“I don’t know. What do you think?”
“Do you want me to put the fear of God in this Martin person? Should I bribe him, scare him, what?”
“Anything.”
Jack leaned forward on the top step until I thought he might fall, his hands extended like wings, a gauzy darkness settling across his face as he stared down at me. “You want me to do your dirty work, is that it?”
“No,” I lied. “I just need your help.”
I watched as Jack twisted his way back down the stairs, passing through the shadows and across the floor. (He moved with an absence of grace, his elbows arched, his right shoulder turned forcefully as if pushing against an invisible weight.) “I’ll tell you what,” he looked at me then, a bit oddly yet not altogether dismissive. “You get things started and I’ll help you out. Show me you can handle this sort of undertaking this time and I’ll make sure you see things through.”
“But that’s just it,” I struggled again to make him understand. “I can’t do it. I don’t know what to do. That’s why I came to see you, Jack.”
His stare was now severe as he leaned forward and jabbed his right index finger in the air as if to inflict permanent holes in the space between us. “I thought you told me you learned your lesson the last time. I thought you understood the necessity of finishing what you start.”
“But I don’t know where to start. Martin won’t listen to me and I’m no good at this sort of thing.”
“Bullshit. If you want to help your friend, go ahead and do it. I’ll be right behind you when the time comes.”
I continued to argue, and rocking anxiously back and forth, I thought of what Jack just said about doing what had to be done, and what Janus said earlier in all but the same words, and how could two so dissimilar forces follow the same edict to such inconsonant ends? Confused, I grabbed at the front of my knees in order to quit rocking and pleaded with Jack, “Understand, please. I can’t do things the way you can. Certain situations require more than I can handle and that’s when I fall short.”
I didn’t stop there and insisted again, “I’m no good at rising to the occasion. In this sort of situation, I’ve no idea how to start,” and then I told Jack about the dream I had when I first came down with my fever, the one where the man trained his soul to deal with both universal darkness and light by abandoning dogs out in the woods, and as I did so, Jack’s look turned even more queer, and shaking his head he finally asked, “What are you talking about, Brimm? You think you made that up? You think that was a dream?”
I fell silent, puzzled and staring at Jack. I knew I dreamed the scene just as I said, only here was Jack laughing and waving his hands in the air, insisting, “If it’s experience you’re worried about, Brimm, I can take you into the woods right now and show you exactly how to train your soul,” and then he was laughing again, and assuring me that I should just go ahead and get started—“Go ahead, Brimm. Go on. Go on.”—and that he’d be right behind me, and how confident he was that I would get things right this time, and laughing still, louder and more corrupt, motivating me—by what I wasn’t sure—until at last I did get up and walked out the door.
Driving then, a body brought from test to motion in a spectacle of flight, terrified and eager.
Martin heard the knock and asked, “Who is it?”
Walter had taken the stairs quietly, moving to the third floor landing, past Myrian’s apartment where he assumed she and Janus were not yet asleep. (It was just after midnight and the events of the evening held much to talk over.) He pressed his face into the crack of the door and half whispered his reply.
“Brimm?” Martin undid the lock, his eyes pinched, a bluish bruise on his left cheek where Myrian struck him centered by a darker purplish welt, his mouth twisted into a dissolute sort of sneer. “What do you want?” His voice—a sparrow’s caw at even the best of times—was uninviting.
“I came to apologize,” Walter said. “I’d like to talk. May I come in?”
“Go away.”
“Please. It’s important. I have something for you.”
Dubious, Martin was also curious, and stepping back, he said, “I’ll give you one minute,” and let Walter in.
I walked toward the coffee table where pieces of Martin’s broken camera were spread out in varying states of disrepair, a set of tiny tools used—without success—to fix the fractured parts. Martin sat in the chair near the end of the table, wearing only boxer shorts and a white T-shirt, sorting through the pile of knobs and screws. He had small, effeminate hands that seemed well suited to such delicate work, though his fingers were inexpert, the mechanics of his movements coarse and clumsy. I watched him for a moment, unsure how best to proceed, and taking two steps toward the center of the room said, “About your camera. I’d like to pay for the repairs.”
“Would you now? And is that what you have for me, Walt?”
“For your camera,” I repeated.
“And why do you want to do this?”
“For compensation, because I’m partly responsible for what happened. I can pay you.”
“For my camera?”
“For your camera, yes.”
Martin settled his shoulders against the back of his chair, his hands locked behind his head, his elbows flared out and his thin arms showing their slight lump of muscle. “I don’t know, Walt. I’ve had her a long time. She’s been around the world with me and then some. I’m not sure she can be repaired.”
“I’ll buy you a new one then.”
“Is that right?”
“Yes.”
“All this for my camera?” he asked again, to which I nodded, “Of course.”
His mousy face broke into a grin. “You wouldn’t be trying to bribe me here, would you, Walt?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Come on.”
“If you mean Janus.”
“You want me to bury what I have on the good doctor, right?”
“If I was to pay you,” I went ahead and addressed the possibility.
“A bribe?”
“A deal, between the two of us.”
“But as I work for GMI, it would have to be construed as a bribe.”
“As you work for GMI,” I heard my voice grow tense, “your using work product to blackmail Myrian could get you fired.”
“How much money are we talking about?” Martin was suddenly interested in specifics. I took another step forward and asked in turn, “How much would it take?”
“Who knows,” he broadened his grin, more insolent now. “OK. I’m going to accept your offer, for my camera only,” he cocked his head and quoted me a ridiculously high price for a new Mamiya, mocking me with, “A check will be fine there, Walt.” I stood three feet from the end of the table, my arms dangling down at the sides of my jacket while Martin taunted me further. “Throw in another $5,000 and I won’t sue you for assault.”
I watched as he looked away, turning his attention back to the pile of screws spread out on the table, and when I didn’t say anything in response, he lifted his head suddenly, scowling, “Is there something else?”
I struggled to hold onto what remained of my composure, concentrating on keeping my voice low so that I couldn’t be heard through the wall. “I want you to leave Myrian and Janus alone.”
“So you’ve said.”
“I’m serious.”
“I’ll take the money for my camera, but that’s all.”
“If it’s a matter of more money.”
“It isn’t.”
“Because I can pay you. We can work something out.”
“Sorry.”
“Why not?”
“Because the jig’s up.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“It’s my job, Walt.”
“I’ll get you fired then.”
“No you won’t. I have the facts. Any other story you come up with will sound desperate.”
“Stop. Please.”
> “Can’t do it, Walt.”
I moved closer to the table, standing near enough to see the thinnest strands of whiskers in Martin’s scant moustache. “Where’s your proof?” I asked, my shoulders trembling again, though my shaking this time seemed different, more presupposing and generated from an altogether separate source. “Who’s to say Janus’s accidents aren’t all a coincidence?”
“That’s right. Maybe the good doctor just has bad luck.”
“Your evidence is circumstantial.”
“If that’s the case, what are you worried about? I’ll turn in my report and we’ll see what my bosses say.”
“You think Myrian won’t hate you if you turn Janus In? You think she doesn’t hate you now?”
“You let me worry about that.”
“Why are you doing this?”
“That’s the third time you’ve asked me, Walt.”
“But I can pay you. Please. If you really care for Myrian, you’ll leave Janus alone.”
Martin laughed. “Noble gestures, is that it?”
“Yes!”
“Fuck you! If Myrian hates me, as you say, I’ve nothing to lose by turning the good doctor in. We all get what’s coming to us, don’t we, Walt?” his grin stretched with such menace that his reference struck me like a blow to the chest. I continued to plead, and begged him, “Think of what you’re doing. Think of everyone who’ll be hurt. Please. You don’t understand. You don’t want to do this. Leave Janus be!” only he’d have none of it, and laughing again, he mocked me by lifting his arms behind his head once more in order to demonstrate how helpless I was to stop him.
Frantic and unsure what else to do, I spotted the photograph of Myrian in the moonlight hanging on the far wall, and turning away from Martin, I paced to the window, then back across the room where I nearly sank to my knees and wept the way I had a few months before. I thought about all the many days and weeks that had passed, about action and inaction, love and charity and duty, of Gee and Rea and Tod, of Myrian and Janus, about my parents, Katherine and Charles, of redemption and disappointment, penitence and compunction, of humility and compassion, about the clinic and serenity and oblation, need and desire, sacrifice and grace, of infinite sorrow and loss, of frustration and fury, until all at once I was whirling back around, the weight in my side pocket banging against my hip as I flailed my arms in the air, and reaching down, I pulled out the gift from Jack. Martin jumped as I turned to face him, no longer laughing, surprised to see how calm I was, how utterly serene and persuaded that everything could be restored to order and permanently resolved.
CHAPTER 23
I screw things up sometimes. Obviously it’s true, though I’m not offended any longer by those who insist on pointing this out to me and go on about my business now as best I’m able.
Looking back, I remember a woman down the hall screaming just as Janus and Myrian burst through the door and another man charging in saying he’d called the police. Janus knelt beside Martin to make sure there was nothing to be done, while Myrian—remarkably cool in the midst of crisis—made a quick search of Martin’s apartment for the pertinent folder, which she took back to her flat. I’ve tried often since then, but can’t recall exactly what I felt in those first few hours, whether I grieved my error or excused my actions and viewed what happened as part of some unique circumstance triggered by the fragility of my mood. For the most part I was completely numb, and if there was a benefit that came from my being still in a state of shock, it was that I remained as yet too dazed to fall apart.
Janus suffered a different sort of confusion. Staggered by what happened, he came from his knees and grabbed hold of my arm, moving me into the hall and down to my apartment. The bones of his shattered foot were set unevenly down upon the cold flat surface of my floor, the ache that I knew to enter his hip and lower back at night evident in the stiffness of his posture as he stood before the wall where Myrian had painted both Gee and Rea. His bad eye watered white tears which he wiped clean, his splintered iris holding my image in its wound. The fingers on his left hand were bent as always and covered with a flesh once torn by the smashing of bone, regenerated in thickened patches of pasty scars and odd stretches of tissue. Myrian had already told him about Martin and the events of our night when the gun went off, and shifting his weight away from his bad leg, he raised his crippled hand, and softly asked, “Whatever were you thinking, Walter?”
There was no need to tell him, of course, and so I didn’t.
After a minute, we went back next door. The police treated me well enough, my muddled state working to my advantage as I confessed nothing. With my one phone call I got hold of Jack who came through in the end—“You did what, Brimm? But goddamn!”—and immediately arranged a criminal attorney who presented to the police a story of self defense. The gun Jack provided was unregistered and impossible to trace, the fabrication suggesting the weapon belonged to Martin, that I had gone by his apartment to make amends for an earlier argument and he’d become violent. Jack pulled strings, used his clout, and twelve hours later I was released on bail. “Tell me our justice system isn’t the best in the world!” Jack slapped his hand across my back. “Don’t sweat it, Brimm. Goddamn! Brass balls! I’ve a new hero! You’ll slide through this like warm jism on a hooker’s ass!”
Action and reaction. (Who might have guessed?) Early Monday, Janus went downtown and met with the Board of Directors at GMI. The president, CEO, and several other officers were each astonished—for what could one possibly say after hearing such an improbable confession?—and together they spent some time in private consultation. Attorneys were contacted, along with officers at the other insurance carriers with whom Janus had filed a claim, and taking into consideration the reputation of the man with whom they were dealing and the extraordinariness of his story, they assessed the particulars of what could be done. Eventually—and conceding there was nothing to gain from pursuing the matter with any sort of vigilance—a deal was struck, a silent agreement from which everyone stood to benefit, money promised and secured from the Trust, and that was the end of that.
How things do happen.
Only a handful of people bothered to attend Martin’s funeral. I stood hidden in the back, listening as a pastor in black robe and paisley pants offered a brief eulogy though he’d never met Martin and admitted as much not once but several times during the course of his encomium. Later, Gee phoned for the first time since I moved downtown, having heard about the shooting and wanting to know what happened and if I was all right. “Whatever were you thinking?” she, too, felt a need to ask, and here I very nearly told her, “I was thinking of you,” but such would have been cruel—what’s done is done—and so again I said nothing and let things go at that.
Ten minutes later the phone rang once more and it was Rea, having also learned about my incident the other night, alarmed by what she overheard between her mother and Tod and frightened for me, her voice breaking, she found my number and slipped upstairs. “Daddy? Daddy? Daddy?” she said over and over, and began to weep. I assured her I was OK, allayed her fears, and made clear I wasn’t physically harmed. In my eagerness to put her mind at ease, I answered all her questions with more detail than I provided anyone else at the time. (There is a particular comfort which comes when speaking to a child, for in their presence one is able to cast aside the clutter of false excuse and cut more freely to the core.) She wanted to know about the man who died and I told her then that he was someone I barely knew who’d threatened to hurt a friend of mine. “Like the boy in the park?” she asked, and I answered, “Exactly like that.”
I expected her to have me distinguish then how I found fault with her performance yet, not twelve hours later, I did worse, but rather than query me in terms of moral ambiguities—of Right and Wrong—and how my deed might be justified while hers was not, she surprised me with a more essential question, forcing me to reassess my position—my poltroonery as it were and reticence to review my deed in total—as she asked, “
Did you mean to do it, Daddy?” and what could I tell her then but “Yes.”
An hour later, I was back downtown speaking to the police, and by nightfall my bail was revoked. Those who came initially to my defense were surprised to hear that I confessed. Even the police did not know what to make of me—they’d all but decided the case against me was weak—and when they asked why I was changing my tune now, I shrugged and told them simply, “Because this is the way it was.”
The food I’m served, the sounds I hear, access to newspapers and books, even the thinness of my mattress and coloring of my walls are much the same as always, and other than my inability to visit the clinic and see my daughter and friends, I follow a routine similar to the way I lived on the east side of Renton. The papers come to the library, and some I receive, a day or two late, in the mail. I have a portable computer and research material at my ready. (The stock market isn’t difficult to track and I continue to manage the clinic’s Trust with regular success.) I read the business sections scrupulously and other stories as well. Just last week, I read an article on Abu Shlomo Ami, a Palestinian, who saved the life of Ehud Shamir, an Israeli, by knocking him out of the way of a car driven through a crowded intersection in Azur. From his hospital bed, where Abu Shlomo was recovering from the amputation of his right leg and arm, he looked out dolefully, and in answer to the questions put to him, replied in a voice surprisingly firm, “What else was I to do?”
I stand at my window and stare out at a patchwork of fading stars and a pale half offering of moon. The air—as I imagine it—is warm now and no doubt hinting of spring. I think of my circumstance, and the way I came from there to here, and how in love and war, feast and famine, fair weather and foul, the distinction between one man’s good fortune and another’s ruin is not found in the arbitrary construct of the universe, but in the choices made day to day. This is the order found at the heart of all dense matter.
Walter Falls Page 22
