Howard Norman - Next Life Might Be Kinder

“Distinguish?”

“Well, in your experience with Elizabeth, you don’t need any spiritual broker, no middleman. You don’t need a David Korder to contact her. You are privileged in that.”

“It’s good you’re sitting down, because you aren’t going to believe this: I agree with you. I think Elizabeth is privileging me.”

“And less privileged grieving persons become so desperate, they volunteer to go on television and fall victim to a charlatan because their departed loved ones don’t know how to communicate with them. I see.”

“Here’s my problem, though. I’ve become addicted to this program. I so seldom watch television. Hardly ever. An old movie maybe three times a week. I listen to the radio. I’m a radio person.”

“Would you suggest I watch this program?”

“That would give it a larger audience — no.”

“That’s funny, Sam. But for the sake of deepening my understanding.”

“It’s on Sunday at five P.M.”

“Sunday, after the religious programs.”

“The same lineup, yes. And Korder’s got a preacherly sanctimoniousness about him. Know what else? He’s on the lecture circuit. I read about it.”

“What, conducting mass séances in a stadium?”

“Not quite that, I don’t think.”

“I trust you realize, using other people’s vulnerabilities as a kind of business venture is hardly new. But let’s get back to your addiction, so called. How does it manifest itself?”

“My neighbors Philip and Cynthia, whom I mention a lot. Last Sunday they invited me for dinner at five-thirty, because they wanted to eat early so we could go down to Liverpool to hear an all-Beethoven concert, a string quartet with a good reputation. I really wanted to go with them. Nothing I love more, if the musicians are good.”

“Ah, but They Crossed Over was on at five. Couldn’t you have simply begged off dinner and joined them later for the concert?”

“That wouldn’t feel right.”

“So, in this instance, you forwent—”

“ Forwent? ”

“You opted out of both a pleasant dinner and a Beethoven concert.”

“The small pleasures of life replaced by an addiction. I know.” I poured myself a glass of water from the carafe on Dr. Nissensen’s table.

“What do you get out of this television program, Sam?”

“I get rage.”

“Well, that’s about as opposite an emotion as can be imagined compared to conversing with people you like and who value your friendship, and a string quartet. ‘Nothing I love more.’”

“I was even thinking of how I might describe the string quartet to Elizabeth. It would have been quite late, later than usual, but Elizabeth has arrived at the beach as late as two A.M., once or twice.”

“Well, perhaps she arrives because you arrive, Sam.”

“How do you mean?”

“I was wondering, have you ever thought of staying back up the beach, near Philip and Cynthia’s house, say? Or in their living room. Or on their porch. And wait for your wife to show up on the beach. And then join her there.”

“To what purpose? You keep suggesting these little tests, do you realize this? To verify. ” I took a sip of water.

“My intention is not to test you about anything, Sam. Let me put it directly: it has been nine months since Elizabeth was murdered. You are still seeing her lining up books on the beach. I am both happy for you and deeply concerned. I am impressed that you do not need perspicacity. But one thing I feel obligated to say here and now: if I were intent on providing a test, I’d go down to the beach at Port Medway myself. But I don’t have to do that, do I? Because almost every week you take me there.”

Holding on to the glass tightly, I flung the water at Dr. Nissensen. It splattered across his shirt and vest, and some hit his face.

“I see,” he said.

“I see, I see, I see, I see, I see, I see! Can you please stop saying that? You don’t see — it’s me who sees. I see Elizabeth almost every night.”

“It’s just water, Sam, so I won’t add my dry-cleaning bill to your fee this week.”

“I apologize. This David Korder got to me, I guess. Plus, that word—”

“Perspicacity. Yes, I noticed you didn’t like my using it. But I don’t know if your reaction means you don’t know how the word is defined, or you know its definition and don’t like how I applied it to you.”

“I know what it means.”

Silence. He wrote something down.

“Back to the idea of addiction,” he said, “as I sit here drying out. Perhaps try and consciously stay away from the television five o’clock on Sundays. Discipline yourself.”

“What do you suggest I do?”

“If you need help with this, Sam, how about, just for a few months perhaps, adding a telephone session on Sundays at five P.M.? In the past I’ve accommodated clients on Sundays.”

“What if I switched my Tuesday at ten to Sunday at five? I could easily drive into Halifax on a Sunday. Spend Sunday nights at the Haliburton House Inn.”

“What I’m suggesting is adding. ”

“ So,” I said, “you’d kill two birds with one stone.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well, you showed that you took the word ‘addiction’ seriously and want to help provide an alternative to watching They Crossed Over. I appreciate that. But you’ve also revealed the fact that you think I need to talk with you more than once a week.”

Silence. Then Dr. Nissensen said, “Give all of this some thought. Our time is up.”

THINGS GOT WORSE with Alfonse Padgett, though by increments, which made it difficult to experience any clear sense of a buildup or the full dimensions of the threat. Two or three days would pass without a confrontation or a disturbing encounter or even a sighting of Padgett. Then something nasty would happen.

At about six o’clock in the morning on the day of the third lindy lesson, I met Derek Budnick in the lobby. “By the way,” he said, “I learned four people dropped out of the dance lessons. They didn’t consider it fun anymore. All those dustups — too uncomfortable, eh? And one fellow hurt his ankle. No refunds asked, though. Nice of them.”

I bought my daily newspaper. The hotel kept copies of the Chronicle-Herald on reserve at the registration counter; each resident’s name was written in black marker at the top of the front page. That morning, I sifted through the stack and found my copy, then carried it to the sofa near the front window, sat down, and started to read. When I got to the page of obituaries, I was sickened to see that, violating the photographs of the deceased, both men and women, were crudely drawn Groucho Marx — style eyebrows, Hitler-like mustaches, and broom-end beards. Scrawled in the garish manner of graffiti over a paragraph in each major obituary was “YOWZA! YOWZA! YOWZA!”

I looked up from my newspaper and saw Alfonse Padgett standing near the lift, staring at me. Mr. Isherwood was talking to Derek Budnick across the lobby. Another bellman, Mr. Delveaux, was speaking to a newly arrived guest, a quite elderly woman with large, expensive-looking leather suitcases. As I met his stare, Padgett held out his arms and danced with an invisible partner out to the middle of the lobby, then back to the lift. He slid open the grille, stepped in, and disappeared upward.

This set loose a panic in me. I all but hurtled up the stairs to our apartment. Though Padgett had in fact gotten out on the top floor, the fear that he was headed to our apartment unnerved me. In our kitchen I made coffee for Elizabeth. She had just woken, and, dressed in her nightgown, she walked as hesitantly as a somnambulist into the kitchen and sat at the table. She held out her empty hand and said in a Frankenstein voice, “Cof-fee, cof-fee. I must have cof-fee.” I handed her the cup of coffee. After taking a sip, she said, “Darling, did you forget the morning paper?”