James Siegel - Epitaph

M r. Weeks looked even paler than before, like fine white china, the kind your aunt makes you eat from on Sunday visits, the kind that breaks into bits at the slightest pressure of your hand. You've got to be careful with china like that. He let William in without a word, as if he'd been expecting him to show up at any moment, as if they visited each other on a regular basis to discuss what's wrong with the world. Mr. Brickman had been left downstairs to wait for him, partly because he still had no idea what William was up to, and partly because strangers weren't exactly welcome in Weeksville.

"Your leg…?" Mr. Weeks said, after William had gently eased himself into a chair.

"Something's broken," William answered.

"Ah." Mr. Weeks nodded, as if he'd expected as much.

The room felt pretty much like it did the last time he was here, like a crawl space; William had to resist the temptation to duck. The air tasted medicinal, gritty as soot, and William noticed yet another drape had been plastered against the window. Mr. Weeks was fighting a war, William thought, but Mr. Weeks was losing. It was World-100. Weeks-0.

"What can I do for you?" Weeks said.

"Well, I've got a question."

"Sure."

"Just a little one."

"Okay."

"Just a little one about something you said last time."

"I'm listening."

"You were talking about that night he came in looking like a ghost, the night he told you he had the biggest case of his life. Remember?"

"Yes. I remember."

"Then you said you didn't see much of him after that. That's the way you put it. Right so far? You saw a lot less of him, you said. Except for twice. Once, when he came back from Miami and dumped that file on you. And one other time. Before that. When he came in to borrow some medicine. Recall that, Mr. Weeks? Those were your words, right? That he came in to borrow some medicine because he'd burnt himself cooking."

"Yeah."

Mr. Weeks was looking just a little edgy now, not like he was going to make a dash for it or anything. Just like he was thinking about it. But then, there wasn't anywhere to g°.

"Jean cooked a lot then?"

"Now and again."

"Really? What was he cooking that night?"

"Don't know."

"Well, what did he burn himself on? The hot plate maybe? The stove?"

"He didn't say."

"Okay, he didn't say. What did he say?"

"I'm not following…"

"Sure you are. You're following along fine. He came in to borrow some medicine. Because he'd burnt himself. That's what he said, right?"

"Right."

"He burnt himself cooking."

"Uh huh."

"But who knows what he was cooking that night. Could've been anything, right? Maybe his specialty."

"I didn't ask."

"What did you ask?"

"I asked him how I could help him."

"Sure. You were good at helping him, weren't you. That was your specialty. Take my file, Weeks, he said, and you did. Like that. Tell no one, he said. And you didn't. Until me of course. What did he want you to help him with that night?"

"I told you. He burnt himself. He wanted medicine."

"That's right. Bet it was a bad burn too. How did he burn himself so badly?"

"I told you." Yeah, Mr. Weeks was definitely not a happy camper now. "He burnt himself cooking."

"Okay. When I went to Jean's funeral, know what I did, Mr. Weeks?"

Mr. Weeks shook his head. He didn't know.

"I shook his hand. Honest to God. I wasn't supposed to open the coffin either. It was closed-those were the directions. So why did I do it? Why? There's a famous line about this old Brooklyn Dodger-I forget his name- Max something. No one liked this guy. He was a bully and a drunk and he used to piss off the sportswriters no end. Until the day he got old and was told he was traded, gone, just like that. Then he all of a sudden got friendly. And you know what one of these writers said? He said, Poor old Max. He's finally saying hello when he ought to be saying goodbye. Well, I guess I was saying hello. Understand?"

Mr. Weeks nodded this time. He understood.

"I was saying hello, fine. Only I had this weird feeling that it wasn't Jean in there. Yeah, I know it's crazy- I know it was Jean in there. But he didn't look like Jean. I couldn't figure out why. Not really. Not until today."

Mr. Weeks was looking down at his wrist. That's right, Mr. Weeks. That's right.

"You know, Jean never, ever, hid it. Just the opposite. He wore short sleeves in summer. Always. Even in winter he'd roll his sleeves up to the elbow-screw the temperature. So it was always there for anyone to see. Anyone did. If you met him, or talked to him, or hired him, you saw them. His numbers were out in the open, his souvenir from the Germans, yes? But here's what I remembered today. Here's why he looked funny to me. When I shook his hand at the funeral home, they weren't there. That's right. Gone, poof, not a sign of them. Okay, I admit it-the other funny thing was I didn't even notice it. Not at first, not then. Not until today. But today I did. Today I remembered. Jean burnt himself, sure he did-but he didn't burn himself broiling a fillet, did he? Did he, Mr. Weeks? He burnt off his numbers. Jean went somewhere. Jean went somewhere and had those numbers burnt off his arm."

Mr. Weeks remained silent, like his tomb of a room, dead quiet. But among the things he didn't say was you're wrong. You're mistaken. You're telling tales. Mr. Weeks was quiet, but Mr. Weeks wouldn't shut up.

"Okay," William said. "Okay. So where'd he go? The family doctor, the neighborhood dermatologist, the local tattoo parlor. Where?"

"A clinic."

So. Weeks speaks.

"A clinic? What kind of clinic?"

Mr. Weeks sighed, a good and heavy sigh, a sigh that sounded like the last gust of a passing thunderstorm.

"A bad kind," he said, "that's what kind. They did some job on him. They used acid-okay."

"Did he tell you he was going to do that?"

"No." Weeks shook his head. "It was just like I told you. I hadn't seen him for weeks. Then one night he knocked on my door. He was in a lot of pain. He showed me his arm and told me what he'd done. I was a medic in the war so I knew it was bad. Even if I hadn't been a medic, I'd have known. It was infected. They'd burnt his skin off but they'd left it exposed. He needed attention."

"So you gave it to him."

"I told him to go to a doctor. I told him to go to one immediately."

"But he didn't."

"No. He thought that was funny. I've already been to a doctor, he said. He thought everything was funny that night. He was… manic, possessed almost, you understand? He wanted me to fix him up, no one else."

"So you did."

"Yeah. As best I could. I have a first aid kit here, quite a large one. I don't go out, so I have to, you understand. Just in case."

Just in case the gumshoe gourmet had a cooking accident.

"I cleaned it out and put a salve on it. Then I wrapped it up good and gave him some penicillin. He was lucky, that's all. It worked."

"Yeah," William said. "He died, but not of that." Mr. Weeks didn't have the fans going today; it felt as if he were sitting inside a collapsed tent-that's what it felt like. "Okay, Mr. Weeks. He came to you screaming in pain and you fixed him up and you sent him on his merry way. Now bear with me-here's the sixty-four- thousand-dollar question. Why? Why, after all those years, did Jean go and do that?"

"He said he'd earned it. That's what he said."

He'd earned it.

"Okay-I give up. Earned it how?"

"He didn't say."

"What did he say? Don't tell a soul, Weeks? It's between you and me? Be a pal? Let's just say I burnt myself cooking?"

"He said he'd earned it. I thought he'd earned the right to keep it to himself."

So, William thought. It hadn't been Jean who'd made him promise. Weeks had made a promise to himself, and Weeks had gone and kept it.