by Matt Witten
Now I was thoroughly confused.
Andrea shook my shoulder again. "Honey, don't make me get up. I did it last time."
I opened my eyes. I was still in bed. But apparently Babe Ruth was not, since there were noises downstairs.
I stood up wearily. "Yeah, okay, okay. Batman to the rescue." I found my pajama bottoms on the floor and put them on. To protect my eyes I left the hall light off as I felt my way down the stairs. When I got to the first floor I heard Babe Ruth call out, "Daddy."
"Coming," I said. Usually the Babe is silent when he does his midnight rambling, but every now and then he comes out with interesting comments. Like once, while still sound asleep, he asked me, "Why do people make poop, and why did the Red Sox trade Babe Ruth?"
Questions I've been wondering about for years.
This time, my son asked, "Daddy, how come you're wearing a mask?"
It sounded like he was in the study. As I turned the corner from the dark dining room into the even darker study, I said, "Babe, I'm not wearing a—"
I froze. Somebody was crouching in the shadows by my desk, wearing a mask.
Whoever it was suddenly sprang out at me and Babe Ruth, knocking my son hard to the ground and swinging something at my face.
I jumped back and threw up my arms to ward off the blow. Luckily it turned out to be something soft, a bag maybe. The intruder started dashing around me, but without even thinking I kicked out with my foot and tripped him, sending him sprawling into the wall. Or maybe her; bulky sweaters and darkness hid the intruder's shape. I moved forward to attack. But then Babe Ruth screamed.
I glanced back at my kid, and in that instant the person dove away, still holding the bag or whatever it was. I took a wild swipe at it, caught a strap, and held on. My day pack, I realized. The intruder yanked at the pack, pulling me forward. I landed on the floor, my forehead smashing into a dining room chair.
I could hear Andrea running down the stairs shouting. Somehow I was still gripping the strap, even though the person kept trying to yank my pack out of my hands. Babe Ruth screamed again. I suddenly let go of the strap, surprising the intruder, who tumbled backward onto the kitchen floor. "Babe, go to Mommy!" I yelled, and charged.
But the intruder was up again, jumping to the other side of the kitchen table. "You motherfucker!" I screamed, and shoved the table in his gut. It hit him hard. He doubled over in pain. I dashed around the table to rip that mask off his face and finish him off.
But there was a big metal pressure cooker on top of the stove. Andrea is always telling me to put the pots away in the cabinet, and I guess this time I really should have listened. Because the intruder grabbed that pressure cooker by the handle and swung it at my head full force. Ka-boom. I went down, my skull bursting with fiery agony, and screamed. Behind me Babe Ruth screamed too, and also Andrea.
Ahead of me the intruder was dashing out the door. I fought the furious red jolts pulsing through me and ran outside.
The bastard was racing up the street. I jumped down the steps and chased him.
For about ten feet. Then I stopped and threw up. My cranium was pounding and my ears rang like a four-alarm fire. Andrea ran up to me.
"Jacob," she said.
"Goddamn pressure cooker," I groaned.
Then I threw up again.
8
Gretzky was still asleep. Thank God for small favors.
The Sultan of Swat was in the living room cuddling with Andrea and whimpering softly.
I was sitting on the floor in my study, praying for the aspirin and Jack Daniels to kick in.
"You should go to the hospital," Dave repeated yet again. Dave is the cop from across the street, nice guy, snowblows our driveway in the winter just to be neighborly. Andrea had run over to get him as soon as she dragged me back home. Now he sat there watching me, drumming his fingers on my desktop. "You might have a concussion."
"Don't touch anything." It was painful moving my face enough to get the words out. "Fingerprints."
"I thought you said he was wearing gloves."
"I'm not sure. I told you, I'm not even sure it was a he."
"Listen, Jacob, the department doesn't take fingerprints on a simple burglary."
"Simple burglary?! That assassin practically ripped my head open! He assaulted my five-year-old son!"
Dave thought about it, then took his hands off the desktop. "Okay, we'll get someone in here to dust the place. Special favor."
"Thanks. Remind me to mow your lawn this summer." I tried to smile, but it didn't work.
"You really should go to the hospital—"
"I hate hospitals. What did Andrea say?"
"About what?"
"The guy."
"So your gut feeling is it was a guy."
"My gut feeling is it wasn't Dolly Parton. But it could've been a woman who was less endowed, if you know what I mean."
Dave nodded. "Andrea said pretty much the same thing you did, though she left out the Dolly Parton part. Between five and a half and six feet, not too fat, not too skinny."
I waited for more, but there wasn't any. "That's all she saw?"
"Yeah."
"Great." I closed my eyes. Even that small gesture was painful.
Dave stood up. "Come on, I'll drive you to the hospital."
I shook my head, instantly regretting the sudden motion. Then I gingerly leaned back against the wall and tried to think.
It was easy to figure out how the burglar got into our house. He or she had no problem there; this being safe, small-town America, or so we'd thought, we often didn't even bother to lock our doors at night.
The burglar's other activities were harder to fathom, though. My desk drawers had been thrown open, and my papers were strewn around; but other than that, the burglar hadn't touched anything in the whole house. Not even Andrea's purse, which was lying in plain view on the kitchen table. The only thing he'd stolen, so far as I could tell, was my day pack.
Why in the world would the burglar want my day pack?
I considered the bizarre possibility that someone stole the pack because they'd seen me carrying Penn's magnum opus inside it. But if that's what they were after, why didn't they just open the pack, see there was nothing in it anymore but a couple of Disney videos, and then toss it aside?
Unless...
What if Babe Ruth enters the study just at the exact moment when the burglar finds my pack—but before he's had a chance to look inside it?
Highly unlikely.
But wait a minute. I gritted my teeth against the pain in my head. What if the burglar heard Ruth coming, dove behind my desk to hide... and that's when he suddenly sees my pack, or hell, even lands right on top of it. Because last night, like most nights, I'd left my pack on the floor at the far end of the desk, by the wall. Which meant it was partially hidden, I realized. So the burglar dives on top of my pack, figures out what it is, and grabs hold of it as Ruth enters...
Okay, maybe. I guess it was possible. But why? Who would want Donald Penn's literary oeuvre badly enough to burglarize my house, terrorize my child, and bust my head open?
I considered all the people who'd shown an interest, positive or otherwise, in The Penn's writing: the Mayor, Judy, Rob, maybe Madeline, Gretchen, Bonnie and her fellow artists. Could the burglar have been Steve the Novella Man, hoping to find some good stuff written by The Penn that he could pass off as his own work? Or Rob, in a fit of insane artistic mania, desperate to set up that exhibit at Madeline's? Maybe Judy Demarest, wanting to make sure I didn't double-cross her and give The Penn's literary pearls to a downstate newspaper? Or some overly dedicated editor from Simon & Schuster, up in Saratoga on vacation, who'd overheard me talking to Judy on the street and thought maybe she could steal herself a bestseller?
Frankly, it seemed equally likely that the burglar had opened my pack, found our rented copy of Mighty Ducks 2, and decided he must have that video at all costs.
My increasingly deranged musings were interrupted whe
n the telephone rang. I jumped. So did Dave. It was three a.m. I grabbed the phone.
Before I could speak, a voice boomed out at me, "Seven fifty! Seven fucking fifty!"
What the hell—? I was so scared and pissed off, I started shaking. "What do you want?! Who are you?!"
"I'm your guardian angel, kid! I just got you an extra two-fifty grand!"
My mind reeled. By now I'd figured out it was Andrew, my agent, but I hadn't the foggiest what he was saying to me. It was like he was speaking Swahili. Maybe I really did have a concussion. "Andrew, what in heaven's name are you talking about?"
"Mutant beetles, kid! They're hot!"
Mutant beetles. It all came back to me with a rush. I groaned. "Look, do you have any idea what time it is?"
"Hell yeah, I've been working on this deal all day, baby! Awesome, huh? So you gonna thank me or what?"
I hung up the phone and poured myself another shot of Jack Daniel's.
The next morning, or rather, later that same morning, I woke up with a splitting headache, whether from concussion or hangover I didn't know. But I figured either way a cup of coffee couldn't hurt.
I stepped carefully downstairs, avoiding sudden movements, and came upon Gretzky in the living room putting on knee pads. "Daddy, let's play hockey!" he crowed, delighted to see me.
Hockey. My aching body cringed at the thought. "Not right now, sweetie."
He shot me an outraged look. "Why not, Daddy?"
"Later." I headed toward the kitchen as fast as the old bod could carry me. If Gretzky started crying, my skull would crack into little tiny pieces.
I heard noises from the study and went in. Dave was with another cop, collecting prints from my desk. The purplish-gray powder they were using made me sneeze, which made my head feel even worse. Dave and his partner looked up. "Let me see your thumb," Dave said.
I held it up, and he examined it under the lamp and compared it to a thumbprint they'd taken off the top drawer. "Yup, it's a match," he said.
"You find any others?"
"Sure. Andrea's."
I watched for a while until it became apparent they weren't getting anywhere, then went to the kitchen. Andrea and Babe Ruth were in there reading a baseball book. I looked up at the clock: 10:35. "Hey, how come you guys are still at home?"
Babe Ruth ran and jumped into my arms, hugging me tight around the neck. It jarred my head painfully but I didn't complain. Babe Ruth isn't a kid who hugs too often, so when he does hug me, I treasure it.
Andrea kissed my forehead as her eyes searched mine. "We wanted to make sure you're okay. How are you feeling?"
"Nothing a cup of coffee and another hug wouldn't cure."
But the Sultan of Swat pulled away from me. Enough of this hugging stuff; now for the important business of the morning. "Daddy! Who won the Mets game?"
So we settled into our usual routine of checking the box scores and discussing the Mets bullpen. How had my son, at such a tender age, already turned into a guy who wasn't comfortable giving hugs, but would talk sports with you ad infinitum? Was it something I did? Something he picked up from watching men in general? Or is there really something defective about that Y chromosome?
All of this speculating wasn't doing my head any good, especially with Gretzky running in and demanding to know if it was "later" yet, because if it was, then we should be playing hockey already.
I reached out for the coffee that Andrea had placed on the table for me. And that's when I noticed, on the obituary page placed for some reason at the back of the sports section, the small item about Donald Penn. His viewing was scheduled at Otis Funeral Home from 10:00 to 11:00 this morning. "Damn," I said. I got out of my chair.
"What's wrong?" Andrea asked.
"I gotta hit the funeral home. The showing's almost over." I threw on my jacket.
"But you promised you'd play hockey with me!" Gretzky screamed.
"How about the Devil Rays?" Babe Ruth shouted. "Who won the Devil Rays game?"
"Honey, are you feeling well enough to drive?" Andrea asked.
"The Brewers, three to two," I told Babe Ruth, and headed out the door.
"Jacob, my grades are due today. When will you be back to take care of the kids?"
But I was gone. And so was my headache, driven off by adrenaline. Because I had a strong intuition.
A strong intuition that whoever cared enough about The Penn to break into my house looking for his masterpiece would also care enough about him to be at Otis Funeral Home, viewing his body.
By God, I was going to find out who had walloped me and terrorized my kid.
And I was going to make the bastard pay.
9
Well, I guess I should leave intuition to the feminine half of the species, because whoever had busted my head was definitely not at the funeral home. There were only two people there: Virgil Otis, who owned the joint and had to be there, and his nineteen-year-old daughter Molly. The father was too fat to have been my burglar, and the daughter was too short.
It was odd that we were the only people at the viewing. I mean, it seemed like the entire population of Saratoga Springs was intrigued by this guy, so how come nobody came?
Before I ventured into the room where Penn's body lay, I stopped and chatted with Virgil for a while. I knew him from before, had interviewed him while researching corpses for my killer gas movie. Virgil was a friendly guy, an easy interview. My guess is that funeral home directors have such a ghoulish reputation that Virgil tried to be extra friendly in order to overcome it.
"So who's paying for Donald Penn's funeral?" I asked.
"The county. They couldn't find any next of kin."
I looked through the open door to the viewing room and shivered inside. I wasn't ready to go in there yet.
Virgil was still talking. "Happens every year or so. They'll find some guy, froze to death on the street, had a heart attack in the library bathroom, whatever, and he's got no relatives, no friends, nobody. Nobody but us, that is."
Looking at Penn's corpse couldn't be any more depressing than listening to this. I went into the viewing room.
Hidden track lights were giving off dim lighting, and hidden speakers were giving off dim classical music. When I die I want them to play Frank Zappa at my funeral. At the front of the room was Donald Penn's casket. I walked up to it.
I was pleasantly surprised. I'd expected his casket to be some kind of splintery plywood thing, but it actually looked respectable. And not just because of the lighting. The wood was a rich, dark brown, and draped over it was an embossed cloth that even had some style to it.
I looked down at Donald Penn's face.
Again I was surprised. He looked good—much better than when he was alive. They'd trimmed his beard and hair, and they must have put on some kind of makeup because his face had lost its gray pallor. He looked pleasantly tanned, like he'd just come back from a beach vacation.
His eyes were closed. Hell, maybe he was just taking a nap. Maybe when he woke up, he wouldn't be a crazy, lonely, blocked writer anymore. Instead he'd be what he looked like now: a wise man, a thoughtful man, a man you'd be glad to have as your grandfather.
"Donald," I whispered, and got all teary-eyed. I stood there for a moment, then tried again. "Donald, it's a great preface," I lied. "Really. Very Joycean."
Had Penn read Joyce? Had he rooted for the Mets? Had he ever loved anyone?
"Listen, Donald, I'm getting it published, just like you wanted. I hope you'll be happy with my editing job. I'll do my best."
Over the hidden speakers Beethoven came in soft and sweet, not sounding dim anymore, but more like a bunch of angels jamming. I continued on.
"Hey, Donald, one more thing. There's somebody out there who's so interested in what you wrote, they burglarized my house and attacked me and my son, trying to find it. Do you have any idea who that might be?"
Was it my imagination?
Or did I really hear Donald Penn chuckle?
I rode to
the county cemetery in the hearse, along with Virgil, Molly, and Penn's casket.
"What religion was he, do you know?" Virgil asked, as we turned onto Route 50 and the casket rattled in the back.
"No, I don't."
"Well, we'll give him the standard nondenominational funeral. I've got a Presbyterian minister meeting us at the cemetery. The money the county gives us barely covers our expenses, but it's important to us to do an honorable job."
It must be a drag, working at a funeral home and always having to convince people you're really a nice guy, not some sicko that gets off on dead bodies. Virgil droned on, detailing all of the many preparations that go into an honorable funeral job. I glanced over at Molly, who was staring out the window, her face a blank. Molly was one of those five-foot-two, eyes-of-blue types, but without the perkiness I would have associated with her cute-as-a-button looks. Was she naturally unperky, or was her perkiness just temporarily missing in action? I wondered what it was like to be a teenage girl, eager to embark on life's grand adventures, but always surrounded by death. Your dad comes home every day smelling of formaldehyde. Do you become sullen and withdrawn, lying around playing solitaire? Or do you get really into kinky sex, sneaking into the funeral home with your boyfriend at midnight and making love inside the caskets?
I felt guilty having such fantasies about this young girl who was just minding her own business, looking out at the gloomy day. It had started to rain and the sky was an endless dirty gray. The windshield wipers were relentless, and so was Virgil's voice. I interrupted him. "So, Molly," I said conversationally, "you help out your dad with the business?"
"You kidding?" Virgil answered for her. "She hates the business. Always has, ever since she was a little kid. Now she's studying arts administration over at Skidmore. Any money in that?"
The truthful answer would have been no, but I didn't want to get in the middle of any father-daughter arguments. "Sometimes. God knows the world needs good arts administrators." That part, at least, was true.
Molly looked away, clearly not in the mood to chat. But I was curious. "So how come you're going to this funeral?"
