The Eulogist

by Liz McKinney Johnson

  "I’m really counting on you guys," I say. "I’m going back upstairs to do a little work while I’m waiting for the results. I’m also going to figure out how many organs I’ll have to sell to raise that thousand bucks."

  Brad looks up at me and those damn dimples pop back into his cheeks.

  "I like you, Charlie. Don’t worry, you’ll get what you pay for."

  With that, he grabs another piece of pizza, stands up bag-in-hand, and all three of them disappear into the lab.

  I stand there next to Brad’s desk for a few minutes, staring down at the decimated pizza. I should have a piece, but after our little exchange, I’ve lost my appetite along with over a thousand dollars. I turn and head out into the hallway towards the elevators. At quitting time on a Friday night, I wait forever for a car to come all the way down to the basement. When the arrival bell finally dings and the doors slide open to let me in, I hear footsteps running down the hall. A hand slides in at the last minute and stops the doors from closing all the way. I see a barbed wire tattoo, and as the hand pries open the doors, I see the complete Dave. He’s quite winded. He leans against the doors to keep them from closing. The elevator bell rings and the doors bump against his back as they try to shimmy closed about every ten seconds. People above us want to go home.

  "Glad I caught you," he says, still panting.

  "Glad you didn’t cut off your arm."

  "The shoes. There are five pairs of shoes. Which pair has the frosting?"

  "I don’t know."

  "We can’t test them all, that’ll take forever."

  "That’s why you’re makin’ the big bucks, Dave. Maybe you’ll get lucky and it will be the first pair you choose."

  Dave studies at me with a blank expression. For a split second I’m scared of him. He’s really a lot taller than he looks in a room full of other people.

  He breaks his gaze and pushes his glasses back up his nose. It’s a comforting, geeky gesture that restores my confidence.

  "Look at it this way," I say. "More shoes means more hours, which means more money out of my pocket and into yours."

  "You know, that’s really Brad’s trip. I wouldn’t have reamed you for that much."

  "It’s okay. I should be able to get reimbursed for it if everything goes as planned. So it really will be a win-win. Think you’ll be able to get some evidence for me?"

  "Sure. If there’s something there, we’ll get it. That’s why we make the big bucks."

  He smiles and steps away from the doors back into the hallway. I watch him squeeze into oblivion as the doors close. The car jerks and starts its ascent to the fifteenth floor.

  TWENTY

  No one in his right mind is going back up to work on a Friday afternoon, so I get a free ride to the top of building. The offices are quiet and most of the lights are out. Helen’s reception station is neat as a pin. I’ve always been impressed with how organized she keeps everything. The entire staff spends all day dumping shit on her desk, but at the end of the day, every speck of paper is gone. Even her wastebasket is empty. Once, I accused her of sending everything she hadn’t completed through the paper shredder at 4:55 each day. She laughed, but she never did contradict me.

  I trudge back to my temporary space. I work for Dennis so much I really ought to have my own office, but rules are rules. Temps and freelancers are the office Bedouins and must camp wherever space allows. Lately that means being squeezed in between Eleanor Schumacher and Bill Langford in customer service. Bill eats lunch at his desk, so most days the entire area smells of either tuna or Cup O Noodles. Eleanor’s not stinky, but she has covered every inch of her cubicle walls with snapshots of and artwork by her grandkids. She has seven and will launch into amusing anecdotes about all of them to anyone at anytime. It’s best not to catch Eleanor’s eye. There’s a stack of phone messages under my mouse. That’s where Helen puts things if she really wants me to see them. I shuffle through them. Nothing particularly interesting. Nothing that can’t wait.

  I flip on the computer monitor and watch my desktop blink into view. My first order of business is to try to track down Martin’s son, Don Stachlowski. Something tells me Martin and Jake are important players in this morbid game. I’d like to know if Don Stachlowski ever spoke to Michael again before his death. I remember from Michael’s notes that the man lived in Thousand Oaks, California. How many Stachlowskis could possibly be there, or anywhere else for that matter? I log into the address search engine the company subscribes to. It’s a Northwest firm that claims to have the most complete, most current database of phone and address records in the country, possibly the world. It’s a valid claim. I’ve found every person I’ve ever searched for. It’s the same company that serves major corporations, government agencies, the military, even the FBI on occasion. People would be shocked to know how quickly they can be identified. I type in Don’s name and location. There are actually six Don Stachlowskis in the country, but only one in Thousand Oaks. I dial the number. It rings twice.

  "Hello?"

  "Mr. Stachlowski?"

  "Yes?"

  He sounds hesitant, probably figures I’m calling to sell him vinyl siding.

  "This is Albert Mackey."

  "Do I know you?" Stachlowski asks.

  "No sir, I don’t think so. I’m working on a project for Jake Tucker’s family. I understand your father and Mr. Tucker were good friends."

  "Jake Tucker? Yes, they were." His voice softens. "I didn’t know him, but I do know they were friends. Is everything alright? He hasn’t passed away has he?"

  "No, sir, he hasn’t, but he is quite ill and his daughter is trying to do some pre-planning for that eventuality. We don’t think it will be long, and she’s trying to pull together some loose ends while her father is able to participate."

  "I’m sorry to hear he’s not doing well. Are you a relative?"

  "No, sir. I’m with the funeral home. We’re assisting Mr. Tucker’s daughter with some of the preliminaries. She’s trying to create a photo collage that illustrates the highlights of her father’s life. She tells me your father was a big part of Jake’s life in the recent past. I was hoping you might have some photographs or mementoes—something we could use for this tribute."

  "Boy, I’d love to help you, but I already gave away the only photo I had."

  "You did?" I up the level of anxiety in my voice. I need to sound little more pathetic. "That’s unfortunate. I don’t suppose there’s any way to get it back?"

  "I don’t think so, but," he pauses and I wait anxiously for the conversation to head in the desired direction. "Are you calling from Park Hills?"

  "Yes sir, I am."

  "Then, you’re familiar with Michael Rudolph?"

  "Of course. Everyone here in town was horribly saddened by his death."

  "He’s who I gave the photo to."

  "Michael Rudolph?" I ask, trying to sound astonished. "Why would you have given your father’s photo to Michael Rudolph?"

  "Funny thing is, he called me about Jake Tucker too, not long before his accident. Out of the blue, just like you’re doing now. When we first talked, I’d never heard of Jake Tucker, but I asked Dad and he remembered him. Although he didn’t seem too thrilled to talk about it. Maybe they ended on a sour note, some disagreement? My dad can be pretty cantankerous. Anyway, I did a little digging through my mother’s stuff and sure enough, I found a photo and a phone number."

  So far this is all stuff I already know. I strain to sound interested and not push too hard. Keep focused, Charlie, don’t let this one get away.

  "Well, I’ll be darned. Why do you suppose Michael Rudolph was calling? Was it about the testing?"

  There it is. The question crawls through the phone lines from one side of the country to the other. Answer me, Don. I need an answer. Tell me what Michael said to you.

  "I don’t know."

  Shit. Not okay. I don’t know is not the answer we’re looking for. Next contestant, please.

  "Could have bee
n," Don continues. "Dr. Rudolph and I never spoke again in person, but he did leave a message on my phone machine."

  Hang on, hang on. Don’t give up on the man now; he has something to say.

  "A message?" I ask, prompting the story to continue more rapidly.

  "It must have been three or four days before he was killed. That’s kind of eerie isn’t it? He called and left a message. I don’t remember it all exactly, but it was about the drug program. Something about a theory he had, and he asked about flying my father back to Park Hills for some kind of special testing."

  "Did you call him back?"

  "I tried to, but didn’t get an answer. I left him a message and then I called Nesler and let them know."

  I stop breathing.

  "You called Nesler?"

  "Sure. They take care of all dad’s medications and stuff. I figured they could explain things to Mr. Rudolph better than I could. The next day, I heard about the plane crash on the news."

  "Who did you talk with at Nesler?"

  "Howard Stanich. Nice man."

  There’s genuine warmth in his voice. He actually likes Howard.

  "He was so helpful when mom passed away," Don continues. "I couldn’t get away from work to help Dad take care of the details, but Howard told me not to worry. I showed up for the funeral and he’d taken care of everything, paid for everything, flowers, a little reception, everything. He’s a very nice man. I owe him a lot."

  No, he owes you, Don. You don’t know it, but he owes you one father. He took yours, experimented on him, and then tossed back a completely different person. Oh, and he’s probably also responsible for your mother’s death. Yeah, he’s a really nice guy. The world needs more people like Howard Stanich.

  That phone call Don Stachlowski made to Howard must have been the proof Howard needed to confirm Michael was on the verge of revealing his drug’s fatal flaw.

  "So, you never heard back from Mr. Rudolph?"

  "No. Howard seemed to know what I was talking about and he said he’d take care of everything. All this medical stuff is way over my head. I was more than happy to hand it off to him. But all this doesn’t help get that photo for your display, does it? Maybe you could contact Mrs. Rudolph. Or, why don’t you ask Howard. Have you ever spoken with him? He’s very nice; I’m sure he could find out something for you."

  Yes, I’m sure he could. In fact, I’m sure sweet ol’ Howard’s already found out more than I’d like. Let’s wrap this, Don. Time to move on.

  "You’ve been so helpful, Mr. Stachlowski. I appreciate all your time. I’ll certainly see what I can do on this end to track down that photo. Thanks again."

  "You’re welcome. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more."

  "You’ve been extremely helpful, really."

  "Please give my respects to Mr. Tucker’s family. This is a rough time for them, I’m sure."

  "Thank you, I’ll let them know. Good night, Mr. Stachlowski."

  "Good night," he pauses. "I’m sorry, I’ve forgotten your name."

  I pause for an instant. Will he call Howard again? At this point, it probably doesn’t matter.

  "Mackey. Albert Mackey."

  "Good night, Mr. Mackey."

  The call disconnects. Was I wrong to not make up a new name? If Howard’s watching me as closely as I think he is, he’s seen me come and go. There are dozens of businesses in this building, but with a little bit of persistence, he could rule them out one by one until he realized there was no Albert Mackey anywhere. No Albert Mackey, but another gentleman who bears a striking resemblance. I may not have blended yet in Howard’s mind, but things are starting to run together. There’s not much time.

  I stand up and look over the top of my cubicle. The only windows in this area are along one wall at the far end of the floor. As the light outside fades away, they begin to look like a row of symmetrical black squares, like minimalist artwork. I leave my desk and weave around the other empty nests until I reach the windows. I stare out into the squares of other office towers. Somewhere on the other side of the city, Lily is wondering what happened to me. To Albert. Right now, I would give anything, everything to take it all back. To rewind all the way back to the morning the obituary appeared in the paper. I would read the story of Michael’s death, shake my head in pity, and turn the page.

  Behind me, I hear a phone ringing. It’s got to be a direct call. Outside calls go to the switchboard answering service after hours. I sprint back to my desk. It’s my phone all right. I grab it on the seventh ring.

  "Sandors," I hiss into the phone, out of breath.

  "Hey, Chaz, I’ve been ringing forever," says Brad, his voice a husky chuckle. "Were ya in the can?"

  "Uh, copy machine," I answer, although I don’t know why I care if Brad knows I was just staring out the window. "I was using the copy machine."

  "Right," he says, stretching out the ‘i’ for several seconds. "Anyway, I wanted to let you know we’re going into overdrive on this. Dave’s come up with the prefect test for the frosting, but it’s a three-step proof. It’ll take him until almost midnight."

  The implied message behind Brad’s information is ka-ching! I try to ignore it.

  "What about the orange juice?"

  "Justin’s working on that one. He’ll probably be done sooner than Dave, but not by much. As you recall, you didn’t give us a lot to go on."

  "And what exactly are you doing for your fifty bucks, Brad?"

  "Supervising. Someone’s got to make sure everything is done right. And, I’m also talking to you."

  I picture the dimple pressed against the mouthpiece of the phone at the other end, because Brad must be smiling. Grinning even. A freckle-laced cavern imbedded in his cheek.

  "I’ll be back down there around midnight, Brad."

  This time it’s my turn to draw out the vowel for a few seconds before biting his name closed with a hard consonant.

  "We’ll be here," he promises, sweet as pie, and hangs up.

  7:00. Time to find Mr. Klein’s father. I grab the yellow pages from under my desk and flip through to the Retirement section. Park Hills has an even dozen facilities. I pick up the phone and practice my delivery prior to dialing.

  I’m calling with a lab report for Mr. Klein. I apologize for the delay. The cover sheet on the file shows we were supposed to contact Mr. Klein this morning. Apparently, his report was overlooked. The rest of the staff has left for the night and I’m trying to locate Mr. Klein. I’d hate for him to have to wait all weekend for his results.

  The first three homes are cordial but confused. None show a Mr. Klein as a resident. I apologize profusely each time and continue dialing.

  "Good evening, Grace Fountains, may I help you?"

  The voice on the other end of the phone is young and sweet. I launch into my prepared speech.

  "Jonah Klein?" The sweet young voice asks. "He’s in our Alzheimer’s Care Unit. I can’t imagine they left instructions for you to contact Jonah. He couldn’t possibly understand a lab report. Perhaps you meant to call his son, Hugh?"

  "That must be the other number here in the file. I am so sorry to have bothered you."

  "No bother at all."

  I hang up and write my second piece of information on a scrap of paper. Jonah Klein, Grace Fountains.

  Assignment number three requires a DMV search. It’s been over 24 hours, but I can still remember the license plate number of Mary Anderson’s Volvo. I type it in to the database and within a few seconds I have the information I need, the street address of Mary Anderson and her father, Mr. Jake Tucker. It’s not too far from downtown. I can drop over for a little visit and be back at the lab well before midnight. I could call first, but I’d rather only explain myself once. I doubt Mary will be happy to hear from me in any shape or form, but if I’m standing on her front porch, I think she’s too polite to slam the door in my face.

  I shut down the computer and grab my coat from the back of the chair. A piece of paper flies from one of the pocke
ts and lands at my feet. I stoop over to pick it up. It’s Roger Jones’ business card. I look at it, turn it over. On the back a number is scrawled in pencil. I recognize it as Lily’s private cell phone number. I smile. Hope he wrote that down somewhere else or he’ll be sorry when he realizes this particular card is gone.

  I slide it back into my pocket. I want to call Lily. What would it hurt if I just took a minute to let her know I’m okay, that I’m working on something important and I’ll tell her all about it soon? I could also tell her how much I wish I could be the person she believes me to be. I could tell her I’ve never met anyone before who’s made me want to be real.

  Real? Real what? I’d laugh if someone said that to me.

  But Lily wouldn’t laugh. She’d look at me with her sad eyes, take both my hands in hers, purse her lips into a little half smile, and sigh. It would be a long, heartfelt sigh. I would then melt into a puddle of Jello at her feet. I think I would enjoy being Jello, occupying that magical state between liquid and solid.

  I can’t call Lily. Not until I’m sure about everything. If I can prove to her what really happened to Michael, maybe my own pitiful story won’t seem quite so ridiculous. I’ll still be a lying sonofabitch, but I’ll be a lying sonofabitch who uncovered a scandal and brought her husband’s killers to justice. How could you not love that?

  TWENTY ONE

  Mary Anderson’s house is in a 1960s subdivision just fifteen minutes from the center of town. The low-slung ranch style homes are comfortably worn around the edges. Number 2717 sits in the middle of the block. I recognize the Volvo parked in the driveway. There’s a short hedge along both sides of a walkway leading from the street to a set of three crumbling steps covered in worn Astroturf. The hedge has been recently trimmed into a neat box shape, but the rest of the landscaping is wildly out of control, nearly obliterating the front windows and encroaching onto the porch.

  I press the doorbell and wait. A porch light goes on over my head and Mary opens the door. She’s wearing a simple white blouse and black stretch pants. In the space of a few seconds her face transitions from puzzlement to recognition to horror. She must be too stunned to shut the door.