Mr. Apology

by Campbell Armstrong

  Making a connection, Harrison thought. Academics were always so fond of connections.

  Shultz cleared his throat and said, “I’m not convinced by it. The trouble lies in the overwhelming difficulty of separating truth from fiction. I understand the principle—but I can only envisage a multitude of calls from cranks and liars and people who’re more interested in mischief than in confession.”

  “That kind of risk has to come with the territory,” Koppel said.

  Harrison leaned back in his chair a moment. A circus of words all around him; he had the unsettling feeling that he was no longer present. He was being discussed in absentia.

  Hutchinson was holding up one of the handbills. “Where did you put these on display, Mr. Harrison?”

  “Anywhere I thought they might be read. Subways. Storefronts. Inside phone booths. Wherever people would run across them in the normal course of their lives.”

  “Specific geographical locations?”

  “Not really. Probably the greatest concentration was around Times Square and Greenwich Village.”

  There was a silence in the room. It was followed by the rustling of papers as the three men sifted Harrison’s proposal.

  “I see an obvious need for secrecy,” Shultz said. “Did anybody see you post these handbills?”

  “I took precautions.”

  Shultz tapped his fingers on the table. “What would happen, say, if somebody out there didn’t like you, Mr. Harrison? If somebody—a nut—wished to pursue a vendetta against you?”

  “I’d run like hell,” Harrison said. “But then if there were somebody like that, they’d have to find me first.”

  “How difficult would that be?” Hutchinson asked.

  “I guess if you had enough money for a good private detective you could find me.…”

  “Isn’t that somewhat naive?” Shultz asked. “Wouldn’t this hypothetical nut only have to bribe an official of the telephone company to get your name and address?”

  Harrison shrugged. “I feel quite safe,” he said.

  “I think you overestimate the propriety of telephone company officials, Mr. Harrison,” Shultz said.

  Hutchinson interrupted. “I’d like to listen to the tape samples, if you don’t mind.”

  Harrison got up, pleased to have the opportunity to put the tape on, to turn the conversation away from problems of security: What kind of person would want to go to the trouble of finding one of Ma Bell’s workers to bribe in any case? And what kind of vendetta would anybody wish to pursue against Apology? It struck him as alarmist, farfetched; it also occurred to him that such speculations hadn’t anything very much to do with the whole point behind Apology. He hadn’t come up with the notion just for the sake of providing himself with shapeless, vicarious thrills and fears. I do feel safe, he thought, even if his personal safety hadn’t exactly been a consideration from the beginning. It obviously only concerned people like Shultz and, to another degree, somebody like Rube Levy with his vague warning: It wouldn’t be wise to connect with any of them. There’s a wall, a good solid wall, Harry thought, between Mr. Apology and his public. A fortress.

  He removed his cassette player from his briefcase and plugged it into the wall. Then he placed a tape inside it. This was already the second tape he’d taken from the answering machine. The first was complete, numbered, filed away for future reference.

  I SHARE AN OFFICE WITH THIS MAN, A GOOD FRIEND OF MINE, AND WE’RE BOTH PRETTY WELL PAID.… I GUESS YOU’D SAY WE WERE UPPER MIDDLE CLASS IF THAT REALLY MEANS ANYTHING.… I’LL CALL HIM JACKSON.… HE PLAYS GOLF EVERY THURSDAY AFTERNOON … AND EVERY THURSDAY AFTERNOON I GO TO HIS HOUSE AND I SCREW HIS WIFE.… IT’S BEEN GOING ON FOR FIVE YEARS.… WITH FRIENDS LIKE ME YOU DON’T NEED ENEMIES. I HAVE TO LOOK AT HIS FACE EVERYDAY.… IT’S KILLING ME, APOLOGY; IT’S REALLY KILLING ME.…

  Shultz said, “If it’s been going on for five years, there’s something wrong with Jackson’s eyesight.” He waved one hand in the air. “I’m not exactly enthralled with that kind of message. I can get soap opera from TV.”

  Harrison stared at Shultz a moment. Why this animosity, this obvious dislike of the project?

  I WANT TO SAY I’M SORRY I DUG UP THIS GRAVE, MAN. LIKE, I WAS DOING ACID, SOME GOOD OLD SUNSHINE, AND I WAS IN THIS CEMETERY WITH A FRIEND OF MINE AND WE JUST DECIDED TO DIG UP A GRAVE AND THE GUY HADN’T BEEN BURIED LONG AND HE WAS PRETTY BAD TO LOOK AT.… WHAT I’M SAYING IS I HATE MYSELF FOR DOING IT.…

  “Fascinating,” Koppel said. “And ghoulish.”

  “Distasteful,” Shultz remarked.

  Harrison stared at the faces of the two men a moment; it was apparent now that they had a history of mutual disagreement. But why the hell did it have to surface during the presentation of Apology? And what effect would it have on his application for financial assistance? He glanced down at the cassette player.

  I MUG PEOPLE. ESPECIALLY GAYS. I LIKE TO GO UP TO SOME OLD FAG ON THE STREET AND FLASH MY KNIFE IN HIS FUCKING FACE AND WATCH HIM SQUIRM.… I GET A KICK OUTTA THAT.… I’M NOT EVEN SORRY, YOU KNOW? YOU GOTTA DO ONE THING IN LIFE REAL WELL, AND MY TALENT’S IN MUGGING HOMOSEXUALS, SO WHY SHOULDN’T I KEEP ON DOING IT?

  Silence. Harrison looked at the faces of the three men and wondered what kind of impression these voices were really making on them. At this stage, he figured he could only count on Koppel. He needed to swing Hutchinson around but you couldn’t tell what was on his mind from the blank expression on his face.

  I’M GONNA SING YOU A SONG.… OKAY? YOU READY? IF YOU WERE THE ONLY GIRL IN THE WORLD AND I WAS THE ONLY BOY, NOTHING ELSE WOULD MATTER IN THIS WORLD TODAY, WE’D GO ON LOVING IN THE SAME OLD WAY, A GARDEN OF EDEN.…

  A pause. the voice was old, wheezy.

  I USED TO SING THAT SONG IN THE OLD DAYS WHEN VAUDEVILLE WAS STILL ALIVE. I HAD A FINE BARITONE THEN. I REMEMBER WHAT IT USED TO BE LIKE BACK THEN.…

  Harrison pressed the STOP button. “Sometimes I seem to get calls that don’t have any connection with Apology,” he said. “This one’s an exercise in nostalgia. The guy isn’t really apologizing for anything.” Still, he could imagine the old man’s painted face, the brass and glitter of the old music halls; he could see some infirm, smooth-skinned hand clutching a receiver and saliva gathering on the corner of a slack lip. Maybe, just maybe, it was some kind of roundabout expression of sadness about the breaking up, the disintegration, of another world. He pushed the FAST FORWARD button. I liked that old guy, he thought.

  PLAY.

  APOLOGY, I NEED TO GET SOMETHING OFF MY CHEST.… I’M A MARRIED MAN IN MY MID-THIRTIES.… LAST YEAR, WE HAD A CHILD, A BOY.… I’M SORRY, I CAN’T KEEP FROM CRYING, APOLOGY. FORGIVE ME.… WE REALLY WANTED THIS BABY. YOU HAVE TO BELIEVE THAT. HE WAS A BEAUTIFUL BOY, ONLY HE DIDN’T BEHAVE WELL. HE CRIED AT NIGHT ALL THE TIME; IT DIDN’T MATTER HOW HARD WE TRIED TO MAKE HIM COMFORTABLE.… IT BEGAN TO GET TO ME, APOLOGY. BEGAN TO GET ON MY NERVES … AND … AND ONE NIGHT—OH, GOD, I DON’T KNOW WHAT GOT INTO ME—OH, DEAR GOD … SOMETHING SNAPPED … I PICKED HIM UP AND I SWUNG HIM AROUND AND I SMASHED THIS LOVELY BABY’S HEAD ON THE WALL.… MY WIFE AND ME BURIED THE KID IN THE BACK YARD.… CHRIST, FORGIVE ME.

  There was a long sobbing sound, then the message stopped.

  “My God,” Hutchinson said. “It’s hard to believe.”

  “Do you believe it, Mr. Harrison?” Shultz asked.

  “It’s damn difficult not to,” Harrison said.

  Koppel coughed a couple of times, rubbed his medallion. “I think the honesty in the voice was obvious. You couldn’t mistake that kind of honesty.”

  Shultz lit a cigarette. “Are there any more messages on the tape?”

  Harrison nodded, pressing the PLAY button again.

  MAN. I’M SO FUCKING BUZZED ON COCAINE AND BOOZE I WON’T REMEMBER CALLING YOU. I’M SO GODDAMN ZAPPED.… LISTEN, I WANTED TO MENTION MY SISTER, SEE, I WANTED TO MENTION THE FACT WE USED TO FUCK WHEN WE WERE KIDS, ONLY SHE FORGOT ALL ABOUT THIS WHEN WE GREW UP; SHE ACTED LIKE NOTHING HAD EVER
HAPPENED … I MEAN, THAT’S GODDAMN STRANGE. HOW COULD SHE ACT THAT WAY? ONLY I SETTLED THE ACCOUNT. MAN.… I SETTLED IT FAIR AND SQUARE.… SHE DIDN’T HAVE TO TREAT ME THAT WAY. SHE SURE WON’T BE TREATING ANYBODY LIKE THAT FROM NOW ON.… I FIGURE SHE’S WAY BEYOND ALL THAT NOW.…

  There was a pause, a slight laugh, a brittle sound.

  Then the message ended. Harrison stopped the tape. He turned to look at the three men. Hutchinson said, “Ominous. It seems pretty clear that this caller has hurt his sister. Perhaps even killed her, if we can believe what he’s saying.”

  Harrison nodded. “Yes,” he said.

  Shultz crushed his cigarette out. Koppel was waving smoke away from his face in an irritated manner. Shultz said, “It raises moral questions, Mr. Harrison. Why isn’t your first obligation to go to the police with that message?”

  Koppel interrupted. “What could Harrison take to the police? A disembodied voice? I don’t need to remind you that there are eight million people in this city—what could the police do with a message like that? Where would they start?”

  “I’m actually more interested in what Mr. Harrison thinks of his own moral responsibilities, Koppel.”

  Harrison said, “Look, I entered into a commitment with people like that when I first thought this whole thing up. I made a promise. You’ve seen it on the Apology handbill. What do you want me to do? Go back on my word? I can’t do that. I might just as well give the project up.”

  “What would you feel if somebody was murdered?”

  “What do you think I’d feel?” Patience, Harry. Take it easy. “I’d feel horrible, of course. But there’s nothing I can do about that message. If that guy’s going to kill, he’ll do it with or without Apology.”

  “Exactly,” Koppel said. “Apology only records. It doesn’t moralize; it doesn’t intervene. It only takes statements, like a stenographer in a courtroom.”

  Harrison nodded. He watched Shultz run his fingers through his hair. “Another question, Mr. Harrison. If you get this grant, do I take it you’ll use the money to give up part-time teaching and devote yourself entirely to collecting and editing the tapes?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Fine. I don’t have any more questions.” Shultz sat back with his eyes closed.

  “I think this project has enormous merits,” Koppel said.

  “Thanks,” Harrison said.

  Now Professor Hutchinson stood up. “You understand we do have to talk among ourselves before we can reach any decision. And you know how longwinded three professors can be, I’m sure. But I’d like to thank you for your time and for letting us hear those graphic tapes. We’ll be in touch, Mr. Harrison, just as soon as we possibly can.”

  Harrison unplugged his cassette player from the wall and stuffed it inside his briefcase. A decision, he thought: He felt somewhat like a criminal awaiting the decision of a jury. For a moment he had the urge to make an impassioned speech on behalf of Apology, something beautifully persuasive—but the inside of his mouth suddenly felt too dry for speech, even if he’d been able to think of the right words. He moved towards the door, anxious to be out of the interrogation room. He glanced back once—the three good men and true of the grants committee were already opening the folders of the other candidates.

  My wife and me buried the kid in the back yard.… Harrison tried to see this pathetic little scene, tried to imagine himself observing it from some concealed position, watched the married couple frantically digging a hole in cold hard earth, listened to the stifled sound of their sobs, the noise of a spade striking soil, saw the small wrapped bundle being placed in the shallow grave and covered over with lumps of dirt. And then what? What does this pair do with the rest of their married life? How do they conceal the awful secret that lies between them? He imagined silent rooms, silent suppers, a clock ticking on the sideboard, an empty crib in an upstairs nursery, a vague breeze through an open window shaking some plastic mobile hanging over the crib. Jesus, the sorrow, the guilt. The fact they would never talk to each other about what had happened. The strain on their relationship. The stress that had driven the guy to pick up a telephone and call an answering machine.

  He paused on the corner of Sixth Avenue and 12th. The briefcase with the cassette player inside was suddenly heavy. He swung it from his left hand to his right, glanced upwards at the grey afternoon sky. It was going to rain again soon. He looked along the sidewalk. There were two phone booths situated some distance away. He remembered coming here to this exact place with Madeleine and putting Apology handbills inside these booths. He wondered if they were still there or if somebody had yanked them down; he moved slowly forward until he was level with the phone booths, then, with a surreptitious glance that even he found slightly absurd—as if he were a character in some flimsy espionage novel—he looked at the two booths. There they were—two handbills taped to the walls. You shouldn’t be doing this, Harry, he thought, you shouldn’t be coming here like some criminal drawn back to the scene of the crime. Why not? You think somebody’s going to see you and accuse you of being the mysterious Mr. Apology? Hi there, guy, good to meet you, Apology.… He didn’t move. He stood several yards away from the booths and opened his briefcase and pretended to be searching for something inside. A man went inside one of the booths now, a short man with an overcoat of loud plaid, big rings flashing on his fingers. Harrison watched him dial a number, then tried to listen to what the guy was saying, but he couldn’t catch anything even though the door of the booth had been left open. Maybe he’s calling the Apology number, maybe he’s talking about some terrible sin even now.… Ridiculous: Did you imagine the phone booths were exclusively used for calls to Mr. Apology? Harrison smiled, rummaged inside the briefcase, glanced back at the guy, who was already hanging up and turning out of the booth.

  You want to go over to him, Harry. You want to stroll across the sidewalk and ask him if he just dialed a certain number on a handbill, don’t you? The guy moved away. Harrison thought: I might use my knife. I might just use my bare fucking hands.… How could you be sure that the short guy in the loud coat wasn’t the so-called killer who had called? He nodded his head. You’re really getting carried away on the wild raft of your own imagination here, Harry. You’re losing yourself in a maze of sheer implausibility. It’s just that you’d like to see the face of at least one person who called the Apology line. That’s all. And one face in particular. He snapped his briefcase shut and moved along the sidewalk a little way. But the idea of the handbills in the booths brought him back again, drew him back despite himself. This is nonsense—what the hell do you think you’re going to see here?

  Somebody else had gone inside one of the booths now. A guy of about twenty with the appearance of a failed cat burglar—all nervous movements and tics, as if he were afraid of his own shadow. He shut the door, picked up the receiver, stared briefly at Harrison through the dirty glass. Harrison pretended he wasn’t looking, pursed his lips, and whistled in the manner of a person waiting for somebody else. The guy in the booth dialed a number. He turned his face away from the sidewalk, shielding the mouthpiece of the receiver with his hand. A guy like that, Harrison thought. A guy who looks like that might be calling the Apology number. For a moment he thought: I’m seeing one of my own callers, the face of one of my own clients, somebody in the act of making a call.… Christ: You’re really getting carried away, Harry. A shadowy-looking character uses a public telephone and you assume …

  The guy was coming out of the booth. The doors opened. Harrison stared across the sidewalk. He met the other guy’s eyes and even though he knew he shouldn’t be staring like this just the same he didn’t turn away. The guy didn’t move. Say something, Harrison thought. Just tell me you called my number, okay? Just tell me you did that.

  Permit me to introduce myself. Harrison a.k.a. Mr. Apology.

  Why, it’s a pleasure, sir, to meet you in the flesh. And a damned odd coincidence given the fact that I happened to just call your number to confess to
a series of rapes in Westchester County …

  The guy shuffled across the sidewalk. He paused a few feet away from Harrison, who immediately opened his briefcase again and rummaged through it clumsily.

  “Say, fella, you getting an eyeful?”

  “Pardon?” Harrison looked at the guy. He had watery red eyes; his hair, which was long and fell down his back, was bunched in a ponytail created by a red ribbon.

  “You were staring at me.”

  “I think you’re mistaken.” Harrison felt embarrassed now. How badly had he been staring? It was ridiculous, the whole thing preposterous, standing on a sidewalk and doing surveillance on a couple of public phone booths. Jesus Christ.

  “Ever since I went inside the booth,” the guy said. “Some people don’t know the meaning of the word privacy.”

  “I’m waiting for somebody.…” Harrison heard his own feeble sentence fade away.

  “Yeah, sure.” The guy started to move away. He glanced back once, rolled his eyes, then was gone around the corner of the block. Harrison closed his briefcase. What the hell had possessed him anyhow? Standing here like this, gawking at people in phone booths … innocent people who probably didn’t even notice the handbill in the first place, for God’s sake. What is it, Harry? Do you think the whole world wants to communicate with your answering machine? He shook his head: He wanted to laugh at himself.

  He swung the briefcase from one hand to the other, then walked away from the phone booths, looking back one last time at the sight of the two handbills hanging inside.

  7.

  He lay on the bed, his arms tucked behind his head. He stared at the bedroom window, listening to the sound of a night wind rising outside, hearing it nudge a soft rain, in quick little squalls, against the glass. Madeleine was making something in the kitchen; he could smell onions, garlic, peppers. He twisted his face to the side and looked at the answering device, the bright color of the glowing red light. He saw Madeleine move into the bedroom doorway, carrying a tray with two plates; steam curled upwards from the food.