Stuart Kaminsky - Always Say Goodbye

Lew said nothing.

“The checks are drawn on a new account that has exactly forty thousand dollars in it, the amount those two idiot spawn of mine wanted. Divide it between the two checks any way you like. Goodbye.”

Borg hung up.

Lew looked across his desk at Lilla. Ames was standing behind him, Darrell Caton at his side.

“I got it,” Lilla said, hugging herself. “He doesn’t want to see me.”

“You’re better off,” said Darrell.

“He can’t see you and he doesn’t want you to see him,” Lew said.

Lilla looked young, younger than thirteen, only a little older than the kid in the hog-dog circle, the kid who had lost a brother named Fred. Earl Borg was certain Fred was not his son.

“Your father’s a blind man,” said Ames.

“Blind?”

“Doesn’t want you to see him like that,” said Ames.

“Yeah,” said Darrell, “like he’s Jesus Christ on wheels.”

“He’s a mean bastard,” she said.

“That too,” Darrell agreed.

“You don’t even know him,” she said, turning to face Darrell.

“No, do you?” Darrell shot back.

“Take me home please,” she said.

“Never saw my father either,” said Darrell. “Don’t think I missed much.”

Darrell smiled at her.

“Great,” Lilla said, sitting back in the corner. “Now I’m bringing a black boyfriend home to Kane.”

Darrell laughed and said, “Fonesca, this girl is funny. What you say we stop at Denny’s or something before we take her home?”

And they did.

Lew and Ames had driven Lilla back to Kane and dropped Darrell at home.

When Lew opened his door, the almost-full moon was balanced on the tops of the low storefront and office buildings across 301.

Behind him, as he closed the door he could hear Ames’s motor scooter chug out of the DQ parking lot.

Lew undressed, put on clean, blue jockey shorts and an “LOVE SCHNAUZERS” T-shirt that he had picked up at the Women’s Exchange. Lying in bed, pillow upright against the wall, he opened Mountains of the Moon, the Rebecca Strum book his sister had handed him when she and Franco had dropped Lew at Midway Airport. Both his sister and Franco had hugged him. Franco had kissed his cheek. Angela had touched his face.

Lew looked at the neat pile of VHS tapes next to the television set. Joan Crawford, Bette Davis, Marlon Brando, Al Jolson, John Garfield, Kirk Douglas, Jane Greer, called out to Lew to join them, step out of his chaotic world into their well-ordered one. Later, maybe later or tomorrow. Tonight was Rebecca Strum.

He opened the book. It wasn’t thick, less than two hundred pages.

He read:

There’s comfort in the darkness, a nonjudgmental stillness that banishes time. And that darkness can be found simply in the closing of one’s eyes.

But when she opened her eyes, Beck, his eyes bright, glowing yellow like a black cat on a starless night, stood at the foot of Ruth’s bed.

In his hand was something glinting from a light that had no source. The thing in his hand was a knife. But this was impossible because there was no way to hide a knife in the Dachau camp, no way for men to get into the women’s compound, and no way for Beck to be there because Beck was dead.

Lewis read half of the book and then placed it on the chair next to his bed. He pulled up his blanket, turned to his left as close to the wall as he could get. Behind the wall he could hear the strum of distant traffic and a pair of voices arguing on the street or in the DQ parking lot. He slept.

In the morning, Lew pulled on his pants, picked up his zippered morning case, used the bathroom and shaved, and went back to bed. At two in the afternoon he put on his jeans and an oversized black T-shirt with the words I WANT TO BELIEVE in white letters on the back. He had watched from his window until there was no one in line. He got a double cheeseburger and a chocolate cherry Blizzard.

Dave, face a copper-crinkled permanent tan, took his order. Dave owned the place but spent little time here. Whenever he could be, Dave was out on his boat, deep in the embrace of sun worship and salt air. Occasionally, Dave even fished.

“Make it to go,” said Lew.

“Will do. So how’d you do? Chicago, I mean.”

“Fine.”

“Fine,” Dave repeated, running the Blizzard machine. “So you found him?”

“Yes.”

“Short of help today,” said Dave.

Silence except for the traffic behind him and the sizzle of meat ahead of him in the dark. Then Dave appeared with a white paper bag.

“I threw in a small fry.”

“Thanks.”

“You don’t want to talk now, do you?”

“Not today,” said Lew.

When Lew finished the meal at his desk, he wrapped the remnants, went back to bed, ignored the ringing of the telephone and finished reading the Rebecca Strum book.

It didn’t tell him anything he didn’t know. It did tell him how he might express it. He fell asleep.

And that was Sunday.

On Monday morning, Lew sat across from Ann in her small office near the Bay. He had brought coffee and biscotti from Sarasota News amp; Books a block away and now she sipped and said, “So you saw the dead and walking wounded in Chicago,” she said.

“I did.”

“And you survive.”

“I survive,” he said, looking at the Cubs cap in his lap.

She dipped her biscotti in the coffee and leaned forward to take a bite and keep from dripping on her dress.

“I enjoy and am comforted by biscotti with almonds, the sight of long-necked water birds, the bright flowers, the night sky, the waves, all the cliches that always turn out to be truths once you are initiated.”

“How do you get initiated?” asked Lew.

The colorful, bangled, triple-rowed stone bracelet on her hand clacked as she lifted her cup.

“You don’t,” she said. “You become or, if they’ve caught you early enough, you pretend. Did you pretend?”

“About being an Episcopalian?”

“About accepting. Think about it. Or, better yet, don’t think about it. You’re giving thirty-five thousand dollars to Sally for her children’s education.”

It was a statement, not a question.

“Yes.”

“Will she take it?”

“I don’t know. I’ll find out tonight. I’m bringing Chinese to her and the kids for dinner.”

“And you are afraid that if she accepts, she will take the money with thanks but your relationship will change too,” said Ann. “No matter what you tell her she will feel that she owes you.”

Ann dunked the last piece of her biscotti and popped it into her mouth.

“She doesn’t owe me. I owe her.”

“But you are afraid she’ll feel that way, just as you… didn’t you say you had a backup biscotti in the bag?”

He held up the bag and she took the biscotti.

“What was I saying? Oh, yes, she’ll feel that way just as you feel that way about Earl Borg. Drink your coffee. Eat your biscotti. Millions of children in Third World countries would fight for that crunchy pastry. Think of them.”

“When I do, I can’t eat,” said Lew.

“I just upped my biscotti quota to three a week. It’s almost time, Lewis.”

He looked at the clock on the wall over Ann’s desk. On the desk were framed photographs of Ann’s children and grandchildren, all smiling, all bearing some resemblance to Ann.

“When I look in the mirror, I see my mother’s face,” he said.

Ann had started to rise, but sat back down.

“You look like your mother?”

“Yes, and I talk like her, laugh like her.”

“And that distresses you?”

“Yes.”

“We’ve never talked about your mother,” Ann said. “Is she dead?”

“No.”