The Eulogist

by Liz McKinney Johnson

  Beep.

  "Albert, Howard Stanich here."

  Howard?

  "Heard you were in some sort of accident. Hope everything’s okay. I wanted to follow-up on your meeting with Roger Jones. Call when you can."

  Beep.

  How does he know I was in an accident? He must have talked to Lily. Either that or he’s watching me more closely than I thought.

  Another dial tone and a beep, then nothing.

  I look at the sack on the counter. Suddenly, I don’t feel much like conducting my experiment. I don’t feel much like Charlie. I slump down on the couch. Albert’s couch. No, Lily’s couch that she’s letting Albert borrow.

  There was another girl once. Before the funerals. Before the milk of human kindness passed its pull date. Before cynicism lodged under my fingernails. Her name was Sarah. Hell, it probably still is Sarah. We’d been thrown together in a required college English class. Her, an English major; me, hauling myself through the Business Department. She wore her long brown hair piled on her head, held in place with one, gigantic silver clip. Sarah’s eyes were blue some days, green on others. We made small talk about small talk, wondering why people should have to force themselves to be interested in the weather or your new haircut or pretend people living pretend lives on a television sitcom. We laughed. One day we skipped class and drank gallons of coffee and watched a bad movie in the middle of the afternoon. Another day, her boyfriend came back to town and she introduced me as "her good friend, Charlie." The boyfriend shook my hand, hard. Sarah smiled at me. Her eyes were blue that day.

  This is all getting so messy. Somewhere along the way, I started to care about Lily, worry about what happened to Michael, even fret over what might happen to Howard if his investors finally get the better of him. Normal people call this empathy. It’s not an emotion I’ve ever traded in, but Albert seems chockfull of it. I’ve made too many promises to too many people on both sides of my dual life. The teeter-totter isn’t going to stay in balance forever. Soon, something tells me very soon, one end is going to slam down and the other end is going to fly up and smack me in the balls.

  I get up and walk to the window. Outside the residual winter daylight is disappearing. But it’s not raining. Maybe a walk in the fresh air would clear my head. I can see the lake from here. Yes, a stroll around the lake would be good.

  Blue Lake, although adorned with a completely uninspired name, is considered to be one of Park Hills’ greatest assets. A paved path loops all the way around, nearly two miles worth. Various civic organizations have renovated flower gardens, rolling lawns and little beach areas. I’ve ended up here with a funeral fling or two. Very romantic, in a communing-with-nature kind of way.

  My route takes off from the parking lot and through a dense stand of pines. As dusk descends into full-fledged darkness, I’m grateful for the little garden lights lining the path’s edge every few feet. In the spring and summer, the lake is crawling with people right up until the gates close at midnight. But tonight, I haven’t seen a soul. Probably too cold, and I imagine the rain will start up again before I make it back around. When I breathe in, I catch a watery tang in the air. I’ve always liked that smell. The rich, musky aroma makes everything seem satiated and healthy. I breathe in deeper. Alone in the dark, the smell is soothing.

  For the first time in weeks, I felt good about work today. I forgot about Lily and Michael and Nesler Pharmaceuticals. But only for a little while, and I know a hundred breakthroughs on a hundred cases won’t be enough to push them out of my head for good. I keep walking, slowly circling back to where I started.

  Directly up ahead are the horseshoe courts. Tall stakes stand along one end like thin grave markers. Stone benches line the other end, empty at this hour of contestants waiting a turn to toss. Except they’re not empty. Someone is sitting on one of the benches. From this distance, I can’t make out much more than the slumped shape of a person. Could be a man, could be a woman. He or she is completely still. The surprise of seeing someone out here sends a jolt of adrenalin through me, but it’s not fear. I’m curious to see what it is, who it is, and there’s nothing menacing about the form. It’s as if I’m approaching a statue.

  "Hey there," I call out, stepping off the path and walking toward the figure. "Didn’t think I’d see anyone else out here tonight."

  No movement, not even a turn of the head.

  "Are you okay?"

  The light from along the path barely reaches us. I’m just a few yards away now and can tell the person on the bench is a man, an elderly man. He’s wearing only a polo shirt and slacks, no coat or hat. He must be freezing. I hurry the last few feet across the wet sand of the courts.

  "Sir, is everything okay? Are you hurt?"

  The man finally shifts his position, tipping his head slightly to watch me jog toward him.

  "Hello, Martin," he says as I reach him.

  The man smiles at me. His face crinkles around the eyes. Then abruptly, his expression blanks.

  "My name’s not Martin, sir," I say, sitting down next to him on the bench. The concrete is cold and damp. The man’s hands are clasped in his lap. "Are you waiting for someone?"

  He looks down for a moment, then back up at me. His eyes roam across my face, searching. He looks away again.

  "I’m cold," he says, loudly.

  His pants are thin cotton, almost colorless in the dim light, and his shirt bears the embroidered crest of a local golf course. Looking down, I notice his bare feet are stuffed into ragged slippers. Hardly an appropriate outfit for the waning days of winter.

  "Do you have a coat?" I ask.

  He swings his head back around to stare at me.

  "Martin!"

  He’s smiling at me again. Poor guy. He’s obviously out of it. Probably wandered away from some facility.

  "Yep, it’s Martin," I say, joining his delusion. "Sorry I’m late."

  "I’m cold!" he yells at me again.

  I take off my down jacket and place it over his shoulders, gently guiding his arms into its warmth.

  "I’m plenty warm. You take my coat."

  It’s much too big on his old man frame. He looks like a marshmallow on a stick.

  "Let’s head back, whatdya say?"

  I stand up and hold out my arm to him. He looks up but doesn’t get up.

  "Where’s the man?"

  "He’s … uh … he’s waiting for us back at the car. He’s gonna wonder what happened to us if we don’t get back there pretty soon."

  I move my arm closer and he grabs it with both hands. The puffy sleeves squish together as he pulls himself up.

  "He knows what you did."

  The poor old guy looks really worried. Worried little marshmallow.

  "It’s okay," I assure him, walking straight out across the grass, avoiding the mushy sand of the horseshoe courts.

  We’re quiet as I help him onto the path and we head back toward the parking lot. He’s still holding on to my arm, but his gait is smooth and sure. Not bad for slippers. His head, which only comes up to about the top of my shoulder, is covered with thick, white hair that’s been neatly trimmed. I try to remember if there are any retirement homes nearby. I imagine someone somewhere is frantic to find him.

  "Martin?" he shouts suddenly, dropping my arm.

  "What?" I reply, figuring it’s best to continue being Martin until I can get the guy back where he belongs.

  "You shouldn’t have done it."

  "Why not?"

  "It’s wrong. Everyone knows it’s wrong."

  "Well, then, I’m sorry."

  He starts walking.

  "She was only doing what she thought was best," he says.

  The lights of the parking lot come into view. He doesn’t speak again. We’re heading across the empty lot when an old Volvo station wagon pulls in. It hugs the far sidewalk and then spots us. The headlights flash and it turns and rushes directly at us. I pull the old man behind me as the car brakes right in front of us. The driver thro
ws open the door and leaps out. It’s a woman, maybe forty or forty-five. Her long black hair is pulled into a haphazard bun and she’s wearing wire-rim glasses. She looks like she’s been crying. The old man turns away, as if the commotion is too much for him. The woman bolts around the front of the car.

  "Dad!" she screams, running up and grabbing her father’s hands in hers.

  He looks confused and doesn’t respond.

  "Dad, it’s Mary."

  He turns away. The woman looks at me.

  "Who are you? Where did you find him?”

  I’m so stunned by the turn of events I can’t answer for a moment. I’m also temporarily unsure whether to respond as Charlie or Albert. I punt.

  "I was just out for a walk. He was sitting on the bench over by the horseshoe courts."

  She doesn’t answer. She simply pulls the man toward the Volvo. He follows obediently, and she settles him into the passenger’s seat, carefully helping him out of the huge coat.

  "Is this yours?" she asks, handing me back my parka.

  "Yeah. He was really cold when I found him. Has he been gone a long time?"

  The woman glances over her shoulder to check on her father in the car, and then turns back to me. In the stark glare from the parking lot lights, I can see the lines grooved into her forehead and around her eyes. She’s too young for her face.

  "He’s been gone for about a year."

  FOURTEEN

  The woman named Mary stands with me in the parking lot. Her story tumbles out. I’ve seen it before when interviewing accident victims. The relief of coming through a stressful situation triggers a torrent of information, as if the person had not only been holding his breath in panic, but also his words. The ultimate exhalation is impressive.

  "I’m not quite sure what happened," she says. "I had some people over. I don’t usually have people over to the house, but they’re old friends and they know about Dad. He’d finished dinner and I’d gotten him set up to watch his favorite TV shows. Everything was fine. He wasn’t agitated. He seemed fine. After everyone left, I went back to check on him and he was gone. Just gone. His bed was still made. The light on his nightstand was on. The TV was on. We were all in the living room so I’m guessing he went out through the kitchen. There was music playing. We were laughing and talking. We were actually having a good time. I haven’t had a good time in so long."

  She pauses. To catch her breath maybe? She looks at me again. Really looks at me this time, and now I see embarrassment in her face. Embarrassment and maybe a little fear. Who the hell am I? To whom, exactly, is she pouring out her soul?

  "It’s okay," I say. "I’m just glad he’s safe. Do you need any help?"

  "No, thank you. Thank you for being so kind to him."

  "Why did you come here looking for him?"

  "He loves the lake. We come here almost every day, doesn’t matter what the weather is. It seems to make him happy just to see it."

  Of course it does. Most people think they love nature because of its beauty, and it is beautiful. The trees and water and all that are nice. Sometimes, like in the case of the Grand Canyon or the white sand beaches of Siesta Key, really, really nice. But what they actually love is how nature is so accepting, so nonjudgmental. You can just be yourself in nature. A tree doesn’t care what kind of job you have. The flowers don’t mind if you’ve put on a few pounds. The lake could give a rip whether or not you can remember its name—or your name. You look at nature, nature looks back at you and everybody’s happy.

  "I know what he means. I came down here myself tonight to clear my head. It’s nice to just enjoy the quiet and the smell."

  "The smell?" She looks at me quizzically.

  "The water. I think the smell of the water is calming."

  I take several deep breaths to show her I’m not crazy, and then realize huffing and puffing out here in the dark must look ridiculous … and crazy.

  "I guess I’ve never noticed the smell." She sniffs the air, probably to humor me, and smiles. When she does, I see a resemblance to the old man.

  "What’s wrong with him, if you don’t mind me asking?"

  "Alzheimer’s mostly."

  "Mostly?"

  "There are other things. Physical things. But he’s not so bad I can’t still take care of him. At least I thought so until tonight. He’s never done anything like this before."

  It hits me then, like a baseball bat to the head. Alzheimer’s patient, local guy, the right age. It couldn’t be.

  "Is your father part of the Nesler drug trials, the Alzheimer’s drug trials?"

  The woman named Mary steps backwards. She’s wearing wooden soled clogs that make a clop-clop sound on the cement.

  "Why would you ask that?" she says, her voice quiet and small. "Do you work for Nesler?"

  "No. No I don’t."

  I’m trying not to make her nervous, yet I hear the timbre of my voice rise in both pitch and intensity. I can’t believe my luck. I take a step towards her. If it weren’t for those damn clogs, she’d probably take off at a dead run. But that would leave her father trapped in the parking lot with the crazy guy. She stands her ground, glances back toward her father and crosses her arms over her chest. She’s wearing a brown wool coat missing two of its four buttons.

  I feel gears clunking back into position. After scrapping and clawing my way into what so far has amounted to very little information, God just dropped an angel into my lap to answer a few questions, a bolt from the blue. Did you know that’s a real scientific thing, not just an overused cliché? They also call it "dry lightning." Most lightning bolts carry a negative charge, but dry lightning holds a positive charge, which gives it about ten times the current. And, instead of coming straight down from inside the rain shaft of a typical thunderstorm, a bolt from the blue travels horizontally, away from the storm, sometimes several miles away. Sometimes it travels into an area with beautiful blue, sunny skies before it curves to the ground and takes out a golfer. In the insurance industry, we call that "an act of God."

  I smile at Mary to try to put her at ease, but I’m so excited, the grin probably makes me look slightly demonic. Layered on top of the water-smell comment, the heavy breathing and the shouting, I’m well on my way to lunatic. I push all the air out of my lungs in one slow, continuous breath and force my voice down to a whisper.

  "My name is Albert Mackey. I’m writing a biography of Michael Rudolph and I’ve been researching his involvement with Nesler and the drug trials. This is an incredible stroke of luck. I’ve been begging Nesler for information about the test participants, but I can’t seem to get anything out of them."

  Mary takes another step backwards. Clop. Clop.

  "My dad was involved in the trials." She’s whispering now too. "But he’s not anymore."

  Yep, I’m totally freaking her out. I stick my hands in my pants pockets and rock back on my heels, trying to relax my stance. Casual. Just a regular guy in an empty parking lot, asking a stranger personal questions about her family. Nonchalant.

  "Was he one of the original participants?"

  "Yes," she answers, still whispering, still staring at me. Deer in the headlights. She looks back again at her father. "I don’t think this is something we should be talking about. I don’t know you and you don’t know me. We should really be going anyway. My dad’s exhausted."

  She turns and starts back toward the car.

  "Please don’t go, Mary."

  She spins back around, fear flashing across her face.

  "How do you know my name?"

  "You said it when you ran up. You said, ‘Dad, it’s Mary.’"

  "Oh," she sighs, looking down and twiddling one of the two remaining buttons on her coat. She is not particularly attractive. Her wire-rim glasses are thick and keep sliding down her nose, which is beginning to turn pink in the cold air. There’s a cleft in her chin. She probably doesn’t know this was formed when she was still in her mother’s womb, when the left and right halves of her jaw bone didn�
��t fuse properly. It’s a birth defect, but people call it a dimple.

  I try smiling again, without the undertones of mental illness.

  "Albert Mackey," I introduce myself for the second time and offer my hand.

  She looks up at me, back at her father, me, and finally takes my hand.

  "Mary Anderson," she says. "And that’s my father, Jake Tucker."

  The first spattering of returning rain hits us. I can see the splash marks on her glasses.

  "I can’t help you, Albert. You seem like a very nice man, but my dad is really quite ill. I can’t afford to jeopardize his medical coverage. I’m sure the people at Nesler will find you someone else to talk with. Besides, Dad wasn’t one of their success stories."

  I like Mary. She seems very normal, very sweet. It’s my fault she’s anxious, not to mention damp and cold. I’m not very sweet and certainly not very normal.

  "How could talking with me possibly jeopardize your father’s medical coverage?"

  "It’s confidential. We signed papers saying it would be confidential. If I break that promise, they’ll stop paying. I don’t make enough to cover it all myself."

  "Who will stop paying?"

  "Nesler. They pay for all Dad’s medical bills, but only if everything stays confidential."

  "If what stays confidential?"

  She huffs at me, like an exasperated parent explaining for the fifth time that I cannot have a cookie.

  "His problems. His medical problems. The drug wasn’t successful on him. He didn’t improve the way the others did. In fact, I think it made him worse. My father is dying."

  We stand in the parking lot. Mary Anderson and me. Big, fat drops of rain are coming down now. Jake Tucker is beginning to fidget in the front seat of the Volvo. I can’t think fast enough to sort everything into the proper category. Mary is scared of something. Scared of her father dying, scared of Nesler Pharmaceuticals, scared of me. Maybe all three. There’s something very important here in the wet parking lot. Something I can’t let go.