A Fine and Private Place

by Peter S. Beagle

  "Believe me," Mrs. Klapper said, "he'll know I don't forget." She looked around. "Is there a place you could sit down? My feet are coming off."

  "I've only the steps to offer," Mr. Rebeck said. "They're pretty clean."

  Mrs. Klapper looked at them. She shrugged. "Clean, unclean," she said, "here comes Klapper." She plumped easily down on the top step and let out a gusty sigh. "Vey," she said, "my feet were absolutely coming off." She smiled warmly at Mr. Rebeck.

  "I'm a little tired myself," Mr. Rebeck said. He felt himself blushing. "I live a long way from here."

  "I'll be damned," said Michael, squatting next to Mrs. Klapper. "You've got blood left."

  Mrs. Klapper patted the space at her side. "So sit. What are you, a boy athlete? At your age, a man should sit down anywhere he feels like it."

  "Thank you," Mr. Rebeck said. He sat gingerly next to her, suddenly wondering, At my age? Do I look that old? How old does she think I am? He wanted to stand up again, but he felt himself committed.

  They sat silently for a while. Mrs. Klapper had slipped off one of her shoes and was sighing softly and contentedly. Mr. Rebeck wanted to say something to her, but he couldn't think of a thing. It made him angry with himself.

  Suddenly a scream like Hell's star tenor on a good day rang and burst inside his head. He leaped to his feet with a cry of real physical pain and looked wildly around him for the scream's source.

  Mrs. Klapper remained seated, but she slipped her shoe back on and looked at him in some alarm. "You feel all right?" she asked.

  "I h-heard something," Mr. Rebeck stammered, "a scream . . . ."

  "Funny." Mrs. Klapper stood up too. "I didn't hear a thing."

  "I heard a scream," Mr. Rebeck said, and then he saw Michael, sitting cross-legged, shuddering with silent laughter. "Michael!" he said before he thought.

  Michael opened his mouth and pointed down blackness into his throat. "Testing," he said. "Just testing. I wanted to see if you were on the job."

  "Who?" Mrs. Klapper's brows drew together, as if for protection.

  Mr. Rebeck wiped his forehead. "I'm sorry," he said softly. "I'm awfully sorry. I thought I heard someone."

  He expected Mrs. Klapper to break into either laughter or full retreat. Instead, he saw her face relax into understanding. "Your friend, huh?" she asked.

  "I beg your pardon?" said Mr. Rebeck, thinking in cold-bellied terror, Does she see Michael?

  "Your friend," said Mrs. Klapper, pointing at the mausoleum. "The one buried in there."

  "Oh," said Mr. Rebeck. He thought quickly. "Yes. Michael Wilder. Very old friend. It hit me very hard when he died." Mrs. Klapper was nodding steadily. He went on, "Every now and then I'm sure I hear him calling me."

  "Nice," said Michael. "Very nice," After a moment he added, "I'm sorry I did that."

  "I guess it sounds a little crazy," Mr. Rebeck added.

  Mrs. Klapper sat down on the steps again. "Listen," she said firmly, "half the world is crazy that way." She paused. "Me too," she said finally.

  Mr. Rebeck sat next to her. "Your husband?"

  "Uh-huh," said Mrs. Klapper. "Morris. A lot of times I hear him calling, 'Gertrude, Gertrude,' like he'd lost his key again, or he couldn't find the light switch in the bathroom. A year and two months and I still hear him."

  "I guess that must happen to a lot of people," Mr. Rebeck said. "You don't want to believe somebody's really dead."

  "No," Mrs. Klapper answered. "For me it's different. Maybe for other people it's like that." She nibbled the tip of one black-gloved forefinger, a trait, Mr. Rebeck thought, that he would never have associated with her.

  "Morris died funny, you know," she said slowly. Mr. Rebeck said nothing. "We've got a nice apartment—a terrace with a little garden. We rented it, the agent said, 'Look, you got a nice little terrace, you can have dinner on it.' So we had dinner on it, except when it was cold. Anyway, that time we're eating dinner, and I see Morris doesn't look so good. So I say, 'Morris, you don't look so good. You want to go inside and lie down?' And he says, 'No, Gertrude, finish the meal, it shouldn't be a total loss.' I say, 'Okay, Morris, if you feel okay,' and I dish him some corn. Green Giant—on the cob Morris doesn't like it. It gets in his teeth."

  "You don't have to tell me this," Mr. Rebeck said. "You don't even know me."

  "Gallant," said Michael. "Sneaky, but gallant."

  "Excuse me," Mrs. Klapper said. "I want to tell you. It's a relief, and I don't feel so much like I'll bust any more, and besides I won't be seeing you again, anyway." Mr. Rebeck knew this was true, and it made him oddly sad.

  "So Morris finishes the corn, and I say, 'Morris, you want some more corn?' and he opens his mouth to say something and boom!" Mr. Rebeck jumped. "Right over the back of his chair he falls." Mrs. Klapper swept her arm in a wide semicircle.

  "You know what I do then?"

  Mr. Rebeck shook his head silently.

  "I yell," Mrs. Klapper said bitterly. "I sit there in my chair and I yell. I spent five minutes maybe of Morris's life yelling. Then what do I do?" She swept her arm around again. "Boom! Out like a light."

  She looked down at her lap. Mr. Rebeck noticed with a strange objectivity that a seam had opened on her right glove.

  "Maybe he wakes up," she said in a low voice, "and calls me, 'Gertrude, Gertrude.' He was always losing the key to the apartment. Maybe he lies there calling me, and I don't hear him."

  "Don't say that," Mr. Rebeck urged. "You can't possibly know."

  "You know what I did for two days after that?" Mrs. Klapper asked. "I went around saying, 'Morris, you want some more corn? Morris, you want some more corn? Morris, you want some more corn?' Like a Victrola and the needle got stuck. Two days. They had a nurse living in the house. She slept in the living room."

  She fell silent, unweeping, staring straight ahead. Michael didn't want to say anything. Mr. Rebeck did.

  Presently she turned her head and looked at Mr. Rebeck. Her mouth twitched a little at the corners.

  "They say Kaddish for Morris every Sabbath," she said, "over at Beth David. After I'm dead they'll be saying Kaddish for him. Every Sabbath until the sky falls." She leaned toward Mr. Rebeck, her breath warm and not unpleasantly sharp. "You think I'd forget Morris? You think I'd forget?"

  "No," Mr. Rebeck said. "I don't think you would."

  She leaned back, smoothing her black dress over her knees. Mr. Rebeck stared hard at the word WILDER over the mausoleum entrance until it blurred and flowed before his eyes. All I can think of to say, he thought, is "I like you," and that seems silly. Not to say inappropriate.

  Presently Mrs. Klapper began to laugh softly. She laughs like a river, Mr. Rebeck thought, listening to the slow, rolling chuckle. She looked up at him.

  "The nurse dyed her hair," she said, punctuating the words with laughter. "And she dyed it so lousily. Different patches black, red, and sort of brownish-blond. She looked like a box of crayons."

  They laughed together then, the three of them, Mr. Rebeck's laughter high and chortling; Mrs. Klapper's rich; Michael's dark and silent.

  "You think I'm terrible, laughing like this?" Mrs. Klapper asked finally.

  "No," Mr. Rebeck said. "No, I don't. You should see how much better you look now."

  He hadn't meant that exactly the way it sounded, and he began to amend it, but Mrs. Klapper smiled.

  "You have to laugh," she said. "Sooner or later, you have to laugh. How long can you cry?"

  "Years," said Michael. Mrs. Klapper shook her head, as if she had heard him. "Sooner or later," she said, "you have to laugh."

  She looked at a small gold wrist watch and got up quickly. "I have to go," she said. "My sister's bringing her daughter over for dinner. A little kid she is, my niece, a first-grader. Beautiful." She stretched the word until it twanged. "I better go make dinner."

  "I'm going that way myself," Mr. Rebeck said a little timidly.

  Mrs. Klapper laughed. "You don't even know which way I'm going." />
  "Lecherous old man," Michael said. "Control the clammy hands, Tarquin."

  Mr. Rebeck felt himself flushing again. He took a wild shot. "The entrance near the subway," he said quickly. There had to be an entrance near a subway. Cemeteries were built like that.

  Mrs. Klapper looked at him in surprise. "How did you know?"

  "Well, it's the way you're going. There isn't any other entrance that way." Please God there isn't.

  Mrs. Klapper nodded. She took a few steps away, stopped, and looked back at him. "So if you're coming," she said, "come."

  His mood compounded of equal parts of fright and exhilaration, Mr. Rebeck got to his feet. He looked over at Michael a little appealingly.

  "Don't let me stop you," Michael said. "Go dance your life away. Toil not, nor neither spin. I shall sit here and meditate." He waved a hand in the direction of Mrs. Klapper. "Just vanish. I always do."

  So Mr. Rebeck took a few steps and found himself at Mrs. Klapper's side.

  Michael watched them walk off down the winding path that led to Central Avenue. He felt a little sorry for Mrs. Klapper, sorrier for Mr. Rebeck, and sorriest of all for himself. Immersed in this feeling, he wandered contentedly around the little clearing, soaking in the feeling through what he remembered of his pores, letting himself become logy with sorrow.

  A small blackhead erupted in the noon sky. Michael watched it spiral down toward him with a certain lazy interest, until, against the withered sun, he recognized the raven. He had grown used to the bird's regular visits and he enjoyed talking to him. The raven's mocking humor reminded him vaguely of a man whose name he no longer remembered, but with whom he had played cards.

  The raven made two gliding passes at the clearing, missed both times, and finally let himself drop ungracefully to the grass. "Damn place ought to have a runway," he grumbled. He carried a small precooked beef tongue in his claws.

  "Salutations, bird," Michael hailed him.

  The raven ignored him. "Where's Rebeck?"

  "Our mutual friend," Michael said, "has gone off with a lady."

  "I thought that was him," the raven said. He dropped the beef tongue on the grass. "Tell him I'll bring some milk tonight, if I can get it." He peered at Michael. "What's biting you?"

  "I'm desolate," Michael said, "and so should you be. We've been deserted. You're flesh and I'm air, but we are now united in mutual grief, maudlin sorrow, Weltschmerz, and bloody damn lonesomeness. I hail you again, winged and lonesome brother."

  "Speak for yourself," the raven answered amiably. "I've had my breakfast."

  Mr. Rebeck and Mrs. Klapper walked along the road, past the frozen fountains of the willow trees, and Mrs. Klapper talked about the place where she lived, and about the old woman who sat in front of her house on warm days, and about her niece, who was beautiful, and her butcher, who gave you bad meat unless you were a friend of his, and about her husband, who had died. They stopped sometimes to look at the high, empty houses and to admire the angels and children that watched over them, and the swords and sphinxes that guarded them. Then they walked on again, and Mr. Rebeck spoke once in a while, but for the most part he listened to Mrs. Klapper and took pleasure in her words.

  He wondered why this should be, why the things this woman was saying should delight him so, particularly when he barely understood them. He knew very well that the great majority of human conversation is meaningless. A man can get through most of his days on stock answers to stock questions, he thought. Once he catches onto the game, he can manage with an assortment of grunts. This would not be so if people listened to each other, but they don't. They know that no one is going to say anything moving and important to them at that very moment. Anything important will be announced in the newspapers and reprinted for those who missed it. No one really wants to know how his neighbor is feeling, but he asks him anyway, because it is polite, and because he knows that his neighbor certainly will not tell him how he feels. What this woman and I say to each other is not important. It is the simple making of sounds that pleases us.

  Mrs. Klapper was talking about a little boy who lived on her block. "Eleven years old," she said, "and every time I meet him with his mother, he's written a new poem. And always she says to him, 'Herbie, tell Mrs. Klapper your new poem.' She hits him until he says the poem. Eleven years old he is, last March."

  "Are the poems any good?" Mr. Rebeck asked.

  "What do I know from poems, I should give an opinion? They're all about death and burying people, always. This from a boy eleven years old. I feel like telling her, 'Look, keep him away from me with the obituary column. He writes a poem about a bird, about a dog, bring him around.' But I never tell her. Why should I hurt the boy's feelings? I see them coming, I cross the street."

  She said, "Look, here we are already," and Mr. Rebeck looked up to see the black gate.

  The gate was of cast iron, set into turreted pillars of sand-colored concrete. Dark green ivy covered it, twined a little thicker than ivy generally grows, and cast-iron snakes with patient eyes pushed their resigned way through the ivy. It was topped with a row of blunt spikes, and it stood open. Mr. Rebeck could see the street outside.

  "Here we are already," Mrs. Klapper marveled. "Such a short walk when you're talking to someone."

  "Yes," Mr. Rebeck said.

  The gate had held up well over nineteen years, he thought, much better than he himself had. The black paint had cracked in several places, and the rusted metal showed through. But it was a strong gate still. He had shaken it one night and rasped his hands on the mouths of rust, but the bars had not shivered, nor the lock rattled. That had been—how long ago? Twelve years, fifteen. All he remembered was that he had wanted to get out of the cemetery, and the gate had been locked, because it was late at night. He had shaken at the gate all night long, and cut his hands badly. But when the morning came, and the gate was opened, he did not go out. He hid in the lavatory and ran cold water on his bleeding hands. Then he went back to his mausoleum and slept.

  "Well," Mrs. Klapper said. "You take the subway?"

  He mumbled something affirmative, thinking, I should never have come with her. How can I tell her that I cannot pass the gate, that I live in this place? She would not believe me. She would think I was joking, or mad. I made a mistake when I asked to walk with her. I don't know why I did it.

  "So come on," Mrs. Klapper said. She tapped her foot and smiled at him. "What are you waiting for? The subway should come to you?"

  Yes. That would be a fine idea. If it did, I would get on it. We would go underground, and I would never see the gate, or know that I had left the cemetery until we climbed up a flight of stairs cut out of the ground, and people were all around us. I could manage that, if the subway came to me. And if I were with someone.

  Looking at his thin wrist, he had an idea. He crooked his left arm in front of him and said, "Why, I've lost my watch."

  "What's this?" Mrs. Klapper asked. "You lost something?"

  "My wrist watch." He tried to smile ruefully, but only one corner of his mouth moved, and that twitched like something cut and in pain. "I know I had it on when I came in, and now it's gone. I must have dropped it somewhere."

  Mrs. Klapper was properly sympathetic. "What a thing to happen. Was it very valuable, your watch?"

  "No," he said, determined not to make this too much of a lie. "But I've had it a long time, and I was very fond of it. It kept good time."

  "Tell the man there," Mrs. Klapper suggested, pointing toward the caretaker's office. "Give him your address, he'll let you know when he finds it."

  Mr. Rebeck shook his had. "I'd better go back and look for it. Somebody might pick it up. Or it might rain."

  "Ai, you'll go hunting all over the cemetery, it'll take hours. You'll break your back. You want I should come with you?"

  Say no. Say no, or you'll have to lie to her again. And you're a terrible liar, and nineteen years out of practice.

  "Don't bother," he said. "It's not worth it
. I think I know where I dropped it. It's a very long walk."

  "Well, I hope you find it," Mrs. Klapper said. "Get the man to help you if you can't find it by yourself."

  They shook hands.

  "It was very nice talking to you," Mr. Rebeck said. "I'm sorry we can't continue it."

  Mrs. Klapper shrugged. "So maybe we'll meet again. You come around here a lot?"

  "Yes. I like walking here."

  "Me too. Anyway, I come to see Morris sometimes. So maybe we'll run into each other."

  "Maybe," Mr. Rebeck said. "Good-by."

  "Good-by. I hope you find your watch."

  He did not wait to see her walk away. Instead, he turned quickly from her and walked back up the wide road, looking at the ground as a man would if he had lost something small and valued. Only when he reached the top of the hill did he turn and look back. She was gone by then.

  I hate lying and saying good-by, he thought, because I am not very good at either.

  Chapter 4

  The three people who had not left the cemetery stood over the grave. One of the men was less paunchy than the other. The woman's nails were broad and curved, the color of old milk.

  "She was such a good girl," the woman said hoarsely. The men nodded.

  "Not exactly," said Laura Durand. She sat on the grass next to Michael and looked at the three people. "I was just tired."

  " 'Good' is the only word for her," said the younger man. He had a clear, precise voice. "The only word that really fitted her."

  "All my life," said Laura, nodding.

  "So young," the woman said. She swayed a little, and the old man put his arm around her.

  "I was twenty-nine," Laura said, "pushing fifty. I told people I was thirty-three because it saved questions about why I liked books."

  "And so pretty," the younger man said in his typewriter voice. "So alive, so vital."

  "Oh, Gary," Laura murmured a little sadly. She turned to Michael. "I looked like an elementary-school teacher."

  Gary patted the woman on the shoulder a good deal and craned his neck to look at his wrist watch.

  "He wants to go back to the bookstore," Laura explained. "He gets nervous if he's away from it too long. Two years ago he had appendicitis, and they operated right on the Social Sciences counter."