The Waiting Room (9 page)

I knew the ocean was close by, maybe within a couple of miles, because I could smell it when the wind picked up.

I tried to recall any landmarks I'd noticed when I'd ridden with Abner. I remembered little except the run-in with the motorcycle cop, getting out of the car, peering at him over the roof. I remembered
something large and red behind him. A billboard, perhaps, or some kind of unlikely building. But now when I glanced about, I saw nothing even remotely like it and I cursed myself for having too much pride to get directions from Abner.

That's when a Nassau County sheriff's car pulled up just ahead of me, and a tall, lean, very powerful-looking cop got out and sauntered toward me. When he was a couple of yards off, he nodded and said, "Good morning, sir."

"Morning," I said.

He stopped an arm's length away. "Could I see some identification, sir?"

"Could I ask why?"

He nodded again. "Yes, sir. A man roughly answering your description was seen prowling around some back yards a few miles away."

I shrugged. "Well, it wasn't me."

"I'm sure it wasn't, sir, but if you could please show me some I.D."

I got my wallet out and handed him my driver's license. He glanced at it. "You are Samuel L. Feary?"

“Yes.''

"Could you come to the car with me, Mr. Feary?"

"Am I under arrest?"

"No, sir. Could you please come to the car with me?"

"If I'm not under arrest, why should I come to the car with you?" I could hear the high nervous whine in my voice, and I realized that he could hear it, too. I put my hand to my temple. "I'm sorry. I'm not feeling very well," I said, and realized that I sounded stupidly melodramatic.

"Yes, sir. Now, if you come with me, please—to the car."

I nodded at my driver's license. "Can I have that back?"

"Yes. In a minute." He held his hand out, took my arm. "Please, sir."

I walked with him to the car; he opened the back door, asked me to get in. I looked at him. "Can I sit in front?"

"No, sir."

"I still don't understand—"

"Please, sir." He pushed gently at my arm; I sat in the back seat. He closed the door. There were no door or window handles in back; a wire screen separated the back seat from the front.

The cop got in, left his door open, and said, "We'll just be a few moments, sir, then I'm sure you can be on your way." He called in my name and address. While he waited, I said, "I'm looking for the ocean; I'm going to a beach house on the ocean. "I heard again that high nervous whine. "And I'm afraid since I've only been in this area once before—"

"Yes, sir. Hold on just a moment."

I cursed under my breath, said, "Were you in Viet Nam, Officer?"

"No, sir. I was too young."

"Well, for Christ's sake,
I
was in Viet Nam—"

"You'll have to be patient, sir. Please. I don't want to cuff you."

"
Cuff
me?! Why in the hell would you want to cuff me—"

A woman's voice over the radio said then, "Samuel L. Feary," spelled my name, gave my address, added, "Nega-file, Jack."

The cop said, "Thanks, Vera," got out, opened the back door, smiled flatly at me, said, "I'm sorry for tying you up, Mr. Feary. You can be on your way now."

I got out, tried hard to look angry. He apologized again and drove off.

I turned and looked back the way I'd come. Where the road met the horizon, and all but obscured by a cloud of its own exhaust, I saw that damned yellow garbage truck moving very slowly my way, and two men walking just as slowly in front of it.

I called Abner from a public phone a mile from where the cop had stopped me. Across the highway from the phone booth was what looked like some kind of military installation—an early 1950s fighter plane, painted red, stood in front of it, on a pedestal. I was breathless from running, and Abner noticed:

"Why are you all out of breath, Sam? What's wrong?"

"Abner, where's the damned beach house?"

"What are you—lost? Where are you calling from?" I had seen a highway route marker. "I'm on Route 14. Where's that?"

"It runs through Nassau County."

"Abner, there's a garbage truck following me!"

"Why would a garbage truck be following you on Route 14, Sam? Are you driving, do you have a car?"

"Christ, Abner—"

"Is it a county garbage truck, Sam? Can you see the words 'Nassau County' on the side of it? What
color
is it? The county trucks are blue, you know." A pause; he continued, "Why would it be following you, anyway? Garbage trucks don't follow people—"

"It followed me here from Manhattan, Abner."

"It's a Manhattan garbage truck? Does it say 'Manhattan DPW' on it, Sam? Is it yellow?"

"Oh, what the hell does that matter, Abner?"

"I guess it doesn't, Sam; I was only trying to be—"

"Just tell me how to get to the beach house, okay?"

"No, tell me where you are, and I'll come there, I think that's a better idea. I've got the car—did you say you have a car, Sam? You don't have a car, do you?"

And the operator cut in, "Your three minutes are up, please deposit another quarter or your call will be interrupted."

"Dammit," I said, "everybody's so damned polite," and I fished frantically in my pocket, found a quarter, and deposited it. Abner said: "Where on Route 14 are you, Sam?"

I told him about the military installation across the highway and about the early 1950s fighter plane, painted red, which stood in front of it on a pedestal. Abner said, "I know exactly where you are, Sam. Sit tight. I'll be there in ten minutes." And he was.

He looked better. He was wearing a white turtleneck sweater, clean but faded jeans, brown Hush Puppies. He looked scrubbed, and rested, too, as if he'd just had a shower and shave after a good night's sleep.

We pulled away from the phone booth. "You're not serious about this
garbage
truck, are you?" he asked.

"A lot of shit's been going on, Abner."

"It sounds like it." He gave me a big, broad smile. "I mean—a
garbage
truck?"

"Abner, what are you into?"

He gave me another broad smile. "Remember the mausoleum, Sam? In Bangor. Twenty years ago. Did you think that was fun?"

"We were kids, Abner. And we were stupid. We aren't kids anymore."

His smile altered slightly. "Who the hell ever grows up, Sam?" He came to a stop at a flashing red traffic light, and started through, though there was a car closing on us. "Jesus Christ!" I breathed, and he stomped on the accelerator. The car closing on us braked hard; Abner whispered, "Gross overreaction, if you ask me."

"Dammit, Abner," I yelled, "where'd you get your license, at K mart?"

We were going seventy now. He eased off on the accelerator, let the car slow to fifty-five. "You asked what I'm into, Sam," he said. He glanced at me, a look of dead seriousness on his face. "This is what I'm into, Sam: I'm into reality. I'm into
existence."

"Oh, give me a break," I snarled.

"I know, I know, it sounds corny, it sounds half-baked, it sounds half-assed, but Sam—listen to me. . ." He stopped for another light, though just barely. "In the past six months, I've done more actual
living
than I'd done my entire life. That's no exaggeration."

"What is it you're into, Abner—cocaine, heroin?"

"C'mon, Sam, you know I'd never touch that stuff."

He turned down the dirt road that led to the beach house, and I saw that I'd actually gotten pretty close, that my memory hadn't become total mush after all.

He stopped to let a girl of ten or so cross in front of us. When she was across, she smiled, mouthed "Thank you," and disappeared over a dune that crowded up to the road.

"Polite kid," I said as he started up again.

"Uh-huh," he said, and then the beach house was in front of us. He smiled oddly at me. "I'm sorry, Sam—I warned you once, so warning you again just wouldn't do any good." He parked, got out of the car, and started for the house. I followed.

When we got to the door, he looked questioningly at me. "A garbage truck, Sam? Are you sure it was the same garbage truck each time? Maybe there were
two
garbage trucks, one in Manhattan and one here, on Long Island."

"Let's go inside, Abner."

He stopped in the doorway. "Did I tell you that I've fallen in love?" He sounded as if he'd just discovered a fifty-dollar bill tucked in his pants pocket. "That's the good news."

"Let's go in
side
, Abner. Please. We have to talk."

"The bad news is that she's temporarily . . . inaccessible."

"I feel for you."

He added offhandedly, "Because she's dead."

I said nothing.

"Her name's Phyllis. Pellaprat. Pretty name, huh? And she's here, you know." He nodded toward the inside of the house. "I'm just not sure where, exactly. I've looked. Hard. I guess I've got to look harder. Maybe you can help me. Do you think you can help me find Phyllis?"

"Sure, Abner. Sure I can. But let's go inside now, okay? Let's talk."

"Because once I find her," he rattled on, "I've got this little place up north. In Vermont. It's a place I've been working on, you know—"

"Abner," I coaxed, "inside, okay? Then we'll talk."

"Oh," he said, as if catching himself in a belch, "sure, I'm sorry." And we went inside, into the great room. That morning it had an odd, vaguely shimmering quality about it, as if hundreds of fireflies had been let loose in it and each one had found a hiding place.

He led me through it into the kitchen again and motioned for me to sit at the table. I did. He sat across from me and said expansively, "I don't know about you, Sammy, but I've always thought that kitchens are the friendliest part of a house—"

"I like to be called Sam, Abner. You know that."

He shrugged. "I thought I called you Sammy in high school. I guess I'm wrong."

"Abner, listen to me." I hesitated.

"Yes?" he coaxed.

"Abner, there are no dead people in this house.' There's you, and me, and . . . and whatever her name is—"

"Al?"

"Yeah. Al."

"And Madeline, too. Don't forget Madeline."

I nodded wearily. "Yes, and Madeline, and you and me."

"And Phyllis," he said happily. "And quite a few others. They come and they go. They're here. Now. In this house. Sam, they live in the walls—"

"There are no dead people living in the walls, goddammit!"

He looked quizzically at me. "Did I say 'dead'? They're not dead, Sam. Not the way a tree is dead, or a leaf, or . . ." He stopped and thought a moment. "What's ‘dead'—do you know? Am
I
dead, Sam? Or am I alive? Can you tell just by looking at me? Can you say, 'Yes, Abner is alive because he's sitting at his kitchen table and he's talking to me'?" He paused. "Sam, it's not that simple, nothing is that simple."

"Abner,
you
know you're alive."

He nodded. "I do now. Right now. While we're sitting here talking. But in a half hour, an hour, I probably won't be so sure—things change."

I interrupted, sniffing. "Abner, what's that smell? It smells like something's burning." I went to the hallway that led to the great room, sniffed again. "It really does, Abner; it smells like something's burning." The photographs on the walls of the hallway—photographs of people, mostly; portraits, candid shots,
some in color, others in black and white—were shimmering like a lake on a sunny day because of a dim and erratic light coming from the great room.

Abner came up behind me and put his hand on my shoulder.

I said, "What's wrong here, Abner? For God's sake, what's wrong here?!" The photographs changed then. Their top and bottom edges peeled free of the frames and curled inward, as if from heat, and one by one they dropped to the floor of the hallway. In their place I saw the dim suggestion of color, as if the walls were bleeding, as if there were gallons of paint in various colors being spilled behind the plaster.

I felt Abner's grip strengthen on my shoulder. "Forgive me, Sam," he said.

Walls are made of plaster, furring strips, nails, paint. Only mice and squirrels live in walls.

Walls can't bleed people the way a madras shirt bleeds colors.

But the walls of that beach house did. I saw those colors puddle up in various places on the floor, I saw them come together, I saw arms jut out, feet, legs, faces—while the great room erupted in flames beyond, the walls bled their people and built them up again. There was a man of thirty dressed as if for a wedding reception who rose up from the floor like bamboo, and a fat woman of forty or forty-five who wept soundlessly, her shoulders heaving; near her, a young boy dressed in white, and standing alone where the hall opened onto the great room, a blond girl of ten or so, the same girl who had crossed in front of the car.