All Gone

by Stephen Dixon

  I said to her “You sure you didn’t see what you think you saw on this corner or the corner of Bridge and Sixth or what?” and she said “I’m not certain for sure now, sir, all I know is I saw them, two heads.” I said “Well, which is the way you normally walk to work from home?” and she said “That’s a good way to approach it, beginning the way I walk to work. I usually walk never through this way but one of the other ways, either around the outskirts of the park going right when I reach the park’s entrance at Fourth and River, or straight through it meaning cutting through the park’s middle path straight down it like I’m cutting the park in half till I get to Sixth and Bridge. But never this way going left along River past Fifth to Sixth Street and then down to Bridge, never once, don’t ask me why. It’s no doubt the same distance going first left instead of right, but to me in my mind it seems longer. And I only do go first right around it when I’ve an extra few minutes or two to kill and I don’t want to just cut straight through or when the middle path’s suspicious-looking with people, even when I’m in a hurry or late for work, which is usually why I cut straight through though also at times to hear the sounds and smell the trees.” “What do you say we try the two corners we haven’t tried yet?” I said and the other three nodded as if to say “What do we have to lose as nothing’s going to turn up?” and she said “Maybe it is one of those other two. Could be. I at least passed them before. But not here’s where I saw those two heads, no sirs. I mean, officers.”

  I’d seen two things in the grass that looked funny. They looked like human heads. Sticking out of the grass. As if growing out of it. I couldn’t believe it. My eyes again, I thought. At first I was startled. Then skeptical of my vision and then I really couldn’t believe it when I looked again and thought I saw the same thing. Glasses, I should repair my glasses. Get them repaired I mean. Then walked toward them. An optical illusion of some kind, I was convinced, or whatever those things are in the desert that look like one thing but aren’t anything, but sure as breathing my eyes playing tricks. Or nature playing tricks. That’s what they are in the desert: both nature and your eyes playing tricks together or on one another at one time. Or just rocks looking like heads. That’s more likely. This was no desert. But I was wrong. They were heads. I got my own head down close enough to lick them. A man and a woman. On the ground, tucked in the grass. Not easy to detect. Maybe easier for someone with better eyes. But up close easy enough to detect. Looking like two people buried up to their necks. Rather one of them up to his chin, the woman up to her neck. It was a horrible sight. I don’t see how I can say that so dispassionately. Passively, I mean. One of those two words. Maybe another. But how can I think about words when I talk of those heads? That’s because it happened before. How the human bean does forget. Half an hour ago or more. But there they were. And I’ll tell you: still pretty much there now in my head. Woman with her eyes open, man’s eyes closed. This I’ll never forget: both facing one another, lips close enough to kiss. I’d even call it a kiss. Someone had put them there as a joke. When this someone had set up the heads I mean, for certainly decapitating, and that’s the word, two heads, is no joke. I thought: must get the police. Thought: I really should yell my fool head off for help. Thought: now there’s one accidental joke of my own. Thought: those poor people, these poor heads. For I really didn’t know what they were, what name to give them.

  Were they married, man and wife? Brother and sister then? Not married, brother and sister, or just friend and friend? Strangers to one another till they met if they ever did meet? Thought: enemies? Maybe enemy and friend. Poor heads. Where were their spirits now? Underground? Circling around my knees? Floating away? Already there if there’s a there? All that’s what I thought then. Or maybe the spirits were still in these heads. Does it take them five minutes to go, ten? But even if I knew how long it takes spirits to go, I’d also, to know if they were gone, have to know how long these heads have been here. But these poor people or heads. Still my thoughts from before. In the grass just sitting there. Sitting heads. Like sitting ducks. That made no sense then and doesn’t now. A boy came over. “What you looking at, mister?” I said “Go away.” He said “Why, you find anything valuable?” I said “It’s something I don’t want you looking at, so go away.” “I don’t want to go away. What is it?” “You want to be useful to me, call the police.” “Call them for what?” “For something you don’t want to see in the grass.” “What’s in the grass?” “Something you don’t want to see.” “And what’s that?” “How old are you?” “Sixteen.” “I thought you were younger.” “I was younger but I’m younger no more. I’m sixteen going on seventeen.” “When going on seventeen?” “Soon.” “When soon?” “Three months. Three months and two weeks and a single day if you have to know. A Tuesday. June 15th.” “I wasn’t contradicting you.” “They why you pumping me dry on it?” “No, you’re sixteen, going on seventeen. Just small.” “That’s what I told you. I don’t lie.” “I wasn’t accusing you of lying.” “You were acting like it.” “I wasn’t even acting like it.” “Then you were getting around to acting like it then.” “I wasn’t even doing that.” “What’s in the grass?” “Yes, you’re old enough to see. But first I want to warn you about what it is so you won’t get shocked.” “I don’t get shocked. Out of my way.” He brushed me aside. Not hard, not light. And said “Good God, two heads. I think I know them too. No, I don’t know them. They look like they’re buried alive up to their heads.” “That’s the image I felt.” “And kissing. Why would someone do that?” “Will you get the police for me now?” “You get them. I’ll stand guard.” “You won’t touch them, move them an inch?” I said. “Who’d want to touch two dead heads?” “We can both get in big trouble if you do.” “I said I won’t. Just go.” “And don’t make it obvious to anyone else what we have hidden here. I don’t think there should be a crowd.” “I might look weird, but I’m not. I wouldn’t want anyone else to see.” “Then I’m going,” I said. “Whatever you do, please don’t stay on my account.”

  I’m looking out the window. It’s the nice time of the day. The only time around now where the sun shines through into my apartment. So I like to be at the window if I can and take it in on my face. So I’m at the window. Taking in the sun. It seems very cold out. People in their heaviest coats. Cold breaths blowing before them when they walk and talk. Dripping mist on my glass. When I see an old man push a young man and the young man push the old man back. Right down at the corner of the park at Fourth and Bridge. Oh oh, fight. Now they’re pushing one another back and forth and even harder the next time till the young man knocks the old man down with a two-hand shove. I go to the phone. I didn’t see who first started it, but if it was the old man knocking the young one down I don’t think I’d complain. But the young people. When they start knocking the old ones down for any reason, look out. So I’m at the phone. Receiver in my hand and dialing Operator, but the phone seems dead. “Operator, Operator,” I say into it but get no response. I click the phone clicker several times, which almost never works to get them, and still no response. I go back to the window. Two squad cars are already there, four policemen and a lady stepping out. Mental telepathy, I think. Or whatever, but who’s the lady? The young man’s mother? The old man’s sister or wife? The young man’s mother and old man’s sister or wife? A policeman picks the old man up. He’d fallen on his back. Lucky it wasn’t his face he’d fallen on, or if on his side, his hip that was hurt. He has eyeglasses. He’s rubbing them, so they weren’t broke. Then he points the glasses at the young man. The young man points his finger back. They both point at one another, then rush one another with their hands out as if they’re going to strangle each other’s necks. They’re broken up by the police. Both men point farther into the park. All of them, police, two men and lady walk a few steps farther into the park and seem to surround a patch of ground and look down. The lady sort of collapses slowly to her knees, as if she didn’t want to get them hurt. The old man stops her from f
alling sideways on her back. While he’s still holding her on her knees, the old and young man shake hands. So all’s forgiven there, at least temporarily, for I’m sure the police had something to do with that. The lady’s helped to a police car by the old man, so maybe she is his sister or wife. She isn’t the young man’s mother, as he just stays with the police in that circle they’re around, smoking very calmly his cigarette. A crowd forms. Some people I know, some I don’t. Mrs. Riner. A notorious busybody, so of course she was the first to come. I can think what she’s saying. Lots of questions. And is told and sort of showed by that young man, it seems, and scoots away holding her mouth as if if she didn’t she’d lose it. What’s going on? Now they got me curious. More squad cars. A green police truck. An ambulance and intern or hospital worker from it hurrying over with a black box. The police roping off the corner of the park and pushing back the crowd now as big as one for a fire. I’d like to go downstairs. I could go downstairs. Why don’t I go downstairs? All it takes is a couple of sweaters and my coat and furry boots and hat and it’s not going to be over by the time I get there. I put on my outside clothes and boots. I’m leaving the apartment when the phone rings. The phone’s working, I think. I pick it up. It’s my son. “How are you, Mom?” “Fine as usual,” I say. “Just called to say hello and see how you’re doing.” “Doing fine, thank you.” “Everything all right?” “Everything’s about as usual, thank you.” “Turned kind of cold again all of a sudden, wouldn’t you say?” “It’s still winter.” “But it was so pleasant for a couple of days, almost shirt-sleeve weather, and then cold as anything when I left for work. I hate it.” “I haven’t been out yet so I don’t know.” “You should get out. If just for a walk around the block for exercise, even if it’s cold.” “I was on my way out when you called.” “Am I holding you up?” “It’ll wait.” “You know, I called before and got this strange humming sound from your phone and no ringing. The operator, who I later asked to reach you since I couldn’t, said your phone was out of order.” “It was.” “That’s what she said. It made me worry a little. I knew if your phone was out of order for a long time, you’d let me know because you’d know I’d be a little worried if I called you for a long time and found your phone didn’t work.” “I would.” “That’s what I thought. I just wanted to make sure. But it made me worry a little.” “You know the phone services these days.” “I’ll say.” “Okay I’ll let you go now, Dan. And thank you for calling.” “Take care, Mom.” I go downstairs.

  “Mrs. Nichols?” “I know what it’s for, officer.” “Are you Mrs. Nichols?” “Of course, and I know why you’re here. Let me see to my stove and I’ll be right along with you.” “We don’t want you getting upset, but it’s about two of your tenants.” “Mr. and Mrs. James. Or Mr. James and Miss Abbot or whatever she began calling herself then. Ms. She favored Ms. she told me. I know all about it. In the park at River and Fourth Streets.” “Bridge and Fourth. I want to ask you a few questions.” “Of course you do. Sticking out like cabbages on a platter, Mrs. Solis said—I didn’t see the heads myself. Or like she said she thinks cabbages must look like that when they grow on the ground. They weren’t nice people.” “I’m going to show you some photographs we made. We thought the trip to the morgue would be too grim for a person to take.” “Oh, I can take it. Those two—I had no personal attachments to them. They gave me the rent, each one every other, and if I was lucky around Christmas they said ‘Hello, how are you?’ but mostly slipped it under the door. I didn’t hate them, mind you. They weren’t nice people and they made lots of noise with their music and parties and trouble for me against the tenants and eventually the landlord against me and the tenants against the landlord and me and then this building against the next building and the city if you can believe it, till I didn’t know where it would end. And at first I was on their side. I’m a poor working person also—everyone knows a super doesn’t make much. I get my rent and some extra dollars a month for bringing out the garbage cans and channeling the tenants’ complaints for repairs I can’t do. My husband did, but he absconded with a month of rents, the police said—it’s in your records—and never was found or came back. The whole building’s. The landlord was kind enough to keep me on.” “Look at these photographs, please.” “You don’t have to show them to me. I know it’s them.” “I want you to look at these photographs.” “But I heard. Two people alone in this building were at the park and saw the heads before they were taken away. Mrs. Solis I mentioned and the Ballards’ son Tom.” “Is this Miss Abbot, or Mrs. James as she was also known as?” “They weren’t married.” “I know it’s hard, Mrs. Nichols, but please look at this.” “It’s not hard. That’s her.” “And is this Mr. James?” “He was the worst of the pair. Neither was nice, though I think she could have been, without him, but he was a troublemaker born through. His clothes—his beard—everything: he was a mess.” “Is this him?” “No, that’s not him.” “This isn’t your 2A tenant, Timothy James?” “Well I never saw him with his eyes closed so or hair combed.” “Take one more look.” “I’m looking and still don’t see.” “Would you mind then coming with me for a closer observation?” “Not at all.” “You’re not required to, you know.” “Don’t be silly. I’ll get my coat and turn off the stove.”

  Let me just read to you how their letter ends. “To sum up, your son, Timothy J. Burns, was found dead with a female friend, both their heads surgically removed by an unknown assailant. Every means within our power has been employed and will continue to be employed in finding the killer or killers involved in this brutal crime, but so far with little success. You have our deepest regrets. And it is also only with our deepest regrets that we were unable to ascertain till now where Mr. Burns’ family lived, for, unfortunately, there were no records of any kind in the city under Mr. Burns’ surname, as he was known almost exclusively as Timothy X. James.” It’s addressed to both of them—that’s how much they know. But how can I show it to him? One after the other, bing-bang, though actually Timothy’s first, though his might as well be postdating Mom’s with Dad theoretically just getting the news. I’m going to shelve it for now and let him think Tim’s taken an extended vacation to one of his distant lands as he was always planning to and will one day be popping in on him soon with all sorts of souvenirs. Dad’s not going to last much longer. And later on, when it comes to divvying up whatever’s left of the estate and if there is any insurance on Tim, I’ll drag out this old letter and explain to the lawyer and insurance company alike why I couldn’t for Dad’s sake submit it in to them till then. But what do you think? I can’t go ahead without also your say-so, for no matter what you maintain, you’re as much a member of this family as me.

  “Mr. Hirsch?” “Yes.” “Fine. I’m calling about your wife, Tina Hirsch, also going by Tina Abbot, Bettina or Tina Abbotman, Bettina or Tina or T. J. James.” “Never James. That she only used to get their apartment and for welfare.” “I’m calling about her.

  I’m afraid I’ve bad news.” “If you tell me she croaked, that’s not bad news. If you tell me she almost croaked or was shot, butchered and raped but somehow survived, now that’s bad news. Anything else about her but her final departing I don’t want to hear. I am not responsible. Get that? I in fact took out one of those no-longer-responsible ads in our newspaper to that effect, and can get the date and page for you if you’ll hold on. She left me. The courts know that. We’re still legally married but legally separated and in three weeks’ time will be legally divorced, with her having no legal rights to ever again see our kids. So I don’t want to hear of her. Anything there is, phone my attorney, 3621466. For to me and to the children, whatever you have to say about her, she’s dead.”

  “You think that’s bad? Shit. Once upon a time back, but you probably read it in the papers. Big stuff. But you never read the papers you say.” “Never. Always give me books.” “Well this was in the papers. Big mystery of the month. Do you like mysteries?” “That’s the type of books. Those first
and then space. Love them.” “This was called the Doubleheader Case. Something about baseball at least, happening around when spring training was ending up or the regular season just begun I think. But that was me.” “You were the Doubleheader?” “You heard of it?” “Of what? To this riddle, tell me the answer.” “There were two unidentified heads. Me. Shot them. Cut them up into nitty-bitty pieces except for the heads. The nitty parts went down the johnnies and out the car windows and over the bridge free and clear. Here a piece, there a piece, everywhere a piece-piece—just like our old Uncle Mac. The two heads I took out in a knapsack and put them where they could be found near a baseball diamond in the park.” “No hidden meaning intended?” “Why? And it wasn’t I didn’t like these kids. They seemed all right and I appreciated what they were trying to do, even though I couldn’t help them.” “I’m not really interested. Can I get back to my reading?” “Let me tell you, though, repeat a word of it and I swear you won’t be around to yap again.” “But I said I’m not interested. I’ve heard it all. I’m busy. I want to read. Heard all there is for a lifetime. I don’t want to know anyone’s secret secrets anymore, so don’t tell me a thing.” “But it’s all right for you to blab on about yourself though.” “You thought that was myself before with that dumb slut? Hell, that was what I read in this book.” “Show me where.” “It’s there. Inside. How can I find it again? One of the pages. But I only read it.” “I thought so. But this couple. They lived around the block. I’d seen them before. Very political people. Not like they held jobs in politics. Just interested in improving the city and country and enrolling people up for their new party and starting strikes and all those political goings-on. So I visited them one day, or rather they visited me.” “Which was it?” “Remember: don’t repeat anything of it.” “Forget I asked.” “They visited me. I was home and they knocked and said will I join up? Sure, baby, I said, I’ll join anything, come on in and have a good time. They had a petition they wanted me to sign. I said have a shot of whiskey with me first. They said they were in a hurry, had a thousand more names to sign up. She was very pretty, glasses and all.” “What’s wrong with glasses?” “For you, yes, but for a woman—well she was all right, I didn’t complain.” “All my sisters wear glasses and one once even modeled for television in them.” “I wasn’t insulting your sisters. I’m sure they look great in them.” “People have such prejudices about the most stupid things.” “Anyway, I was, I have to admit, a bit drunk at the time, and when she sat down—” “I have a cousin, for instance. Can’t stand women with long straight hair. It gets him right here every time. Frizzy hair, kinky or curly hair, any kind of hair but long and straight. He says all women ought to have short, wavy hair—that would be ideal. Or at least not past their shoulders, but certainly not longer than that, and absolutely not longer than that and straight. I said to him that’s ridiculous. He said no, women were not born to have long, straight hair. I told him I never heard anyplace about women or men or anyone where it says that. He said no, long, straight hair is only meant to get men attracted to them and that’s not what hair on women was meant for.”