Going Places

by Kathryn Berla

  He didn’t say anything.

  “If you don’t remember all those times I came over at night, I could fill you in on what happened.”

  Had I gone too far?

  Finally he spoke. “You’re right, Hudson. It’s been too much. This isn’t what you bargained for, nor should you have to deal with it. I’m canceling my subscription effective immediately.”

  A wave of relief washed over me. This was what I really wanted, wasn’t it? If I was completely honest with myself. To be free of Mr. Pirkle and the living nightmare that came from our association. But then I felt sick with shame. What was I thinking? That I’d stand up, offer my hand and say, Thank you very much, it’s been a pleasure doing business with you. And then walk out of his life and leave him to . . . leave him to what? I didn’t even know.

  “No. Mr. Pirkle, sir. Please. That’s not why I came here today. I don’t want to lose you as a client. I just want to . . . help if I can.”

  He looked up at the window again and then down at his carefully folded hands.

  “Tell me what you’ve seen, Hudson. When you’ve come over at night. Don’t hold anything back for my sake.”

  So, I told him everything. The baseball bat. The underwear. The combat boots. The harsh, out-of-character words. The yelling the neighbors heard. The phone calls. The circular window where he swore he saw his daughter.

  “I’m losing my marbles, aren’t I?” he said when I was done. He sounded resigned, rather than sad. “Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and I smell it. I feel it. And there I am again.”

  “Do you remember any of it? Any of the stuff I just said?”

  “Some of what you’ve said sounds familiar. Some of it doesn’t.”

  “I’ve done some research online, Mr. Pirkle. And my mother’s a nurse so she’s told me a few things.”

  “Your mother?” he said sadly. “She knows about this too?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  I hoped he wouldn’t ask if I’d told Fritzy, and luckily, he didn’t. But I’d told him the neighbors heard yelling. Maybe he didn’t have to ask, he already knew.

  “I’m ashamed of myself, Hudson,” he said. “That it’s come to this.”

  “Don’t be ashamed, sir. Maybe it’s just a vitamin deficiency. Maybe there’s some medication that could help. My mom says you should see a doctor.”

  “I’m not going to see a doctor,” he brought his closed palm down forcefully on the glass table, rattling our drinks and my nerves. “They’ll lock me up in the loony bin. I’d just as soon die then go into some . . . facility.”

  “What if they can cure you?”

  “Cure me? There’s no cure for old age, Hudson. And anyway, how do you think I got to be ninety years old? By running to the doctor every time I had a bloody nose? No, it was because I stayed away from doctors for the past fifty years. They have to find something wrong with you, or they go out of business. And if they can’t find something, they invent something.”

  The obvious response was the hardest thing I’d ever had to say.

  “But there is something wrong with you, Mr. Pirkle . . . sir.”

  My goal was to get the name of someone who would help me convince Pirkle to see a doctor. But he didn’t seem to have anyone in his life outside of Mrs. Dickinson and other casual acquaintances from the Senior Center. You’d think if you live for ninety years you’d have children, grandchildren, nieces, nephews, neighbors, somebody. But if you have no children, no wife. If you’re an only child like me. Then what? What if you don’t go out anymore to socialize? What if there’s no network of friends?

  His daughter was my only hope. I knew she existed. I’d seen her picture, and he’d told me she was grown up, so that meant she might still be alive.

  Then where was she?

  “When I came back from the war, I wasn’t much good for anything, but there was a gal waiting at home for me, so we got married.”

  “Why?”

  “What else do you do? You grow up. You get a job. You get married.”

  Ugh. Depressing thought. That’s all there is?

  “Then of course the children start coming. Back in those days, people didn’t sit around and plan families. We did what nature intended us to do.”

  Was it really that bad? No joy in any of it?

  “You have to understand, I was numb when I came home. My feelings seemed to go through a strainer that filtered out all the good stuff other people felt. What came out the other end didn’t amount to much.”

  What about his wife? Did she know he was suffering?

  “My wife knew something was wrong. She cried for me every night. She cried, but I couldn’t even cry for myself. I couldn’t make her feel better, and I couldn’t make myself feel better either.”

  And how did it end?

  “I tried to find the humanity in my enemy in order to move on. But when I couldn’t find it in the enemy, I started to doubt it in myself. And once I knew there was no humanity in me, I ceased to be of any use to my family. After that, it was easy to cut them loose . . . my wife and daughter. They needed to get on with their lives, and they weren’t going to do that with me hanging around. I sent money and made calls from time to time, but when my wife remarried she didn’t want anything from me anymore. She broke off all contact, and I’m ashamed to say I was relieved.”

  And there was never another chance at love?

  “Don’t get me wrong, I kept the company of women after my divorce. I wasn’t dead below the waist, if you get my meaning. I was just dead above it.”

  His daughter? No reconciliation?

  “Maybe my daughter knew about me, and maybe she didn’t. But another man raised her. Provided for her and loved her. Bandaged up her scraped knees and eventually gave her away in marriage. Who was I to get in his way?”

  So I was alone. If someone was going to get help for Mr. Pirkle, it was going to be me. But I had support. I had friends. I had Mom and my aunt, uncle, cousins, and grandparents. Even Mrs. Dickinson would help if I asked her, which of course I couldn’t because of privacy issues. But in the end it would be up to me, and I knew I wouldn’t abandon him.

  “You know, Hudson. The last time I saw my daughter’s pretty little face was the day I drove away from the house after my wife and I had our final words. Something made me stop and turn around to take a last look. There was a round window in the front of our house and Maggie would stand up on a little wooden box and peer through the window when it was getting close to time for me to come home from work. Then the minute she saw my car turning onto that country lane, stirring up a cloud of dust behind me, she’d run outside and wait ‘til I drove up and got out. That day . . . the day I left . . . I turned around, and there she was. Looking right through the window. That was the last time I saw her.”

  “Maybe that’s why you think you see the face of your daughter at night. The round window, just like the one in your old house. You once told me you thought you were in your old house. It’s probably a repressed memory or something.”

  “Or it’s just a girl who lives in that house, more likely,” Pirkle chuckled, and I was slightly annoyed he brushed me off like that.

  “There isn’t a girl who lives in that house. I know the guy who lives there, and he’s a piano teacher named Mr. Scolari. He’s single and doesn’t have any kids. He lives alone like you.” I tried to deliver this news calmly, keeping any emotion out of my voice. I knew I wasn’t succeeding. I wondered why, Pirkle and Scolari being the backyard neighbors they were, had never met or conversed.

  Pirkle glanced up at the window behind me. He’d been looking there frequently during our conversation but I was determined not to turn around. I didn’t want to feed into his fantasy or hallucination or whatever it was.

  “Hudson,” he said without shifting his gaze from the window. “She was there the whole time
you were talking. You missed her.”

  I felt a flash of anger. Wasn’t I the one putting myself out there for him? And if I was, didn’t he owe me some respect? He could at least pretend to play along. Maybe I should have told him how close the neighbors came to calling the cops. How close he was to being escorted to the nearest mental health facility in the middle of the night. And why me? I was just the guy who’d come up with an easy way to make a few extra bucks. I hadn’t signed up for this.

  “I have an idea,” I said as calmly as I could. “Come with me to Mr. Scolari’s house. Take a look around. See for yourself there’s no girl in the window.”

  “And say what? Good afternoon, Mr. Scolari. Mind if I take my batty old friend on a tour of your home? He’s been spying on you and wants to see your little girl. No thank you, Hudson. Appreciate it if none of this goes any farther. I know your mother’s involved now, but let’s keep it at that. Next thing you know I’ll be arrested as a peeping Tom, or worse.”

  “What if I go over there alone, and I won’t tell him why I’m there. I’ll make an excuse to go upstairs, and I’ll call you while I’m looking out the window. Would you believe me then?”

  “I think I’d believe just about anything you told me, son, unless I thought you didn’t know any better. I know you’re a man of your word.”

  “If I do that. And if I can prove to you there’s no girl in the window . . . would you agree to see a doctor?”

  “I’d give it careful consideration. I suppose I’d have to, if that was the case.”

  >>>

  By the time I left Pirkle’s house, Fritzy was already home from school. An older model orange BMW was pulling out of her driveway. Behind the wheel, a tall, blond guy. His massive square head nearly touched the interior ceiling. His shoulder was so broad it half stuck out of the open window. I stood on Pirkle’s side of the street until he drove off.

  “What’re you waiting for?” Fritzy called from across the street. “Come on over!”

  “Who was that?” I inclined my head towards the vanishing Beemer.

  “Friend of mine.”

  Was it my imagination, or were her cheeks glowing? Were her eyes sparkling?

  “He looks kind of . . .”

  “Kind of what? Jockish? Like me? Say it, Wheeler.”

  “Nothing. Have you ever mentioned him before?”

  “Probably not. You never ask about my personal life. We’re always too busy talking about yours.”

  A car pulled into the driveway. Fritzy’s mom with the giant child in tow.

  “Hi, Frankie. Hi, Mrs. Fritz.”

  “Hello, Hudson,” her mother sung out. An expensive looking messenger bag was slung across her shoulder. She wore a long-sleeved cobalt-blue blouse and a tight gray wool skirt. Her black heels added an extra three or four inches to her already awesome height. Her hair was cut straight across and barely brushed her shoulders. It was strong, shiny hair like her daughter’s. Fritzy looked like her mom but had her dad’s direct personality. And jawline.

  Frankie leaned over to retrieve his backpack and grimaced at me, although I knew it was just his version of a smile. He didn’t talk a lot. He headed straight for the door and after a few more words and a peck on her daughter’s cheek, Mrs. Fritz followed him in.

  “How was school today?” I asked.

  I picked up the basketball and passed it to Fritzy. Ball play was almost becoming second nature to me.

  “As good as can be expected.” She took a shot and swished it. “Why are you here?” She passed the ball back to me.

  “I had the talk with Pirkle.”

  I dribbled standing in place, first one hand three times, then the other hand three times. She tapped it away from me and took another shot. Made it again.

  “And?”

  “And it went better than I thought. But worse than I hoped.” I got the rebound and dribbled again. Three with one hand. Three with the other. A form of ball meditation.

  “What does that mean exactly? Can you do something with the ball please? Take a shot.”

  “It means I need to ask you for a favor.”

  I took my shot and banked it in. I sat down on the driveway and held the ball between my ankles.

  “Could we go over to Scolari’s house sometime soon?” I asked. “You’d have to come with me. And maybe keep him busy while I run upstairs and call Pirkle.”

  “The girl in the window?”

  Fritzy loved a good mystery, and I could tell she was hooked. She sat down next to me.

  “Yup. I have a deal with him . . . or at least I hope I do. If I can prove there’s no girl in the window, he’ll go see a doctor and tell them what’s been going on.”

  “He actually said that, or that’s what you’re hoping?”

  “He said he’d think about it, which is a big step forward.”

  “Why don’t we just tell Scolari the truth?”

  “Pirkle would have my ass. He’d be upset if he even knew I’d told you everything.”

  “Does he think I’m deaf and can’t hear what goes on at night?”

  “We can’t tell Scolari, okay? No matter whether you think it’s right or wrong, that’s just the way it has to be.”

  “Why’s it so important? That girl in the window stuff?”

  “Because he thinks he’s normal . . . old age changes he can handle on his own. But the girl in the window, that’s like seeing something that isn’t really there. Crazy time. Today he saw her in the middle of the day. Usually it happens at night so I think he’s getting worse.”

  “I don’t see why it’d be a problem to go to Scolari’s house. All we have to do is think of a reason to be there. When do you wanna go?”

  “The sooner the better. Today. Right now.”

  “My brother has a lesson in an hour. Scolari might be home now. Let’s go see.”

  >>>

  In the time it took us to walk to Scolari’s house I came up with five different excuses for knocking on his door, four of which Fritzy rejected. The surviving excuse was a bad one, but it would have to do.

  “Let’s rehearse it one more time,” I said. “We knock on the door. You do the talking. You tell him we were just taking a walk and wondered if he had a beginner’s piano book I could borrow. Then I ask if I could use the bathroom and you ask for a glass of water while I run upstairs and call Pirkle from the window. Got it?”

  “This is so lame, Wheeler. He’s going to think we’re crazy.”

  “Just please talk to him like you really mean it. If you come off like we’re telling the truth, then he’ll believe it. I promise I won’t ask you to do anything like this again.”

  “It’s kind of like this show I saw once where . . .”

  “Will you do it?”

  She picked up a pebble and threw it across the driveway.

  “Okay, but only because we’re business partners.”

  “Friends,” I corrected her.

  “Wheeler?”

  “What?”

  “You’ve got some daredevil in you. Who would’ve thought?”

  >>>

  “Lauren.” Scolari seemed surprised and slightly flustered at the sight of us on his doorstep.

  I could never get used to the idea that Fritzy possessed an actual real girl’s name.

  “Hi, Mr. Scolari,” she blurted out in a most unconvincing monotone. “We just came by to get a book for Wheeler.”

  He stepped onto the front doorstep, allowing the door to swing shut behind him.

  “What kind of book?”

  “I was wondering if I could borrow a beginner’s piano book,” I picked up the slack. Acting wasn’t my specialty but anything was better than Fritzy’s pathetic attempt. “To kind of study for a few weeks.”

  “Have you gotten a piano since we last talked, Hudson?�
��

  “No, but I’m seriously considering it.” I couldn’t imagine myself sitting side by side with this guy for the hundreds of hours it would probably take me to learn even the simplest of tunes.

  “Could I have a glass of water?” Fritzy sputtered.

  “We’ve been walking,” I said. “It’s pretty hot today.”

  “For December, I suppose.” The tips of his eyebrows seemed to reach for each other just above his nose.

  “And Wheeler—I mean Hudson—was wondering if he could use your bathroom.”

  I was ready to kill her for her appalling lack of acting skills and timing. But Fritzy was an open book which was part of her charm. What you saw was exactly what you got, and would I have liked her as much if she’d been a talented liar?

  “No, I’m fine. I don’t have to go.” My face flushed hot with embarrassment. Something about him made me not want to share any information about my bodily functions. He was so neat. So self-contained. So distant. I didn’t believe he would ever use someone else’s bathroom or want someone to use his.

  “But I really am thirsty,” Fritzy said.

  “I tell you what. I’m pretty busy, kids. I have a few things I need to take care of before heading over to your house, Lauren. I’ll bring some books along for Hudson and leave them with you.”

  He completely ignored the part about Fritzy being thirsty.

  “Okay, we’ll see you, Mr. Scolari,” she said. “Thanks for letting us stop by,” she added.

  Our first attempt at detective work was a disaster, in spite of all the crime shows Fritzy watched. That should have been a warning we paid attention to.

  “Okay, that just happened,” I said once we were safely out of earshot.

  “Or didn’t. What the hell, Wheeler? No, I don’t really have to go to the bathroom.” Her high-pitched imitation of my voice was depressing.

  “I hope you’re not planning to audition for the school play. Come on! A little inflection in your voice goes a long way. I mean . . . you did a better job of imitating me just now then you did acting like yourself. Who were you back there?”