Mr. Apology

by Campbell Armstrong

  Jamey Hausermann opened her eyes and wrote something down. Then she looked across the room at Harrison, as if she were trying to figure something out. “What does that kind of message do to you?” she asked.

  Harrison shrugged. “I guess I try to imagine that kid’s life. Maybe I try to get inside the circumstances of his life—why he does what he does, where he comes from, that kind of thing.”

  “I got the impression, Harry—you mind me calling you Harry?—that the idea behind this project was a kind of detachment on your part. You know what I mean—the father-confessor who doesn’t express judgments?”

  “I don’t make judgments,” Harrison said.

  “No, but you get involved, obviously. I mean, you’re interested in the messages, you’re interested in what they have to tell you, right?”

  “Yeah.”

  “All I’m saying is that you can’t entirely remove your self from the voices. You can’t create distance.” She was smiling: It was the kind of look that suggested insight, the discovery of a revelation.

  Harrison turned his hands over, stared at them a moment. Why did he feel so uncomfortable all at once? The woman’s look, the penetration of the eyes—what was it exactly? He tried to imagine her article and what she’d say about him and in his mind’s eye he could read his own name and address in the pages of a magazine. No, she wouldn’t do that. Maddy had said so. He watched her light a cigarette.

  “Can I hear more?”

  “Sure.” Suddenly he didn’t want to play the tapes for her, didn’t want her to hear them; it was as if the act of sharing them with this stranger was a violation of Apology, of secrecy. You’re being edgy, Harry. Edgy and stupid. He pressed the PLAY button.

  MY PROBLEM IS VERY SIMPLE. FOR MANY YEARS NOW. I’VE BEEN SLEEPING WITH MY OWN UNMARRIED SISTER. WE’VE BEEN IN LOVE FOR A VERY LONG TIME.… IT ISN’T AN EASY SITUATION, OBVIOUSLY, BUT AT THE SAME TIME I DON’T WANT TO GET OUT OF IT. FRANKLY, SHE’S A TERRIFIC LAY. NOW SHE’S ASKED ME TO MOVE IN WITH HER, SET UP A LIVING SITUATION TOGETHER. THE BIG PROBLEM IS, MR. APOLOGY, HOW DO WE TELL OUR MOTHER?

  Harrison cut the tape. Jamey Hausermann was scribbling something in her notebook. Then she asked, “You get a lot of incest?” she asked.

  “Some,” he answered. He looked at her awhile. “What kind of piece are you going to write, Jamey?”

  “There’s this terrific catch-all in journalism. We call it human interest. Everything pared down to the bone, all the pain, the blood, the spilling of guts.…” She laughed, wrote something down, puffed on her cigarette. “I also want to include something of your background as well.”

  “Something of my background?”

  “Don’t look so mortified, Harry. I’m not going to tell my readers your Social Security number or the color of your hair or anything like that. Only a few scant details.” She wrote in her notebook again and he wondered what she was recording there. Apology, a man of about thirty-five, has the pale skin of someone who never ventures forth into the sunlight because he has created his own little world, seemingly self-sufficient, in his loft.

  “Can you play me another one?” she asked.

  “Sure.” He pressed PLAY again.

  I WENT WITH MY BOYFRIEND TO THIS LIQUOR STORE.… THE IDEA WAS TO TAKE SOME CASH OUTTA THE REGISTER, YOU KNOW, A FEW BUCKS, NO BIG DEAL … BUT THE GUY BEHIND THE COUNTER HAD A PIECE. YOU KNOW, AND HE TOOK IT OUTTA THIS DRAWER AND COCKED THE HAMMER, MAN … IT KINDA GETS CONFUSED AFTER THAT BECAUSE MY BOYFRIEND, NICK, HAD HIS OWN GUN, SOMETHING I NEVER KNEW ABOUT, AND HE JUST BLEW THIS POOR GUY AWAY … JUST BLEW HIM AWAY, MAN, AND I KINDA SCREAMED. THE GUY WAS LYING THERE IN HIS OWN BLOOD AND HIS BRAINS WERE SCATTERED ALL OVER THE JOINT AND WHAT I REMEMBER MOST IS ALL THIS GREY STUFF STICKING TO BOTTLES ON THE SHELF.

  The message ended.

  Jamey Hausermann jotted something down in her notebook. She lit another cigarette. Harrison watched her; she wore pale lipstick and her short hair seemed to have been cut by a butcherous barber. Maybe that was the look these days; he didn’t know. He couldn’t help thinking suddenly about Madeleine, the quietness of her features, the clinging softness of her hair, the gentle quality in her eyes. He was conscious now of a vague perfume inside the bedroom, the kind of scent that lingers long after the wearer has gone.

  “An accomplice to murder,” she said. “Don’t you feel like going to the cops with that tape, Harry?”

  He shook his head. Shultz had asked almost the same question; it was as if they were trying to pin a badge of responsibility on his chest, make a mark on his forehead, something like that. How many times would he have to tell people that Apology was bound by a certain commitment, tied to an unbreakable bargain, a pact, with all the people who used the line? Without that pact, Apology was worthless. Apology was not meant to judge; he was not meant to interfere. He is—I am—just meant to be there. To listen. To record. There is no responsibility. He rubbed his eyes, suddenly tired.

  Jamey looked around the bedroom. Then she got up and wandered into the loft and Harrison followed. Trespasser, he thought. Maybe he should never have agreed to this interview. Too late for that now. He watched the journalist move in the direction of Albert. She frowned at the figure.

  “What’s this called?” she asked.

  “‘A Victim,’” Harrison said.

  “Of what?”

  “Criminal assault.”

  “What’s this thing you’ve got for the criminal mind, Harry? Can you tell me anything about that? I mean, have you ever done anything criminal yourself?” She was standing at the window, looking at him.

  “I used to shoplift when I was about ten, eleven.”

  “Doesn’t every kid?”

  “I guess so.” Harrison paused, watching the woman move towards his stack of old canvases.

  “What did you get out of it?”

  “I guess I did it for kicks,” he said. “Cheap thrills.”

  “But you never did anything more serious?”

  “I never had the courage,” he answered. She was sifting through his canvases now; he wished she wouldn’t touch them like that. They were old and meaningless to him and they looked like the work of an enthusiastic amateur.

  “Why don’t you paint anymore?”

  “I don’t have the urge for it, the enthusiasm.” He paused. “It’s kinda like coming to the limits of something and you don’t feel you can go any further, you know? The medium just stopped interesting me, that’s all. I felt the need for other directions.”

  She turned and looked at him; there was an odd playful smile on her face. “Hence Apology,” she said.

  “Hence Apology.”

  There was a silence in the large room now. Harrison shifted his feet uncomfortably on the floor. He wished Maddy were here to act as a mediator, to stand between him and this inquisitive journalist. You’re so nervous, Harry. Why? Think of the publicity, think of the way it might influence the jury of the grants committee, think of the momentary fame it might bring you. Fame? Since when did he ever want fame?

  “Where were you born and raised?” she asked.

  “Brooklyn.”

  “You went to college?”

  “State University of New York at New Paltz.”

  Jamey Hausermann looked at Albert once again. “You don’t like talking about yourself too much, do you, Harry? You’re shy, I guess. Or maybe my way of asking questions just puts you off.” She shut her notebook. “It’s my manner, I guess. Sometimes I just come off as being abrasive. Or too upfront. I’m sorry. I ought to learn more tact somehow. The problem is, I’m up against the old electric fence of a deadline. I’ve got to get this article finished today and it has to be put to bed by seven tonight. Maybe that explains something.”

  “I understand,” Harrison said.

  “I guess you don’t make much money from your work.”

  “I hardly make any.”

  “Maddy has every faith in you. Maybe she’s right. She always did have nice instincts. So how do you pay f
or this loft?”

  “I teach high school part-time,” he said. “Art history.”

  “You like it?”

  “Some days are better than others.”

  “How do you get along with the kids?”

  “Pretty well,” he said. “I show them slides of Holbein and explain to them how they should look for detail and texture. That kind of thing. Their attention span’s not exactly marathon.” He was suddenly sick of answering questions. Why didn’t the Apology project simply speak for itself? He realized he was resenting this invasion of Apology’s privacy. Of his privacy. He shook his head, disturbed at the realization. He could trust this woman. She was a friend. And what was the big deal, anyway? Why was he so worried about privacy, all of a sudden? It was Apology. Mr. Apology. Maybe he was becoming a little too obsessed with the whole thing. It was just a project, right? A temporary canvas. Instead of paint or clay, he was using human beings, but it was only another project. Wasn’t it, Harry?

  He sat down crosslegged on the floor, looking up towards the woman. That scent—it filled the loft now, as if it had been caught and shuttled around by an invisible breeze. “But I like some of the kids even though I know they’re dreaming about how to score dope or get laid while they’re supposed to be looking at something like The Madonna of Burgomeister Meyer or whatever.”

  Jamey smiled. She moved around the loft as if she were a prospective tenant intent on checking the plumbing, the wiring, leaks in the ceiling. He found himself following after her in the manner of someone who suspects a theft is about to take place. She paused in the kitchen doorway and turned to face him.

  “Can I ask you something that’s got absolutely nothing to do with this interview?”

  He nodded. What was coming next?

  “You and Maddy. Do you love her?”

  The question astonished him. He didn’t answer.

  “I ask for the best possible reasons, Harry. She’s a good kid, she’s my oldest friend, and she’s high on you. I like to see myself as her older sister, you know? I wouldn’t want anything bad to happen to her.”

  “Bad?”

  “You know. Hurt. I’d hate to see her hurt.”

  “Hey, I don’t have any intention of hurting her.” A complete change of direction, a sudden detour, a turn he didn’t really like.

  Jamey was smiling now. She shut her notebook. “How old are you?”

  “Thirty-five,” he said.

  “Okay.” She peered inside the kitchen a moment. Then she said, “Well, I guess I’ve got enough material for my purposes. Thanks for seeing me on such short notice.”

  “No problem,” he said.

  Jamey Hausermann moved towards the door. “I hope you’ll like the piece when you read it.”

  I hope so too, he thought. He moved behind her to the door, then reached out and opened it for her.

  “Thanks again, Harry. And remember—take good care of Maddy. Or else you’ll have me to answer to.” And she smiled in such a way that he couldn’t tell whether this faint threat was meant to be funny.

  He shut the door. He could hear her go down the stairs. Fading footsteps. He went to the window, looked down into the street. The room was still filled with the woman’s pungent perfume. He turned to look at poor Albert.

  “Did I make an ass of myself, Al?” he asked.

  Then he went inside the bedroom and looked at the answering machine. Why hadn’t he called back again? Why hadn’t the guy from Shelbyville called back since last night? Was he out there now somewhere, stalking his victim? You’ll be reading about me real soon.… I might use my knife. I might just use my bare fucking hands.… Did he already have a victim selected—or was it going to be something whimsical, random?

  Harrison put his fingertips on the surface of the machine. He could feel a vague vibration run through him, a tremor transmitted to him from the interior of the machine, as if it were alive under his touch. Alive with messages past, messages that were still to come, still to be absorbed in the intestines of the device, swallowed up and recorded and filed away.

  He sat down on the edge of the bed, tapping his fingers against his knees, still looking at the machine.

  It was strange how quickly he’d become accustomed to having the thing there in the bedroom; it might have been an old piece of furniture one has become comfortable with, an old acquaintance. He reached out, touched it softly, then dropped his hand in his lap.

  You’ll call again, Shelbyville.

  I know you’ll call again.

  When you’re ready.

  But when will that be?

  Impatient, Harrison got up and strolled back into the loft, pacing, glancing at his old canvases, the half-formed sculptures unceremoniously piled in a corner, the wires and cogs and wheels that protruded from the guts of old machines he’d once thought of building as a series of devices intended to produce spectator involvement, variations on carnival games where mild electric shocks were delivered instead of cuddly prizes. They’re all dead, he thought. Every one of them is dead. And none of them had ever had the strange quivering sense of life that Apology had.

  He went back inside the bedroom. He looked at the machine.

  And what he realized was that he was waiting for calls, waiting for one call in particular. Waiting to hear if a killing had taken place.

  Call, he thought.

  Why don’t you call, whoever you are.

  4.

  Henry Falcon stood in front of the full-length mirror and gazed at his own reflection for a short time before closing his eyes. The light, he would have to do something to soften the glare of the overhead light, mellow it in such a way that his image would not appear quite so harsh. He reached out and clutched the bars and strained to heave his right leg up behind him. He reminded himself of an old galleon at times: timbers creaking, boards screeching, nails popping loose from planks, bilges filling with rather scummy water. But this person in the mirror wasn’t the real Henry Falcon at all—it was some bizarre travesty of the man who had once been an excellent dancer, the young man with the smoothly muscled body and the tight but tocks, the one whose leaps and twists had assumed a quality akin to the magical, a defiance of Grandfather Gravity himself. He lowered his leg and stepped back from the bars. I danced in front of royalty, he thought. When I spun through the air nobody coughed in the darkened auditorium, nobody rustled a program, scraped their feet; when I rushed through the air, almost as if I might never land again, there was only a hushed and reverential silence. They knew, oh God, how they knew, that they were in the presence of genius.…

  He was quite unaware of Mrs. Delahanty watching him. When he turned his face he saw her dragging her old vacuum cleaner out of the bedroom, her hands twisted around with electric cord. She stared at him, her mouth set, lips thin, her dough-colored face disapproving. Suddenly he felt ludicrous about the way he looked. The pale green tights bulged in those places where there had been only flatness before. The pectoral muscles sagged and hung. And the face, even with the help of makeup, was cracked and lined and the neck drooped in scrawny rings of flesh. He had jowls. My God, who ever heard of a dancer with jowls?

  “A man your age shouldn’t be prancing around like that,” Mrs. Delahanty said.

  Cleaning woman, he thought. Go away. Leave me alone. He watched as she hauled the vacuum over the floor.

  “And as for the makeup, well.” She put her hands on her hips. “If the good Lord had wanted men to wear makeup, Mr. Falcon, he’d have made them women.”

  How could one argue with this Irish logic?

  “America’s gone to pot,” she said. “I never did see so many bloody weird sights in all my born days, to tell you the God’s truth.” She stepped past him, moved across the room, gazed at the various posters on the wall. “And as for these old things, Mr. Falcon, I’d be for making me one big bonfire and setting them ablaze. Where’s the point in living in the past? Where’s the sense in that?”

  “Far from putting them into the funera
l pyre you suggest, my dear Mrs. D., only this morning I was out making inquiries concerning new frames for my treasures. I have utterly no intention of lighting a match,” he said. The very thought of it! He walked as nimbly as he might in the ballet shoes that were too tight for his feet and he stopped by his old phonograph. Romeo and Juliet—ah, the flash of antique memories, of dancing Prokofiev’s ballet in the Drottningholm Court Theater in Stockholm. In the Royal Opera House in Monte Carlo. A rush of old moments, old smells, sounds—the way they beat their hands together out there in the void beyond the footlights, the ringing of flesh upon flesh.…

  “New frames, indeed,” Mrs. Delahanty said. “Those old posters deserve to be sent to the Salvation Army, Mr. Falcon.”

  “The Salvation Army! Don’t you realize, my good woman, that some of those playbills are rare? Don’t you understand they’re precious?”

  “Aye, precious,” she mumbled. “Old junk if you’re asking me.”

  Henry Falcon looked at his beloved playbills. Alicia Markova and Igor Youskevitch in Rouge et Noir. Pillar of Fire with Nora Kaye and Antony Tudor. Ancient sorcerers, old magicians, Merlins of the ballet. How dare this wretched peasant woman bitch about his treasures? The music of Romeo and Juliet filled the room.

  “Ach, you look like a proper fool in those tights,” Mrs. Delahanty said.

  Henry Falcon ignored the cleaning woman. He listened to her drag her vacuum cleaner to the apartment door. Then, sighing, she was gone. Clump clump clump—he could hear her clumsy noise as she hauled the vacuum down a flight of stairs. He went towards the mirror, took a deep breath, and tried to execute a cabriole—and missed. He stumbled a little and reached out against the bars for support. The failure of muscle, poise, balance, the deterioration of the physical system—it was something more than those factors; it was also the decline of the will. The decline of desire. Gasping for air, he slumped over the bars and his lungs pumped like two dying jellyfish. He pushed himself upright, considered the impossibility of the grand jêté, and walked slowly to the window. Princes and princesses, he thought. Kings and queens. They had all applauded him in his time.