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  Kamen

  EFree19 to KamenDoc

  2:19 PM

  February 10

  Kamen: Thanks for the referral. Center for Neurological Studies sounds pretty damned serious! But I will make the appointment very soon.

  Edgar

  KamenDoc to EFree19

  4:55 PM

  February 10

  Soon should be soon enough. As long as you're not having seizures.

  Kamen

  He had punctuated "as long as you're not having seizures" with one of those handy e-mail emoticons, this one a round laughing face with a mouthful of teeth. Having seen Wireman doing a pogo in the shadowy back seat of the rented van with his eyes pointing in different directions, I didn't feel like laughing myself. But I knew that, short of chains and a tractor hitch, I wouldn't be getting Wireman examined much before March fifteenth, unless he pitched a grand mal bitch. And of course, Wireman wasn't Xander Kamen's problem. I wasn't either, strictly speaking, and I was touched that he was still bothering. On impulse I clicked the REPLY button and typed:

  EFree19 to KamenDoc

  5:05 PM

  February 10

  Kamen: No seizures. I'm fine. Painting up a storm. I took some of my stuff to a Sarasota gallery, and one of the guys who owns the place had a look at it. I think he might offer me a show. If he does, and if I agree, would you come? It would be good to see a familiar face from the land of ice & snow.

  Edgar

  I was going to shut down the machine after that and make myself a sandwich, but the incoming-mail chime rang before I could.

  KamenDoc to EFree19

  5:09 PM

  February 10

  Name the date and I'm there.

  I was smiling as I shut the computer down. And misting up a little, too.

  v

  A day later, I went to Nokomis with Wireman to pick up a new sink-trap for the folks at 17 (sports car; shitty country music) and some plastic fencing at the hardware store for the Mean Dogs. Wireman didn't need my help, and he certainly didn't need me limping around behind him in the Nokomis TruValue, but it was a crappy, rainy day, and I wanted to get off the island. We had lunch at Ophelia's and argued about rock and roll, which made it a cheerful outing. When I got back, the message light on my answering machine was blinking. It was Pam. "Call me," she said, and hung up.

  I did, but first--this feels like a confession, and a cowardly one, at that--I went online, surfed to that day's Minneapolis StarTribune, and clicked on OBITUARIES. I scrolled through the names quickly and made sure Thomas Riley wasn't one of them, knowing it proved nothing; he might have offed himself too late to make the morning line.

  Sometimes she muted the phone and napped in the afternoon, in which case I'd get the answering machine and a little reprieve. Not this afternoon. It was Pam herself, soft but not warm: "Hello."

  "It's me, Pam. Returning your call."

  "I suppose you were out sunning," she said. "It's snowing here. Snowing and as cold as a well-digger's belt-buckle."

  I relaxed a little. Tom wasn't dead. If Tom had been dead, we wouldn't be settling in for a little impromptu bitcharee.

  "Actually, it's cold and rainy where I am," I said.

  "Good. I hope you catch bronchitis. Tom Riley stormed out of here this morning after calling me a meddlesome cunt and throwing a vase on the floor. I suppose I should be glad he didn't throw it at me." Pam started to cry. She honked, then surprised me by laughing. It was bitter, but also surprisingly good-humored. "When do you suppose your strange ability to induce my tears runs out?"

  "Tell me what happened, Panda."

  "And no more of that. Call me that again and I'm hanging up. Then you can buzz Tom and ask him what happened. Probably that's what I ought to make you do, anyway. It would serve you right."

  I put my hand to my head and began to massage my temples: thumb in the left hollow, first two fingers in the right. It's sort of amazing that one hand can encompass so many dreams and so much pain. Not to mention the potential to hatch so much plain and fancy fuckery.

  "Tell me, Pam. Please. I'll listen and not get angry."

  "Getting past that, are you? Give me a second." There was a clunk as the phone went down, probably on the kitchen counter. For a moment I heard the distant babble of the TV and then it was gone. When she came back she said, "All right, now I can hear myself think." There was another mighty honk as she blew her nose once more. When she started talking again, she was composed, with no hint of tears in her voice.

  "I asked Myra to call me when he got back home--Myra Devorkian, who lives across the street from him. I told her I was worried about his state of mind. No reason to keep that much to myself, was there?"

  "No."

  "And bango! Myra said she'd been worried, too--she and Ben both. Said he was drinking too much, for one thing, and sometimes going in to his office with a ten o'clock shadow. Although she said he looked spiffy enough when he went off on his trip. Amazing how much neighbors see, even when they're not really close friends. Ben and Myra didn't know about . . . us, of course, but they knew damn well that Tom had been depressed."

  You think they didn't know, I didn't say.

  "Anyway, long story short, I invited him over. There was a look in his eyes when he came in . . . this look . . . as if he thought maybe I intended to . . . you know . . ."

  "Pick up where you left off," I said.

  "Am I telling this or are you?"

  "Sorry."

  "Well, you're right. Of course you're right. I wanted to ask him into the kitchen for coffee, but we never got any farther than the hall. He wanted to kiss me." She said this with a kind of defiant pride. "I let him . . . once . . . but when it became obvious that he wanted more, I pushed him back and said I had something to say. He said he knew it was bad from the way I looked, but nothing could hurt the way I hurt him when I said we couldn't see each other any more. That's men for you--and they say we're the ones who know how to lay on the guilt.

  "I said that just because we couldn't go on seeing each other romantically didn't mean I didn't still care about him. Then I said several people had told me he was acting strange--not like himself--and I put that together with him not taking his antidepressant pills and began to worry. I said I thought he was planning to kill himself."

  She stopped for a moment, then went on.

  "Before he came, I never meant to say it right out like that. But it's funny--the minute he walked through the door I was almost positive, and when he kissed me I knew for a fact. His lips were cold. And dry. It was like kissing a corpse."

  "I'll bet," I said, and tried to scratch my right arm.

  "His face tightened up and I mean really. Every line smoothed out, and his mouth almost disappeared. He asked me who put an idea like that in my head. And then, before I could even answer, he said it was bullshit. That's the word he used, and it's not a Tom Riley word at all."

  She was right about that. The Tom I'd known in the old days wouldn't have said bullshit if he'd had a mouthful.

  "I didn't want to give him any names--certainly not yours, because he would have thought I was crazy, and not Illy's, because I didn't know what he might say to her if--"

  "I told you, Illy had nothing to do with--"

  "Be quiet. I'm almost through. I just said these people who were talking about how funny he was acting didn't even know about the pills he's been taking since the second divorce, and how he quit taking them last May. He calls them stupid-pills. I said if he thought he was keeping everything that was wrong with him under wraps, he was mistaken. Then I said that if he did something to himself, I'd tell his mother and brother it was suicide, and it would break their hearts. That was your idea, Edgar, and it worked. I hope you're proud. That was when he broke my vase and called me a meddlesome cunt, see? He was as white as a sheet. I bet . . ." She swallowed. I could hear the click in her throat across all the miles. "I bet he had the way he was going to do it all planned out."

  "I don't doubt
it," I said. "What do you think he'll do now?"

  "I don't know. I really don't."

  "Maybe I better call him."

  "Maybe you better not. Maybe finding out we talked would push him right over the edge." With a touch of malice she added, "Then you'll be the one losing sleep."

  It was a possibility I hadn't thought of, but she had a point. Tom and Wireman were alike in one way: both needed help and I couldn't drag them to it. An old bon mot bounced into my head, maybe apropos, maybe not: you can lead a whore to culture, but you can't make her think. Maybe Wireman could tell me who had said it. And when.

  "So how did you know he meant to kill himself?" she asked. "I want to know, and by God you're going to tell me before I hang up. I did my part and you're going to tell me."

  There it was, the question she hadn't asked before; she'd been too fixated on how I'd found out about her and Tom in the first place. Well, Wireman wasn't the only one with sayings; my father had a few, as well. One was, when a lie won't suffice, the truth will have to do.

  "Since the accident, I've been painting," I said. "You know that."

  "So?"

  I told her about the sketch I'd drawn of her, Max from Palm Desert, and Tom Riley. About some of my Internet explorations into the world of phantom limb phenomena. And about seeing Tom Riley standing at the head of the stairs in what I supposed was now my studio, naked except for his pajama pants, one eye gone, replaced by a socket filled with congealed gore.

  When I finished, there was a long silence. I didn't break it. At last she said, in a new and cautious voice: "Do you really believe that, Edgar--any of it?"

  "Wireman, the guy from down the beach . . ." I stopped, infuriated in spite of myself. And not because I didn't have any words. Or not exactly. Was I going to tell her the guy from down the beach was an occasional telepath, so he believed me?

  "What about the guy from down the beach, Edgar?" Her voice was calm and soft. I recognized it from the first month or so after my accident. It was her Edgar's-Going-Section-Eight voice.

  "Nothing," I said. "It doesn't matter."

  "You need to call Dr. Kamen and tell him about this new idea of yours," she said. "This idea that you're psychic. Don't e-mail him, call him. Please."

  "All right, Pam." I felt very tired. Not to mention frustrated and pissed off.

  "All right what?"

  "All right, I'm hearing you. You're coming in loud and clear. No misunderstandings whatsoever. Perish the goddam thought. All I wanted was to save Tom Riley's life."

  To that she had no answer. And no rational explanation for what I had known about Tom, either. So that was where we left it. My thought as I hung up the phone was No good deed goes unpunished.

  Maybe it was hers, too.

  vi

  I felt angry and lost. The dank, dreary weather didn't help. I tried to paint and couldn't. I went downstairs, took up one of my sketch-pads, and found myself reduced to the sort of doodles I'd done in my other life while taking phone calls: cartoon shmoos with big ears. I was about to toss the pad aside in disgust when the phone rang. It was Wireman.

  "Are you coming this afternoon?" he asked.

  "Sure," I said.

  "I thought maybe with the rain--"

  "I planned on creeping down in the car. I'm certainly not doing squat here."

  "Good. Just don't plan on Poetry Hour. She's in the fog."

  "Bad?"

  "As bad as I've seen her. Disconnected. Drifting. Confused." He took a deep breath and let it out. It was like listening to a gust of wind blow through the telephone. "Listen, Edgar, I hate to ask this, but could I leave her with you for awhile? Forty-five minutes, tops. The Baumgartens have been having trouble with the sauna--it's the damned heater--and the guy coming out to fix it needs to show me a cut-off switch or something. And to sign his work-order, of course."

  "Not a problem."

  "You're a prince. I'd kiss you, but for those sore-raddled lips of yours."

  "Fuck you very much, Wireman."

  "Yeah, everyone loves me, it's my curse."

  "Pam called me. She talked to my friend Tom Riley." Considering what the two of them had been up to it felt strange to be calling Tom a friend, but what the hell. "I think she took the air out of his suicide plan."

  "That's good. So why do I hear lead in your voice?"

  "She wanted to know how I knew."

  "Not how you knew she was bumping uglies with this guy, but--"

  "How I diagnosed his suicidal depression from fifteen hundred miles away."

  "Ah! And what did you say?"

  "Not having a good lawyer present, I was reduced to the truth."

  "And she thought you were un poco loco."

  "No, Wireman, she thought I was muy loco."

  "Does it matter?"

  "No. But she's going to brood about this--believe me when I say Pam's U.S. Olympic Brooding Team material--and I'm afraid my good deed could explode in my younger daughter's face."

  "Assuming your wife's looking for someone to blame."

  "It's a safe assumption. I know her."

  "That would be bad."

  "It'd rock Ilse's world more than it deserves to be rocked. Tom's been like an uncle to her and Melinda their whole lives."

  "Then you'll have to convince your wife that you really saw what you saw, and your daughter had nothing to do with it."

  "How do I do that?"

  "How about you tell her something about herself you have no way of knowing?"

  "Wireman, you're crazy! I can't just make something like that happen!"

  "How do you know? I have to get off the phone, amigo--by the sound, Miss Eastlake's lunch just went on the floor. I'll see you later?"

  "Yeah," I said. I was about to add goodbye, but he was already gone. I hung up, wondering where I had put Pam's gardening gloves, the ones that said HANDS OFF. Maybe if I had those, Wireman's idea might not turn out to be so crazy after all.

  I looked for them all over the house and came up empty. Maybe I threw them away after making the Friends with Benefits drawing, but I couldn't remember doing it. I can't remember now. All I know is that I never saw them again.

  vii

  The room which Wireman and Elizabeth called the China Parlor was filled with a sad, subtropical winterlight that afternoon. The rain was heavier now, drumming against the walls and windows in waves, and a wind had gotten up, clattering through the palms surrounding El Palacio and sending shadows flying across the walls. For the first time since I'd been coming there, I could see no sense to the china figures on the long table; there were no tableaux, only a clutter of people, animals, and buildings. A unicorn and one of the blackface guys lay side by side next to the overturned schoolhouse. If there was a story on the table today, it was a disaster movie. Near the Tara-style mansion stood a Sweet Owen cookie-tin. Wireman had explained the routine I should follow if Elizabeth called for it.

  The lady herself was in her wheelchair, slumped a bit sideways, vacantly overseeing the disheveltry on her play-table, which was usually so neatly kept. She was wearing a blue dress that almost matched the enormous blue Chuck Taylors on her feet. Her slump had stretched the boat neck of the dress into a lopsided gawp that revealed an ivory-colored slip-strap. I found myself wondering who had dressed her that morning, she or Wireman.

  She spoke rationally at first, calling me by my correct name and enquiring after my health. She said goodbye to Wireman when he left for the Baumgartens' and asked him to please wear a hat and take an umbrella. All that was good. But when I brought her her snack from the kitchen fifteen minutes later, there had been a change. She was looking into the corner and I heard her murmur, "Go back, go back, Tessie, you don't belong here. And make the big boy go away."

  Tessie. I knew that name. I used my thinking-sideways technique, looking for associations, and found one: a newspaper headline reading THEY ARE GONE. Tessie had been one of Elizabeth's twin sisters. Wireman had told me that. I heard him saying The presumption is
they drowned, and a chill like a knife slipped into my side.

  "Bring me that," she said, pointing to the cookie-tin, and I did. From her pocket she drew a figurine wrapped in a hankie. She took the lid off the tin, gave me a look that combined slyness and confusion in a way that was hard to look at, then popped the figure inside. It made a soft hollow bonk. She fumbled the lid back on, pushing my hand away when I tried to help. Then she handed it to me.

  "Do you know what to do with this?" she asked. "Did . . . did . . ." I could see her struggling. The word was there, but dancing just out of reach. Mocking her. I could give it to her, but I remembered how furious it made me when people did that, and waited. "Did him tell you what to do with it?"

  "Yes."

  "Then what are you waiting for? Take the bitch."

  I carried the tin up one side of the tennis court to the little pond. The fish were jumping at the surface, a lot more excited by the rain than I was. There was a little pile of stones beside the bench, just as Wireman had said there would be. I tossed one in ("You might not think she could hear that, but her ears are very sharp," Wireman had told me), being careful to avoid beaning one of the carp. Then I took the tin, with the figurine still inside, back into the house. But not into the China Parlor. I went into the kitchen, removed the lid, and pulled out the wrapped figure. This hadn't been in Wireman's set of contingency instructions, but I was curious.

  It was a china woman, but the face had been chipped away. There was only a ragged blank where it had been.

  "Who's there?" Elizabeth shrieked, making me jump. I almost dropped the creepy little thing on the floor, where it surely would have shattered on the tiles.

  "Just me, Elizabeth," I called back, laying the figure on the counter.

  "Edmund? Or Edgar, or whatever your name is?"

  "Right." I went back into the parlor.

  "Did you take care of that business of mine?"

  "Yes, ma'am, I sure did."

  "Have I had my snack yet?"

  "Yes."

  "All right." She sighed.

  "Do you want something else? I'm sure I could--"

  "No thanks, hon. I'm sure the train will be here soon, and you know I don't like to travel on a full stomach. I always end up in one of the backwards seats and with food in my stomach I should certainly be train-sick. Have you seen my tin, my Sweet Owen tin?"