The Eulogist

by Liz McKinney Johnson

  "Who knows?" he says. "Could’ve been a snag. You’re in a real wind tunnel here. This branch could’ve been stuck up in one of your trees for years. Finally got a big enough wind to bring it down, I guess."

  "I guess."

  "Whatdya think, someone hurled a branch through your window in the middle of a freakin’ storm?"

  He laughs, and I laugh too, embarrassed because that is exactly what I think. The kid clomps down the stairs, the branch bouncing a little bit against his tree trunk of a neck.

  I step inside the condo. The noise is so loud I have to cover my ears to walk back to the bedroom. Two more guys are in there, neither one as large as the tree-toting kid. I can see why he was elected to carry out the branch. There’s a new pane of glass covering the spot where my shower curtain was stretched this morning. One guy is cleaning the window. The other is running the source of the noise, a dusty shop vac. Vac guy notices me come in and leans down to shut off the noise. I uncover my ears, but the ringing persists.

  "Didn’t hear ya come in," Vac guy says. "We’ll be outta your way pretty soon."

  "Looks good," I say, admiring the sparkling glass.

  "You lucked out. We had one pane left and it fit your window."

  "Guess it was about time for a little good luck."

  The guy cleaning the new window looks up and chuckles.

  "Lucky for us too, ‘cause now we’re done for the day."

  He swipes his rag across the window with a flourish then stuffs it in his back pocket.

  "We just gotta finish vacuuming," Vac guy continues. "Sorry about the noise."

  Without waiting for my consent, he flips on the machine and goes about his business. It’s like being trapped in a cage with howler monkeys, but it doesn’t seem to bother Vac guy or Window Cleaner guy. I escape down the hallway and into the kitchen to heat up my burritos.

  The phone rings.

  "Hello," I shout over the screaming vacuum.

  "Albert?"

  "Yeah."

  "It’s Lily. What on earth is that noise?"

  "The repair guys are here. They’re vacuuming."

  Tree kid comes in and waves at me as he heads back to the bedroom.

  "I can’t hear you very well," Lily says. "Call me when they’re done. I need to talk to you about something."

  "Sure thing."

  "What?"

  "Nothing."

  "What?"

  The call clicks off and I stand there for a minute holding the phone.

  The bell on the microwave signals the completion of my luncheon feast. The burritos sit side-by-side on a paper plate, oozing a thick yellow-brown slime. I’m okay with that. I’m so hungry even yellow-brown slime won’t stop me.

  The only time I remember being grossed out enough to lose my appetite I was about fourteen and living with the Andersons. They had a very old, very crazy grandmother named Ruth who stayed in the spare room off the kitchen. She got to make Sunday dinner every week and once in awhile she liked to set the table with some of the antique china and crystal she kept in a tall curio cabinet in her bedroom. One Sunday, she dished up some undercooked chicken and overcooked broccoli. Pretty standard fare for Grandma Ruth, however, this Sunday she’d also prepared a special cranberry juice and 7Up cocktail, which she served in some of her prehistoric crystal goblets. I took a sip and determined the drink to be the highlight of the meal, until I took a good look inside my glass. There was a large mummified fly in my cocktail, pieces of its wispy, spider-silk ropes trailing it as it floated across the pink, fizzy juice. I couldn’t make it to the bathroom. I threw up on the carpet in front of Grandma Ruth’s bedroom.

  As I polish off the last, tasty bite of my burritos, the howler vacuum mercifully shuts off and I hear it rolling down the hallway. Vac guy appears a second later dragging the beast by its hose.

  "We’re all done in there," he announces. "I’m pretty sure we got all the big stuff but you might want to vacuum a couple more times in the next day or so. Sometimes glass works its way out of a rug. Want me to leave you this for a few days?"

  He’s pointing down at the shop vac, which is heeling at his side like an obedient dog.

  "Nah, that’s okay. There’s one here somewhere."

  The other guys come down the hallway and Tree Kid kicks the shop vac out of his way. It teeters on its metal casters, nearly tips over, and then bounces back into balance thanks to a quick jerk of the hose by Vac guy.

  "Dammit, Donny," Vac guy shouts. "Could ya think for two seconds before you do something?"

  Donny mumbles something that sounds like "sorry" but could have been "shithead." Vac guy is about half Donny’s size with greasy hair and a pathetic mustache. If I were him, I wouldn’t mess with Donny, but sometimes it’s the small ones that surprise you—little terrors packing a six-inch blade.

  "Thanks again," I say. "I know you’ve had a long day. I’d offer you a beer if I had one, but the cupboard’s pretty bare right now."

  "It’s cool," says Window Cleaner guy, who appears to be the boss man. Maybe he’s the Sam of the big red letters. He’s carrying a five-gallon bucket filled with tools and caulking guns. "Work’s guaranteed, so if you have any problems, give Mrs. Rudolph a call and we’ll come back out. Have a good evening."

  They file out the door and Donny slams it behind them. The quiet is nice but now I notice how chilly it is. The heat’s still off. I walk to the thermostat on the wall and turn the furnace back on. The burritos are gurgling in my stomach. They want out.

  I grab the phone handset and collapse on the couch, throwing my slippered feet up onto the coffee table. The van rumbles to life in my driveway and the guys and their howler vacuum pull out and gun it down the street.

  It’s already dusky outside the window. Time to pull the curtains closed and pretend there is no more outside, only inside. I could take a little nap. The last twenty-four hours haven’t yielded much in the way of sleep. I tip my head back and let my eyes drift back in my head.

  I hear a car pull in. It’s not the bad muffler sound of Sam’s repair van. I lift my head from the couch and look out the window. It’s too dark to see anything except the glow of headlights. I get up and cross to the door, stepping out onto the porch to lean over the railing. There’s a dark car idling in the driveway. It looks like Lily’s Mercedes. I raise my hand and start down the stairs. A surprise visit from Lily? Lily in a trench coat over bra and panties? Maybe I’m still asleep and this is a dream. Don’t wake up, don’t wake up. But the car backs out and pulls away. Someone must have taken a wrong turn. I’m awake. I’m wide awake. Wide awake and still holding the phone handset.

  I walk back inside and dial Lily’s number.

  ELEVEN

  I catch Lily on her cell phone on the way to a yet another fundraising dinner and fill her in on my meeting with Howard. She’s not very impressed, says she doesn’t understand why everything Howard does takes so long. She is intrigued about me interviewing Roger Jones, calls him their biggest investor in more ways than one. The cell starts to break up but before it goes dead I think I hear her laughing.

  As Howard predicted, Jones answers on the second ring. Even at 6:00 in the evening.

  "Roger Jones"

  "Mr. Jones, this is Albert Mackey. I got your number from Howard Stanich over at Nesler."

  "What's our Howie up to?" Jones asks. His voice booms over the phone line full of good humor, as if asking about a favorite son.

  Howie? Are we talking about the same person?

  "He's fine. The reason I'm calling has to do with your investment in the Nesler lab project. I'm writing a biography on Michael Rudolph and Howard seems to think you're the one to give me some perspective on the project."

  There’s no response. Maybe he hung up.

  "Mr. Jones?"

  "My perspective?" Jones hurls the words through the phone then explodes with a laugh. "Well that's pretty damn interesting. I thought Howie hated me. Maybe ‘hate’s’ too harsh a word, it's more like he'd pref
er I fell off a cliff."

  "Actually he spoke quite highly of you, as did Mrs. Rudolph."

  "Lily?" Another high volume fast ball. I pull the phone a couple inches from my ear.

  "Yes, Mrs. Rudolph is assisting me on the research for my book."

  "Lily I like."

  "Could you spare a little time to meet with me? I promise to keep it as short as possible. I know you're busy."

  "Work day's over, Mr. Mackey." His voice is so stern and definitive, I know he must be the boss of about a hundred people.

  "I understand that, I didn't mean right now," I say, already apologizing. I am the boss of nobody.

  "I did."

  Jones lets fly with another laugh. This guy’s a real card.

  "After work is actually better than during the day for this kind of thing," he continues. "I don't have anything going on tonight that can't be done tomorrow."

  It's been an entire day of impromptu meetings, why stop now?

  "Right now sounds good to me, Mr. Jones. Where should we meet?"

  "Let's grab a drink. Do you know Tony's? It's on Second and Liberty."

  "Sure, I could be there in about twenty minutes."

  "I'll be there sooner, get us a table. Look for a big guy in a gray suit."

  Roger Jones hangs up without saying goodbye. The room is getting a little warmer. It should be back to normal by bedtime. I cross the floor to grab my jacket, which is when I notice my briefcase, which is when I remember the 20-23 form I promised Dennis. Shit. I still need some sort of a story about Mr. Klein’s nonexistent girlfriend. I reach for my coat on the back of the couch and knock a pile of papers onto the floor. The repair guys must have brought them in to cover the floor or something. They're miscellaneous sections from several weeks ago. An article at the bottom of one of the pages catches my attention, "Local Teacher Busted as Part-time Escort." Reading further, it describes some lady who spent her days teaching phonics to second graders and her evenings teaching gentleman callers another kind of oral exercise. Very interesting, to say the least. Better still, perhaps something the soon-to-be girlfriend of Hugh Klein might find as an appealing pursuit. Sounds fun. The 20-23 will take thirty minutes tops to whip out when I get home, depending on how much graphic detail I want to get into. There are days when I love my job.

  Tony's is one of Park Hills' oldest establishments of fine spirits, which is a nice way of saying it's been around a while and looks it. The bar itself is the best feature. Heavy, dark wood that's soft and smooth, rubbed to a gleaming finish by years of hands reaching for one more round. There are only about a dozen tables and only half of them are full. It's easy to spot Jones, but he's someone you’d be able to pick out even if the room were over flowing. His description was dead-on. He is a very big man in a very big gray suit. He might be the biggest man I’ve ever seen in my life, at least outside of those documentaries on the Discovery Channel about the people who get so big the fire department has to remove a wall to get them out of their bedrooms.

  I approach his table and step around into his field of vision.

  "Roger Jones?"

  "Mr. Mackey. Glad to see you're prompt." He reaches for me with his enormous paw and gives my whole arm one single shake. "I'm not a very patient man, I'm afraid. Have a seat."

  I sit and almost immediately there's a waiter at my side.

  "Can I get you something?" the waiter, a slight young man with yellow hair, asks.

  I glance quickly to see what Jones is drinking. A short glass with amber liquid and a few swimming ice cubes.

  "Dewar’s, water back."

  The young man retreats to the bar. Roger Jones sloshes his drink, sending the ice cubes spinning. He looks at me through thick black-rimmed glasses. His white shirt is open at the collar, a collar that has to be at least 18½ inches. He must have them custom made. There's a tie, also loosened, in a traditional red and navy pattern. Very businesslike. No nonsense. I am fascinated by his neck. It's so fleshy it appears almost liquid. There is really no chin, the skin simply drapes from his cheeks and folds down into the shirt collar. I think this is a genetic characteristic as well as a weight problem. Some people simply lose their necks over time; perhaps this is where the phrase "head and shoulders above the rest" originated. Apart from his neck, Mr. Jones is proportionately huge. His suit coat hangs open, revealing suspenders, the fat man’s friend, holding up an impressive pair of pants. Were there a belt circumnavigating his girth, it surely would be as long as I am tall.

  "I've heard a little bit about your project, Mr. Mackey," Jones says. "Seems to me you were the very eloquent young man who spoke at Michael's funeral."

  "Yes sir, that was me."

  I feel like a peasant who’s been given an audience with some enormous king, like I better impress him or "off with my head!" But I think it was the queen who said that.

  "Good job," Jones says, picking up his drink again. "Very good job."

  Harrah, the king is pleased!

  Roger Jones continues to look at me. His eyes are not roaming across my face or body, he's staring directly at me as if downloading information from my brain and out my eyes.

  "How long did you know Michael?" I ask, hoping to break the data stream. He blinks.

  "Not so very long. Of course I'd known of him for a number of years. He's Park Hills' most famous son. You gotta be livin' under a rock to not know who he is. But I didn't really meet him officially until I got involved with the lab project."

  "And how long has that been?"

  "Guess it's been almost three years now."

  The yellow-haired boy is back with my drink.

  "Run a tab would ya, Denny?" asks Jones.

  He looks at me. "You'll be wantin' more than one drink if you’re going to listen to my life story."

  I stutter for a few seconds. I hope he knows I’m here about Michael not him. If Jones wants to talk about Jones, I don’t think I have the guts to change the subject.

  "Just kiddin' around," he says. "Don't look so worried. You ask the questions and I'll answer them."

  He takes a drink. I do the same.

  "How did you get involved with the lab project?" I ask, trying to pull on my confidence and take back some control of the situation.

  "You mean, why’d I decide to invest? Funny, I've been asking myself the very same question the last few weeks. I got some major doubts they can pull this thing off without Michael, but I'm sure Howie already told you about that."

  "He mentioned you'd been concerned about the progress."

  Jones laughs. Another laugh that matches his size. It tumbles out in great waves.

  "Concerned? Yeah, I've been a little bit concerned. I put my money on Michael Rudolph. Somethin' tells me this dog don't hunt without him."

  "You bought in purely on Michael's reputation?"

  "That and Lily's persuasion, which I probably don't need to tell you can be a very powerful thing. That gal could probably tell me to cut off my own dick and I'd at least consider it for a couple minutes. You ever seen her walk out of a room?"

  Roger Jones is staring through me again. I think he’s scanning my brain this time, looking for evidence of whether or not I might be doing more than research with Lily.

  "I'm sorry, am I offending you? I'm a crass sonofabitch sometimes. And you writer types are probably a sensitive bunch, aren't ya? All PC about women in the workplace and all. Well, screw you. I've got a ton of money and I’ve been, seen and done it all. Nothin’ much shocks me anymore, so I prefer to cut through the bullshit and call it as I see it. Michael was one hell of a lucky bastard in the bedroom, I'll say that about him."

  I have no idea where this conversation is going, but I obviously have very little to do with its direction. Somewhere along the way we'd drifted into a discussion of Lily Rudolph and what a hot chick she'd be in bed. As much as I agree with this line of thought, I feel the need to push Roger Jones back on track. If we'd ever been on track.

  "What did you know about Michael's re
search?"

  "Not too much. I don't get into all the scientific stuff. Bunch of braniac gobbledygook, but Lily did tell me some stories that were pretty amazing. Turns out one of my own employee’s father was one of the original patients or whatever you call them."

  "You mean a test participant? Really?"

  "I don't know what you call them, but Lily told me a story about how this old guy, the employee's father, was helped by the drug they're developing."

  Now this was interesting. Not that Roger Joneses' diatribe on the merits of Lily Rudolph's butt hadn't been interesting, but this information could actually prove helpful instead of making me slightly sweaty.

  "Do you remember the story?"

  Jones leans back in his chair, putting about 450 pounds of pressure on the ladder back slats.

  "I do remember the story, because I thought it was such a good one. Starts out this lady’s father is just a regular old guy. Retired, getting into some hobbies, enjoying those golden years they're always promising us. He’s a little forgetful, but no more than the rest of us. A misplaced pair of eyeglasses, a neglected pot on the stove, his daughter’s birthday. Then one day, he forgets his way home. He’s out walking his dog, not more than four or five blocks from his own house, and he can’t remember how to get back."

  I remember Lily’s story about being lost in the woods. How everything familiar can turn its back and leave you for dead.

  "This seems like a pretty run of the mill story when Lily is telling me about it," Jones continues. "I mean my own uncle’s in one of those Alzheimer’s homes, the ones where all the hallways and sidewalks run in circles so the residents won’t wander off. Anyway, Lily tells me how this poor old guy just goes down fast after that. His wife’s been gone for years, and his only daughter, my employee, doesn’t know what to do. She can’t leave him alone. She can’t afford to put him in a home. Guess I don’t pay her enough."

  Roger Jones gives me a conspiratorial wink and swallows another drink.

  "Somehow the daughter hears about this drug study they’re doing at Nesler and she gets her dad signed up for it. When the dad starts in with the treatment, he’s so far gone he doesn’t even know what year it is anymore. He doesn’t know his daughter, he doesn’t know where he is, and he thinks the nurse bringing him his medicine is his mother. Can you imagine being that messed up? Just take me out and shoot me, I say."