by Ed McBain
“I call them sunglasses, Mr. Staley,” Pedro said at last. “What else would I call them? Or is this some sort of trick question?”
Rafe the FedEx man, clearly more interested, took them from me. The relief of seeing him holding the sunglasses and looking at them, almost studying them, was like having someone scratch that exact place between your shoulder blades that itches. He stepped out from beneath the awning and held them up to the day, making a sun-star flash off each of the heart-shaped lenses.
“They’re like the ones the little girl wore in that porno movie with Jeremy Irons,” he said at last.
I had to grin in spite of my distress. In New York, even the deliverymen are film critics. It’s one of the things to love about the place.
“That’s right, Lolita,” I said, taking the glasses back. “Only the heart-shaped sunglasses were in the version Stanley Kubrick directed. Back when Jeremy Irons was still nothing but a putter.” That one hardly made sense (even to me), but I didn’t give Shit One. Once again I was feeling giddy … but not in a good way. Not this time.
“Who played the pervo in that one?” Rafe asked.
I shook my head. “I’ll be damned if I can remember right now.”
“If you don’t mind me saying,” Pedro said, “you look rather pale, Mr. Staley. Are you coming down with something? The flu, perhaps?”
No, that was my sister, I thought of saying. The day I came within about twenty seconds of getting caught masturbating into her panties while I looked at a picture of Miss April. But I hadn’t been caught. Not then, not on 9/11, either. Fooled ya, beat the clock again. I couldn’t speak for Warren Anderson, who told me in the Blarney Stone that he’d stopped on the third floor that morning to talk about the Yankees with a friend, but not getting caught had become quite a specialty of mine.
“I’m all right,” I told Pedro, and while that wasn’t true, knowing I wasn’t the only one who saw Sonja’s joke shades as a thing that actually existed in the world made me feel better, at least. If the sunglasses were in the world, probably Cleve Farrell’s Hillerich & Bradsby was, too.
“Are those the glasses?” Rafe suddenly asked in a respectful, ready-to-be-awestruck voice. “The ones from the first Lolita?”
“Nope,” I said, folding the bows behind the heart-shaped lenses, and as I did, the name of the girl in the Kubrick version of the film came to me: Sue Lyon. I still couldn’t remember who played the pervo. “Just a knock-off.”
“Is there something special about them?” Rafe asked. “Is that why you came rushing down here?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “Someone left them behind in my apartment.”
I went upstairs before they could ask any more questions and looked around, hoping there was nothing else. But there was. In addition to the sunglasses and the baseball bat with CLAIMS ADJUSTOR burned into the side, there was a Howie’s Laff-Riot Farting Cushion, a conch shell, a steel penny suspended in a Lucite cube, and a ceramic mushroom (red with white spots) that came with a ceramic Alice sitting on top of it. The Farting Cushion had belonged to Jimmy Eagleton and got a certain amount of play every year at the Christmas party. The ceramic Alice had been on Maureen Hannon’s desk—a gift from her granddaughter, she’d told me once. Maureen had the most beautiful white hair, which she wore long, to her waist. You rarely see that in a business situation, but she’d been with the company for almost forty years and felt she could wear her hair any way she liked. I remembered both the conch shell and the steel penny, but not in whose cubicles (or offices) they had been. It might come to me; it might not. There had been lots of cubicles (and offices) at Light and Bell, Insurers.
The shell, the mushroom, and the Lucite cube were on the coffee table in my living room, gathered in a neat pile. The Farting Cushion was—quite rightly, I thought—lying on top of my toilet tank, beside the current issue of Spenck’s Rural Insurance Newsletter. Rural insurance used to be my specialty, as I think I told you. I knew all the odds.
What were the odds on this?
When something goes wrong in your life and you need to talk about it, I think that the first impulse for most people is to call a family member. This wasn’t much of an option for me. My father put an egg in his shoe and beat it when I was two and my sister was four. My mother, no quitter she, hit the ground running and raised the two of us, managing a mail-order clearinghouse out of our home while she did so. I believe this was a business she actually created, and she made an adequate living at it (only the first year was really scary, she told me later). She smoked like a chimney, however, and died of lung cancer at the age of forty-eight, six or eight years before the Internet might have made her a dotcom millionaire.
My sister Peg was currently living in Cleveland, where she had embraced Mary Kay cosmetics, the Indians, and fundamentalist Christianity, not necessarily in that order. If I called and told Peg about the things I’d found in my apartment, she would suggest I get down on my knees and ask Jesus to come into my life. Rightly or wrongly, I did not feel Jesus could help me with my current problem.
I was equipped with the standard number of aunts, uncles, and cousins, but most lived west of the Mississippi, and I hadn’t seen any of them in years. The Killians (my mother’s side of the family) have never been a reuning bunch. A card on one’s birthday and at Christmas were considered sufficient to fulfill all familial obligations. A card on Valentine’s Day or at Easter was a bonus. I called my sister on Christmas or she called me, we muttered the standard crap about getting together “sometime soon,” and hung up with what I imagine was mutual relief.
The next option when in trouble would probably be to invite a good friend out for a drink, explain the situation, and then ask for advice. But I was a shy boy who grew into a shy man, and in my current research job I work alone (out of preference) and thus have no colleagues apt to mature into friends. I made a few in my last job—Sonja and Cleve Farrell, to name two—but they’re dead, of course.
I reasoned that if you don’t have a friend you can talk to, the next-best thing would be to rent one. I could certainly afford a little therapy, and it seemed to me that a few sessions on some psychiatrist’s couch (four might do the trick) would be enough for me to explain what had happened and to articulate how it made me feel. How much could four sessions set me back? Six hundred dollars? Maybe eight? That seemed a fair price for a little relief. And I thought there might be a bonus. A disinterested outsider might be able to see some simple and reasonable explanation I was just missing. To my mind the locked door between my apartment and the outside world seemed to do away with most of those, but it was my mind, after all; wasn’t that the point? And perhaps the problem?
I had it all mapped out. During the first session I’d explain what had happened. When I came to the second one, I’d bring the items in question—sunglasses, Lucite cube, conch shell, baseball bat, ceramic mushroom, the ever-popular Farting Cushion. A little show and tell, just like in grammar school. That left two more during which my rent-a-pal and I could figure out the cause of this disturbing tilt in the axis of my life and set things straight again.
A single afternoon spent riffling the Yellow Pages and dialing the telephone was enough to prove to me that the idea of psychiatry was unworkable in fact, no matter how good it might be in theory. The closest I came to an actual appointment was a receptionist who told me that Dr. Jauss might be able to work me in the following January. She intimated even that would take some inspired shoehorning. The others held out no hope whatsoever. I tried half a dozen therapists in Newark and four in White Plains, even a hypnotist in Queens, with the same result. Mohammed Atta and his Suicide Patrol might have been very bery-bery bad for the city of New York (not to mention for the in-SHOO-rance business), but it was clear to me from that single fruitless afternoon on the telephone that they had been a boon to the psychiatric profession, much as the psychiatrists themselves might wish otherwise. If you wanted to lie on some professional’s couch in the summer of 2002, you had to take a
number and wait in line.
I could sleep with those things in my apartment, but not well. They whispered to me. I lay awake in my bed, sometimes until two, thinking about Maureen Hannon, who felt she had reached an age (not to mention a level of indispensability) at which she could wear her amazingly long hair any way she damn well liked. Or I’d recall the various people who’d gone running around at the Christmas party, waving Jimmy Eagleton’s famous Farting Cushion. It was, as I may have said, a great favorite once people got two or three drinks closer to New Year’s. I remembered Bruce Mason asking me if it didn’t look like an enema bag for elfs—“elfs,” he said—and by a process of association remembered that the conch shell had been his. Of course. Bruce Mason, Lord of the Flies. And a step further down the associative food chain I found the name and face of James Mason, who had played Humbert Humbert back when Jeremy Irons was still just a putter. The mind is a wily monkey; sometime him take-a de banana, sometime him don’t. Which is why I’d brought the sunglasses downstairs, although I’d been aware of no deductive process at the time. I’d only wanted confirmation. There’s a George Seferis poem that asks, Are these the voices of our dead friends, or is it just the gramophone? Sometimes it’s a good question, one you have to ask someone else. Or … listen to this.
Once, in the late eighties, near the end of a bitter two-year romance with alcohol, I woke up in my study after dozing off at my desk in the middle of the night. I staggered off to my bedroom, where, as I reached for the light switch, I saw someone moving around. I flashed on the idea (the near certainty) of a junkie burglar with a cheap pawnshop .32 in his trembling hand, and my heart almost came out of my chest. I turned on the light with one hand and was grabbing for something heavy off the top of my bureau with the other—anything, even the silver frame holding the picture of my mother, would have done—when I saw the prowler was me. I was staring wild-eyed back at myself from the mirror on the other side of the room, my shirt half-untucked and my hair standing up in the back. I was disgusted with myself, but I was also relieved.
I wanted this to be like that. I wanted it to be the mirror, the gramophone, even someone playing a nasty practical joke (maybe someone who knew why I hadn’t been at the office on that day in September). But I knew it was none of those things. The Farting Cushion was there, an actual guest in my apartment. I could run my thumb over the buckles on Alice’s ceramic shoes, slide my finger down the part in her yellow ceramic hair. I could read the date on the penny inside the Lucite cube.
Bruce Mason, alias Conch Man, alias Lord of the Flies, took his big pink shell to the company shindig at Jones Beach one July and blew it, summoning people to a jolly picnic lunch of hotdogs and hamburgers. Then he tried to show Freddy Lounds how to do it. The best Freddy had been able to muster was a series of weak honking sounds like … well, like Jimmy Eagleton’s Farting Cushion. Around and around it goes. Ultimately, every associative chain forms a necklace.
In late September I had a brainstorm, one of those ideas so simple you can’t believe you didn’t think of it sooner. Why was I holding onto this unwelcome crap, anyway? Why not just get rid of it? It wasn’t as if the items were in trust; the people who owned them weren’t going to come back at some later date and ask for them to be returned. The last time I’d seen Cleve Farrell’s face it had been on a poster, and the last of those had been torn down by November of ’01. The general (if unspoken) feeling was that such homemade homages were bumming out the tourists, who’d begun to creep back to Fun City. What had happened was horrible, most New Yorkers opined, but America was still here and Matthew Broderick would only be in The Producers for so long.
I’d gotten Chinese that night, from a place I like two blocks over. My plan was to eat it as I usually ate my evening meal, watching Chuck Scarborough explain the world to me. I was turning on the television when the epiphany came. They weren’t in trust, these unwelcome souvenirs of the last safe day, nor were they evidence. There had been a crime, yes—everyone agreed to that—but the perpetrators were dead and the ones who’d set them on their crazy course were on the run. There might be trials at some future date, but Scott Staley would never be called to the stand, and Jimmy Eagleton’s Farting Cushion would never be marked Exhibit A.
I left my General Tso’s chicken sitting on the kitchen counter with the cover still on the aluminum dish, got a laundry bag from the shelf above my seldom-used washing machine, put the things into it (sacking them up, I couldn’t believe how light they were, or how long I’d waited to do such a simple thing), and rode down in the elevator with the bag sitting between my feet. I walked to the corner of 75th and Park, looked around to make sure I wasn’t being watched (God knows why I felt so furtive, but I did), then put litter in its place. I took one look back over my shoulder as I walked away. The handle of the bat poked out of the basket invitingly. Someone would come along and take it, I had no doubt. Probably before Chuck Scarborough gave way to John Seigenthaler or whoever else was sitting in for Tom Brokaw that evening.
On my way back to my apartment, I stopped at Fun Choy for a fresh order of General Tso’s. “Last one no good?” asked Rose Ming, at the cash register. She spoke with some concern. “You tell why.”
“No, the last one was fine,” I said. “Tonight I just felt like two.”
She laughed as though this were the funniest thing she’d ever heard, and I laughed, too. Hard. The kind of laughter that goes well beyond giddy. I couldn’t remember the last time I’d laughed like that, so loudly and so naturally. Certainly not since Light and Bell, Insurers, fell into West Street.
I rode the elevator up to my floor and walked the twelve steps to 4-B. I felt the way seriously ill people must when they awaken one day, assess themselves by the sane light of morning, and discover that the fever has broken. I tucked my takeout bag under my left arm (an awkward maneuver but workable in the short run) and then unlocked my door. I turned on the light. There, on the table where I leave bills that need to be paid, claim checks, and overdue-book notices, were Sonja D‘Amico’s joke sunglasses, the ones with the red frames and the heart-shaped Lolita lenses. Sonja D’Amico who had, according to Warren Anderson (who was, so far as I knew, the only other surviving employee of Light and Bell’s home office), jumped from the one hundred and tenth floor of the stricken building.
He claimed to have seen a photo that caught her as she dropped, Sonja with her hands placed primly on her skirt to keep it from skating up her thighs, her hair standing up against the smoke and blue of that day’s sky, the tips of her shoes pointed down. The description made me think of “Falling,” the poem James Dickey wrote about the stewardess who tries to aim the plummeting stone of her body for water, as if she could come up smiling, shaking beads of water from her hair and asking for a Coca-Cola.
“I vomited,” Warren told me that day in the Blarney Stone. “I never want to look at a picture like that again, Scott, but I know I’ll never forget it. You could see her face, and I think she believed that somehow … yeah, that somehow she was going to be all right.”
I’ve never screamed as an adult, but I almost did so when I looked from Sonja’s sunglasses to Cleve Farrell’s CLAIMS ADJUSTOR, the latter once more leaning nonchalantly in the corner by the entry to the living room. Some part of my mind must have remembered that the door to the hallway was open and both of my fourth-floor neighbors would hear me if I did scream; then, as the saying is, I would have some splainin to do.
I clapped my hand over my mouth to hold it in. The bag with the General Tso’s chicken inside fell to the hardwood floor of the foyer and split open. I could barely bring myself to look at the resulting mess. Those dark chunks of cooked meat could have been anything.
I plopped into the single chair I keep in the foyer and put my face in my hands. I didn’t scream and I didn’t cry, and after a while I was able to clean up the mess. My mind kept trying to go toward the things that had beaten me back from the corner of 75th and Park, but I wouldn’t let it. Each time it tried to lun
ge in that direction, I grabbed its leash and forced it away again.
That night, lying in bed, I listened to conversations. First the things talked (in low voices), and then the people who had owned the things replied (in slightly louder ones). Sometimes they talked about the picnic at Jones Beach—the coconut odor of suntan lotion and Lou Bega singing “Mambo No. 5” over and over from Misha Bryzinski’s boom box. Or they talked about Frisbees sailing under the sky while dogs chased them. Sometimes they discussed children puddling along the wet sand with the seats of their shorts and their bathing suits sagging. Mothers in swimsuits ordered from the Lands’ End catalogue walking beside them with white gloop on their noses. How many of the kids that day had lost a guardian Mom or a Frisbee-throwing Dad? Man, that was a math problem I didn’t want to do. But the voices I heard in my apartment did want to do it. They did it over and over.
I remembered Bruce Mason blowing his conch shell and proclaiming himself the Lord of the Flies. I remembered Maureen Hannon once telling me (not at Jones Beach, not this conversation) that Alice in Wonderland was the first psychedelic novel. Jimmy Eagleton telling me one afternoon that his son had a learning disability to go along with his stutter, two for the price of one, and the kid was going to need a tutor in math and another one in French if he was going to get out of high school in the foreseeable future. “Before he’s eligible for the AARP discount on textbooks” was how Jimmy had put it. His cheeks pale and a bit stubbly in the long afternoon light, as if that morning the razor had been dull.
I’d been drifting toward sleep, but this last one brought me fully awake again with a start, because I realized the conversation must have taken place not long before September Eleventh. Maybe only days. Perhaps even the Friday before, which would make it the last day I’d ever seen Jimmy alive. And the l’il putter with the stutter and the learning disability: had his name actually been Jeremy, as in Jeremy Irons? Surely not, surely that was just my mind (sometime him take-a de banana) playing its little games, but it had been close to that, by God. Jason, maybe. Or Justin. In the wee hours everything grows, and I remember thinking that if the kid’s name did turn out to be Jeremy, I’d probably go crazy. Straw that broke the camel’s back, baby.