He turned his head and looked at Priscilla with eyes I avoided. “My wife, she mentioned that she heard Eva’s sick. Is she going to be all right?”
“Yeah,” Priscilla said. “She had a bad cold and it turned into pneumonia, but she’s coming out of it and should be good as new in a couple of weeks.”
Norman’s lips slowly formed a rectus smile. “Good, he rasped. I was pretty worried about her, afraid she was going to die.”
“That’s not gonna happen for some time yet, Norman, so don’t worry, okay?”
He nodded. Priscilla put more ice in his mouth. He sighed, slowly lifted his hand and brushed her arm. She held his hand and stroked his hair until he drifted into a fitful sleep.
… . .
WE WALKED SLOWLY DOWN THE CORRIDOR to the elevators. Visions of Armstrong flitted across my mind’s eye, dancing on a grave that wasn’t dug yet. A yellow bag of pain that wished he had killed himself when he had the strength, but didn’t, and now was dying to the beat of other people’s drums.
The receptionist, an overweight woman dressed in slashes of red and yellow, had Cat nested in her ample lap and was stroking the scar tissue along her shoulder. I thanked her, retrieved Cat, and we walked outside. After I got Cat settled, we unlocked the bikes and pedaled away from the hospital. We turned onto School Street, pedaled down a gravel road that had never seen a school, and dead ended in a clump of pine growing along the river’s edge.
I took a warm bottle of zinfandel from the trailer and wrestled the cork out of it with my top of the line forty cent corkscrew. Cat, yawning and mewing softly, slapped the side of the trailer, so I lifted her out and put her in the sand by the river’s edge. She stuck her bad paw in the freezing water, jerked it back, and obviously irritated, shook it rapidly. Then she limped to the trailer, sat in the sand, and stared at us.
I sat by Priscilla in dirty, litter strewn sand and drank long and deep. As I handed her the bottle, Priscilla grinned and said, “Norman torque your stones did he?”
“Not a good way to go. I feel for the man, Christ, what he must be going through. And then there’s age, he’s a few years younger than I am.”
Priscilla put a fist against my shoulder and pushed. “Listen, that’s all true, but Norman was a fat man, always cramming down the hot dogs, Big Macs, and other crap. He never exercised, never did anything except smoke like a woodstove in February. So don’t go there, Old Man, you and Norman are different people with different genes, different lifestyles.”
“I certainly hope so,” I said, and drank more wine. “At least we learned that something was bothering Frank.”
“Yeah, but what? I mean Frank often looked depressed and he usually wasn’t. It was just the way he looked. But Norman isn’t stupid, if he thought something was scaring Frank, something probably was.” She stood up and slapped sand off her butt. “Listen, this place is filthy, pack up the hairball and let’s get out of here.”
… . .
AS WE PEDALED TOWARD DOWNTOWN I said, “This has been a rough day for me, Priscilla, First Sarah Akerman and her troubles and then Armstrong. If Stewart Coe has had a stroke or something I don’t want to know about it, at least not today. Let’s wait until tomorrow to talk to him.”
She regarded me with eyes as readable as glass and said, “Whatever trips your hammer, Old Man, but if this Stewart guy has stroked out or has cancer or something, why not find out today? It’ll make tomorrow a little easier.”
I sighed, pushed Armstrong out of my mind and said, “Tomorrow we’ll probably find out something worse.”
Priscilla smiled her smile and said, “Hey! You’ve been on this fucking planet for a ton of years and you used to be a historian, so you gotta know it’s that kind of world, that kind of life: it sucks and then you die. It’s been ten years since Frank died and a lot can happen in that amount of time, especially if you have a destructive life style. Plus the people we’re talking to are middle aged or older. So don’t get your shorts in a knot, Old Man. You aren’t Akerman or Armstrong or Coe or any of the others we’re gonna talk to. You’re you, and that’s the name of that tune. Maybe I’ll get you a Popeye tee shirt to wear, a little reminder for when you start losing your grip.”
“A Popeye tee shirt?”
“Yeah, remember Popeye? I am what I am and that’s all I am.”
… . .
STEWART COE LIVED IN A LARGE Victorian house in need of about twenty thousand dollars worth of work. After pushing the bell and rapping a screen door several times, a lean woman with fierce blue eyes and a nest of salt and pepper hair flung open the door and glared at us. I asked for Stewart and she growled, “You’ll find him down at that goddamned bar drinking and playing cards with his goddamned cronies,” and slammed the door.
Given a direction, we mounted our steeds and pedaled back downtown.
We found Stewart at the third bar we tried. He was seated at a large table in the back of The Blue Boar Pub drinking beer with several men dressed in slacks and sweaters or sport coats. They were playing cards, and this apparently required a lot of hooting and hollering and animated slapping down of the cards, along with carefully worded curses and shaking of heads.
Priscilla and I sat at the bar. Cat, intrigued by the aromas of spilt beer and microwaved hotdogs, pulled herself halfway out of the sling and tasted the air. I gently pushed her back, ordered two glasses of the house wine and a Heineken’s Dark from a woman with dirty nails, pimples, and a ponytail.
I strolled to over to Stewart’s table and laid a hand on his shoulder. He still had a full beard and still wore tweed coats with leather patches on the elbows. But time, and apparently alcohol, had been working on him. His nose was webbed with broken veins and his cheeks were mottled with splotches of red skin.
It took a second, but he recognized me and held out a hand. “Why I do declare,” he said, “It’s the wayward Professor Neal.” He stared at Cat a moment and shook his head. “Is that wretched looking feline part of your ensemble or have you taken to wearing living amulets to ward off any devious sprits that may be stalking that quirky mind of yours?”
His hand was warm and dry, like an old woman’s kiss. I ignored the sarcasm, pasted on a smile and said, “Stewart, it’s good to see you. Do you think you could break away for a few minutes and have a drink with my friend and I.”
His eyes flicked to Priscilla. His eyebrows went up and he lurched to his feet. “Why of course, I never refuse a free drink. Hold the fort lads, I’ll be back.”
He plopped down next to Priscilla and grabbed the Heineken. I sat on his other side, clinked his bottle with my glass and said, “Sydney or the Bush.” He smiled, touched my glass, turned and clinked Priscilla’s glass, and we drank. Gretchen and The Blue Boar Pub obviously bought their house wines off the same tailgate.
“Stewart, this is Priscilla Matson. Priscilla, this is Stewart Coe, head of the History Department at the university.”
Priscilla gave him a dead eyed smile as they shook hands. His eyes wandered to her flattop, drifted slowly over her breasts and settled a moment on her heavily veined forearms. “Harry,” he said. “Is this your granddaughter or have you developed a fondness for young, diminutive Amazons?”
“Neither Stewart, Priscilla is an acquaintance. We’re looking into the death of her Grandfather and would appreciate your help.”
Keeping his eyes on Priscilla he said, “Help? Harry, since when do you need help? You were an excellent teacher, your research was impeccable, your peers liked and respected you, and you avoided most of us like the Pox. I always had the impression you found most of us a bit, ah, distasteful. So again I ask, why would you think you need my help now?”
“You were acquainted with Frank Jankey, Priscilla’s Grandfather.”
His big head surged toward me. “Frank Jankey… of course. He was a layman that I became friendly with. I enjoyed conversing with the man. He was an amateur historian, read those history magazines meant for the nonprofessional. Good chap.”
He looked me up and down, then awkwardly reached over and punched me on the shoulder, spilling some of his beer on Priscilla’s crotch in the process. “I will say you do look good, Harry. I remember when you were in the department you were always concerned about your fitness level. Trying mightily for everlasting youth, that unobtainable goal only the foolish strive for.”
He turned, put his hand in the middle of Priscilla’s back and moved it around. Priscilla looked at him and smiled. Her eyes spoke of dire things, and he abruptly removed his hand and laid it in his lap. “Priscilla. Good name, Priscilla. My dear, you seem to be formed from rock.”
Her jaw muscles bunched several times. She sighed and said, “Listen, if you could remember anything unusual my grandfather said or did before his death we’d appreciate it. Like, was he upset? Afraid? Was he acting different?”
Stewart nodded to himself, finished his beer, and said, “I saw Frank one, no, two days before he died. I remember it clearly because it was a shock to hear of his death, it always is when it’s someone you know.”
Priscilla flipped her hand and said, “And?”
Stewart set his empty bottle down with a thunk and shrugged. “Anxious, perhaps. We often talked, for an uneducated man he was well read and interesting to converse with. But, I’ve already stated that haven’t I? At any rate it was a normal conversation, except that he was, uh, anxious, and perhaps afraid. I remember asking him if anything was the matter and he muttered that old cliché about the wrong place, wrong time. This was in passing you understand, we were on the street by the bakery. He was in his running garb, trying to run out that anxiety perhaps. And that is what killed him… running, for his aging heart had finally had enough. I’m sure the rest, seeing something and all that, was mild paranoia. Perhaps brought on by depression, I understand depression among long distance runners is quite prevalent.”
He looked at me, smiled and said, “You are a true eccentric, Harry, throwing everything away for a hut in the woods, wearing wretched looking felines around your neck, and fraternizing with young women. And now you’re playing the bounty hunter. I do assume you are responding to that absurd ad that has been in the local rag for several years now.”
I treated that as a rhetorical question and asked. “Did Frank elaborate on the wrong place, wrong time statement?”
Stewart stood up, shook his head and walked off, saying, “No, no he didn’t. You’re a card Harry, but I was fond of you. Please talk to me again when I have more time.”
We hung around. Priscilla ordered two glasses of zinfandel and we drank and stared at ourselves in the huge mirror behind the bar. I searched my face for broken veins, moles, and redness, and the face stared back, unsmiling but clear.
We drank silently. Minutes later Priscilla touched me on the shoulder and when I looked at her she turned her glass upside down and set it on the bar. As we walked out the door the boys at the table hooted and I heard Stewart holler, “Gad, good show John.”
It was getting dark and, of course, cold. “We’ll call it a day, by the time I get home it’ll be pitch dark, and I still have to stop at the deli.”
She gave me a look, sighed dramatically, and threw up her arms. “Oh, my goodness! It’s going to be dark. Listen, that’s called night, Old Man, it happens a lot around this time of day. Are you going to turn into a pile of dust? Your dick gonna fall off or something?”
Before I could come up with a suitable retort she punched my shoulder and said, “Listen, if you’d get to town before noon we’d get more done and you’ll be closer to that five K. I mean, look at what’s going on here. From what Sarah, Norman, and that asshole Stewart said, something was bothering Frank. Maybe he was in trouble. Maybe he saw something and it got him killed.”
“Okay, it’s apparent that something was amiss and perhaps he did see something. At any rate, we’re making progress and there’s no need to fret, so be patient. There’s also the exercising and futzing around, we old men are into futzing around you know.”
“You do have a thing about getting old, don’t you? Maybe I oughta haul your old butt to Shady Pond Rest Home. They’d take care of you and give you lots of mind dulling pharmaceuticals so you don’t have to think about being old. You can stay in your bed and drool on your pillow and shit in your Pamper so underpaid young girls can wipe your butt for you.”
“And will I also be visited by a caustic, diminutive Amazon?”
She slapped me lightly in the gut with the back of her hand. Cat, who was hanging half out of the sling watching the night, swiped at the hand with her good paw. Priscilla very gently bopped her on the top of the head. Cat took another swipe and missed. While Priscilla played with Cat she glared at me and in a soft voice said, “Listen, I’m five foot one. That’s five foot one inch. And I weight a hundred and twenty-three pounds and I’m thirty-four years old. So get a grip all right? I’m not a child or some kind of fucking midget, I’m a thirty-four year old woman.”
I smiled, put my hands together in front of Cat, bowed, and said, “Yes, oh Admirable, Mouthy One, I understand. You’re not a child, nor are you a midget, you’re a mature woman. But allow me to say oh Admirable Mouthy One, it is my sincere hope that all your troubles are as Lilliputian as your sex life apparently is.”
She stood hipshot, arms hanging, glaring at me. I put my hands in my pockets and stared back. Finally she sighed and shook her head. “I’ll tell you what, Old Man, you don’t do any short stuff and I won’t do any old stuff.”
I silently breathed a sigh of relief. I had a friend again. “All right, but may I say I think you’re just a tad oversensitive regarding your size, I really think… ”
“And I really think,” she yelled, “That you’re a whole lot of sensitive about being old. Any day now your face is gonna shrivel up like your dick and you’ll spend your days sitting in the park drooling on your shirt and trying to feel little girls butts.”
I did my bow and hand thing again, and in a loud whisper said, “May a diseased snail leave a trail on your pillow.”
She glared at me for several long seconds. Slowly a smile appeared on her face. She threw her hands to the black sky and said, “Christ on a stick, why me?”
It was full dark now, and the cold flowed in like the tide. I decided to get the hell out of Dodge before I got in any more trouble. “I’ll meet you at The Muscle Stop around ten.”
“Listen, by the time you’re through with the machines it’ll be noon and we’ll only have a few hours until dark. Why don’t you come in earlier?”
“Because I like to take my time with breakfast and I enjoy lingering over coffee. I also like to watch the birds, plus I have things to do around the boat. Now, are you going to meet me at The Muscle Stop?”
She didn’t quite stomp her foot but it was close. Then her face relaxed and she said, “Boat? You live on a boat?”
“You’ll see when you come out sometime. And I’ll try to get to The Muscle Stop earlier than ten. How about nine fifty eight?”
She grinned and shook her head. “Jesus, but you’re a rig. All right, I’ll see you at The Stop around ten.”
I put Cat in the trailer and wrapped her up in the quilt. I put on my helmet, pinched the tires and said, “Until tomorrow then,” and pedaled onto the street and headed home. The ride was dark and cold, damn cold. By the time I reached the boat my feet and hands were numb and I was shivering uncontrollably. And of course that’s when I remembered that I was going to stop at the deli.
I had a rough time getting the hatch unlocked and a fire going, dexterity is tough when your fingers are in spasm. I sat in front of the open stove and shivered until thawed enough to cook a bowl of oatmeal with lots of brown sugar, warm milk, and blueberries that bobbed like little blue corks in the gray mush. Bent over like the old man I was going to become if I lived long enough, I shoveled hot cereal into me. By the time I was finished, the boat and I were warm. After feeding Cat I poured a mug of wine, lit a couple more candles, and settled by the s
tove with a history magazine.
I was asleep in minutes.
I dreamed of Norman Armstrong sitting beside me in the park, a sheet draped over him like a poet’s cape. His hollow smile all knowing as he peered into my soul, he touched my hand and said, “Get used to it, Harry. Adapt. Let the pain be your friend.” And I looked down at myself and saw that I too, was skeletal, with skin that glowed a warm yellow.
… . .
ANOTHER MORNING, ANOTHER DAY. COFFEE IN hand, I slumped in the settee and looked out at the grove. I’d refilled the feeders and the birds were busy stoking up for the day ahead. Many of the more colorful birds had the good sense to get the hell out and head south for the winter. The ones that stayed behind, except for cardinals and blue jays, were drab little things that are easy to ignore, and they must have a duce of a time fending for themselves in winter. So I lug the birdseed from the barn, watch them eat, and feel good about myself. Cat, not so altruistic, hunkers down by the window, her tail twitching, and slaps the glass with her good paw while muttering deep in her throat.
Dawdling over coffee ate up an hour. Finally, garbed in long underwear, sweatsuit, thick winter gloves and neoprene face mask, I put Cat in the trailer, bundled her up, and we headed to town.
… . .
WHEN I CLIMBED THE STAIRS TO the weight machines it was ten after ten. I hung Cat on the wall, did three sets, stretched, and took two aspirin. When I got downstairs Priscilla was coming out of the free weight room. She was wearing a sleeveless purple sweatshirt and pale yellow Spandex shorts so form fitting they appeared painted on. The sweatshirt was sopping wet and her face was pale and slack and running with sweat.
After showers we met in the hall, unlocked our bikes and left. Moving in elaborate pantomime, Priscilla checked the time. It was twelve fifteen.
At the park we sat on the ground with our backs against a maple. I put Cat between us and fed her dry cat food from my pocket and gave her water from a small bowl that I kept in her trailer. Priscilla dug around in a bulging pannier hung on the rear of her bike, handed me two Kashi Bars and said, “Lunch is on me today.”
Bentley Dadmun - Harry Neal and Cat 09 - Dead Dead Dead, the Little Girl Said Page 7