The Eulogist

by Liz McKinney Johnson

  I might as well do something constructive.

  My clothes are draped across a small, boxy sofa in the corner of the room. In the shadows, it resembles a squat butler waiting with my shirt and trousers over his arm. I pull on the clothes, pick up my shoes and tiptoe across the floor. I don’t know that I’ve ever tiptoed before. I feel a little silly. But I don’t know if Lily is a light sleeper and I certainly don’t want her to know I’m sneaking around her house at three o’clock in the morning. A floorboard in front of the door lets out a squeak, a gargantuan squeak like the King Kong of mice. I stop, mid tiptoe, and listen for Lily to burst out of her room, demanding to know what all the commotion is about. Nothing. Maybe it wasn’t quite as loud as I thought.

  I push open the door and creep out. It’s tempting to steal down the hallway and peek in on Lily, maybe watch her sleep. Maybe stand next to her bed and listen to her breathing. Did you know humans adjust the pace of their breathing to match the person nearest them? If you’re sitting next to someone and you can hear him breathing, pretty soon you’ll start breathing at the same rate. In and out, in and out, as if unison breathing will allow you to share the oxygen in the room more efficiently. I turn back around and head for the stairs, my footsteps muffled by the cushy carpet.

  Michael’s study is off to the right at the bottom of the stairs. The desk lamp is still on and so is the computer. The yellow of the lamp and the blue of the screen saver ought to combine to create a pool of alien green light around the chair, but it’s just a warm glow. I sit myself back down in front of the monitor. The screen blinks back to Michael’s Outlook calendar as soon as I move the mouse. I open another date. December 4th. The appointment window pops up. This one is for Rory Talbot. I add his name to our paper list, close the window and go to another date. December 8th. The familiar window opens. Martin Stachlowski. This must be our Martin! I add him to the list, carefully spelling the unusual last name.

  Every date window has a hyperlink in its notes section. And when I try to click on it, every one gives me the same damn error message: The folder or file could not be opened. Path does not exist. Make sure the path is correct. What path?

  Several years ago, well before I’d gone freelance, I worked on an early Internet scam. A big banking client was getting hit with a rash of credit card losses. Turns out some guy, some really smart guy, was moving stolen credit card numbers through a web site by embedding the information behind a seemingly legitimate web based business that sold three hundred varieties of hot sauce. This was before security on the web got as sophisticated as it is now. Back when it was still possible to hide chunks of data within the page coding. You could buy the hot sauce online, and I believe the guy actually went to the trouble to send it out; but if you were looking for hot credit card numbers, you could buy those too. You just needed to know which hot sauce bottle to click on and how to hack into the code to find the numbers. You were delivered that information via a phone call and an overnight envelope. The streams of information were from such disparate sources it was almost impossible to link them all back together. But the guy on the case, Stan, the guy I was training under, he was a programming genius. I actually remember the night we found it. We’d been methodically checking suspect commerce sites for about fifteen hours straight. Stan wasn’t much of a talker, so that meant I’d been listening to clicking computer keys for about fifteen hours straight. My job was to keep each site live on my computer and click on whatever Stan asked me to click on to see where it took us. About 11:00, we were plodding through the Sauce Sultan site when I clicked on a bottle of Dangerous Dan’s Dragon Flame Habanero Sauce. I got the cracked image icon that told me there was a broken link. I let Stan know and prepared to move on to his next request. Suddenly there was furious typing from Stan’s keyboard, a strange little snorting sound, more typing, and then mild-mannered Stan leapt up from his chair, pumped his fists into the air and crowed like a rooster. Cock-a-doodle-doo! The full-on Old MacDonald. He’d found the hidden credit card numbers behind what appeared to me as a broken link. I was impressed. I’m still impressed when I think about it now. Good old Stan. I heard he retired last year and moved down to Florida. I hope he got a couple of chickens.

  If Stan could do it, I can do it. If Michael was the consummate researcher everyone says he was, he’d have reported all his findings in detail. Somewhere there was a cache of notes, interviews, questions and answers, hopefully more answers than questions.

  I wonder about Lily in her room upstairs, sleeping, breathing in and out. I want to discover this for her. I want her to wake up and come downstairs, preferably in that same see-through nightshirt I conjured up earlier, and I want to hand her a stack of printouts. What I’ve unearthed for her. Like a cat dropping a limp shrew at her feet, the rodent’s neck bent back under its sagging body. A proud offering, a token of all I can do.

  It’s a little pathetic how I continue to fantasize about Lily. She hasn’t given me the slightest encouragement, other than to resist throwing me out of her house on my ass. Most of my fantasies involve Lily naked; sometimes she’s wearing tall white leather boots, but usually she’s just naked. They’re not always crude. I also imagine her reaching for me, turning to me for comfort. Asking me to hold her. Me, Charlie, or me, Albert? Funny, in my fantasies, she doesn’t use my name.

  Since we always crave what we can’t have, my longing for Lily is guaranteed insatiable. I cannot have her. I will never be able to have her. It’s like those evil toy cranes in the grocery stores. Right past the checkout, there it sits, a big glass case filled with a neon jumble of sad-eyed stuffed animals, a remote control steel claw hovering above. It should be a cinch to clamp down on their soft little heads, to lift one, two, maybe three or four out of their plush pile and deposit them into the prize chute. But it never works. You can never get a good grip. You press your nose against the glass, frantically clicking the remote control buttons while the seconds earned by your quarters tick away, watching the little creatures rise up and tumble back. Look, but don’t touch.

  Lily’s probably used to men lusting after her. Beautiful women develop a unique force field that deflects any open-mouthed gawking and returns stinging darts of rejection directly back into the wide eyes of the gawker. I’ve seen it happen. Hell, I’ve felt it happen. Lily’s made a couple of comments about quirks of Michael’s that drove her crazy. He was too particular, too guarded, too busy. That’s minutia. Grasping at straws. I am no Michael. For that matter, I am no Albert. I am simply Charlie. But good ol’ Charlie is the one with the skills to get into this computer.

  I open the main hard drive and check the capacity. The drive is nearly full but the list of files and their sizes don’t match. There aren’t enough files to fill a bucket let alone a giant hard drive. Where are they all hiding?

  That’s it! Of course that’s it. What an idiot. There aren’t enough files because they aren’t all showing. I go back to the menu and tell the computer to Show Hidden Files. A huge list of additional files pops up. I begin to scroll through. My eyes run across the names, looking for patterns. I’m no programming genius. I’m not even sure exactly what I’m looking for. Still, I know it’s here. I’m not Stan, but I am Stan’s student and I remember my lessons. There’s reason and method and a certain amount of repetition. First look for the pattern, then look for a break in the pattern. Be sensible and logical. Scroll. Search. Scroll.

  When I was little, back when everyone was alive, my little sister Gina and I would play a game called Rabbit and Bear. I was Rabbit and Gina was Bear. I don’t remember why we thought a rabbit and a bear would be friends. Seemed like a good idea at the time. Rabbit and Bear would go on adventures. Sometimes the adventures would take place in the closet, sometimes in the backyard, sometimes across a pile of couch cushions. In our animal kingdom, Rabbit was smarter and bigger than Bear, and so Bear was required to do whatever Rabbit ordered. One day, Rabbit ordered Bear to find a golden treasure. I think that’s a common kid theme, discovering a
hidden treasure that could keep you in candy and soda pop for the rest of your natural life. So Gina, aka Bear, spent the better part of an afternoon searching, truly searching, because that’s the great part about being a kid; it is completely plausible there is a golden treasure buried in your backyard. So plausible, I remember pitching in to help after a while, worried the "finders keepers" rule might kick into effect if I wasn’t along for the discovery phase. We found lots of shiny rocks and broken glass that came pretty close to golden treasure, but it wasn’t until the end of the afternoon, when we were both getting kind of tired of the game, that we found the key. Actually, Gina found it, a rusty skeleton key. She held it out to me, gripped tight in her grimy fist, like an archeological prizefighter. When I reached for it, she yanked it back. I tried ordering her to give it to me. That didn’t work. She knew what she had. Power. She sprinted into the house and hid the key in her room. I tired bribing her for it. I tried scaring her into giving it to me. I tore apart her room looking for it. But she never broke under the pressure and I never saw it again. Eventually, I forgot about it, and finally, I imagine it burned up with the house. And yet, metal doesn’t burn very well, so sometimes I wonder if it ended up in the yard again. I wonder if it’s still there and if I went back, could I find it?

  I focus on the screen. My eyes hurt. It would help if I knew what I was looking for. Scroll. Search. Scroll. And then, there it is, my little red rooster. Cock-a-doodle-doo. A 10GB file called personal.tc. The biggest file in the list and the only one with the .tc extension. I immediately go back to the program files. True Crypt. Of course, hard drive encryption software. I’m losing my edge. I should have thought of that before. I’d just paid through the nose for a job seminar on encryption and the guy had called True Crypt one of the best.

  I launch the program. The menu of virtual drives starts at E: and goes to Z:. I pull open the desk drawer and stare at the piece of paper Lily showed me with all the passwords. The last one on the card is written in thick black felt pen: stc leahcim. I open True Crypt drive S:. It asks me for the password and I type in leahcim, Michael spelled backwards. True Crypt responds with an error message, Incorrect password or not a True Crypt volume. Shit, this is getting really old. I try to remember the other tricks we learned in the seminar, the tricks that reduced the likelihood of password-cracking software discovering common words. Replace the letter "e" with the number 3 because it resembles a backwards capital "E". Replace a lower case letter "l" with the number 1 because they also look the same. I try opening the S: drive again, this time using 13ahcim. It opens, revealing a long list of files. I go back to the appointment calendar, click an appointment, click the link and there are words on the screen. Michael’s words from beyond the grave.

  I should wake up Lily. But if she gets up, I won’t be able to leave, and I have to leave. Later. I have to leave later. Right now, I have to read.

  SEVENTEEN

  I begin to read and almost immediately feel like a voyeur. These notes were not meant for anyone but Michael. At first scroll, they don’t appear to be particularly personal; mostly opinions and observations, but they are still the chronicle of a stranger. Contrary to what Lily and all the others from the funeral believe, Michael was someone I’d never met. His world of wealth and science and popularity orbited completely out of range of my sorry little planet. But after all the research and the stories, I feel like I know him. I can almost hear his voice in my head, muttering to himself, typing in his thoughts, capturing them before they get away. Data. To him it would have all been data, the facts and little details that might mean something, somewhere, sometime to someone. Maybe now. What did you see, Michael? What did you want to tell us? I’m listening. Talk to me.

  November 8

  S could not provide original patient files, said they were with FDA for review, said he had requested their return but was still waiting. Would like data prior to interviews, but explained to S, could probably work without them. S offered again to do follow-up interviews himself and provide me with summary. Tempting. Schedule so full. No time to talk with all participants myself, but must make time. Need grant money, so need new success stories—at least three, maybe four. I know what they’re looking for, who will perform under pressure. Can’t rely on someone else to do selection. Can’t show up on Oprah with someone who can't string two sentences together once cameras start rolling.

  November 12

  VM called today, confirmed he’d contacted FDA again, this time requesting copies if originals were still under review. VM helpful, but slow. Received cost-overrun report on construction. Need another $500,000 to force completion on schedule. New environmental issues. Underground tanks of some kind. Another hundred thousand or more. Authorized bank transfer. Remember to ask Lily about next fundraising dinner.

  November 20

  Went by Nesler to pick up file copies. Assumed they would be here by now. Nothing. Janet confused about what I wanted. Both S and VM out of town for Thanksgiving. Explained exactly what I was looking for, Janet promised to follow-up.

  November 27

  Janet brought file copies by house yesterday. Lily dumped them on my chair, didn’t mention them until this morning. I wish she’d keep track of things better. Note from Janet saying she hoped this was what I was looking for. Included cover memo with names of all patients whose files were attached. No card or anything from S or VM, must still be out of office.

  November 30

  Myrtle Olcott, 79. Drove herself to office for interview. Very well-dressed. Vitals good. Only complaint was some discomfort with abdominal pump when reservoir refilled every three months. Discussed world affairs. Better versed than I on most issues. Chart notes indicate younger sister as primary caregiver. Patient indicates sister no longer sharing residence, broke hip in bad fall, admitted to local rehab facility. Patient seemed unsure of when or if sister would return. Very chatty, very confident. Resembles Aunt Bea from old Andy Griffith show. Would be good on camera.

  December 3

  Clyde McDonald 81. Accompanied to office by son. Answered all questions himself. Does not seem to rely on son in any way. Very interested in painting. Brought me small framed piece. Abstract. Quite well done. Claims no prior knowledge of painting or art. Spent 50 years as a plumber. From a plumber to a painter. Could be good story angle. Patient excused himself to go to restroom at which point son mentioned patient sometimes stayed up all night painting, asked if this was normal. I explained how intense brain activity can cause periodic sleeplessness, suggested he be watchful for extended hyperactivity. Patient may be too volatile for public presentation.

  December 4

  Rory Talbot, 68. Young but wheelchair bound and on oxygen. Resides in local assisted living community. Facility in news recently because of apparent suicide of staff member: woman, mid 50s, worked as a CMT for nearly a year on graveyard shift. Supervisor found her slumped in hallway with empty syringe. Patient filled in details not covered in newspaper. Said woman’s shirt was open to the navel and syringe was hanging out of an exposed breast. Patient asked how common it was to commit suicide by cardiac injection. Told him I was not expert on suicide. Seemed morbidly fascinated by experience, probably a function of trauma. Curiosity as coping mechanism. Patient quite articulate in opinions on situation, offered several options for equally unusual terminations. Impressed with patient’s level of understanding of physiology and mortality. Could be good interview with some coaching.

  December 7

  Iris O’Shea, 88. Moved from last known address shortly after end of testing. No forwarding address. Emergency contact number lists sister in Detroit. Disconnected. Follow-up with S and VM regarding new contact number. Status unknown.

  December 8

  Martin Stachlowski, 85. Relocated to son’s home in Thousand Oaks, California upon death of wife. File flagged as acute Alzheimer’s upon entry. Follow-up visits note immediate and drastic improvements. Letter from wife attached to chart indicates concern about personality change,
says husband is moody and secretive, quick to anger when friends or family do not or cannot share new level of intellectual examination. No longer interested in favorite hobbies or pastimes. Spends almost all time in front of computer. Interesting intensity. Check California address and phone number.

  December 10

  Phone call from S, upset about files, said Janet should not have released them without his review. Apologized profusely, said he would have removed files of patients known to be inappropriate candidates. Asked me to return remaining files, said he would handle follow-up summaries and provide list of three patients as optimum interviews for grant application. Time and efficiency critical at this point. Agreed with S and returned all files except Martin Stachlowski, case unusual, would like to speak with son, perhaps patient also.

  December 13

  Contacted Don Stachlowski, Martin’s son. 57-year-old accountant in Thousand Oaks. Said mother’s cause of death was stroke due to infarction. Had been shocked to get call, mother had been healthy, planning trip from Illinois to California. Nesler handled all funeral arrangements, sent son cremated remains. Only son, no other family, no need for local service. Asked about any complaints from patient during last few months. None. Any chronic illnesses? None. How was father dealing with death? Didn’t speak about it, but appeared to be coping well. Son spoke highly of drug testing program, said father had shown remarkable and rapid improvement. Son had enrolled Stachlowski in program. Had come out to set up everything, very impressed with Nesler. Was father’s current personality unusual at all? No. Kept to himself, had developed tenacious addiction to the computer and Internet. Any close friends? None that he knew of, said father snapped at him recently about how, "some people no longer mesh with the fabric of society." Didn’t know what that meant, son called him, "just another cranky old guy." Left son with my phone number. Asked him to call if father began to exhibit any unusual behavior. Reassured son it was simply in the interest of patient follow-up. Puzzled by father’s personality shift. Early chart notes describe a gregarious man, a retired auto parts salesman. Very boisterous and happy, even as early dementia settled in. Liked the company of others. Played the accordion.