by Peter Ponzo
His father, Jack Laker, had told him stories of the early days and had started a history, but died before it was completed. Bryan had tried to convince Chuck to help with the history, but discussions with his brother inevitably ended in argument, so Bryan promised to complete it himself ... but had little enthusiasm for the project. After his father died he worked on the history sporadically, looking through old newspapers and files at city hall and books at the library and magazine articles. It was boring and wasn't worth the effort. Now the Summer was almost over, classes had ended, his papers would be marked by tomorrow afternoon. Maybe he would try again and get the Short History done before Christmas. Nobody would publish it, but that didn't matter. He had made a promise to his dad and this would fulfill that promise. He took a deep gulp of the decaffeinated coffee, put the mug on the side table and closed his eyes. He was asleep within minutes. The papers slipped from his lap and the dog jumped, then curled again at his feet.
***
Bryan woke up with a sore back. He leaned over and collected the papers at his feet, piling them on the side table, rubbed his eyes and pushed himself out of the chair. One sheet of paper clung to the wet spot of coffee on his pants. Porgy was still sleeping at his feet and seemed unwilling to move. The mug on the side table was full of cold coffee and he brought it to the microwave in the kitchen. He was proud of the small microwave. He had saved for months and now used it for everything. He punched the timer, 1:40, and waited, staring at the time counting down. When it reached :01 he punched the door tab, it opened and the timer changed from :01 to 6:47. That was the third time in a row he had caught it before the bell rang. He smiled and drank the coffee in one swallow.
By the time he had washed and shaved it was 7:27 by the microwave clock. He stared into the empty mug and placed it carefully in the sink with the rest of the dirty dishes. Not carefully enough; it broke. He removed the pieces and tossed them carelessly in the direction of the wastebasket. Then he put Porgy on a leash and took him for a walk around the building, beneath the splinters of wood which had once been a latticework covering Willow Walk. There were still remnants of thorny climbing roses but mostly it was covered in some heavy vines with small leaves, vines hanging to the ground, gnarled and twisted.
He walked back into the apartment and climbed the stairs.
***
Mrs. Perkins, on the fourth floor, was peeking out of her door as she usually did, in her nightgown, inspecting the hallway, hair hanging over her face. Bryan bowed slightly and continued to the fifth floor. He pushed open the door, removed the leash and Porgy went immediately to his chair and slept. Bryan watched the dog for a moment then backed into the hall, closed and locked the door and turned toward the stairway. Then he saw the loose sheet of paper on the floor and reached down to read it. It was from his side table; the Short History. It must have slipped out the door when he had left to take Porgy for a walk. He sat on the top step and read the page.
The Bourden house was dominated by a large willow tree. That was where Mr. Harold Bourden was found, beneath that tree. His body had been crushed and was covered in welts, his bones broken, his eyes bloodshot.
Bryan looked up. Where was the Bourden house? He couldn't remember. He really must find that book on how to remember things, dates, names, places, the value of .
He continued to read:
Inspector Jaffre had been unable to determine the exact cause of death and eventually the case was closed and no further investigations were made.
Inspector Jaffre? Wasn't that the old man who was interviewed by the Gazette reporter in last week's newspaper? Yes. Jaffre had been Chief Inspector for over thirty-five years and said that they were the most curious cases he had run across. Cases? How many cases? Bryan couldn't remember.
The house was torn down and Willow Towers was built on the site.
How could he have forgotten that? His apartment building was built on the site of the old Bourden house!
All the tenants except one were discovered dead, New Year's Eve, bodies crushed, eyes bloodshot, bones broken.
All the tenants of Willow Towers? How could he possibly have forgotten that? How long ago was that? What had the newspaper said? Twenty, thirty years? Bryan walked back to his apartment and unlocked the door. In the corner, piled on the floor, were the newspapers. He picked them up and dropped them, one at a time, until he found the article on Jaffre. He sat on his stuffed chair and began to read. Jaffre had a theory about the deaths: the Bourdens, both Harold and Sandra, and the tenants of Willow Towers. Jaffre had kept this to himself until he was admitted to the nursing home, then told his grandson, Samuel Leland Jaffre.
"It was the willow tree," Inspector Jaffre had said. "The willow tree killed them all."
His grandson had explained: the old man had been sick and the nursing home attendants had often heard him talk of the willow tree. He was a sick old man, hallucinating. The Gazette article closed with a picture of the old Bourden house. In the front left corner stood the willow tree, towering above the roof, branches hanging to the ground. Bryan dropped the paper at his feet. He should talk to Jaffre, to add to his father's History.
He stared down at the paper on the floor. Moss Hill Nursing Home it said. That he would remember. It was on Moss Hill.
***
It was raining gently when Bryan Laker walked through the front door of Moss Hill Nursing Home. He took off his hat, shook it, then walked to the front desk. The nurse ignored him until he coughed lightly. She looked up.
"Yes? What can I do for you?"
"I'm looking for Mr. Jaffre, Inspector Jaffre. Can you tell me what room he's in?"
"Room 151, just down the hall on the first floor, on the left."
Bryan walked down the hall and entered room 151. Four beds, three occupied and one empty, neatly made with taught sheets and brown bed covers. He looked about. Which one was Jaffre? They were all male, all old. He spoke almost in a whisper. "Inspector Jaffre?" The old men turned to stare at him, but no one responded. He asked again, "Is Inspector Jaffre here?" One man smiled, a toothless crooked smile. Bryan walked over and sat down beside the old man.
"I've come to ask you some questions," he said softly. "Is that okay?" The old man continued to smile and Bryan took that to mean a willingness to talk. He took a small notebook and pencil from his back pocket. "I read an article in the paper the other day, the Gazette. The article was about the old Bourden house and the strange deaths which had occurred on that site." Bryan paused. The old man continued to smile, nodding. "The article said that you had a theory, that you blamed the deaths on an old willow tree which once stood on the property. Could you tell me about it, your theory, I mean?"
Bryan paused. The old man smiled and nodded his head. Bryan made an entry in his notebook. "I'm very interested. You see I'm writing a history of New Bamberg, a short history. I would be most appreciative if you could tell me about that old willow tree. Was the tree there when the house was built?" The old man continued to smile and nod and Bryan made another entry in his notebook. "How many deaths do you think were caused by ... by the tree?" The old man nodded.
Bryan leaned back in his chair and stared at the old man. Was Jaffre senile? Did he understand anything? "Do you understand what I'm asking? Do you know anything about those deaths? Do you have a theory? What caused -"
"The willow," came the soft voice from the next bed. Bryan looked around. Inspector Jaffre was sitting up in bed pulling at his ear and whispering. "It was ... the tree ... the willow tree ... and the babies ..."
Bryan swung his chair around. "Are you Inspector Jaffre?" The old man nodded and Bryan smiled and tried to write in the notebook. The pencil broke and he carefully bit a piece of wood from the end and began to scratch on a blank page until he was satisfied it would write. When he looked up at Jaffre, the old man was asleep. "Inspector Jaffre? Are you awake? Did you say babies?" The old man turned slightly and began to snore.
Bryan
watched for a few minutes then left the room.
At the desk he waited for the nurse to recognize his presence. Eventually she looked up. "Yes? What can I do for you?"
"Jaffre. I'd like to talk to him, but he's asleep now. When does he usually wake up? I'd like to come back when he's wide awake. You see, I'm writing a history, a short one -"
"Mr. Jaffre had dementia. He may never be wide awake. He hallucinates you know. He had a willow tree it seems and it's the only thing he can talk about." The nurse giggled. "We call it the willow woggles. It's a new type of senility, the willow woggles." She put her hand over her mouth and began to chuckle. "It's contagious, it's an epidemic -"
She began to laugh out loud then looked about and took a deep breath. Her face turned red. She burst out laughing again and quickly left the desk and ran to the washroom, her hands covering her face, laughing.
Bryan stood there for some time staring at the washroom door, then made an entry in his notebook. The phone rang on the desk. He wondered if he should answer: Yes? What can I do for you? It rang twice more and he was about to pick it up when the nurse returned, stern face, marching, straight and tall, serious. She sat down and frowned, picked up the phone: Moss Hill Nursing Home. Yes? What can I do for you?
When Bryan left, the rain had stopped and he wandered about the parking lot looking for his car. He eventually found the car, but couldn't find his keys. When he found his keys he couldn't remember which one unlocked the car. He stepped on his notebook. It had fallen to the wet ground and he bent to pick it up and hit his head on the car. He groaned and counted to ten. When he had finally started the car he waited, sitting, reading his notes. There was not much there: willow tree - Bourden House - Jaffre - Moss Hill Nursing Home - willow woggles epidemic.
***
When all the exam papers had been marked Bryan piled them neatly in the corner of his office and entered the marks on his class list along with the weekly assignment and test marks. He grabbed the calculator and began to compute an average. He leaned back and stared at the calculator: 57.296601, a pretty lousy average he thought. Should he add a few marks, here and there? If he simply added 5 marks to everybody then he would have an average over 60%; that was a simple computation.
"Professor? Will you bell the marks?"
That was the favourite question during the last week of classes. Few asked about the Mean Value Theorem, even fewer about the Ratio Test for convergence.
"Professor Laker? Will you bell the marks?"
Did they realize how much work was involved in belling the marks? None of his colleagues belled the marks; not worth the effort. He lit his pipe and thought about the last week of classes.
"Will that be on the exam?" "Are we responsible for that?" "Will there be any theory?"
They were favourite questions. He had been in a rush to finish covering the course material. Maybe too rushed. Maybe he had asked too many questions on the material in those last few weeks. He would add 7 marks to everybody. That would sound like he had some elaborate computational procedure based upon the statistical distribution of grades. Yes, 7 marks to each. But not now; he was tired.
When he got back to his apartment building the sun was low on the horizon, if he could see the horizon, which he couldn't. He climbed wearily up the stairs, bowed to Mrs. Perkins and continued. He could hear Porgy barking when he reached the fifth floor. He paused and looked up the stairwell. The plywood had fallen down. It had been nailed to the stairs to discourage anyone from continuing to the upper floors. He picked it up and pushed it against the wall. The dog was whining. Bryan reached into his trousers and pulled out the collection of keys. He had painted his apartment key with some red paint. He should do a similar thing to his car keys. He made a mental note of that and pushed the red key into the lock and opened the door. Porgy rushed out and jumped on his leg, whining, barking. The dog always seemed to be complaining. How could you leave me here all day? Bryan picked the dog up, pushed the door closed with his hip, pushed off his shoes into the closet and walked to the kitchen. He dropped the dog when he stepped on the broken pieces of coffee mug. He was tired and fed the dog, but decided to wait before he took him for his walk. First a shower, a hot, steaming shower. Porgy waited, looked up, whined, then gave up and returned to his chair when Bryan shuffled into the washroom.
He let his clothes drop to the floor, reached into the shower stall and turned on the hot water. When it was the right temperature, he slipped gingerly into the stall.
It felt good. He raised his head and let the hot water stream over his face. He closed his eyes and leaned against the wall so he wouldn't fall. He knew he was accident prone and took great pains to prevent any mishap. Well, maybe not great pains. He thought about it and spread his feet apart for stability and felt the soap on the floor. He opened his eyes and looked down. The bar of soap was at his feet, waiting for an accident to happen. He began to reach down and thought better of it. He would surely slip. Keeping his eyes on the soap he leaned firmly against the wall and kicked it. The soap skipped over the wet floor of the shower stall, bounced against the shower wall and returned to his feet. He tried again and slipped on the soap, falling through the shower curtain and hitting his head on the toilet as he fell. The curtain collapsed in a heap and the toilet seat came down on the back of his head.
Porgy was standing at the door, head cocked.
***
When the phone rang Bryan was just finishing the supper dishes, placing them neatly in the cupboards. His head was wrapped in a towel and ached. He walked slowly to the phone hanging on the kitchen wall, rubbed his sore head and sat in the small chair.
"Hello, Bryan?"
"Hi Liz! I was just thinking about you. How was your trip to Jamaica?"
"Just great! We got back last night and I couldn't wait to tell you all about it. You really should go there you know. Have you got your exam papers marked? It'll be three weeks before the next term starts - plenty of time to lie on the beach and soak in the sun."
Liz had taken this as her off-term and had promised herself a vacation away from the hassle of college life. He had missed her in the lounge. Missed not having their tossed salad together in the cafeteria. It had become such a part of his day that he had sworn off lunches until she returned.
"So what are you doing tonight?" she asked. "Shall I come over and clean up your place?" She laughed. Bryan groaned.
"I've kept it pretty clean. Just washed the dishes, put then all away. Vacuumed just yesterday ... uh, I think it was yesterday."
"Okay. I'll be there by six. We can have a pizza. I'll buy it on the way over, at Marco's. You're in charge of the wine. Okay?"
"The salad ... what about the salad? I haven't had a salad since you left."
"I'll look after that too. Gotta go now - see you at six."
Bryan placed the phone on the hook, smiled and walked to the bathroom, stared at himself in the mirror. His hair was thinning, prematurely. And he was pale, ashen, not enough sun. He squinted and opened his mouth. Even his tongue was pale, but his teeth were white and even. He grinned, frowned, grinned again, then closed his mouth and stood as tall as he could. About average height I would say. But thinning hair, at twenty six? No matter, I'm not fat, even thin maybe. He pulled in his stomach, leaned forward and gazed into his brown eyes, his hands resting on the edge of the sink. Ordinary face I'd say. His hair was so light in colour, almost blond he thought, that it looked even thinner than it really was, and he shaved regularly although one could hardly see any sign of a beard. He leaned closer, still staring, closer, bumped his head on the mirror and staggered back with a grunt.
Liz was coming over, tonight. He really had missed her. It was good to have her back. He could tell her about the history, the short history. They had three weeks before term started. She would have some good ideas; they could spend the evening discussing it.
CHAPTER 12
the Top Floors
It was a fine e
vening. The pizza was the best he had ever tasted, piled high with cheese and bacon and green peppers. The wine was so-so, but the salad was also great, tangy, with lots of garlic, olive oil, oregano and not too much vinegar. The last time Bryan had enjoyed his dinner was - when? I guess it was the last time Liz was here he thought.
"Okay, so tell me more about your history, your short history," said Liz clearing away the plates. "You said you visited Jaffre. Didn't you get anything at all from him?"
"Nothing ... uh, something about babies. I think he's senile. Dementia the nurse said. Willow woggles, she said. An epidemic, she said."
Bryan leaned back and groaned, holding his stomach. "I ate too much."
"You said that the old Bourden house used to be on this property, right where this - this crummy apartment is located?"
"That's what I understand," said Bryan. "The old willow tree, it stood right on this site. I saw a picture of the old Bourden house."
"You did? Where did you see that?"
"It was in the Gazette. The article about Jaffre. It was while you were away lolling on the beach at Doctor's Cove."
Liz had placed the dishes in the soapy water, in the sink, and sat down at the table.
"Let's go into the living room," she said. "These chairs are the most uncomfortable chairs I've ever sat in. Your living room furniture isn't much better."
"Okay. Okay. Make fun. What am I to do on an assistant professor's salary? A run down apartment, and run down furniture to match."
They both collapsed into a chair and Bryan read the article in the newspaper. Liz listened intently until he had finished. Porgy had jumped onto her lap and she was stroking the dog and scratching its floppy ears.
