The Search for Joseph Tully

by William H Hallahan

  That would explain it all—a secret room in the cellar of the building with a tape deck wired to his living room.

  How real it had been. He mentally retraced his steps. He’d gotten a can of cat food from the refrigerator and carried it to the cellar, placing it on the cellar steps. Then he’d discovered that strange room....

  That was it. The cat food. If that trip to the cellar had been real, the cat food would still be on the cellar steps—not in the refrigerator. He paused, uttering a fervent wish. Then he pulled the door open.

  The photograph of a Persian cat smiled at him from the label of the can.

  5

  A door slammed.

  Inside the building, a door had slammed. Richardson stood up from his chair and walked to his door. He listened. Someone was walking across the vestibule. He heard steps on the staircase, steadily rising, firm, purposeful. The footsteps sounded on the second-floor landing, scraped along the passageway, then sounded on the staircase, rising steadily toward Richardson’s door.

  Richardson backed away. No one had a key to that front door anymore except himself and Clabber.

  The footsteps reached the landing and stepped along the passageway. They stopped just outside his door.

  The silence was awesome. No sound. No knock. Then abruptly, after a long silence, a fist thumped on the door panel. Richardson hesitated. He considered the fire escape. He stood immobile in the midst of his living room. Waiting.

  There was a second knock, firmer, louder, longer.

  Richardson stepped softly to the door. “Who’s there?”

  “It’s me. Clabber.”

  Richardson opened the door. The piercing eyes of Albert Clabber greeted him from the tied hood of his fur-lined parka.

  Richardson nodded at him wordlessly.

  “I just came by to pick up my mail and give you my new address.”

  “Address?” said Richardson.

  “Yeah. Sure. I told you. I moved this morning.”

  Richardson’s mouth gaped. “Moved? There’s a light—”

  “Yeah, I saw it when I walked up the street just now. Must have been left on this morning. Eerie, isn’t it, a light burning in an empty apartment.”

  “Moved,” said Richardson again.

  “Yep. You’re the last of the Mohicans, Richardson.” Clabber looked at the tape recorder. “Homework?”

  “Oh. No. Ah. Yes.” Richardson stepped away from the doorway and let Clabber walk into the apartment. Clabber pushed the door shut behind him. He was visibly shivering.

  “Find an apartment yet?”

  “I have to go look at two tomorrow morning after the funeral.”

  “Oh yes, the funeral. Ten o’clock. You’ll be well out of this place, Richardson. There are too many skeletons in the closets around here.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “You know perfectly well what I mean. You lived here with your wife—your ex-wife. Your best friend was right downstairs —dead best friend. How long a list do you want?”

  Richardson brushed a disinterested hand at him. “Okay, okay.”

  “I think you’re a bit disoriented, Richardson.”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “Okay. I’ll shut up. I’ll see you at the funeral tomorrow morning, and when you’re ready to move, call me. I’ll help.”

  “Why? I didn’t help you.”

  “You’re too suspicious, Richardson.”

  “No, I’m not. You’re after something and I can sense it.” Clabber sat down on the edge of the couch, hunched forward, hands between his thighs. His nose was still red from the cold, his hands were thickly gloved, and his wavy-soled brushed-leather shoes looked entirely inadequate for their job.

  “Got a pencil?”

  Richardson opened a desk drawer and picked out a pencil. He found a tom envelope and handed the pencil and envelope to Clabber. He watched Clabber write on the envelope, his hands still gloved. Clabber tossed the pencil on the coffee table. “Here. The phone number’s the same. Are you recording this conversation for a reason?”

  “No.” Richardson poked a button and the machine stopped. Clabber lay back on the couch and slouched down, his arms limp at either side. “What’s new?”

  Richardson smiled and shook his head. “Jesus, Clabber, the role of the casual conversationalist doesn’t fit you. If you’re going to play at it, at least take the goddamned gloves off and open your coat.”

  Clabber didn’t move. “Richardson, I’m half frozen to death. When I warm up, I’ll take these things off. In fact—for God’s sake, can you spare a lousy tea bag and a cup of hot water? I don’t even care about the sugar or the milk.”

  6

  Clabber held the scalding hot cup in both palms, drawing in the heat and sipping at the steaming tea.

  Richardson sat across the table from him, staring at the floor. “I saw Anna Quist last night,” said Clabber.

  “Good.”

  Clabber watched him for a moment. “She asked me to bring you over sometime.”

  Richardson raised his head. “Grand. An evening with Anna Quist’s glass bowling ball. Just what I need.”

  “That’s right.”

  “No more,” said Richardson, sitting up. “No more. I don’t want to go to Anna Quist’s. Okay?”

  “I think you should.”

  “You nearly finished your tea?”

  Clabber looked at his cup, then stood up. He poured another cupful of steaming water from the kettle, then lowered the dangling tea bag back into the cup by the string. “The greatest things on earth are still the simplest. Like this. A cup of tea, Richardson, right now is an unforgettable pleasure.”

  “Good. Enjoy it and you can think about the pleasure of it all the way home.”

  “I got the hint the first time.”

  “Nothing personal, Clabber.”

  “I understand. It’s just that I interrupted your recording sessions with that whooshing sound.”

  Richardson stared silently at Clabber.

  “I thought that would rouse you, Richardson.”

  “What—how—”

  “Goulart, Richardson—Goulart did the same thing. He hal-

  lucinated trips to the newspaper store. He was hallucinating whole symphonies. And they were so real he tried to record them.” '

  “What did he get?”

  “Silence. That's all he got. Silence and a funeral tomorrow morning.” Clabber watched and waited. “There’s only one way you’re going to get that information, Richardson.”

  “What information?”

  “The source of that sound.”

  “I know the source of that sound, Clabber. It’s a speaker hidden in my living room somewhere.”

  “Is it?”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “I don’t know. But there’s one way to find out.”

  “Hoy. Games. If you have something to say, why in God’s name don’t you say it? That’s why you walked all the way over here, isn’t it?”

  “You have to ask Goulart.”

  “Goulart! Are you—oh, I get it. The spirit world again, hey? Mrs. Quist. I get it.” Richardson sighed. “Are you finished with your tea yet?”

  ‘Look, Richardson, I can’t believe that you're as pigheaded as you make yourself out to be. If you have a sitting with Anna Ouist, one of two things can happen: nothing or something. If nothing happens, then you’re not hurt and you can blab all over New York that spiritualism is a fake. Okay? And if something happens, then it’ll help you—might even solve a big problem for you. You’ll be ahead of the game. Now why don’t you pry open that closed mind of yours and come see for yourself? Anna Quist is a sincere, intelligent woman. Very kindly. Very gentle. Wouldn’t harm a soul. She took a genuine liking to you, and she’s sure she can be helpful. Why don’t you let her try?” Richardson slumped back in his chair and idly steered a spoon in a circle inside his teacup. Finally he put the spoon down. “Look, Clabber. Maybe you’re a sincere guy and maybe you really want
to help. My opinion is you’re just selfish and you think maybe there’s something going on here that you can put in a book or use to further some of your pseudo-scientific theories. In any case, I have to tell you, Clabber, I’m just one good kick away from the funny farm. I think if you yelled boo at me loud enough, I'd just stand up right here and flake away in big pieces like one of those brick buildings out there that get smashed every day. Frankly, Clabber, I'm not too tightly wrapped these days. There are moments when I really think I've gone around the bend and should be certified to the laughing ward. Okay? If you get me into Anna Quist's apartment and anything happens, it's going to take sixteen weight-lifters to catch me and cage me."

  Clabber stood up. “Tomorrow night. I'll pick you up here and we'll drive over in your car. Eight o’clock here. I’m going to help you and you’re going to help me.” He took a last sip from his cup and walked to the front door of the apartment

  Richardson followed him.

  Clabber nodded curtly. “See you at the funeral tomorrow morning.” He went down the first flight, turned, walked along the passageway to the turning and clumped down the next flight. Richardson saw him cross the vestibule at the bottom of the stairwell. A moment later, the front door slammed.

  Richardson stood at the stairhead for some minutes, listening attentively. He was alone with the silence of the Brevoort House.

  7

  It was a dull thud that woke him. A familiar, painful, distant thud.

  Richardson opened his eyes. He was in his wingback chair in a blanket. He glanced at the tape recorder. The take-up reel had completely wound up the spool and now turned slowly, trailing a stuttering strip of tape. Richardson jabbed a button with his fingertip and the machine stopped.

  Richardson stood up and stretched, balled the blanket up and dropped it on the chair, then looked around at the electric clock in the kitchen. Eight ten. Sunlight lay in a broad band across the living room.

  The dull thudding drew him to the window. Across the quadrangle the wrecker's ball was at work. It had, at last, reached

  Waite’s grocery and had battered a large piece of the corner of the building to rubble. Waite’s looked like a statue with its nose broken off.

  On the ground partly covered with bricks was the sign: Waite’s Groceries. The boom drew back, then swung in an arc like a bat or a club. The willing ball and its cable followed and slammed against the brick wall.

  How many times had he gone in there? How7 many loaves of bread? An ocean of milk. The soda case had stood by the front door. He could visualize every detail of the lid and handle. He remembered the interior darkness, the rounded pieces of partially melted ice, the six inches of cold water that the soda bottles stood in, the fizzing sound of the caps yanked off by the opener. Soft summer tar in the roadway, drying sweat, broomstick bats and rubber balls, and cold soda under Waite’s awning. With Ozzie, who could hit a ball two manhole covers.

  Another shot by the wrecker and more brick tumbled into the gutted building. A smaller shower landed in the street and on the sign. Waite’s.

  Richardson dressed for the funeral as he drank coffee and watched the wrecker’s ball pound Waite’s Groceries into the past.

  Next was the building with Ozzie’s wall drawings.

  By the time he was ready to leave, most of Waite’s was down. He stood sipping steaming coffee by a window and watched the building die in the beautiful winter sunlight.

  8

  Abby’s hat and veil undulated in the sharp breeze as Richardson walked with her across the parking lot to the church. The draft swept into the church vestibule when he pulled the heavy wooden door open.

  The coffin was in position at the head of the center aisle before the altar. A number of people were already there.

  Abby seemed quite serene now, all her crying done. “It’s February 14, Saint Valentine’s Day,” she said. “Quite appropriate.” She sat in the pew looking at the people around her. Each time the front doors opened, cold air swept around their ankles and fluttered the flames of the red-cupped vigil candles.

  Richardson saw Ozzie’s sister and her family along with several other relatives. Around them were a number of people from the neighborhood, including many who’d moved away. The saloonkeeper and his wife sat behind Ozzie’s sister. Occasionally, old people murmured to each other sotto voce and twisted their rosaries around aging fingers. There were people from the art world, the college, advertising and publishing. Richardson was impressed with the number who’d come.

  There was a very strong odor of roses in the church.

  More people arrived. Each time Abby felt a draft on her ankles she half-turned her head to look at the door. At one point she gave Richardson a slight tap with her elbow.

  Clabber had arrived. Mrs. Quist was with him. He untied his parka hood and stuffed his gloves into his deep side pockets, strolling with Mrs. Quist toward the altar, his rumpled hair standing up from the back of his head.

  They reached the head of the aisle and looked briefly at the plain oak coffin, then turned their attention to the small collection of roses. They inclined toward each other and whispered.

  ‘They noticed it, too,” said Abby in a whisper.

  “What? They noticed what?”

  “The roses.”

  “What about the roses?”

  “The smell.”

  “What do you mean, Abby?”

  “Don’t you smell the roses?”

  “So?”

  “The odor is very strong. Those few roses at the altar could never make that much odor.”

  “So?”

  Abby turned her face to him. “Some people believe that the strong smell of roses means there’s the spirit of a dead person nearby.”

  Richardson frowned and looked at Clabber and Mrs. Quist. Their eyes went everywhere in the church, watchful and expectant. They were more like investigators than mourners and seemed to be waiting for something to happen. They strolled slowly back down the aisle and stepped into a vacant pew near

  the back of the church. Clabber took a small tape recorder from his pocket and set it running beside him. Mrs. Quist studied it severely for a moment, watching to see its mechanism work, then looked forward at the altar.

  Clabber began to pray. He prayed in an authoritative murmur. Entwined around his clasped fingers was a string of rosary beads.

  “Pater noster, qui es in caelis, sanctificetur nomen tuum. Ad-veniat regnum tuum. Fiat voluntas. . . ”

  “Maybe he’s trying to reach you,” said Abby.

  “Who?”

  “Ozzie. Maybe he’s trying to reach you.”

  Richardson sat back and stared at her. “Ozzie?”

  “Maybe that’s what the odor of roses means.”

  “. . . sed libera nos a malo. Amen.”

  9

  Father Duranty with a palsied hand and a tired stoop helped with the mass and gave the sermon in a surprisingly strong voice. He compared Ozzie Goulart’s career as an artist with the Prime Artist of the Universe, praised him for his exemplary, gentle life, mourned his passing, asserted his belief in the afterlife and blessed the assembled mourners. Through his sermon, winter coughs sounded like pistol shots in the high groined roof.

  The casket was wheeled out of the pale fight that fell from the cupola and was guided down the aisle to the doors. A strong rush of wind filled the church as the mourners followed the casket to the street and the auto caravan.

  At the curb Mrs. Quist nodded at Richardson and Abby, then got into her car with Clabber. Clabber saluted Richardson with a wave of a finger.

  Richardson seated Abby and got behind the wheel of his car. He watched the people from the neighborhood, noted the age that had reached each one and shook his head.

  “It’s a mass funeral, Abby. For everyone. For Ozzie and the whole neighborhood. They rubbled Waite’s this morning and now we’re all going to the cemetery to be buried today.”

  The caravan went north on the Brooklyn-Queens Expressway to the L
ong Island Expressway to the cemetery. A numbing breeze flowed continuously through the open fields of tombstones. Shivering, the funeral director hastened the ceremony. Father Duranty pulled his old black fedora from his head and contritely intoned a last benediction. Ozzie’s sister stood straight and wept. A cross of salt was poured on the casket, and each mourner dropped a single rose on it, then filed away.

  Back at the car, Richardson helped Abby into her seat. “When we get back, Fm going to make us a hot cup of tea,” said Abby.

  Richardson nodded absently. He was watching Clabber and Mrs. Quist progressing to her car against the bitter wind.

  “Happy goddamn Valentine's Day,” he said.

  The unmistakable, excessively strong odor of roses was carried on the wind.

  10

  The delivery boy carried the white box under one arm. He kept both hands pocketed and walked across the wind with his face averted. It was a cold Valentine’s Day.

  He saw a typewriter bolted to a stand outside a business-machines store. He paused and read the notations on the flapping paper typed by passersby.

  “TINSTAAFL T.I.N.S.T.A.AF.L. There is no such thing as a free lunch. Mad dog god dam mad dog.”

  “Ping pong spelled backwards is gnip gnop.”

  “Now is the time for all good men to kill the quick brown fox.”

  “The lazy dog bit the fox.”

  “The lazy dog got rabies.”

  The boy pulled his gloved hands out of the pockets. His leather-covered fingertips pecked out a message.

  “I will not talk in class one hundred times.” He punched a series of x’s: xxxxxxx, Happy Valentine’s Day. I LOVE MARION WAKEFIELD.

  Patiently, he forced his gloved hands back into his coat pockets and resumed his walk. At the comer a rush of wind pressed down on the white box under his arm, and he crossed the intersection walking sidewise with his back to the wind.

  He walked along the next street, pausing to look through the steamy windows of the delicatessen. He studied the dangling meats and the trays of slaw and salads. Inside, the clerks in short white shirts and pink arms cut the meats and packaged them in white paper. It looked warm inside.