head of yours fixed up so I can beat your ass again at squash. I’m suffering from the withdrawal of humiliating you.”

  “Fuck off.”

  Bill grinned. “Truth hurts, man.” He paused. “So what’s the plan?”

  Paul hesitated. “I want to find out what makes Kenneth Hoffman tick.”

  Bill eyed him amusedly. “I can help you with that.”

  “Oh, yeah?”

  “Yeah. He’s a fuckin’ psycho.”

  _________________

  LATER, AFTER BILL HAD LEFT, JOSH HURRIEDLY SLID OPEN THE BALCONY door and said breathlessly to his father, “Don’t you hear that?”

  Paul, who’d been turning the pages of The New Yorker, taking in nothing more than the cartoons, said, “Hear what?”

  Josh gave him a “ duh?” look. So Paul listened. The sound had been there the entire time. He’d just been unaware of it. Music. Well, not really music. It was an endlessly repeating jingle.

  Dee dee, diddly-dee, dee dee, dee-da, dee-da, dee da dee.

  “Ice cream?” Josh said. “The ice cream truck?”

  “Right!” he said, springing out of his chair. “I have to get my wallet.”

  Josh produced it in his upraised right hand.

  By the time they hit the street, the truck was only half a block away. It was an old, rusted blue-and-white panel van with rudimentary drawings of ice-cream cones and sundaes and the words THE TASTEE TRUCK painted on the sides. Josh waved a hand to make sure the driver didn’t miss them. Th
e truck slowed with a rusty screeching of brakes at the end of the driveway.

  “Whatcha want?” Paul asked as Josh scanned the menu board with wonder.

  “Chocolate-coated cone,” he said.

  The driver moved from behind the wheel to the open bay on the side and asked, in a low monotone, “Yeah?”

  Paul suddenly found himself unable to speak.

  The ice cream man, not much older than twenty, looked like he ate a lot of what he sold. Thick, pudgy arms; a round face with soft, pimpled cheeks; hair cut so close to his head he was almost shaved bald. He was probably six feet tall, but looked even taller, towering over them from the serving window.

  The name tag pinned to his ice cream–smeared apron read LEN.

  Len asked, slowly, “What do you want?”

  “Dad?” Josh said.

  “Uh, two cones. Mediums,” Paul said. “Dipped in chocolate.”

  “Okay,” Len said.

  Paul briefly turned and looked away while Len grabbed two empty cones, held them beneath the soft ice cream dispenser, pulled down on the bar, then gently waved each cone to create a swirling effect. Then he dipped them in melted chocolate, which instantly froze into a shell.

  “Mister?” Len said.

  Paul turned back. Len looked at him blankly as he leaned over and handed him the cones. Paul gave one off to Josh, then dug into his pocket for his wallet. Paul handed Len a ten.

  “One second,” Len said, going into a green metal cash box for change.

  “Just keep it,” Paul said, and led Josh away from the truck.

  Len offered no thanks, returned to the driver’s seat, and steered the Tastee Truck farther down the street, the jingle heralding his presence to the neighborhood.

  “I haven’t seen that guy before,” Paul said.

  “Yeah, he’s new this summer,” Josh said. “There was a different guy last year.”

  “I don’t think he knew who I was.”

  “What are you talking about?” Josh asked.

  “Never mind,” Paul said. “Let’s go back and watch a movie.”

  _________________

  JOSH HAD LONG WANTED TO SEE THE BATMAN FLICKS, WHICH PAUL felt were a bit too mature and intense for a boy of nine, not counting the Adam West version. All the ones made this century—well, they didn’t call him the Dark Knight for nothing—were violent and bleak and occasionally disturbing. But Paul was able to call up the 1989 one starring Michael Keaton, which, while bleak enough, was tamer than the more recent versions.