Death Sentences

by Otto Penzler

  The old man looked me in the eye. His eyes were blue like mine. A little watery but bright blue. And intelligent. There could be no doubt someone—Joseph Henry Kurtwood, my father—was staring back at me. He was in there. I knew that.

  “How are you, Dad?” I asked.

  He didn’t say anything. I reminded him that he didn’t have to say anything, that I understood he might be too tired to speak and to save his strength. I didn’t know—and I’m sure he didn’t either—what he would be saving it for, but it was something to say, something to fill the quiet space in the house. The kind of quiet that descends on a house with a dying person inside it.

  My mom hovered nearby.

  “Don, honey, why don’t you tell Dad about your tenure vote?” Mom said, always cheery. “Joe, Don got tenure at the university.”

  “I thought you wanted me to tell him?” I said.

  “Don’t be sassy,” Mom said. “Tell him about it.”

  “Sure,” I said. “Why not?”

  I turned back to Dad. Why not, indeed? The truth is—he didn’t really care. And I didn’t really care. It was no great accomplishment to earn tenure at a mid-sized public institution in the south. Publish a few articles, go to a few conferences, show up for meetings on time, attend the department holiday party and get a little tipsy but not too drunk, and I was a shoo-in. The department approved me unanimously. They didn’t care that Rebecca and I had divorced. Hell, Rebecca voted for me.

  But it was something to talk about, the adult equivalent of bringing home a high score on a Civics exam or a report card with more Bs than Cs.

  “I got tenure, Dad,” I said. “I’m an associate professor of English.”

  He squeezed my hand.

  I took this to be his way of congratulating me, so I said, “Thanks.”

  He squeezed again. Harder. More insistent.

  “Okay,” I said. “The vote was unanimous—”

  This time he didn’t squeeze so much as he tugged my hand, jerking me a little forward in my chair. It surprised me. I didn’t know the old man had that much strength left.

  “What is it, Dad?” I asked.

  He didn’t squeeze or tug. His face looked strained, and some of the color had drained from it. His shoulders sank down even farther into the mattress, another little bit of him disappearing.

  His lips moved. They moved but no sound came out.

  “What is it, Dad?”

  “Is he thirsty?” Mom asked. “He always thirsty. It’s those pills.”

  “Are you thirsty, Dad?” I asked. But I knew that wasn’t it. His head moved again, almost imperceptibly. Just about a quarter inch of movement. “Do you want …?”

  I stood up. His lips moved some more.

  “Is he saying something?” Mom asked.

  “I don’t know. You keep talking.”

  “Don’t sass.”

  “Shh.”

  I leaned forward, my ear almost pressing against the old man’s lips. I felt his breath against my skin, hot and clammy. Dying. The last few weeks of precious breath he had left.

  I stood that way for a long time, thinking the moment had passed and no words would come.

  But then he said it. Two words.

  I think.

  He said, “Good will.”

  The end came three weeks later.

  Because it took Dad so long to die, there was a lot of time to plan. When I spoke to Mom on the phone that day, she told me that she didn’t need any help.

  “It’s all arranged,” she said. “You can come for the funeral.”

  Something rustled in the background. Then a ripping noise.

  “Are you okay?” I asked.

  “Me?” she said.

  She sounded surprised that I would even ask the question. I figured a whole host of people had been asking her that question over the past few years. First, when Dad became sick, and then even more intensely in the wake of his death.

  “Yes, Mom. Are you okay? How are you holding up?”

  “I’m fine,” she said. I heard the ripping noise again. “I’m going through your father’s things. I started … well, you know, before. I took away a number of boxes. But somehow it didn’t seem right. You know … when he was still … here. But now, there’s a lot to go through.”

  My mother might sound business-like. Even cold. I don’t want to give the wrong impression of her. She could be business-like, even in the most stressful situations, but she was also very loving. She read to me constantly when I was a child. She encouraged my scholarly career. She was—is—an excellent mother. But her and my dad? How do I put this? They really weren’t in love. They were companions. Roommates. Partners in the strictest sense. They raised a son together. They rowed in the same direction. But it wasn’t a love affair. I’m sure Mom saw Dad’s death as a passage from one phase of her life to another. When she called to tell me Dad had died, she simply said, “It’s over.”

  “Are you okay being there alone now?” I asked. “In the house?”

  “Am I okay being alone?” she said. “Don, I’ve been alone in this house ever since you moved out. Your father and I were both alone here. It’s no big deal.” The ripping noise again. “And your father has so many books. So many.”

  I suddenly figured out what the ripping noise was. Tape. She was taping up boxes of Dad’s books. Probably sending them to the library book sale. Mom volunteered there twice a year. It was her pet cause.

  I wanted to ask her so much more. I wanted to ask her why she married Dad. I wanted to ask why they stayed married. I wanted to ask about Dad’s last words. “Good will.”

  And I wanted to ask the biggest question of all: Did you know Dad? Did you—or anybody else—really know him?

  But Mom moved things along.

  “So,” she said, the ripping sound of packing tape coming again. “Tuesday then? Don’t be late.”

  In the funeral home, during the viewing, I stayed at the back of the room. The casket remained open, and even though I’d seen my dad just three weeks before his death, wasting away to a stick man, I couldn’t bear the thought of being close to his dead body. Even though the funeral home had done a good job on him—according to my mother—and I imagined that he probably looked peaceful or any of the other clichés people threw around on such occasions, I knew Dad wouldn’t like it. The whole event felt … embarrassing somehow. The old man up in a box, wearing a coat and tie he never wore when he was alive. He seemed exposed. Vulnerable.

  And very, very dead.

  The family members—cousins, aunts, uncles—as well as the women and men my mother knew, found me despite my lingering at the back. They shook my hand, pecked me on the cheek, hugged me, and fussed over me. I was an only child and I had lost my father. Mom remained stationed at the front, accepting condolences and occasionally smiling.

  It’s over.

  When the man first approached me, I assumed he was another friend of Mom’s, someone she knew through church or volunteering at the local school. Except he didn’t look like anyone my mother would hang out with. He was short, just over five feet tall. And round, almost as wide as he was tall. His brown suit coat was frayed around the edges of the collar and the sleeves, and his once-white dress shirt looked dingy gray.

  “You must be the son,” he said. He shook my hand. “I’m sorry about your father.”

  His voice carried the trace of an accent, something from the East Coast.

  “I am,” I said. I did the same thing with him that I did with everyone else that night—I pretended I knew who he was. “It’s good to see you.”

  The man smiled. “You’re trying to place me,” he said.

  “No, I … well, to be honest, there are a lot of relatives here—”

  “I’m no relation,” he said. “And I’m really not a friend.”

  “Not a friend?”

  He held his smile. “Not a friend of yours, yet,” he said. “But hopefully soon.” The man looked over both shoulders, as though he thoug
ht someone was eavesdropping. The viewing room was emptying out. Only a few stragglers remained talking to Mom up at the front. And, of course, Dad. He was still in his place.

  The man reached inside his jacket and brought out a slightly wrinkled business card. He held it out to me, but I didn’t take it.

  “Are you a lawyer or something?” I asked. “Mom has everything taken care of—”

  “Read the card.” He moved his hand forward a few inches, almost forcing the card into my hands.

  I took it and read. Lou Caledonia, Rare Book Dealer.

  I recognized the address under the name. I knew the place. A small, cramped storefront downtown. I’d been there once, many years earlier, just looking around. But I remembered the place. It seemed to specialize in genre fiction—pulp novels, mysteries, men’s adventure magazines. Not the sort of reading that appealed to me, so I never went back.

  “Did you know my dad?” I asked.

  “I wanted to,” Lou Caledonia said. “But he didn’t want to know me.”

  Then it slowly dawned on me. “Are you here trolling for business? Because if you are, that’s pretty tasteless. This is my father’s viewing. You could call next week about his books.”

  Lou Caledonia looked hurt. The corners of his mouth sagged and he blinked his eyes a few times.

  “Please,” he said. “No. I’m not that kind of man. And if I’ve given any offense to you or your family, I deeply apologize and will go.”

  He held out his hands in front of him and started backing away.

  But there was something about him. Maybe it was how quickly he apologized. Maybe it was his droopy dog looks. Or maybe, just maybe, it was because I wanted to understand this man’s interest in my father.

  “Okay,” I said. “No offense taken.”

  He stopped backpedaling. His smile returned.

  “You’re a gentleman,” he said. “I can tell.” He moved closer again. “You’re right that I shouldn’t conduct business at such a solemn occasion, but you have to understand how important this is to me. And I tried speaking to your father before … well, before, and I was always rebuffed.”

  “Why?”

  “Do me a favor,” he said. He pointed to the card. “Tend to your family. Tend to your mother. But when all of this awful business is done, if you can just spare a little time, come to my shop. Come by and we’ll talk. Please?”

  I looked at the card again. The shop was on my way out of town.

  “Okay,” I said. “The burial is tomorrow, and I’m leaving the day after that. I’ll swing by during the day.”

  Lou was already shaking his head. As he shook, the loose skin around his jawline shook as well. His eyes were closed. He looked solemn as a monk.

  “Tonight,” he said. “Come by tonight.”

  “Tonight? I can’t. I have my mother. And family coming over. It’s already eight o’clock.”

  “I’ll be in the shop all night,” he said. He started walking away. “Just come by. Please.”

  “But what’s this about?”

  He shuffled out of the room, the worn and faded back of his corduroy pants was the last thing I saw.

  “Did you see the man I was talking to?” I asked. “At the funeral home.”

  Mom and I ate in the kitchen. It was just after nine o’clock, and we were both hungry when we got back to my parents’ house. Someone had dropped off a pan of lasagna, and Mom heated it in the oven. We both ate a lot, and only after I had the first serving down and started on the second did I ask my question.

  “What man?” she asked. “There were a ton of people there. More than I would have expected, even.”

  “He came at the end,” I said. “His name is Lou Caledonia.”

  “Lou Caledonia?” Mom said. She almost made the name sound like part of a song. She shook her head. “Never heard of him. And, believe me, I’d remember a name like that. How did he know your father?”

  “I don’t know that he did.”

  “What?”

  “He owns a bookstore. Used books. It’s downtown.”

  Mom stopped chewing and patted her lips with a cloth napkin. “That explains it. Books. Your father and his books. Do you know how many boxes I hauled out of here while your father was sick? I finally stopped because he saw me doing it and had a fit.”

  “How could he have a fit? He was bedridden.”

  “He knew what I was doing. He knocked his water glass off the table, then he said, ‘Stop.’ One word. I knew what he meant. The books. Leave them alone. And there are just as many still to go. That’s one way the two of you were just alike. Obsessed with books.”

  “Don’t compare us that way,” I said.

  “What way?” she asked. “Is it not true that you and your father both have an insane obsession with books? He filled this house with them, and I’ve seen your house down in Kentucky. You’re on the way to equaling him.”

  “I’m an English professor,” I said. “That’s my life. Dad read a lot of schlocky fiction. I’m …”

  I wanted to say I was a scholar, but was I? Just because I had the Ph.D. and wrote about books didn’t mean I was a scholar. In fact, was I really contributing anything to the intellectual or cultural life of the world?

  “You’re what?” Mom asked.

  “Nothing.”

  Mom pushed her plate aside. She reached out and placed her hand on my forearm. Her skin felt soft, but I could see the age spots on the back of her hand. She still wore her wedding ring.

  “What’s going on down there?” she asked. “In Kentucky?”

  “Work goes on down there.”

  “Is there a special someone in your life?” she asked. “Since Rebecca?”

  “No,” I said.

  “You know, I called there once, your apartment, on a Saturday morning. Some girl answered.”

  “Mom. Please.”

  “She sounded very young. She said you were in the shower or something.”

  “Mom. Enough.”

  “I worry. You’re my only child. I don’t want to think of you being alone. You’re forty now. If you want to have children … I just worry about you living in that house full of books. Would any woman want to come into that? And how are you going to leave something behind if you’re not married? Your father and I, we had you. You’re our legacy.”

  “I have work, Mom. I have my work.”

  She nodded. “I know. The articles. The presentations.”

  “And teaching,” I said. “The lives I’ve touched.”

  Mom smiled. I recognized the sly look on her face. She had something to zing me with, and she said, “I bet you were touching that girl’s life, the one who answered your phone on a Saturday morning.”

  “Jesus. You’re my mother.”

  She laughed. And I couldn’t help but laugh a little too.

  “I’m going out in a little bit,” I said.

  Mom turned and looked at the clock. “Are you meeting some old friends?”

  “I’m going to that bookstore. To see Lou Caledonia.”

  “Why on earth for?” She stood up and started clearing dishes.

  “He wants to see me,” I said. “I think he knows something about Dad.”

  “Honey, the only thing to know about your dad is that he liked to sit in his chair and read more than he liked to work. And that’s pretty much that. It’s after nine, and you have to get up early tomorrow. We both do. Besides, maybe this guy is a crazy person? What if he’s a serial killer or something?”

  “A serial killer?” I said. “He looks more like a hobbit.”

  “A what?”

  “Never mind.” I brought my plate to the sink. “How much trouble could a used book dealer cause?”

  It was nearly nine forty-five when I pulled up in front of Lou Caledonia’s bookstore. The streets downtown were quiet and empty. No cars went past, and the streetlights all blinked monotonously yellow. The storefront looked dark. I checked his card. It gave no name for the store. Above the glass dis
play windows the word BOOKS was spelled out in chipped gold letters. The sign looked like it came from another time.

  I climbed out of the car and went to the door. I looked for a bell or an intercom, but there was nothing. I pressed my face against the glass. In the shadowy light I saw rickety wooden shelves filled with endless rows of paperback books. More books sat on the floors of the aisles, and even more were stacked at the end of aisles. Cardboard boxes on the floor overflowed with additional books. Even though I didn’t think the titles interested me, I had to admit to feeling a thrill of excitement at the sight of all those books. The shop seemed crammed full of the essence of reading—the simple book. How long had it been since I’d simply taken one off the shelf and read it and enjoyed it? How long since I’d read a book without the red pen of the critic in my hand, the theorist’s coldly detached eye formulating a jargony thesis as I read the words?

  I didn’t know what to do, so I knocked. And waited. The wind picked up a little. It was a cool fall night, the sky clear and inky black. I looked around and still didn’t see anyone on the streets. No one came downtown anymore. I figured they were all home streaming movies or TV or texting. When I was a kid, we came downtown for movies, for plays, for restaurants. Most of those establishments were gone.

  I knocked again. Then I tried the door. It opened.

  I looked around again. I don’t know what I expected. The police coming to arrest me for breaking into an unlocked and nearly forgotten bookstore on an empty street? I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

  “Mr. Caledonia?” I said. “Lou?”

  I considered backing up and leaving. He told me to come by anytime, but maybe it was simply too late. If I wanted, I could try again when I left town, as I had originally proposed. Or maybe I wouldn’t bother at all. What could this man know about my father that I didn’t know? That’s when it struck me: I didn’t know anything about my father.

  I took a step toward the door when I heard something rustle near the back of the room. I froze in place.