Wake Up, Sir!: A Novel

by Jonathan Ames

  “Is he shot?” he asked, looking at me standing there in full health, relatively speaking, but he had to be sure.

  “No,” said Mrs. Hibben. “It went through the couch…. Let's call the police.”

  “Shut up with the damn police…. There's no one outside. I should have seen someone. They couldn't run across the lawn that fast…. Who's your accomplice, Alan? Tell me!”

  “Let's call the police,” said Mrs. Hibben.

  “You shut up,” Dr. Hibben roared at Mrs. Hibben. “We don't have a permit for that fucking gun of your brother's! And put the fucking thing away before you shoot somebody else!”

  Beaubien, Mangrove, and I all lowered our heads. It was unseemly, even in this florid moment, to witness a quarrel between the director of the Rose Colony and his wife.

  Mrs. Hibben sat down on the good end of the couch, gingerly lowered the shotgun to the floor, put her head in her hands, and started weeping.

  This created a sympathetic stress response in Beaubien and myself, and so there was a chorus of crying. Mangrove put his arm around Beaubien. My nose, which had stopped bleeding, began to trickle once more.

  “Who took the head and returned the slippers?” Dr. Hibben demanded of me.

  “I don't know,” I said, still crying, and holding my hand to my nose so that I didn't bleed all over everything.

  “It was the ghost of the Rose Colony,” said Beaubien with a hysterical note to her voice.

  “Who took the damn head?” shouted Dr. Hibben.

  “I don't know,” I moaned, though in my heart I knew. Only one man could have moved that efficiently and eerily; only one man would have come to my aid:

  Jeeves!

  “It was a ghost,” repeated Beaubien, weeping.

  Mangrove held her tight under his arm and said, “It's all right, Sigrid. It's all right.”

  Then Dr. Hibben said, “Everybody out of here. This is the worst night ever in the history of the colony. I'd wake everyone up right now, but I don't want there to be any more pandemonium…. In the morning, I'm going to have an assembly and find out who took that head. And after that, Alan, you are to leave immediately, and I might yet call the police!” I could see that he had made this last statement to threaten me, but also to make some amends to his wife.

  “I'm so sorry for all this, Dr. Hibben,” said Mangrove, acting as a general representative of the colonists, and I was grateful to him, because I was unable to summon up the will to apologize, knowing that anything I said would sound so paltry and unequal to the damage I had caused.

  “You have nothing to apologize for, Reginald,” said Dr. Hibben, then he went to his wife and put his hand on her shoulder, but she was still crying.

  Mangrove picked up his bat net and said to Beaubien and me, “Let's go.” But as we stepped toward the door, Dr. Hibben started breathing rapidly and his naked torso began to quiver and heave. He was having a delayed reaction, and simultaneously Mrs. Hibben stopped crying. Her hysteria had transferred to him, which is often the case with hysteria; very rarely are two people hysterical at the same time; they tend to bandy it back and forth.

  Mangrove passed me the bat net and alertly went to the mobile bar and produced from behind it a bottle of scotch and a glass. He poured Dr. Hibben a shot and brought it to the man. Hibben swallowed some of it and spilled the rest. It seemed to have a calming effect.

  He sat down next to his wife. He was above the hole in the cushion, but his bottom was large enough that he didn't sink in. Mrs. Hibben reached her arms around Dr. Hibben and kissed him on the cheek. Then they sat there side by side, slumping, and looked very tiny for half-naked human giants.

  “You're both all right?” Mangrove asked.

  “We're fine,” said Dr. Hibben, some of his normal composure returning. “Thank you for the drink.”

  “Is there anything else I can do?” Mangrove asked.

  “Just make sure this Blair maniac doesn't burn down the Mansion. Keep an eye on him. We just have to get through to the morning.”

  Dr. Hibben's words pained me, but I deserved it, and it wasn't the first time I'd been called a maniac by a doctor.

  The three of us then left. Nobody said good-bye. It wasn't the kind of gathering that called for any sort of farewell. I gave Mangrove his bat net and he used it as a walking stick and put his free arm around Beaubien. My severely bruised buttock was causing me to limp, but it was amazing that I could even continue on at all.

  We walked in silence. Amid the horror of everything, I was glad to see that a rekindling of affection was occurring between Mangrove and Beaubien. When all was said and done, Beaubien wasn't so bad.

  “Alan,” Mangrove said, breaking the quiet, “tell me what's going on. Who took that head and put back the slippers?”

  “I really don't know.” I wasn't going to incriminate Jeeves, not even to the commander.

  “So you didn't take my slippers?” asked Beaubien.

  “I know I'm not the most credible person, but I really didn't take your slippers.”

  We resumed our silent march. When we got to the Mansion, Mangrove asked Beaubien to step inside the mudroom, said that he needed to speak with me privately. She didn't protest. It was clear that she would do anything he asked. She was radiant. Their affection was reignited and she had her slippers. She was at peace. She went inside.

  Mangrove looked at me. His eye patch was still in the middle of his forehead, blocking his third eye, if he had one. If anyone has one.

  “We've only just gotten to know each other,” he said, “but I like you…. So why did you sneak into Hibben's? Did you do it because you're drunk? I shouldn't have let you smoke that pot…. Did Ava put you up to it?”

  “Of course not.”

  Mangrove was silent. Then: “You really don't know who took the head and returned the slippers?”

  I lied with all my might, “I don't know.”

  “Okay,” said Mangrove, resigned. He lowered his head, exhausted, then looked at me. “You're not going to get into any more trouble, are you?”

  “No,” I said.

  “Are you all right?”

  “My buttock is sore, but not bad.”

  “There's dried blood under your nose.”

  “I know,”

  “I guess you'll be leaving in the morning.”

  “As soon as Dr. Hibben tells me to go, unless he does call the police.”

  “I don't think he will; he has to answer to the board, and I'm sure he'd like to avoid a scandal … but who knows.”

  We went into the Mansion then. Beaubien was waiting. We all said good night, and he and Beaubien held hands. Off they went to the main hall, and I went up the back staircase.

  Jeeves wasn't in my room and I had a fright—Ava's head was on my pillow, which was a rather dramatic gesture for Jeeves to have made, I thought. I then took the pillow out of the white pillowcase and put the head in it, using the pillowcase like a sack at the base of a guillotine.

  I went over to the writing room. “Jeeves,” I whispered, outside the door.

  “Come in, sir,” he said.

  I went in, closed the door. He stood up from his cot and put down his volume of Powell.

  “How can you be reading?”

  “I couldn't sleep, sir.”

  The man had polar ice for blood. He was completely unflappable.

  “Well, I thank you, Jeeves. I owe you everything.”

  “You're welcome, sir.”

  “So how'd you do it, Jeeves? I didn't hear you following me…. And how'd Hibben not see you? You ran behind the house, into the woods?”

  “I did not run behind Dr. Hibben's house, sir.”

  “You heard the gun go off? I was nearly shot, you know.”

  “I was unaware of this, sir.”

  “You ran that quickly?”

  “Your questions mystify me, sir.”

  “I just want to know how you eluded Dr. Hibben after you took the head.” I swung the heavy pillowcase, to indicate th
e skull inside. “And where'd you get Beaubien's slippers?”

  “I did not find Miss Beaubien's slippers and I didn't take the head, sir. If the head belonged to Dr. Hibben, then it was Mr. Tinkle who took the head from Dr. Hibben. He came by your room several minutes ago and put it on your bed. I observed him through the crack in the door, and when he left, I went to your room and saw the head on your pillow. I imagined that he was playing a prank on you, so I didn't think it was my place to remove it…. But how is it, sir, that you were nearly shot? Also, you have dried blood on your lip. I would like to get a washcloth for you.”

  I sat at my desk and tried to absorb what Jeeves had just told me, but there wasn't much room in my brain after all I had done and witnessed, so it took a few moments. Then all at once a course of action presented itself to me.

  “Jeeves, I'll be right back and explain all.” I stood up.

  “Do you want to wash your lip first, sir?”

  “No.”

  “There's a blackened area on the seat of your trousers, sir.”

  “I know, Jeeves. That's where I was nearly shot…. I'll be right back and tell you everything.”

  Hidden in my desk drawer was the plastic bag that contained the crab kit. From it, I grabbed the crab spray and put that in with the head. Then I ran-limped to Ava's room. No one saw me. I went in. She was sitting in bed. Wearing a sleeveless T-shirt.

  I stormed across the room and put the pillowcased head in her lap.

  “It's a long story, which I don't have time to tell,” I said. “But here's the head and the spray. I'm fleeing. I adore you, but … well, maybe I'll see you in Brooklyn someday. I'll come find you at Pratt…. So, listen, the police might be here tomorrow, but I doubt it. Hibben is afraid of publicity. Regardless, I'm going to disappear, that will put all suspicion on me and leave you in the clear.”

  She was speechless. I leaned forward and kissed her. “You're beautiful,” I said.

  “There's blood on your face.”

  I started for the door.

  “Alan, tell me what happened!”

  “I got the head for you. That's all you need to know. If you knew more, you'd have to lie. This way you can play dumb and it will be believable…. But if they hang you, I'll always remember you.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Just joking.” I had always wanted to say that to somebody. “So just hide the head. It won't occur to them, anyway, that you'd have it, but let things cool down. Don't go to New York right away. Let the gallery know you'll be bringing it in a few days. Have them advance you some money if you need it.”

  I opened the door.

  “Alan!”

  “I have to go. Please let me go!”

  She just looked at me. I closed the door. I didn't want her to know about Tinkle. Had to keep him out of the loop if she was grilled.

  I limp-bolted up to Tinkle's room. Without knocking, I penetrated his chambers and shut the door behind me. Tinkle spun around and faced me. With a damp towel, he was cleaning his blackened face. There were several charred wine corks on his desk—his blackening agent.

  “You followed me to Hibben's,” I said.

  He nodded mutely. His face was half-black, and he had on dark jeans and a black turtleneck. He had cleaned his hands, but there were still smudges on his knuckles from the cork.

  “You saved me,” I said.

  “The Bat saved you,” he said, and he bent down and picked up, like a swordsman, a large, black, rolled-up umbrella. He pushed a button and the umbrella fanned out, and then he crouched down and hid his small frame behind the black shield. The effect was as if he had disappeared. He stood up and closed the umbrella. “It's my cloaking device. It works well in shadows.”

  “You're brilliant. That's how you eluded Hibben.”

  “That's how the Bat eluded Hibben.”

  “Listen, there's going to be a search tomorrow, but I'm going to take off now with the head, and that will shut the whole thing down. But if they talk to you, play dumb. And get rid of those corks.”

  “Are you sure you have to take off?”

  “I'm being kicked out anyway, and if I stay here another minute … well, I don't think I can take it.”

  “I understand. But all for that head. Well, enjoy it.”

  He had followed me to Hibben's, but he hadn't known about Ava sending me there. I was counting on that. He believed I still had the head, which was perfect.

  “By the way,” I said, “I should have realized you were behind the slipper thing from the start.”

  “I was planning on putting them back tonight, to get her off your back, but then when I saw her at Hibben's, it was the perfect opportunity.”

  “Well, it worked beautifully. A good, weird diversion … So thanks for everything.” I went to shake his hand. He hesitated. “Come on,” I said.

  We shook. It was nice and wet. Good old Tinkle.

  “How'd you keep the black stuff on?”

  “Two coatings of it.”

  We shook hands again.

  “I hope to see you on the mainland someday,” I said.

  “Me, too,” he said.

  I dashed out of there. Tinkle was protected from Ava, and Ava was protected from Tinkle. There were loose ends, but there always are; that's why you have the phrase loose ends.

  CHAPTER 39

  Let's flee!A busman's holidayInternational laundry and massage techniquesNote to self with a dashMy mother's song

  I went to the writing room and told Jeeves, with a certain manic intensity, everything that had transpired, and at the end of my police report I said, “So I think you'll agree with me this time that fleeing immediately is the best course of action.”

  “Yes, sir, I do think fleeing is the appropriate response.”

  Since most of my clothing was already in the car, it didn't take us long at all to pack up. By three-thirty, the Caprice was loaded and we were on our way.

  We traversed the winding driveway for the last time. The trees of the long colonnade, like dark mourners, reached across the way to one another, holding hands above us as we escaped.

  At the main road I said, “Oh, God, where should we go?”

  I had been so intent on leaving that an actual destination hadn't occurred to me.

  “I was thinking, sir,” said Jeeves, “that to properly flee we should leave the country. Montreal is just a few hours' drive from here on Route Eighty-seven.”

  “That's absolutely a magnificent idea. One usually associates fleeing the country with getting on a plane with a false passport and going to Venezuela, but escaping to Canada is a perfectly reasonable alternative. It's kind of like a busman's holiday for fugitives such as ourselves.”

  “Very good, sir. I am glad you are in agreement.”

  Route 87 was less than a mile from the colony. I piloted the Caprice in the necessary direction, and in less than a minute we were on the highway, moving along at an excellent fleeing speed of 70 mph.

  As we rocketed northward, I saw a sign that said MONTREAL 183 MILES. I said to Jeeves, “This is one of your best ideas of all time. All my sport coats need cleaning and decrabbing, and they probably have a lot of French laundries up there…. It's interesting that only the French and the Chinese have distinguished themselves when it comes to dry cleaning. You don't hear anything about Portuguese laundry. I wonder what the difference between French and Chinese laundry is? It's sort of like shiatsu and Swedish massage. The Swedes, of course, have made a name for themselves in the massage arena, but not laundry.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Jeeves.

  “You know, Jeeves, it might have been nice to return to Montclair and try to reform and go to AA and be a good nephew, but if I'm not over these crabs, I'd hate to pollute Aunt Florence's sheets and possibly expose her to my condition. I wouldn't mind, though, in a weak moment, giving Uncle Irwin crabs, but that's only in a weak moment, Jeeves…. Anyway, Hibben could find me in Montclair…. So Montreal really is our best choice…. Y
ou know, the Frenchness of the word Montclair never struck me before. I guess the French were in New Jersey for a little while. Not much trace, though.”

  “Many towns have French-sounding names, sir. Bel-Air and Belmar, for example.”

  “That's true, Jeeves…. Was it only a week ago that I spilled that coffee on Uncle Irwin in Nouvelle Montclair?”

  “Yes, sir. Today is Monday.”

  “See, I'm getting better with this time business. Still, it's rather uncanny.”

  “I would agree, sir.”

  Then we lapsed into silence and got down to the business of taking flight. For about half an hour, we purposefully cruised along on the nearly empty highway, and then my adrenaline, which had made me decisive and fearless and capable, as well as immune to physical and mental pain, was completely gone. A more normal, fear-based consciousness began to assert itself. I had been so pragmatic and charged up that I had been nearly oblivious to what I had wreaked, to the utter mess I had left behind at the Rose Colony. Now this grace period of numbness was over. My whole body ached—shaved skin, broken nose, gashed shin, fired-upon buttock—and my mind was tormented with shame.

  “Oh, God, Jeeves,” I whimpered, letting the horror of my actions nip at me. “I don't think I could have behaved worse. What a humiliating disaster.”

  “It was not one of your triumphs, sir.”

  “The poor Hibbens. They may never be the same.”

  “They are probably stronger than you realize, sir.”

  “I hope so…. They certainly have great physical strength…. But, God, what a mess. I failed in every way possible. I upset people and destroyed my name…. And I didn't achieve any of my goals. I didn't fall in love. Not really, if I'm to be honest. I didn't finish my novel; in fact, I hardly worked on it. And I didn't stay sober.”

  “You tried, sir.”

  “Not very hard.”

  “An argument with that as its central thesis could be made, sir.”

  “My problem is that I'm too self-destructive, self-absorbed, self-obsessed, self-centered…. Anything with self and a dash, that's me.”

  “Try not to be self-critical, sir.”