Epitaph

TWENTY-ONE

They had a lot in common, William thought. Old age homes and mental hospitals. If he didn't know any better, he'd say they were almost interchangeable. And he didn't know any better. For example, you could put on your gravestone I'd Rather Be Here Than In A Mental Hospital or I'd Rather Be Here Than In An Old Age Home. I'd rather be shut away here than there, than either one of them. People would get your drift, no question.

Though this was, more technically, one wing in a many- winged hospital. And the wings were strikingly different; they didn't belong to the same animal. While one wing was dead and going nowhere-an ostrich wing, say-an- other wing was pumping with energy-a stork wing. He'd walked into that wing first-pediatrics and obstetrics, the pacing of fathers-to-be creating actual breezes. And like spring breezes, they carried the definite odor of hope, of things to come-in this case, talcum, formula, and lots of strong coffee. One whiff and William knew he'd entered the wrong place, that he couldn't be further from where he was going.

"Ward B's that way," a nurse told him, pointing in the opposite direction, as if he were an extra that had wandered onto the wrong stage, dressed for Greek tragedy in the middle of a chorus from Rodgers and Hammer- stein-the kind where all the actors are doing cartwheels and do-si-dos.

Which brought him to the dead wing. Where there were no cartwheels, no breezes to speak of, and not the faintest sign of hope. You could search every inch of the place, turn it upside down and inside out and you'd never find hope at all. It wasn't allowed in. It couldn't get through the wired windows, or the electronically shut doors, and even if it did, the smell of disinfectant and urine would kill it.

On the other hand, he felt right at home. He'd had a hard night, the kind of night he used to have most nights, kept awake by clients who'd ceased to be customers and had become his responsibilities instead. After all, in the Three Eyes Detective Agency, he'd been the Third Eye- the one that never shuts, that doesn't even blink except to shed tears now and then. So while Jean and Santini slept, or Jean slept, and Santini slept with Rachel-he'd lain with his eyes wide open, all three of them. And last night had been like one of those nights, slumped before an infomercial for the Amazing Vacuum Sucker, which promised to suck up everything one, two, three-especially your four easy payments of $39.95. No doubt about it though, those infomercials were good. Ten minutes in and you were starting to wonder where the Amazing Vacuum Sucker had been all your life; by twenty minutes you were as good as sold. It was the audiences that put it over the top though, all those wowed faces cheering like mad every time the Sucker went to work. Everyone could use an audience like that, William thought. Do something good-sell a used car, mow the lawn, fix the plunger in the toilet and there they'd be, oohing and ahh- ing just for you. Take his situation, gumshoeing in his seventies and the only one who's noticed is the guy who invited him to drop in at Cherry Avenue. That's gratitude for you.

And last night-no sleep, out at the crack of dawn, limping to a subway station inhabited by bag ladies. He had to step over them to buy a token, then transfer twice, one train worse than the next, the cars empty of everything but garbage and the occasional homeless person. Urban art covered the walls and windows though, urban art being what he'd heard someone on TV call graffiti. This urban art said Melissa Sucks Cock and Jews Eat Shit and Motherfucker in several colors. Compared to most modern art, it was at least understandable, there was no denying the artist's intent here. The artist hated Melissa, he hated Jews, and he probably wasn't too fond of William either.

By the time he surfaced in Manhattan, he felt bruised and battered. The streets were empty-as empty as the train cars, and it was only then that he realized it must be Saturday. That was another thing about aging; it didn't so much free you from routine as set you adrift from it. Days lost their meaning-those Monday Morning Blues started showing up on Friday. Those Sunday Night Jitters started popping up on Tuesdays. One day was like any other day, no better and no worse. Today was Saturday, but it could have been Wednesday or Thursday or Christmas Day.

Especially here on Ward B. William didn't think days mattered much here either. There wasn't a calendar in sight here by the reception desk. No reception in sight either. He had to wait over five minutes till someone showed up. Then someone did-Hispanic, sleepy-looking, very girlish. And male. He didn't walk in so much as sashay, executing a sort of rhumba on his way to the desk. That kind of walk stood out, especially here, especially within the walls of Ward B, which were very unlike the walls in Ward A. The walls in Ward A were yellow and blue and dotted with plastic sunflowers. The walls in Ward B were dull pink and chipped, like bitten-down nails. The male nurse in Ward B had nice nails though, freshly manicured, with just a hint of lavender.

"Yesss…?" he said.

"The thing is…" William said, yes-what was that ever elusive thing? "I need a little information. About a patient who was here a long time ago."

"What kind of information?" He had a breathy voice, no doubt about it-Mae West maybe-or Lizabeth Scott.

"I'm tying up an estate," William said, trotting out a new one, and why not. "We don't have a single living relative here. I was hoping his records might mention someone so we can get this thing taken care of."

"Uh huh. How long ago are we talking about here?"

"Oh, fifty years maybe."

"Are you serious?"

William said that he was-very serious.

The nurse said that he was very too. Very sorry that William had come all the way here thinking they'd still have records from over fifty years ago. Because if he thought they would, he was very mistaken. Very, very mistaken. And have a very nice day.

William said he was very disappointed. Very, very disappointed. Was he sure there were no records of any kind for patients from that time? It was a special program for Holocaust survivors. Maybe he could check with someone else?

"Maybe I could, or maybe I can't," he said. "I don't even know who's around today."

William said his nail polish was unmistakably attrac- tive-what was the color?

"Thank you," he said, brightening considerably. "Purple Passion."

William said he didn't think he'd ever seen a color quite that nice. Nope, never.

"Maybe I can find someone," he said, as he picked up the phone. "Hold on."

A minute later-a minute William spent complimenting the nurse on his choice of shoes and lovely stock- ings-a woman close to sixty walked in. The opened door leaked in the sounds of soft wailing, of what sounded like several heads banging against several bars, of sniffling, and sobbing, and maniacal snickering, the sounds of undistilled human misery. William suddenly wished he was anywhere but here. Back in the hospital maybe, on morphine and talk shows. Not here.

"Yes," said the woman. "What exactly can I do for you?"

William took the story out for another spin around the room. Not a bad story at all, a good, solid story, a story you could depend on in a pinch. A story she wasn't buying for a New York City second.

"Are you a lawyer?" she asked.

"Not exactly," he answered, convinced if he said he was, she was going to make him prove it.

"Then what are you, exactly?"

"A private investigator for the concerned parties." When in doubt, why not try the truth? Pretty close to the truth anyway-the only thing not being the truth being the fact that the concerned parties were, of course, him. Though he certainly was concerned, no doubt about it. Especially when he realized that the truth, in this case, sounded even more like a lie than the lie. At least to her. Who was looking at him, at his seventy-something-year- old him, and probably sizing him up for one of those nice straitjackets. The next thing he was going to tell her was that he was Napoleon and that Josephine was outside waiting in the car.

"First of all," she said, "we don't keep records from that long ago. Second of all, if I did have those records, I wouldn't give them to you. They would be confidential, understand. And besides, I'm not at all sure about you anyway. Sorry."

She exited, back through the electronically opened door into the heart of Ward B, leaving William like a groom before the altar-this close to the honeymoon, and jilted just like that.

But then again, there was always the maid of honor.

Who was staring at him now with what looked like genuine compassion.

William mentioned how nicely his hair was groomed. And what a nice choice in rouge.

The male nurse said: "Look, I have no idea if he can help you, but there was a doctor who practiced here forever. He's retired now, but he still comes in to visit his old patients, okay."

William asked where this doctor lived.

"Real close to here. Five blocks maybe. I don't know if he was here that far back, but you never know, right?"

William said right. And thanks. And what a lovely pocketbook he had.

He gave William the doctor's address.

The doctor lived in a rose-brick town house. Lots of ivy trailing down the walls. Lots of shuttered windows- eight of them. Lots of cat shit by the front door in three, yes, three large litter boxes. William got to know the features of the town house intimately, for he worried that he was just a bit early and didn't want to wake the doctor from the wrong side of the bed. So he stood there like a night watchman, like East Brooklyn again, minus the teal uniform and gun. Of course, he always had the cane now-if push came to shove he could always whack some innocent bystander to death. She would have been in her late twenties now, he thought, almost that, just starting out. If drugs, or a jealous boyfriend, or a hit- and-run driver, or just plain despair hadn't gotten her first. But then, he'd gotten her first, William, the fastest gun in the East, and just maybe the least accurate. It was an accident, sure, but maybe the kind of accident that was just waiting to happen. It was the kind of accident, anyway, where sorry doesn't cut it. Where you have to do penance. His sentence was twenty years of house arrest-self-imposed maybe, but still… Go directly to your room and do not pass Go. And he'd gone-not even a murmur of dissent. And he'd stayed quite a while too, hadn't he, quite a while. But now he was out, in front of a town house searching for signs of life. The doctor's, and his own.

His own was doing fine: pulse there if a little unsteady, ribs mending, arthritis bearable, shoulder remarkably numb. The doctor's was another matter. The town house was like the house in the Night Before Christmas. The not-a-creature-was-stirring-not-even-a-mouse house.

Okay, maybe a creature was stirring after all. A cat was stirring. Gray, mangy, and battle-scarred, it slithered past his cane and trudged up to the doorway like a hungover night prowler looking for a bed. One weak meow at the foot of the door, and the door answered, swinging open to let him in. Then it shut again, pronto.

The doctor was up. And so was William, up the front walk to the stoop where he knocked twice and waited.

The cat had gotten much quicker service, he thought after a minute or so, wondering if a good meow wasn't in order. Then, the door swung open and Dr. Morten, a large man in a blue bathrobe, peered out at him and said he already had a subscription to The Watchtower. Not that he was a Jehovah's Witness or anything, just that he had a lot of trouble saying no to people.

Which turned out to be right on the money. After all, when he realized William wasn't a Jehovah's Witness, or a political canvasser, or an encyclopedia salesman, or the man from the Water Department, he still let him in.

"The hospital sent you, you said?"

Dr. Morten had led him to the kitchen. At least, it looked like the kitchen. Underneath the food-encrusted dishes, the coffee-stained cups, and glutinous-looking silverware, he thought there was a kitchen there. Although it didn't exactly smell like a kitchen; it smelled like a cross between a lavatory and a gym.

"Yes," William said, sitting down at the kitchen table. "They told me you worked there for years."

Dr. Morten was filling up yellow bowls, one with water, one with milk, one with food, then another one with water and another one with milk and another one with food. And so on.

"Oh yes," Dr. Morten said, "years."

Now cats began to appear. Lots of cats. From under the table, from behind the refrigerator, from inside the cupboards, from underneath the radiators, it was suddenly raining cats. William, who was in the general vicinity of their food, had a sudden appreciation for what a wildebeest must go through right before the lions snap the life out of him. Or what Mr. Brickman must feel like every moment he spent outside. It wasn't fun being the prey; given a choice you'd rather be the lion.

"So," Dr. Morten said, "what can I do for you?" He sat down on the other side of the table; a black cat started playing with the belt of his robe.

William explained. Dead person, concerned parties, investigating, etc.

"Fascinating story," Dr. Morten said. "Why are you talking to me?"

"The deceased was registered in a program for Holocaust survivors after the war. Were you around for that?"

"For that and all the rest of them. World War II, Korea, Vietnam. The lot. And you know what I learned-war's war. Just the casualty figures change. And everyone's a casualty. Were you in the war?"

"No." He'd been drafted at the very end and sent to Army Supply in Fort Dix. While Jean had been smuggling Jews to Argentina, he'd been smuggling Scotch to corporals. So while he'd been in the service, he hadn't been in the war.

"What was his name?" Dr. Morten said, then, "Stop it, Clarence," to the cat, who was tugging on his bathrobe like a wife who didn't like being ignored.

"Jean," William said. "Jean Goldblum."

Something happened. A cat leapt across the table, throwing a shadow across Dr. Morten's face. A yellow bowl was knocked over, throwing its milk against the bottom of his bathrobe where it clung like paste.

"Cats…" Dr. Morten said, a little sadly. "Cats. I moved most of my files downstairs-I was going to write a few case studies when I had the chance. I'll take a look. Goldblum? I don't remember that name, but then there were so many of them. If he was in the program, he'll be there."

He left William in the kitchen; two cats began fighting, hissing like snakes, spraying each other with spit. Something had happened. A cat had leapt across the table; milk had been spilt; Dr. Morten had said I'll take a look. William rubbed his forehead, eyes closed, trying to figure it out. A cat had leapt, like a shadow…

Dr. Morten returned.

"It took a while, but I found him. He was in the program. Briefly. Jean Goldblum-that's the name, right? Nothing much there. His wife and children were exterminated in Mauthausen. That's it. If he had any other relatives, it doesn't say so. Sorry." Me too. "Anything else in the file?" "Else?" "I don't know. Anything that caught your attention maybe. Anything I could use." "No." "It's just that you become curious about a person. You start out just doing a job, but then you become curious." "About what?" "Things. Did you know he was some sort of resistance hero in the war-sure you do, it's probably all in the file. He got a lot of other Jews out." "Yes-it mentioned that." "I always wondered why he couldn't do the same for them." "Them?" "His wife and children. I mean while he was smuggling everyone else out of there, why didn't he get around to them?" "Who knows? Maybe they didn't want to leave him behind." "Sure. There's other things though." "What things?" "Well, you've got an honest-to-God hero here. Everyone else was trying to save their skin-but him, he's risking his neck to save strangers. Mother Teresa and Jean Goldblum. See-you can utter them in the same breath." "So?" "The thing is," William continued, "after the war, Jean wasn't so heroic anymore. From what I can tell-from people who knew him. He didn't help old ladies across the street anymore. He ran them over. He became a detective, and he got a reputation…"

"What kind of reputation?"

"The kind that gets you clients who pay in cash."

"What's your point?"

"I'm curious why that happens."

"Why?"

"Yeah. I'm curious why someone turns. I'm interested in the process."

"Are you asking hypothetically? Because that's the only way I can answer you. Mr. Goldblum was a client of the hospital. There are laws about that."

"Sure. Hypothetically. Hypothetically why someone who's up for the Nobel Prize ends up blackmailing queers."

"Hypothetically, you've got someone who grew up by the Golden Rules. Someone who, hypothetically, believed in them. Someone who was confronted with a horrible situation. Someone who still believed in them. Someone who acted on them. Someone who got sent to Mauthausen for acting on them. And the worst part-some- one who lost everything he loved for acting on them. Hypothetically, you've got someone who isn't so fond of the Golden Rules anymore. Someone who, hypothetically speaking, can't wait to get rid of them."

"Okay, that makes sense."

"And this kind of person wouldn't exactly be enamored with himself either."

"Why?" William said, remembering those pictures shot from boot high.

"He survived. They didn't."

They being one wife and two little tow-headed children.

"We coined a phrase," Dr. Morten said. "Survivor's guilt. We couldn't do much about it-but we gave it a name."

"Why couldn't you do much about it?"

"Why? Imagine yourself strapped in an airplane with your whole family. I mean everyone. Cousins, grandmothers, uncles and aunts, your wife and children. And then you crash. You don't just crash-you know you're crashing for a good ten or fifteen minutes. You feel the ground rushing up to meet you. You have to listen to everyone's cries and prayers and whimpers. You have to look into your children's eyes and see the future that'll never happen. And then, when the moment finally comes, when you finally crash, after you've said your goodbyes and wrapped your arms around your wife and children for the last time-surprise. You don't die. They do-all of them, while you watch them go one by one unable to stop it. But you-you're still there. Now," Dr. Morten said, "what do I tell you to make you feel better? What do I tell you to make you stop wishing you'd joined them?"

Yeah, William thought, remembering that little girl, okay, not quite the same thing. But still…

"We started our survivors program armed with good intentions. But they spoke a different language. We spoke a different language. They'd witnessed the inconceivable. Everything we said to them sounded like gibberish. We didn't have a prayer. And neither did they. The program was an unqualified failure. We cut it in thirds, then gave it up completely."

"And Jean. He was a failure too?"

"Sounds like it, doesn't it. Then again, he didn't shoot himself or throw himself off a bridge, so maybe not."

Maybe not. Only maybe he did throw himself off a bridge, only maybe it took him fifty-five years to hit the water. But at the very end of his swan dive, this close to oblivion, someone had reached out a hand and said salvation. But who?

"What will you do now?" Dr. Morten asked him. Other than leave my house-which he didn't say but which he didn't have to.

"Poke around a little more. You never know."

They both sat up, one just a little ahead of the other, though it was hard to say who was first and who was second. Call it a photo finish. Dr. Morten showed him halfway out, pointing the rest of the way like a waiter indicating the direction of the lavatory. William nimbly dodged cats, as nimbly as he could with a cane and arthritis-ravaged legs, which means he stepped on only two or three of them. Dr. Morten wasn't happy about that, and the screaming cats weren't exactly thrilled about it either. All the residents of the town house were pretty happy when he made it out the door.

Then this is what happened.

He walked, okay, limped a block or two. He passed two hot dog vendors who were just setting up.

He passed a black transvestite who asked him if he wanted a date.

A Lexus honked at him as he trudged across a crosswalk, then gunned the engine as he passed, belching out a cloud of rotten egg exhaust. William coughed, limped, coughed, limped. An acorn dropped on his head. A homeless man defecated in front of him. This is what happened. A news truck heaved a bundle of papers to the sidewalk, missing him by inches. Another vagrant yelled at him, cursing him with unbearable rage. A girl with tall bare legs walked right past him without seeing him. He figured out what had happened in Dr. Morten's house. He passed a stray German shepherd, then his limp slowed, became a shuffle, turned into a slight bobbing, eased into stillness. The shepherd barked. This is what happened. What was his name? Dr. Morten had asked him. Jean. Jean Goldblum. And then a cat had leapt across the table, throwing a shadow across Dr. Morten's face. And that was the problem-right there-that shadow. That was the problem. For he could picture it now: the leaping cat, the yellow bowl hurling milk, that shadow-like a still-life now, but one where everything's just off, the perspectives forced, the spatial relationships askew. The problem here was which had come first-the cat's shadow or the cat- and every time he looked at the picture it seemed to be the shadow when it should have been the cat. That was a problem all right, you couldn't account for it, or rather, you could account for it, but in only one way. And that way wasn't the way he was going, he was not going that way. For the only way you could account for that was this: that the shadow didn't belong to the cat at all, but belonged instead to Dr. Morten. That he may have gone to the file, but that he hadn't needed to. That the minute he'd heard that name, he'd known right off who it belonged to, known it so strongly and so immediately that darkness had touched his face like grief.

William had been looking the wrong way. But no longer. The way was that way, the way back.

Santini said every case Jean took was the same case and that the case was his own.

And that case was down in the files.

Now all he had to do was get a look at them.