The Waiting Room (17 page)

He nodded, his mouth set in a grimace. "Yes. She was murdered. She got beaten up and she died." He scraped some more of the artichoke leaf into his mouth. "Our friend Art DeGraff did it, Sam."

"Good Lord."

"No," Abner said, "not so good to let something like that happen."

~ * ~

Halfway through the picnic, Abner said, "I thought you were dead. I thought you got killed in Viet Nam."

"Yes," I said, "you told me that."

"Did I?" He shrugged. "Sorry, I guess it gets annoying to be told repeatedly that you were…
 
presumed dead." Another pause. He added, pointing dramatically at the sky, "‘The reports of my death have been greatly exaggerated.'"

I took another swig of the warm beer, grimaced, and asked, "How do you live, Abner?"

"How do I live?" Again he looked confused.

"How do you get money to pay for your food, your heat, your electricity, et cetera, et cetera?"

He shrugged. "I've got some money." He dug with his spoon at the spikes of his artichoke heart.

"From where?" I asked.

He shrugged again, popped the artichoke heart into his mouth, chewed it with obvious delight for a few moments, swallowed. "From that book I told you about. The one I was going to do on Manhattan. The book of photographs."

"They paid you for that? I thought they canceled it. "

"They did." A pause. "But they paid me anyway. The full amount of the contract, too. I guess they felt guilty."

"You're lying, aren't you, Abner?"

He looked offended. "I don't lie. I got paid for it. The full amount."

"And you're still living on what they paid you? Why do I find that hard to believe?"

He took a handful of sand and sprinkled it in a narrow stream on the fire. "You find it hard to believe, Sam, because not only do you think I'm lying, you think my whole life here, at this house, is a lie. Isn't that so?"

I chugged half the bottle of Michelob. "Of course that's what I think, Abner." I was beginning to feel giddy.

He shook his head quickly. "But it isn't a lie. I have a purpose here. I'm . . . taking care of someone. Someone who's got a very large debt to pay." He grinned a flat and self-satisfied grin that had a trace of secret and delicious guilt in it.

"Who?" I asked.

"Who?"

"Who are you taking care of here? I want a name."

He looked confused. "I can't give you a name. That would be foolish—"

I held my hand up; he stopped talking. "Listen, Abner, are you talking about another one of these people who live in the walls? Is that what you're talking about?"

He nodded. "Yes. Kind of."

"Oh." I smiled. "I'm getting drunk, Abner."

"Good for you, Sam." He smiled back. "I may be leaving here before long."

"To where?"

"It depends," he answered, "on . . . a number of things. What goes right, I guess. And what doesn't. I can't tell you where I'm going, exactly. I don't want you coming after me." A pause. "There's this man, Sam. His name's Whelan—I shouldn't be telling you any of this. My God, I've passed enough crap along to you as it is."

"Agreed," I said. "Agreed, agreed." I took a long pull of the Michelob.

"But I read somewhere once, Sam, that you live longer if you share what's troubling you. It takes a load off your heart, I guess. And anyway, this man, this guy Whelan is after me. He's a cop—well, he
was
a cop, and I guess he's trying to pin something on me; I can't tell you what. I want to, I do want to. But I really don't know you very well, do I? Actually, how well can you know
any
one?

"Good question," I said, and burped. I realized that I was enjoying myself despite the cold breeze and the awful chicken hot dogs. "Is it Al? Is it that woman I saw the other day?"

"Is it Al what, Sam?"

"Is she the one you say you're taking care of here?" I was slurring my words. "Have you—" I giggled. "Have you got her . . . stashed in a wall somewhere with all the other spooks?" I giggled again.

"Oh," he said. "We're back on that subject, are we?" He shook his head. Let's drop it, okay, Sam? I shouldn't have brought it up."

I took another swig of Michelob. I nodded. "Sure we can drop it, pal. But only because I'm getting drunk."

"Good for you," he said.

"Good for me," I said.

He stood abruptly, turned away so he was facing the ocean, and put his hands in the pockets of his red plaid sports jacket. A gull flew over, squawked several times, then flew off. "Al never lived here, anyway, Sam. She stayed here a couple of days during . . ." The wind carried his words away.

"I can't hear you, Abner."

He turned his head, looked at me. "I said she stayed here a couple of days. During her transition."

"Transition? What's that?"

He smiled and turned away again.

"Abner!" I shouted. "What are you talking about?"

"Have another beer," he shouted back. He looked around at me, nodded at what was left of the six-pack, said again, his voice lower in volume, "Have another beer, Sam. Get drunk."

"Sure," I said.

When I got back to the apartment, I was still wearing the herringbone tweed sports jacket and dress pants I'd put on to meet Leslie at Isadore's two days earlier. They were a mess. The coat smelled of sweat under laid by the strong odor of damp wood that permeated the beach house; the pants had a small, ragged rip in the knee, I had no idea why, and a big mustard stain on the breast pocket.

Minutes after I got back, the phone rang. I screwed up some courage and answered it. It was Leslie. "Sam," she said, and I could tell that she was trying hard to control her temper, "what the hell is going on?"

"Hi, Leslie. Listen, I'm sorry about missing you the other night—"

"You've got exactly one minute to explain yourself, Sam. Starting now."

"One minute? Gee, I don't know, there's really quite a lot to sort out—"

"Eight, nine, ten—"

"Don't count, Leslie. If you want to count, count to yourself, okay?"

"You're not very reliable, are you, Sam?"

"Reliable? I don't know. I always thought I was."

She sighed. "Can we get together? We really do have to talk."

"About getting married, Leslie? Is that what you want to talk about?"

"My God, Sam, you make it sound like a day at the amusement park."

I cleared my throat. I was very nervous. "Yes, I do, don't I? I don't mean to. It's more than a day at the amusement park, I realize that. It's a very, very important ... step in our lives—"

"Stop babbling, Sam."

"Yes. I am babbling, aren't I? I don't mean to babble—"

"Isadore's, Sam. No, wait. Not Isadore's. They're closed until five. Let's try Jerry's instead. In an hour, okay? It's at 65th and Broadway. Promise me you'll be there, Sam. Because if you're not there, I'm sorry, but—"

"I promise."

"Uh-huh," she said. "And the check's in the mail." A pause. "Okay, Sam. In an hour. At Jerry's, 65th and Broadway. Have you got all that?"

"Yes." I repeated it. "Thanks, Leslie. I'll be there with bells on."

"I've heard that one before, Sam. I don't need bells. I just need you."

~ * ~

Jerry's was an Italian deli that smelled strongly of cheese and meat. There were whole bologna sausages and salamis hanging everywhere, rounds of provolone on display on top of the counter, and four or five dark-haired thirtyish men in white shirts, white pants, and stained white aprons barking orders not only to each other but also to the dozens and dozens of customers who piled in.

I found Leslie at the rear of the place sitting at one of six round, glass-topped tables. There was a fake rose in a tiny cream-colored vase at the center of the table, and a demitasse cup filled with very dark coffee in front of her—espresso, I guessed. When she saw me, she smiled stiffly and motioned me to sit down. I leaned over, kissed her—which she at first tried to avoid—then I sat across from her. The table was small enough that my knees touched hers. I said, leering, "I have fingers in my knees."

"Yes, and rocks in your head."

I stopped leering. "I'm sorry, Leslie."

"Sorry for what?"

"For . . . standing you up."

She leaned closer to be heard above the noise in the deli. "No, Sam. We were going to talk about getting married. Maybe you don't think that's important."

"I think it's important, Leslie. I think it's the most important thing in the world. Believe me. It's just that, in the past couple of days . . ." I stopped.

"Yes?" she coaxed.

"I have a friend . . ." I paused. "I have an old friend from high school, his name's Abner and . . ." Another pause. "He lives on Long Island, in this . . . house—" I gave her a quick, nervous grin.

"And?" she said.

"And I guess you could say he's in trouble. He's in a lot of . . .
trouble
."

"And you've been trying to help him, is that it?"

I thought a moment. "Well, 'help him' probably isn't the right phrase. I think what I've been trying to do is be
there
for him."

"What kind of trouble is he in, Sam?" She looked genuinely concerned; it was one of the things I loved about her—her ability to be truly concerned about people she didn't know.

I answered, "Emotional trouble, Leslie. Deep emotional trouble. I think he may be . . . suicidal. I'm sorry if that sounds melodramatic."

"Has he said as much, Sam? Has he actually said, `I'm going to kill myself'?"

"Not in so many words, but the feeling's there, and I guess that's why I've been kind of . . . out of touch in the past few days."

One of the thirtyish men in white appeared beside the table, order pad in hand. He mouthed some words that were completely lost in the noise; I shouted at him, "We're all set, thanks," and he shrugged and went away. I turned back to Leslie. She was looking earnestly at me. She said, "This friend of yours really is in trouble, isn't he, Sam? And you're really concerned about him, aren't you? I can see it in your eyes."

I nodded. "Yes. But there's more ... lots more that I can't tell you now—"

She cut in, putting her hand on mine, "You're a very good person, Sam." She took her hand away. "And when you've got this thing ... resolved, we'll talk." She stood.

Another nervous smile flitted across my mouth. "Leslie—"

She shook her head. "I misjudged you. I'm sorry, but I misjudged you." A small happy smile appeared on her face. She said, "I love you very much, Sam."

"Well, my God," I said, "I love you, too, Leslie."

"I know you do," she said, then she turned and quickly left the deli.

I stood. One of the waiters cornered me for the bill. I fumbled in my pockets for my wallet, paid the bill, and went after Leslie. I ran out onto the sidewalk. She was quite a few paces off. "Leslie!" I called.

She turned her head and mouthed the words "Call me," then hailed a taxi, got in, and was gone.

"I will," I whispered, as the taxi turned on Broadway.

Then I went back to my apartment.

~ * ~

I've learned one thing at least: The dead don't look forward. They don't plan for the future. They don't put money away for their kid's education. They don't take pictures, or decorate their houses, or read horoscopes, or fill calendars up with events. They don't brush their teeth or check their clothes for signs of wear. They don't write letters, or bad checks, or poems (unless they were letters, or bad checks, or poems that they had written when they were alive). They don't paint, they don't dust, and they don't wax their cars. They live only in the present and in the past. The past is their present.

It's one way to tell the dead from the living, you see.

Because the dead don't look where they're going. They look only where they've been.

~ * ~

Back at the apartment, I got a phone call from Abner: "Sam? It's me," he said, his voice warbling on a high note as if he were imitating some strange, nervous bird. "It's Abner." He paused only a moment, not long enough for me to say anything, then hurried on, "Something's wrong, Sam. Something's awfully wrong, terribly wrong." He paused.

"Yes," I said, "continue."

"Continue?" he said.

"Go on. Continue. Tell me what's wrong."

"Yes," he said. "Wrong." Another pause. "It's Art."

"Art DeGraff?"

"Yes, Art DeGraff." His voice was surer now, less singsong, as if he'd settled on what exactly was troubling him. He repeated, "Art DeGraff," hesitated, then added, "He's gone."

"I don't understand that, Abner."

"Art was here." A short, odd chuckle came from him. "He was here at the house. He was in the walls. He was my prisoner, Sam."