“You, too, Mr. Morgan,” she said. “Glad to hear you’re feeling better.”
“The patient is all better, eh?” said one of the other women, breathing out smoke through her nose, taking a seat next to Audrey.
“Yes, thanks,” Sam said.
As he approached his office Debbie told him the receptionist had just buzzed down, he had a visitor waiting. Did he want her to go up? Debbie was pudgy with a tired but cheerful face, flat black hair, and spoke with the long “ah’s” for “r’s” of a Boston accent.
“No, thanks. I’ll go,” Sam said. He closed his eyes, trying to think if he’d forgotten some important meeting. That was no good. He couldn’t think of one. So it must be a visitor, maybe his father, dropping by to discuss his career—but that didn’t make any sense. He took the carpeted stairs to the main reception area slowly. Whatever this was, it wasn’t likely to be any good.
The receptionist raised her eyebrows and nodded in the direction of a stout figure sitting with crossed legs in one of the leather chairs, reading a newspaper.
Sam smoothed his pant leg and buttoned the top button of his sports coat. He ran his tongue along his upper teeth. One drag of a cigarette left your breath this foul. He thought of all the secretaries down in the break room, the continual stream of smoke into their lungs. Audrey and her house, Audrey who wanted a husband. The husbands like boiled eggs or beef jerky. Hydrated with beer.
“Hello, I’m Sam Morgan,” he said in his business voice, approaching the figure.
The newspaper snapped down in an even, sharp triangle, revealing a soft face with pink, full cheeks, a neat dark moustache spotted with gray above a wide mouth, and eyes unutterably pale—pale—what color, Sam wondered, blue or maybe green or even hazel but pale.
“So you are,” the man said, smiling. Above the pale eyes that glittered in a deep and translucent way—how can no color glitter, how can pale shine?—dark eyebrows rose. With several firm snaps he folded the newspaper and placed it on the low coffee table.
Sam held his fist to his mouth and coughed.
“I am South, sir. Jacob South. It is a pleasure to meet you,” the visitor said, standing up, extending a pudgy hand with a crisp circle of gold on the middle finger. “A great pleasure, indeed.”
“Nice to meet you, Mr. South,” Sam said.
South was short, his body broad and round in the middle. His neck emerged from his white shirt like a pink bubble; he wore a dark tie and a black wool three-piece suit. A silver watch fob hung from the waist pocket in his vest.
“Likewise. You have been recommended quite highly,” he said, bowing slightly. “I have a matter of great importance—of great importance to myself, naturally. I find that to be the way of the world, don’t you, Mr. Morgan? Everything is of great importance to oneself and rarely of any consequence to anyone else. One must learn to differentiate, mustn’t one?”
“Yes,” Sam agreed. “Shall we go to my office?” He gestured to the stairs.
“Fine,” South answered, retrieving from a sofa his black overcoat and bowler hat.
“The receptionist can take those for you,” Sam said.
“Yes, she offered. And I thank you, but I prefer to keep them,” South said.
Sam nodded. He walked slowly. “So, how did you get my name, if I might ask.”
“Oh, yes. Well,” South answered, taking the stairs gingerly. “As I told you, this is a matter of great importance to me. Someone recommended the father, and I inquired as to the availability of the son.”
They had reached the bottom step. South withdrew a handkerchief from his trouser pocket and ran it in a neatly folded square over his forehead, smiling.
“So you know my father,” Sam said.
“Only by reputation,” South replied.
At his office door Sam introduced South to Debbie and asked her to hold his calls. He held the door for South and followed him into the office.
“Please,” he said, clearing papers from his extra chair.
South lowered himself into the chair, crossed his legs, and smiled. He produced the handkerchief again and dabbed at his forehead.
“So,” Sam said. “How may I help you, Mr. South?”
“Yes, very good,” South mumbled, nodding. He cleared his throat. “As I have mentioned, this is a matter of some importance. It is also one of considerable delicacy.”
Sam nodded. Someone had recommended his father, and South had asked about him? Preferring a—a lesser firm to his father’s?
“Now, I am sure you have an appreciation for land, Mr. Morgan,” South continued. “I am certain you understand that—that a person will leave many things behind them when they die. When they die, indeed.”
Sam frowned. South seemed moist; the room smelled of wet wool. Beyond South’s shoulder Sam could see the waterline, stiff and creaky, curling in on itself against the tide. He forced himself to regard South’s face again. It had grown a deeper shade of red.
“Yes, certainly,” Sam said. “You’re here about planning—about planning your estate.”
“My estate?” South chuckled. “No, my dear boy, not my estate. And I will not take your kind solicitation on that point to, shall I say, imply that I appear to be in pressing need of such a consultation as that.”
“Oh, no, not at all,” Sam said.
South laughed, fluttering a hand as if to indicate that he apologized and would speak again in a moment.
“Forgive me,” he said at length. “A good laugh is such a rarity. Forgive me, my dear boy.”
Sam smiled. “Land, you were saying,” he prodded.
“Yes, indeed, land. Well. Allow me to elaborate on a point, if I might.” South stared at the floor. “When one dies,” he said, “it is an extremely messy business. At that point, if I may make an analogy, everything is a loose end. Never mind the few who die in canopied beds on clean sheets, dispensing of their lawyers with precise instructions and of their families with kind and tender words. These, as I am sure you can appreciate, are the exceptions. By far the exceptions, Mr. Morgan.”
Sam nodded. He glanced at his computer screen to see what time it was.
“No, sir, dying is at once the finishing touch to every story and the propagation of innumerable loose ends. Your house is full of possessions, Mr. Morgan, and all possessions must be divided up. What was most precious to you is weighed only in terms of its value to someone else. People pass from room to room eyeing and pawing and choosing—and those are your relatives. When they are done the house is open to anyone to come and look and touch and buy, and believe me, sir, half of those who come are your neighbors and they come only to look. To look, sir.”
South grimaced and raised a forefinger.
“Your animals are sold or given away, your furniture gathered under dust sheets to await shipping. The house is sold, your worldly possessions become someone else’s things. Your house is sold, but let us say you bought it rather late in life. Let us say—and I am becoming particular here, I understand, but let us say that one thing remains. A plot of land, separate from that on which the house stands. A plot of land in another part of the state that had belonged to your father and to his father before him.”
South sat back in his chair, a bit of spittle caught in the corner of his mouth.
Sam looked at South’s eyes, now not focused, shiny, an impossible fogged marble color. The room felt damp. Through the window the city was darkening. Lights were shining along the streets and in the offices.
“Your possessions—who cares about such things?” South asked. His eyes focused. “But your land, sir, that is to be looked after—looked after.”
“Yes,” Sam agreed. This was a crazy person, or some friend of his father’s who was playing a joke on him.
South reached into the breast pocket of his suit coat and pulled out a stiff yellowed piece of paper, folded in thirds, with elaborate handwriting in faded ink across the outside.
“I want you to track down this land,” he said, h
olding the paper out to Sam between thumb and forefinger.
Sam took the paper, nodding. The handwriting was official: county, lot number, and the year 1909.
“Can you do it, Mr. Morgan?” South asked, his shoulders hunching.
“Of course,” Sam said. “It shouldn’t take long.” A paralegal could do it in an afternoon, most likely, he thought. How did this man get my name?
“Now, Mr. Morgan, I wish it to be understood that you will attend to this matter personally,” South said, his eyes level on Sam’s. “I understand this task is not—would not, under normal circumstances, require the skills of an attorney. However, these are most assuredly not normal circumstances. Have I your word?”
Sam was momentarily too puzzled to be annoyed. “Yes,” he said.
“Very well,” South said, standing up and draping his coat over his arm.
“Where shall I contact you?” Sam asked, getting to his feet and shaking the extended, moist hand.
“You needn’t worry about that,” South said. “I shall call again when you’ve had ample time to complete the task. But do remember, time—of all things—is a concern now.”
“Yes, of course. I’ll take care of this as soon as possible.”
South bowed. “I will find my own way back to the reception area,” he said. “I’ve taken enough of your time already.” He tapped the doorknob thoughtfully with a finger.
“Yes, well,” Sam said. “Nice to meet you.”
“Yes, a pleasure,” South said, the corner of his mouth turning down. He leveled his ground-fog eyes on Sam again. “Remember, Mr. Morgan, that Boston is a very small town. Do not forget that, please, sir.”
“I won’t,” Sam said.
“A good day to you, then,” South said, nodding. He placed his hat on his head and walked evenly down the hall.
Sam stayed in his office late that evening and treated himself to a cab ride home.
He changed into a flannel shirt and khakis and decided to take the cigarettes to Mrs. Atlee. He tucked the pack into his trouser pocket and bounded down the stairs.
When he got to his father’s house his father was in the living room, watching television.
“Hey,” Sam said.
“Hi, Sammy,” his father said. “How was today?”
“Fine, thanks.” He thought to check the fridge for leftovers but stopped. “Listen, you didn’t send anyone my way, did you? A guy with a deed problem?”
Gerry yawned. “No, I don’t think so. A deed problem?”
“Yeah. A small case, nothing really. The client said you’d been recommended to him but he’d come to me, so I wondered if you’d sent him. That’s all.”
Gerry chuckled. “I’ll start up a referrals sheet for you.”
“Great, thanks,” Sam said, trying to laugh. “Mind if I get a plate?”
“Help yourself,” Gerry said.
Sam heated a plate of spaghetti and ate it at the kitchen table, listening to the banter of news anchors introducing a prime-time special on movie stars. Someone must have taken Mrs. Atlee a plate already, he thought. She might be asleep.
“Hello, Sam,” Robin said, coming in from the living room.
“Hi,” Sam said. “How are you?”
“Fine,” Robin said, pouring herself a glass of red wine.
“How’s your mother?” Sam asked.
“She’s fine. I took her some soup a little while ago.”
“Great,” Sam said.
“Be careful if you go up there. I think she’s sleeping.”
“Ok.”
Sam put his plate in the dishwasher and climbed the stairs to Mrs. Atlee’s room. The light was still on. He knocked softly.
“Hello, Sam,” the flat voice came.
“Hi,” Sam said, entering the room. “I brought you something.” As he approached the bed he thought she seemed smaller, yellower.
“Supper?” Mrs. Atlee asked.
“I thought—Robin said she brought you some soup,” Sam said.
“She did not,” Mrs. Atlee said. “That other woman did, hours ago. I’ve had nothing since. And that woman—my God, she stank of onions as if she’d just eaten one raw. You would think she could wash her teeth before coming in here like that. I hate onions. I couldn’t eat a drop of soup, I felt so sick, and this room has smelled like onions all day. My God, Sam, I could feel that onion smell all day.” She coughed and took a shaky sip of water.
“What can I get you?” Sam asked. He stood helplessly over her as another spasm of coughs wracked her and her arms gyrated in protest. Her hand reached for Sam and he took it, sliding his fingers between hers, squeezing. Her skin felt cold and dry. He stood there, holding. She shook and turned on her side, still holding on. After a while she quieted, let go of Sam’s hand, and turned away from him. He sat on the edge of the armchair. The outline of her body under the comforter shook lightly. She cleared her throat twice with churning, hacking effort and sniffled thickly in her corrupted sinuses. She was crying, Sam realized.
“Mrs. Atlee,” he said, rising out of the chair, catching himself. If she turned away she meant to be away. He sat down again. The tiny bone body shook. Sam stopped himself from saying “It’ll be ok.” It wouldn’t be ok, unless death wasn’t everything, unless dying was just another thing to get through like so many other things—and how could it be everything? How could Rebecca be in his mind so much these days if she weren’t around somehow? But he couldn’t say that to a dying person, it was her death and if giving people advice in life was almost impossible you certainly couldn’t say anything to them about their death. He thought of what South had said about loose ends. But there had to be some treatment for Mrs. Atlee, some operation or therapy, some new smarter doctor who could decode her disease and beat it.
“Sam,” she said finally.
“Yes,” he said. “Let me get you something to eat.”
“No,” she said. “I need you to do something for me. I hate asking this more than any Goddamn thing I can think of.”
“What is it?”
She turned halfway back to him but looked at the ceiling. “After today—after that woman was here—I needed to use the bathroom and I could not. For some reason I could not stand up. And now I need help.”
“Oh,” Sam answered. “Of course, I can help you to the bathroom.”
“Yes, that, Sam. And also the sheets.”
Sam blinked, not understanding for a moment. “Oh—God—Mrs. Atlee,” he said at last. “No-one’s been up—oh. Well, we can do this. How should I start?”
Mrs. Atlee gave precise instructions. Sam carried her to the bathroom with a towel across his forearms; she was light and bony and kept her head upright. She insisted on changing herself, so Sam got her a clean washcloth and nightgown and while she changed he stripped the bed and re-made it. She took a long time and Sam was about to knock when he heard her call out that she was ready. He helped her back to bed; all she needed was an arm to lean on, she insisted.
“Thank you,” she said, tucked in again, not looking at him.
“How about some supper,” he asked.
She nodded and Sam rushed downstairs. He fixed a plate of spaghetti and brought it up to her but when he fed her a small amount she began crying, the food sliding from her mouth. Sam wiped her chin clean with a napkin.
“I’m afraid I was a terrible mother,” she said quietly. “I suppose I shouldn’t cry about it now. I was what I was.”
“No,” Sam said. “You were good. You were good.”
Mrs. Atlee sobbed. Her face was oval and wrinkled and colorless.
Sam put her plate on the bedside table. “I have something for you,” he said.
“Yes?” Her eyes fluttered to him, unfocused.
Sam reached into his pocket and took out the packet of cigarettes. “Would you still like one of these?” he asked. “It can’t be a good idea.”
“Yes, yes,” she said. “It is. Please, yes.”
Sam took one of the cigarettes ou
t, held it to her lips, and lit it for her. “I tried one today to impress a girl,” he said, smiling.
“I hope you hated it,” Mrs. Atlee said.
“I did.”
“Good.” She took a shallow inhale and began to cough and when the coughing subsided left the cigarette hanging from her lips, not inhaling again. “I need a damn pill,” she said.
Sam filled her water glass and handed her a pill.
Mrs. Atlee smoked for a while and then handed him the cigarette stub to put out. She coughed. “Now read to me a little bit, would you?” she asked, her voice shaking. “Something a little spicier than last time.” She turned toward the wall.
Sam took up one of the books on the bedside table and read to her, not sure if she was asleep or awake. The clock ticked circles of prose and poetry and art and thought, of science and seasons and vernacular and shift workers punching in or out and their children growing and pushing them out of the way.
“Sam, light me another,” Mrs. Atlee said after a while.
“Ok,” Sam said, looking up from the book in his lap.
“Did I ever tell you about my father?” she asked, the cigarette smoke around her more colorful than her face, her lips tight, her eyes bright.
“No,” Sam said. “Are you feeling a little better?”
She smiled at him. He was too young to believe that even decay was permanent. She propped herself up higher against the headboard, a pillow supporting her lower back, waving Sam away when he leaned over her.
“I’m fine,” she said. Her soft voice dropped into a harsh whisper. “I’m not a complete invalid yet.”
Sam sat down. He could see that she was panting and could hear the rattle of sore and tumor in her breath. Her eyes were closed.
“I can feel you sitting there, pitying me,” she said, her eyes opening slowly. “Stop it. My God, Sam.”
Sam nodded.
“Sam,” she said gently. The room changed for her as if it were in a kaleidoscope: everything she saw though narrowed eyes turned into other rooms from other years, guest rooms mostly, one in particular she wanted—wooden floor, an iron bed beside an open window, a cool sea breeze.
THE GHOST DETECTIVE: Boston Page 10