by Tom Larsen
“But Meryl Streep is still alive.”
“Well, yes, in a literal sense. But the spirit of Helen Archer is right here in the Stewart House.”
Harry looks him over. “Who?”
“That was her name in the movie.”
“Okay . . .”
“My wife, Yuri, cannot see her. People too earthbound cannot see her. But you can see her, can’t you Gerry.”
“A few more of these and I’ll be seeing three of her.”
Kim laughs warm and friendly. The guy’s a trip, Harry must admit.
“I have to ask you Kim. Did you see anyone come out of my room this morning?”
“You mean, Louise,” he smiles and shakes his head. “I didn’t think anyone could get to Louise.”
“I don’t think we got too far.”
“We could hear you. Yuri had to phone your room.”
“Oh right, I forgot.”
“Louise’s grandfather owns the cemetery,” Kim tells him.
“Owns it? How can you own a cemetery?”
“Oh, there’s some sort of arrangement. Casey’s what you call a colorful character.”
“I met him. He sold me a plot.”
The kid moves around Harry’s room handling things, bud vase, alarm clock.
“Our specials today are the flounder stuffed with crab, London Broil in a béarnaise sauce, and osso buco with Vidalia onions,” he announces out of nowhere.
“No food, please, my stomach is a wreck.”
He rolls his eyes to the door and Harry hears a floorboard creak.
“On, uh, on second thought it might do me good to eat something. I also wanted to ask you about the area, your take on the people and places.”
“Ah, the people, bona fide salt of the earth,” Kim checks himself in Harry’s mirror. “Of course scenically the Catskills are world famous. We have an abundance of natural attract– . . . Okay, she’s gone. You must forgive Yuri. She worries about me.”
“Maybe you shouldn’t go on about Meryl. I mean why make trouble for yourself?”
“She thinks I drink too much,” he pours another round.
Harry gives him a look. “We both got some red flags waving here, don’t you think?”
“I suppose I do have a problem . . . definitely, now that I think about it. It gets lonely up here, especially in the winter. Those old mountains,” he gazes off.
There’s a tap at the door. “Kim? Can you come help me with the ham?”
“Oh yes, and ham,” he moves to the door. “Virginia baked, with an orange glaze, yum.”
“Bless you kind innkeeper. Oh and hang that Do Not Disturb sign up for me would you?”
But Harry can’t sleep so it’s back to the tube. Watches a tennis match, two guys in dreads and perfect teeth, the sweatbands, the stupid ball boys scampering around on the pitch. Stuck between drunk and badly hungover, every little thing fraying the nerves.
Shortly before noon a Sousa concert kicks in over at the band shell. Tennis gives way to golf on television, guys in hats and dorky clothes, some of them fat, none of them familiar. He gets an overwhelming urge to call someone, anyone, and before he can stop himself he’s dialed the payphone at the market. A week early, but what the hey.
“Yo.”
“Hi, uh, is Lena there?”
“Who?”
“Is this the Italian Market?”
“Off the phone, punk. I got fucking bidness here.”
Not a good sign, Lena sees a banger and forget the whole thing. So he calls again.
“Yo, yo.”
“Yeah, listen homey, Winslow here. Narcotics. You’re anywhere near that phone next Sunday and I’ll personally deliver your ass to every donkey dick in the roundhouse, capeesh?”
Click!
Winslow, Winslow, where did he come up with that? Then it hits him, dead Stevie’s last name. Winslow, Phoenix Arizona. Stevie Winslow. Looked enough like Harry he can no longer recall the differences, shorter, but just slightly. Had a small cleft in his chin, or was that the barman? What the hell was his name?
Never did get rid of Stevie’s wallet. Thank God he left it here to go drunk driving around. Put it in the . . .
He knows he’s searching in places he will search again and again, cursing himself every time it isn’t there. With finding it’s all about the effort. In minutes he’s looked everywhere in the room, again and again, saving the car for later, when he’s frantic, another place to look, even though he knows it’s not in there. Distinctly remembers not taking it, as a precaution. Sticking it . . .
The luggage takes longer, poking and patting, ripping and tossing. The anger doesn’t help. The anger and the panic building as the wallet refuses to materialize. Finally the car, so new and clean there’s no place to look besides glove compartment, door pockets, under the seat.
Only one thing can explain it. Louise, must have taken it while he was sleeping. Which explains why she snuck off without saying goodbye, unless some other stuff happened that he doesn’t remember. She fucking stole it.
Then a timid knock and there she is with take out coffee and a bag of something. Oranges?
“Feeling better?” she drops the bag on the bed.
“Hi, yeah,” her name evaporates. “Whew! We really tied one on I guess.”
“Mostly one of us.”
“Listen . . .” Christ, he knew it a minute ago. “I have to ask you something.”
“That’s funny. I have to ask you something,” she looks younger than he remembers, pretty, in a randy aunt sort of way. “Did you really see the Last Supper painted on the head of a pin?”
“I said that?”
“You said you saw it in Thailand, during the war.”
He feels his way to the bed and stretches out on his stomach. Outside Maple Leaf Rag rises up from the band shell. Puts him in mind of the movies, the bad thing happens when the happy music plays.
“I’ve never been to Thailand. I was drunk. Don’t believe a thing I told you. What else did I tell you?”
“That you played for the Phillies and once dated Grace Kelly’s niece.”
Jesus, that old fantasy! What next, lampshades on the head?
“Did I mention that I’m a pathological liar?”
“No,” she smiles demurely. “You did say you were good in bed.”
“About that–”
“You needn’t apologize. I’m a big girl, Gerry.”
“Still, I feel like a dope.”
“You’re sweet,” she smiles again. “So, what did you want to ask me?”
“I uh . . . nah, it’s nothing.”
“Come on. What did my grandfather tell you?”
“No, it’s not that,” Harry rotates his head to face her. “Look, don’t take this the wrong way, okay? I had a wallet here yesterday and I can’t seem to find it. Did you see me stick it somewhere?”
Her face goes all funny. “What, you think I stole it?”
“No!” Harry tries to roll over but it’s too much for him. “No, of course not. I just know how I get when I’m shitfaced.”
“You had your wallet at the bar.”
“A different one. Black, with–”
“I didn’t steal your fucking wallet, okay?” she glares at him.
“Please, I just need to find–”
“And about last night?” she crosses to the door. “You were right, we didn’t know what we were doing. It happens. But when it happens again?” she swings it open. “Try and remember her fucking name.”
Slam!
CHAPTER ELEVEN
The kids stop by on their way to school, Tina from across the street, the Delluci twins, Eddie and the Feeney boy, blinking up from the sidewalk in their Sacred Heart uniforms and Flyers gear. They tell her how sorry they are, from the heart not as instructed. Harry was good with the kids, telling jokes and giving them nicknames. Eddie was The Destroyer after his Big Wheel head-on with the lamp
post, “D-man” since to everyone but his grand-mom.
“You’re not gonna move away, are you Lena?” What she loves about Pennsport, the first name basis.
“I hope not, Tina. Things are kind of up in the air.”
“You could live in our house. We have an extra room.”
“Oh baby, that’s so sweet. We’ll see what happens.”
“Father Stapleton says that Harry’s in heaven with Pope Paul and Larry Wilkerson.”
“Who?”
“The kid from 4th Street,” Eddie clues her. “He got leukemia.”
“Okay, you guys,” Sally sticks her head out. “Time for school.”
The kids bunch up in mumbles then break into a sprint as the bus pulls in.
“How you doin’ hon?”
“Better now, Sal. I slept a little. What’s the number?”
“648, I wasn’t in the ball park.”
“648? That’s my mother’s address!”
“You should call her.”
“She doesn’t play.”
Sally looks stricken. “How can she not play?”
The phone rings and Lena’s day begins, Rita and her mom pop over, the grannies visit after mass and the morning unwinds over coffee and condolences. Doorbell runs the old women ragged. Neighbors Lena knows by name and by sight, Harry’s boyhood pals, their City Council rep, assorted mummers and stevedores. Of all the rituals Harry managed to dodge this is one he wouldn’t have missed, old friends telling his story and paying their respects. By the time its over she’s run out of vases and the counters are layered in cakes and casseroles.
“Have you thought about what you’re going to do?” Sally asks as she loads the dishwasher.
“First, I have to see about Harry’s insurance and Social Security. God, I dread it.”
“I’ll help you. It seems like a lot but it’s pretty cut and dry.”
“It just makes it so final though, closing the book on all those years.”
“Just remember, you got friends, Lena. These people would do anything for you.”
“I know that, Sal. Sometimes it’s the only thing that keeps me going.”
Sally pecks Lena’s cheek and gives her hands a squeeze. “Okay then, let me get outa your hair. You need anything call me, yeah? Oh hey, street sweeper tomorrow. I’ll get Duffy to move your car.”
“I can get it. Duffy’s done enough.”
“Are you kidding? It’s the only exercise he gets.”
So goes about her day. What she never could imagine played out in hugs and Tupperware. Death marks her as something special. Lena’s seen it happen. In a world of survivors the widows move above the fray. Now that it’s official she feels strangely empty, nothing left but the money funk. All of it had her worried at first, but this was the lump that was hardest to swallow. If you live a lie, hearts can turn on a dime, Lena’s seen that happen too.
First thing tomorrow she’ll call in an ad to the Albany paper. She already got the number for the Catskill edition. By the week’s end Harry should get the message. On Sunday she’ll take a stroll to the market.
***
“Yes!” He pounds his fists on the table. The Albany Herald, St. Jude kudos for an answered prayer. The initials P. V. under heartfelt thanks as Harry’s worries circle the drain. He folds the paper and sets it aside. The buzz of Eva’s warms him and his heart swells with love for his fellow man, these kickers of shit with their gap teeth and cholesterol levels. Only yesterday he’d have switched shoes with any of them. Well, maybe not that one with the walker, but most of them. Good old boys without a clue!
“What can I getcha, luv?”
“The usual . . . No, make that steak and eggs, medium rare with home fries.”
“Special occasion?”
“Something like that. You believe in miracles, Libby?”
“Miracles? I don’t know. Seems like for every good thing that happens, something bad will be along.”
“Pretty cynical for a country girl.”
“Well, I’m Baptist. We got the jaundiced eye.”
Miracle, hell, this is just everything turning out like it’s supposed to. Not that that isn’t miraculous, but the way he set it up only something minor could go wrong. The major things are easier to keep track of, it’s the details that kick your ass. From the time Harry drew it up he was convinced the plan would work. Hard to recall what that felt like now, but he wouldn’t have done it if he wasn’t dead certain. No way, not in a million years, he’s pretty sure. But here in the first flush fortune it’s hard to recall how he felt about anything. The last few days in particular, the thing with Louise, Stevie’s wallet in his shoe, right where he put it, Casey snubbing him last night at the Pine Needle, Harry’s new life a mess already.
St. Jude, patron saint of hopeless causes, his mom’s lifelong last resort. Hard to believe the old man would back something like this, but then who really knows the score? No one, that’s who. The world is sick and twisted and nothing’s what it seems. This Stevie, who was he anyway? Could be Harry rid the world of a monster. Not that it’s likely, but anything’s possible.
A classified ad as prelude to the good years, Harry feels what it feels like when dreams come true. So good he can hardly stand it.
“Here you go,” Libby lays out his breakfast. Filet mignon it ain’t, but Harry digs in, chewing and humming along to the muzak. Scanning the front page, dum dee dum, right to lifers on a rampage, three dead in a row house fire, American businessman missing in Mexico.
“You okay handsome?” Libby waves a hand in front of his face.
“I, uh, have to . . .” Harry stuffs the paper under his arm and thumbs some money on the table.
“Hey, where you going? You didn’t touch your eggs.”
***
He reads it in the car, hands locked to the steering wheel, short and sketchy but with the ring of more to come. American authorities announce the disappearance of Phoenix software developer while vacationing in Puerto Vallarta. Sources say Steven Winslow checked out of a hotel in the seaside resort and hasn’t been seen since. Investigators tracking him through credit card receipts and airline reservations, reference similar unsolved Mexican mysteries. Front page, under the fold, but just barely.
Harry turns up the heater but it doesn’t stop the trembling. He stares at the trucks idling, the wet asphalt and grainy sky so real it could kill you. He tries to think of what to think, but the trembling blurs his brain and those birds swooping in over the lot. All of a sudden the Caddy feels conspicuous, sitting off by itself, running, driver trembling. He puts it in gear and exits the lot, in one end of town and out the other. Follows the curves up into the foothills, ugly houses, gutted vehicles. Crosses a bridge, makes a left back to Athens, the Stewart House, the side lot empty save for Yuri’s Civic. Harry slips in without being seen.
The evening news shows a picture of Stevie hunched over a little girl in a knit cap, wisps of blonde trailing in the wind. Then the daughter alone, a recent school portrait as the newscaster tunes in oozing concern. Harry listens to it all, the daughter’s illness, the risky transplant, the only donor presently missing. When it‘s over he shuffles to the bathroom and vomits into the sink.
He dials home, but wimps out at the final digit. Listens to the hum, pictures telephone lines stretching to South Philly, beefy detectives huddled in his kitchen. For years he’s felt Lena slipping away, that look she gets like his stock is slipping. How is it she’s stuck with him this long? Then the big question bobs to the surface, what would make her agree to it? Small stuff, sure, but cold blooded murder? You just can’t force that on someone.
“Mr. Watts?” Yuri raps at the door. “Will you be dining with us tonight?”
Harry doesn’t answer, stands braced at the sink, eyes wide and desperate. If she could see him she’d run screaming from the building. Truly disturbing with his shirttail hanging, his sweater splattered in bile, the thin slab of door all that s
tands between them.
“Mr. Watts?”
“Yes, Yuri.”
“I’m sorry to disturb you,” she sounds all out of whatever it takes. “I need to know if you’ll be having dinner here this evening.”
“I hadn’t thought about it. Is there a problem?’
Something catches in her throat. “It’s Kim. He never came back from the farmer’s market. I don’t think–”
“What time did he leave?”
“Early this morning.”
Harry opens the door and she falls to pieces.
“I never should have come here with him.”
“Hey, don’t. Here, come sit,” he leads her inside. “Take a deep breath, that’s it.”
“I don’t know why he’s so unhappy? I don’t know what more I can do?”
Harry gets the bottle and pours a stiff one.
“Drink this Yuri. It will help, I promise.”
She turns her head away. Harry throws it back and pours another.
“Try this one.”
Damned if she doesn’t, every drop without flinching. He sees her color slightly and the tension slips a notch.
“Better, am I right?”
“Thanks. I’m so sorry.” She really is lovely with those buggy eyes he goes for.
“Where’s the market? I’ll go find him.”
“No, thank you. I couldn’t ask you.”
“You didn’t. And I don’t mind, really,” Harry squats down next to her. “Listen, just tell the other guests that Kim’s sick. People get sick, it’s no big deal.”
The eyes go even buggier. “There are no other guests. There were two dinner reservations but I already cancelled them.”
“Then just sit tight. I’ll find him, don’t worry.”
“How can I thank you, Gerry?”
“Try to relax,” Harry counts the ways.
He takes the road to Cairo, humpbacked Catskills rolling to his right. The crash of events has him churned up, talking Yuri down, putting himself out like this. It’s what he needs, a different road to go down, someone else’s troubles as a distraction. He’s been so caught up in his own it’s like getting back in touch, the old Harry, solid type, a guy who goes out of his way for a pretty lady.