1 Breakfast at Madeline's

by Matt Witten

  "Do hockey players die?"

  I came back in and sat down on Gretzky's bed. "Only when they get very, very old."

  "We've been alive for so long today, maybe we won't ever die."

  Maybe we won't ever die. Without warning, The Penn poured into my mind again, lurching forward, flinging me that key. Dying.

  And other images flooded in, too. The Penn drinking coffee and writing feverishly in his dirty spiral notebooks… him in one corner muttering and scribbling, me in another corner muttering and scribbling... How many mornings did we spend together like that, a hundred? Two hundred? And what did he do with all those notebooks of his, anyway?

  Suddenly the answer shot through me. They were in his safety-deposit box.

  "Daddy. Answer me."

  The Penn wanted me to read his stuff. That was his dying wish.

  "Daddy?"

  I bent down and kissed him. "You're right, honey. Maybe we won't ever die. Have a nice nap, Mr. Hockey Player."

  Goddamn it, I thought as I tiptoed downstairs, I can't let The Penn’s life work lie in a cold metal vault, unread. What if he turned out to be a secret literary genius? What if he was one of those writers who become famous after they're dead?

  But he'd never even have a chance of becoming famous unless I could get into that stupid safety-deposit box. I took The Penn’s key from my pocket and restlessly rubbed it between my fingers, then turned it over and read the box number on the back: "2011."

  An idea started forming in my head, but suddenly the phone rang loudly. I grabbed it fast, praying it hadn't woken my son. "Hello?"

  "Mutant beetles!"

  "What?"

  "Mutant beetles take over Los Angeles," my agent explained. "Warner Brothers. Five hundred K."

  "No." Jesus, what next—satanic gerbils? Carrying the portable phone, I walked into the study and searched my top desk drawer until I found what I was looking for: the key to my own safety-deposit box.

  "Will you fucking listen to me?!" Andrew was shouting into the phone, furious; after all, ten percent of five hundred is fifty. "It's just a rewrite. All you gotta do is add a few commas and exclamation points and shit."

  I turned my key over: "2074." I was in luck. With a number so close to The Penn's, my safety-deposit box was probably located right near his—which fit my plan perfectly.

  "Baby, this is a hot project," Andrew wheedled. "I'm talking burning. Sherry Kaplan is producing."

  "Great. Sherry Kaplan is the only Jew in Hollywood who supported Bob Dole."

  "Jacob—"

  "Look, I'm sorry, Andrew, I'm taking a vacation—"

  "Well, isn't that just peachy," Andrew said sarcastically. "Tell me, you bozo, how long do you think these offers are gonna last? I hate to inform you, but you're not the world's most brilliant screenwriter." The manipulative creep was on a roll. "You got lucky with that one movie, you better milk it for all it's worth. Don't be a jerk!"

  Screw you, pal. "Actually, Andrew, I'm in the middle of a very important project."

  "Oh yeah, like what—memorizing the sports section?"

  "No. Like robbing a bank." I hung up the phone, turned off the ringer, and went back into the kitchen, where I poured myself a cup of coffee.

  Then I sat down and began making my plans.

  3

  Even if I got caught breaking into The Penn’s box, I told myself, they wouldn't really do anything to me. Maybe yell a little. I mean, I was pretty much the de facto executor of his estate, so what was the big deal if I cut a few corners?

  Besides, I had an airtight plan. Saratoga Springs, being basically a one-horse town, still had banks that used a one-key safety-deposit box system. Clearly they didn't expect devious folks like me to try breaking and entering.

  So here's what I'd do: simply give Thin Lips the key to my own box. Then she'd open it, and I'd tell her I didn't need the private room. She'd turn her back, just like always. Except this time... this time, while her back was turned, I'd quickly open The Penn’s box, grab his stuff, close it again real fast, boom boom, and she'd never know.

  Piece of cake.

  Only one problem: After yesterday, Thin Lips would be suspicious. So I'd wait until she was on break, then hustle somebody else.

  I was so revved up about tomorrow's grand adventure I couldn't sleep that night. I decided not to tell Andrea my plan because I knew that, practical person that she is, she'd try to talk me out of it. And I knew I'd never let her. After six months of sudden wealth that had left me shell-shocked, reading endless newspapers in lonely coffee shops, I suddenly felt awake and alive again.

  So bright and early the next morning, I put on my dark sunglasses, pulled my Adirondack Lumberjacks cap down low over my eyes, and established my temporary reconnaissance headquarters next to some shrubbery on the post office steps. It was the ideal spot. I could peek around the bushes, across the street, and through a window straight into the Saratoga Trust Bank—in fact, straight into the office of the enemy, Ms. Thin Lips.

  So I watched and I waited. And waited some more. Thin Lips turned out to be an extremely dedicated employee—so dedicated, in fact, that for the entire morning she didn't take a single coffee break or go to the bathroom once. Maybe bank employees didn't make peepee.

  Meanwhile it seemed like everyone I knew in Saratoga Springs was mailing a letter that morning, and they all felt compelled to come over and chat. I began to feel about as inconspicuous as O.J. Simpson—not a great feeling when you're plotting grand larceny.

  I had hardly begun my top-secret spy operation when I was approached by Bonnie Engels, local theater impresario/director/teacher extraordinaire. Bonnie ran the Shoeshine and a Smile Theater School, where she produced an astonishingly large-scale Christmas Carol every winter, with a cast that included practically every child in Saratoga County. During the rest of the year she organized a wide array of performances, workshops, and classes, managing by sheer force of personality to eke out a decent living from theater.

  Bonnie was also the town's resident woman boxer. Ever since I hit the Hollywood jackpot, she began hustling me to invest in a boxing video starring herself. She wanted to become the Jane Fonda of women's boxing. Or maybe I should say the Deepak Chopra of women's boxing, since she was always babbling about how boxing is a spiritual experience.

  Right now Bonnie came up and hugged me so tight that if this were a boxing match, the referee would have blown his (or her) whistle. The woman had always been a serious hugger, but after taking up her new sport she'd become downright dangerous. Her forearms seemed to have grown three inches thicker since I saw her last, and she almost broke my back. Then she started crying. "Oh God, Jacob, I'm so sorry. I am so sorry!"

  "About what?" I asked, genuinely befuddled. I didn't yet realize that the Daily Saratogian article would give everyone the mistaken impression that The Penn and I were bosom buddies.

  Bonnie gave me a piercing look, then softened. "I mean about Donald. What an amazing spiritual person. Such beautiful positive energy. I didn't know you knew him so well."

  "Actually, I didn't.”

  She didn't seem to hear me. "I always thought he was an incredible writer. So much passion. Did he tell you yesterday what he was working on?"

  "No, he was too busy dying."

  I got another piercing look. Then Bonnie wrapped her arms around me again, refusing to let go until I promised to call her any time—"any time, day or night"—if I needed "a friend to talk to, a shoulder to cry on, whatever."

  That "whatever" made me wonder. Did Bonnie have some kind of special late-night boxing match in mind for me? She was actually a pretty attractive woman, even if she was looking more and more like Popeye with every passing day.

  I shook off that thought and tried to hide behind a newspaper so I could do my spying properly. But I must not have held the paper high enough, because I was quickly spotted by Henry Kane, the mayor of Saratoga Springs. Also owner of Kane Construction Company. And owner or part-owner of several oth
er lucrative capitalist enterprises—including the very bank I was keeping within my criminal sight.

  Kane did all of the do-gooder things you expect from small-town businessmen/politicians, like serving on the board of the Saratoga Coalition Against Child Abuse, the Literacy Volunteers of Saratoga, and other local charities. My wife, a board member of the Literacy Volunteers, said he donated generously, and I guess I shouldn't have disliked him as much as I instinctively did. He was fifty years old with distinguished silver hair but a youthful face, no doubt helped by the fact he'd never had a day's worth of worry in his life. He came from money, of course, and wore a perfect power tie, perfect capped teeth, and perfect black ribbed socks. Probably saw a barber each week to get his nostril hairs clipped.

  Kane shook my hand warmly. "Jacob, I don't know what to say," he intoned.

  "Neither do I," I answered truthfully.

  "As President of the Saratoga Arts Council, I hate to see one of our most intriguing artists cut down in his prime. My deepest sympathies."

  I thought about explaining to the mayor that The Penn and I weren't really close. But the words died on my lips, because it suddenly struck me—maybe I was The Penn's best friend.

  Kane cleared his throat. "I hear Donny was making a"—he paused meaningfully—"a significant writing breakthrough toward the end of his life."

  He looked to me for confirmation. I was strangely embarrassed that I, The Penn’s best friend, hadn't even known what he was writing. Not wanting to admit my ignorance, I nodded wisely. "Such a terrible thing," I agreed with a sigh. "Who knows what might have happened if he'd lived?"

  The mayor gave me a piercing look. Must be my morning for piercing looks. Something passed through his normally complacent face—confusion? Fear?

  Then his expression turned bland again. Patting me on the back and murmuring a few more words of comfort, he eased off down the steps.

  All morning long, the procession of well-wishers on the post office steps continued unabated. For someone who'd been so obscure his whole life, Penn was sure attracting a lot of attention now.

  A little after 12:30, Rob Bassin walked up. He was one of the guys working the counter at Madeline's when Penn died. A twenty-eight-year-old Skidmore film grad with a goatee, Rob bounced around Hollywood for five years after college, then gave up on that dream and came back to Saratoga, where he got a minimum-wage job at Madeline's. But then his luck improved. He got engaged to Madeline herself.

  Now that he was happily ensconced in Saratoga, he'd become more sanguine about his California experience. I enjoyed talking movies with him, because whenever he liked a movie, I hated it. We had our own Siskel and Ebert routine going.

  Right now I could tell from Rob's sad cocker spaniel face that he was about to offer me his heartfelt condolences. I was getting sick of this preposterous business already, so I tried to distract him by asking how his fire sale was going—engagement sale, actually. Since he was about to move in with Madeline, he was selling his sofa, bed, computer, "and other household items," as his classified ad in the Daily Saratogian read.

  But Rob didn't let himself get distracted. He put his hand on my arm and gave it a squeeze. "How you feeling, man?"

  "Fine," I said irritably.

  But then, out of nowhere, a wave of terrible sadness flowed through me. So many people were treating me like I was deeply bereaved, I was starting to actually feel that way.

  Or maybe what I really felt was some kind of deep subterranean psychic bond between me and Penn. Between my shell shock and his insanity.

  I turned away from Rob, embarrassed by my emotions, as he said, "Madeline's feels so empty without him. I'm thinking we should hold some kind of memorial service—"

  But then I stopped listening. I'd just noticed something moving out of the corner of my eye. Could it be?

  Yes, it was! Thin Lips was actually standing up. And actually walking away from her desk, opening the door—

  I jumped up. "Rob, I gotta run."

  "Listen, Jacob—"

  "Later!" Ignoring a don't walk sign and a large fast-moving Bruegger's truck, I dashed across the street and through the bank's back door. No time to lose. Thin Lips was undoubtedly the kind of obsessive corporate lackey who would gobble down a ten-minute lunch and then race back to work. Stuffing my Lumberjacks cap in my day pack so I'd look more respectable, I hustled past the ATM machines to the main lobby.

  I strode up to Thin Lips's office and acted dismayed to see her empty chair. "She's not here?" I said aloud. "Oh, boy!"

  When you're in a bank—a small-town bank, at least—a loud "Oh, boy!" qualifies as a major cuss-word. Banks have zero tolerance for strong emotion; I guess when you've got that much cash money lying around, you try to keep things as calm as possible. So my "Oh, boy!" got immediate results, in the form of a short, pudgy young woman hurrying toward me with a nervous smile plastered to her face, asking, "May I help you, sir?"

  "Absolutely. I need something from my safety-deposit box, and Ms. Thin L—I mean, Ms. Reingold— isn't here."

  "Don't worry, sir, I'm sure she'll be back soon. She never takes long lunches."

  "But I'm late for my plane and I need it immediately. It's absolutely essential."

  "I'm sorry, sir, but Ms. Reingold is the only one who's authorized—"

  "Oh no, this is terrible!" I raised my voice so the customers in the lobby could hear me. "I'm on my way to Hollywood to meet with Steven Spielberg and I desperately need my computer disk, but it's in my safety-deposit box. You've probably heard of me. I'm Jacob Burns, I wrote The Gas that Ate San Francisco, which is about to become a major motion picture—"

  "Mr. Burns, I'm sure it won't be long—"

  "One o'clock in the freaking afternoon, and I can't even get into my own safety-deposit box?!" I yelled. "What the hell kind of bank is this?!"

  The poor young woman stood there openmouthed. The entire bank was watching us now.

  A skinny, frightened guy wearing a gray suit, even younger than the young woman but evidently her superior, rushed toward us. "Maybe I can help you, Mr. Burns."

  "I certainly hope so," I growled, brusquely handing him my safety-deposit key.

  Young Gray Suit started to say something, but instead just nodded. The paperwork went down smoothly, and in less then three minutes we were inside the vault.

  He unlocked my safety-deposit box and handed it over. He offered me the private room, and I turned it down. So far, so good.

  But then, to my dismay, he watched me as I put my box on a metal shelf and pretended to look inside it for my computer disk. Come on, birdbrain, turn around already, I implored silently. But he stayed put.

  "So what's on this disk, anyway?" he asked conversationally.

  "Hey, aren't you supposed to turn around?"

  Young Gray Suit just laughed, thinking I was joking. Apparently some sloppy bank official—someone other than Thin Lips—had trained him insufficiently in bank-vault etiquette. Or maybe he was just being young and rebellious. Because now, safe from the watchful eyes of his colleagues, he was loosening up and turning positively friendly. Exactly what I didn't need. "So you're really meeting with Spielberg?"

  "I'm serious; Ms. Reingold always turns her back."

  At the mention of her name, Young Gray Suit instantly tightened up. No surprise there; the woman had the same effect on me. Young Gray Suit frowned. "You're not trying to pull anything, are you?"

  "Of course not," I said with a chuckle.

  He chuckled too. And, thank God, finally turned his back.

  I whipped out The Penn’s key and found box number 2011. The key turned easily enough in the lock. But when I started to take out the box it made a horrifying rasping sound—metal scraping metal—scree-eek!

  I froze, expecting Young Gray Suit to turn back around. Suddenly that whole rationale about just cutting a few corners wasn't so reassuring anymore. If this guy caught me redhanded with two safety-deposit boxes open in front of me, I was in deep shit. How d
eep I didn't know, but I suspected Thin Lips would get a thrill out of making my life truly miserable.

  And no way in hell would I ever get another shot at The Penn’s box.

  But amazingly, so far the bank guy hadn't moved. Either that scree-eek! wasn't really as loud as it sounded to my insanely terrified ears, or else he just assumed the noise came from my metal box being jostled on the metal shelf as I searched for a disk. In any case, I took a deep breath and looked down at The Penn’s box. I'd pulled it out two inches, which meant thirteen more inches of metallic rasping left to go.

  My adrenaline was pumping so fast it didn't even occur to me to just shove the box back in and give up. Instead I pulled the box out more, and the scree-eek! got even worse. Desperate to cover up the sound, I started babbling fast and loud. "Actually, I'm gonna tell Spielberg about this new movie idea I have. It's about a—" Scree-eek! I noisily cleared my throat and blathered on rapidly, "This movie, it's about a guy like you in his twenties—picture Leonardo DiCaprio, okay?—who's working at some dead-end job, like a bank or something, and all of a sudden—all of a sudden!" I yelled, as I yanked The Penn’s box the rest of the way out.

  "All of a sudden what?" asked Young Gray Suit, and he started turning around.

  I quickly shielded The Penn’s box from his sight. "Hey, watch it, or I’ll tell Ms. Reingold."

  The guy still couldn't tell if I was joking or not, but he decided not to take any chances. He turned away.

  "So what happens?" he asked.

  I didn't answer. I barely even heard him. At last, I had Donald Penn's mysterious safety-deposit box right there in front of me, ripe for the plucking. But what if there was nothing in it after all but dirty socks? I reached out and opened it.

  And stood there in awe.

  The Penn's entire life work was staring up at me. The 10 x 12 x 15-inch box was crammed to overflowing with spiral notebooks, looseleaf notebooks, old-fashioned composition notebooks, white scrap paper, pink scrap paper, toilet paper, old menus, paper bags, torn milk cartons...

  And every single one of these motley surfaces was filled from top to bottom with Donald Penn's very small, very neat handwriting.