The Eulogist

by Liz McKinney Johnson

  "I need to know more about this."

  "I can’t. I just told you that."

  "No one will know. I won’t tell anyone."

  "You’re writing a book!" She is shouting now. Shouting and walking backwards to her car. "No. Don’t you understand? No!"

  Her hand is on the door handle. She pulls open the door and the dome light illuminates her father. He is staring out the side window. Even with everything happening on the other side of the windshield, Jake Tucker is looking in the opposite direction.

  "Who’s Martin?" I shout before she can pull the door closed.

  Through the prism of collecting raindrops on the windshield, I catch only a distorted glimpse of Mary Anderson’s face. The door swings back open and she steps out. I have her attention. That’s pretty obvious. But, I can’t tell if she’s angry or afraid.

  "Your father kept calling me Martin. Who’s Martin?"

  Her features relax slightly and she slowly pushes the car door closed and comes back over to me. The rain is falling harder now, cats and dogs will be next, but Mary doesn’t seem to mind, but her glasses are speckled with drops and it must be hard to see me.

  "His best friend. Martin was his best friend," she whispers and then checks back over her shoulder, even though there’s no way Jake Tucker can hear us from inside the Volvo. "They met during the initial testing phase at Nesler. Hit it off right away. They went golfing and bowling together. Watched games on the weekends. And, they came over here to the Lake a lot to play horseshoes with, as Martin called them, ‘the other old geezers.’ They were real good friends."

  "Were? Did something happen?"

  Mary glances back again. Jake is watching us now through the side window, but with an expression of complete disinterest, as if we are a particularly boring exhibit at the zoo: chatting humans in their natural habitat.

  "Martin lived with his wife in one of those big retirement communities. I don’t think they had any local family. He was doing really well on the drug therapy. They were planning on moving back into their own house, but before that happened, his wife died. Stroke or heart attack or something. I never did get the whole story. So, Martin decides to move out west to live with his son. He’d call Dad every once in a while, but their mental states were so different by then, I think Martin started getting a little perturbed trying to carry on a conversation. Anyway, the calls started getting fewer and farther between. I didn’t know what Dad thought about it or even if he noticed. But you said he called you Martin? I guess there’s some memory bouncing around in there."

  I nod. Mary looks up at me. Her dark hair is cut into choppy bangs in the front, which are beginning to paste to her forehead with the weight of the rain. She smiles Jake’s smile again and there is a kindness in her eyes that makes me smile back.

  "Once Dad’s own problems started to crash down, I forgot all about Martin. We hadn’t heard from him in so long and it didn’t occur to me to try to contact him. The months flew by. Dad got a little worse every day. Then, I don’t know, maybe a couple weeks ago, I was looking for a roll of tape in the junk drawer and came across a picture of the two of them at the horseshoe courts. I must have made a copy for Martin at one time and then thrown it in the drawer and forgot to give it to him. Do you ever do stuff like that?"

  She stops and pulls her coat tighter. I feel a little guilty that Mary Anderson is standing out here in the cold rain, but it does make a fitting backdrop for her story.

  "Everyone does stuff like that," I say.

  "I guess so," she continues. "I thought if I could get a hold of Martin it might be something for Dad to look forward to. I showed him the picture and asked him if he’d like to talk to Martin. I remember him looking at it for a really long time. I didn’t see any recognition on his face. He finally gave it back to me and said, ‘Okay.’ That’s all. Then he went back to the movie he was watching. It wasn’t what I had hoped for, but it was better than, ‘I don’t know.’ So I called him."

  "How long ago did you say it was?" I ask.

  "A few weeks. But here’s the thing, I couldn’t get a hold of him. I tried directory assistance. Nothing. I knew he was in California, but I couldn’t quite remember the city. You can’t give them a whole state to search through, especially a state as big as California. There are about a million cities in California that start with either 'Los' or 'San.'"

  Mary takes off her glasses and attempts to wipe them dry on her coat. It just pushes the water around but she puts them back on anyway and squints at me through the smudgy lenses.

  "I tried to let the whole thing drop, but something about the photo must have stuck with Dad, because he started asking me about Martin all the time. We’d be sitting at dinner or watching TV and he’d ask me when Martin was coming. It was like one point of light he could focus on and remember, even when everything else was dark. I finally called Nesler, but they pulled out their trusty confidentiality banner and refused to give me any information."

  "Does he still ask about him?"

  "Not as often, but yes, he does. I feel awful about it, but I don’t know how I can tell him so he’ll understand."

  Suddenly, the horn on the Volvo blares. Mary Anderson and I jump and turn in unison. Jake Tucker is leaning over in the seat. The horn blares again, a long sustained note in a very uncomfortable pitch.

  "Dad!" Mary shouts. "Stop that!"

  Three more honks, these in quick succession.

  She runs over to the car and yanks open the door. I see her lift her father’s hand from the steering wheel and gently push him back over to his side of the car.

  "I want to go!" Jake yells at her. "I’m hungry."

  "Don’t honk the horn." Mary’s voice is calm but firm. "We’re leaving in one minute. I promise. But we won’t leave if you keep honking the horn."

  "I want to go."

  "One minute," she promises again, holding up her index finger.

  Mary straightens and looks at me over the top of the car door. The bun at the back of her head is unraveling. She pushes her glasses back up her nose.

  "That’s all I can tell you, Albert. I’m sorry and I hope you understand. Good luck with the book."

  She ducks back into the car and starts the engine before I can protest. Her headlights flash on and I have to turn my head to avoid the glare. When I turn back she’s backing up and turning to head out of the parking lot. All that information, just driving away. Luck has swooped down, poked me with a stick and flown away.

  I make a mental note of her license plate number.

  FIFTEEN

  "I’m sure it does sound unusual, Mr. Klein. And if I were in your shoes, no pun intended, I’d probably be wondering the same thing."

  I have Hugh Klein on the phone. It’s late evening but not too late for a little telemarketing. I’m calling from the condo in case Klein has caller ID. This is an incredible long shot, but the frosting test with my loafers was successful. Coating the sole didn’t make the shoe banana-peel slippery, but it was definitely slick enough to fake a convincing slide. Klein has likely already mastered a Hollywood drop: lots of noise, arms flailing, no attempt to break the fall, exaggerated moaning once down. The experiment also left quite a frosting slick on my floor, which it probably would have done on the sidewalk near Klein. But I’m betting nobody noticed it in all the commotion, and the rain that day would have washed away any evidence within minutes. I figure I better try to follow through on my idea while it’s fresh. Besides, it keeps me from thinking about Mary Anderson and her father.

  "I really don’t have time right now," says Klein, trying to gracefully back out of our conversation. I’m actually amazed how polite he is. "And, anyway, I don’t think I’d be interested in your offer."

  "I guarantee you’ll love it, sir. I absolutely guarantee it. There’s no risk and I’ll come to your home or business to pick up and deliver your shoes. It’s a new idea and I’m just getting started with it, but it’s really catching on with the business folks like yourself."
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  "I don’t even know if I own four pairs of dress shoes."

  He’s thinking about it. The door is open a crack and I’m about to shove my polished toe inside.

  "A successful man like you?" I say, clucking my tongue in disbelief. "I bet if you look in your closet, you’ll be surprised. There are probably shoes in there you don’t wear simply because they look dull and scuffed. We can take care of that. Four for the price of two with 24-hour turnaround. Can I put you down on the schedule for tomorrow?"

  "You know, what the hell. Nothing else in my life is going good right now. I may as well have shiny shoes. Put me down."

  Bingo. Even I am impressed by this charade.

  "You won’t be sorry, Mr. Klein. I’m looking forward to a long and happy relationship between you and Shoe Fly Mobile Shoe Shine Service. Where would you like us to pick up your shoes?"

  "Come by the house tomorrow morning. I’ll leave them in a bag on the front steps."

  "Your address?"

  "3436 Autumn Ridge Drive."

  "Thank you again, sir. Simply write your name and address on the bag and we’ll take it from there. Your bill will be attached with your cleaned shoes. Don’t hesitate to call the number on the tag if you are dissatisfied in any way, but I know you won’t be. I know that, sir."

  "Whatever you say, son. Good luck to you."

  We hang up.

  Shoe Fly Mobile Shoe Shine Service! I should get some sort of medal for this one. By making him gather up four pairs of shoes, I’m sure to get the shoes he was wearing the day of the incident. These days, who owns that many pairs of leather dress shoes? Everyone’s all about business casual. It’s a gamble, but I’m feeling pretty good about it. Twenty-four hours should be long enough to photograph the shoes and have the lab pull out any residue. I guess I’m going to have to actually clean them too so he doesn’t get suspicious. Too bad a business like this doesn’t really exist. I could use them.

  It’s nearly 10:00 already; time to call Dennis at home and let him know things are looking up on the Klein case. He sounds a little groggy when he picks up. Or drunk.

  "Dennis it’s me, Charlie."

  "Goddamn, Sandors. Do you know it’s 10:00?"

  "Sorry; after this morning, I thought you’d want to know right away that I’ve caught a break on the Klein case, and I .."

  "What’ve ya got?" he asks, interrupting my explanation. His words slur together; I’m going down on the side of drunk over groggy.

  "I’ve still got some work to do, but I think I found a little something Klein overlooked in his set-up. Like I said Dennis, he’s good, he’s very good, but I’m better."

  "You’re killin’ me. What did you figure out?"

  "I’m not gonna say until it’s a lock, but I should know by tomorrow. I just wanted to call and let you know I won’t fall through. You seemed kind of on edge this morning."

  "Ah, yeah, sorry ‘bout that," he says. His voice is thick and I can tell he’s working to form every syllable. "The guys upstairs are chewing my ass on this one, and you know which way the shit rolls when it starts moving."

  I picture Dennis in his recliner at home, wearing boxers and a t-shirt, his comb-over still molded to the contour of his head, phone in one hand, highball in the other.

  "It’s okay, Dennis," I say, comforting him. You gotta love the guy, he’s just so predictable. "But, to pull it off, I need to make one stop in the morning. So, I’ll be in late and then downstairs in the lab most of the day. Maybe this would be a good day to go golfing."

  This makes him laugh and we go back and forth for a while with golf jokes. Since this call is designed to pull Dennis off my back for awhile, I’m waiting for him to end the conversation. That’s another free interview tip for you: to instill a sense of control and confidence, let the other person feel in charge; keep talking, keep the dialogue rolling, let him make the move to close.

  "Well, Charlie," There it is. Curtain’s coming down. "I’m sure you have a big day tomorrow, I better let you get some sleep. Go get ‘em, Tiger."

  Buddy Boy is gone, Tiger is back. Things are looking up. On the flip side, all of this also means another twenty-four hours away from Lily. Maybe I should call her and check in. She still thinks I’m deathly ill.

  I dial the house phone and it rings five times. I’m getting ready to hang up when Lily answers.

  "Hello?"

  She sounds breathless.

  "Lily, it’s me. Did I wake you up?" I ask.

  "Albert! I’m so glad you called."

  "I’m sorry it’s so late."

  "It’s late? What time is it?"

  "Closing in on 11:00. Are you okay?"

  "I’m fine. I’ve been working. Hey, you sound a lot better."

  "Uh, yeah, Sudafed."

  Crap, I forgot the stuffed up nose voice. I gotta stop embellishing my characters or I’m going to need a database to keep track of everyone and their idiosyncrasies.

  "What do you mean—working?" I ask.

  "I figured it out."

  She’s almost shouting now.

  "Figured what out?"

  "How to get into Michael’s calendar. I figured out the password."

  "You’re kidding me? What was it?"

  "Lilybette."

  "What?"

  "Lilybette. It was his pet name for me. I found it on a card taped to the inside of the desk drawer. At first I just thought it was cute. That he had my name written on his desk, like it was the next best thing to carving a heart into the top. But then I noticed there were other things written on the card. One was N4816T. That’s our plane’s tail number and I know Michael used the middle numbers as his ATM password. Below that was the word ALVIN. That’s my old dog’s name, and it’s also the code I came up with for the security company. If the alarm goes off, they call here first and you have to know the code word is ALVIN to stop an automatic dispatch. There were some other ones too that didn’t make any sense at all."

  I was lost somewhere back at the beginning. At the Lilybette part. I found it endearing and excruciating in equal parts. The rest of the information spilling from the other end of the phone wasn’t quite registering.

  "That’s when I figured they must all be passwords," Lily continues, her voice rising in pitch with each sentence. "Even Lilybette. So, I tried it in Outlook and it worked. It worked! It opened. You have to come over."

  "Now?"

  I can barely jam a word in. I’ve never heard her like this. I think we just got a major break. That or Lily has lost her marbles and gone a little heavy on the caffeine.

  "Can you? I think this is important. I’m seeing the basic calendar and when I click on a date square it opens another thingy. I don’t recognize any of the names. But maybe if we can figure out who they are, they can answer some of our questions about Michael’s research."

  "Lily, can you slow down for a minute?"

  "I’m sorry. I just can’t believe I figured it out. Me! Computer-illiterate me!"

  "So exactly what are you seeing. What thingy?"

  "I can’t explain it very well. It’s like an appointment card with a bunch of places to put information, but all the information’s not there and I think some of it’s in code or something."

  "Is it a database?"

  "I don’t know. You have to come see it. Can you come see it?"

  "Alright. If I promise to come over, will you stop, take a deep breath and calm down?"

  "Sure! Come right now."

  The phone goes dead. I stare at it in my hand. That was surreal. I’m pretty sure I called in the first place to tell Lily I wouldn’t be able to see her for a couple days. Instead, now I’m supposed to drive over to her house at almost midnight. I’m just a stick in the water, bobbing along in the current; merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream. Unless a beaver finds me and uses me to build a damn.

  I grab a coat and head out the door, locking it behind me. As the deadbolt clicks into place, there’s a sudden reflection of headlights in the l
iving room window. I glance over my shoulder in time to watch a black BMW pull away from the curb across the street. Pretty fancy rig for this neighborhood.

  Traffic is light and the drive across town to Lily’s only takes about thirty minutes. The house is dark and still, but I see a glow coming from the windows of Michael’s study. I remember the first time I came here, ready to cancel the farce and move on. Was it weeks ago or years ago? What exactly was it that stopped me from stopping the madness? Pity, vanity, curiosity, lust? If you create your own world and choose the folks you want to inhabit it, then, as the puppeteer, you also should be able to dictate the interactions and craft a happy ending. Somewhere along the way I’d lost control. My characters are forging ahead of their own accord. If they are real and this whole mess is really happening, then Albert must be real. If A equals B and B equals C, then A equals C. I’ve always wondered what happens to B in that equation. Is it some kind of algebraic exile? Apparently, nobody wants to play with B anymore. Charlie’s in danger of being ditched.

  I ring the doorbell and it echoes deep within the giant house. The drizzle from earlier in the evening has continued with cold stubbornness. The stone steps are like slabs of ice, chilling me from the feet up. Time churns to a halt as I wait for Lily to answer the door. Footsteps. The creak of a massive hinge. And then, here she is. Cue the violins, here she is.

  "That was fast," she says.

  "You said right away."

  Lily’s wearing a Northwestern University sweatshirt over jeans and her hair is smoothed back with a red cloth headband. She smiles and opens the door wider for me to pass. The entryway is dark, but Lily doesn’t seem to notice. She closes the door, grabs my arm and hurries back toward Michael’s study with me in tow. She doesn’t have any shoes on.

  "I still can’t believe I figured this out. Aren’t you impressed?"