James Siegel - Epitaph

At three o'clock, he sloshed back over to the glass booth but the television was still on.

"General Hospital," she said.

"All right," William said, "all right." He took out his wallet and counted out twenty dollars, then held it up where she could see it.

"Great," she said. "I'll go right out and order the fur."

She took forty. (The equivalent, by the way, of six frozen Shakeys Pizzas, eight chicken pot pies, six cans of Chef Boyardee spaghetti, two loaves of bread, eleven cans of Bumble Bee tuna-or about two good weeks of eating. Not that he wasn't buying something nourishing here.)

He asked her how long Mr. Koppleman had lived there. Long. And who'd put him into Golden Meadows. His son. And why? Have you seen Mr. Koppleman? He was starting to walk into walls. And if he'd always lived in Florida? Uh uh. New York. And why'd he leave New York for here? Because his doctor recommended it. Because he liked the Dolphins. Because he was old. Who knows. That's what old people do. Aren't you here? And then just one more thing. Yes? What part of New York had Mr. Koppleman come from? Flushing. Yes, William said. Yes. Now there was one place left to go. Just one. He drove out of the city, out of the greater Miami area, down U.S. 1 to Homestead. Years ago, someone had mentioned that that's where he'd gone. To Homestead. That you could find him almost any day of the week down at the public golf course practicing his short game. William counted down the miles as he neared the city limits, and when he grew tired of counting down the miles, he started counting down the years. Then he gave up. The public golf course was easy to find-Florida was good about things like that. Lots of signs directing you to lots of places you really didn't want to go. But when he got there, he was right where they'd said he be. Only today, he was practicing his drives, banging them this way and that, trying to get the club handle around a belly that was starting to resemble the Pills- bury Doughboy's. William wondered if he still drummed his fingers across it, still imitated all those tough guys that only popped up on late-night TV now. Actually, William wondered about a lot of things. He was trying to think of the right greeting. What you say to someone who you haven't seen in an eternity. What you say to someone who you used to work with, used to tail like Tinker Bell on his trips to Never-Never Land. And he was trying to think of something that he'd never been able to think of. What you say to someone who's fucked your wife. But he needn't have bothered. Santini turned and saw him first. "What do you know," he said. "It must be old home month." Santini looked like an old duffer. Shocking. Except that's what he looked like too. Oh yeah. "How are you, Santini?" "Down to an eighteen handicap," he said. "Not too shabby. You play?" "No." "Sure. You can never get on a course up there. I remember." Santini turned and sliced another one into the tree line. "Shit. You'd think I wouldn't do that anymore." "It's a hard game." "You can say that again." Santini turned back around.

"You know, you don't look too terrible. Kept the weight off at least."

"Yeah."

"Want to grab a beer?"

"Why not."

Santini led him to a refreshment stand dotted with white plastic tables, almost all of them filled with other old duffers who looked just like him. "How's it goin'?" a few of them muttered as they passed by with two tepid beers.

They found a table to themselves at the back of the terrace.

"So," William said, "Jean came to say hello." Old home month, Santini had said. His first look at William in God knows how long and that's what he'd said.

"Yeah." Santini took a long swallow. "Ahhh."

"What did he want?"

"You know Jean. Who knows?"

"Yeah. I know Jean."

"He said he was working on a case."

"What did you say?"

"I laughed. I think."

"He was."

"Was what?"

"Working on a case."

"Well, what do you know." Santini took another swallow.

"Did he mention anything about anything?"

"I didn't ask. I don't play detective anymore. I play golf."

"Sure."

"How about you, William? You working on a case too?"

"He's dead, Santini. Jean died."

Santini took another swallow, but if the first one had been long, this one was longer, real long, and after he finished, he put the glass down slowly, real slow.

"Yeah, well, that seems to be happening to everybody I know, isn't it. What happened-he get hit by a bus?"

"Heart attack."

"Couldn't be. He didn't have one."

"Maybe he developed one right at the end."

"Not a chance. You were always the one with the heart. Remember?"

"I remember."

"And you still have it, I bet. Is that what this is all about? You taking over for Jean-for old times' sake?"

"For old times' sake."

"Well, be careful, William. When I laughed at him, Jean said he hadn't lost it. Maybe. But you never had it. Understand-one friend to another."

"Sure. I'll be careful."

Then they started talking about old times, lots of old times, all the old times except, of course, one. But then, after a half hour or so, it was as if the gulf of missing years began to widen, till they were both on opposite shores, shouting to be heard but too far away to be understood. And they were just two old guys who used to know each other.

Santini began to play with his driver, twisting it this way and that, executing phantom half swings at the slate tile floor. William finished his beer, wiped his mouth, and got up.

"Well, it was nice to see you, Santini."

"You too, William."

He turned to go. "William?" William turned back around, all the way back around, thirty-five years back around. "It could've been anybody, William. Understand? Anybody. I'm just sorry it was me." "Yeah," William said. "So am I, Santini. So am I."

To begin then, begin at the beginning.

The very beginning. Construct a scenario, one scene at a time, follow it through to the final curtain, and if you don't applaud-if you don't stand up and give it a goddamn ovation, start over.

If it's too much to swallow, Jean used to say, spit it out.

He was home now. Back in his apartment. And though he'd only been gone three days, it felt like three years. At least. He hadn't just come back older either, maybe wiser too.

No one had been there to greet him, which was just as well, since he hadn't been in the mood for it, and wouldn't have had anything to say. They, however, would have had a lot to say to him; Mr. Wilson had died. Chalk up another one for the carnivores. They weren't there because they were all at his funeral. It was, he heard later, a dignified, if sparsely attended, affair.

To begin then, begin at the beginning.

The first thing he'd done, the very first thing, even before unpacking or taking a shower or knocking one back, was enter Mr. Wilson's room like a thief in the night.

He knew Mr. Wilson had died the moment he walked into the room. Someone had put all of his possessions into boxes, one on top of the other, forming a kind of poor man's pyramid. His Harlequin collection took up two boxes by itself. His pictures had been taken off the walls, his clothing wrapped in plastic sheets, the floor swept clean. Mr. Wilson's death hadn't been tidy-he'd lasted for over a week, in and out, up and down-but what he'd left behind was. You could wrap it with a bow, you could give it the white glove test-it was suddenly as antiseptic as a newly available hospital bed.

William was there for a purpose, and even though his sudden knowledge of Mr. Wilson's death made him feel more like an intruder, and not less, and also, by the way, made him feel diminished, diminished by one fewer person who would ever share his bridge chair, purpose stuck. Mr. Wilson had been a collector of sorts, not just of Harlequins and Senior Citizen Workshop pamphlets, but of everything else. Like phone books, maybe. Not just this year's, but last year's, and even the years before that. That was his reason for being there, to see if Mr. Wilson's collection of knickknacks included Ma Bell.