Percival Everett - Assumption

She turned around and called back into the house, “Carl!”

Carl came to the door. He was a tall, skinny white man. “What is it?” he asked. The woman walked away.

“I’m looking for a man named Lester G. Robbins. Do you know him, where I can find him?”

The man had tattoos on his arms, a serpent on one, a lion on the other.

“What do you want with him?”

“Do you know him?” Ogden asked.

“I might.”

Ogden cleared his throat. “Might is not good enough.” He turned to leave.

“Yes, I know him.”

“How do you know him?” Ogden asked. This was good. He’d managed to change the dynamic. He was once again the one asking the questions. “Are you a relative?”

“I bought this pile of lumber from him.” He referred to the house.

Ogden pulled some bills from his pocket. “Perhaps you know where I might find him.” He peeled off twenty, then another ten.

“Some old folks’ home. That’s all I know.”

Ogden gave him twenty. “Thanks.”

The man sneered. “He’s probably dead now anyway.” He slammed the door.

The drill was simple. Open the phone book and start dialing. He called hospitals, retirement apartments, nursing homes. The next morning he left the motel and drove to the West Village Convalescence Hospital.

It was a sad-looking place. Ogden parked in a visitor’s slot and walked up the carpeted ramp to the front door and into the main building. The large nurse at the desk was not fully awake even though it was after nine.

She looked at Ogden over her glasses. “May I help you?”

“Do you have a Lester G. Robbins here?”

“Yes.”

“I’d like to speak with him, please.”

The woman looked surprised, almost startled. “You’re sure you want to talk to Lester Robbins?”

“Lester G. Robbins, yes, ma’am. I don’t know what the G is for. Doesn’t he get visitors?”

“No.”

“Then maybe I’ll lift his spirits a little,” Ogden said.

The nurse laughed and pulled her dyed blond hair away from her face. “Okay, I’ll take you to him.” She came from behind the desk. “Do you know Robbins?”

“Never met him.”

“I didn’t think so,” she said. She laughed without laughing. She stopped at a door, opened it. She didn’t enter, but stepped aside. “Lester,” she called into the room.

“What is it, bitch?” a scratchy voice fired back.

“You have a visitor.” The nurse gave Ogden a look as if to say, You’re on your own. She then turned and walked back down the corridor toward her desk.

Ogden entered the room. “Mr. Robbins?”

“Bitch,” the man said. He did not look up.

Ogden paused and regarded the crumpled old man. He sat in a tattered vinyl recliner, wore dirty pajamas, and had a half-eaten breakfast on a table tray in front of him.

“My name is Walker, Mr. Robbins. I’d like to ask you a few questions.”

“Why the fuck you want to ask me questions? Who the fuck are you?”

Ogden realized the man was blind. “I want to ask you about Emma Bickers.”

The man paused, tried to straighten himself in the uncooperative recliner. “What about her?”

“You do know her?”

“What’s this all about? You a friend of hers?”

“Yes, I am. Maybe the best friend she’s got.”

“I doubt that,” Robbins said. “You a member?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Is the door closed? Close the door.”

Ogden walked over and closed the door. He returned and sat on the hard chair next to the man.

“You know I haven’t heard from her in years,” Robbins said, more to himself. “She’s a pistol, that one. She was gonna change the world. We was gonna change the world.”

“I see. How so?”

“You see how many niggers they got working in this rat hole?” Robbins wiped his nose with the back of his hand.

“A lot of them,” Ogden said.

“Nigger nurse gives me a bath. Another nigger takes me to the toilet. Another one brings me my pills.” The old man shook his head. “Can you believe that?”

“How do you know they’re niggers?” Ogden asked.

“I can smell a nigger.”

“When was the last time you heard from Emma?”

Robbins paused. “What’s all this about, anyway?”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you,” Ogden said. “Emma Bickers is dead.”

“ Hmmph. God rest her soul,” Robbins said. He leaned his head back and pointed his useless eyes at the ceiling. “I was sure she would outlive me.”

“Did you know her long?”

“Grew up together. She lived with us after her mother died.”

“Somebody killed her, shot her,” Ogden told him.

“Damnit, damnit, damnit.” Robbins pounded his claw of a fist down onto the arm of his chair, then grabbed at a loose piece of tape there and nervously played with it. “Who did it?”

“The police don’t know.”

“Of course they don’t. Fucking idiots. They probably killed her. This used to be a free country.” He coughed. “She called me last year or was it two years ago?”

“She called you?”

“That’s what I said.”

“What did she say?”

“Something about things getting out of control, but she didn’t explain. I think she just told me things to make me feel like I was involved in something. She said she was sending me a package, but I never got nothing.”

Ogden noticed a stack of unopened letters on the table behind the man. He walked over and looked through it. “When did you lose your sight?”

Robbins dropped his head. “Two years ago. It was coming on for a while.”

Ogden moved to another stack.

“What are you doing?”

“Just stretching,” Ogden said. “She didn’t say anything else? She mention any names?”

“No, like I said, she just made stuff up for my benefit. I’m sure she did.”

Ogden found a thick manila envelope from Emma Bickers. He held on to it.

“What’s your name?” Robbins asked.

“Howell,” Ogden said. “Thurston Howell.”

“She never mentioned you.”

“Really? Did she tell you she was afraid of anything, something happening, somebody?”

“The niggers in this place are trying to kill me. I just know it. You say somebody shot her?”

“Yeah.” Ogden let the lie stand. “How long have you been a member?”

“What is this about?” Robbins asked again. “You ain’t no member. You tell me what you’re a member of.”

“Thanks for your time,” Ogden said.

“Who the fuck are you?” Robbins shouted.

“Just another nigger,” Ogden said and left.

Back in his truck, Ogden broke federal law and opened Lester G. Robbins’s mail. He stared at the list of numbers. There were two rows of twenty ten-digit numbers. There was another slip of blue paper with a note:

To think I kept this in a coffee can for twenty years. You’re the only one who has this. Be careful, Lester.

Emma

Ogden started the drive back home. He knew enough more to be sure that he knew nothing, a feeling that was becoming sadly familiar. He imagined that Emma Bickers was a part of the hate group the FBI agents had talked about. She’d always been unpleasant enough, but still he couldn’t believe it. He had no idea what to make of the numbers. He learned little from talking to Robbins, except to find out that Bickers had been a member. Perhaps the holes in the meadow up Niebla Canyon made some sense; someone was looking for a coffee can. Then he became anxious and a little afraid. Someone was going to a lot of trouble to find what he had stuffed into his pocket. Perhaps Emma Bickers had even been killed for it.

All the lights were on at Ogden’s mother’s house. Snow was falling heavily and the wind was whipping around, making the tin on the metal shed rattle and slam. The house was warm, but it was empty. Ogden called a couple of his mother’s friends and they didn’t know where she was. Her car was parked beside the house where it was always parked. He called the hospital and she wasn’t there. He called the office and she hadn’t called there. He stood in her bedroom, looked around. He recalled standing in Emma Bickers’s room and he felt sick.