Epitaph

by James Siegel

  We've got it good.

  Okay. Let's hope so.

  He wrote a note for Mr. Brickman asking him not to worry when he knocked on his door and received no answer, that he shouldn't break it down or call the police or summon the firemen, that it wouldn't be because he'd dropped dead but because he'd stepped out. Visiting relatives in Florida, he wrote. Only Mr. Brickman wasn't at the park feeding pigeons, when he slid the note under his door. He was on the other side of the door, and he read the note with William standing there. What relatives? he asked, but didn't wait for William to answer. Instead he asked him if he wouldn't mind stopping by Boca Raton and looking in on his friend Lizzie, who seemed to be doing fine down there but had proved difficult to get hold of. I'm going to Miami, William told him, not Boca Raton, and Mr. Brickman said thanks for telling me and closed the door. From Mr. Leonati he borrowed a suitcase, brown, with stickers from nearly everywhere under the sun plastered across its worn surface like unusually colorful masking tape. Florida, William answered when Mr. Leonati asked him where he was going. To visit relatives.

  Coral Gardens, Disney World, Universal Studios, and Sea World, Mr. Leonati told him, then wrote them down on a piece of paper. The must-sees.

  William said he didn't know if he'd have the time, but if he did, he'd be sure to look them over.

  Watch your wallet, Mr. Leonati admonished him as he lugged the suitcase out the door. Watch your wallet.

  FOURTEEN

  Miami blues.

  His next and very last break came later in the day, and when he most needed it. For the list was finally exhausted, done, completed, finito; so was he. The remaining addresses had been as barren as the first, and like a mailman on an unfamiliar route he was learning the terror of ignorance. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor hail- maybe, but ignorance, that was the kicker.

  Someone was moving houses on him, turning hooch houses into vacant lots, sweet-sounding streets into slums. No one was where they were supposed to be, everyone was somewhere else. It was entirely possible someone was laughing at him. He could just about hear it every time he got in and out of the car, a process, by the way, that seemed to take longer and longer as the day went on, so that by the end of the day he wasn't so much getting out of the car as falling out of it.

  He felt like giving up and going back to sleep. The fact was, Florida just wasn't working out the way he'd hoped. For if he'd come to find what Jean had, he'd found nothing, and if that was what Jean had found too-then he clearly lacked the knowledge to know what that meant.

  It's what I bequeath to you, Jean had told Mr. Weeks. My last testament. But the testament was in code; the list was like the Book of the Dead, and not a Rosetta stone in sight.

  I'm not in runaways anymore, Jean had said. No, just in missing persons. For that's what the biggest case of his life was turning out to be. A missing persons case. For there wasn't anyone on the list who wasn't missing- and come to think of it, everything else was too. For instance: a client. No one had come forward to claim Jean as their own. Whoever Jean was working for either didn't know he was dead, or didn't much care. Okay, maybe they didn't know-it hadn't been long. Maybe soon enough they'd come forward to offer their condolences- or at the very least, to ask for their money back. And yet, William didn't think so. There was, as Santini used to say, only because his favorite tough-guy actors in the movies used to say it, something fishy here. It had nothing to do with proximity to the water.

  It had to do with a file that Jean had passed on like you pass on an heirloom in a bankrupt estate-one step before the tax collectors arrive. And it had to do with a crisscrossed map that was like one blind alley, and someone who came walking out of it with his eyes open. Rejuvenated, Weeks said.

  Okay.

  You find what you look for, Jean used to say. So be sure you look for the right thing. Which isn't what he said, but is what he meant.

  Okay. I'm looking.

  But whether it was his failing eyesight, or just his general failing, he saw only questions. And like a test he hadn't studied for-Missing Persons 101, say-the questions mocked him, absolutely stuck their tongues out at him. And not a crib sheet around.

  And yet it couldn't have been more than a few minutes later when he remembered the number with no response; he'd tried four numbers in New York where the same name had a different address. Two had been home- three, including Alma Ross-but one hadn't.

  He dug into his wallet looking for the right slip of paper, hoping he hadn't thrown it out or left it home or simply lost it.

  There-stuck between two wrinkled fives. Mr. Alfred Koppleman: 791-8350. There.

  He picked up the phone and dialed.

  Good things come to those who wait: page G of Jean's little black book.

  He'd finished dialing Mr. Koppleman's number, but it was a woman who picked up the phone. So when he asked her if an Alfred Koppleman, lately of 1620 Fuller Drive, resided there, he fully expected her to say no.

  But she didn't.

  Instead she said, "Not anymore. He used to," she added, "but not anymore."

  And did she know perhaps where Mr. Koppleman did reside now?

  "Sure," she said. "He's in a home."

  A home? "That's right. An old age home." And did she know where this old age home was? "Yes," she said. She did. Then she put down the phone for half a minute or so, came back on the line, and told him. "Thank you," William said. "Thank you, thank you, thank you." Thanking her, thanking Alfred, thanking a suddenly benevolent universe. "Sure," she said. "But who is this-? " But William had already hung up to dial his old friends at Miami Directory Assistance.

  FIFTEEN

  Golden Meadows. That's what it was called. And true to everything else in misnomerville these days-thinking, for example, of Magnolia Drive and Peachtree Lane, there wasn't a meadow in sight. Instead, there were liquor stores sealed with black metal bars as if waiting to be carted away to another location; there were grocery stores with taped-up windows; a completely gutted Dunkin' Donuts; and what appeared to be half a 7-Eleven-more like a 3-Five then. The most dignified-looking building in Golden Meadows land was a pawnshop whose front window was filled floor to ceiling with seven different kinds of crap.

  And excepting for the yellowed strips of paint that were peeling off its walls in bunches, there was nothing golden about Golden Meadows either. It looked, then, just like an old age home should look-like a place to wither and die, in the kind of neighborhood where death of any kind wouldn't even slow traffic.

  William arrived there at twelve sharp. The first thing he noticed was the look. Yes, absolutely; when he walked through the door-the very second he walked through the door-he was met by the look. What kind of look was it? This kind. The kind of look used car salesmen give to rubes. Think of it this way. He was a visitor, sure, but to them he was something else. Another customer, a future resident. Why, they probably had a nicely soiled cot all ready and waiting for him.

  It was over ninety outside, and not all that much better inside, but he shivered as if doused in ice water.

  He walked over to the front desk where folded wheelchairs sat like shopping carts all in a row. A woman was waiting there, the woman who'd stared at him with predatory sweetness, and for just a moment William was rendered speechless. Words were told to report front and center, but they insisted on playing hide-and-seek with him. Okay, he was scared.

  Once everyone's greatest fear was to die alone, uncared for, with no one there to hold your hand. But things had changed. Sure they had. Now there was something worse than dying alone, much worse. Dying here. In a place like this. Golden Meadows.

  There were a whole bunch of things they talked about back home in the Astoria boarding house. The generally shitty state of the city, the generally shitty state of the Mets, the truly crappy state of their prostates. Among other things. But there were some things they never talked about. Things like old age homes. Things like that. The word had taken on the taboo aura of cancer; if you spoke it, it might happen
to you. Old age homes were like concentration camps-they knew they were there, sure, but no one admitted it. And now, standing there in the dimly lit lobby filled with wheelchairs, black orderlies, and two residents who'd drifted in with walkers and were mumbling, both of them, at the floor, William felt the panic, the sheer dread, of someone who's been shown his final resting place. "Yes?" the woman said to him, in a voice cool as ice. "What can we do for you?" "I called," William said, his voice suddenly back, and with it, his mission, piss-poor as it was. "I called about Mr. Koppleman. Alfred Koppleman. I'm here to say hi." "Oh, yes. I'm sure our Mr. Koppleman will be very happy to have a visitor." William was sure their Mr. Koppleman would too; who wouldn't? She picked up a phone. "Trudy… we have a visitor here for Mr. Koppleman." She put the phone down softly as if afraid of scaring someone, then said, "There's a visiting room through the swinging doors. Why don't you make yourself comfortable and we'll send Mr. Koppleman out to you. Oh," she said just as William turned away, "have you bought anything for Mr. Koppleman?" "Bought? No," William said, "I haven't. Why?" "We like to see everything our visitors bring here." "Why's that?" "There's a good reason for it, Mr…?" "Jones." "There's a good reason for it, Mr. Jones. Some people bring boxes of cookies or candy, and they want it to go to the person they brought it for."

  "Doesn't it?"

  "Perhaps you've never been to a retirement home before," she said, a little too sweetly. "Our residents fight over things like that. You bring a box of cookies in there and five minutes later it's eaten. And someone's hurt. They are," she said, "a little like children."

  And soon enough, her eyes seemed to be saying to him, you'll be like that too.

  "Trust me," she continued. "We ask people who bring things to leave them here at the desk. We make sure it goes to the person it was brought for."

  "Fine. But I don't have anything for Mr. Koppleman," William said, repeating himself, eager to end the conversation.

  "No, Mr. Jones, you don't."

  He turned then, and walked through the white swinging doors and into the visiting room. It's a nice place to visit, he remembered Mr. Leonati saying about Florida, but you wouldn't want to live there. You wouldn't want to live in the Golden Meadows Retirement Home, but you wouldn't want to visit it either; you wouldn't even want to visit the visiting room, especially the visiting room. Once upon a time, someone had tried to spruce it up with warmer colors, yellow and peach and pink, but that had been once upon a time, and the colors had faded to mere ghosts of their former selves, a little like the residents of Golden Meadows. Four or five of whom were scattered around the visiting room like props, waiting only for the arrival of an audience. Two of them were watching the lone TV without expression. Which is it, the toothy MC was saying, the door on the left or the door on the right? The two watchers had reached the age where they'd grown wise to this sort of con game; they knew that both doors eventually led to the same place-to here. Another man sat by the window, staring down at his shoes, his right arm hooked to an IV. He, at least, had a visitor, the only visitor in the visiting room besides him- a young girl, his granddaughter, William guessed, who was trying to make conversation. She was making conversation, only it was just a bit one-sided. The only voice he heard was hers. "So we took Sam to the veterinarian," she was saying, "and the veterinarian said he had worms or something, you know the way Sam scratches himself, you remember, don't you…" But if her grandfather remembered, he didn't say so. William sat down on the metal bridge chair furthest from everyone. "Jack!" Someone, William suddenly realized, was calling out to him. It was one of the men by the television. "Jack," he repeated, staring at William with a rabid expression. "Jack, you old… you old…Jack…" "Sorry," William said, feeling the old dread again, pulling at him like something drowning. "I'm not Jack." "Yes you are… yes you are… yes you are… you're Jack…" "Okay," William said. "I'm Jack." "You don't say… you don't say… where's my candy, Jack… where's my candy…?" "I don't have it." "Where… where… where… where's my candy…?" A black orderly wandered in. "Now, Mr. Bertram, you know that's not Jack. Now when does Jack visit you?" "Saturday… Saturday… Saturday…" "That's right. You know what day it is today?" "Saturday… Saturday… Saturday…" "No. Today is Thursday, Mr. Bertram. That's right. Jack will be here Saturday. You'll get your candy then." Mr. Bertram seemed satisfied with that; he turned back to the TV A minute or so later, they wheeled in Mr. Koppleman. William's first impression was that Mr. Koppleman didn't belong there. His eyes seemed much too alert, and his body, chairbound though it was, seemed much too sprightly. He actually wheeled himself in-two orderlies trailing him like Muslim wives, his arms, too long for his blue pajama sleeves, working the wheels like nobody's business. He was looking right at William, another sign that senility hadn't claimed him just yet, that he knew, at least, a stranger when he saw one. "You here for Mr. Koppleman?" one of the orderlies asked him. "That's right." "He's all yours, man." The orderly had a Hustler magazine tucked into his coat pocket. William could make out one large nipple and a pair of fuck me glossy lips. The orderly pulled it out of his pocket and flopped himself down in a chair at the end of the room. The other orderly went over to the man sitting with his granddaughter and without a word to either one of them grabbed the back of the wheelchair and began to roll it toward the door.

  "I wasn't done talking to him," the girl said. "I didn't say goodbye."

  "What's the difference," the orderly said without looking back at her, "he ain't gonna hear you anyway."

  "He does hear me…" the girl said. "He does…"

  But the orderly had already pushed him through the door and didn't bother answering her. He too wasn't hearing her anymore.

  Mr. Koppleman chuckled.

  "He doesn't hear her," he said. "He's not… aware anymore."

  "No," William said, his attention back where it belonged. "But you're aware, Mr. Koppleman, aren't you?"

  "Of everything," Mr. Koppleman said. His skin was the most unearthly white, William noticed, white as milk. "I'm aware, for instance, that I don't know you. I don't think I've forgotten you-pretty sure I haven't forgotten you-so it must be I never met you."

  "My name's William," and he stopped here, not exactly sure what to say, quickly roaming through his grab bag of friendly lawyers, representatives, and old acquaintances. "I'm here about a friend. Someone, I think, you did meet."

  "Well, I've met a lot of people, you know. More than a dozen. More than two dozen. Could even be as high as a hundred. How's that?"

  Okay, William realized now, so maybe he wasn't that alert. Maybe he was slipping just a little. Maybe it wasn't exactly brightness he'd seen in Koppleman's eyes then, but the kind of glow a bulb gets just before it burns out for good. And now he wondered if Jean had seen it too.

  "The person I'm talking about, you would've met real recently. No more than a month ago. His name was Jean. Jean Goldblum. What do you say. Does that ring a bell…?"

  "What sort of bell?"

  "Your memory, Mr. Koppleman. I need to know what you remember. Now take me. Sometimes I forget what I did this morning. But when I meet an interesting person, that's different. Then I don't forget a thing. Are you like that?"

  "There are church bells. Doorbells. Bicycle bells. Jingle bells. And wedding bells… those too."

  "Yeah, Mr. Koppleman," William said, feeling the exasperation of someone who's passed countless Food Just Ahead signs down the pike only to find the place burnt to the ground when he gets there. It was the sort of hunger that could ruin your day.

  "Alpine bells. Bluebells. Cowbells. Wedding bells-did I mention those…?"

  "Uh huh."

  "My wife," Mr. Koppleman said, "was a lovely woman. My greatest pleasure was watching her before a mirror. I don't remember her face now, but I remember the way she put her hair up every morning before the mirror. With tortoiseshell clips. So elegant. There's a mystery there in women, that has to do with the way they put themselves together."

  It was a little like list
ening to a faulty radio, William thought as Koppleman talked on, a radio that keeps drifting from one station to another completely at random. First the news, then some music, a three-six-three double play, then back to the latest bombing in Bosnia. Though not entirely at random, for it seemed to be words that set him off in one direction or another, like those word association tests psychiatrists use to see which way the mind jumps. Wedding bells had made him positively leap, race way back to a time when his wife put her hair up so elegantly before a dresser mirror. And getting him to jump back was going to be hard-for despite his impatience, despite his hunger, despite the fact that all he had was Mr. Koppleman, who didn't exactly have his faculties in full working order, he felt just a little callous here, like a burglar sifting through the family jewels, flinging them left and right in an effort to find the right one. Mr. Koppleman's memories might mean Jack crap to him, but to Mr. Koppleman they were pure gold. But there was no choice-those taillights were already rounding the corner, while William sat stuck at a traffic light. He'd have to lead Mr. Koppleman back. No two ways about it. He'd have to lay a few crumbs along the way maybe, then lead him back, the way you tempt a wary cat back into the house. Here kitty… kitty…

  "So, Mr. Koppleman," he said now. "Your wife? She been gone long?"

  "I don't remember."

  "Losing our loved ones-that's tough…" trying to guide him back into the past, but suddenly bringing himself there first, imagine that, Rachel sitting there clear as day, and smiling at him too.

  "I don't remember," Mr. Koppleman repeated.

  "Take me again. I lost my wife too." Well, he had, hadn't he? Lost her in a motel on Utopia Parkway and never could find her again.

  "Sorry to hear it."

  "Yeah. And that's not even mentioning all the friends I've lost."

  "I've got a bunch."

  "That's good, Mr. Koppleman. Wish I did." And he did too.