Epitaph

by James Siegel

  "Back as a customer this time?" she said, half sarcastically, but half not. He had the impression she'd thrust just a little more white thigh out at him.

  "Afraid not." Not as a customer, or as a drunken mourner, or as a new acquaintance here to talk about the latest developments in Chechnya. "This time I'm here as a detective." And if he'd shocked her with that simple declarative statement, just imagine how it sounded to him. Faintly ridiculous, is the way it sounded, especially given that reflection of someone light-years past his prime that he'd just torn himself away from-faintly ridiculous and more than faintly pathetic. Well, in for a penny, in for a pound, he thought. Besides, he could be mistaken, but he didn't believe he'd actually heard her laugh.

  What she actually did, was say "Who hired you-Rip Van Winkle?" So, okay, maybe she did yuk-yuk just a little.

  She swung the door open though at the very same time, and let him in.

  The first thing he noticed was that she had a new carpet. Then she noticed him noticing.

  "Don't worry," she said, "I needed a new one anyway." Then she said, "You are sober this time, aren't you?"

  "Completely."

  "Of course you are. You're here as a detective this time, isn't that what you said-correct me if I'm wrong."

  Okay, he didn't much like her tone now. Laugh's a laugh, but she was starting to erode what little self- confidence he had left-her and that reflection, a brutal tag team.

  "What exactly can I do for you, detective?"

  "For starters, you can stop making fun of me. Okay- I'm old, I'm Methuselah, okay. I should be playing mah- jongg, I know. I should be in a retirement community asking Ethel how the chicken was last night. I'm not. I'm here. I've got some broken ribs and a bum toe, and that's not even going into the usual aches and pains. No one's hired me but me, but here I am and I'm pretty serious." All that was what he wanted to say.

  What he really said was: "I saw those pictures Jean took of you." Half because he felt like pricking that smug veneer and half because he needed to ask her something.

  But it didn't seem to work. She didn't look happy, okay, but she didn't look unhappy either. She looked like someone who'd just spent half an hour on her knees to some guy she despised, and was now having to listen to some other guy she didn't much care for either. It was a chore.

  "Congratulations," she said. "Did you get off on them?"

  "No."

  "Oh come on, sure you did. I've got primo legs. You haven't seen legs like that since when…?"

  "I've got a question for you, okay?"

  "Not okay. See, that's how it works in here. I tell you what's okay, and you say May I."

  "I've got a question for you."

  "I've got a question for you. Why don't you take that cane and fuck yourself with it."

  "You mad at everyone today or just me?"

  "Just you."

  "Maybe I should come back."

  "Maybe you should retire again."

  "I've got a question for you."

  "You said that already."

  "Whose idea was it?"

  "Whose idea was what?"

  "How does it work exactly? You just go pick out that outfit because you feel like Eva Braun that day. It could be the school mistress or the lady cop but you're feeling a little Aryan, so you say what the hell, I'll go for the swastika today?"

  "You did get off on those pictures, Grandpa, didn't you?"

  "Or was it him? Did he give you the day's script and say I'll play the Holocaust victim and you'll play the SS?"

  "This getting you hot?"

  "How did it work?"

  "You didn't say May I."

  "Who set the roles? Who said I'll be this and you'll be that?"

  "Who said I have to tell you?"

  "He was on a case," William said. "Remember? He was old, like me. He talked a lot, he was maybe going dotty. But he was on a case. The biggest case of his life-that's what he told you."

  "He told me a lot of things."

  "That's right. A lot of things. But this thing he told you was true. Just like his selling runaway kids, just like his giving that up. He didn't always tell the truth, but he always told the truth to you."

  "So what?"

  "Whose idea was it?"

  "I don't remember. Maybe it was mine."

  "Yours?"

  "Maybe it wasn't."

  "How did it work?"

  "I think it was his."

  "He told you how to do it? He said let's play Nazi. He said-"

  "Yeah, I almost forgot. Silly me. The customer's always right. Right?"

  "Maybe not this customer. This customer had a number tattooed on his arm-sure, you saw it. This customer was in a concentration camp. This customer's family died in a camp. So what was this customer doing asking you to dress up as the family executioner?"

  "Who do you think I am-Dr. Ruth? The guy who walked out of here ten minutes ago is wearing my panties. I don't ask them why. I tell them how much. Understand how it works?"

  "Yeah. I was just wondering how it worked with him."

  "Sometimes he asked for that. Sometimes he didn't. Sometimes we just talked. At the end, we just talked."

  "At the end?"

  "Yeah."

  "At the end, when?" Something had just occurred to him. "The night he told you about the case-the biggest case of his life? That night?"

  "Sure. Who the fuck remembers. Why not."

  Yes, why not.

  "He burnt off his numbers," William said. "When he got this case he went and burnt off his numbers and when someone asked him why he did it, he said he'd earned it. And then he came to you and he said kick off those boots why don't you and let's chat. I just want to talk now-about things, the weather maybe, the unemployment rate, oh yeah, and this case, did you know it's the biggest one I've ever had-can't tell you what it is, but it is."

  I've earned it.

  That's what Jean said, it was becoming clearer now, even if Miss Coutrino-see, he knew her name now- was only half listening, even if he was half wrong, it was becoming clearer.

  "Jean comes to you for who knows how long and he positively licks your boots. He pinches runaways off the streets and hits up their parents for payoffs. Then something happens…"

  I've earned it.

  "He stops. He stops selling kids, he stops playing kneel- to-the-Nazi. He goes and burns his numbers off. Why…?"

  I understand, Jean. I do.

  "Because he's earned it. Because he's earned the right. Because this case has earned it for him."

  There. He'd put two and two and two together and it sounded suspiciously like six, like it added up. Even she looked impressed now, okay, maybe just curious, about where he was going with all this maybe, and whether or not he was going to throw up on her carpet again. He was a little curious about that himself; even stone sober he felt more than a tinge of nausea here. Maybe it was the smell-the smell of sex, of sweat and semen and crisp dollar bills, or maybe it was this other nagging notion. This strange idea that the closer he got to making sense of all this, the closer he got to Cherry Avenue. This call- me-crazy feeling that getting to the bottom of one was going to land him at the bottom of the other. Again. Okay-call him crazy. He'd answer to it-to Crazy, to Hopeless, to Old Man, to Will. Which is what Rachel used to call him. Only Rachel. He wouldn't mind answering to that at all right now. She could call him Will or Sam or Joe or Tiny Tim. But she wouldn't call him anything because she wouldn't call at all. Because she was dead, possibly, or surrounded by grandchildren, probably, or maybe just sitting next to whoever it was that had finally given her a life. Definitely. Okay, Rachel, this one's for you. Even if you don't want it, even if you won't know about it. It's for you too. The woman, Miss Coutrino, was staring at him. "Finished?" she said. "No." He'd been looking ahead. All this time he'd been looking in the here and now. But he'd gotten it backward. He'd been looking the wrong way. About-face. "No." When you looked the other way you saw a bunch of old friends. Sure. There was Santini
and Jean and Three Eyes and Mr. Klein. "No." And the hospital. The hospital was there too. The one that had taken a walking dead man and tried to make him forget the unforgivable. "I ought to be saying goodbye," he said. "Goodbye." But I'm saying hello.

  TWENTY-ONE

  They had a lot in common, William thought. Old age homes and mental hospitals. If he didn't know any better, he'd say they were almost interchangeable. And he didn't know any better. For example, you could put on your gravestone I'd Rather Be Here Than In A Mental Hospital or I'd Rather Be Here Than In An Old Age Home. I'd rather be shut away here than there, than either one of them. People would get your drift, no question.

  Though this was, more technically, one wing in a many- winged hospital. And the wings were strikingly different; they didn't belong to the same animal. While one wing was dead and going nowhere-an ostrich wing, say-an- other wing was pumping with energy-a stork wing. He'd walked into that wing first-pediatrics and obstetrics, the pacing of fathers-to-be creating actual breezes. And like spring breezes, they carried the definite odor of hope, of things to come-in this case, talcum, formula, and lots of strong coffee. One whiff and William knew he'd entered the wrong place, that he couldn't be further from where he was going.

  "Ward B's that way," a nurse told him, pointing in the opposite direction, as if he were an extra that had wandered onto the wrong stage, dressed for Greek tragedy in the middle of a chorus from Rodgers and Hammer- stein-the kind where all the actors are doing cartwheels and do-si-dos.

  Which brought him to the dead wing. Where there were no cartwheels, no breezes to speak of, and not the faintest sign of hope. You could search every inch of the place, turn it upside down and inside out and you'd never find hope at all. It wasn't allowed in. It couldn't get through the wired windows, or the electronically shut doors, and even if it did, the smell of disinfectant and urine would kill it.

  On the other hand, he felt right at home. He'd had a hard night, the kind of night he used to have most nights, kept awake by clients who'd ceased to be customers and had become his responsibilities instead. After all, in the Three Eyes Detective Agency, he'd been the Third Eye- the one that never shuts, that doesn't even blink except to shed tears now and then. So while Jean and Santini slept, or Jean slept, and Santini slept with Rachel-he'd lain with his eyes wide open, all three of them. And last night had been like one of those nights, slumped before an infomercial for the Amazing Vacuum Sucker, which promised to suck up everything one, two, three-especially your four easy payments of $39.95. No doubt about it though, those infomercials were good. Ten minutes in and you were starting to wonder where the Amazing Vacuum Sucker had been all your life; by twenty minutes you were as good as sold. It was the audiences that put it over the top though, all those wowed faces cheering like mad every time the Sucker went to work. Everyone could use an audience like that, William thought. Do something good-sell a used car, mow the lawn, fix the plunger in the toilet and there they'd be, oohing and ahh- ing just for you. Take his situation, gumshoeing in his seventies and the only one who's noticed is the guy who invited him to drop in at Cherry Avenue. That's gratitude for you.

  And last night-no sleep, out at the crack of dawn, limping to a subway station inhabited by bag ladies. He had to step over them to buy a token, then transfer twice, one train worse than the next, the cars empty of everything but garbage and the occasional homeless person. Urban art covered the walls and windows though, urban art being what he'd heard someone on TV call graffiti. This urban art said Melissa Sucks Cock and Jews Eat Shit and Motherfucker in several colors. Compared to most modern art, it was at least understandable, there was no denying the artist's intent here. The artist hated Melissa, he hated Jews, and he probably wasn't too fond of William either.

  By the time he surfaced in Manhattan, he felt bruised and battered. The streets were empty-as empty as the train cars, and it was only then that he realized it must be Saturday. That was another thing about aging; it didn't so much free you from routine as set you adrift from it. Days lost their meaning-those Monday Morning Blues started showing up on Friday. Those Sunday Night Jitters started popping up on Tuesdays. One day was like any other day, no better and no worse. Today was Saturday, but it could have been Wednesday or Thursday or Christmas Day.

  Especially here on Ward B. William didn't think days mattered much here either. There wasn't a calendar in sight here by the reception desk. No reception in sight either. He had to wait over five minutes till someone showed up. Then someone did-Hispanic, sleepy-looking, very girlish. And male. He didn't walk in so much as sashay, executing a sort of rhumba on his way to the desk. That kind of walk stood out, especially here, especially within the walls of Ward B, which were very unlike the walls in Ward A. The walls in Ward A were yellow and blue and dotted with plastic sunflowers. The walls in Ward B were dull pink and chipped, like bitten-down nails. The male nurse in Ward B had nice nails though, freshly manicured, with just a hint of lavender.

  "Yesss…?" he said.

  "The thing is…" William said, yes-what was that ever elusive thing? "I need a little information. About a patient who was here a long time ago."

  "What kind of information?" He had a breathy voice, no doubt about it-Mae West maybe-or Lizabeth Scott.

  "I'm tying up an estate," William said, trotting out a new one, and why not. "We don't have a single living relative here. I was hoping his records might mention someone so we can get this thing taken care of."

  "Uh huh. How long ago are we talking about here?"

  "Oh, fifty years maybe."

  "Are you serious?"

  William said that he was-very serious.

  The nurse said that he was very too. Very sorry that William had come all the way here thinking they'd still have records from over fifty years ago. Because if he thought they would, he was very mistaken. Very, very mistaken. And have a very nice day.

  William said he was very disappointed. Very, very disappointed. Was he sure there were no records of any kind for patients from that time? It was a special program for Holocaust survivors. Maybe he could check with someone else?

  "Maybe I could, or maybe I can't," he said. "I don't even know who's around today."

  William said his nail polish was unmistakably attrac- tive-what was the color?

  "Thank you," he said, brightening considerably. "Purple Passion."

  William said he didn't think he'd ever seen a color quite that nice. Nope, never.

  "Maybe I can find someone," he said, as he picked up the phone. "Hold on."

  A minute later-a minute William spent complimenting the nurse on his choice of shoes and lovely stock- ings-a woman close to sixty walked in. The opened door leaked in the sounds of soft wailing, of what sounded like several heads banging against several bars, of sniffling, and sobbing, and maniacal snickering, the sounds of undistilled human misery. William suddenly wished he was anywhere but here. Back in the hospital maybe, on morphine and talk shows. Not here.

  "Yes," said the woman. "What exactly can I do for you?"

  William took the story out for another spin around the room. Not a bad story at all, a good, solid story, a story you could depend on in a pinch. A story she wasn't buying for a New York City second.

  "Are you a lawyer?" she asked.

  "Not exactly," he answered, convinced if he said he was, she was going to make him prove it.

  "Then what are you, exactly?"

  "A private investigator for the concerned parties." When in doubt, why not try the truth? Pretty close to the truth anyway-the only thing not being the truth being the fact that the concerned parties were, of course, him. Though he certainly was concerned, no doubt about it. Especially when he realized that the truth, in this case, sounded even more like a lie than the lie. At least to her. Who was looking at him, at his seventy-something-year- old him, and probably sizing him up for one of those nice straitjackets. The next thing he was going to tell her was that he was Napoleon and that Josephine was outside waiting in the car. />
  "First of all," she said, "we don't keep records from that long ago. Second of all, if I did have those records, I wouldn't give them to you. They would be confidential, understand. And besides, I'm not at all sure about you anyway. Sorry."

  She exited, back through the electronically opened door into the heart of Ward B, leaving William like a groom before the altar-this close to the honeymoon, and jilted just like that.

  But then again, there was always the maid of honor.

  Who was staring at him now with what looked like genuine compassion.

  William mentioned how nicely his hair was groomed. And what a nice choice in rouge.

  The male nurse said: "Look, I have no idea if he can help you, but there was a doctor who practiced here forever. He's retired now, but he still comes in to visit his old patients, okay."

  William asked where this doctor lived.

  "Real close to here. Five blocks maybe. I don't know if he was here that far back, but you never know, right?"

  William said right. And thanks. And what a lovely pocketbook he had.

  He gave William the doctor's address.

  The doctor lived in a rose-brick town house. Lots of ivy trailing down the walls. Lots of shuttered windows- eight of them. Lots of cat shit by the front door in three, yes, three large litter boxes. William got to know the features of the town house intimately, for he worried that he was just a bit early and didn't want to wake the doctor from the wrong side of the bed. So he stood there like a night watchman, like East Brooklyn again, minus the teal uniform and gun. Of course, he always had the cane now-if push came to shove he could always whack some innocent bystander to death. She would have been in her late twenties now, he thought, almost that, just starting out. If drugs, or a jealous boyfriend, or a hit- and-run driver, or just plain despair hadn't gotten her first. But then, he'd gotten her first, William, the fastest gun in the East, and just maybe the least accurate. It was an accident, sure, but maybe the kind of accident that was just waiting to happen. It was the kind of accident, anyway, where sorry doesn't cut it. Where you have to do penance. His sentence was twenty years of house arrest-self-imposed maybe, but still… Go directly to your room and do not pass Go. And he'd gone-not even a murmur of dissent. And he'd stayed quite a while too, hadn't he, quite a while. But now he was out, in front of a town house searching for signs of life. The doctor's, and his own.