“I’d just as soon he stayed. I wouldn’t want you to remember our conversation inaccurately.”
He abruptly stood up and opened the door to leave. “Marley is going to get some pictures taken of you and get your contact information. Stick close to your apartment and check your messages. If we call, we want you down here within two hours.”
If they wanted me, I doubted they would call and ask me to come down to the cat house to have coffee. They knew where to find me, at least at four in the morning.
I walked out of the police station and into the sunshine of Saturday morning without the handcuffs, but I knew I wasn’t a free man. I was worried. Chen was dead. An immediate concern was that whoever had killed Chen, might soon come after me. I was beginning to think I might end up either dead or in jail waiting to have my whole life wiped if I didn’t figure out what I had actually been forgetting during that session. Chen dead in an alley wasn’t exactly it.
It again crossed my mind that during my session I might have been thinking about one memory and talking about a different one, a nonexistent one, so no one would know the details of the actual memory I was forgetting. Maybe I’d talked about Chen’s face instead of some real dead person’s face I’d seen. Or the real memory might have been about something completely different. Either way, I had to unearth the memory I’d so carefully interred.
Chapter 6
On my way home from the police station, I stopped by the dole banana place and picked up my pay for doing nothing. I cashed the chit into a swipe card at Alphonzo’s grocery and bought three apples, some soy milk and a squeeze tube of peanut butter.
At home, my PAL said there were three messages. One was from Carbide, a guy who did odd moving jobs and deliveries and who was almost as big as Doorway, but whose parents couldn’t afford to fix his face when he was young. He looked dangerous, but was actually quite amiable. He wanted to know if I was interested in helping him move an apartment worth of possessions from North Instead to the Warrens. He needed two other guys to get the job, and he’d happily do most of the work, but I wasn’t in need of cash. The second call was from a woman with a childlike voice who wanted to clean my carpets, three rooms for forty. I didn’t have three rooms.
The third call was from my brother. He wanted to know if I could come over for dinner Sunday night. He said he’d found me a woman.
Maybe nine’s a charm, or maybe he thought if I hooked up I might suddenly become a contributing member of society. Not likely, yet I’d gotten some from three of the eight so far, so I called him back and said I would. I asked him if I should bring the wine. He said, “No!” with a note of fear in his voice. I went to bed.
On Sunday morning I received a final letter on my PAL from Forget What saying they had given the transcripts of my forgotten memory to the police and that I should expect a visit based on the content of the memory. I wouldn’t get one. The police already knew. It made me feel like I’d won, but Chen was still dead, I still didn’t know why I’d paid to forget a memory I didn’t have, and the police were still considerably too interested in me.
I pulled the transcript out from under the towel behind the bathroom door and reread it. It was surreal reading about Chen’s death as though I’d seen the body and was trying to forget all about it. Chen actually being dead added a macabre bent. My imagination is pretty good, and I’d invented all sorts of details about the scene that weren’t on the paper. My mind kept running the movie that I pieced together from the descriptions in the transcript and from my imagination.
On my walk to Arno’s I found myself wishing I had someone to talk to. That wasn’t a problem I usually had, but then, I was starting to have lots of problems I didn’t usually have.
One thing that bothered me was my reaction to Chen’s death. I guess he had been my best friend, yet I felt distanced from his murder. It felt like I was watching a movie, an intense movie, but not one where I would resist going to the bathroom if I needed to. Shouldn’t I be more upset about him and maybe a little less focused on myself?
As I walked, the trees grew taller and closer together. The grass thickened and cars disappeared behind garage doors. Arno’s house was set back from the street, obscured even in winter by a line of spruce he’d planted a few years back. He had about two acres of bushes and low trees with a single story, prairie style house and a detached two-story garage. The second story addition on his garage held his new Milwaukee buzzcar. There wasn’t a gate at the driveway, but the home next door had one, iron with a bald eagle hanging on bars.
As I walked up his curving cobblestone driveway, the street noise drifted away behind me. The curtains were drawn closed as usual. I rang the bell.
Arno met me at the door, all backslaps and howdys. We went into the living room where a young woman perched on a wooden side chair, leaving the couch and two stuffed chairs free.
Arno did the formal introductions. Rela smiled shyly. She had shoulder length wavy blonde hair and light blue lipstick that made her look cold. Her clothes were carefully chosen to portray a no nonsense, yet youthful image. Her shoes matched her lipstick. I smiled back and sat down in the recliner closest to her.
“So, Benny, what do you do? Your brother was rather vague about your occupation.” Her voice was high, a little strained.
“Oh,” I said, “I do various and sundry.”
“What exactly is ‘various and sundry,’ Mr. Khan?” She said while squinting and frowning in either concentration or disapproval, I couldn’t tell which.
“Well, more various than sundry, actually.”
Arno didn’t like the way the conversation was going and decided to go in the kitchen and yell at his wife, so we’d both feel uncomfortable and stay quiet. He usually didn’t yell at Denise. Rather, he usually bullied her with a low menacing voice, or just a look. She would sometimes glance at me when he did that, as though to say, he’s not always like that, but somehow I knew he was always like that. They came out of the kitchen smiling, carrying drinks. A beer for me and green wine for Rela. Arno had something in a beer glass, but it wasn’t beer. I wasn’t sure what it was. Denise had some ice water in a wine glass. She looked like she was going to say hello, but instead, she fondled a hydrangea that stood blooming in a huge Chinese pot on an end table and examined a leaf with exaggerated interest.
I stood up and hugged her and said, “How’s my favorite sister-in-law?” OK, it was a sappy thing to do, but she smiled at me and seemed to relax a bit. Arno kept her awfully taut.
We talked about the City’s plan to convert the deep tunnel into a shopping mall, which Arno was enthusiastic about. Rela seemed to think the federal government should find a way to raise the level of the lake back up to where the deep tunnel’s original use as a giant, underground storm overflow container would be needed again.
Denise interjected agreement with Arno when the opportunity allowed.
“Maybe we should convert it to a huge swimming pool,” I said, “so if there was a surge in the lake level, it could still be used as a reservoir.”
“Oh, that’s a good idea,” said Rela, but I think she was humoring me. I was patronizing her, so I guess that was fair.
Arno was annoyed with me for being flippant and not agreeing with him. He glared at me and gave a small shake no of his head. I smiled as though I didn’t understand, but he knew I did, and that irritated him more.
The girl was too young and cute for me, but she was all right to talk to, kind of deep and philosophical like inexperienced people often are.
Arno ushered us into the dining room for dinner. The food smelled sweet and steamy. Denise had made Szechwan broccoli, vegetable pakoras, basmati rice with red beans, and grilled zucchini. She laid out the dishes on the table, waited for Arno to begin eating, then watched him for a moment before she dished up any for herself.
Arno sat at the head of the table and Denise sat to his right, so she would be nearer the kitchen. I sat at the other end and Rela sat across from Denise. Arno held a b
roccoli up with his chop sticks. “Denise is a wonderful cook, don’t you think?”
I looked at Denise. “Yes, Denise, this is very good. Would you pass me the pakoras?”
I glanced at Arno who was scowling. He seemed to think the compliment should be his, perhaps for having married such a good cook. Arno could get enough compliments from his employees. He didn’t need any from me.
I figured Rela worked for Arno and was somehow coerced into coming to dinner. She might have been worried about what she would have to do to keep her job. She picked and jabbed at her food. She ate a bit here and there, but mostly she just pushed the rice around and nibbled the leaves off a few broccoli trees. “I appreciate you making an all vegetarian dinner for me,” she said. “I know you would usually have meat.”
The girl was a vegetarian on purpose. I had wondered what the deal was with all the vegetables. I figured it was a new fad or something. Having meat at dinner showed how prosperous a person was and Arno normally wouldn’t pass up an opportunity.
After dinner, Denise took the dishes to the kitchen and Rela, Arno and I moved back into the living room. Rela still seemed nervous and sipped at another wine while Arno and I talked about the train that had derailed off a bridge that morning and how close it came to killing the mayor who’d been on a field trip to examine the condition of the city’s rail bridges. Arno seemed to think the whole thing was pretty funny, very ironic, but he didn’t have to ride the train home.
After a while and a few changes in conversation topic directed by me to keep Arno and Rela from arguing, Denise came in to join us. “Does anyone want anything else to drink?” She hovered by the doorway.
She got a round of nos, then settled into the straight-backed chair nearest the kitchen.
I tried to bring her into the conversation. “We were talking about fish, saving them that is. Rela is a member of the Wildlife Protection League. She was just saying that just because fish aren’t warm and fuzzy that’s no reason to treat them badly.”
“Oh, do you think fish are smart?” Denise said, smiling.
“What has smart got to do with it?” Rela shot back, now on her own ground. “Does an animal have to be smart to be important, to feel pain? And anyway, there’s more in the oceans than fish. There are dolphins and whales, you know, mammals, just like us.”
Denise sat back in her chair and clasped her hands on her lap. She looked at the wall. She’d tried to be pleasant and contribute. Now she would be quiet. I’d never sat and talked to Denise by herself. Arno was always there, larger in conversation than both of us put together. Even with Rela, Denise was quickly made small.
“Yes,” I said. “Save the whales. Collect the whole set.” OK, it was an old joke, but I’d always liked it, and I felt like biting Rela back a little.
Rela stared at me as though I’d choked the life out of a beluga with my bare hands. “Jokes like that undermine and belittle our whole life’s effort,” she said, but it sounded rehearsed, like she was told to say that whenever anyone tried to lighten up the conversation.
I looked at my brother and said, “You don’t use bait for whales.”
We laughed hard for at least a minute, tears coming to our eyes. “You don’t use bait for whales,” he repeated, and we laughed some more. It was a private joke, and it was unfair of us to laugh so hard and long without letting the women in on it, but that quote brought up a whole scene in our minds of a scam I’d set up, hoping to impress my brother’s friends, that had failed so hopelessly and miserably that it had become the stuff of legend among the crowd we’d hung out with at the time. It was not the sort of thing you could explain. If you weren’t there, it just wouldn’t be funny.
Arno and I had some good memories in common. At the time, swimming in the muck that is the Chicago river, desperately trying to reach a pylon to hold on to, I’d hated him, but in retrospect I had to admit the whole thing was hilarious. Finally, Arno and I could stop laughing and look at each other without starting again.
Rela stood. “I think it’s time for me to go home. I have to work early in the morning. It’s been a nice evening.”
Denise went off to get our coats. I followed Rela into the front hall. “Are you taking the train to Hackson?”
“Yes.”
“So am I. It’s kind of late to be walking around there. I’ll go with you if that’s all right.”
She looked at me, seemingly for the first time that evening. She seemed to be trying to determine if I would be of any use if someone accosted her or if she’d have to protect me, or, worse, protect herself from me. Her appraising look gave me the odd feeling she could take me if she had to. “Thank you,” she said.
She turned to Denise. “And thank you for the dinner.”
Arno told us he hoped to see us again soon, but I think he knew Rela and I weren’t a match, I couldn’t imagine what had made him think we would be in the first place.
I rode home with her on the train. She said she worked for Arno as an expediter, but I assured her subtly that I wasn’t going to take anything that wasn’t earned. We walked quietly to her apartment building, but I didn’t go in.
I strolled back toward my apartment, listening to my shoes tap on the concrete in the cool night air. “You don’t use bait for whales.” I laughed again and thought about how those few words triggered a whole scene in our heads, a whole memory.
Every once in a while there are discrete moments in time when an unrelated train of thought will trigger a rushing conclusion to some problem you weren’t even consciously thinking about. This was one of those slap yourself on the forehead epiphanies. I ran to a street light and pulled out the transcript. I read it again, carefully this time. There it was. “It was in the alley,” I’d said. “Right there near North off Quaker.”
Why would I say that? It’s Morph and Quacker on every sign I’d seen in ten years. They were zapped over as soon as the city repainted them. No one called streets by the right names except the police and the mayor. I’d left myself a clue only I would understand.
Chapter 7
When I got home, I began pacing, trying to figure out what I’d been trying to tell myself by using the correct street names in the forget session. By three in the morning, I decided that a month before, I’d given myself too much credit for intellectual capacity. I gave up and went to bed.
My unconscious mind did not solve the dilemma for me during the night. I woke up ridiculously early and showered and wiped hair removal cream on my face for the first time in a few days. It felt good to be clean, but a clean body doesn’t think any better than a dirty one.
I must have known Forget What would send me a bill, and I must have known I wouldn’t pay it. I also must have realized the forgotten memory would bug me until I figured out what memories I’d had them delete for me. Yet, I’d been stumped to find out. If it weren’t for Chen and Paulo happening to know Carla who worked for Forget What, I would never have acquired the transcript. I must have expected to somehow get hold of the transcript and eventually notice the street names.
I tried to picture the alley, tried to pull the memory back even though I knew I wouldn’t be able to. I closed my eyes and imagined a walk down Quacker. Not only could I not evoke anything about the death scene, I couldn’t remember an alley being there at all.
I decided to go to the alleged alley and look for myself. I walked fast to Morph and Quacker, then went south on Quacker. I remembered the street well, but even when I came upon an alley, I had no recognition of it at all. Standing there, staring at the gap in the buildings that formed the alley, I felt unbalanced, wavering with a bit of vertigo. My inner ear didn’t like the discrepancy between what was there and my memories of what was there. The sight made me nauseous.
Forget What had been efficient and complete. It wasn’t so much that I remembered the two corners being connected, but more that I just couldn’t place anything between them.
Looking down the alley, I could see some dumpsters, one was overf
lowing with yellow bags, the other had a long trail of ancient grease and other liquids, which had leaked from it over the years, flowing to the pot-holes in the alley asphalt. Little black and white bees floated around the dumpsters.
There was some broken glass strewn in small piles, mostly clear bottles, but also some of the dark brown ones favored by derpal makers because light degrades derpal’s potency. The alley smelled faintly of urine. Instead of a street sign, there was only a pole where one used to be.
It took effort to walk into the alley. Everything felt wrong, eerie. It went back about fifty meters to a brick wall. There were a few doors along the way which had no handles and, “Keep Exit Clear,” signs mostly hidden behind barrels, a pile of sagging tires, two dead refrigerators, the remains of a battle-scarred wooden creche, two rotten sofa carcasses and piles of smaller trash. The door at the far end of the alley had a torn, faded awning and a single light bulb, now broken. Beside the door it said, “Carma Alley Blues.” I thought the alley must be named Carma at first, but then I saw that the sign had been zapped like all the street signs. Readable under the white paint, was ‘Carla.’
The alley’s real name was Carla, just like Paulo’s friend who had given me the transcript. I stared at the sign while I tried to comprehend how this odd piece of information fit with everything.
Before the forget, I would have known the alley’s name. I hung out a lot in this area with Chen on his thatching expeditions. I’d also used the correct names for the streets in my transcript. If Carla was the correct name for this alley, maybe this was my clue for myself. Or maybe I was tying myself in knots of self-deception.
I thought back on my dinner with Carla. She’d said she thought she knew me, but couldn’t remember from where, and I felt the same way about her. That sort of thing happens all the time, of course, but the feeling had seemed especially strong. I began to wonder if I’d already known Carla before Paulo hooked me up with her to get my transcript.
Walking Shadow Page 5
