F. Paul Wilson: The Tomb

Nellie had expected objections and was ready for them: "She's a Westphalen—the last of the Westphalens unless Richard remarries and fathers another child, which I gravely doubt—and I want her to have a part of the Westphalen fortune, curse and all."

"Curse?"

How did that slip out? She hadn't wanted to mention that. "Only joking, love."

Gia seemed to have a sudden weak spell. She leaned against Nellie.

"Nellie, I don't know what to say except I hope it's a long, long time before we see any of it."

"So do I! But until then, please don't begrudge me the pleasure of helping out once in a while. I have so much money and so few pleasures left in life. You and Victoria are two of them. Anything I can do to lighten your load—"

"I'm not a charity case, Nellie."

"I heartily agree. You're family"—she directed a stern expression at Gia—"even if you did go back to your maiden name. And as your aunt by marriage I claim the right to help out once in a while. Now that's the last I want to hear of it!"

So saying, she kissed Gia on the cheek and marched back into her bedroom. As soon as the door closed behind her, however, she felt her brave front crack. She stumbled across the room and sank onto the bed. She found it so much easier to bear the pain of Grace's disappearance in the company of others—pretending to be composed and in control actually made her feel so. But when there was no one around to playact for, she fell apart.

Oh, Grace, Grace, Grace. Where can you be? And how long can I live without you?

Her sister had been Nellie's best friend ever since they had fled to America during the war. Her purse-lipped smile, her tittering laugh, the pleasure she took in their daily sherry before dinner, even her infuriating obsession with the regularity of her bowels, Nellie missed them all.

Despite all her foibles and uppity ways, she's a dear soul and I need her back.

The thought of living on without Grace suddenly overwhelmed Nellie and she began to cry. Quiet sobs that no one else would hear. She couldn't let any of them—especially dear little Victoria—see her cry.

14

Jack didn't feel like walking back across town, so he took a cab. The driver made a couple of tries at small talk about the Mets but the terse, grunted replies from the back seat soon shut him up. Jack could not remember another time in his life when he had felt so low—not even after his mother's death. He needed to talk to someone, and it wasn't a cabbie.

He had the hack drop him off at a little Mom-and-Pop on the corner west of his apartment: Nick's Nook. An unappetizing place with New York City grime permanently imbedded in the plate glass windows. Some of that grime seemed to have filtered through the glass and onto the grocery display items behind it. Faded dummy boxes of Tide, Cheerios, Gainsburgers, and such had been there for years and would probably remain there for many more. Both Nick and his store needed a good scrubbing. His prices would shame an Exxon executive, but the Nook was handy, and baked goods were delivered fresh daily—at least he said they were.

Jack picked up an Entenmann's crumb cake that didn't look too dusty, checked the fresh date on the side and found it was good till next week.

"Going over to Abe's, eh?" Nick said. He had three chins, one little one supported by two big ones, all in need of a shave.

"Yeah. Thought I'd bring the junky his fix."

"Tell him I said 'lo."

"Right."

He walked over to Amsterdam Avenue and then down to the Isher Sports Shop. Here he knew he'd find Abe Grossman, friend and confidant for almost as long as he had been Repairman Jack. In fact, Abe was one of the reasons Jack had moved into this neighborhood. Abe was the ultimate pessimist. No matter how dark things looked, Abe's outlook was darker. He could make a drowning man feel lucky.

Jack glanced through the window. A fiftyish man was alone inside, sitting on a stool behind the cash register, reading a paperback.

The store was too small for its stock. Bicycles hung from the ceiling; fishing rods, tennis racquets, and basketball hoops littered the walls while narrow aisles wound between pressing benches, hockey nets, scuba masks, soccer balls, and countless other weekend-making items hidden under or behind each other. Inventory was an annual nightmare.

"No customers?" Jack asked to the accompaniment of the bell that chimed when the door opened.

Abe peered over the halfmoons of his reading glasses. "None. And the census won't be changed by your arrival, I'm sure."

" Au contraire . I come with goodies in hand, and money in pocket."

"Did you—?" Abe peered over the counter at the white box with the blue lettering. "You did! Crumb? Bring it over here."

Just then a big burly fellow in a dirty sleeveless undershirt stuck his head in the door. "I need a box of twelve gauge double-O. Y'got any?"

Abe removed his glasses and gave the man a withering stare.

"You will note, sir, that the sign outside says 'Sporting Goods.' Killing is not a sport!"

The man looked at Abe as if he had just turned green, and went away.

For a big man, Abe Grossman showed he could move quickly when he wanted to. He carried an easy two hundred pounds packed into a five-eight frame. His graying hair had receded back to the top of his head. His clothes never varied: black pants, short-sleeved white shirt, shiny black tie. The tie and shirt were a sort of scratch-and-sniff catalog of the food he had eaten that day. As Abe rounded the end of the counter, Jack spotted scrambled egg, mustard, and what could be either catsup or spaghetti sauce.

"You really know how to hurt a guy," he said, breaking off a piece of cake and biting heartily. "You know I'm on a diet." Powdered sugar speckled his tie as he spoke.

"Yeah. I noticed."

"S'true. It's my own special diet. Absolutely no carbohydrates—except for Entenmann's cake. That's a free food. All other portions have to be measured, but Entenmann's is ad lib ." He took another big bite and spoke around it. Crumb cake always made him manic. "Did I tell you I added a codicil to my will? I've decided that after I'm cremated I want my ashes buried in an Entenmann's box. Or if I'm not cremated, it should be a white, glass-topped coffin with blue lettering on the side." He held up the cake box. "Just like this. Either way, I want to be interred on a grassy slope overlooking the Entenmann's plant in Bay Shore."

Jack tried to smile but it must have been a poor attempt. Abe stopped in mid-chew.

"What's eating up your quderim ?"

"Saw Gia today."

"Nu?"

"It's over. Really over."

"You didn't know that?"

"I knew it but I didn't believe it." Jack forced himself to ask a question he wasn't sure he wanted answered. "Am I crazy, Abe? Is there something wrong in my head for wanting to live this way? Is my pilot light flickering and I don't know it?"

Without taking his eyes from Jack's face, Abe put down his piece of cake and made a half-hearted attempt to brush off his front. He succeeded only in smearing the sugar specks on his tie into large white blotches.

"What did she do to you?"

"Opened my eyes, maybe. Sometimes it takes an outsider to make you see yourself as you really are."

"And you see what?"

Jack took a deep breath. "A crazy man. A violent crazy man."

"That's what her eyes see. But what does she know? Does she know about Mr. Canelli? Does she know about your mother? Does she know how you got to be Repairman Jack?"

"Nope. Didn't wait to hear."

"There! You see? She knows nothing! She understands nothing! And she's closed her mind to you, so who wants someone like that?"

"Me!"

"Well," Abe said, rubbing a hand across his forehead and leaving a white smear, "that I can't argue with." He glared at Jack. "How old are you?"