The Waiting Room

by T. M. Wright

  Again she shrugged. "Who likes speeches? I do have another one prepared, if you want to hear a speech. It's a speech about them and about us and how we're really all the same but actually quite different, about—now get this: This is a quote—about how 'Death changes nothing but a person's biology,' and 'You are now what you will always be.' That sort of thing. But I've retired it, you know. Too long-winded. And, anyway, what it all boiled down to was simply that—‘Mind your own p's and q's.' Another thin smile. "You can go now."

  "I don't want to go," I said. It was true. I didn't want to leave her. I liked what she represented. She was solid. She was real. Those nonexistent devils and zombies and gelatinous monsters could suddenly burst into the room, all of them hell-bent on gobbling me up, and she would know precisely how to deal with them. She would wave her hand in the air and say with regal exasperation, "Oh, get out of here!" And they'd leave, each of them muttering an apology.

  She shrugged. "So stay," she said.

  "You don't understand," I said.

  She smiled thinly once more. "Of course I do, Mr. Feary. You know very well that I do. " She reached out suddenly, grabbed the battered, dirt-smeared softball on the end table near her chair, and threw it to me. I reacted none too soon; as it was I had to juggle the ball for a few seconds to keep. it in hand. "What's this?" I asked.

  "It's a softball."

  "I can see that it's a softball, what I mean is—"

  "Gerald's in it. Gerald's my son."

  "Huh?" I got an image of her boring a hole in the skin of the softball, injecting the ashes of her dead son into it, meticulously mending the hole, then covering its edges with dirt. "You mean his ashes are in it?" I asked.

  She shook her head. "No. He's in it. Gerald's in it. " She held both hands up. "Throw it back, would you?" I got the uncomfortable idea that we were going to play catch. I gave the ball a stiff but accurate underhand toss. She caught it and put it back with a thump on the end table. She must have seen my look of surprise because she said, "You're thinking that if Gerald's really in this ball then why am I being so careless with it?"

  "No," I lied, "not at all."

  She smiled, pleased. "I like you, Mr. Feary. You're polite. Abner wasn't polite." She grabbed the softball again and began tossing it back and forth between her hands. She said as she tossed it, "When Gerald was a baby, of course, I had to be careful with him. I could tickle him, throw him a few inches into the air. But if I dropped him, he'd hurt, he'd have pain. And then, as he grew, I had to watch out for various diseases. He had chicken pox once. It devastated me because I hated to see him so sick." She stopped tossing the ball, held it tight in her left hand. "But he's dead now, Mr. Feary, so I don't have to be careful anymore. Just like the mother of a college kid can stop worrying whether he's turned out okay, because by then whatever he's turned into is going to stick, and whatever she tries to do to change him isn't going to mean doodly squat." She set the softball down again, a bit more gently. "In other words, Mr. Feary, what's done is, in point of fact, done."

  I had no real idea what she was talking about. I asked, feeling like a child, "Do I have to go?"

  She nodded slowly, apologetically. "At some time or other you do, yes. I mean, I can't feed you, and the toilet facilities are downstairs, of course, such as they are." She cocked her head to one side and pursed her lips. "You've sort of latched on to me, haven't you, Mr. Feary?"

  That got me flustered, as if she'd caught me stealing. I stammered, "No, no, of course not, it's just that . . . it's just that—" I could think of nothing to say.

  She smiled broadly, as if pleased. "You may stay for as long as you wish, Mr. Feary. But you should know that your friend isn't here. In this room I mean."

  This jolted me back to reality, to the reason I was at the beach house in the first place. "Well, yes," I said, "I know that, I can see that."

  She smiled thinly yet again, as if at an old and tired joke. "You're not quite as . . . intuitive as your friend. You're more courteous, it's true. But you're not as intuitive. You don't see Gerald, do you? And yet, he is here"—she nodded—"in that softball."

  "I'd have to accept that on faith, wouldn't I, Madeline?"

  Another thin, weary smile. "What you accept and why you accept it really is of little consequence, least of all to me, Mr. Feary." This was not said unkindly, as a put-down, but merely as a statement of fact. "I'd say you've probably seen more than enough in these past few days to put your . . . how do the writers say it?—your 'willing suspension of disbelief' on a pretty low level, isn't that right?"

  "I haven't become a gullible fool, if that's what you're saying."

  "You're losing your patience, Mr. Feary. Remember—courtesy; where would we be without courtesy? The Japanese are the most successful people on the planet because of their courtesy. My God, they're even courteous about killing themselves."

  "Okay, then," I said—I sensed that she was toying with me—"where is he? Where is Abner?"

  "Mr. Feary," she began, "you know as well as I that he's with Phyllis. That's what he told you, I think. Isn't that what he told you?"

  "Yes."

  "Then that's where he is. Of course, you do have the task of finding Phyllis, and if you're not going to mind your p's and q's, as I've asked, if you're not going to leave the whole thing alone, then for the sake of us all, Mr. Feary, so you won't go charging around like a wild animal and destroy the very delicate balance that exists between their world and ours—even now I shudder to think what you did to those poor sanitation workers, and I gasp when I think of that woman in red who certainly fell head over heels for you—then I suppose that I should tell you exactly where Phyllis is, shouldn't I?"

  I was stunned. "How did you know ... I mean—"

  She had been leaning forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. Now she leaned back, put her hands flat on the arms of the chair, and assumed a regal air. "I have my sources, Mr. Feary," she said. "I'm afraid there have been quite a few people trespassing where they oughtn't in the past few decades. I don't know why; maybe the world's getting overcrowded—by both the dead and the living, I mean. " She waved the observation away. "Whatever the reason, there are other people ... like myself, hundreds of them, I'm sure, who have taken on the task of monitoring the comings and goings of . . ." She seemed stymied. She continued, "Of everyone. No! Not everyone. Not yet." She seemed suddenly very agitated. She pursed her lips repeatedly and her ample bosom rose and fell in time with her deep sighing. "I'm sorry, Mr. Feary; I'm confusing you, aren't I?"

  "No, honestly," I answered. "I understand." It was another lie, of course.

  "You're so polite," she said again, but now as if it was beginning to wear on her. "I don't often give advice, Mr. Feary. I make pronouncements, I dispense wisdom"—she grinned—"and sometimes I act pretty damned pompous, I'm sure. But I never give advice. Now I'm going to give advice. I'm going to advise you to get together with that woman, what's-her-name?"

  "Leslie?"

  "Yes." She nodded. "Leslie. And marry her, or do whatever it is you want to do with her—I'm certainly not going to make judgments about how people choose to live. Buy a house, rent an apartment, live in a tent. I don't care. Just be happy, Mr. Feary. Live! You'll see—in no time at all, a few months, a year, tops, these visions of yours will stop and you can go back to being Sam Feary, Gentleman. That's my advice. Now take it and get out."

  TWENTY-SIX

  It was good advice, all of it, and I ached to take it, but I couldn't, of course. She knew I couldn't. So, sighing yet again, she lowered her head and apologized for what she called her "inexcusable outburst."

  "Sure," I said, "it's okay."

  And she said, "You'll find Abner and Phyllis in Vermont, in a little house near Burlington. Do you know where that is? Burlington, I mean."

  "I'm sorry?" I said.

  "Burlington. In Vermont. Oh, for heaven's sake, go get a map."

  I shook my head. "Are you telling me that Phyllis and Abner are ...
cohabiting—"

  She smiled a slight, amused smile. "Yes," she said almost wistfully, almost dreamily, her voice a high, breathy whisper, "cohabiting."

  And, though I should have known better, and, in fact, I did know better, I said, "But, my God, Phyllis is dead, the woman is dead, how the hell can she and Abner live together in a little house in Vermont if she's dead? The whole thing is stupid… the whole thing is . . ." I cast about for the right word.

  Madeline pursed her lips, in annoyance now. "Mr. Feary—people do not die. Bodies die."

  "And what is that?" I burst out. "Pop philosophy? Let's put it on a bumper sticker, for God's sake—"

  She broke in, her tone brusque, "I am not here to fence with you, Mr. Feary. The name of the town is Brookfield. They have a little house there and they are living in it, cohabiting in it, to use your phrase. And since you are obviously not going to take my advice, my suggestion would be to go to Brookfield, assess the situation carefully, very carefully, Mr. Feary, and then bring that asshole friend of yours back here. Alone!" She waved agitatedly at the door. "Now please go."

  I stood at once, turned to the door, put my hand on the knob.

  Madeline called, "One more thing, Mr. Feary." I glanced around at her.

  She said, a small note of apology in her voice, "I thought at first that I could deal with Mr. DeGraff myself."

  "Art?" I said.

  "Yes. But I can't deal with him. He has . . . how can I best say this? He has gone beyond my sphere of influence, I'm afraid." A wry smile flitted across her mouth. "It happens."

  "And?"

  She shrugged. "And I guess you'll have to keep an eye out for him."

  "What's he got against me? Sure, I never liked him, but—"

  "I doubt that he has anything against you, Mr. Feary. But what he does have, in amazing abundance, is anger. I really believe that were it not for his anger, he would quite literally fall apart." She allowed a second or two for that to sink in. It didn't. At the time, I thought of it only as a turn of phrase. Then she said in a tone of clear finality, "Now you may go."

  And I did.

  ~ * ~

  Leslie whoops at the Philharmonic. When the concert is over and she is pleased with the way it's been done, she whoops and cheers almost as if she's at a hockey game. Some people turn around and look. At first they're taken aback and the impression they want to make, apparently, is that they do not want their evening at the Philharmonic upset by someone who loves being there so much that she whoops about it. But then they see her. And she sees them. And it's all right. I like to think that some of them, the next time they are at the Philharmonic and they have been bowled over by what they've heard, that they too will whoop, and cheer. But I don't think they will. They are who they are, and she is who she is.

  She brings life to them for a moment or two.

  ~ * ~

  Her hands are small and thin. They are very artistic-looking, though she denies that she is creative or artistic. I think she's wrong. I think she hasn't given herself a chance.

  I often find myself looking at her hands, especially when our hands are together, hers over mine so my palm is up and hers is down. I think how fragile her hand looks in mine, and it awakens some protective sense in me, although she is not at all fragile and doesn't need to be protected by anyone. When I squeeze her hand tightly—which I do when we're listening to music—and also when I become aware, all at once, of how happy I am with her, she squeezes back and I know how physically strong she is. But still, in those moments when I'm studying her hand, or when she is tilting her head toward me and closing her eyes, I feel protective of her; I feel tender toward her.

  ~ * ~

  I didn't drive straight to Brookfield from Abner's beach house. I went back to my apartment. I showered, I shaved. At one point, while I was walking from the bathroom to the living room with only a towel wrapped around me, I heard giggling from the bedroom. I didn't turn to look. I was trying to cultivate an ignore them and they'll go away attitude. It seemed to work then. After a few seconds the giggling stopped abruptly, as if a door had been slammed shut on it.

  I called Leslie.

  Her father answered. "Mr. Wirth?" I said.

  "Yes," he said, "this is Frank Wirth." He sounded very formal, very stiff, not at all what I was used to.

  "Hi," I said. "This is Sam Feary. Is Leslie there, please?"

  "Yes, hold on."

  Moments later, Leslie came on the line. "Hi, Sam. I didn't expect to hear from you so soon."

  "Leslie, I'm going away for a few days—" I hesitated. "Is your father all right? He sounded a little . . . he didn't sound like himself."

  "Daddy's ill, Sam."

  "Oh. I'm sorry. Is it serious?" I felt foolish asking that.

  "Yes. It's very serious." She paused; when she went on, her tone was stiffly casual. "You say you're going away for a few days?"

  I was suddenly nervous. I got the clear impression that she didn't want to talk and I wasn't sure why—whether it was because she was concerned about her father or because she merely didn't want to talk to me. "Well, like I said, I'm going away, I'm going to a place called Brookfield—"

  She cut in, "Yes, that's nice. I hope you have a good trip, Sam."

  "Thanks. Actually, what I called about, what I was wondering was—"

  "No, Sam," she interrupted. "I can't come with you. I'm sorry. My father is very sick, as I said, and I'm afraid that . . ." She stopped suddenly. I thought I heard her sniffle.

  I said, "Are you okay, Leslie?" Nothing. "Leslie, are you still there?"

  "Yes, Sam. I'm sorry. A touch of asthma. It happens now and again." A short pause. "Sam, I'd like to come with you—" Another pause. "I really would like to come with you. But I can't leave Daddy. You understand."

  "Of course I understand. I hope he's going to be all right. I like him; I mean, he's odd, sure, but—"

  "Thank you, Sam. I'll see you when you get back, okay?" I heard her sniffle once more. Then she hung up.

  ~ * ~

  That's when the giggling started again—louder, closer—and when, without thinking, I looked at the open bedroom door, I saw the two young teenage girls in pink taffeta standing very stiffly there, giggling like babies. And, remembering Madeline, I waved toward them with my right hand and I barked, "Oh, get out of here!"

  It didn't work.

  They moved closer, in little shuffling steps, as if in stiff imitation of an Oriental walk, the volume of their giggles rising with each step.

  I still had the towel wrapped around me, of course. I was desperately holding it in place with my left hand.

  "Get out of here!" I tried again, but it sounded strained and anemic and I suppose that's the way it sounded to them, too, because their giggling suddenly grew much louder, the pace of their small mincing steps quickened, and I got what I hoped was a wildly improbable picture of myself being eaten alive by these two teenage girls in pink taffeta.

  "Get out of here!" I tried once more, but they continued to advance on me, their giggling now more like the raucous screeching of a flock of blue jays.

  I heard a hard knock at my apartment door, followed quickly by, "Hey, keep it down in there!" It was my neighbor, Steve Gresham, from across the hall.

  I thought happily, He can hear them, too. Steve can hear them, too.

  "Keep it down inthere, for Chrissakes!"

  The girls in pink taffeta were very close now, a couple of arm's lengths away, shuffling toward me. "Get out of here!"

  "I'm gonna call the cops, Feary, I'm gonna call the cops!"

  "Get the hell out of here!"

  "Okay, pal, that's it!"

  The girls in pink taffeta were within arm's reach now. Their giggling was not giggling at all; it was a kind of strange, off-key, shrieking cry.

  I wanted to plead with them, "Please, leave me alone!"

  But I realized that for several moments I had been screaming, much the way, I think, that a man falling screams—a scream of fear
and desperation, and, above all, a scream of awful resignation: I am going to hit the ground and there is nothing at all I can do about it!

  Fear starts crazy fires inside us all, you see. It can create a sort of cohesion that keeps us from flying apart.

  They reached out for me then. I felt their cold fingers on me.

  "No!" I screamed.

  Their fingers pressed hard into my stomach, my chest, my jaw. One hard, cold finger pushed into my ear.

  And the high, keening sound of their giggles continued.

  I closed my eyes. I saw a big white farmhouse, and a man and woman in their thirties in front of it, pruning some hedges, and a boy of seven or eight running happily about nearby, a pair of cap-powered six-guns blazing harmlessly away at anything that moved.

  That boy was me.

  He vanished as quickly as he'd appeared. So did the man and woman pruning hedges. And the big white farmhouse.

  ~ * ~

  "Hey, buddy!" I heard. "Hey, buddy!" I was standing. I felt a sharp pain in my cheek.

  "Jesus, Feary, what the hell were you doin' in here?" It was Steve Gresham's voice.

  I felt another sharp pain in my cheek. "C'mon, buddy, snap outta it now!" The voice was heavy with a tired, bored authority, and I knew even before I opened my eyes that it was the voice of a cop.

  I opened my eyes. The cop was as tall as I, dark-haired, thin-faced; his nametag said "Sgt. A. Luciano." Steve Gresham stood just behind him. Steve is short, rotund, swarthy-complexioned. He and I shared a few beers once and found that we had little in common.

  Sergeant Luciano said, grinning ever so slightly, "Hey, you better put some clothes on there, huh?" I realized that the towel was around my ankles and that I was stark naked.

  I took a deep breath to steady myself. I wanted to believe that I was beyond simple embarrassment. But I wasn't. I bent over, picked the towel up, wrapped it around myself again. I apologized; "Sorry for all the noise," I said.

  The cop said, "Whatcha got, some kinda epilepsy or somethin'?'' He was concerned; it touched me a little.

  I shook my head. "No. I don't think so."