While Nate was cutting a path of extortion and fraud, and Carl was busy disposing of anyone (me) or anything (Fucky-Face’s body) that might wreck his newspaper and embarrass his father, Daisy was reporting on mushroom festivals in Portland. Thanks again to Eve. I’d given her a chance at redemption. All she had to do was tell someone to investigate Nate’s background and my murder, and what did she do instead? She blabbed the whole story to Carl and told him she got it from me. Crazy bitch. She didn’t pull the trigger but she certainly got me killed.
If anyone had done a little fact checking, there was enough damning information in Nate’s articles to send his nascent career skittering across the rocks. My personal, impossible desire was to see him break down and cry in front of Carl, cry and beg for his job and sputter like a baby. This would be satisfying in so many ways. Carl would never trust another boy wonder, and his paper would be ruined. Fair enough. But I was wiser than I used to be and getting wiser by the minute (however long those lasted any more). I knew the two men sitting on either side of me had less than a soul between them. They didn’t break down. They didn’t cry. They were tougher than tough guys. They were assholes.
I’d put Eve out of her misery and gained nothing from the experience, except Eve’s unwanted company. I figured there was no point in murdering Carl. Destroying his dream would be better. Checking back now and then over the years to see him grow fat and old and lonely would be better in every way.
“Miz Franklin started this dance festival five years ago and she promised to pay the artists but she only paid the first year,” Nate explained.
“Good, okay,” Carl said. “Good. We’re warning local artists…” He put his elbows on the table, clasped his hands and put on his most serious expression. “We’re the good guys here.”
“Right, yeah,” said Nate. “She’s completely disorganized. I met her and she’s so scatterbrained she asked my name about five times.”
Carl laughed. “That’s, yeah, she’s a nut, I heard from somebody she’s a nut.”
“She’s batshit crazy,” said Nate. Carl burst into laughter again. “She wears these tiny paisley dresses and you can see her gut spilling over the underwear. It’s disgusting. You wouldn’t believe it. Like she’s a teenager in her mind. Obviously high and clearly half-drunk…”
“Jesus!” Carl rubbed his hands together. “Cool! But we’re not saying anything libelous. I mean, the focus is on, the focus is her mismanagement of the what-do-you, what-do-you-call-it…”
“Movement festival,” Nate said. His chowder arrived. He took a big swig of ale. When the waitress left he made a show of watching her ass. Then he lifted his eyebrows at Carl, who laughed and shook his head.
“Maniac,” said Carl. “You’re a maniac.”
“I’m a maniac with a bladder the size of that waitress’ left nipple. I’ll be right back.” Nate scooted out of the booth and headed to the men’s room.
The second he disappeared Carl stopped shaking his head and chuckling. He turned his attention to the street beyond the windows extending the length of one wall. Frowning and rubbing his hands together, he studied the girls in ripped jeans and combat boots, the boys with sloppy hair and lopsided shirts, and the homeless guy holding a sign. He didn’t see what I saw—Fucky-Face in nothing but a pair of soiled underpants, staring straight at him through the window.
She remained through another beer after Nate returned, through a round of locker room talk about all the parts of a woman’s anatomy Nate and Carl found least and most offensive, through a brotherly handshake and goodbye, until Carl threw a dollar on the table as a tip, wandered outdoors, and headed toward his apartment. When he turned the first corner a block away, Fucky-Face was right on his heels.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
The phenomenon Eve pointed out to me quickly became an obsession. I didn’t have the nerve to study a clock but the signs were everywhere. For example, I’d watch a guy cleaning the bathrooms at the Broadway Market. I’d see him mop the floor and gather his supplies and leave. Moments later the floor was decorated with urine or piss and no one had entered the bathrooms.
Before this I’d never paid attention to how suddenly the weather changed from overcast to downpour to clear skies to drizzle. I was used to the shifting light and temperature. Once I took note I realized the cycle was faster than it used to be. Everything had this shuddering quality. I’d stand in an espresso line and watch the sluggish barista describe the past week of her dance classes to an acquaintance while ten people shifted weight and rolled their eyes. Suddenly the barista would twirl and skip and jump, demonstrating moves she must have shown to three or more customers. And just as suddenly the line would form and time would drag again.
For this reason I had no idea how much time passed unless I checked a newspaper. I don’t know how many days went by after I saw Fucky-Face stalking Carl. I wondered how soon his name would appear in the news. It might take weeks, or his death might occur in a matter of hours. The beauty was, I didn’t have to lift a finger.
“You know, there’s a reason most fictional detectives lead a frugal existence. You can’t drift and succeed. Assholes survive better than non-assholes because they’re driven to be successful and they’ll do what it takes, no matter what. You can’t wander around looking for the truth and expect a reward.
“The pursuit of happiness is a so-called right elevated and protected by the Declaration of Independence. The pursuit of truth is a whole different thing. You can chase the truth down some ugly backstreets, never reach your destination, and get your teeth kicked in for the effort.”
“Says the guy who died with a face like a tangerine,” I said. “You didn’t get kicked in the teeth. You drank yourself to death.”
“I was murdered.”
“Oh, right,” I said.
“Why don’t you go quietly?” Lee Todd asked, now dressed in a white linen suit and sporting an out-of-season boater with a black silk band.
“Go where?” I asked. We were riding the #7 again because I liked the crowds of people who thought they had a purpose, bustling to work and back, hurrying to meet dates and pick up children, dashing to the market for dinner supplies, all so exciting and busy and pointless.
“Nowhere,” he said. “Blissful, beautiful nowhere. The first time I glimpsed eternal death was during surgery. For a while after you wake from the anesthesia, whenever you dream it’s this nursery world full of stuff you can’t figure out, a big Technicolor acid trip with painted people and giant talking animals and flying robots. But before you wake up, while you’re under, it’s nothing, Greta. It’s a big, gorgeous blank. When your mind stops chasing answers, and comes to rest, it’s all a beautiful, dark emptiness.”
“I’m not feeling any of this,” I said. “What is it supposed to feel like? I found out who really killed me, and nothing changed.”
“You let that woman kill a guy.”
“That guy murdered me,” I said.
“Do you know what she did to him? Did you see it? Did you read the story in the newspaper?”
“Don’t care anymore,” I said.
“Okay. So why follow people? Come on. Don’t lie. I know what you’re doing. A whisper here and a little push there…”
“Most of the ones I choose are already suicidal. All they want is a word of encouragement, to let go and fall.”
“Oh, please, don’t play the altruist,” he said.
“I do it for myself, too. It feels—almost like a feeling,” I told him. “It’s better than floating empty all the time.”
“Some of us find things to do.”
“Great,” I said. “Spend eternity trying on expensive suits. You’re practically a goddamn TV angel.”
“Okay,” he said. “Okay. I gave it a shot. (Pun intended, by the way.) I tried to help.”
“You don’t have to help me. I don’t need you, or anybody.”
“I know,” he said. “I know. Tough as nails,
that’s you. All right, then, Greta, take care of yourself.”
“Will do,” I said. His sad smile told me something was going on, more than the usual friendly brush-off before I’d see him again at some random bus stop.
“What’s the deal?” I asked.
“I found her.”
“Who?”
“The woman who gave me an overdose in the hospital,” he said. “She wasn’t a real nurse and I only saw her once, so it took time to track her down.”
“Do you feel better, now that you’ve returned the favor?”
“Oh, no,” he said. “I didn’t kill her.”
I needed a cigarette for this one. Lee Todd lit one for each of us.
“Why not?”
“She was a mess,” he said. “I tracked her from a hospital parking lot…”
“Is that where you’ve been hanging out?” I had to laugh. “For how long?”
Lee Todd pushed the boater high on his forehead. It was ridiculous.
“I was hoping to solve a mystery,” he said. “Assuming this pale, sad woman was masquerading as a nurse and murdering patients for a reason, for some kind of profit, beyond pleasure—that was my mistake.
“In outdoor light, even in the rain, I could see her uniform was frayed at the hem and seams. She had a dirt stain on her right hip. She walked stiffly and she grunted when she climbed into her car. She was in pain.
“The backseat was full of takeout food cartons and aluminum cans. I took the passenger’s seat and watched her drive. She was one of those people who sing along under their breath to every song on the radio, too shy to really belt it out. Probably somebody told her, once upon a time, she had a terrible voice. She did, too. She sang off-key. She smelled like French fries and dog hair.
“Her house was rank but also bare and cold and ugly. She watched TV from a futon and fell asleep on it. The yard was nothing but dirt and gravel.”
I couldn’t believe it. “You let your killer live because she had a crummy house?”
“Yeah,” he said. “And a crummy life, a crummy car. Nobody wanted to spend even one minute with this broad. I’ll bet nobody had touched her in twenty years. I felt sorry for her.”
“You’re insane,” I said.
“I’m fading.”
“Sorry?”
“Haven’t you noticed?” he asked. “You’re getting bolder, more distinct, all the time. I’m fading. Greta, I think this is how it’s supposed to be.”
“Fading?”
“Letting go. We’re meant to let go. We’re not supposed to be here.”
I hated the idea. It sounded like my life—standing back, slipping out the back door, living in shadows, and never getting anywhere. Now that I was dead, my impulse was to move, to reach out, to catch one of these fast-paced bodies by the elbow and send him hurtling down the stairs. I was becoming a fan of the sounds a person’s demise could make—the splash and burble, the final shriek of recognition, the crack of a skull on the pavement—all of it was deeply satisfying and more intimate than any relationship I’d ever known.
“If you need me after this, you know, I won’t be here,” he said.
“Good,” I told him, and exited the bus at the next corner.
I didn’t thank him. I didn’t say goodbye. I didn’t owe him anything. I just left him there, surrounded by strangers, to finish fading away.
Eve had fallen in love with the Japanese garden at the Arboretum. By the time I ventured there to check up on her, I couldn’t have lured her away if I’d wanted to. I swear it was because the woman didn’t get out nearly enough when she was alive. She was more reclusive than me, and that’s saying a lot. Her first time really playing outdoors, without anxiety or responsibility, she was hooked.
In the Japanese garden her favorite thing was creeping up on tourists with a cold breeze or a whooshing noise. She perfected the art of making people feel like the air was passing right through them. It freaked most of them out, especially when it was followed by a woman’s reedy voice wafting up from the bamboo under the footbridge calling, “Where are youuuuuuuu?”
I considered telling her what Lee Todd had done, how he had chosen not to kill anyone, and now he was free, or blank, or whatever it was that wasn’t lingering here anymore. But what was the point? Eve had killed Fucky-Face out of spite, thanks to me. I didn’t help but I didn’t try to stop her. It was done, Eve was a goner, a loser, a spirit attached to a place with nothing to do except mess with the living.
I don’t know what happened to her after that. For all I know she’s still there, scaring the shit out of children and ruining their parents’ vacation.
The next time I checked up on Nate he had a ridiculous suntan and a new condo. Apparently he had become the voice of his generation, unashamed of ambition, unapologetic about his intentions. Why apologize when you’ve got a book contract and a journalism award for a series of articles about software kings in Silicon Valley?
In his penthouse in a newly refurbished art deco building downtown every surface gleamed. The polished wood floor didn’t creak. I know because I tried every inch of it. I also tried putting a crack in the marble kitchen countertop but it was a waste of time.
“He was just, he was a great guy, a great guy to work with, and a great guy to know,” Nate told the dailies and the reporter from NPR when he was asked about Carl. “Honestly, I thought he would be the next, you know, the next Rupert Murdoch. He was such an energetic guy, and he had a lot of potential. Seeing him end up like that was a shock, yeah, it was a tragedy for Carl and for his family, and for all of us, really. Goes to show, you never can predict how life will turn out, right? Make the most of it, seize the moment, all of those clichés, you know? I was just lucky—I felt lucky—no, I feel lucky to have known him. Very lucky, every day, and grateful, you know what I mean? And I can’t thank him enough for the boost Boom City gave to my career at a crucial moment.”
In whatever amount of time had passed since I let Fucky-Face murder Carl, all the wrong things had taken place, one after another. Carl’s death—he was found at the bottom of a stairwell with his head turned completely backward—destroyed his parents.
Daisy returned from Portland to write an investigative piece but Carl’s father threatened a lawsuit her paper couldn’t afford to fight. Daisy tore through her notebooks, interviewed a hundred people, followed my tracks and Carl’s and Eve’s, to no avail. Understandably, she couldn’t make sense of the incredibly stupid events of spring, 1994, in Seattle, and soon enough a much bigger news story would break. A real celebrity running from the law, a slow-speed chase on the freeway in California, and every journalist in the country had to follow.
Eventually Daisy joined her brother on an expedition to Alaska, reporting on the melting polar ice caps and its effects on wildlife.
Fucky-Face was never found and her friends argued for years about whether she was dead or had simply run away from her sad life to start fresh somewhere else. This was partially true. The new Safeway and adjoining parking lot in Bremerton became her forever home. Sometimes I envy her. At least she got out of the city after she avenged herself.
Actually, she had help. Fucky-Face’s physical transportation was managed by two men in black sweat suits. At one a.m. the day after her death, these men tossed four plastic trash bags into the solidifying foundation of the new Safeway in Bremerton, fifteen miles east of Seattle, the other side of Elliott Bay. But this was not all of Fucky-Face. A fifth trash bag fell from a return ferry that night. The bag slipped into the bay and quickly sank. Weighted with broken marbles and rocks and shaped like a small handbag, it settled down deep with the rotten canoes and tide-stripped skeletons of ancient Duwamish, a name which roughly translates into ‘the city dwellers.’
Thanks to the news reports, Vaughn became certain I had killed myself. Nothing could change his conviction that I was harboring dark secrets and suffering from this or that condition. In the spring of 2002 he launched a ne
w show, nothing like his previous work, a drama about a 20-something struggling with mental illness. It was his first big hit. He won a local award, and then a regional award. A producer contacted him and offered to take the show to New York. There was a workshop followed by a production. In 2005, through absolutely no fault of my own, I was the toast of Broadway.
Speaking of toast, Boom City dwindled and died over the summer of 1994. Nate dumped the paper when Carl died, and moved on to bigger prospects. At first Carl’s father couldn’t bring himself to shut the place down. Steve tried to keep it going with the O.J. Simpson story but he had too much competition. Pretty soon, even the people who used to pick up the paper as a joke moved on. There were much better papers on offer, and 24-hour broadcast news was more exciting.
Steve took a job maintaining the database in the circulation department at the Weekly. He stayed in touch with the minions, and mourned the death of each one over the years. The ones who did away with themselves became part of the sludge, the black fungus only the dead could see, crawling up the sides of old buildings, murmuring in tongues, still unloved and misunderstood. Only the creeping tide of new construction can put them to rest, their remains scrubbed away by bleach or sealed with cement.
Nothing gave me the satisfaction I was seeking. Some people call it closure. Others call it revenge. Here’s what I call it. My whole life was one stupid fucking anti-climax, like most lives, if you think about it. The cycles of birth, screwing around, and death are random, meaningless events. People pray, or fuck, or traipse all over the world making a mess and calling it adventure, and these things give them the illusion of meaning. Having a baby, or ten babies, is nothing but a shield against the void.
People who wallow in comfort, in good wine and delicious cuisine, are a little less stupid than everyone else. At least they squander their lives doing what feels good.
I Wish I Was Like You Page 23