Epitaph

by James Siegel

  That shut Mr. Brickman up-but only temporarily. He began, instead, to point out all the probable muggers among their fellow bus passengers-which was every man between fifteen and fifty who exhibited the slightest signs of antisocial behavior: not talking to the person next to them, or talking too much to the person next to them, or rolling their eyes, or dropping their chin, or cracking their knuckles, or biting their nails, or sleeping, or, more ominously, pretending to sleep-which just about, ladies and gentlemen, convicted each and every man on the bus. Muggers all.

  And ladies and gentlemen, here's the amazing thing. William might have dismissed it with a condescending smile, he might have, all things being equal, but all things weren't equal; Mr. Brickman was old and they weren't, Mr. Brickman was old and so was he. And now that he'd been suitably reminded of that, he found himself scanning the would-be Murderers Row right along with Mr. Brickman, listening to his commentary with a judicious ear, and wondering if maybe that one did look a little suspicious, if that other one did have some bad intentions hiding somewhere behind his seemingly harmless demeanor. The problem with the younger ones was they all looked like that now-like hoods, they all had the hood look. Looking dangerous was in fashion-even your face had to look dangerous, you had to have the sneer. The problem was, some of those sneering delinquents were grade A honor students, but okay, some weren't- some of them were the Puerto Rican kid who'd spit in his face. The problem was, the only way to tell them apart was to wait until one of them knocked you down and the other one picked you up and walked you across the street. No doubt about it, this getting-old thing was tough-you had to be able to see a little keener just when your eyesight was walking out the door.

  Then too, there was the way they looked at you. Or didn't. William had become aware of that only gradually, the way you gradually become aware that you've grown fat-one article of clothing after another growing tighter till suddenly they're all tight, too tight to wear, and you have to stop blaming it on shrinkage, on that stupid Chinese cleaners down the block, and face facts. That's sort of the way William discovered that he'd grown invisible. That he'd become, without the slightest help from Claude Rains, the Invisible Man. No doubt about it. He'd walk down the street and no one saw him. No one. And the older he got, the more invisible he became. To pretty girls, attractive women, to homely women, to just about every variety of woman there was, he'd suddenly ceased to exist. That's what he'd noticed first. Then he noticed men weren't seeing him either. Most men. They saw through him, around him, behind him, but not him. Which is just the way most people see the old-they don't, and the ones that do generally have something bad on their minds, like rearranging your face.

  Back to Mr. Brickman's fear then; it was a real fear. William felt it, and being old, he caught it, and catching it, he was forced to sit with it for the entire twenty- minute ride into Flushing. Right now they were passing over Flushing Bridge, the river beneath them so pumped full of pollutants it resembled one of those tar pits, handy graveyards for numerous woolly mammoths. This one had swallowed cars though, cars and washing machines and garden hoses and rusted train tracks. There was a sandpit warehouse right at its edge, but the river refused to reflect it, or its clock, which was frozen, had been frozen for years, at precisely 2:17. It was like a reminder, that clock-that the only way to stop time was to drop dead.

  The library was dim, and considering the lack of working air-conditioning, surprisingly cool. It had the look and feel of a church-the same portentous quiet, the same expression of serene contemplation on the faces of the adults there. The non-adults looked about the same too-they looked like they'd rather be somewhere else. Mr. Brickman looked like he'd rather be somewhere else too-back in Astoria on his home turf. William felt a little like a transgressor here himself-he hadn't been to a library in years, or, in fact, to a church either. The sound of his cane echoed through the rows of books causing reader after reader to look up at him as if he'd made a particularly rude noise. Once they'd seen him though, or not seen him, it was back to the books in a flash.

  The librarian, a long-haired young man who seemed imprisoned by his tie and jacket, walked over to offer his assistance-either that, or to tell him to get out. It was hard to tell from his expression, which was decidedly neutral. But courtesy won out.

  "What can I do for you?" he asked.

  Everything, William was tempted to say. Only everything. But he restrained himself. Instead, he took the list of numbers that was folded in his hand, Jean's numbers, and dropped it onto the counter, flattening it out as if it were a road map and he was in need of directions. Which, as a matter of fact, he was. For I'm lost, he might have said. I'm lost and I need to know where I am and where the place is that I'm looking for. And I have to know how to get there, that too, I have to know the route.

  But what he actually said was: "These are call numbers. Do you think you can tell me where they are?"

  Mr. Brickman, who was peeking over his shoulder said: "What are they… novels?"

  "Periodicals," the librarian said. "I'll have to look downstairs. Take a seat."

  So they sat. Mr. Brickman drumming his fingers on the table, William doing his own sort of rat-ta-tat-tat in his head, Shankin to Waldron to Ross, wondering exactly what periodicals Jean had been so interested in, and why.

  Then the librarian was back upstairs, two magazines in his hand and an apologetic expression on his bemused face. No doubt about it-if it was possible to be both, both amused and sorry, he was.

  "One magazine isn't here anymore," he said.

  Okay, William thought, that took care of the I'm sorry part.

  "Here's the other two," he said, dropping them on the table.

  Which took care of the I'm amused part.

  The first magazine was called Tattoo and had some sort of biker chick on the cover. The second magazine was called Healthy Skin and had some sort of Swedish chick on the cover. Those were the periodicals he'd asked for. He'd have been amused himself, if he hadn't been in pain and hadn't been in need of answers and hadn't been at the short end of the rope. He'd have smiled too-the way Mr. Brickman was smiling, or trying not to.

  "What gives?" Mr. Brickman said.

  Yes, what gives? The Table of Contents-that gives. It gives the contents. The contents it gave of Tattoo were "Biker Babe of the Month-Inside Foldout." "Snakes, Scorpions, and Scythes-The Tattoo Artists of San Fran." And "Getting Your Last Year's Girlfriend Out of Your Heart and Off of Your Chest-The Off and Ons of Tattoo Removal."

  And what did the Table of Contents of Healthy Skin give? It gave these contents: "Sun or No Sun-The Latest Facts." "Cucumbers-Myth or Miracle?" "How to Pamper Your Derriere." And "Tattoos-The Newest in Laser Removal."

  So, all in all, they gave a lot. They gave William what he'd asked for back in that Florida hotel room. For Jean to show him the way. And Jean had, he had. He'd tapped him on the elbow and said I will talk to you. If you listen, I will tell.

  TWENTY

  M r. Weeks looked even paler than before, like fine white china, the kind your aunt makes you eat from on Sunday visits, the kind that breaks into bits at the slightest pressure of your hand. You've got to be careful with china like that. He let William in without a word, as if he'd been expecting him to show up at any moment, as if they visited each other on a regular basis to discuss what's wrong with the world. Mr. Brickman had been left downstairs to wait for him, partly because he still had no idea what William was up to, and partly because strangers weren't exactly welcome in Weeksville.

  "Your leg…?" Mr. Weeks said, after William had gently eased himself into a chair.

  "Something's broken," William answered.

  "Ah." Mr. Weeks nodded, as if he'd expected as much.

  The room felt pretty much like it did the last time he was here, like a crawl space; William had to resist the temptation to duck. The air tasted medicinal, gritty as soot, and William noticed yet another drape had been plastered against the window. Mr. Weeks was fighting a war, William tho
ught, but Mr. Weeks was losing. It was World-100. Weeks-0.

  "What can I do for you?" Weeks said.

  "Well, I've got a question."

  "Sure."

  "Just a little one."

  "Okay."

  "Just a little one about something you said last time."

  "I'm listening."

  "You were talking about that night he came in looking like a ghost, the night he told you he had the biggest case of his life. Remember?"

  "Yes. I remember."

  "Then you said you didn't see much of him after that. That's the way you put it. Right so far? You saw a lot less of him, you said. Except for twice. Once, when he came back from Miami and dumped that file on you. And one other time. Before that. When he came in to borrow some medicine. Recall that, Mr. Weeks? Those were your words, right? That he came in to borrow some medicine because he'd burnt himself cooking."

  "Yeah."

  Mr. Weeks was looking just a little edgy now, not like he was going to make a dash for it or anything. Just like he was thinking about it. But then, there wasn't anywhere to g°.

  "Jean cooked a lot then?"

  "Now and again."

  "Really? What was he cooking that night?"

  "Don't know."

  "Well, what did he burn himself on? The hot plate maybe? The stove?"

  "He didn't say."

  "Okay, he didn't say. What did he say?"

  "I'm not following…"

  "Sure you are. You're following along fine. He came in to borrow some medicine. Because he'd burnt himself. That's what he said, right?"

  "Right."

  "He burnt himself cooking."

  "Uh huh."

  "But who knows what he was cooking that night. Could've been anything, right? Maybe his specialty."

  "I didn't ask."

  "What did you ask?"

  "I asked him how I could help him."

  "Sure. You were good at helping him, weren't you. That was your specialty. Take my file, Weeks, he said, and you did. Like that. Tell no one, he said. And you didn't. Until me of course. What did he want you to help him with that night?"

  "I told you. He burnt himself. He wanted medicine."

  "That's right. Bet it was a bad burn too. How did he burn himself so badly?"

  "I told you." Yeah, Mr. Weeks was definitely not a happy camper now. "He burnt himself cooking."

  "Okay. When I went to Jean's funeral, know what I did, Mr. Weeks?"

  Mr. Weeks shook his head. He didn't know.

  "I shook his hand. Honest to God. I wasn't supposed to open the coffin either. It was closed-those were the directions. So why did I do it? Why? There's a famous line about this old Brooklyn Dodger-I forget his name- Max something. No one liked this guy. He was a bully and a drunk and he used to piss off the sportswriters no end. Until the day he got old and was told he was traded, gone, just like that. Then he all of a sudden got friendly. And you know what one of these writers said? He said, Poor old Max. He's finally saying hello when he ought to be saying goodbye. Well, I guess I was saying hello. Understand?"

  Mr. Weeks nodded this time. He understood.

  "I was saying hello, fine. Only I had this weird feeling that it wasn't Jean in there. Yeah, I know it's crazy- I know it was Jean in there. But he didn't look like Jean. I couldn't figure out why. Not really. Not until today."

  Mr. Weeks was looking down at his wrist. That's right, Mr. Weeks. That's right.

  "You know, Jean never, ever, hid it. Just the opposite. He wore short sleeves in summer. Always. Even in winter he'd roll his sleeves up to the elbow-screw the temperature. So it was always there for anyone to see. Anyone did. If you met him, or talked to him, or hired him, you saw them. His numbers were out in the open, his souvenir from the Germans, yes? But here's what I remembered today. Here's why he looked funny to me. When I shook his hand at the funeral home, they weren't there. That's right. Gone, poof, not a sign of them. Okay, I admit it-the other funny thing was I didn't even notice it. Not at first, not then. Not until today. But today I did. Today I remembered. Jean burnt himself, sure he did-but he didn't burn himself broiling a fillet, did he? Did he, Mr. Weeks? He burnt off his numbers. Jean went somewhere. Jean went somewhere and had those numbers burnt off his arm."

  Mr. Weeks remained silent, like his tomb of a room, dead quiet. But among the things he didn't say was you're wrong. You're mistaken. You're telling tales. Mr. Weeks was quiet, but Mr. Weeks wouldn't shut up.

  "Okay," William said. "Okay. So where'd he go? The family doctor, the neighborhood dermatologist, the local tattoo parlor. Where?"

  "A clinic."

  So. Weeks speaks.

  "A clinic? What kind of clinic?"

  Mr. Weeks sighed, a good and heavy sigh, a sigh that sounded like the last gust of a passing thunderstorm.

  "A bad kind," he said, "that's what kind. They did some job on him. They used acid-okay."

  "Did he tell you he was going to do that?"

  "No." Weeks shook his head. "It was just like I told you. I hadn't seen him for weeks. Then one night he knocked on my door. He was in a lot of pain. He showed me his arm and told me what he'd done. I was a medic in the war so I knew it was bad. Even if I hadn't been a medic, I'd have known. It was infected. They'd burnt his skin off but they'd left it exposed. He needed attention."

  "So you gave it to him."

  "I told him to go to a doctor. I told him to go to one immediately."

  "But he didn't."

  "No. He thought that was funny. I've already been to a doctor, he said. He thought everything was funny that night. He was… manic, possessed almost, you understand? He wanted me to fix him up, no one else."

  "So you did."

  "Yeah. As best I could. I have a first aid kit here, quite a large one. I don't go out, so I have to, you understand. Just in case."

  Just in case the gumshoe gourmet had a cooking accident.

  "I cleaned it out and put a salve on it. Then I wrapped it up good and gave him some penicillin. He was lucky, that's all. It worked."

  "Yeah," William said. "He died, but not of that." Mr. Weeks didn't have the fans going today; it felt as if he were sitting inside a collapsed tent-that's what it felt like. "Okay, Mr. Weeks. He came to you screaming in pain and you fixed him up and you sent him on his merry way. Now bear with me-here's the sixty-four- thousand-dollar question. Why? Why, after all those years, did Jean go and do that?"

  "He said he'd earned it. That's what he said."

  He'd earned it.

  "Okay-I give up. Earned it how?"

  "He didn't say."

  "What did he say? Don't tell a soul, Weeks? It's between you and me? Be a pal? Let's just say I burnt myself cooking?"

  "He said he'd earned it. I thought he'd earned the right to keep it to himself."

  So, William thought. It hadn't been Jean who'd made him promise. Weeks had made a promise to himself, and Weeks had gone and kept it.

  "I don't know why he burnt his numbers off," Weeks said. "I don't know why after fifty years it was suddenly so important to him. He didn't ask me to understand him. He just asked me to listen to him."

  Mr. Weeks was certainly odd and maybe even crazy, William thought, but he was loyal as they come. And in this world, at this time, that had to count for something. Sure it did. He couldn't imagine what Jean had done to deserve Mr. Weeks's loyalty, probably not much, other than to visit him occasionally and remain careful not to laugh at him. But it had been enough, more than enough for Weeks, who'd gone in like a faithful hound to bury his master's secrets. He'd taken the photos and he'd taken the file, and he would have taken this last secret to the grave with him. That too. The only thing more surprising than humanity, William thought, is the human beings it's wasted on.

  He used the cane to lift himself up off the chair.

  "Thanks, Mr. Weeks."

  Weeks blinked at him. "What for?"

  "When I find out, I'll tell you."

  This time, the doorman didn't wave him t
hrough like a ticket-taker. This time he made him wait.

  "Miss Coutrino has company," he said, with something resembling a sneer, then went back to his newspaper.

  Okay, the sneer spoke volumes. Thin ones though, with titles like People I Am Better Than and People I Look Down On. People like Johns, and old Johns doubly so. And even though William was a William, and not a John, he had no intention of protesting today. He was tired, okay, he was tired and he was hot and he was old. Yes he was, no doubt about it, and getting older by the second.

  His reflection sat directly across from him framed in gilt, like a still outside the old Bijou, from a horror matinee perhaps. The Creature from Astoria maybe, or the Phantom of Forest Hills. Okay, maybe he was being a bit too harsh here, he didn't look quite that bad. Not like the monster yet, just the monster's assistant-the one who limps after the mad doctor with a hump on his back. Only William was carrying something else on his back, a burden of a slightly different kind, although every bit as debilitating.

  Among his burdens, in fact, was Mr. Brickman, who'd been dumped off again like an unwanted child. At an ice cream parlor this time, with instructions to wait, his suspicions only half mollified by William's insistence that he was simply visiting a shut-in who disliked company. Which described Mr. Weeks to a T, though not Miss Eat Your Heart Out at all. These things were getting pretty interchangeable though, his bag of lies, getting where one would do just as well as the other.

  He waited over twenty minutes, or until a rather flushed-looking businessman came striding out through the lobby, or actually slinking through it, looking neither left or right, but more or less down at his shoes. Maybe business hadn't been good today, maybe he hadn't closed the deal quite the way he'd imagined, or maybe like any good businessman he was just wary of competitors.

  The doorman let him through now, the sneer still amazingly intact, as if it were frozen on.

  "Oh," was the very first thing she said. "It's you."

  She was dressed for business too, which meant half dressed, black spike heels and a leather skirt up to there. Her blouse was unbuttoned to her navel, and the faintest sweat covered her cheeks.