Always Say Goodbye

17

Lew and Ames had driven Lilla back to Kane and dropped Darrell at home.

When Lew opened his door, the almost-full moon was balanced on the tops of the low storefront and office buildings across 301.

Behind him, as he closed the door he could hear Ames’s motor scooter chug out of the DQ parking lot.

Lew undressed, put on clean, blue jockey shorts and an “LOVE SCHNAUZERS” T-shirt that he had picked up at the Women’s Exchange. Lying in bed, pillow upright against the wall, he opened Mountains of the Moon, the Rebecca Strum book his sister had handed him when she and Franco had dropped Lew at Midway Airport. Both his sister and Franco had hugged him. Franco had kissed his cheek. Angela had touched his face.

Lew looked at the neat pile of VHS tapes next to the television set. Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Marlon Brando, Al Jolson, John Garfield, Kirk Douglas, Jane Greer, called out to Lew to join them, step out of his chaotic world into their well-ordered one. Later, maybe later or tomorrow. Tonight was Rebecca Strum.

He opened the book. It wasn’t thick, less than two hundred pages.

He read:

There’s comfort in the darkness, a nonjudgmental stillness that banishes time. And that darkness can be found simply in the closing of one’s eyes.

But when she opened her eyes, Beck, his eyes bright, glowing yellow like a black cat on a starless night, stood at the foot of Ruth’s bed.

In his hand was something glinting from a light that had no source. The thing in his hand was a knife. But this was impossible because there was no way to hide a knife in the Dachau camp, no way for men to get into the women’s compound, and no way for Beck to be there because Beck was dead.

Lewis read half of the book and then placed it on the chair next to his bed. He pulled up his blanket, turned to his left as close to the wall as he could get. Behind the wall he could hear the strum of distant traffic and a pair of voices arguing on the street or in the DQ parking lot. He slept.

In the morning, Lew pulled on his pants, picked up his zippered morning case, used the bathroom and shaved, and went back to bed. At two in the afternoon he put on his jeans and an oversized black T-shirt with the words I WANT TO BELIEVE in white letters on the back. He had watched from his window until there was no one in line. He got a double cheeseburger and a chocolate cherry Blizzard.

Dave, face a copper-crinkled permanent tan, took his order. Dave owned the place but spent little time here. Whenever he could be, Dave was out on his boat, deep in the embrace of sun worship and salt air. Occasionally, Dave even fished.

“Make it to go,” said Lew.

“Will do. So how’d you do? Chicago, I mean.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Dave repeated, running the Blizzard machine. “So you found him?”

“Yes.”

“Short of help today,” said Dave.

Silence except for the traffic behind him and the sizzle of meat ahead of him in the dark. Then Dave appeared with a white paper bag.

“I threw in a small fry.”

“Thanks.”

“You don’t want to talk now, do you?”

“Not today,” said Lew.

When Lew finished the meal at his desk, he wrapped the remnants, went back to bed, ignored the ringing of the telephone and finished reading the Rebecca Strum book.

It didn’t tell him anything he didn’t know. It did tell him how he might express it. He fell asleep.

And that was Sunday.

On Monday morning, Lew sat across from Ann in her small office near the Bay. He had brought coffee and biscotti from Sarasota News amp; Books a block away and now she sipped and said, “So you saw the dead and walking wounded in Chicago,” she said.

“I did.”

“And you survive.”

“I survive,” he said, looking at the Cubs cap in his lap.

She dipped her biscotti in the coffee and leaned forward to take a bite and keep from dripping on her dress.

“I enjoy and am comforted by biscotti with almonds, the sight of long-necked water birds, the bright flowers, the night sky, the waves, all the cliches that always turn out to be truths once you are initiated.”

“How do you get initiated?” asked Lew.

The colorful, bangled, triple-rowed stone bracelet on her hand clacked as she lifted her cup.

“You don’t,” she said. “You become or, if they’ve caught you early enough, you pretend. Did you pretend?”

“About being an Episcopalian?”

“About accepting. Think about it. Or, better yet, don’t think about it. You’re giving thirty-five thousand dollars to Sally for her children’s education.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“Will she take it?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find out tonight. I’m bringing Chinese to her and the kids for dinner.”

“And you are afraid that if she accepts, she will take the money with thanks but your relationship will change too,” said Ann. “No matter what you tell her she will feel that she owes you.”

Ann dunked the last piece of her biscotti and popped it into her mouth.

“She doesn’t owe me. I owe her.”

“But you are afraid she’ll feel that way, just as you… didn’t you say you had a backup biscotti in the bag?”

He held up the bag and she took the biscotti.

“What was I saying? Oh, yes, she’ll feel that way just as you feel that way about Earl Borg. Drink your coffee. Eat your biscotti. Millions of children in Third World countries would fight for that crunchy pastry. Think of them.”

“When I do, I can’t eat,” said Lew.

“I just upped my biscotti quota to three a week. It’s almost time, Lewis.”

He looked at the clock on the wall over Ann’s desk. On the desk were framed photographs of Ann’s children and grandchildren, all smiling, all bearing some resemblance to Ann.

“When I look in the mirror, I see my mother’s face,” he said.

Ann had started to rise, but sat back down.

“You look like your mother?”

“Yes, and I talk like her, laugh like her.”

“And that distresses you?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve never talked about your mother,” Ann said. “Is she dead?”

“No.”

“Is she in Chicago?”

“Skokie.”

“Did you see her when you were in Chicago?”

“No.”

Ann sat silently, hands in her lap.

“She’s in a facility,” he said.

“A facility? The hour is over, Lewis. Take down the wall and speak.”

“She is in a mental facility,” he said. “She’s been a depressive all her life. Four stays in hospitals. This time she’s in complete dementia. She doesn’t recognize anyone, but-”

“Yes, but…” Ann prompted.

“She’s happy for the first time in her life.”

“And you’re afraid you’ll become like your mother?”

“Yes.”

“Interesting,” said Ann. “We’ll talk about it next time. Now, you owe me-”

“A joke,” Lew said, putting on his cap.

“No, twenty dollars,” she said. “Now that you have money, the price goes up. Now that you’ve told me about your mother, you have a choice. Either tell me a joke or tell me something else about you that I don’t know.”

Lew was standing, head down in front of her. He reached into his pocket, pulled out his wallet, handed her a twenty-dollar bill and something small and flat and neatly folded over with thin white tissue paper. She carefully unfolded the paper and looked at what was inside.

“Catherine?” she said.

“Catherine,” Lew said.

“She was lovely.”

“Yes,” said Lew as Ann carefully rewrapped the photograph with tissue and handed it to Lew, who put it back in the sleeve of his wallet. “She was lovely and I got her killed.”

“Abstract guilt, Lewis.”

“No,” he said. “Real responsibility.”

“Sit,” she said gently.

“You’ve got someone…” Lew said, looking at the door.

“The person sitting out there can wait,” said Ann. “She is too docile. That’s part of her problem. If I have her wait, she may get angry, which would accomplish more than fifty minutes of talk.”

Lew was sitting again, cap on his knee, looking at Ann’s desk, seeing nothing.

“Why do you think you are responsible for the death of your wife?”

“The night before she died we had an argument.”

“About what?” Ann prompted.

“I don’t think I’m ready to talk about this,” he said.

“Not ready? You drop a small bomb of guilt. You sit down. You wait for me to become gluttonous in my search for information and then you say you’re not ready? You are ready.”

Lew looked around the room for something to distract himself, an uneven pile of mail on the desk, a slightly crooked small print of a seascape, a beam of light through the single high window, a bookcase filled with psychology and history books.

“We had an argument about ambition,” he said. “I was happy where we were, where I was. Catherine was ambitious. She was good and she was getting recognized. She wanted to consider some offers from outside Chicago.”

“Political?”

“Some. I was willing but not enthusiastic. She wanted and needed enthusiasm from me. She deserved to have it, but I’m not good at lying.”

“You lie to yourself like a professional,” Ann said.

“There was no shouting, crying. There were no threats. Nothing was resolved when we went to bed. In the morning we didn’t say a word till after we had coffee and buttered toast at the window.

“We went to work, didn’t see each other much,” he went on. “We had lunch together at a deli on Monroe. She told me a District Attorney in Tennessee was pressing her for an answer to his offer. Catherine was admitted to the bar in six states and working to get admitted in others. Tennessee was one of the first states after Illinois that had-”

“Lewis, are you going to start chewing your hat now?”

“No,” he said. “She needed enthusiasm from me. I wasn’t enthusiastic about moving to Tennessee. Chicago was… all I knew or wanted. She packed up her work for the day and told the secretary she shared with Michael Hawes that she was going home to work. She didn’t tell me.”

Ann said nothing. She looked at him, waiting. He knew what she was waiting for.

“I’ve been telling you I didn’t know why Catherine was going home at three o’clock that afternoon. Catherine left work early that day because of the argument. She left early and was killed by a drunk driver.”

“You are a wonderful hysteric,” said Ann with what sounded like sincere admiration. “You have, until the last five minutes, displayed an ability over the past two years we have been talking to block out reality. It’s a challenge. Maybe I’ll write an article for the Florida Journal of Psychopathology. I would focus on your depressive hysteria. With your permission of course.”

“Permission granted.”

“Do you have any idea of why you have given me all these secrets, this cornucopia of bitter fruit at the very end of our time together today?”

“I just wanted to tell you. I don’t want to talk about them. Not today.”

“Congratulations,” she said. “We’ve made a significant move. We’ve added guilt to your depression. What we need now is a long session and a reasonable supply of biscotti without hazelnuts. My confession. I really don’t like hazelnuts. I’ve got you down for next Monday. Can you make it this Wednesday too?”

“Yes.”

Lew got up and put his cap on his head.

The phone wasn’t ringing when Lew got back to his office. There was no new mail under his door. He had no papers to serve for the Sarasota law firms that he regularly worked for. He needed something to keep him from climbing back in bed. He decided it was time for Joan Crawford. He had selected A Woman’s Face and Daisy Kenyon from his stack of tapes.

Someone softly knocked at the door. Lew considered not answering. Another soft knock.

Lew opened the door.

The man looked tired. He needed a shave and a haircut and a clean shirt. His right hand tightly gripped the handle of a duffel bag. Under his left arm was a painting of the jungle of a city night.

Lew stepped back and Victor Lee stepped in.