Stuart Kaminsky - Always Say Goodbye

The horse belonged to a park policeman. The Cutlas belonged to Ernest Palpabua and Ernest belonged to the media. His encounter with the horse landed him on the front page of the Sun-Times, photograph and story. That night the Marigold Stadium, where he was wrestling, was jammed. Ernest, now suddenly known as the Samoan Horse Killer, was popular. He had enough money for a new car. Toro bought the old one and Lew Fonesca now sat in it.

Lew hadn’t driven in Chicago for a little more than four years. He didn’t want to do it now.

The car was idling in the shadows in front of the wide entrance to the garage, hiding from the October sun. On the other side of Taylor Street beyond the entrance, he could see the walls of a soot-stained three-story yellow brick apartment building. In front of the entrance to the apartment was a small circle of dirt in the cracked concrete sidewalk. Inside the circle was a lone stunted tree, its few yellow leaves fluttering in the wind.

The leaves were beckoning him to come out of the shadows. Lew didn’t trust the leaves.

When he and Franco had gotten back to the house, Angie had been there. Franco, the book tucked under his arm, had eagerly told her what had happened, ending with the confrontation with the four young men and the bullet that hit the truck.

Angie didn’t look happy. She didn’t even look tolerant.

“Let me get this straight. You were in a black neighborhood,” she said. “Four guys confronted you. Someone shot a gun. There’s a hole in the truck.”

“Well, that’s the short tale,” Franco said.

“It’s the one I prefer,” said Angie. “Who was the shooter trying to kill or was he just having his usual afternoon of street target practice?”

“Ange, you don’t know what it was like.”

“I had to be there,” she said.

“Yeah, you… no. I’m glad you weren’t there. Listen.”

Franco, book still under his arm, retold the story, adding a dance of hand and body movements.

Lew had sat at the dining-room table, hands folded in front of him. Though he had said nothing, his sister’s eyes returned to him as Franco savored his tale. Angie spoke to her brother without saying a word and Lew answered silently.

“You should have seen, Ange,” said Franco with a shake of his head. “You should have seen. We’re gonna grab something to eat and go after the guy in the car that-”

He was going to say, “killed Catherine,” but he caught himself. Franco held the book out to Angie. She looked at it.

“I just finished this one,” she said.

“I know,” said Franco. “Open it.”

She did and read the inscription: “‘To Angela, Imagine that we are holding each other’s hand and walking together through the forest of the night. Rebecca Strum.’”

She looked at her brother.

“Is this real?”

“Yes,” said Lew.

“What’s she like?”

“Probably what you’d expect her to be from her books,” said Lew.

“You haven’t read any of her books, Lewis,” Angie said.

“I’m going to.”

“Think I could meet her?” asked Angie.

Franco put his arm around her and said, “Sure. We just knock at the door. Right, Lewie?”

“I’m going alone,” Lew said in answer.

“What do you mean?” Franco said. “Go where?”

“He means,” Angie said gently, “he’s going alone to find the man who killed Catherine. Call Toro. Tell him to get a car ready.”

“That right, Lewie?”

Lew nodded. It was right.

“Hey,” Franco said, “What if…?”

“Lew can deal with ‘what if,’” Angie said.

Now, behind the wheel of the Cutlas, window slightly open, Lew could smell the grease of the garage, hear the shush of the wind bending the beckoning tree.

He remembered Rebecca Strum’s inscription for Angie. There’s a forest of the day too, he thought, and only one hand he wanted to hold. He turned on the radio and pushed the buttons seeking a voice, any voice. What he did not want was music.

He stepped on the pedal and drove into the day.

“The ulcer,” said Dr. Royale after he finished his examination of John Pappas.

Donald Royale was John Pappas’s physician for one reason: he made house calls and asked no questions about why John didn’t come to his office the way the rest of the dysfunctional family did. Dr. Royale did not believe in agoraphobia. Oh, yes, there were half-crazy people like Pappas who didn’t or wouldn’t leave their houses, apartments, mental hospitals or sewers, but the reasons were all different. Lumping them together and giving them a name was of no help in treatment. Each case had to be dealt with individually. It needed a psychiatrist. Dr. Royale wasn’t a psychiatrist. He didn’t even want to talk to his patients about their fears of flying, shellfish, small spaces, death, water, tomatoes, Africans and going outside their homes. Such cases he immediately referred to Jacob Crasker, who was a psychiatrist. For Jake Crasker’s prescriptions, the borderline crazies would pay mightily. For Jake Crasker’s willing ear and tough-love advice, they would pay even more.

There were times when Dr. Royale believed the cost of Jake Crasker’s treatment was the price these people deserved to pay for not taking care of the problem that they created. Royale had his own problem, a painful, twisted and inoperable vertebrae. He had lived with it for more than fifty years. He took pain pills, new ones when they came out, and prided himself on not letting the pain ever show. He stood straight, smiled benevolently and catered to the well-to-do. Dr. Royale was corpulent and double-chinned, hair brushed back and flat, the collar of his shirt always a bit sweat-stained under the same blue suit he always wore. Donald Royale was a mess, but John Pappas also knew he was smart and a damned good doctor.

The examination was done in Pappas’s den-office and now they sat across from each other, Pappas in his usual seat on the sofa by the low table, Royale in the same place Lew Fonesca had sat the day before.

“So,” said Pappas, “I just keep taking that white stuff and that’s it?”

Pappas knew what the white stuff was and Dr. Royale knew he knew. Pappas smiled. He lived for games like this.

“That’s it,” said Royale. “And something new.”

“What?” asked Pappas, reaching for an apple in the silver bowl on the table.

“You should get out of this room, this house,” Royale said. “It’s closing in on you and your ulcer. You didn’t call Dr. Crasker for an appointment.”

Pappas held the green shiny apple in his hand and looked at the doctor.

“I’ll think about it. What else? You were going to say something else.”

“Forget it,” said Royale, getting up and reaching for his black leather bag.

The bag, which looked exactly like the black leather bag in Norman Rockwell paintings, had cost almost five hundred dollars. Dr. Royale didn’t want to risk his retainer, but his obligation to his patient overcame his love of fine new cars, a home in the Bahamas, another in Maywood and an apartment on 57th Street in New York that was a block away from Carnegie Hall. All of them had hot tubs that soothed Royale’s spine.

“I think you should see Dr. Crasker.”

“Shrink? You want me to get shrink-wrapped?”

He bit into the apple, grinning.

“He would be willing to make a house call. Talk to him once. Then decide,” said Royale.

“I told you last time I don’t need a therapist,” said Pappas, taking another bite of apple before he had finished chewing the first bite. His words came out with a gentle spittle that rained on the fruit. “Nothing wrong on that end. Trust me.”

“I have a choice?” asked Royale.

“You take care of the body. I’ll take care of this.” Pappas tapped his head, still chewing. He got up, stepped around the table, remnant of apple in his left hand, jaws working. He put his hand on Royale’s shoulder and guided him to the door.