As I listened to Fats sing, I attended to the bowling ball racks, straightening them, organizing by weight, trying to separate by color, or at least shades of gray. I stepped back after every few placements, like an artist trying to make the perfect brush stroke. I wasn’t sure how much time I wasted, but “Blueberry Hill” had long since ended. Stepping back to look at the nearly perfect monochromatic rainbow of polyurethane balls, I felt accomplished.
Before I left, I went into the kitchen to check on Jonas. I wanted to brag that I’d made a little art for in the morning. He peeked out from a crack in the door with an almost fatherly look.
“I know that today was not an easy day for you,” he said, his stumpy arms wrapping around me. “But it will come with time. You will not be here forever, Owen.”
I started to well up, tears trickling down my cheek to land on the shoulder of his cardigan. I thanked him before he could say anything else, returning the hug, the same way I’d have hugged my father.
We let go, and he laughed softly and told me it was far past his bedtime. As he hobbled up the back stairs, I told him I’d take care of the dishes and see him in the morning. I scraped Jude’s scraps into the garbage can, dropping the plate and glasses into the sink. I scrubbed for hours.
Most days, I was resigned that nothing would ever come clean, but tonight I just had to try. I had to rid this plate of every smudge. I scrubbed with the dishrag until my hands began to prune, looking older than Jonas’s, or even Jude’s. When I pulled the plate out, a solitary smudge remained, directly in the middle. It was so goddamned disheartening. I put the plate in the drying rack and dried my hands on my jeans before grabbing the garbage from the can and leaving the Depot.
***
I took the long way home. I wasn’t ready to see my shitty little apartment yet, the empty bed. I walked up and down city blocks, staying away from her side of the city. I felt unwelcome there, and I respected the fact that she’d probably rather drown all over again than hear from me right now. It might have been a few minutes, it might have been a few hours, but eventually I wound up in that sketchy alleyway, looking up at the sin eater’s terrace.
“Hey!” I called up, my malaise manifesting as anger.
He didn’t respond. He was there. I could see him. His long silver hair flowed in the night breeze from underneath his hood. His robe was as tattered as ever, pieces still wrapping around the wrought iron like malevolent tentacles. He was a deep, dark, vampire squid, existing only for his own nourishment, not concerned with anyone or anything. He could’ve been fused to that terrace like some hellish abomination. I wouldn’t have been surprised to find that his bathrobe was lined with that awful art-deco wallpaper.
“HEY!” I yelled, not concerned with who might hear, who might notice the man I was interacting with.
He didn’t look down, staring instead at the brick building across from him. His table was empty tonight; there were no empty tins of applesauce at his feet or in the alley below. I saw a twinkle in his eyes as they peeked out from beneath his hood, but his lips remained closed.
“HEY!” I yelled one more time, my voice a mix of desperation, fear, and pure pain.
Nothing. Not a single word. Not even an acknowledgement. I waited, hoping he’d have something to say. He didn’t.
I walked home.
I traipsed up the stairs with the heaviest of feet, opening my apartment door with my shoulder and the slightest twist of the knob. I couldn’t even make it to my bed, couldn’t handle tugging at my clothes. It was too damn cold here anyway. I fell over the armrest on the couch and collapsed into a sleep that was deep but not at all restful.
18
I woke early the next morning, intending to run by the Depot before meeting with Michael. I had lucked out by not removing my clothes, I thought. I stared into the grimy, cracked mirror on my wall. I felt weathered, but I didn’t look any older. I hadn’t aged a day in twelve years. The bags under my eyes were still there, but there were no new wrinkles, no thinning or graying hair, nothing.
I picked at my hair before settling on my inability to do anything presentable with it, then looked around for my keys. My wallet was still in my pocket, but all my coins had disappeared. They’d probably fallen into the hole in my couch, a hole that had devoured countless books, socks, and various other goods. I didn’t have the energy to concern myself with missing change, so I snatched my keys off the floor by the door and left. I caught myself humming “Escape” as I tottered down the steps, and I rolled my eyes.
As I passed the train station—grand and magnificent, its steam rising into the great big monochrome—I didn’t turn my head to look. I wasn’t concerned with the new arrivals; their fresh faces and wide-eyed confusion; that brief moment when they realized there were no language barriers and they all understood one another. And I certainly didn’t want to see who was leaving. I couldn’t bring myself to think about my failed attempt at an escape plan, the kind of “Born to Run” that would have disappointed Springsteen himself. Fortunately, I could see the Depot up ahead, and it was calling to me like a beacon.
It was locked, which threw me off a bit. I could understand the neon sign not beaming out into the morning sky, but Jonas was the early-to-bed, early-to-rise type. I assumed he’d forgotten as I fidgeted with my keys.
I turned the knob and stepped into relative darkness. Confused, I flipped on the lights and went behind the counter. Nothing seemed out of place.
“Jonas? Where are you, buddy?” I called, setting my keys next to the register. I scanned the lanes, peeking into the kitchen to see if he was whipping up a pastry or mopping back and forth like he habitually did. Nothing.
I ran down a lane and opened the door leading to the catwalks. Maybe the old man decided to tinker with the pinsetters? He’d been saying he was convinced that he could get Lane 3 to function properly again. But he wasn’t there, and I started to get nervous.
I closed the door to the catwalk, breaking into a sprint up the lanes, nearly tripping over my own laces as I made my way into the kitchen and up the stairs to his little room. The door was shut.
I let myself breathe, finally, air flooding my lungs in relief. He was probably just in bed, sick. It wasn’t as if you could die here—not as far as I knew anyway—but he could’ve come down with a cold. I gave a quick, sharp knock.
“Hey Jonas? It’s Owen, man. Can I come in?”
Nothing. I waited for a brief moment before knocking again.
“Jonas. Hey, come on. Our day’s about to start. I have to meet with Michael and you’ve got to get this place up and running.”
Still nothing. I pressed my ear to the door, cupping my hands, listening for any sign of activity. There was no rustling of sheets or shuffling feet. No wheezing, coughing, sneezing, heavy breathing, or groaning. So I opened the door.
The apartment was nearly empty. The bed had been neatly made, the ratty old sheets pressed, the sorry excuse for a pillow fluffed. The picture of Jonas and Anneliese had disappeared from the wall. His closets were empty, along with his cupboards, his sink. Aside from the standard-issue furniture, there remained two items, both neatly arranged on his tiny kitchen table.
I pulled the lone chair out and sat down calmly. A large, dusty notebook sat in front of me, Recipes written across it in Jonas’s precise script. The other object was a sealed envelope on which he had written my name.
I sat for a moment, not quite sure what to say or think. I picked up the letter. The weight of it was crushing, as if it carried heavy burden and purpose. I slid my finger along the flap, pulling out a single notebook page.
Like always, his penmanship was impressive.
Owen,
It seems that today we both received an unexpected promotion. Gabriel phoned me early this morning and asked me to come down to the courthouse. He insisted that I have my affairs in order before doing so. When I arrived, he took me into his office and we spoke of my time here—how long I had stayed, unable to forgive myself for
the things that I had done in my life. We talked about my guilt and fear, of facing my Anneliese, meeting my child Monika. I did so many horrible things, but Gabriel reminded me that I am not a bad man. For the first time, I believed him. When I woke this morning, I felt lighter, a great burden relieved from me. It is not something that I can explain, but I am ready.
Gabriel even showed them to me. I cannot begin to tell you how I wept, watching how happy they seemed. My daughter is the most beautiful thing I have ever seen, my Annaliese just as enchanting as the day I left on that train. By the time you read this letter, I will sit on a different train, one that will carry me toward my family, not away from them.
I would like for you to know that you have been a wonderful employee. Even when you were lazy with your mopping or bad with the dishes, you did as I asked, and you treated me with respect. This is something I cannot truly repay. I have no possessions here, just this bowling alley and these recipes. So I will leave them with you, and though I hope that you do not have to use them for a long time, I believe they will at least carry you through until you cross over as well. It is now my great hope that I will see you again soon.
Good luck with your penance, with your sea girl, and with the Depot.
Regards,
Jonas Ehrlichmann
His signature was smudged a bit. I wasn’t sure whether from my tears or his.
I stood up and walked over to the wall, grabbing the nail that previously kept his picture frame hanging. I gave it a hard tug, and then another before it came loose, little bits of sheet rock tumbling behind it. I held the letter up over the freshly uncovered hole and inserted the nail. That would do for now.
Returning to the table, I grabbed the recipe book and thumbed through it, fascinated. Each recipe I’d seen Jonas prepare was written out with precise measurements and strict steps. He’d left notes in the margins—little additions he’d added over the years, jukebox selections he liked, even thoughts on customers. Michael was listed as SCHMUCK, the word underlined four times.
It occurred to me that if I sat there any longer, I’d miss my designated appointment and tongue-lashing. I brought the recipe book down to the kitchen, ripped a blank page from the back, and wrote DEPOT TEMPORARILY CLOSED in big bold lettering, taping it to the ancient front door. As I left the Depot, I locked the door, not yet grasping that I’d be fully in charge when I got back. We were at least going to change some of the songs in that jukebox, even if I had to petition one of the saints. Was a Stones single so much to ask for?
I hustled toward the center of the city, prepared to take my medicine. I knew Michael was not going to be happy with me, with what I’d done. But at the same time, I couldn’t be too angry with myself. Sure, I fucked up what I thought was an incredible opportunity with the most beguiling and intriguing woman I’d ever met. I’d run the risk of her never speaking to me again, and that was an especially disquieting thought, knowing that there was an afterlife that stretched on for all of eternity.
But, I thought, maybe I hadn’t lost those silver coins in the couch. Maybe the services I’d asked for had indeed been rendered, by a man in a charming disguise, for the person In-Between who probably deserved it most. That thought allowed me to keep my head up. I did my best to avoid the other foot traffic, but my shoulder managed to snag the arm of a man in a business suit. The same one who’d held up my bus two weeks prior by refusing to pay bus fare for some mundane reason. He grimaced, as if my touch were toxic, like the plaid of my shirt would eat away at his fine silk jacket. I wondered if he might rip it off, thinking it forever tainted.
“Watch the hell out, kid!” he screamed, one pointed strand of his slicked-back hair flying forward as if challenging me to a duel.
I didn’t even stop. I kept my hands buried in my pockets, both middle fingers firmly resting next to their fellow appendanges, all the vulgarities floating around in my head quietly filed away for later use. It just wasn’t worth my time.
As I crossed the street in front of the courthouse, I felt something unexplainable. It wasn’t joy or triumph, tedium or ennui. It wasn’t disappointment or deflation; it wasn’t even resignation. I just had to do this. It became a sort of mantra as I took every step slowly and confidently. It guided me as I pushed past the crowd, past the giant excess of St. Peter. It helped as I used every ounce of strength to muster open those heavy wooden doors. It shepherded me to Waiting Room 13—through the crowds, the old hands, the new blood, the angels looking up at the large clock above the doorway, anxiously waiting to punch out for the day and return to their astral lofts in the skies above, or wherever the hell Paradise happened to be. When I opened the door, I felt a surprising comfort.
“NUM-bah. Take one,” Janice belched, her beehived head tilting so far toward the ticket machine that I thought it might roll right off, plopping to the floor, somehow still sentient and ready to bark her stock phrases as her hands idly clicked away at a keyboard. I did as I was told. I was lucky enough to pull a six, but I wasn’t sure how lucky that really was in a waiting room full of twenty.
I sat next to a big, burly man. The top of his head was completely smooth, his legs as thick as barrels, and his arms might’ve actually been two tree trunks. I imagined him as a career criminal, the kind of guy you would bring with you to shake someone down when they owed you more than a couple of dollars; or maybe some circus strongman, the kind that put on a tiger-striped toga and wrestled with a bear.
To kill the time, I tried to make conversation. “Are you new?” I asked, looking up at him.
“First week,” he said. “Supposed to get my job assignment today. Michael said he might have something that fit my expertise.”
“Oh yeah?” I laughed. “I don’t know that we need a lot of human wrecking balls down here.”
“Right,” he said, giving me a slanted look. “Well, I’m actually a mechanic. Used to work on pinsetters in a bowling alley.”
A disbelieving smile cracked across my face while laughter erupted from the depths of my belly. He looked puzzled, and I gathered stares from around the room, some of my fellow waiting-room compatriots no doubt assuming I was a lunatic. I calmed myself quickly enough and extended my hand toward him.
“I’m Owen, man, and believe it or not, I’ve got a bowling alley with some messed up lanes.”
“Jackson.” His hand nearly crushed mine like a walnut as he grasped and shook.
“I’ve got a feeling that you and I are going to—”
“SIX! NUMBAH SIX!” Janice was a hoarse and horrible alarm clock.
“Sorry, man. That’s my number,” I said, standing. “But I think we might be seeing each other later.”
I walked past him, past the rest of the lost souls who leered at me as if I were a child cutting in front of the lunch line to get the last ice cream bar.
“Remem-bah,” Janice started, her sandpaper-shredded vocal chords ready to warble out her normal speech.
“Yes. I’ve heard it all before, Janice. End of the hall, door to the left, don’t open the one on the right.”
She briefly looked at me with what seemed to be complete and utter defeat, as if I’d fractured her very purpose for being. I could almost see whatever soul she might have shatter into a thousand little slivers. Then she shrugged and went back to clacking away at her keyboard.
I walked down the hallway without a pack of cigarettes for the first time since the first time. I stopped at Michael’s door, as I’d always done, and considered what might happen if I checked behind the door on the other side. But I had things to do. Amends to be made. I opened Michael’s door and stepped in, waiting for whatever fury he might have.
He was seated at his desk, his feet propped up on the table, his wings extended at odd angles—one half-hidden by a potted fern, the other set on tangling with his blinds like Christmas lights. He held a book. It was small and blue, with a bright pair of eyes and an elegant title on the cover. I noticed the grease smudge on the back, my thumbprint. It was, without q
uestion, the copy Mia had given me.
“Not a bad book,” he chuckled, closing it and setting it on the desk. “Owen, how about you take a seat?”
I sank into his plush armchair, watching as he straightened up in his own office chair, rolling his sleeves up and bringing his hands together to rest his mouth on them. I couldn’t tell if he was waiting for me to explain myself or if he was trying to conjure the proper words with which to whip and flay me. We sat in silence for a few moments, him staring intently at me, me rearranging myself in the seat across from him. By the time he spoke, my posture was nearly perfect.
“That was a hell of a stunt you pulled,” he said. His voice was calm, even a little jovial. Familiar.
“Yeah,” I said, doing my best to take ownership of what I’d done. “It was my mistake, and I recognize that.”
“Well, it was only about half your mistake,” he said, pulling at the packet of cigarettes in his breast pocket. “I kind of set you up for failure on that one.”
I tried to process what he could possibly mean.
“I hated to have to do it to you kid, but it was kind of a two birds, one stone thing,” he said. He lifted the pack to his lips and removed a cigarette. It took him three clicks to get it burning brightly. “Look, Jonas was a real class act, but he was a glutton for punishment. He deserved his happiness. He’d have spent the rest of time here trying to atone, and the guy was in the clear well before you even came along. But we couldn’t make him go. I can’t take anyone’s sin away. I don’t have the power of absolution. And you.” He took a long drag off his cigarette and looked away from me, unhappy with what he was about to say. “You weren’t really ready to go. And I’m not happy about that kid. I’m not mad at you. I get it, this place isn’t easy. It’s not any easier than it is when you’re living. But you were coming down to the wire and something was missing.”
In-Between Days Page 15