Mrs. Rahlo's Closet and Other Mad Tales

by R. E. Klein

  She who was yours, but is now another’s,

  Angelica

  The next years I spent between the leaves of scholarly books or in compiling lecture notes. I was a professor now of statistical analysis, and published articles in learned journals, with now and then a textbook that few cared to read. Oh, the girls still ran in my thoughts, the girls and the games. The likeliest partners were my students, but I learned a lesson early on. Girls involved in statistical analysis seldom take an interest in Dogdance.

  I am well into middle age; the once fertile scalp that sometime sprouted bumper crops is shiny now and fallow. My eyebrows are become a profusion of grotesque wires. My stomach bulges convex. I am lost without my reading glasses. Yet I am happy without let or measure, for I at last have found her.

  It happened six years ago on campus. The students had got up some sort of festival in honor of Cinco de Mayo. To avoid the off-key trumpets and crack of castanets, I found myself dodging among some seldom-used maintenance buildings, trying to hold on to my cap and gown while I sought escape from what I considered an intrusion on academic hospitality.

  I came upon her suddenly, provocatively poised by the drinking fountain, proud as a conquistador, a beauty by any standards. She had her dress pulled high to adjust her stocking. And as I nearly swooned at the wonder of it, our eyes took hold, and her dress remained high. Of course, with no one else about, I was instantly on my knees, chewing at her garter strap. After a lifelong search, this is how I met my wife, my bondage of bliss and unalloyed rapture.

  And she, what was it she said on that brightest of May mornings so long ago? Merely this:

  “I am Estrelita—want to play Cowpants?”

  The Fish in Salmon Lake

  H arold Bahr, the great, great detective, have many exciting cases—like time he prove killer dress up like octopus. But everybody know that one. I tell you now of different crime, that happen few years ago when I and Harold rooming together in small flat in city. I working then in fish cannery to pay for rent and food. Harold Bahr go out every day to look for cases. He not known then.

  One night after dinner Harold Bahr and Punky Kim—very handsome Korean man who is telling story—talk together in sitting room. Harold Bahr wearing orange bathrobe and sitting in morris chair, white skinny legs propped up on stool. Floor lamp shining off bald bullet head. I seated on sofa facing him.

  “Punky,” Harold Bahr say in high, rusty voice, “days have burst like clay pots since I last found a crime to solve.”

  “You silly man,” I tell him. “Crimes happen every day. You look in paper.”

  “Yes, Punky,” he say sadly. “But they aren’t my crimes; they are the paper’s crimes, contaminated by police and publicity. No, I want my own crimes—to share with nobody!” Here he clash fist into open palm.

  “Not get excited,” I tell him. “You get excited you do crazy things. Here, I take up magazine and read soothingly to you.” I pick up periodical I buy few hours before, called Magazine of New Poetry.

  “The problem is,” he continue, “just what constitutes a crime? Why, one may be happening right now in this room, a crime of which I am unaware!” He look wildly at furniture and ceiling, so to cool his brain I open magazine and read poem to him.

  “Dead anchor, scaled with flaking rust,

  Insults the tar-roughed planking

  With a stain of orange

  And crushes with appalling weight.

  “Wood railing, fever-blistered, worn,

  But finely fenced with salted nets,

  Conforms the soul into a space

  Of fish parts, bones, and broken shells.

  “Harsh seagull scream of rope and winch

  As metal grates on metal: Lo!

  A boat strains at the cruel knot

  With torment of a tethered thing.

  “A Voice aloft now cries with rapture,

  Not the boat but now the gull’s cry;

  Occult skylark in the sunlight,

  The sparkle blinds with diamonds of light.

  “Fear not now to strike with might.

  Crack the anchor.

  Burst the rail.

  Sever the rope with upward thrust.

  “And plunge into the emerald light.

  Swim far and free into the arching waves.

  Fear not the sharks that bear thee to thy doom;

  They can but bite the flesh and crack the bone.

  “After a while, thou wilt be free.”

  “Hey,” I say. “What you think? That one called ‘Pier.’ You like it?”

  “Crimes are a virus obscene, invisible save to microscopy, but killing, killing. They are the unseen rays that produce cancer from sunlight, invisible to those lacking the prism to break them apart. I am both microscope and prism. I am a detective. Read me that poem again.”

  I read. When I finish he lick lips and purr to self. I not then familiar with his moods and afraid he fancy himself cat. But, no. He merely happy.

  “There,” he say, “is my crime.”

  I get very angry ’cause I think he have crazy spell and waste his mind.

  “No, Punky,” Harold Bahr say. “I mean it. Here we have a crime right over our rug. That poem reeks with implied criminality.”

  I feel face pucker. “Why you get crazy so often?” I yell. I throw periodical down on tufted carpet.

  “Quickly,” he say, “tell me who the poet is.” I pick periodical up again and leaf through.

  “Name,” I say, “is Marc Lamprey.”

  “A fish name,” Harold remark.

  “Magazine say he reside at Salmon Lake in Namton.”

  “More fish,” Harold say. He scratch eyebrow. “Namton. Where is Namton?” I dash to gazetteer.

  “Namton in mountains, maybe three hundred mile from here. Salmon Lake summer resort.”

  “When was that magazine published?”

  “It just come out.”

  “And that poem—‘Pier’—had it a previous publication?”

  “No, it say here that all poems first time published.”

  “Ah,” he say. “Ah, ah, ah. It may be an old poem. Or it may still be fresh.” Here he bob back and forth in chair, and say, “ah” many more time.

  “Why you do that?” I ask. “Why you do like this?” I bob in sofa, and say, “Ah, ah, ah,” to shame him.

  But he not shamed. He continue to move in chair, and say, “Ah, ah, ah,” till I pinch arm to make him stop.

  Suddenly blue eyes grow very clear; he look me straight in face.

  “An uncontaminated crime,” he say softly, “and all of it mine. Better perhaps than that.”

  “What,” I demand, “more better than ‘uncontaminated’ crime?”

  “An uncommitted one,” he say.

  • • •

  Namton is rocky-woodsy land high up on mountain. Great big mountain it is, full of dripping pine and, as Harold Bahr say, choked with foliage. It next day now, and we drive long distance in Toyota. Punky Kim always drive. One time only, when Harold and I going somewhere, he ask to sit behind wheel. I say okay. He drive well enough till he see potbellied man on motorcycle. Then Harold stand way up in seat, and scream, “Jebusite!” and chase motorcycle man all over highway, all the time pretending to be avenging angel of death. That time I stop car and hide engine key till motorcycle man drive away. Now I do all driving.

  Very pretty is way to Namton. Very pretty mountain. Nice winding road. Harold Bahr ask to drive. I tell him no, and he not talk to me all the way up. He just sit low in seat and close eyes. Sometimes he mutter, “Namton-Bampton, sudda-budda-bee.” I figure he in training to talk to poet, so I say nothing and listen to glass harmonica music on radio. I think his cracked brain is taking us on goose’s run, that nobody going to commit any crime. Still, we stay at lodge maybe two, three days, have good vacation.

  At last we arrive at great big lodge. Plenty parking spaces in front, but only two cars parked. No people outside.

  I go knock on door,
while Harold Bahr sit on car bumper and tie shoe.

  Pretty blond girl open door. She wear shorts and have legs. Harold Bahr finish tying shoe, and he, too, go up to door.

  “I am Harold Bahr,” he say. “This is Mr. Kim. We’d like a couple of rooms.”

  Pretty girl say she is Alice Thyne. She take us inside and we pay money and sign register. Girl very happy we are here.

  “I’m very happy you are here,” she say. “We don’t get much custom, since the lake dried up.”

  “You lost your lake?” Harold ask.

  “And the ducks and the hunters, and most of our revenue. I’ll show you your rooms. We take our meals in common over there in the dining room. Dinner is at seven.”

  Legs take Harold Bahr and Punky Kim upstairs to long hallway. Hallway not empty like downstairs, no. Creepy old lady sitting on padded chair near top of stairs. Big, creepy old lady with big walking cane that end in three little sticks like camera tripod. She look up from book she is reading.

  “Good afternoon, Mrs. Bash,” Leggy Alice say.

  “Has Mr. Lamprey left his room?” say Mrs. Bash in old lady voice.

  “I wouldn’t know,” reply Alice in tone that remind me of frozen tuna. Then Harold Bahr and Punky Kim go to connecting rooms. Door between is open, and we talk as we unpack.

  “Punky,” say Harold after he flop on bed and take up “Pier” poem. “I think we are fortunately in time to prevent a murder—or it may be a suicide; the implications in the lines of repression and freedom and death . . .” But I still think he bring us up to abuse wounded goose, so I mumble something about shock therapy and go off in search of place to take bath.

  I carry bath brush and soap out into hall. Old creepy lady still there. When she see Punky Kim she stand up. She very big creepy old lady.

  “Have you seen Mr. Lamprey?” she ask.

  I tell her I not know him.

  “She knows him well enough.” Here old lady nod in general direction of downstairs.

  “Fine,” I say. “Where is bathroom?”

  “And he, he knows just what she wants him to know.” She speak to self now, so I smile understandingly and leave to find bathroom for self.

  It at end of hall. Fine, bright bathroom that have old-fashioned iron tub with feet. I have long splash. When I come out, old lady gone.

  Back in room Harold Bahr still on bed with poem.

  “The work implies some violent action and possible recrimination,” he say. “Sometimes the energy is dispelled in the creation of a work of art, but the impulse remains, gathering more energy like a battery on slow charge. Listen:

  “Dead anchor scaled with flaking rust

  Insults the tar-roughed planking

  With a stain of orange

  And crushes with appalling weight.

  “Four images of insult and oppression in just the first stanza.”

  I interrupt to tell him what creepy old lady say. Harold nod twice, rub bullet head, and read from poem.

  “Wood railing, fever-blistered, worn,

  But finely fenced with salted nets,

  Conforms the soul into a space

  Of fish parts, bones, and broken shells.

  “Constraint. Constraint and decay and something withheld from its proper element. Oh, let’s go down to dinner!”

  Nice big dinner. Few eaters but much food. We all sit together at mahogany table with linen cloth. Alice girl serve us, then sit down and eat, too. She change to white slacks, so not have legs anymore. Creepy big Mrs. Bash with tripod cane is there, talking to large middle-aged man who part black curly hair in middle and wear thin moustache. Other lady there too—fleshy-fortyish, with orange hair—who try to look sexy—and succeed.

  Mrs. Bash stop talking to thin moustache man and turn to Harold Bahr.

  “Have you seen Mr. Lamprey?” she ask. Before Harold can open mouth, orange-headed lady say Lamprey still in room.

  “Still in his room,” Mrs. Bash echo. “All he does is sit in that room.”

  Now I see Harold Bahr is talking to curly-headed moustache man.

  “Have you no other guests, Mr. Heifitz?” Harold is saying.

  Big man take in, then let out bellyful of air.

  “Not often,” he say. “Used to. Before the lake dried up. Used to be a lot of duck hunters.”

  “Why keep on then?”

  Mr. Heifitz make funny, ugly face.

  “We have our resident guests,” he reply.

  “I am anxious to meet Mr. Lamprey,” Harold say to table people. “I read a poem he wrote.”

  “He is always writing,” say creepy old lady. “Writing secrets.”

  Dinner talk trail off like sunset, and people disperse. Harold Bahr take out red bandanna and polish head, then go back to study poem in room. I very sad that Harold so crazy he cannot enjoy happy vacation. But moonshining night always cure sadness. So I walk on path under pine trees. Suddenly figure detach itself from shadows and come up to Punky Kim like hermit crab looking for new shell.

  “And what do you do, Mr. Kim?” voice say. It belong to orange-headed fleshy sexy woman. She talk way down in throat.

  I very embarrassed because I not catch her name at dinner.

  “I very embarrassed because I not catch your name at dinner,” I tell her.

  “It’s Barbara,” throat say. “Barbara Wen.” Voice now seem to come from feet.

  “I work in fish cannery,” I tell her. “How long you people live here?” I ask politely for to make conversation.

  “Live here? Alice and Uncle Fitz forever. The place was built by Alice’s father. He in turn left it to his brother-in-law Fitz.”

  “Why he not leave it to Alice?”

  “I understand he intended to. Then they quarreled, and he changed his will. They made up, and Alice thought she’d be in again, but then he was killed.”

  “How he die?”

  “He was murdered. Two years ago. Shot with his own gun in a hotel in Crescent City. They never found who did it. Robbery. He had borrowed a sum to try to pipe water to the lake; it is dry, you know. The fool insisted on cash.”

  Talk getting morbid, so I change subject.

  “Why this Marc Lamprey stay all the time in room?” I ask.

  “Maybe to think up new ways to make people suffer,” she say. Then she make little smile, and ask if I will walk with her in moonlight, but I no longer sad and tell her no. Besides, I very curious to see if Harold Bahr still being crazy over poem. It about time I think for him to be enjoying bright and happy vacation.

  Back in room Harold has unknitted afghan bedspread and wound string over furniture. I curse him till he interrupt to make me tell him what I learn. When I talk of orange-headed Barbara Wen, he nod bald bullet head two time, and say:

  “Harsh seagull scream of rope and winch

  As metal grates on metal: Lo!

  A boat strains at the cruel knot

  With torment of a tethered thing.

  “More and more repression. Thyne, Wen, Bash, Heifitz, Lamprey himself—which is the ‘rope,’ the ‘winch,’ the ‘cruel knot,’ the ‘boat’ straining to be free? By the way, have you noticed that ‘Heifitz’ is a homonym for ‘Heifisch,’ the German word for shark? Another fish.”

  But I am looking at unknitted afghan wound all over furniture, and saying to him some disrespectful words.

  “These are the ‘salted nets’ of the second stanza.” He sniff. “I am dramatizing the poem.”

  I tell him he ready for psychodrama. But he still insist violent act implied in poem; only violent act, he say, not yet come to surface, as poet so far express self only in symbols. I not make much of this, and go to sleep with enchanting thoughts of wandering in moonlight with orange-headed Wen.

  Nice big morning breakfast. Day cold and cloudy. Mr. Heifitz say we in for big storm. Alice very friendly to Harold Bahr and Punky Kim, though not friendly enough to wear shorts again, but have on black slacks. Marc Lamprey not at table. Alice say he come down very early to ea
t and probably now in room. Other guests get up till only Alice remain with us at table. Harold Bahr help self to more potato pancakes and turn to blond Alice.

  “I am anxious to meet Mr. Lamprey,” rusty voice say. “Have you read his poem ‘Pier’?”

  “He gave it to me,” Alice reply. “He acted like it was a special document. I thought it pretty good and sent it to that magazine. I’m glad they published it.”

  “Have you known Mr. Lamprey long?”

  “He and Mrs. Bash came here several months ago. He can’t get along without her, though sometimes he acts like he can’t stand her.”

  “A surrogate mother?”

  “A surrogate something. She used to be his cleaning lady. You figure it out. I can’t. Two pests. A he pest and a she pest.”

  “If they’re such a pair of undesirables, why not ask them to leave?”

  “Uncle Fitz wouldn’t hear of it. They began as paying guests; then Uncle Fitz found out that Marc is a handyman and gives him and that old woman free rent and board in exchange for keeping the place up, though as a handyman he’s a complete washout.”

  “You seem not much to like Mr. Lamprey.”

  “For a while I did. He used to do things—take walks—talk about poetry—sometimes we played cards. Do you know how he spends his time these days? Sitting in his room reading his newspapers.”

  “Newspapers?”

  “Stacks of them. He subscribes to a dozen or so from a dozen different cities. He says they give him inspiration. Something must. He writes good poetry.”

  “You resent Mr. Lamprey’s staying in his room?”

  “I prefer it. When he’s out of his room he’s a pest.”

  “What kind of pest is he?” Harold ask.

  “The very worst kind.”

  Harold’s eyes get narrow.

  “This Lamprey,” Harold say. “Could he murder somebody?”

  “That squirrel? Well, he might start with himself.”

  Harold’s eyes become nasty little squints.