“I see you’ve gone full hippie,” I said.
“It’s a religious look,” he said.
“Yeah. You’re as religious as Pontius Pilate.” I was sorry as soon as I said it. Sometimes it seemed as though I never had an unuttered thought.
The Rabbi said, “I’m going now. Danny, take care of him.”
“He’s fine. You were a big help. But it’s a never-ending fight, isn’t it?”
“Struggling with existence begins with our first gasping breath and our first scream and it doesn’t end until the final reward, our exit. That’s what they used to call death in the last century, Danny. The Final Reward. I guess they meant for all the suffering we go though. Let me know if I can help with your father’s case in any way.”
With that, the Rabbi walked out.
My father sat back down on his cot. He was reading a biography of Van Gogh. I guess the jailers figured that wouldn’t help him escape in any way except in his mind.
“You want to tell me what’s going on here, Dad? I mean seriously. Don’t lie and tell me you killed Mrs. Spring.”
“I’ve confessed and taken responsibility for it.”
“I’m not some D.A. eager to lock up the greatest killer in the history of Suffolk County. I’m your son. I deserve to know the truth, the reason you’re doing this.”
“My reasons are my own.”
I just stood there. There might have been steam coming out of my ears if I were in a cartoon. I needed to calm down and think.
“Look, maybe everyone else wants to punish you, Dad. I don’t want you to bring months of headlines. Marlene was just here. Is this really how you want her to remember you? Is this really the story you want her to tell her kids? I don’t want to have to explain you every time I go someplace. I want to visit you in Sag Harbor, have some chocolate cake, and watch you grow old in peace. I...”
An idea was wandering around in my brain.
“It’s redemption, isn’t it? Spring’s father was very kind to Mom, and now you’re going to save him. You figure maybe when you pass to the other side in case there’s some kind of judgment this will balance the people you’ve killed. You think you’re now morally even. Isn’t that it? And, anyway, if Spring did kill his wife, you’re letting a murderer get off.”
“He didn’t kill her.”
“Okay, Sherlock. Why don’t you tell me exactly how you know that?”
“Because he told me he didn’t do it. Danny, I can spot a liar at fifty paces. My whole life I could do that. I can do it now.”
“I’m not sure I believe you, but let’s say you’re right. If Spring didn’t kill her then someone else did. If you confess and take the blame, then that person never gets punished. Is that justice? Is that really redemption?”
“I can’t worry about someone else. That person will have to find his own redemption.”
My father was clinging the Van Gogh book to his chest.
“What would Van Gogh say about this, Dad? He was an artist, and truth is an artist’s highest goal.”
My father laughed at me. “You don’t know the first thing about Van Gogh. Not the first thing.”
“Then teach me.”
“You really want to know?”
“Yes, I do. I want to understand you.”
“All right, Danny. Pull over that chair there and sit down. I do have a story for you.”
I did as he asked.
“You know about Van Gogh using a razor blade to sever off the lobe of his left ear after he got into a fight with Gauguin.”
I shook my head. “I didn’t know the details. Just that he took part of his ear off. I didn’t know anything about the Gauguin part.”
“But that’s the most important part of the story, Danny.”
“Go on.”
“It was just before Christmas in 1888. The two artists had a studio known as The Yellow House. It was in Arles in Southern France. Gauguin planned to leave, but Van Gogh didn’t want him to go.”
My father began coughing. I told him to take a drink of water which he did.
Then he was ready to resume.
“I’m going by hints now. What I’m about to say isn’t clear because the two men deliberately chose not to talk about it. You’ll appreciate this, Danny. I’m playing detective.”
“And what exactly did you detect?”
“So our two artistic roommates get into a fight. To me it’s most likely that Van Gogh attacked Gauguin. You may not know that Gauguin was a fencing master.”
“Of course I don’t know that.”
“Okay, I didn’t mean to offend you. But Gauguin was. To defend himself, or maybe in an angry attempt to fight back, Gauguin took his sword and took a swipe at Van Gogh, taking off the ear lobe.”
“You’re making this up.”
“It follows logically from the facts. I can’t go through the letters they wrote. I’m just saying what I think. And it’s what I think that is important.”
“So what did Van Gogh do?”
“Van Gogh was, as you’d expect, now bleeding quite badly. He wrapped the ear in a cloth and walked to a nearby house of prostitution. He gave the severed part of the ear to a prostitute. She took it, and then she fainted. He left. When she woke up she contacted the police who went to Van Gogh’s home the next morning.”
“He must have had quite a tale.”
“That’s just it, Danny. He said he did it himself. He never mentioned Gauguin. He took responsibility for someone else’s mistake.”
“That’s the lesson you’ve drawn?”
“I did. Van Gogh would have been prosecuted. But Van Gogh was deeply attached to Gauguin. He didn’t want his friend to go to jail. So he lied and said he had done it to himself.”
“Did Gauguin do it on purpose?”
My father shrugged. “They were in the dark. My guess is that Gauguin just wanted to keep Van Gogh away. He probably never meant to cut him. Van Gogh must have understood that and that added to his reasons for taking the blame himself.”
“And what happened to them?”
Van Gogh left the town the following day. The two painters never saw each other again, although remember that Van Gogh was dead at thirty-seven.”
“From a suicide. Right?”
“You’re the perfect set-up man, Danny. The so-called suicide is another story.”
“Good...”
The jailer came inside. His face hadn’t improved.
“I’m sorry, gentleman. It’s time for the visitor to go.”
“One more minute please,” my father said. “It is very important.”
The jailer was silent but walked outside.
“Okay, then quickly. I don’t think Van Gogh shot himself in the stomach.”
“Who did it? Rembrandt?”
“If you studied this seriously, you wouldn’t be so mocking, Danny.”
“All right. Go ahead with your pipedream.”
“It was an acquaintance, a sixteen-year-old who had some kind of weapon. Van Gogh hung out with a group of these kids, mostly drinking. The kid may have had a cowboy hat. It was all done in fun. But then the kid’s weapon went off and Van Gogh was shot. He went back to where he was staying and said he had done it to himself.”
“That’s where you got all this, isn’t it Dad? From Van Gogh? He tried to help someone and so he took the blame.”
“Van Gogh was very religious. It was a form of redemption for him. And it is for me.”
I stood there shaking my head.
“I’m leaving now, Dad. I urge you to think this through. I’m going to find the real killer. Unlike you and your stories, I will have evidence. They will have to let you go.”
“Good-bye, Danny.”
I started to go.
“Danny?”
I turned around.
“You should let me go in peace.”
“I can’t. You’re my father. Good-bye.”
I walked out into the sunshine. I had to close my eyes. When I ope
ned them again, the whole world looked on fire from the sun, as though it blinded everyone.
I felt as though I were in a maze, or maybe in one of Van Gogh’s post-Impressionist paintings where all is confused. Where reality is all distorted by the artist’s vision.
I was supposed to drive to the Congressional office and see Natalie Robbins.
Before I could go, I needed the most caffeinated coffee made on planet Earth.
If I was a drinker, I would have started and not stopped.
I drove past Sag Harbor and went into Southampton on Main Street, sat down in a restaurant, ordered food that I couldn’t eat, and had three cups of coffee.
I wanted to be burning inside. I wanted to be burning from anger and confusion. I sat there much longer than I should have. I saw the owner looking at me. But he must have seen something in my eyes, some fury, and he decided it wouldn’t be a good idea to bother me.
I never really calmed down, but I eventually left and headed to Port Jefferson.
My job as teacher to Natalie was about to begin.
I hoped I wouldn’t spend my time screaming at her.
I didn’t drive very well, judging by the horns of the cars around me.
Then I got to Main Street, parked my car, and walked into the Congressional office.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
There wasn’t a single cheer. Most of the people were new. I didn’t have the energy to introduce myself to all of them. That’s how the world moves on.
Mr. Ennis was off in the corner. He seemed in an overheated discussion with a young man. The man would think about quitting tonight and his girlfriend would calm him down.
I walked over to Natalie’s desk. She looked up. In my memoir I’ll probably write that she smiled and jumped up to give me a hug. In the Book of Reality, she stared at me for a second and went back to her computer. When she finished what she was writing, she said, “Did you bring any doughnuts?”
“They’re still at the store.”
“You’ve got so much to learn, Danny.”
“I’ve been hearing that for almost thirty years.”
“Are we going to begin our lessons today?”
“Sure. At the doughnut store around the corner. I promise to buy you three of any kind you wish.”
“With a cup of steaming tea?”
“That goes without saying.”
We walked out, crossed the street, went to the corner, and turned left. The store was on the left.
We ordered. I was impressed by Natalie’s choices of a sugar rush. Then we sat down.
She took a bite and sipped her tea. I did the same. We sat across from each other in the booth. Sometimes I looked up. Her blue eyes were stars that could light a galaxy. It was too overwhelming. I had to look away. I could see some teenage boys come in and stare at her. They had good taste and no chance.
When Natalie had finished one of the doughnuts, she said, “I’m sorry, Danny, but I’m not quite sure you have anything to teach me.”
I shrugged. “Maybe I don’t.”
“Good. Why don’t we just eat the doughnuts and we’ll both pretend you’ve been very careful to educate me?”
“Tell me about the First Congressional District”
She stared at me. I wish she had been wearing sunglasses. If I kept looking at those eyes I’d begin babbling.
“What’s to tell? It’s most of Eastern Long Island.”
“It is that. But it’s an interesting area to study. There’s great wealth.”
“In the Hamptons.”
“Yes. But there’s also a lot of middle-class towns.”
She tried to think.
“Such as?”
“Lake Grove and Centereach, just to name two.”
“So there’s some diversity.”
“There are also working class towns. Go to Riverhead. There’s an area called the Bottoms which was really poor. You see the whole country here if you look carefully. You can learn a lot if you just walk around.”
“It’s a Republican district, isn’t it?”
“It’s a District that goes for the candidate. I’d say it is conservative, but there were and will be Democrats who get elected. Not far to the left, but middle-of-the-road Democrats. These are good people, with good values. That is who we have to attract to get re-elected.”
“I thought the idea was to get money from the Hamptons, buy ads, and the people will follow.”
I shook my head. “Not at all. Natalie, you need to understand the District. You need to go to more meetings. Go to concerts and school board meetings. Go to Town Boards or the County Legislature when there’s a good argument. Take a class at Suffolk County Community College and one at Stony Brook. They are both on Nicolls Road, with the Community College south of Route 25 and Stony Brook a few miles north.”
“Have you done that, Danny?”
“Of course. If you know the people, you know what words to use when speaking to them, what subjects they want to hear about, what they like and dislike. But I’ll give you a head start. They want justice, by which I mean fairness. They want basic decency. No fancy stuff. Whatever you learned in school has to be filtered through ordinary people.”
“That doesn’t sound like fun.”
“Sometimes it is. But it’s mostly hard work. Drive to Lake Ronkonkoma. Drive to the Dwarf Pine Plains.”
“What’s that?”
“It’s a place where the pitch pines and scrub oaks mostly are under three to six feet in height. They’re probably that small because of bad soil conditions. They’re a reminder to be humble, Natalie.”
“Is that a shot at me?”
“No. It’s a shot at everyone who is a human being. All the land is a character in the story of this County, and you’ve got to understand the character.”
“Right now, I’m going to eat another doughnut.”
She ate and sipped her tea.
“People in the office are talking about your father.”
“I’ll bet they are,” I said.
“I know what it’s like to have to survive a difficult parent.”
“Everyone does. That’s a child’s job. Get out of their parents’ shadows.”
“I just wanted you to know I could understand what you’re going through, at least a little bit.”
I was curious. I didn’t say anything, but I put a look of curiosity on my face.
Her face was sad. “It was my mother in my case. She killed herself.”
My body reeled back in the seat.
“I’m very sorry, Natalie. Of course I didn’t know.”
She nodded. “I was ten years old. She put heavy stones in her dress and just walked into the water. I don’t understand how she could have done it, how she could keep going and not scream and get out.”
“That’s a sad story.”
“It’s not the worst part. She left a suicide note in which she said she was thinking of killing my brother and me before she killed herself. She said the world was too cruel and she thought she would be saving us. She said when she had me, she wanted to throw me off a bridge and then jump in the water after me. I don’t know why my father didn’t see this or get her help.”
“That’s a far bigger burden than I have, Natalie, isn’t it?”
Instead of answering me, she said, “Do you think I’m pretty?”
“I’m a normal biologically-functioning male, so of course I do.”
“But you haven’t asked me out. I was sure you would.”
“I’m trying to be professional. Anyway, being good-looking or wealthy or famous is its own type of burden.”
“What do you mean?”
“If I ask a woman on a date, she’s either going to say yes, or, far more likely, no. Maybe she’ll say she’ll think about it. But she’ll decide because of who I am and her feelings toward me. If someone asks you out you can never know if the guy likes you or is attracted only to your looks. It’s the same if you were wealthy or famous. Does the guy ask you out be
cause he likes you or your money or fame?”
“You have the strangest mind.”
“An anchor that weighs me down.”
“I like it.”
“Thanks.”
“And I was kidding, Danny. If I want to go out with you, I’ll ask you out.”
“It’s a deal.”
“You could affect the outcome if you keep buying me doughnuts.”
“It’s a wonderful form of bribery.”
“I don’t see you much in the office.”
“I have to work on a murder case.”
“You’re going to try to clear your father even though he confessed?”
“I am.”
“And how are you going to start?”
“I’m going to poke around in the dark until I find a ray of light.”
“I don’t think they teach it that way at detective school.”
“Remember that strange mind.”
She smiled.
“You do walk your own path, don’t you, Danny?”
“Is there any other way to live?”
“I’m not sure. I think you’re brave. When can we continue our lessons?”
“Let me see what’s happening in my investigation. When I have a moment, we’ll get together again.”
“I never say this to a boy. But I’m looking forward to seeing you again. Maybe we can call it a date.”
I smiled at her.
She smiled back. “Our date will be fun. Almost as much fun as a doughnut.”
She winked at me.
CHAPTER TWELVE
I had a small list of people to speak to at Jesse Spring’s law office in Waterbend. I passed through Sag Harbor and couldn’t help thinking about my father. I got to the end of Main Street and turned right, heading toward Waterbend.
The roads were starting to fill up as the tourists returned to the whole Hamptons area for the new season.
Waterbend, like Sag Harbor, had done a decent job of maintaining its old-fashioned charm, at least if you liked small towns. Waterbend was not as pretty as Sag Harbor but wealthier. I found the Spring law offices off Main Street and parked.
I walked in. The receptionist looked appropriately serious. She said Spring was busy with a client. Go figure. Since his arrest for murder it seemed as though his client list had grown considerably.
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