Jesse Kellerman

by The Executor (v5)

  18 N

  ow the blur set in. For days I did nothing. I didn’t clean up. I didn’t read. What little I ate came out of cans. Pockmarked nights yielded to mornings clotted with dreadful silence, an hour or more of which would pass before I could get myself out of bed. The bags of groceries sat untouched in the entry hall, right where I’d left them, until the smell overwhelmed the living room and I put them out for collection. I avoided the library, avoided most of the house, including the entire second floor, spending all day in my room, unwashed, unfocused, pacing, waiting for her to call me to conversation, the memory of the weekend playing on infinite loop, damning me. Never have I suffered under the weight of ignorance as acutely as I did in those hours. I didn’t know what had happened to her body, where she would be buried, when it would take place. I didn’t know if I would have to move out. I didn’t know how to keep the power on, pay the water bill; didn’t know what to do with the mail. I didn’t know if the police were treating Alma’s death as a suicide or a homicide ; I didn’t know whether they had talked to Eric, and if so, what his reaction had been. I kept taking out Zitelli’s card, its corners rounded from my worrying. I resisted calling him, knowing that anything I said had the potential to incriminate me, that anxiety would be misinterpreted as guilt, that my eagerness to see justice done would come off as blame-shifting. It behooved me to hold my peace as long as I could, and so I was stuck doing nothing, with no one to talk to, facing the silence, prosecuted by it. Whatever the official ruling, wasn’t the ultimate cause of death my absence? On some level, had I not allowed this to happen-willed it to happen? There were many things I could have done—stayed back, called Drew, called 911—but I had done nothing, an omission tantamount, in my fevered brain, to action. I’d left her alone, and she’d died. What I do, I do freely. The existentialists considered suicide the single greatest philosophical problem. If a person is free, by what right do we stop him from taking his own life? Camus, Sartre, Nietzsche—they all give answers, all of which seemed useless just then. You above all ought to understand Perhaps she had intended to soothe my conscience. If so, she miscalculated; it was impossible for me not to see myself as the audience, indeed the engine, for her final proof. I AWOKE, too early, to a tremendous racket. In the hallway, Daciana rocked back and forth, vacuuming. “Excuse me.” She didn’t respond. I pulled the plug out of the wall. “Seer, why, I need clean.” As patiently as I could, I explained what had happened. She seemed not to understand, so I repeated myself. Dead, I said. Now she got it. Her hands flapped, her face arraying itself in Slavic anguish. I wanted to slap her. I had my own grief to deal with; hers by comparison seemed vulgar and theatrical. “Mees Alma,” she keened. “Ooohhh.” I stood there in my pajamas. “Ooohhh. Ooohhh.” “I’m sorry,” I said. “Ooohhh.” “It’s terrible, I know. Look—” Abruptly she stopped crying and looked at me. “I clean you.” “Me? No. No, I—” “Please, only to work.” “I cant—” Hands flung heavenward. “Seer. Ohhhh. Seer.” “I can’t have you working here. I can’t pay you.” “Yes, okay.” “You’re not understanding me.” “Very good job.” “I’m sure that’s true, but—” “Three year,” she said. “One, two, three.” “Be that as it may—” She stuck the plug back into the wall, switched the vacuum on. “Turn that off, please.” Humming. “Turn it off. Will you pi—goddammit.” I pulled the plug out again. Undaunted, she hustled down the hall, headed for the kitchen. “Wait a second. Wait.” She was washing the dirty dishes I’d neglected. I looked around: fruit flies, crumbs, open jars, the countertop gritty and desquamated. A real horror show. “I’ll make you a deal,” I said. “You can work today, but that’s it.” “Yes, I work.” “Fine. But listen. Stop—turn off the water, please. Please? Thank you. First of all, I’m not going to be here much longer. You want to work, you can take that up with whoever moves in next. So, today, fine. But that’s it. No more. Okay?” She nodded and hummed. “And I want you to leave her bedroom alone. Don’t go in there. Do you understand me? No bedroom.” “Yes, seer.” “The upstairs bedroom. Don’t go in there.” “Yes, I clean.” “No.

  ”I took her by the wrist and escorted her upstairs. “No clean.” Daciana seemed puzzled. “No,” I said. “Okay?” “You boss.” I went back to bed and covered my head with a pillow. At the end of five hours she came to me. “Finish, seer.” “You didn’t touch the upstairs bedroom, did you?” “Yes, seer, no.” Not knowing what that meant, I pointed upstairs. “Yes?” “No.” “No?” “No,” she confirmed. “No. Okay. All right. Good. Now. What did she pay you?” I paused. “Money.

  How much money?” She looked away, scratching her neck. “One hundred.” “That’s what she paid you.” “Okay, eighty-five.” Now I understood: she was giving herself a raise. “Forty-five,” I said. “Eighty.” “Fifty.” “Seventy-five.” “Fifty-five.” She made a mournful, Wookiee sound. I opened my wallet, removed three twenties, and held them out. After a brief pause, she snatched the bills and shoved them into her brassiere. In her smirk I saw a bulging hatred-or was it respect? Maybe I had impressed her with my mettle. “I come next week,” she said. “No. No more. That’s it.” She bent to pick up her basket. “See you soon.” THE CALLER IDENTIFIED HERSELF as assistant to one Charles Palatine, Alma’s attorney. Mr. Palatine wished to speak to me in person, the following day, if possible. I made an appointment for two P.M. and went to pick out an outfit. As I fully expected this meeting to conclude with an order of eviction, I hoped that, properly dressed, I might be able to plead for an extension. Unfortunately, thus it was, as ever before: the best I could do was a pair of ink-stained khakis and a blazer. I don’t know why I had expected my wardrobe to spontaneously improve. I laid the items out on the bed, then contemplated my shoes. For shame, Mr. Geist.

  One thing I ask of you

  before I

  die. I remembered the twinkle in her eye, the teasing cadence. She had been having a joke with herself at my expense, I realized. She’d known what was coming. Of course she would have. She had planned around my trip, insisting that I go home, insisting that Eric posed no danger. And why would he? He couldn’t do anything to her if she did it first. The question, then, was whether she had. I showered, dressed, and set out to go shopping. Along Brattle Street was an upscale menswear store I had passed many times without entering. Now I stopped to peer in the window. Headless mannequins wrapped in tweed heralded the new semester. The back wall displayed shoes, glossy blacks and chewy browns, set out like pastries. A bell rang as I opened the door, and a white-haired salesman in a trim glen plaid suit came out to greet me. He measured my feet and brought out several boxes. “These will last a lifetime,” he assured me. The leather was stiff, new, unforgiving. I asked if he had something less formal. He took down a softer-looking shoe. “Mephistos. Wonderful. One pair and you’re loyal for life. Let me see if I have your size.” Left alone, I began to feel uneasy. I no longer had a steady source of income, and new shoes seemed less important than, say, a place to live. I had to assume that Alma would not have objected to my reappropriating the birthday funds in order to stave off homeless-ness. And the notion that buying myself a gift would somehow honor her ... It was beyond crass. Before the salesman could return, I put on my loafers and slipped out. The sky was gathering as I stopped at the corner market to buy fresh supplies. I walked the last block to number forty-nine through a full-blown monsoon, stepping into the entry hall, where I paused, dripping, to await her ghost. Silence. In the kitchen I switched on the radio and—still in my wet clothes—went to work on a fresh Sachertorte.

  Shivering, my teeth clacking out a violent and irregular tempo, I worked frantically, automatically, making a god-awful mess, caking myself in cocoa and sugar and flour, rattling the whisk against the side of the bowl, banging the jar of apricot jam down on the counter, slamming cabinets and slamming drawers and slamming the refrigerator door. Anything to escape the silence. It was not enough, though, and so I found a station playing loud rock music, screamed along though I did not know the
words. And still there was silence, leaking through the spaces between notes, running like dirty undammed water across the floor, rising past my ankles, up to my knees, rising until I was waist-deep, chest-deep, drowning in silence; and I turned the volume all the way up, twisting the dial to yield a deafening tide of nothingness. I let the faucet run at full blast. I opened the oven and shoved the cake in roughly, batter sloshing over the edge of the pan, hissing as it touched the hot metal walls. I took a dishtowel and rubbed my rain-drenched hair, rubbed my cheeks raw, stuffed the cloth into my ears, trying to fill the silence with silence and noise, breathing in the bittersweet scent of burnt chocolate. PALATINE & PALATINE LLC occupied the top floor of a high-rise on Batterymarch Street. Arriving early, I was shown into an office defined by a mammoth leather desk. Behind it was a mammoth leather chair, and behind that a picture window spreading a magnificent view of Boston Harbor, home to everything from plastic bottles to bodies to leftover particles of the famous two-hundred-year-old tea. If Jesus had walked on its waters, nobody would have blinked. Everything on the walls and in the display cases spoke of wealth and taste, and I was beginning to regret having tried to dress up, a feeling that spiked nastily when the lawyer himself entered in a bespoke suit. Fleshy, humpbacked, stertorous as an outboard motor, he hobbled in and hopped up into the giant chair, combing one liver-spotted hand through the sparse remains of a crew cut as he looked me up and down. “The famous Joseph Geist,” he said. I tried to smile. “Famous to whom.” He didn’t answer. He reached for the topmost of a stack of folders, opened it, took out a stapled document, unfolded a pair of reading glasses, and stared at the text in silence until I began to feel like I was on trial. “What’s happening with her funeral?” I asked. He peered at me over his glasses. “I’m sorry, I’m—I’m not familiar with what’s supposed to happen next.” Palatine closed the folder. “There isn’t going to be a funeral.” “Beg pardon?” “Her instructions were clear: no service, no clergy.” “Is she going to be buried?” “As soon as the autopsy is complete.” “When—” “I don’t know. The ME is backed up to the rafters, not to mention incompetent. It could take months.” Disturbed, I said, “So she’s just ... lying there?” “For the time being.” “Okay, well ... When the burial does happen, I’d like to be there.” He pursed his lips. “I’ll have Nancy contact you.” “I appreciate it.” He went back to reading. “I told her it wasn’t proper, not having any sort of ceremony. I told her several times. Not that she ever listened to anything I said.” I said nothing. “She could be very stubborn.” He looked up at me. “But I’m sure already you knew that.” I said nothing. “After thirty years, I know better than to argue. That always was a losing game with her. When she told me about you, for instance. To be honest, I thought it was a lousy idea.” He smiled at me. “You don’t even have a credit rating.” I opened my mouth but said nothing. He leaned back in his chair. “Tell me: what did you two talk about, during your little philosophical discussions.” Silence. I said, “Free will, mostly.” “What about it.” “Whether it exists.” “And what did you conclude.” “We didn’t conclude anything,” I said. “It wasn’t that kind of conversation.” “What kind of conversation.” “The kind that concludes.” He snorted. “Well,” he said, “it’s over now.” I said nothing. He sighed, rubbed his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “This is all such a rotten business.” I nodded. “Normally, I’d have done this by mail, but given the nature of her instructions, I thought it’d be better to meet in person.” He pushed the folder across the table. “Have a look.” I opened it. Inside was Alma’s will. I looked at him. “Go on.” The first sections were technical, invalidating previous wills and codicils, ordering the payment of taxes, and so forth. The distribution of the estate began with various donations to charities promoting literacy, as well as an Austrian cultural center. Doctor Cargill was to choose a piece of jewelry from the upstairs vanity. The middle paragraphs referred to several preexisting trusts, the beneficiary of which was Eric Alan Banks, and each of which was given to him on conditions that I deemed more or less impracticable. One of the trusts hung—absurdly, I thought—upon his completing a college degree. Another held the funds for tuition. Just about the only fund I could ever imagine him gaining access to was the one that provided the money for a defense attorney in the event that he was charged with a crime carrying a potential prison sentence of five years or more. I almost felt bad for him; reading the will, one got the sense that Alma was mocking him. Still, none of it had anything to do with me until, all at once, it did. SECTION IX. a. To Joseph Geist, who has been a most suitable and pleasant companion to me, I leave my home, its contents, and all assets not otherwise specified in the preceding paragraphs, provided he meet the following conditions: 1. he shall complete his doctoral dissertation; 2. that dissertation shall be submitted to and accepted by the department of philosophy, Harvard University; 3. he shall graduate from Harvard University with a doctoral degree in philosophy; 4. the foregoing three conditions shall be met within twenty-four months of the date of my death, during which time he shall be permitted to live in the house and to draw upon monies specified in section IX, paragraph E. b. Upon fulfillment of these conditions, ownership of the assets specified in section IX, paragraph A, shall pass into his hands immediately. c. Should he fail to meet any of the conditions specified in section IX, paragraph A, or fail to do so within the period of time specified in section IX, paragraph A, part 4, the assets specified in section IX, paragraph A, shall revert in equal parts to the parties specified in section VI, paragraphs C—K. She’d left me a budget of twenty thousand dollars. A long, foggy silence. I said, “Does Eric know about this?” “Not yet.” “When is he going to find out?” “I wanted him to be here today,” said Palatine, “but he’s indisposed.” “Where.” “I can’t tell you that.” “Is he in jail?” Palatine said nothing. In the distance, a tugboat honked. He said, “I’ll have you know that I did my best to dissuade her. Games like this never lead to anything but strife.” I said nothing. “Nancy will have copies of everything sent to your attorney.” “I don’t have an attorney,” I said. “Then you’d better get one.” He stood. “Have a good day.” I MUST HAVE LOOKED like some harried clerk out of Kafka, struggling to keep my huge stack of papers neat as the train lurched and swerved. In addition to the will, I had been given a slew of other documents, a fiduciary and probate surety bond, a military affidavit, and, most significantly, a year’s worth of statements from fifteen different banks in the United States, Austria, and Switzerland. I paged through them rapidly, totting it all up: in addition to the real estate and the collectibles, she had left me two million dollars in stocks, bonds, and cash. I was so addled that I almost missed my stop, leaping up as the tone sounded. My foot got caught on the edge of the platform, and I tripped, sending everything flying. I fell to the concrete, lunging and grabbing for pages, aware of people giving me a wide berth as they passed. I stopped at a drugstore and asked for plastic bags. The weight of all the paper caused the bag handles to cut into my palms, and my fingertips were purple and numb by the time I arrived at Drew’s. I buzzed. “Hello?” “It’s me.” “What’s up.” “Let me in, please.” He was blessedly accepting, asking nothing as I came in and sat down on his couch, where I stayed, bags of paper piled at my feet, until the late afternoon. “I’m gonna hop in the shower,” he said. “Alma’s dead.” He blinked. “Oh, shit.” “She left me everything.” I looked at him. “She left me the house.” “You’re kidding.” I shook my head. “ ... wowie. ” I said nothing. “What happened?” he said. I said nothing. “Are you okay?” “I can’t go back there.” “Why not?” “Because I can’t.” “Joseph—” “No.

  ” “Okay. Okay. Sorry.” Silence. He stood. “I have to go to work.” I said nothing. “There’s stir-fry in the freezer.” I nodded. “Are you going to be okay?” I said, “I don’t know.” After a beat, he left the room. I heard water running. I put my head back and closed my eyes.

  OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS I moped
around the apartment, cleaning, an exercise in futility if ever there was one. No sooner had I finished wiping down countertops and alphabetizing DVDs than Drew would come home, compliment me on my achievement, and then undo it, five hours’ work gone in five minutes. Interestingly, he would put everything back where I’d found it, this particular tea-stained mug on that particular chair, the half-roll of duct tape kicked under the desk. Even he had a system, it seemed. I can’t say that his grief-counseling skills were very nuanced, but he did make an effort to cheer me up. “Have you ever considered,” he said to me one evening as he sat as his computer, fingers flying, “that one of the few places in the world where you can’t order from Amazon is in the heart of the Amazon itself?” I said nothing. “You know, at some point you’re going to have to accept that this is what she wanted.” I rolled over on the sofabed. “Fine,” he said. “Just—stop cleaning up, okay?” I hoped Alma was getting a big laugh out of this. I hoped she thought this was totally hilarious. If she had wanted to reward me for my companionship, if she’d thought she could spur me to work, there had to be a better way. I had before me the possibility of what every struggling intellectual longs for—financial freedom—and what I felt was not relief or gratitude but guilt and helplessness. Twenty thousand dollars might sound like a lot, but until then I hadn’t been paying for food or utilities. If I had to get a job, that would in effect negate my twenty-four months of supposed free time.... Why twenty-four? From her perspective, all I needed was a kick-start. One year would not have been enough, while three would only encourage more of the same.... Two years, then, which meant I should aim to get a draft done by June, so that I could spend the coming summer revising and the second academic year finishing up everything I needed to get done in order to submit, defend, graduate.... My head hurt with all the variables. The lawyer was right. No good could come of this, especially not after Eric found out. How much of that twenty thousand would I have to spend to make myself feel secure? I’d have to put in an alarm. I’d have to redo the locks, secure the windows.... It added up. Now, it would have been easy to disentangle myself. All I had to do was fail to meet Alma’s conditions and the estate would pass right out of my hands, leaving me the same as before. But that didn’t feel right, either. Because Drew had a point. People could do whatever they wanted with their money. Could I, in good conscience, deny her last wishes? One thing I ask of you before I die. I left a thank-you note, gathered up the papers, and walked over to the house. The house? My