James Siegel - Epitaph

But someone, of course, had.

The someone who could recognize him, the someone who'd been staring at his face every night for over fifty years.

Jean.

Jean had found Marcel. One night, one day, he'd taken a stroll and bumped into a ghost. And then, before he could do something about it, the ghost had found him.

He wasn't like the other one. He showed with the same regularity, he stood in the same spot-he was, give or take a few years, the same age. But he wasn't like the other one.

Mrs. Simpson hadn't exactly figured out why she believed this. Other than a rather strong feeling in her gut- pancreatic gas, her husband called it-she had no particulars she could hold up as evidence. No exhibit As or Bs to lay before the jury; it was hunch pure and simple.

But then hunch had served her fairly well so far in life. Hunch had picked Mr. Simpson out of a crowded college mixer. Hunch had told her this house would be a happy one-despite its mortgage payments, which, at the time, had threatened to break them. And hunch had told her that the Watcher wouldn't be coming back. Hunch had been right; in all three cases, right.

Now it was telling her, fairly screaming at her, that this watcher wasn't like the other one.

Perhaps it was a matter-as dog show judges phrase it-of demeanor. Of bearing. This watcher wasn't quite as sure of himself as the other one was-she was certain of this. The other one had stood like the palace guard; this one stood there like the palace interloper. This watcher, despite no visible movement to speak of, was jumpy.

Hunch told her watching this watcher was going to be interesting.

Already her priorities had undergone a shuffle. Her interest in transforming the lot-her Johnny Appleseed complex as her husband called it-had suddenly paled, revealed perhaps, as the simple sublimation it was. For sometimes watching is real, and doing is chimera; that's what instinct told her. And there was something more: if last season's bird hadn't come back, last season's species had. She wasn't about to level the nest just yet.

But what was the watcher watching? This time, she was determined to find out.

She would take another stroll-another reconnaissance. Under the pretense of surveying her lot, she would survey him instead. She would get a reading. And this time, the sight of a firearm wouldn't make her turn tail.

It was important to do this, absolutely necessary. Because she had another feeling about this watcher-in fact, her hunches were working overtime on him. And they told her that if her maternal instincts had been misplaced the first time, they wouldn't be now. This watcher needed a friend. And she could be a good one. If he was worthy, she'd prove ready.

Now to the fore.

She waited till mid-morning of a rainy Thursday. She slipped on her rubbers; she tied on her rain hat-vinyl with little daisy decals. Then she plodded out, plodded out because she suddenly felt heavy, clumsy, as comically obvious as an elephant stalking a mouse.

He was back at his corner of the lot, as faithful as a crossing guard-more faithful, considering the fact that the crossing guard at the local school had been fired for drinking-or so Mrs. Tyler had recently informed her. The street was fairly soaked now; she had to pick her way between the puddles, resembling, she imagined, an uncoordinated child failing miserably at hopscotch. She actually felt herself blushing-would wonders never cease-when she reached his side of the street she found it difficult to actually look at him.

But she did, starting from the ground up, from a pair of beaten-up imitation leather slip-ons completely covered with beads of water, to a pair of cotton pants-chinos they used to call them-to a plain white shirt soaked clear through. And to the cane, aluminum, which, lined up with his right leg, had completely eluded her from the other side of the street. A cane.

In a way, it shook her more than the gun had. For in her fervid imagination, there'd been no room for this, no place for another appendage of creeping age. She had enough of that at home; she'd been expecting more lethal props. But when she took a moment to think about it- a moment she spent poised between two large and rather oily puddles-she realized that all it had done was confirm her basic hunch. Vulnerable she'd thought him- vulnerable he was. Perhaps a friend was just what the doctor ordered.

But what was the watcher watching?

"Good morning," she said, in a voice that didn't actually sound like hers.

He turned to look at her; and smiled. No, she thought, this watcher was not like the other one at all.

"Good morning."

He had a pleasant voice, homey, her mother might have said, not too rough and not too soft either.

And then, before she knew it, they were engaged-vir- tually married-in conversation.

She told him her name. He told her his. She asked about his leg. He told her of an accident.

She told him about the lot, about her committee, about her husband, about Mrs. Tyler's niece's infidelity, about, in fact, the moon.

He told her where he lived, the name of his cane's manufacturer, the advanced weather forecast for the New York City area, the time of day.

And then, just about halfway through their conversation, he told her what she wanted. Not with words, but with a quick pointed look, a look that came more than halfway through their little talk, when plainly beginning to worry about the interruption to his vigil, and evidently too nice to be rude about it, he sneaked a glance across the street. Toward, she assumed, his target, the veritable apple of his eye.

Well. That was her first reaction. Just well. For if she'd expected some other target, if she'd settled on her own rather sinister candidates for the title of who the Watcher watched-and she had-she'd been proven to be sadly and completely off the mark.

For it was only the doctor, the good Dr. Fern. Beloved of the elderly, and caretaker of her own Mr. Simpson's precarious health.

It hadn't been difficult. In fact, given all that had come before it, all the wasted time and wasted travel and wasted pain, the ease with which he'd secured the name seemed almost pathetic. Like climbing the highest tree in the yard only to pluck a fruit so rotten it just about falls into your hand. A phone call to Raoul. A phone call to Mr. Greely. A phone call to Rodriguez. That's all it took. What was the name of Mrs. Winters's doctor, he'd asked Raoul. The one who recommended Florida? Fern, he'd replied. The old people love him. And why did the old people love him? 'Cause he's one of them. Not a day under eighty, Raoul said. Imagine that. Mr. Greely had needed some time to jog his memory. Palm, he said after a few minutes. Could it be Fern? I think it's Palm. But it might be Fern? Dr. Fern? An elderly gentleman in his own right? That's it, Greely said. An old doctor, too old-that's why I don't go to him. Dr. Palm. You mean Dr. Fern. Maybe. And Rodriguez, whom William once more interrupted in the act of sunning himself, who took ten minutes of the phone company's time to make his way down from the roof where his ten-year-old cradled the phone before a too-loud TV; Rodriguez remembered it perfectly. Fern, he said. Like the plant. If the plant was a Venus flytrap maybe. That's who came that night, he said. Old-real old. That it, bro? You didn't call him? No. Who did? Weeks did. Weeks didn't. What's the difference? Maybe Jean did. Before he went down for the count. Wasn't Jean French? French Hungarian. There you go then. The doctor parlay-vood too. He must have rang him up before he kicked. I don't think so. Okay, you don't think so. That all, Jose? Fern. Like the plant. Remembering later how he'd stared so hard at the list that night, the list of the missing, trying to find a common denominator that didn't seem to be there.