James Siegel - Epitaph

He had to sift through several boxes, three in fact, before he found it did. The phone books went back fifteen years. Even the Yellow Pages. William put those aside, and carried the regular listings back to his room. He should've made two trips but he did it in one, groaning and grunting all the while (his shoulder was tormenting him with particular vengeance today and arthritis had settled into his knee joints like an irritating relation that has no intention of leaving).

To begin then, begin at the beginning.

It didn't take long to find what he was looking for. Even though he had to go back ten years before the list was complete. Then he had it, laid out before him in black and white, another expression Santini was fond of using, and understandably, since that was very much the way he saw the world.

The phone book from ten years ago had them all. Kop- pleman to Winters-every last one of them. Shankin dropped from the phone book a year later. Waldron and Timinsky a year after that. Mrs. Winters-our lady of the Christmas card-was next. Then a banner year-every- one exiting except Koppleman, who lasted until just two years ago.

There-everyone present and accounted for, sir. Black and white.

It suddenly seemed to him that he'd gone on a long trip only to walk downstairs. They say a journey of a thousand miles begins with one step, but he'd managed to turn the aphorism on its head. His journey of one step had begun with a thousand miles. The answer had been in Mr. Wilson's phone books all the time, resting one floor down while he sweated his way through southern Florida like a tourist with a limited timetable. So much to see and so little time to see it.

To begin then, begin at the beginning.

The beginning was Shankin. Chronologically speaking, it began with him. So that's where he began too, starting the very next day after a very bad night, beginning there, then going through the list with chronological precision, excepting for Mrs. Winters, whom he tried third due to a hunch of his. By then, of course, the pattern was set in stone, and it wouldn't have mattered what order he'd gone in, the order being irrelevant, since the results were, in each and every case, the same.

They were all, each and every one of them, in Flushing. He took the same bus he'd taken a week before to Jean's funeral, and that he'd taken again to visit Rodriguez and Weeks. They were becoming old friends, the bus driver-a fat black woman-and him. She just about smiled at him when he climbed aboard. She nearly said hello and asked him where he got such a fancy tan. She almost refused to accept his money. Okay, so maybe they weren't that good friends, maybe he was taking a little license here, but a few more bus rides and who knew? This Flushing thing, after all, was getting to be a habit.

He walked down the same crowded streets, even recognized a few of the Chinese merchants, Korean fruit sellers, and Cambodian newsstand vendors. Old friends now, all of them. Even his fellow pedestrians seemed, well, a little pedestrian now, a little familiar, save for the fact they seemed to be moving a bit faster than before, as if they were running from the thunderstorm that was hiding somewhere in the inky clouds and cloying humidity. There were no shadows today, William noticed, but there should have been. Twelve shadows at least, maybe more.

Arthur Shankin. He'd lived in a modest building of red brick. A woman lay out in front on a green lawn chair; maybe once there'd even been a green lawn to go with it, but not now. It was all dirt and crabgrass now.

Yes, the woman said, she'd known Mr. Shankin. But no, she hadn't known him well. Try Mr. Greely, she said, Mr. Greely on the second floor-he and Mr. Shankin were friends.

He checked for Mr. Greely's name on the mailboxes- 2E-then went up the elevator.

"Glad to see you," Mr. Greely said, when he opened the door, a man of about eighty with a fairly nasty squint, "who are you?"

William explained: lawyer, inheritance, last address.

"Of course," Mr. Greely said. "Anything I can do."

Mr. Greely was, of course, his first stop of the day, but as it turned out he could've closed shop right then and there. For though he would make twelve other stops that day, twelve destinations on the William Express that would leave him tired and very wet-the rainstorm was but minutes away-he would learn no more and no less than he would from Mr. Greely. For each stop had its own Mr. Greely-the woman next door, the man downstairs, the friend down the hall, and the story Mr. Greely told would turn out to be pretty much the story they all told.

"He went to Florida," Greely said, "some time ago."

"Do you know where? Did he give you an address?"

"Oh sure." And Greely got it for him. It matched the address in Jean's file to a T, just as the other addresses he'd get from the other Mr. Greelys would too. Which wasn't really surprising, since that's precisely where Jean had gotten them from too.

"It seems like I did this before," Mr. Greely said, "but I don't know why? You know… deja vu."

No, William thought, just dejd Jean.

It was Florida all over again. For he'd arrive at a place only to discover that Jean had been there first. He was still working backup, still following taillights in the dark.

"Do you keep in touch, Mr. Greely?" he asked. "Do you ever hear from Mr. Shankin?"

"Not really. He sent me a postcard after he got down there. The weather's fine, he said. The weather's fine and I'm fine."

"Was he?"

"Was he what?" Mr. Greely squinted at him.

"Fine?"

"I suppose."

"Did you answer him back?"

"What for? He knows what the weather's like up here."

William didn't know if Mr. Greely was trying to be funny or just was-funny in the head maybe, no one home, bats in the belfry, all those quaint terms for something so clearly terrifying. But he thought maybe Mr. Greely was neither-just funny by accident, like someone who's always slipping on banana peels.

"Is that why Mr. Shankin went down to Florida? For the weather?"

"I suppose."

"And you haven't heard from him since?"

"Nope."

"Why?"

"Why what?"

"Why do you think you haven't heard from him? After all, you were friends, weren't you? Wouldn't a friend write you again?"

Mr. Greely didn't seem to understand.

"I never thought about it. He's down in Florida. I'm here."

"Yes, you're here." But he's not in Florida, William wanted to add. I've been there, and he's not. You're here but he's nowhere. He's missing. But he didn't say that, any of it. Instead he asked: "Do you still have the postcard?"

"I suppose."

"Could I see it?"

"What for?"

"An example of his handwriting. A formality where large sums are concerned." Funny how lies came so easily now, lies that you speak out loud as opposed to lies that you tell yourself. He'd always been good at one, now he was good at the other, a complete liar now, becoming more polished with each "lawyer," "inheritance," and "sum."

"Arthur's gonna be rich, that it?"

"You never know."

"Hmmm…" Mr. Greely murmured, as if that explained a lot. Then he went looking for the postcard, which he returned with in his hand; he blew a layer of dust off it.

"All yours," he said.

Mr. Greely was right. The weather's lovely, Mr. Shankin had written. And I'm doing fine. That, more or less, was it. It was postmarked Florida-dated ten years ago almost to the day.

"How rich is Arthur going to be?" he asked.

William ignored him; he had another question.

"Mr. Greely, Arthur have any family?"

"Don't think so."

"There was just you then. And he sent you a postcard and he said I'm fine."

"Right," Mr. Greely said. "So how rich exactly…?"

But William was already on his way.

The other Mr. Greelys: