Epitaph

FIFTEEN

Golden Meadows. That's what it was called. And true to everything else in misnomerville these days-thinking, for example, of Magnolia Drive and Peachtree Lane, there wasn't a meadow in sight. Instead, there were liquor stores sealed with black metal bars as if waiting to be carted away to another location; there were grocery stores with taped-up windows; a completely gutted Dunkin' Donuts; and what appeared to be half a 7-Eleven-more like a 3-Five then. The most dignified-looking building in Golden Meadows land was a pawnshop whose front window was filled floor to ceiling with seven different kinds of crap.

And excepting for the yellowed strips of paint that were peeling off its walls in bunches, there was nothing golden about Golden Meadows either. It looked, then, just like an old age home should look-like a place to wither and die, in the kind of neighborhood where death of any kind wouldn't even slow traffic.

William arrived there at twelve sharp. The first thing he noticed was the look. Yes, absolutely; when he walked through the door-the very second he walked through the door-he was met by the look. What kind of look was it? This kind. The kind of look used car salesmen give to rubes. Think of it this way. He was a visitor, sure, but to them he was something else. Another customer, a future resident. Why, they probably had a nicely soiled cot all ready and waiting for him.

It was over ninety outside, and not all that much better inside, but he shivered as if doused in ice water.

He walked over to the front desk where folded wheelchairs sat like shopping carts all in a row. A woman was waiting there, the woman who'd stared at him with predatory sweetness, and for just a moment William was rendered speechless. Words were told to report front and center, but they insisted on playing hide-and-seek with him. Okay, he was scared.

Once everyone's greatest fear was to die alone, uncared for, with no one there to hold your hand. But things had changed. Sure they had. Now there was something worse than dying alone, much worse. Dying here. In a place like this. Golden Meadows.

There were a whole bunch of things they talked about back home in the Astoria boarding house. The generally shitty state of the city, the generally shitty state of the Mets, the truly crappy state of their prostates. Among other things. But there were some things they never talked about. Things like old age homes. Things like that. The word had taken on the taboo aura of cancer; if you spoke it, it might happen to you. Old age homes were like concentration camps-they knew they were there, sure, but no one admitted it. And now, standing there in the dimly lit lobby filled with wheelchairs, black orderlies, and two residents who'd drifted in with walkers and were mumbling, both of them, at the floor, William felt the panic, the sheer dread, of someone who's been shown his final resting place. "Yes?" the woman said to him, in a voice cool as ice. "What can we do for you?" "I called," William said, his voice suddenly back, and with it, his mission, piss-poor as it was. "I called about Mr. Koppleman. Alfred Koppleman. I'm here to say hi." "Oh, yes. I'm sure our Mr. Koppleman will be very happy to have a visitor." William was sure their Mr. Koppleman would too; who wouldn't? She picked up a phone. "Trudy… we have a visitor here for Mr. Koppleman." She put the phone down softly as if afraid of scaring someone, then said, "There's a visiting room through the swinging doors. Why don't you make yourself comfortable and we'll send Mr. Koppleman out to you. Oh," she said just as William turned away, "have you bought anything for Mr. Koppleman?" "Bought? No," William said, "I haven't. Why?" "We like to see everything our visitors bring here." "Why's that?" "There's a good reason for it, Mr…?" "Jones." "There's a good reason for it, Mr. Jones. Some people bring boxes of cookies or candy, and they want it to go to the person they brought it for."

"Doesn't it?"

"Perhaps you've never been to a retirement home before," she said, a little too sweetly. "Our residents fight over things like that. You bring a box of cookies in there and five minutes later it's eaten. And someone's hurt. They are," she said, "a little like children."

And soon enough, her eyes seemed to be saying to him, you'll be like that too.

"Trust me," she continued. "We ask people who bring things to leave them here at the desk. We make sure it goes to the person it was brought for."

"Fine. But I don't have anything for Mr. Koppleman," William said, repeating himself, eager to end the conversation.

"No, Mr. Jones, you don't."

He turned then, and walked through the white swinging doors and into the visiting room. It's a nice place to visit, he remembered Mr. Leonati saying about Florida, but you wouldn't want to live there. You wouldn't want to live in the Golden Meadows Retirement Home, but you wouldn't want to visit it either; you wouldn't even want to visit the visiting room, especially the visiting room. Once upon a time, someone had tried to spruce it up with warmer colors, yellow and peach and pink, but that had been once upon a time, and the colors had faded to mere ghosts of their former selves, a little like the residents of Golden Meadows. Four or five of whom were scattered around the visiting room like props, waiting only for the arrival of an audience. Two of them were watching the lone TV without expression. Which is it, the toothy MC was saying, the door on the left or the door on the right? The two watchers had reached the age where they'd grown wise to this sort of con game; they knew that both doors eventually led to the same place-to here. Another man sat by the window, staring down at his shoes, his right arm hooked to an IV. He, at least, had a visitor, the only visitor in the visiting room besides him- a young girl, his granddaughter, William guessed, who was trying to make conversation. She was making conversation, only it was just a bit one-sided. The only voice he heard was hers. "So we took Sam to the veterinarian," she was saying, "and the veterinarian said he had worms or something, you know the way Sam scratches himself, you remember, don't you…" But if her grandfather remembered, he didn't say so. William sat down on the metal bridge chair furthest from everyone. "Jack!" Someone, William suddenly realized, was calling out to him. It was one of the men by the television. "Jack," he repeated, staring at William with a rabid expression. "Jack, you old… you old…Jack…" "Sorry," William said, feeling the old dread again, pulling at him like something drowning. "I'm not Jack." "Yes you are… yes you are… yes you are… you're Jack…" "Okay," William said. "I'm Jack." "You don't say… you don't say… where's my candy, Jack… where's my candy…?" "I don't have it." "Where… where… where… where's my candy…?" A black orderly wandered in. "Now, Mr. Bertram, you know that's not Jack. Now when does Jack visit you?" "Saturday… Saturday… Saturday…" "That's right. You know what day it is today?" "Saturday… Saturday… Saturday…" "No. Today is Thursday, Mr. Bertram. That's right. Jack will be here Saturday. You'll get your candy then." Mr. Bertram seemed satisfied with that; he turned back to the TV A minute or so later, they wheeled in Mr. Koppleman. William's first impression was that Mr. Koppleman didn't belong there. His eyes seemed much too alert, and his body, chairbound though it was, seemed much too sprightly. He actually wheeled himself in-two orderlies trailing him like Muslim wives, his arms, too long for his blue pajama sleeves, working the wheels like nobody's business. He was looking right at William, another sign that senility hadn't claimed him just yet, that he knew, at least, a stranger when he saw one. "You here for Mr. Koppleman?" one of the orderlies asked him. "That's right." "He's all yours, man." The orderly had a Hustler magazine tucked into his coat pocket. William could make out one large nipple and a pair of fuck me glossy lips. The orderly pulled it out of his pocket and flopped himself down in a chair at the end of the room. The other orderly went over to the man sitting with his granddaughter and without a word to either one of them grabbed the back of the wheelchair and began to roll it toward the door.

"I wasn't done talking to him," the girl said. "I didn't say goodbye."

"What's the difference," the orderly said without looking back at her, "he ain't gonna hear you anyway."

"He does hear me…" the girl said. "He does…"

But the orderly had already pushed him through the door and didn't bother answering her. He too wasn't hearing her anymore.

Mr. Koppleman chuckled.

"He doesn't hear her," he said. "He's not… aware anymore."

"No," William said, his attention back where it belonged. "But you're aware, Mr. Koppleman, aren't you?"

"Of everything," Mr. Koppleman said. His skin was the most unearthly white, William noticed, white as milk. "I'm aware, for instance, that I don't know you. I don't think I've forgotten you-pretty sure I haven't forgotten you-so it must be I never met you."

"My name's William," and he stopped here, not exactly sure what to say, quickly roaming through his grab bag of friendly lawyers, representatives, and old acquaintances. "I'm here about a friend. Someone, I think, you did meet."

"Well, I've met a lot of people, you know. More than a dozen. More than two dozen. Could even be as high as a hundred. How's that?"

Okay, William realized now, so maybe he wasn't that alert. Maybe he was slipping just a little. Maybe it wasn't exactly brightness he'd seen in Koppleman's eyes then, but the kind of glow a bulb gets just before it burns out for good. And now he wondered if Jean had seen it too.

"The person I'm talking about, you would've met real recently. No more than a month ago. His name was Jean. Jean Goldblum. What do you say. Does that ring a bell…?"

"What sort of bell?"

"Your memory, Mr. Koppleman. I need to know what you remember. Now take me. Sometimes I forget what I did this morning. But when I meet an interesting person, that's different. Then I don't forget a thing. Are you like that?"

"There are church bells. Doorbells. Bicycle bells. Jingle bells. And wedding bells… those too."

"Yeah, Mr. Koppleman," William said, feeling the exasperation of someone who's passed countless Food Just Ahead signs down the pike only to find the place burnt to the ground when he gets there. It was the sort of hunger that could ruin your day.

"Alpine bells. Bluebells. Cowbells. Wedding bells-did I mention those…?"

"Uh huh."

"My wife," Mr. Koppleman said, "was a lovely woman. My greatest pleasure was watching her before a mirror. I don't remember her face now, but I remember the way she put her hair up every morning before the mirror. With tortoiseshell clips. So elegant. There's a mystery there in women, that has to do with the way they put themselves together."

It was a little like listening to a faulty radio, William thought as Koppleman talked on, a radio that keeps drifting from one station to another completely at random. First the news, then some music, a three-six-three double play, then back to the latest bombing in Bosnia. Though not entirely at random, for it seemed to be words that set him off in one direction or another, like those word association tests psychiatrists use to see which way the mind jumps. Wedding bells had made him positively leap, race way back to a time when his wife put her hair up so elegantly before a dresser mirror. And getting him to jump back was going to be hard-for despite his impatience, despite his hunger, despite the fact that all he had was Mr. Koppleman, who didn't exactly have his faculties in full working order, he felt just a little callous here, like a burglar sifting through the family jewels, flinging them left and right in an effort to find the right one. Mr. Koppleman's memories might mean Jack crap to him, but to Mr. Koppleman they were pure gold. But there was no choice-those taillights were already rounding the corner, while William sat stuck at a traffic light. He'd have to lead Mr. Koppleman back. No two ways about it. He'd have to lay a few crumbs along the way maybe, then lead him back, the way you tempt a wary cat back into the house. Here kitty… kitty…

"So, Mr. Koppleman," he said now. "Your wife? She been gone long?"

"I don't remember."

"Losing our loved ones-that's tough…" trying to guide him back into the past, but suddenly bringing himself there first, imagine that, Rachel sitting there clear as day, and smiling at him too.

"I don't remember," Mr. Koppleman repeated.

"Take me again. I lost my wife too." Well, he had, hadn't he? Lost her in a motel on Utopia Parkway and never could find her again.

"Sorry to hear it."

"Yeah. And that's not even mentioning all the friends I've lost."

"I've got a bunch."

"That's good, Mr. Koppleman. Wish I did." And he did too.

"I've got a bunch of friends. The thing is, we keep missing each other. They come to visit me but I never see them."

"Sure. That happens."

"I've got to straighten that out."

"Yeah. You ever get to see anybody?"

"Sometimes."

"Like who…?"

"I've got to straighten it out. Talk to the management here…"

"Tell you what," William said. "I'll talk to them for you."

"What…?"

"Who came to visit you, Mr. Koppleman?"

"You'll talk to them for me?"

"Sure."

"About what…?"

"I'll straighten it out for you."

"Somebody's got to."

"Who came to visit you?"

"What are you talking about?"

"You said sometimes you got to see visitors. Who?"

"What did your wife die of?"

"Loneliness, I think." And Rachel nodded, then finally left the room. So long, Rachel. So long. "I don't remember," Mr. Koppleman said.

"You don't remember what?"

"Who came to visit me."

"I'll throw out a name here. Jean Goldblum."

"Who?" "Jean. Jean Goldblum. He's dead now." "Sorry to hear it." "Yeah. But I think he came to see you." "You said he's dead." "Before he died." "What?"

"Holy shit!" The orderly was dangling the Hustler centerfold in front of a glazed-eyed resident now. "Look at that." He turned it around and kissed it somewhere south of her belly button. "Sweet…" "Mr. Koppleman?" "Yes?" "Hello." "Hello." "Jean Goldblum came to see you. Remember?" "Maybe." "What did he want?" "I'm not sure." "You're not sure?" "I'm not sure he came to see me." Okay, he'd never been very good at the tango. Now Santini, he could cut the rug like nobody's business. But him-he was in dire need of a few Arthur Murrays.

"Come on, Mr. Koppleman. Think. I'm in trouble here. I need your help." "Okay."

"Jean Goldblum came to see you. They brought you in here just like this. You had no idea who he was maybe. Maybe you said get me out of here. But he said wait a minute. Listen to me. I need to know something. Help me out here. So you did. Maybe he even thanked you afterward."

"Sure."

"You remember, don't you?"

"Maybe."

"Well then." He leaned forward now, close enough to whisper in his ear, close enough to kiss him. "What did he ask you? What?"

"He asked me why I'd been spared."

"What?"

"He asked me why I'd been spared. Me, out of everyone."

"Spared, Mr. Koppleman? By who?"

Do you go for the box, or what's behind curtain number two, the TV MC was saying. The black orderly had thrown his Hustler down on the chair and joined the other men by the television.

"Go for the curtain," he said now, and laughed, "go for the gold, baby."

"Good question," Mr. Koppleman said.

"What did he mean?"

"Good question."

"Come on, Alfred. Stay with me."

"He thought I knew something."

"That's right."

"He badgered me."

"What did he think you knew?"

"Good question."

"He asked you why were you spared. You. Out of everyone."

"He badgered me."

"Do you know who everyone was?"

"Good question."

"I do. I know who they are."

"Who?"

He pulled the map out of his pocket. "Alma Ross… Joseph Waldron… Arthur Shankin… Mrs. Winters…" ticking them off one by one, hoping the names, like signposts, might lead him home-might lead the both of them there.

"See, Mr. Koppleman. Everyone."

"Okay."

"They weren't spared. That's what Jean knew. That's what Jean found out here, isn't it? But you were."

"What?"

"You were spared."

"By who?"

"Good question." He felt drained. Yes he did. A couple of times around the dance floor and he was ready for the oxygen tent. "Mr. Koppleman?"

"Yes."

"Hello."

"Hello."

"Who were they?"

"Who were who?"

"Those people. The ones who weren't spared. Do you know them?"

"Do I know who?"

"These people."

"What people?"

Okay, Mr. Koppleman had left him. Sure he had. Scurried up a telephone pole, danced along the wire, and was smiling at him-like the Cheshire Cat. William kept at it-for a little while more he did, tried this and that to get him down, but although he tried every way he knew and for longer than he should've, it was no go. Even the fire department couldn't get him down now. So he gave up. The black orderly was fiddling with the TV dial, switching it back and forth with a vengeance. "I'm done," William called out to him. And, in a way, he was. "Leave him there," the orderly said. "I told him to go for the curtain, so he keeps the box and gets skunked." "Yeah," William said. "What a shame." "Just leave him there…" William looked down at Mr. Koppleman, down, because he'd already gotten up to go. "Take it easy," he said. But he didn't think Mr. Kop- pleman heard him. "I've got to straighten this out," he said. You and me both, William thought. You and me both. There were just a few more places to go before he left Miami. He called the number again, the last place Koppleman had lived before he'd been put out to pasture in Golden Meadows. He told the woman he was coming to see her. She was, it turned out, the landlord. But not of much. The neighborhood was, if anything, a step down from the one he'd just left-which was saying something. And the building she lorded it over didn't put up much of an argument to change your mind. It was a sort of transient hotel, what they used to refer to in the old days as a fleabag, back before roaches relegated fleas to second banana in the order of household pests. There was a big one just inside the front steps-about the size of a good Havana cigar. It was taking a midday stroll on a stained carpet the color of pea soup. Two men with paper bags in their hands sat there staring at it like handicappers watching the pre-race walk-through.

"Bless you," one of the men said to William when he walked by, his hand out for donations, echoing the girl in white shorts from earlier. William put a dollar bill in it, wondering what he was going to do with all those blessings; maybe he could hold some in reserve for a rainy day.

The woman sat inside a glass-enclosed cubicle, watching a small TV.

"Excuse me," William said, talking through a hole he assumed was for that purpose.

"Twelve-fifty a night," she said. "Just like it says outside. We close the doors at eleven sharp and no funny business in the rooms."

"I don't want a room," William said.

"Then you came to the wrong place," she said, irri- tatingly, looking at the TV. "If you were going to the beach, you're lost. If you were going to the dog races, you took the wrong turn."

William said, "I came to talk to you about Mr. Koppleman."

Now, at last, she looked up at him.

"So?" she said.

"So?"

"So what about Mr. Koppleman. This is a television. This is the Guiding Light. I watch the Guiding Light every day-I've watched it every day for twenty years. So what about Mr. Koppleman?"

"When," William said, looking at his watch, "is it over?"

"Three."

"Fine. I'll wait."

He walked back to the only open chair in the lobby and sat down. There was a fan in the glass cubicle, but there wasn't a fan anywhere else. In five minutes he went from perspiration to actual rainfall. No kidding. He was slowly creating his own lake, Lake William; people would be able to rent rowboats on it and take a nice Sunday afternoon picnic by its shores. It would be listed in Mr. Leonati's guidebook under Florida attractions, right up there with Elmo's Alligator Farm and the Official Ripley's Believe It Or Not Museum. If he were especially lucky, it might even make the museum.

At three o'clock, he sloshed back over to the glass booth but the television was still on.

"General Hospital," she said.

"All right," William said, "all right." He took out his wallet and counted out twenty dollars, then held it up where she could see it.

"Great," she said. "I'll go right out and order the fur."

She took forty. (The equivalent, by the way, of six frozen Shakeys Pizzas, eight chicken pot pies, six cans of Chef Boyardee spaghetti, two loaves of bread, eleven cans of Bumble Bee tuna-or about two good weeks of eating. Not that he wasn't buying something nourishing here.)

He asked her how long Mr. Koppleman had lived there. Long. And who'd put him into Golden Meadows. His son. And why? Have you seen Mr. Koppleman? He was starting to walk into walls. And if he'd always lived in Florida? Uh uh. New York. And why'd he leave New York for here? Because his doctor recommended it. Because he liked the Dolphins. Because he was old. Who knows. That's what old people do. Aren't you here? And then just one more thing. Yes? What part of New York had Mr. Koppleman come from? Flushing. Yes, William said. Yes. Now there was one place left to go. Just one. He drove out of the city, out of the greater Miami area, down U.S. 1 to Homestead. Years ago, someone had mentioned that that's where he'd gone. To Homestead. That you could find him almost any day of the week down at the public golf course practicing his short game. William counted down the miles as he neared the city limits, and when he grew tired of counting down the miles, he started counting down the years. Then he gave up. The public golf course was easy to find-Florida was good about things like that. Lots of signs directing you to lots of places you really didn't want to go. But when he got there, he was right where they'd said he be. Only today, he was practicing his drives, banging them this way and that, trying to get the club handle around a belly that was starting to resemble the Pills- bury Doughboy's. William wondered if he still drummed his fingers across it, still imitated all those tough guys that only popped up on late-night TV now. Actually, William wondered about a lot of things. He was trying to think of the right greeting. What you say to someone who you haven't seen in an eternity. What you say to someone who you used to work with, used to tail like Tinker Bell on his trips to Never-Never Land. And he was trying to think of something that he'd never been able to think of. What you say to someone who's fucked your wife. But he needn't have bothered. Santini turned and saw him first. "What do you know," he said. "It must be old home month." Santini looked like an old duffer. Shocking. Except that's what he looked like too. Oh yeah. "How are you, Santini?" "Down to an eighteen handicap," he said. "Not too shabby. You play?" "No." "Sure. You can never get on a course up there. I remember." Santini turned and sliced another one into the tree line. "Shit. You'd think I wouldn't do that anymore." "It's a hard game." "You can say that again." Santini turned back around.

"You know, you don't look too terrible. Kept the weight off at least."

"Yeah."

"Want to grab a beer?"

"Why not."

Santini led him to a refreshment stand dotted with white plastic tables, almost all of them filled with other old duffers who looked just like him. "How's it goin'?" a few of them muttered as they passed by with two tepid beers.

They found a table to themselves at the back of the terrace.

"So," William said, "Jean came to say hello." Old home month, Santini had said. His first look at William in God knows how long and that's what he'd said.

"Yeah." Santini took a long swallow. "Ahhh."

"What did he want?"

"You know Jean. Who knows?"

"Yeah. I know Jean."

"He said he was working on a case."

"What did you say?"

"I laughed. I think."

"He was."

"Was what?"

"Working on a case."

"Well, what do you know." Santini took another swallow.

"Did he mention anything about anything?"

"I didn't ask. I don't play detective anymore. I play golf."

"Sure."

"How about you, William? You working on a case too?"

"He's dead, Santini. Jean died."

Santini took another swallow, but if the first one had been long, this one was longer, real long, and after he finished, he put the glass down slowly, real slow.

"Yeah, well, that seems to be happening to everybody I know, isn't it. What happened-he get hit by a bus?"

"Heart attack."

"Couldn't be. He didn't have one."

"Maybe he developed one right at the end."

"Not a chance. You were always the one with the heart. Remember?"

"I remember."

"And you still have it, I bet. Is that what this is all about? You taking over for Jean-for old times' sake?"

"For old times' sake."

"Well, be careful, William. When I laughed at him, Jean said he hadn't lost it. Maybe. But you never had it. Understand-one friend to another."

"Sure. I'll be careful."

Then they started talking about old times, lots of old times, all the old times except, of course, one. But then, after a half hour or so, it was as if the gulf of missing years began to widen, till they were both on opposite shores, shouting to be heard but too far away to be understood. And they were just two old guys who used to know each other.

Santini began to play with his driver, twisting it this way and that, executing phantom half swings at the slate tile floor. William finished his beer, wiped his mouth, and got up.

"Well, it was nice to see you, Santini."

"You too, William."

He turned to go. "William?" William turned back around, all the way back around, thirty-five years back around. "It could've been anybody, William. Understand? Anybody. I'm just sorry it was me." "Yeah," William said. "So am I, Santini. So am I."