She dug a crumpled pack of cigarettes from a stuffed purse. I struck a match for her.
'Thanks, sonny,' she said. She took a deep inhalation and the smoke just disappeared. I mean, I didn't see it come out anywhere.
She was a swollen, bloated woman in her middle forties.
She looked like the kind of girl who could never be surprised, shocked, or hurt; she had seen it all — twice at least.
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The bartender brought her drink: a whisky with a small beer chaser.
Sal looked me up and down.
'You work in the steel mills, sonny?'
'That Sal,' the bartender said to me, 'she's a card.'
'Oh no,' I said to her. 'I'm not from around here. I'm from New York.'
'You could have fooled me,' she said. 'I would have sworn you were a puddler.'
'Come on, Sal,' the bartender said.
'That's all right,' I told him. 'I know the lady is pulling my leg. I don't mind.'
She smacked me on the back, almost knocking me off the stool.
'You're okay, sonny,' she said in a growly voice. 'I like you.'
'Thank you,' I said.
'What the hell you doing in Gary?'
'Gary?' I said, fear soaring. 'I thought this was Athens.
Isn't this Athens, Indiana?'
'Athens?' she said. She laughed uproariously, rocking back and forth on her barstool so violently that I put out an arm to assist her in case she should topple backwards.
'Jesus Christ, sonny,' she said, wiping her eyes with the back of her hand, 'this place hasn't been called Athens in years. It was absorbed by Gary a long time ago.'
'But it was Athens?' I insisted.
'Oh sure. It was Athens when I was a kid, more years ago than I want to remember. What the hell you doing in Athens?'
'I work for a law firm in New York,' I said. 'It's a matter of a will. I'm trying to locate a beneficiary whose last address was given as Athens, Indiana.'
'No shit?' she said, interested. 'An inheritance?'
'Oh yes.'
'A lot of money?'
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'It depends on what you mean by a lot of money,' I said cautiously.
'To me,' she said, 'anything over twenty bucks is a lot of money.'
'It's more than twenty bucks.'
'What's the name?'
'Knurr,' I said. 'K-n-u-r-r. A woman. Goldie Knurr.'
'Goldie Knurr?' she repeated. 'No,' she said, shaking her head, 'never heard of her. Lou!' she screamed. When the bartender came over, she asked, 'Ever hear of a woman named Goldie Knurr?'
He pondered a moment, frowning.
'Can't say as I have,' he said.
'Buy me a double,' Sal said to me, 'and I'll ask around for you.'
When she returned she slid on to the barstool again, spanked her empty glass on the bar.
'What the hell's your name?' she demanded.
'Josh.'
'My name's Sal.'
'I know. May I buy you a drink, Sal?'
She pretended to consider the offer.
'Well . . . all right, if you insist.' She signalled the bartender, holding up two fingers. 'Bingo,' she said. 'I found a guy who knows Goldie Knurr. Or says he does.
See that old swart in the back room? The grey-hair, frizzy-haired guy sitting by himself?'
I turned, 'I see him,' I said.
'That's Ulysses Tecumseh Jones,' she said. 'Esquire.
One year younger than God. He's been around here since there was a here. He says he knew the Knurr family.'
'You think he'll talk to me?' I asked.
'Why not?' she said. 'He's drinking beer.'
'Mr Jones?' I said, standing alongside his table with my drink in one hand, a stein of beer in the other.
He looked up at me slowly. Sal had been right: he had to 371
be ninety, at least. A mummy without wrappings. Skin of wrinkled tar paper, rheumy eyes, hands that looked like something tossed up by the sea and dried on hot sands.
'Suh?' he said dimly.
'Mr Jones,' I said, 'my name is Joshua Bigg and I -'
'Joshua,' he said. 'Fit the battle of Jericho.'
'Yes, sir,' I said, 'and I would appreciate it if we could share a drink and I might speak to you for a few moments.'
I proffered the stein of beer.
'I take that kindly,' he said, reaching. 'Set. Sal says you asking about the Knurrs?'
'Yes, sir,' I said, sliding on to the banquette next to him.
The ancient sipped his beer. He told me a story about his old army sergeant. He cackled.
'What war was that, sir?' I asked.
' O h . . . ' he said vaguely. 'This or that.'
'About the Knurrs?' I prompted him.
'It was about '58,' he said, not bothering to tell me which century. 'On Sherman Street that was. Am I right?
Sherman Street?'
'You're exactly right, sir,' I said. 'That's the address I have. One-thirteen Sherman Street.'
'If nominated, I will not run,' he recited. 'If elected, I will not serve.'
'That's wonderful,' I marvelled. 'That you remember.'
'I still got all my nuts,' he said, nodding with satisfaction. He suddenly grinned. No teeth. No dentures.
Just pink gums.
'This was in 1958?'
'Nineteen and fifty-eight,' he said. 'Maybe long before.
I tell you something funny about that family, suh. They was all G's. Everybody in that family had a name with a G.'
'Goldie Knurr,' I said. 'Godfrey Knurr.'
'Zactly,' he said. 'The father, George Knurr. The mother, Gertrude Knurr. Three other tads. Two sons: 372
Gaylord Knurr and Gordon Knurr. Another daughter: Grace Knurr.'
'You've got an incredible memory, sir.'
'I sure do,' he said. 'Ain't nothing wrong with my nuts.'
'What happened to them'?' I asked. ' T h e Knurr family?'
' O h . . . ' he said, 'the old folks, George and Gertrude, they died, as might be expected. The kids, they all went away, also as might be expected. Goldie, I hear tell, is the only one around still.'
It was not good news. If this old man's memory was accurate, Goldie Knurr was indeed the sister of my target.
'Mr Jones,' I said, 'how is it you know so much about the Knurr family?'
'Oh,' he said slowly, 'I used to do this and that around their house. Little jobs, you know. And my third wife, Emily that was — no, Wanda; yes, the third was Wanda — she was like a mother to the kids.'
'You don't recall anything about Godfrey Knurr, do you, Mr Jones?' I asked. 'One of the sons?'
'Godfrey Knurr?' he repeated, his eyes clouding. 'That would be the middle boy. Became a preacher man, he did.
Left town. Can't blame him for that.'
'No indeed.' I said fervently, 'I really can't. You don't remember anything else about Godfrey? Anything special?'
'Smart young one,' he said. 'Big and strong. Liked the girls. Played football. Something...'
He stopped suddenly.
'Something?' I prompted.
'I don't rightly recall.'
'Something good or something bad?'
He stared at me with eyes suddenly clear and piercing and steady.
'I don't rightly recall,' he repeated.
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6
I opened my eyes Friday morning, bewildered for an instant before I recalled where I was. I rose, did a few halfhearted stretching exercises. I looked in vain for soap, washcloth, towel. I made do by sponging myself with a handkerchief dipped in water from my corner sink. As promised, it was running water. Cold. But invigorating.
I then dressed. My suit, of course, was badly wrinkled, but that seemed a minor consideration.
The owner-clerk was still in his wire mesh cage, drinking coffee from a cardboard container and reading a copy of Architectural Digest.
'When is checkout time, please?' I asked.
'Every hour on the hour,' he s
aid, 'Oh, it's you.
Checkout time for you will be around eight or nine tonight.'
I stepped outside to find the rain had ceased, but the sun was hidden behind an oysterish sky. It put a dull tarnish on the world. I walked a few blocks. It took all my optimism to keep my spirits from drooping: block after block of mean row houses, a few scrubby trees.
I finally found a luncheonette that seemed to be doing a thriving business, went in, and had a reasonably edible breakfast. When I paid my bill, I got directions to Sherman Street.
Sherman Street was absolutely no different from any other in Athens: a solid culvert of row houses, jammed together, all of the same uninspired design, all three storeys high, either clapboard or covered with counterfeit brick siding.
I found 113 Sherman Street. I climbed the three steps to 374
the stoop, pushed the bell, heard it ring inside the house, and waited.
The door opened a cautious crack.
'Miss Goldie Knurr?' I asked, taking off my hat.
'I'm not buying anything,' she said sharply.
'I don't blame you, ma'am,' I said, smiling so widely that my face ached. 'Prices being the way they are. But I'm not selling anything. It's about your brother, Godfrey Knurr.'
The door was flung open.
'He's dead!' the woman wailed.
'Oh no,' I said hastily. 'No, no, no. Nothing like that. I saw him, uh, yesterday, and he's healthy and, uh, in fine shape.'
'Law,' she said, pressing a fist into her soft bosom, 'you gave me such a start. Come in, sir.'
She let me into a hallway, paused to lock, chain, and bolt the door, then turned to face me.
'You saw Godfrey yesterday?' she said in a voice of marvel: Robert Browning asking, 'Ah, did you once see Shelley p l a i n . . . ? '
'I did indeed, ma'am.'
'And he's all right?'
'As far as I could tell, he's in excellent health. He has a beard now. Did you know?'
'A beard?' she cried. 'Think of that! Did he give you a message for me?'
'Ah . . . no,' I said softly. 'But only because I didn't tell him I was coming to see you. May I tell you about it?'
'Of course you may!' she said loudly, recalling her duties as a hostess with a guest in the house. 'Here, let me take your coat and hat, and you come into the parlour and we'll have a nice chat. A cup of tea? Would you like a nice cup of tea?'
'Thank you, ma'am, but no. I just finished my breakfast.'
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I waited while she hung up my hat and coat on brass hooks projecting from an oak Victorian rack with a long, silvered mirror, lidded bench, and places for umbrellas with shallow pans to catch the dripping. Then I proffered my business card.
'Leopold Tabatchnick, ma'am,' I said, 'of New York.
Attorney-at-law.'
'He's not in any trouble, is he?' she asked anxiously, scarcely glancing at the card.
'None whatsoever,' I assured her, reclaiming my card.
'Please let me tell you what this is all about.'
'Oh, law,' she said, pressing a fist into her bosom again,
'I'm just so discombobulated. It's been so long since I've heard from Godfrey. Do come in and sit down, Mr — what was that name?'
'Tabatchnick. Leopold Tabatchnick.'
'Well, you just come right in and sit down, Mr Leopold,' she said, 'and tell me what brings you to Gary.'
She led me the way into the parlour. There were the bright colours missing from outdoor Gary. Red, green, blue, yellow, purple, pink, orange, violet: all in chintz run wild. The sofa, chairs, pillows, even the tablecloths were flowers and birds, butterflies and sunrises. Parrots on the rug and peonies in the wallpaper. Everything blazing and crashing. Overstuffed and overwhelming. The room stunned the eye, shocked the senses: a funhouse of snapping hues in prints, stripes, checks, plaids. It was hard to breathe.
Goldie Knurr was just as overstuffed and overwhelming.
Not fat, but a big, solid-soft woman, as tall as Godfrey and just as husky. She was dressed for a garden party in a flowing gown of pleats and flounces, all in a print of cherry clumps that made her seem twice as large and twice as imposing.
Sixty-five at least, I guessed, with that rosy, downy complexion some matrons are blessed with: the glow that 376
never disappears until the lid is nailed down. I saw the family resemblance; she had Godfrey's full, tender lips, his steady, no-nonsense brown eyes, even the masculine cragginess of his features.
Her figure was almost as broad-shouldered as her brother's, but softened, plumpish. Her hands were chubby. The hair, which might have been a wig — although I suspected she might call it a 'transformation' — was bluish-white, elaborately set, and covered with a scarcely discernible net.
She sat me down in an armchair so soft that I felt swallowed. When she came close, I smelled lavender sachet, sweetly cloying. I hoped she wouldn't take a chair too near, but she did. She sat upright, spine straight, ankles crossed, hands clasped in her lap.
'Yes, Mr Leopold?' she said, beaming.
'Tabatchnick, ma'am,' I murmured. 'Leopold Tabatchnick. Miss Knurr, I represent a legal firm on retainer to the Stilton Foundation of New York. You've heard of the Stilton Foundation, of course?'
'Of course,' she said, still beaming. Her voice was warm, burbling, full of aspirates. A very young, hopeful voice.
'Well, as you probably know, the Stilton Foundation makes frequent grants of large sums of money to qualified applicants in the social sciences for projects we feel will benefit humanity. Your brother, the Reverend Godfrey Knurr, has applied for such a grant. He desires to investigate the causes of and cures for juvenile delinquency. He seems well qualified to conduct such a research project, but because the amount of money involved is considerable, we naturally must make every effort to investigate the background, competence, and character of the applicant.
And that is why I am here today.'
She was dazzled. I was not sure she had quite understood everything I had thrown at her, but she did grasp the 377
fact that her brother might be granted a great deal of money if this funny little man in the wrinkled suit lost in her best armchair gave him a good report.
'Of course,' she gasped. 'Any way I can h e l p . . . '
'I understand yours was a large family, Miss Knurr. Five children, and -'
'Five happy children,' she interrupted. 'And five successful children. Not one of us on welfare!'
'Most commendable,' I murmured. 'About Godfrey, could you tell me if -'
'The best,' she said firmly. 'Absolutely the best! We all knew it. There was no jealousy, you understand. We were all so proud of him. He was the tallest and strongest and most handsome of the boys. Star of the football team, president of his high school class, captain of the debating team, good marks in every subject. Everyone loved him — and not just the family. Everyone! You'll find that no one has a bad word to say about Godfrey Knurr. We all knew that he was destined for great things, and that's just the way it turned out.'
She sat back, smiling, nodding, panting slightly, pleased with the panegyric she had just delivered.
But I couldn't let it go at that. This was the woman who instinctively suspected sudden death when her brother's name was first mentioned, who asked if he was in trouble when she learned I was a lawyer, who apparently hadn't seen or heard from the favoured brother in years. It didn't jibe with the dream she had recalled.
'Then he was never in any, ah, trouble as a boy?'
'Absolutely not!' she said definitely, then decided to amend that. 'Oh, there were a few little things you might expect from a high-spirited youngster. But nothing serious, I do assure you.'
'He had friends?'
'Many! Many! Godfrey was very popular.'
'With his teachers as well as his peers?'
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'Oh, law, yes,' she said enthusiastically. 'He was such a good student, you see. So quick to learn. The other boys, they talked about going into the
mills and things like that.
But Godfrey would never be satisfied with that. He aimed for higher things. That boy had ambition.'
It was the unreserved love of a sister for a handsome, talented younger brother. I found it hard to break through that worship.
'Miss Knurr,' I said, 'about Godfrey's choice of the ministry as a career — was he very religious as a boy?'
Lucky shot. Up to that point her answers had been prompt and glib. Now she paused before answering. She was obviously giving some thought to framing her reply, and when she spoke the timbre of her voice had changed. I thought her uncertain, if not fearful.
' W e l l . . . ' she said finally, 'ours was a God-fearing family. Church every Sunday morning without fail, I can tell you! I can't say that Godfrey was any different from the rest of us children as far as religion was concerned. But when he announced he was going to study for the ministry, we were all very happy. Naturally.'
'Naturally,' I said, 'and the other boys, Godfrey's brothers, did they really go into the mills?'
'No,' she said shortly, 'they never did. They were both drafted, of course, and Gaylord decided to stay in the army. Gordon owns a gas station in Kentucky.'
'And Godfrey became a minister,' I said encouragingly.
'Your church is in the neighbourhood?'
'Two blocks south on Versailles Street,' she said, pronouncing it 'Ver-sales.' 'It's St Paul's. The pastor then was the Reverend Stokes. He's retired now.'
'And who took his place?' I asked.
'Reverend Dix,' she said stonily. 'A black.' Then she brightened. 'Would you like to see our family album?
Pictures of all of us?' She rose briefly, left the room, and returned with the album. Then she sat down on a posy-379
covered sofa and motioned me to sit beside her.
What is it about old snapshots that is so sad? Those moments in sunshine caught forever should inspire happiness and fond memories. But they don't. There is a dread about them. The snapshots of the Knurr family weren't photographs so much as memento mori.
We finished the album and I turned back to the section devoted to photographs of Godfrey.
'Who is this he's with?' I pointed at a snapshot of two stalwart youths in football uniforms standing side by side, legs spread, hands on hips. The boy alongside Godfrey Knurr was a black.
'Oh, that's Jesse Karp,' she said, and I thought she sniffed. 'He's the principal of our high school now — would you believe it?'
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