Ryan Jahn - Low Life

‘Unfortunate fellow.’

‘Most folks are who end up here – their days of shitting in tall cotton far behind ’em. If they ever had any of those days to begin with.’ He looked sad and contemplative.

Simon nodded and held up the marker. ‘I’ll bring this back when I’m done.’

When he couldn’t find paper he wrote both phrases on the wall.

One a, two e’s, one h, one i, one k, two l’s, one m, one t, one w – same letters for both of them. They were anagrams – just as he’d thought. But what else? He stared at them for a long time, those phrases scrawled in his shaking hand on the lumpy motel-room wall, illuminated by pale yellow lamplight. When was the last time he’d eaten? His stomach felt empty and sour and was grumbling and boiling. Could stomachs consume themselves?

This wasn’t the time to think about that. He could eat later.

Anagrams.

After a while he started writing, slowly at first, but gaining speed as he continued on, as he got the hang of it:

He chewed on his bottom lip as he wrote, one anagram after another, none of them making the least bit of sense to him, though he paused after a couple, and stared, trying to make them mean something. He couldn’t do it, though, and so he continued on – writing away.

Then he stopped again and sat on the bed.

He looked at his collection of nonsensical anagrams. He could think of another dozen, no problem – maw hike tell, aw theme kill, ha me well kit, math like Lew, and on and on – but saw no point in writing them down when they meant nothing to him.

He threw the marker against the wall, watched it fall to the floor, and fell back on the mattress. He stared at the ceiling. It was covered in spray-on texture – what he’d called popcorn ceiling as a kid – except in one section. That section looked like it had been recently repaired. Maybe there had been a roof leak and the rotten section had been cut out and replaced. Or maybe—

He sat up, got to his feet, picked up the marker, and wrote two words on the wall at the end of his list:

One a, two e’s, one h, one i, one k, two l’s, one m, one t, one w – Kate Wilhelm. He stared at the two words for a long time. It should have been obvious. If he’d been able to think clearly it would have been.

He thought of the letter Jeremy Shackleford had written to her.

What had she done? He had said she couldn’t continue on this path. He had said she would end up hurting herself as much as she hurt him. How had she hurt him? What had she done?

‘You thought I was too stupid to figure out it was you.’ He licked his lips. ‘You won’t think I’m so stupid now.’

He sat at the writing desk in the corner of the room, picked up the telephone, and dialed 4–1–1.

‘City and state, please.’

‘Los Angeles, California.’

‘How can I help you, sir?’

‘The number for a Kate Wilhelm.’

‘Wilhelm?’

‘Wilhelm.’ He spelled it for her.

‘Okay, sir, there’s twenty-three results for Wilhelm but no Kate.’

‘Is there a K?’

‘No, sir. It goes from John to Mack.’

Simon was silent.

‘Sir?’

‘Would it be possible to get them all?’

‘All twenty-three, sir?’

‘Yeah.’

A sigh.

‘Do you have a pen and paper, sir?’

‘I have a marker.’

‘Okay, sir. This first one is Amanda.’

‘Okay.’

He took down names and numbers, scribbling them upon the wood surface of the writing desk since he didn’t have a piece of paper, the meat of his hand just below the pinky occasionally smearing a last name or the last four digits of a phone number as he dragged his hand over it. Eventually he had them all.

He hung up the phone. He turned around, looking over his shoulder at the digital clock on the night stand. The red numbers claimed it was

It was still early enough to call.

He turned back around and looked at the phone. He had a knot in his stomach. For some reason this filled him with dread, with a vague fear that had no direction to turn, that had no focus at all. He swallowed and looked at that first number.

He had to do it so he might as well just get on with it.

He picked up the phone and dialed.

‘Hello?’

‘Hi, is Kate there?’

‘Kate?’

‘Kate Wilhelm.’

‘What number are you calling?’

He told her.

‘Right number,’ the woman on the other end of the line said, ‘wrong person.’

‘Okay. Sorry to bother you.’

‘No bother.’ Click.

Keeping the phone to his ear, he severed the line with his left hand, dropping his first two fingers on the button, then lifted his hand, listened to the dial tone, and dialed the next number. He got a similar response – on and on he got that response. Sorry, no, wrong number, nobody here by that name, who are you trying to call, I don’t know anyone by that name, huh-uh, nope, bye.

That was how it went until he got to John Wilhelm.

‘Yeah?’

‘Hi. Is uh—’

‘What?’

‘Is Kate there?’

Silence.

‘Hello?’

Finally: ‘Is this some kind of joke?’

‘No, sir.’

‘Who is this?’

‘Excuse me?’

‘Who’s calling?’

‘Is – is Kate there?’

‘I said, who’s calling?’

‘Simon.’

‘When was the last time you saw Kate, Simon?’

‘It’s – it’s been a while.’

More silence.

‘Hello?’

‘Kate’s dead.’

‘What?’

‘Dead.’

‘When?’

‘Last April.’

‘That’s not – when?’

‘Last April, I said.’

He didn’t respond. Eventually the guy on the other end of the line grew impatient with the silence: ‘Hello?’

‘That’s not possible.’

‘I’m afraid it is. Goodbye.’

Then the sound of the line being severed. Simon sat with the phone pressed against his ear for some time. Eventually a recorded voice broke through the silence. ‘If you would like to make a call, please hang up and—’

He set the phone in its cradle, looked down at his lap, thinking about what to do next, and then picked it up again and again dialed 4–1–1.

‘City and state, please.’

‘Los Angeles, California,’ he said. ‘I need the address for a John Wilhelm.’

‘There’s no John Wilhelm in Los Angeles, sir, but there’s one in Burbank.’

‘That’s the one.’

In the dream he was driving a yellow Chevy Nova, and though he was not a particularly tall man – five foot nine – his knees were brushing against the steering wheel. The seat was adjusted for a shorter person. This was not his car. He saw blood on his hands as they gripped the wheel, in the creases of his skin, under his thumbnails. He glanced to his right, but the passenger’s seat was empty.