"Well, he doesn't have much to do with her anymore. And if I have my way, he'll never have anything to do with her again."
Too much talk of her nephew Richard made Nellie uncomfortable. The man was a lout, a blot on the Westphalen name.
"Just as well. By the way, I never told you, but last year I had my will changed to leave Victoria most of my holdings when I go."
"Nellie—!"
Nellie had expected objections and was ready for them:
"She's a Westphalen—the last of the Westphalens unless Richard remarries and fathers another child, which I gravely doubt—and I want her to have a part of the Westphalen fortune, curse and all."
"Curse?”
How did that slip out? She hadn't wanted to mention that.
"Only joking, love."
Gia seemed to have a sudden weak spell. She leaned against Nellie.
"Nellie, I don't know what to say except I hope it's a long, long time before we see any of it."
"So do I! But until then, please don't begrudge me the pleasure of helping out once in a while. I have so much money and so few pleasures left in life. You and Victoria are two of them. Anything I can do to lighten your load—"
"I'm not a charity case, Nellie."
"I heartily agree. You're family"—she directed a stern expression at Gia—"even if you did go back to your maiden name. And as your aunt by marriage I claim the right to help out once in a while. Now that's the last I want to hear of it!"
So saying, she kissed Gia on the cheek and marched back into her bedroom. But as soon as the door closed behind her, she felt her brave front crack. She stumbled across the room and sank onto the bed. She found it so much easier to bear the pain of Grace's disappearance in the company of others—pretending to be composed and in control actually made her feel so. But when she had no one around to play-act for, she fell apart.
Oh, Grace, Grace, Grace. Where can you be? And how long can I live without you?
Her sister had been Nellie's best friend ever since they had arrived in America. Her purse-lipped smile, her tittering laugh, the pleasure she took in their daily sherry before dinner, even her infuriating obsession with the regularity of her bowels; Nellie missed them all.
Despite all her foibles and uppity ways, she's a dear soul and I need her back.
The thought of living on without Grace suddenly overwhelmed Nellie and she began to cry, quiet sobs that no one else would hear. She couldn't let any of them—especially dear little Victoria—see her cry.
14
Jack didn't feel like walking back across town, so he took a cab. The dark-skinned driver made a couple of heavily accented tries at small talk about the Mets but the terse, grunted replies from the back seat soon shut him up. Jack could not remember another time in his life when he had felt so low—not even after his mother's death. He needed to talk to someone, and it wasn't a cabby.
He had the hack drop him off at a little mom-and-pop on the corner west of his apartment: Nick's Nook, an unappetizing place with New York City's grime permanently embedded in the plate glass windows. Some of that grime seemed to have filtered through the glass and onto the grocery display items behind it. Faded dummy boxes of Tide, Cheerios, Gaines Burgers, and such had been there for years and probably would remain there for many more. Both Nick and his store needed a good scrubbing. His prices would shame an Exxon executive, but the Nook was handy, and baked goods were delivered fresh daily—at least he said they were.
Jack picked up an Entenmann's crumb cake that didn't look too dusty, checked the fresh date on the side and found it was good till next week.
"Going over to Abe's, eh?" Nick said. He had three chins, one little one supported by two big ones, all in need of a shave.
"Yeah. Thought I'd bring the junky his fix."
"Tell him I said 'lo."
"Right. "
He walked over to Amsterdam Avenue and then down to the Isher Sports Shop. Here he knew he'd find Abe Grossman, friend and confidant for almost as long as he’d been Repairman Jack. In fact, Abe was one of the reasons Jack had moved into this neighborhood. Abe was the ultimate pessimist. No matter how dark things looked, Abe's outlook was darker. He could make a drowning man feel lucky.
Jack glanced through the window. A balding, overweight man in his late fifties was alone inside, sitting on a stool behind the cash register, reading a paperback.
The store was too small for its stock. Bicycles hung from the ceiling; fishing rods, tennis racquets, and basketball hoops littered the walls while narrow aisles wound between pressing-benches, hockey nets, scuba masks, soccer balls, and countless other weekend-making items hidden under or behind each other. Inventory was an annual nightmare.
"No customers?" Jack asked to the accompaniment of the bell that chimed when the door opened.
Abe peered over the half moons of his reading glasses. "None. And the census won't be changed by your arrival, I'm sure."
"Au contraire. I come with goodies in hand and money in pocket.”
“Did you—?" Abe peered over the counter at the white box with the blue lettering. "You did! Crumb?” His fingers did a come-hither waggle. “Come to Papa.”
Abe Grossman defined the concept of rotund. He carried way too much weight for a frame that fell short of five-eight. His graying hair had receded to the top of his head. His clothes never varied: black pants, short-sleeve white shirt, shiny black tie. The tie and shirt were a sort of scratch-and-sniff catalog of the food he’d eaten that day. As Jack neared the counter he spotted scrambled egg, mustard, and what could be either catsup or spaghetti sauce.
Just then the door dinged as a big burly fellow in a dirty sleeveless undershirt came through.
"You got softballs? I need three, quick like."
"Softballs we don’t have," Abe said without looking up. His eyes never left the Entenmann’s box. "Hardballs neither."
The guy made a face. “No softballs? What kinda sports store is that?"
“The kind that doesn’t have softballs.” Abe removed his glasses and gave the man a withering stare. “I should explain my inventory?”
The guy left, slamming the door behind him.
Jack pointed at a softball-laden shelf to his right. "You’ve got at least a dozen right there."
He shrugged. “I know, but then this cake would be lonely while I dealt with him. An Entenmann’s crumb cake should never be lonely.”
Jack handed him the box. “You want me to leave you two alone?”
"Feh!” he said as he lifted the lid. “You really know how to hurt a guy." He broke off a piece of cake and biting heartily. "You know I'm on a diet." Powdered sugar speckled his tie as he spoke.
"Yeah. I noticed."
"I should lie? I'm on low carb—except for Entenmann's. That's a free food. All other carbs have to be counted, but Entenmann's is ad lib." He took another big bite and spoke around it. Crumb cake always made him manic. "Did I tell you I added a codicil to my will? I've decided that after I'm cremated my ashes should be buried in an Entenmann's box. Or if I'm not cremated, it should be a white, glass-topped coffin with blue lettering on the side." He held up the cake box. "Just like this. Either way, I should be interred on a grassy slope overlooking the Entenmann's plant in Bay Shore."
Jack tried to smile but it must have been a poor attempt. Abe stopped in mid-chew.
"What's eating up your guderim?"
"Saw Gia today."
"Nu?"
"It's over. Really over."
"You didn't know that?"
"I knew it but I didn't believe it." Jack forced himself to ask a question he wasn't sure he wanted answered. "Am I crazy, Abe? Is there something wrong in my head for wanting to live this way? Is my pilot light flickering and I don't know it?"
Without taking his eyes from Jack's face, Abe put down his piece of cake and made a halfhearted attempt to brush off his front. He succeeded only in smearing the sugar specks on his tie into large white blotches.
"What di
d she do to you?"
"Opened my eyes, maybe. Sometimes it takes an outsider to make you see yourself as you really are."
"And you see what?"
Jack took a deep breath. "A crazy man."
"That's what her eyes see. But what does she know? Does she know about Mr. Canelli? Does she know about your mother? Does she know how you came to where you are?”
"Nope. Didn't wait to hear."
"There! You see? She knows nothing! She understands nothing! And she's closed her mind to you. Someone like that you don’t need."
"I do."
Abe rubbed a hand across his forehead, leaving a white smear.
“Nu? You've never been ditched?"
"Abe...I can't remember ever feeling about anyone the way I feel about Gia. And she's afraid of me!"
"Fear of the unknown. She doesn't know you, so she's afraid of you. I know all about you. Am I afraid?"
"Aren't you? Ever?"
"Never!" He trotted back behind the counter and picked up a copy of the New York Post. Riffling through the pages he said, "Look—a five-year old beaten to death by his mother's boyfriend! A guy with a straight razor slashed eight people in Times Square last night and then disappears into a subway! A headless, handless torso is found in a West Side hotel room! As a hit-and-run victim lies bleeding in the street, people run up to him, rob him, and then leave him there. I should be afraid of you?"
Jack shrugged, unconvinced. None of this would bring Gia back; it was what he was that had driven her away. He decided he wanted to do his business here and go home.
"I need something."
"What?"
"A slapper. Lead and leather."
Abe nodded. "Ten ounces do?"
“Sure.”
Abe locked the front door and hung the Back in a Few Minutes sign facing out through the glass. He passed Jack and led him toward the back where they stepped into a closet and closed the door after them. A push swung the rear wall of the closet away from them. Abe hit a light switch and they started down a worn stone stairway. As they moved, a neon sign flickered to life:
Fine Weapons
The Right to Buy Weapons Is the
Right to Be Free
Jack had often asked Abe why he’d placed a neon sign where advertising would do no good; Abe unfailingly replied that every good weapons shop should have such a sign.
"When you get right down to it, Jack," Abe was saying, "what I think of you or what Gia thinks of you—will that matter much in the long run? No. Because a long run there won’t be. Everything's falling apart. You know that. Not much time left before civilization collapses completely. Meshugge Islamics are just the tip of the iceberg. It's going to start soon. The banks'll start to go any day now. These people who think their savings are insured by the FDIC? Feh! Such got a rude awakening they’ve got coming! Just wait till the first couple of banks go under and they find out the FDIC only has enough to cover a pupik's worth of the deposits it's supposed to be insuring. Panic you'll see. And that's when the government will crank up the printing presses to full speed to cover those deposits. Then runaway inflation just like Weimar Germany. Bushel baskets of—"
Jack cut him off. He knew the routine by heart.
"You've been telling me this for ten years, Abe. Economic ruin has been around the corner for a decade now. Where is it?"
"Coming, Jack. Coming. I'm glad my daughter's full-grown and disinclined toward marriage and a family. I shudder at the thought that a child or a grandchild of mine should be growing up in the coming time."
Jack thought of Vicky. "Full of good cheer as usual, aren't you? The only man I know who lights up a room when he leaves."
"A comedian he’s become. I'm only trying to open your eyes so you can take steps to protect yourself."
"And what about you? You've got a bomb shelter somewhere in the sticks full of freeze-dried food?"
Abe shook his head. "I have a place, but built for a post-holocaust lifestyle I'm not. And I'm too old to learn."
He flipped another wall switch at the bottom of the steps, bringing the ceiling lights to life.
The basement was as crowded as the upstairs, only there was no sporting equipment down here, The walls and floors were covered with every one-man weapon imaginable: switchblades, clubs, swords, brass knuckles, and a full array of firearms from derringers to bazookas.
Abe went over to a cardboard box and rummaged through it.
"You want a slapper or the braided kind?"
"Braided."
Abe tossed him something in a Zip-lok bag. Jack removed it and hefted it in his hand. The sap, sometimes called a blackjack, was made of thin strips of leather woven around a lead weight; the weave tightened and tapered down to a firm handle that ended in a looped thong for the wrist. Jack fitted it on and tried a few short swings. The flexibility allowed him to get his wrist into the motion, a feature that might come in handy at close quarters.
He stood looking at the sap.
This was the sort of thing that had frightened Gia off. He swung it once more, harder, striking the edge of a wooden shipping crate: a loud crack; splinters flew.
"This'll do fine. How much?"
"Twenty."
Jack reached into his pocket. "Used to be fifteen."
"That was years ago. A lifetime one of these should last."
"I lose things." He handed over a twenty-dollar bill and put the sap into his pocket.
"Need anything else while we're down here?"
Jack ran a mental inventory of his weapons and ammunition. "No. I'm pretty well set."
"Good. Then let's go upstairs and we'll have some cake and talk. You look like you need some talk."
"Thanks, Abe," Jack said, leading the way upstairs, "but I've got some errands to run before dark, so I'll take a rain check."
"You hold things in too much. I've told you that before. We're supposed to be friends. So talk it out. You don't trust me anymore?"
"I trust you like crazy. It's just..."
"What?"
"See you, Abe."
15
It was after six when Jack got back to the apartment. With all the shades pulled, the dark front room matched his mood.
He had checked in with his office; no calls of any importance waiting for him. The answering machine here had no messages waiting.
He had a two-wheel, wire shopping cart with him, and in it a paper bag full of old clothing—woman's clothing. He leaned the cart in a corner, then stripped down and got into a T-shirt and shorts. Time for his workout. He didn't want to—he felt emotionally and physically spent—but this was the only thing in his daily routine he’d promised himself he would never let slide. His life depended on it.
He locked his apartment and jogged up the stairs.
The sun had done its worst and was on its way down the sky, but the roof remained an inferno. Its black surface would hold the day's heat long into the night. Jack looked west into the haze that reddened the lowering sun. On a clear day you could see New Jersey over there. If you wanted to. Abe had once told him that if you died in sin your soul went to New Jersey.
The roof was crowded. Not with people, with things. Appleton's tomato patch sat in the southeast corner; he had carried the topsoil up bag by fifty-pound bag. Harry Bok had a huge CB antenna in the northeast corner. Centrally located was the diesel generator everybody had pitched in to buy after the 2003 blackout; clustered along its north side like suckling piglets against their mama were a dozen two-gallon cans of number-one oil. And above it all, waving proudly from its slim two-inch pole, was Neil the Anarchist's black flag.
Jack went over to the small wooden platform he’d built for himself and did some stretching exercises, then went into his routine. He did his push-ups and sit-ups, jumped rope, practiced his tai kwon do kicks and chops, always moving, never stopping, until his body was slick with sweat and his hair hung in limp wet strands about his face and neck.
He spun at footsteps behind him.
; "Hey, Jack."
"Oh, Neil. Hi. Must be about that time."
"Right you are."
Neil went over to the pole and reverently lowered his black flag. He folded it neatly, tucked it under his arm, and headed for the steps, waving as he went. Jack leaned against the generator and shook his head. Odd for a man who despised all rules to be so punctual, yet you could set your watch by the comings and goings of Neil the Anarchist.
Back in the apartment, Jack stuck six frozen egg rolls in the microwave while he took a quick shower. With his hair still wet, he opened a jar of duck sauce and a can of Diet Pepsi, then sat down in the kitchen.
The apartment felt empty. It hadn't seemed that way this morning, but it was too quiet now. He moved everything into the TV room. The big screen lit up in the middle of a comfy domestic scene with a husband, a wife, two kids and a dog. It reminded him of Sunday afternoons when Gia would bring Vicky over and he would hook up the Playstation and teach the little girl how to shoot monsters or hunt for treasure. He remembered watching Gia putter about the apartment; he’d liked the way she moved, so efficient and bustling, like a person who got things done. He found that immensely appealing.
He couldn't say the same about the homey show that now filled the screen. He quickly flipped around the dial and across the cable, finding everything from news to reruns to a bunch of couples two-stepping around hip-to-hip like a parade of Changs and Engs dancing to a country fiddler.
Definitely time for part two of Repairman Jack's unofficial James Whale Festival. The triumph of Whale's directorial career, Bride of Frankenstein, was ready to run.
16
"You think I'm mad. Perhaps I am. But listen, Henry Frankenstein. While you were digging in your graves, piecing together dead tiss-yoos, I, my dear pupil, went for my material to the source of life..."
Ernest Thesiger as Dr. Praetorius—the greatest performance of his career—was lecturing his former student. The movie was only half over, but it was time to go. He'd pick up where he left off before bedtime. Too bad. He loved this movie. Especially the score—Franz Waxman's best ever. Who'd have thought that later on in his career the creator of such a majestic, stirring piece would wind up doing the incidental music for turkeys like Return to Peyton Place? Some people never get the recognition they deserve.
The Tomb (Repairman Jack) Page 6
