Michael Koryta: So Cold the River

He didn’t talk to Claire again before his meeting with Campbell Bradford. By the morning after their last phone call, which he awoke to with a headache that clearly intended to linger for a few hours, he wished that he’d told her more. It would’ve interested her, and she would’ve listened. One thing about Claire, she always listened.

But he didn’t call, and she didn’t either. He checked the caller ID every day, and that ritual became maddening-she was his wife, and here he was, checking to see if she might have called.

His wife.

He stopped by the apartment to pick up his equipment the night of his interview with Campbell Bradford and saw the message light blinking on the answering machine, thought perhaps Claire had called, then hated himself for such hopefulness. He didn’t allow himself to even check the message, ignoring the machine while he picked up his camera and tripod and briefcase. When he opened the case to put his recorder inside-always good to have an audio backup-he saw the pale green bottle and felt a wave of nausea. He started to remove the bottle, then changed his mind. Maybe he’d show it to old Campbell and see what sort of response it triggered.

Alyssa Bradford had told him to go by the hospital around seven. He went through the building as quickly as he could, long, fast strides, the camera bag banging against his leg. He hated hospitals, always had. When he found the right room number-712-he discovered the door was closed. Rapped lightly on it with his knuckles.

“Hello?” he said, pushing it open, poking his head inside. “Mr. Bradford?”

There were two beds in the room, but only one was occupied. The man in it turned to look at Eric, one half of his face lit by a small fluorescent lamp above the bed. Otherwise the room was dark. The sheets were pulled up to the man’s neck, and the face above them was weathered and gaunt, with sunken blue eyes that announced his sickness even more than the hospital room itself. Loose skin hung off a jaw that once would have been hard and square, and though the hands resting on top of the sheets were thin and brittle, they were large. Would have been powerful, once.

“Mr. Bradford?” Eric said again, and the old man seemed to nod.

“Your daughter-in-law said she told you I’d be coming,” Eric said, crossing to the foot of the bed and pulling up a plastic chair. “I hope I’m not here at a bad time.”

No answer. Not a word, or a blink. But the eyes followed Eric.

“I think Alyssa told you what I was going to be doing?” Eric said. He was reaching into his camera bag now, rushing things along because the old man’s unresponsive stare was unsettling.

“I was hoping I could hear some of the stories you’ve got to tell,” he continued as he removed the camera. “Alyssa promised me you’ve got some good ones.”

Campbell Bradford’s breath came and went in soft, barely audible hisses, and when Eric became aware of the sound, he wanted out of the room, cursed himself for forcing this suggestion on Alyssa in the first place. This man was dying. He was not months away, or even weeks away. Death was close. He could hear it in those little puffing hisses from Campbell’s nose.

It hadn’t been so many years ago that Eric could be in the presence of an old, sick person like this and feel sorrow. Now he felt fear. The buffer zone of years was thinning too fast. He’d be here soon.

“I’ll just let you talk as much as you want, and whenever you’re ready for me to go, I’ll get lost,” he said, unfolding the tripod and fastening the camera to it. When he stole a glance at Campbell, he saw the same blank face and thought, Well, this isn’t going to take long. The man was not going to be able to talk to him. Then Eric took the lens cap off and dropped his eye to the viewfinder to check the focus and felt his next words die in his chest, pulled down by a cold fist of fear. In the viewfinder Campbell Bradford was watching him with an entirely different expression, the blue eyes hard and penetrating and astonishingly alert. They were the eyes of a young man, a strong man.

Eric lifted his head slowly, turned from the camera to the man in the bed and felt that cold fist in his chest open and flutter its fingers.

Campbell Bradford’s face had not changed. The eyes looked just as dim, just as unaware. Eric looked at the door, wishing now that he’d left it open.

“You going to talk to me?” Eric asked.

A slow blink, another hissed breath. Nothing else.

Eric looked at him, then thought, Okay, let’s try it again, and lowered his eye to the viewfinder. There was Campbell, still in the bed, still watching him, still with alert blue eyes that looked nothing like the ones Eric had just been staring into.

He wanted to look up again but didn’t, kept his eye to the camera instead. Give Paul Porter credit-he might be an asshole, but the man bought one hell of a camera. It was amazing, the way the thing picked up the life in Campbell Bradford’s eyes.

“Are you going to talk to me tonight?” Eric asked again, this time with his eye to the camera.

“Yes,” Campbell Bradford said, voice clear and strong.

Eric jerked his head up, bumped the tripod with his knee, and nearly knocked the camera over. Campbell looked back at him, face empty.

“Great,” Eric said, steadying the camera and facing Campbell. “Where would you like to start? What would you like to tell me?”

Nothing.

What in the hell was this about? The old bastard spoke only when Eric was looking at him through the camera. He waited, and still Campbell was silent. Eric pursed his lips, exhaled, shook his head. Okay, Gramps, I’ll look away again. He put his eye to the viewfinder and said, “I’d like to ask you about your childhood. Is that okay?”

“I don’t really have much to say about that,” Campbell Bradford said. His face was unchanged in the camera, the skin still loose and sallow, the sickness still clear. In fact, nothing had changed except the look in his eyes. For the first time, Eric considered that the old man could be screwing with him. That blank-faced look could be forced.

“Can I ask you something off topic?” Eric said.

“Yes.” The voice was clear enough, but not youthful. It was an elderly man’s voice. A sick man’s voice.

“Are you going to talk to me only when I’m looking through the camera?”

Campbell Bradford smiled.

“That,” Eric said, “is one wicked sense of humor.”

He lifted his head again, and Campbell went back to the vacant expression, and Eric laughed.

“Okay, I’ll play the game.” He moved the camera over and flicked the viewing display open so he could look through the camera without having to keep his eye to the tiny viewfinder. “Why don’t you want to talk to me about your childhood?”

“Not much to say.”

The old man was good. He could time it right, speak just as Eric dropped his eyes to the display, stop just as he flicked his eyes up. What a case.

“Tell me about the town, maybe. West Baden, isn’t that it?”

“Nice town,” Campbell said, and his voice seemed tired now.

“Did you live by the hotel?” Eric said and waited a long time on this one, staring right at Campbell, waiting for him to crack. He didn’t, and Eric dropped his eyes to the camera, and Campbell said, “Sure.”

Shit, he wasn’t going to give it up.

“How long did you live there?” Eric said, eyes still on the camera.

“A while.” The fatigue appeared to be taking Campbell quickly, and Eric wondered if the game he’d played had sapped his strength.

Show him the bottle, maybe. Tell him the way that shit had tasted, see if he could get a laugh or a response of any depth. Eric took the bottle out. Damn but that thing was cold.