Requiem for Ashes

by David Crossman

  "He knows who I am," he declared.

  "Doctor Strickland," said the supervisor, a little abashed. "You know this man?"

  "Doesn't everyone, Mrs. Bridges? The Professor's the most illustrious member of our faculty. A national treasure."

  Strickland excused himself with a handshake. "I'm sure they'll help you now, Professor." He went about his business at another window. He knew where to talk.

  "Fill this out, Professor," said Mrs. Bridges. He did. "You have a lot of money in this account, Professor. It should be in separate accounts. Separate banks. The FDIC only insures accounts up to a hundred thousand dollars. The records show we've written you about it."

  They should write to Huffy. Albert was watching Strickland. He'd written something on a piece of paper and slid it under the glass. Albert scratched in the amount and did the same. "How would you like that, sir?"

  Was this a test? “I’d like it very much.”

  “No, sir. I mean, would you like five, ten, or twenty dollar bills.”

  "Quarters." Albert was comfortable with quarters.

  "Quarters?"

  "Yes, please."

  The teller assembled rolls of quarters.

  "I'll be happy to take care of that for you, Professor. We could transfer the overage to an IRA or Keogh," the supervisor suggested.

  "A keyhole?"

  "Keogh. It's a . . . "

  She described what it was and Albert struggled to look as if he was paying attention. He was thinking about poor Tewksbury with no cigarettes, no beer, no donuts, at the same time he took an almost subconscious survey of the supervisor. She was probably attractive. He wasn't sure. Over forty. A grandmother ring, like the one his sister had given their mother, indicated she had three grandchildren, two of one and one of the other. He couldn't remember which colors were for which sex.

  What else? A permanent indentation on the ring finger of her left hand suggested she had worn a ring there for a long time, but hadn't been doing so recently. She was widowed or divorced. His mother had been widowed for years, but she still wore the ring. He decided this lady was divorced. Unless she'd just lost it. She wore contacts, and as she spoke she leaned on the counter, revealing grandmotherly cleavage and a transparent bra with "Tuesday" written on the lace trim.

  So it was Tuesday.

  She was right-handed, spoke with a definite Connecticut accent, and dressed like Miss Bjork. Albert was glad he'd shaved.

  Just as the supervisor finished her speech and Albert was putting a great deal of effort into his facial expression, he overheard Dr. Strickland, two windows over, saying he'd like to put something in his safe-deposit box.

  Glancing in that direction, Albert saw the teller lead Strickland, who was carrying a black shoulder bag, into another room, and out of sight.

  Mrs. Bridges had stopped talking. Albert looked at her, smiled, and nodded.

  "Well?" she said. "Which do you want to do?"

  Albert continued smiling and nodding. "The last one," he said finally.

  "The Keogh," said Mrs. Bridges approvingly. "Excellent choice." Albert was relieved. "I'll take care of the paperwork and get it out to you by the end of the week." Albert smiled more broadly, stuffed the rolls of quarters in his pockets, signed a piece of paper, and backed out of the bank. He had to hold his pants up.

  The grocery store, being somewhat more familiar territory, was not as much of an adventure. Why couldn't banks operate on the Redi-Mart principle? He placed his eclectic selection on the conveyor belt and tried to ignore the monotone G-sharp beep as his items were dragged across the little light by the gum-chewing girl behind the counter who was talking to another gum-chewing girl behind another counter as if Albert wasn't there.

  "That's thirty eighty-six," she said.

  He had a hundred-twenty-five dollars. There would be a lot left over.

  Albert knocked three times on his apartment door, waited four beats, knocked twice, waited four beats, knocked once. The door opened and light fell upon the archaeological remains of Professor Tewksbury, who pulled him in and slammed the door. "Cigarettes!" he said, taking one of the bags from Albert and pouring its contents on the kitchen table. He found them, tore open the carton, tore open a pack . . . like Russian dolls . . . at last extracting a slender, pure-white weed of delicious poison.

  He lit it on a burner of the gas stove, searing his eyebrows, and drew the entire thing deep into his lungs in several noisy drags. He lit another, and one for Albert.

  "Oh, that's good!" he said.

  Albert started unloading the other bag. "l got light bulbs. Seventy-five watt, is that okay?"

  "It'll be nice not having to sleep here in the dark," said Tewksbury. "It's bad enough in the light. Place is an oversized petri dish. A bacteriologist would have a field day rutting around in here. You could probably get the CDC to underwrite it for research purposes. What'd you get to eat?"

  Albert wanted to know himself. He was hungry. He called off each item as he took it from the bag. "Pizza, Parmesan cheese, spaghetti sauce, fetuccini noodles - that's spaghetti, isn't it? Black olives, taco sauce, burrito shells, hot peppers, a hardboiled-egg slicer, coffee, milk, two new coffee cups! Pita pockets? Fried pork rinds, Eskimo pies, peanut butter, and beer."

  He stood back and surveyed the little mound of edibles with the approving eye of a connoisseur. He glanced at Tewksbury.

  He'd seen that look somewhere before . . . the creature that buzzed through trees on the Bugs Bunny cartoons came to mind.

  Tewksbury made no effort to couch his dismay in civility. "That's it?" he said. "We're supposed to live on this stuff?"

  Albert's culinary balloon was burst. His habit had always been to push his cart quickly up and down the aisle - before anyone had a chance to recognize him and ask for his autograph - tossing in whatever came in reach. Sometimes the outcome was disappointing, leaning heavily toward hardware and paper products. This time, though, there was a certain theme to the selection, most of which was edible!

  He put a new light bulb on the shelf in the refrigerator.

  "It's for you," he said. "I'm going back to the hospital. Three more days."

  Tewksbury looked at Albert. "You mean they didn't let you out yet?"

  "No. I just came out for a few hours, because . . . "

  "Because you had to do a favor for an inconsiderate ass." Tewksbury put a hand on Albert's shoulder. "I'm sorry, Albert. I appreciate it. Really. Thanks."

  "A policeman was at the hospital this morning. He asked me about the escape."

  There had been a spark of life in Tewksbury's eyes. It was gone in an instant. Extinguished by the blunt return to reason. "So soon."

  "What?"

  Tewksbury enveloped Albert in the abyss of his eyes. Albert had never seen death before. "They'll be here any minute."

  "How could they?" said Albert. "Nobody knows."

  "It doesn't take much to figure it out." Tewksbury replied softly, dropping to the arm of a chair. "We're friends. There was all that disturbance last night, then you check yourself out for the day?" He sighed. "They'll be here any minute. I’m sure they had someone follow you."

  Albert hadn’t seen anyone at the bank or the Reddy Mart but, since his practice was to avoid eye-contact whenever possible, he didn't say anything.

  "What did he say? What did he ask you?"

  Albert didn't remember, exactly.

  Tewksbury released a mouthful of smoke that seemed in no hurry to ascend. Like the smell of a lost love's perfume it brought tears to his eyes, curled in milky tresses, and teased away. "It's not important."

  It wasn't. Albert was thinking, or a thought had come to him. Sometimes mail came the same way. "Will I have to go to jail?"

  Tewksbury's expression made room for the possibility. "Good Lord, Albert! I'd never given it a thought." That was all the answer Albert got. He wondered if he'd be allowed to take his piano. And all these groceries.

  He had no idea what to do with the wave of desperation t
hat swept through him. He wrung his hands, went to the window, and surveyed the neighborhood. There were no blinking lights. No sirens. No policemen or newswomen. Some children skated on the pond in the middle of the common. A barricade had been set up around a manhole in the street.

  "See anything?"

  "No."

  "Nobody?" Tewksbury rose and came to the window. "I thought the place would be crawling with police by now."

  Slowly, like sunrise after a sleepless night, desperation gave birth to a desperate child.

  “We still have time!" Albert said. "Help me with these." He stuffed the groceries into cupboards and the bags under the sink. "Get some of my clothes. There are stairs in back."

  The snow behind the house was tramped flat and brown.

  "Where are we going?"

  "Back to the hospital," said Albert matter-of-factly. Tewksbury stopped in his tracks.

  "What! To the hospital?"

  Albert, directed by the idea that they should stay out of sight as much as possible, had hidden himself behind the dumpster.

  "Come here."

  "You're going to turn me in?"

  "After all this?" said Albert. "Come on."

  Tewksbury stood in Albert's too-small pants - his own had been torn during the escape - with a paper bag tucked under his arm and cocked his head like a dog. Finally, not without trepidation, he resigned himself to Albert's care. The ensuing game of shadow tag soon found them on the hospital grounds.

  "What now?"

  "The police are gone," Albert said.

  "I repeat. What now?"

  "I'll go in first, back to my room. Then you come in."

  "And do what? Sign in and ask for a room with a view?"

  "Just walk in," said Albert with uncustomary confidence. "There are so many people, no one will notice. Especially the ladies at the desk." It had been Albert's experience that people at desks never noticed. "They never notice."

  "Where am I supposed to go?"

  "Back up to your room."

  Tewksbury looked heavenward, sighed deeply, and threw up his arms. "What I really need is a flashing neon sign I can hang around my neck, and someone marching in front of me - like a leper - shouting my presence to all and sundry." It was a moving gesture, but the theater was empty. Albert had struck off across the grounds leaving Tewksbury to founder or follow.

  Chapter Nine

  For several minutes Tewksbury stood there in Albert's overcoat, draping the air with puffs of steam like a derailed locomotive. He expected the authorities to descend upon himen masse at any moment. They didn't. "It can't be any worse than peanut-butter tacos," he resolved at last.

  Albert was waiting in the second-floor lobby when Tewksbury stepped out of the elevator.

  "That's incredible! Nobody stopped me! No one even noticed me?"

  Albert wasn't surprised. He ushered Tewksbury quickly down the hall to his former room. "See?" he said, indicating the police ribbon. "No one will go in."

  "No one except the police."

  When Albert picked the lock, Tewksbury's confidence in him shot from tepid to lukewarm. A chill shivered through him when he saw the bed. The restraints were draped neatly across it like arms folded across a dead man's chest. Albert promised to bring food, closed the door, and returned to his room, leaving Tewksbury alone in the dark.

  Jeremy Ash wasn't in his bed. Albert had dressed in his hospital gown and just gotten into bed when Miss Bjork tapped the door.

  "May I come in?"

  Albert nodded. He wondered if he'd remembered to tie the back of his gown.

  Miss Bjork sat on the bedside chair. Albert looked at her and smiled without looking at her or smiling. He folded his hands in his lap.

  "Where's our young friend?"

  "I don't know. I've been out today," said Albert. "I just got back. He isn't here."

  "Took my breath away."

  "Hmm?"

  "All that – yesterday." She nodded toward Jeremy's bed.

  "Oh. Yes."

  "That's not all the excitement, though, so I hear." She was looking at him oddly. He remembered the red line on his face.

  "Tewksbury, you mean," he said. He leaned his cheek on his hand with his elbow resting in midair. "He escaped."

  Miss Bjork took off her coat and scarf. Albert felt suddenly uncomfortable. The lady at the bank came to mind. It was still Tuesday. No need to recheck the calendar.

  "I'd never have figured him the escaping type," said Miss Bjork. The appraisal was flavored with a pinch of admiration. "I can picture him wandering around in the snow in hospital pajamas."

  "A gown," Albert corrected.

  "Mmm. Well, they'll have him before long, I'm afraid. They're everywhere."

  "The police?"

  She nodded. "He doesn't strike me as very resourceful."

  Even if they did find him, Albert thought, he'd be right where they left him. What would they do? "He's very smart," he said.

  "Well, it's all very exciting, but that's not why I'm here," said Miss Bjork, becoming more animated. "You remember I said I had something to tell you?"

  Albert didn't remember. He nodded his circular nod.

  "Well, it's about one of your colleagues. A professor . . . "

  She took a notebook from her purse and flipped through the pages, "Alters?"

  "Terry Alter."

  "Right. Well, it seems Tewksbury wasn't the only one who might have wanted Glenly dead. Just last spring this . . . Professor Alter threatened to kill Glenly. Apparently he was a little drunk." She referred to her notes. " 'You're a dead man, Glenly. No matter how long it takes; I'll make you sweat. I'll make you pay.' " She was reading the words in a courtroom monotone that belied their content. "He stood outside Glenly's house yelling one night last spring. Several of the neighbors heard it. This is a quote from one of them."

  "What did Glenly do?"

  "That's the ironic thing; apparently he wasn't even home."

  They were both silent for a moment. Miss Bjork finally spoke. "Apparently this isn't typical behavior for Alter. They say he's quiet. Definitely not a drinker. What could've set him off?"

  Albert was glad Miss Bjork was studying the floor as she spoke. It gave him a chance to study her, to try to figure what about her made his entire nervous system spongy. It brought to mind an experiment he'd done once involving a compass and a magnet. Miss Bjork made Albert's entire physiognomy point due north. He'd only begun to dwell on her salient points when something she said hit home.

  "His daughter," Albert said almost involuntarily. "Glenly got her . . . made her . . . she was going to have a baby."

  "Glenly's baby!"

  Albert nodded. Miss Bjork rose and began pacing.

  "Good Lord." Pace. Hesitate. Pace. Stop. "There's motive."

  "She went away."

  "His daughter?"

  Albert nodded again.

  "He'd've known about Glenly's reaction to sulfites. Motive, method . . . opportunity. There was plenty of that." She looked at Albert in a way that made his eyes water. "He could be the one."

  Albert didn't want him to be the one. He wanted to prove Tewksbury innocent. That's all. Couldn't Glenly's death be attributed to Divine Retribution?

  "Ah! There he is!" said Miss Bjork. Albert was shaken from his thoughts. Jeremy Ash was being rolled into the room on his stretcher. "Where have you been, young man?"

  Jeremy Ash didn't look well. His face was a cold alabaster beaded in sweat. Albert saw Tewksbury in the boy's eyes. It occurred to him that no one ever visited Jeremy. He wondered why.

  "How'd it go, Professor?" Jeremy said, brightening a little.

  Albert gave him thumbs-up. The boy laughed as they put him on the bed. "Tell me later," he said, his words punctuated by sharp breaths of pain.

  "You two have a secret?"

  There was a sparkle in the boy's eyes. "Do we have a secret, Professor?"

  "I guess we do," said Albert, warming to the notion of such a savvy confidant. "I guess
so."

  The boy laughed.

  "Well, if you guys are going to be so mysterious, I'll just make like a tree, as they say," said Miss Bjork, getting her things together. "I've got work to do. But I'll be back tomorrow. Can I get either of you anything?"

  Albert was carefully not watching Miss Bjork put her coat on and wondering what trees had to do with anything. "A small pepperoni pizza!" Jeremy Ash said without hesitation. "And a Frostie root beer!"

  "You got it!" She tossed her Harvard scarf around her neck. "I'm going to meet with . . . the other gentleman," she said.

  "You never know what might turn up."

  "Secrets?" said Jeremy Ash with a smile.

  "You're not the only one who can keep their mouth shut."

  Jeremy Ash waited until her footsteps echoed down the hall. "What happened?"

  "I went home."

  "And?"

  "Well, you know the . . . thing that was at my house?"

  "Yeah."

  "Well . . . it isn't there anymore."

  "Where is it?"

  Albert tossed his ball of twine into a nest of kittens. "You'd never guess."

  Five minutes later the teenager had exhausted every possibility of his fertile imagination, including Buckingham Palace, the Taj Mahal, and the County Jail, but had failed to unearth Tewksbury.

  Albert smiled. Tewksbury was supremely safe from detection.

  "What's this, Twenty Questions?"

  Detective Naples's sudden appearance, unheralded by so much as a shuffle, shook Albert to the core. How long had he been standing in the hall? Jeremy Ash turned onGilligan's Island. Very loud.

  "Well, Professor, better today?" Naples sat on the bed.

  "Better," said Albert, who was anything but at the moment. The inspector was disappointed that Albert's friends had opted to send him flowers rather than chocolates. "This is for you." He handed a neatly folded paper to Albert who took it, opened it, and began to read, his expression growing more and more confused until he looked at the inspector over the top of the sheet. "What is this?"

  "A search warrant," Naples said through horizontal lips.

  Albert shuddered at the thought. "You want to search me?"