Kafka’s Ghost
Paul Negri
John Smith stood on the threshold of his bathroom and listened to the steady hiss of the shower. Steam filled the room like a dark mist. He put his hand on the light switch, but hesitated. I should call someone, he thought, anyone. But he knew it would do no good. He had tried that twice and had only succeeded in making the old woman across the hall and the super of his building suspicious of him in a way that could cause him trouble. He knew now that by the time someone or anyone got there, there would be nothing to see.
Still, this shower business was something new and odd even in light of the new and odd things that had been happening for the past month. He withdrew his hand from the light switch and thought of simply closing the door and waiting for the shower to stop, which, he reasoned, had to happen eventually. But then on an impulse he reached back and clicked on the light. Nothing happened. The shower continued to hiss, the steam continued to waft up from behind the opaque black-and-white striped shower curtain. Smith could see his pale reflection, indistinct, in the foggy bathroom mirror opposite the door. I’m going to wet myself, he thought and felt enormously embarrassed. Then he felt angry and resentful. He lunged into the bathroom, took a deep breath, reached out and yanked open the shower curtain. He gasped and fell back against the wall.
The man in the shower was tall and excruciatingly thin. His arms and legs were stick-like with sharp elbows and knotty knees. Wet black hair was plastered down flat on his head. The face was slight and tapered with gray sunken eyes and hollow cheeks and ears that were small and almost pointed. He was narrow in the shoulders and hips. He was circumcised.
Smith yelped—a sound he had never made before—and ran out of the bathroom, down the corridor of his apartment, straight to the door and out into the hall. Opposite his door was the door of the old woman—Mrs. Emanuel—who he dragged in the first time and who had seen nothing. Now every time they passed in the hall she looked at him in a way that made him uncomfortable. He would not make the mistake of going to the super again who, Smith suspected, was looking for an excuse to get him kicked out of the building so he could give Smith’s apartment to his Cuban brother-in-law.
In his desperation Smith ran down to the end of the hall to the black metal door of the last apartment on that floor and before he could lose his nerve pressed the buzzer. He listened a moment and heard nothing so he pressed it again. Inside the apartment a baby started wailing. “Oh Jesus God,” someone said hoarsely and Smith heard the sound of slow heavy footsteps approaching the door. The door swung open and a big, meaty man in black jeans with an unzipped fly and a yellowed sleeveless white undershirt stood in the doorway. He had thick, club-like arms, a fleshy face with a big nose, and black bushy hair. He looked like he had been sleeping.
“I’m really sorry to bother you,” said Smith. “I’m your neighbor—in 612. There’s someone in my apartment.”
“What’d you mean someone?” said the big man.
“A man. There’s a man in my shower.”
“A man in your shower,” said the big man slowly, like he was trying to understand a foreign language. In his apartment the baby was still wailing. He ran his hand over his face—a large hairy hand with red knuckles—as if clearing water from his eyes and turned and shouted, “Pila, take the baby. I got a situation here.” He turned back to Smith. “You got an intruder in your apartment?”
“Yeah. An intruder,” said Smith, not knowing what else to call him.
Without a word, the big man shut the door. Smith stood looking at the closed door for a minute, then sighed and turned to go. The door opened again and the big man came out into the hall. He was still in his undershirt but he had zipped up his fly. He was holding a gun. Smith looked at the gun. “It’s cool,” said the big man. “I’m a cop.” The baby stopped crying. “I’m Mike.”
“Okay. Nice to meet you,” said Smith, who had never seen a gun before except on TV. “That’s a big gun.”
“It does the job,” said Mike. “Where’s the intruder?”
“In the bathroom.”
“In the bathroom?” said Mike, as if he had already forgotten what Smith had told him before. Mike walked slowly and quietly down the hall to the open door of Smith’s apartment. Smith did not follow him. Mike raised both arms, his left hand supporting the hand that held the gun, and vanished into the apartment. Smith waited, not knowing what to expect, but hoping for a shout, a gunshot, sounds of a struggle, something, anything. Inside Mike’s apartment the baby began crying again. After a minute or so Mike appeared in the hall and waved him over. Smith’s heart sank.
“Nothing,” said Mike.
“Are you sure?” said Smith. He followed Mike down the hall to the bathroom. The light was on and the shower curtain over the tub was drawn open. But the water was off and there was not a breath of steam anywhere. Smith touched the wall of the shower. It was wet.
“The shampoo,” said Smith.
“The shampoo?”
“It’s on the wrong side of the tub. I keep it on the other end.”
Mike looked at the shampoo bottle. “Someone broke into your house, shampooed, and left?” said Mike. “What’s your name?”
“Smith.”
“Smith what?” said Mike.
“Smith, John.”
Mike held his gun down at his side. “Okay, John. I checked your place out. Every room. Looked in the closets. Even looked under your bed. Nobody’s here.”
Oh Christ, thought Smith. “Thanks. Thanks a lot. I know this looks a little crazy.”
“Let me ask you something, John,” said Mike.
“Sure.”
“You been having a few tonight?”
Smith wanted to get out of the bathroom but Mike was standing in the doorway. “No,” he said, “I don’t drink.”
“You got a bottle on the kitchen table,” said Mike. He said it matter-of-factly.
“I know,” said Smith. “It’s a kind of test for myself. I used to drink but I don’t anymore. I keep that bottle there to remind me.”
“Okay,” said Mike and yawned and the yawn made his mouth seem enormous. “There’s nobody here, John. Okay?”
“Yeah, thanks. Thanks a lot. I’m sorry to have bothered you,” said Smith, just wanting Mike to move so he could get out of the bathroom.
“That’s okay. I’m a public servant, you know. People forget that about cops. We’re public servants.”
“Yeah, you sure are,” said Smith. “I really appreciate it.”
“Don’t drink and drive, John.”
“What? Oh, sure. I don’t have a car. And I don’t drink. Not anymore.”
Mike finally started back down the hallway to the door. Halfway to the door he stopped and turned back to Smith. “Keep your door locked. You never know who you’re going to find in your shower, right John?” Smith couldn’t tell whether he was smiling or smirking.
“Yeah, that’s for sure,” said Smith and was relieved when Mike was out and he shut and locked the door. It was half-past midnight and Smith was afraid to go to bed. He walked cautiously to the living room and looked around. He sat down on the faux leather sofa, took the address book from the end table, and looked up a number. He picked up the phone and punched in the number.
“Hello,” said a woman’s voice.
“Hi. This is John S,” he said.
“Hello, John.”
“I know it’s late. Did I wake you?”
“No problem,” said the woman. “What’s up, John?”
“I’ve got a problem.” John took a deep breath. “Christ, I’m sorry to wake you.”
“That’s all right. Where are you?”
Smith looked around. “Nowhere. Home.”
“Are you sober, John?”
“Yeah, I’m sober.”
There was a pause on the other end. “So what’s the problem?”
“I just need someone to talk to,” said Smith. Oh Christ, he thought, they don’t care unless you’re drunk. “Or I need a drink,” he added.
“Let’s talk then,” said the woman. John knew the woman only as Sarah T.
“Can you come here?” asked Smith.
“Well, maybe it would be better if we met somewhere else. We could have coffee.”
“Sure, of course,” said Smith quickly. “I understand.”
“What’s close for you?”
“I don’t know. The diner on Delaney? Nighthawks—it’s an all-nighter. Is that too far for you?” Smith could hear movement on the other end, something creaking, the bed or the floor boards or old bones. Sarah T was not young.
“Take me about twenty minutes. Why don’t you go right now? Have a coffee and have something to eat.”
“I haven’t been drinking.”
“That’s good,” said Sarah. “See you in twenty. Now don’t stand me up.”
“Okay. Thanks a lot.” Smith hung up and went to the closet to get his jacket. He put his hand on the doorknob and stopped. He had heard something, like a faint cough. Oh, come on, he thought. But he had a bad feeling. He backed away from the closet and crossed the living room to the window and looked up the dark and deserted street. It was quiet and peaceful as a tomb. It’s not that cold, he told himself and walked carefully down the hall, glancing at the closed closet door as he passed, and left.
Sitting in a booth in the back of the Nighthawks Diner, Smith was cold. He wrapped his hands around his coffee cup hoping its heat could somehow permeate his whole body, but instead the coffee turned cold.
“Where’s your coat, John?” It was Dolores, the waitress. Smith had been coming to the diner so often over the past six months that he knew the names of the waitresses, the cook, even the busboys, who came and went, and they knew his name.
“I forgot it,” said Smith, not knowing what else to say.
“Jeeze, hon, I forget a lot of things,” said Dolores. “I’m very forgetful. But I don’t forget my coat.”
“I didn’t think it was that cold,” said Smith, stroking his coffee cup.
“It’s January.”
“I guess I lost track,” said Smith.
“I lose track of a lot of things,” said Dolores, her hands on her hips. “But I don’t lose track of the month.”
Smith looked up at her and said nothing, just nodded earnestly as if they had reached an accord on some important matter and there was no need for further discussion. He wished she would go away. Dolores was about 40, swarthy, not a very big woman but with very big breasts, whose cleavage was alarmingly displayed, for better or worse, by her ill-fitting waitress’s white uniform.
“You know how I don’t lose track and don’t forget?” said Dolores. Smith shook his head. “I make lists,” she said. “I make lists about everything important. Here.” She leaned forward, plunged her hand deep down her cleavage and produced a small white slip of paper. She handed it to Smith. “What does that say?”
Smith unfolded the paper. It was warm and a little moist. “Milk,” he said.
“Right. I got to get milk. No bread?” said Dolores.
“Just milk,” said Smith. He handed the paper back to her.
Dolores re-deposited the paper securely. “You ought to make lists,” she told Smith.
“That’s a good idea. I’m going to do that.” He was willing to agree to do anything to get her to go away.
“You going to order? We got your favorite chili.”
“Which chili’s that?”
“The only chili we got,” she said. “The kind that warms you up on a cold night when you forget your coat.”
Christ, let it go, thought Smith. “Sure. Give me the chili. No. Wait a minute. I’m waiting for someone. I’ll order when she gets here. Could I have a warm up on the coffee?”
“Bottomless cup, hon,” said Dolores. “That’s what we give you here. Be right back.”
Smith looked down the length of the diner toward the front door hoping Sarah T would materialize any minute. The Nighthawks was an old, authentic diner, long and narrow. It looked like an actual dining car that had uncoupled somehow from an old passenger train of long ago and ended up stranded on this dark city block going nowhere. The booths were all on one side along the windows opposite the long counter. The white Formica counter was covered with glass salt and pepper shakers and metal napkin dispensers and fronted by red topped swivel stools. The back wall behind the counter was all gleaming stainless-steel panels in a diamond pattern that gave an odd disjointed look to anything reflected in it.
There were people in a few of the booths and one lone man at the counter. The man at the counter, whose back was to Smith, was wearing a shapeless gray raincoat. He was tall with straight black hair slicked down on his head. He seemed to be staring down into his bottomless cup of coffee. Smith got the feeling he knew him and it wasn’t a good feeling. The more he looked at him, the stronger the feeling became. Oh hell, he thought, not here too and slid out of the booth, keeping his eyes on the man at the counter, slowly inching his way past him, and suddenly bumped into a pair of outstretched arms that stopped him dead.
“Hey, John. Where’re you going?” It was Sarah T.
The man at the counter swiveled around in his seat. Smith recognized him with relief and irritation. It was the super of his building. He looked at Smith and then at Sarah. He nodded and winked at Smith. “Goodnight, Mister John. Don’t let the bedbugs bite, eh?” And he laughed a short staccato laugh, the same way he had laughed when Smith told him there was a strange man sitting on the fire escape outside his window and when he hurried in to see saw nothing but a fat gray pigeon.
“Are you all right, John?” asked Sarah.
“Yeah. I was just going out to get some air and wait for you,” he lied. “Come on. I’ll buy you a bowl of chili.” Smith and Sarah slid back into the booth where Smith’s cold cup of coffee was waiting for him. Sarah took off her wool coat and scarf and dropped it in the booth next to her. Dolores appeared and filled Smith’s cup. “Coffee, hon?” she said to Sarah.
“Yes, please,” said Sarah.
“You want that chili now, John? And one for your friend here?”
“None for me thanks,” said Sarah. “It’s past my stomach’s bedtime.”
“Just for me then and a glass of milk,” said Smith, and watched Dolores saunter away with a suspicious backwards glance at Sarah.
“I’m really sorry for calling so late,” said Smith.
“Stop apologizing,” said Sarah. “That’s what we’re here for. For each other, right? I woke up a lot of people in the middle of the night in my time, believe me.”
Sarah was 60 but looked older. She was a petite woman with a lovely trim figure and a handsome face with lively deep dark eyes and short dyed dark hair. Her skin, however, was gray, almost ashen, and chiseled with fine lines, particularly around her eyes. She was a stalwart of the local chapter of Alcoholics Anonymous. She had been sober for 12 years and still did not take it for granted. Smith knew part of her story, the part that she shared with everyone at AA, that she had been a very bad drunk for a long time and that she blamed herself for the death of her only child, a son, who had been killed at 20 after drinking half the night and driving into a tree. Smith thought she was the nicest person he had ever met and wondered what he didn’t know about her.
“You seem a little nervous,” said Sarah, “like you’ve got the jitters.”
“Oh, I’m okay, really. Basically, I mean. I’m not drinking. I’m really not, not a drop, I swear.”
“Okay, John. I believe you. But I’m not sure you’re okay. It’s okay not to be okay, you know.”
Smith took a deep breath. “It’s just that something really weird has been happening,” he said. “I’ve been seeing someone.”
“Well, that’s fine. You’re divorced now. You’ve got to move on—”
“I don’t mean seeing like that,” said Smith. He leaned toward Sarah and lowered his voice. “I mean seeing—like a vision—like seeing a ghost.”
“Okay,” said Sarah, who’d heard a lot of strange things from a lot of people, drunk and sober, over the years and who was expert at reserving judgment. “When did you start seeing these things?”
“Thing,” said Smith. “A man. About a month ago.”
“You stopped attending meetings about a month ago,” said Sarah.
“Yeah. I was doing okay. It’s six months. I thought I could cut back on the meetings.”
“And then you started seeing ghosts.”
“Crackers?” It was Dolores with a big white bowl of unnaturally red chili.
“What?” said Smith. “Oh, yeah. Sure.”
Dolores put the chili, two packets of crackers and a glass of milk on the table. “You want a spoon,” she said to Sarah. “You want to sample our boy’s hot stuff?”
“No thanks. I’m good.”
“No need to brag, babe,” said Dolores. Sarah gave her a look. “I’m kidding,” Dolores said. “I’m a kidder. Ask your boy John here.” Smith stared down at his bowl of chili. “Enjoy,” she said but it seemed to Smith she didn’t mean it and was smirking as she left. He took a spoonful of chili and felt it bite him in the back of the throat. He took a long swallow of milk.
“Come on, John,” said Sarah. Smith said nothing, just dropped his spoon in the chili bowl and stared at it. “Come on now, talk to me. What does this ghost look like?”
“You know Kafka?”
“Kafka? The writer?” said Sarah.
“I think it’s Kafka.”
Sarah sipped her coffee. She looked out the window to the dark street. It was raining. “I don’t know what Kafka looks like,” she said.
“Lois—my ex-wife—has a framed photo of Kafka on the wall by our PC. She has a half dozen books on Kafka. She loves Kafka,” said Smith. “She did the audio book of The Metamorphosis for the publisher she works for.”
“She’s done voice-overs for commercials too, hasn’t she?” said Sarah.
“She did a Mop n’ Glow spot on TV. She’s the voice of the blonde-haired mop. I see it all the time. I’m sitting there watching TV and this mop is talking to me and it’s Lois.”
“When was the last time you spoke to her?”
“A few weeks ago,” said John.
“And your boy? Jeff, right?”
Smith poked at his chili with his spoon. “He still doesn’t want to see me.”
“Did you tell Lois about the ghost?”
“Hell no,” said Smith. “That’s all she has to hear. I’m lucky to have visitation rights now—even if Jeff won’t see me.”
“That’ll come,” said Sarah. “Give it time.”
“What did I do that was so terrible?” lamented Smith. “It must be the stuff I don’t remember. And they won’t tell me. No one will tell me what I did.” Smith reached for his milk and knocked it over. The milk ran quickly across the table and dripped in Sarah’s lap. “Oh Christ,” said Smith and before he could stop himself began to cry. Sarah blotted the milk from the table and her lap with napkins. She reached across the table and put her hand on Smith’s arm. “It’s okay, John. Just a little split milk. It’s okay.”
“I lost my wife, lost my job, lost my friends, my home—my son—now I’m losing my mind.” Smith choked.
“You’re not losing your mind—and you haven’t lost your son,” said Sarah, almost sternly. “Come on, John. Look at me.”
“Do you believe in ghosts?”
Sarah leaned back in the booth. She watched the rain beat against the window. “There was a time I wanted to,” she said. “This coffee’s cold.” She looked around for Dolores who was serving two young men at the counter. They were giving her a hard time about something on the menu. They were drunk. Sarah reached over and took the bowl of chili. “My stomach’s awake now,” she said and took a spoonful. “After Seth was killed, I used to go and sit in his room at night. I’d just sit there and look at his things—his guitar, his sneakers against the wall—as if something, some part of him, was somehow still there, just hovering around the things he’d touched and used. We’d had a fight just before he left the night of the accident. I was drunk. Worse than drunk. I said something mean, very mean to him. I won’t tell you what I said. That’s something only he and I know and that’s the way I want it. But I wanted to take it back. I’d sit there in the dark hoping that Seth would come back, just for a moment, just a split second. I’d sit there and I could almost feel him in the room.”
“Did he come back?” Smith whispered.
“No,” said Sarah.
“I’m afraid to go home,” said Smith.
“I’ll go home with you,” said Sarah. She took his hand and smiled. “I’ve always wanted to meet Kafka.”
Smith had been awake for almost two hours but had not gotten up or hardly even moved, wanting not to disturb Sarah in the cramped bed. He lay on his side with his back to her and watched the window turn gradually from black to gray. Steam hissed from the old metal radiator under the window. Smith had an erection and wondered why he hadn’t had it when he needed it. He felt he had let Sarah down. Then he heard something and he went instantly limp. A cough. He turned very carefully and looked at Sarah. She was sound asleep on her belly and breathing quietly. He lifted his head and listened and heard the cough again. He slid out of the bed and tiptoed to the bedroom door and peeked into the living room. No one was there. He crossed the living room and looked in the kitchen. Sitting at the kitchen table was a man in a long black coat and a bowler hat. He was sitting quietly, his hands folded on the kitchen table. He looked like he had just come in from a long night out. He didn’t seem to notice Smith. Smith backed away, moving backwards through the living room, back to the bedroom. He woke up Sarah.
“John?” she said sleepily, turning on her side.
Smith put his finger to his lips and motioned Sarah to get up. She sat up stiffly in bed and rubbed her eyes. “What’s the matter?” she whispered. Her face was puffy.
“In the kitchen,” said Smith. Sarah took hold of his arm and pulled herself up out of bed. She took her white cotton panties from the chair by the bed and slipped into them, but didn’t bother with anything else. She followed Smith out of the bedroom to the kitchen. Smith looked cautiously in the kitchen door. He turned to her and shook his head.
“What is it?” asked Sarah.
“Nothing,” said Smith. “Nothing at all.” He turned wearily and walked back to the bedroom. Sarah went into the kitchen. A chair was pulled away from the kitchen table where a bottle of rye whiskey was lying on its side. She picked up the bottle. It was full and the seal on the cap was unbroken. She returned to the bedroom and found Smith sitting on the edge of the bed staring out the window.
“Did you see him? Kafka?” she asked.
“Yes,” said Smith. “Well, no. I mean I think I did.” Smith turned to Sarah. “Christ, I never saw things when I was drunk. Never.”
“You’re just going through something,” said Sarah, sitting next to him on the bed. “It’ll pass. Believe me, John.”
“I’m sorry I couldn’t do anything last night.”
“You did something,” said Sarah.
“It wasn’t much.”
“You made me feel good,” said Sarah. “I get down too, you know. Sometimes just a touch is all you really need. Anything I can do for you?” She put her hand in Smith’s lap.
“Thanks for being there for me,” he said and hoped she would take her hand away.
“Come on, put your arms around me.”
Smith mechanically put his arms around her and felt her soft small breasts against his chest. When he felt he had held her the minimum time required he said, “It’s almost seven. I’ve got to go to work.”
“Me too,” said Sarah. She got up and started gathering her things. Smith watched her get dressed. Sarah noticed him watching her and smiled. “Not bad for an old broad, right?” she said.
“You’re lovely. You really are. I mean it,” said Smith.
When Sarah was dressed she took a pad and pen from her purse and wrote something. “I’m Sarah Talmudge. Here’s my address and phone numbers, home and work. And who are you, John S?”
“Smith. John Smith.”
“Call me tonight, John Smith. Or anytime you want to. Okay?”
“Okay.”
“You’re going to be fine,” she said. “One way or the other, we’ll get you through this. If we have to kick some ghost butt, we will.”
“You don’t believe me, do you?”
Sarah kissed him. “Call me,” she said and left.
Smith worked in the customer service department of Universal Health, a health insurance company, a job which a man named Roger B had gotten him a month after he started attending AA meetings and been informed by his former employer, a law firm, that they would not be inviting him to rejoin them even after a period of prolonged sobriety. Smith was secretly glad, as he had never liked the practice of law to begin with and never felt he was really good at it, although he handled his cases competently. He saw too much of the slow, grinding, relentless inner workings of the law and came not only to distrust it but to resent and almost fear it. Although his job at Universal Health was trivial and tedious and did not pay much, it was far less demanding than the law and although it had its unpleasant side, it was immeasurably less stressful. It was something he could handle with little effort while attempting to put his life back together. He spent his day on the phone explaining to people, many of them elderly or sick, some of them desperate, the inscrutable limitations, conditions and restrictions of the health care policies they had thought would take care of them but now saw as just another affliction.
“But it’s $212,322,” said the woman, her voice breaking up on the phone. It was a bad connection.
“I understand that, Mrs. Cleaver,” said Smith patiently.
“$212,322,” repeated the woman, “and he died.”
“Many of those procedures did not have prior authorization,” Smith explained. “Your policy requires prior authorization for certain procedures. And the anesthesiologist was out of network.”
“But he died.”
“I’m very sorry,” said Smith. “You can appeal. I’m going to refer you to the section of our manual on appeal procedures.”
“Are you a human being? Am I talking to a real person?”
“Yes, I’m real, Mrs. Cleaver.”
“I’m seventy years old,” said Mrs. Cleaver. “No. Seventy-one. I mean seventy. I’m seventy-two years old, young man.”
“I’m sorry, Mrs. Cleaver. Do you have a copy of the manual handy?”
“My Benjamin was just sixty-four and he died. But let me tell you something. Are you there?”
“Yes, Mrs. Cleaver,” said Smith, biting his lip.
“I saw Benjamin last night. Right here. Right in the kitchen. Right by the refrigerator.”
Oh Christ, thought Smith. “Okay, Mrs. Cleaver.”
“And he is pissed,” she said, her voice cracking and fading away.
“Hello? Mrs. Cleaver?” The line had gone dead. Smith took off his headset and laid it on the desk. He pressed the palms of his hands against his eyes and saw pinwheels spinning.
“You all right, John?” It was Brittaman, Smith’s boss, suddenly crowding his cubicle. He was a very small man with a very loud voice. He always sounded as if he was shouting.
“Yeah, sure, Mr. Brittaman. I just lost a customer.”
“Friend,” said Brittaman. “Not customer, John. They’re friends. That’s how we think of them, right?”
“I just lost a friend,” Smith said, wondering if Brittaman’s height qualified him as a genuine midget or if he fell just short.
“I know.”
“Yeah, I know you know,” said Smith, who knew all the calls were monitored, for quality assurance, as he’d been told.
“You have to get a little tougher, John,” said Brittaman. “You can’t let them ramble. Rambling wastes time and time is money. The less money we make, the higher rates we have to charge our friends.”
“Right,” said Smith. “But this woman—she’s seeing a ghost—”
“Five visits to a psychotherapist in the network only,” said Brittaman. “And she’s got a $40 co-pay. After five visits we’re not responsible. She’s on her own.”
“She’s old. She seems confused. She doesn’t understand,” said Smith. Someone in an adjoining cubicle snickered.
Brittaman looked pained. “That’s why you’re here, John. To make people understand. Understood?”
“Yes.”
“Now call her back. Make sure she understands that she’s responsible for those charges.”
“The $212,000?” asked Smith.
“$212, 322, I believe.”
“Shit,” said Smith.
Brittaman looked at him. “Excuse me?”
“I’ll call her,” said Smith.
“You know, John, we’re giving you a chance here. We went out on a limb for you, as a special favor to Roger.”
“I’ll call her right now.”
“A lot of people wouldn’t be so understanding,” said Brittaman darkly.
Jesus Christ, who did I kill? thought Smith. “I’m sorry, Mr. Brittaman.”
“All right. Now don’t disappoint me.”
“I won’t.”
“It’s lunch time,” said Brittaman. “Call her after lunch. Go have a cup of coffee. You look awful.”
“I’ll do that,” said Smith. He sat at his desk staring at the six-inch-thick Universal Health Care Manual of Benefits and Obligations that he was going to walk Mrs. Cleaver through after lunch. He thought of his son Jeff who was twelve and was already taller than Brittaman. He got up, grabbed his jacket, and headed out for lunch.
The coffee shop on the corner was full of noise, food smells and people and there was no place for him at a table or even at the counter. He couldn’t get take out and return to the office as eating in the cubicle was forbidden. He roamed the crowded streets until he found a hot dog vendor on the corner and got a hot dog with mustard and red onions and a bottle of chocolate milk. Reaching for his money he dropped the hot dog on his shoe. The hot dog vendor, a skinny man with a Hitler mustache, laughed and said “That went down easy,” and asked him if he wanted another one. Smith just paid him for the fallen hot dog, took the chocolate milk and melded back into the crowd. He went down a side street and stood against a red brick wall and took out his cell phone. He scrolled down to a number and pressed send. He stared down at his mustard stained shoe.
“Lois Smith.” An image of a dancing blonde mop popped into Smith’s head.
“Lois? It’s John.”
“Hello, John. I’m right in the middle of something.”
“How’s Jeff?”
“He’s fine. Better. How are you doing?” Lois’s voice was neutral.
“I’m good,” said Smith. “Things are coming along. I was just wondering how Jeff was.”
“He’s okay. You know how kids are. They bounce back.” Lois paused. “I know you miss him.”
“I do,” said Smith. “Is he still mad? I know that’s not the right word—”
“He did ask about you the other night,” said Lois.
“Yeah? What did he say?”
A policeman on a motorcycle had stopped in the street and was looking at Smith.
“He asked if you were going to jail,” said Lois.
Smith swallowed hard. “Why would he ask that?”
“Oh, come on, John,” said Lois, her voice hardening.
The policeman had gotten off the motorcycle. He was wearing a shiny white helmet and dark glasses and Smith couldn’t tell if he was looking directly at him or not.
“I’d like to see him,” said Smith. “Please. Anywhere you want. Do you think that would be okay?”
“I’ll ask him, John. That’s all I can do. I’ll call you and let you know either way.”
“Thanks, Lois. Thanks a lot. I’m really sorry. You know that,” said Smith.
“That’s not enough. Sorry doesn’t do it. Not this time. I’ll let you know,” said Lois and hung up.
The policeman walked up to Smith. He was a head taller, stocky and well muscled, but with a bit of a paunch. He took off his helmet and dark glasses. “Hello, John,” he said. It was Mike, Smith’s neighbor, who he had awakened the night before.
“Oh, hi,” said Smith, who had forgotten Mike’s name.
“You got mustard on your shoe,” said Mike, almost accusingly.
Smith felt nervous. People were beginning to stare. “Oh, yeah. I dropped my hot dog.” He held up his bottle of chocolate milk, as if that could clear things up.
“Okay.”
“I’ve got to get back to work,” said Smith, inching away from the wall.
“You have any more disturbances?” Mike asked, his hand on his holster. “I mean of the shower variety?”
“No, none at all. And thanks for last night,” said Smith beginning to move away.
“Protect and serve. That’s what we’re here for.”
“I really appreciate that,” said Smith, waved and started walking up the block.
“Hey, John,” called Mike, putting his dark glasses back on.
“Yeah?” said Smith, still walking, but looking back.
Mike put his helmet back on. “Better get that mustard off your shoe. It’ll leave a stain you’ll never get out.”
“Will do.” Smith turned the corner and broke into a half run back to the office.
When Lois called Smith and told him that Jeff had agreed to see him, he went to the electronics store and asked the salesperson what the hottest new computer game for a 12- year- old was, but when the salesperson handed him a game called Zombie Kill, he bought a football game instead. That Saturday he took the train out of the city to the suburb where his ex-wife and son—and up until six months ago he himself—lived. The train was almost empty and the conductor was meandering down the car exchanging pleasantries with the few passengers, mostly dark-skinned women, who, Smith figured, were city dwellers on their way to the suburbs to clean the houses of the better-offs. When the conductor took Smith’s ticket he looked at it for what seemed like a long time. He looked at Smith and didn’t seem too friendly.
“You’re not a senior, are you?” said the conductor.
“A senior?”
“Sixty-two,” said the conductor.
“No, not close,” said Smith. “What’s the problem?”
“You’ve got a senior ticket. Discounted.”
“I do? I didn’t know. I didn’t ask for a senior.”
“Well, how’d you get it then?” The conductor had a red face, so red it looked like he had rouged his cheeks. A few people in the car turned in their seats to look at Smith.
“They must have just given it to me at the station,” said Smith. “I don’t know why.”
“You don’t look so hot, but you don’t look sixty-two,” said the conductor and one of the dark-skinned women laughed and said something in a language Smith did not recognize.
“It’s just some kind of mistake,” said Smith. “I’ll pay the difference.”
The conductor suddenly smiled, an unpleasant smile, and winked at Smith. “I’ll let it slide this time,” he said. “We all need to get away with something sometime, right?” He punched Smith’s ticket and moved on down the aisle. Before he exited the car, he looked back at Smith and he wasn’t smiling.
Smith was glad to get off the train and he bounded down the station stairs right into a taxi. It wasn’t until they pulled up to the curb of his former home that he realized he had left the football computer game on the train and had nothing to give his son. “Oh Christ,” he said.
“What’s the matter? Wrong house?” said the taxi driver.
“I had a gift for my son. I left it on the train.”
“Your kid like computer games?” said the driver.
“Yeah, that’s what it was.”
“I got a game I picked up for my boy. You want it? I can get another later.”
“Yeah, sure,” said Smith. “Thanks a lot.”
“Fifty bucks.”
“That’s a lot,” said Smith.
“You got time to shop around?”
Smith paid the fare and the $50 and took the small wrapped package and got out of the taxi. As he walked up the path to the white Tudor, the front door opened and Lois came out and stood on the front steps. The last time Smith had seen her was at her lawyer’s office two months ago when they had finalized the divorce. She was wearing the same black slacks and red turtle neck sweater she had worn then and the same blank expression.
“How are you, John?” said Lois. It wasn’t a casual question.
Smith stopped and stood about four feet from her. “I’m good, Lois. Really. I wouldn’t come here if I wasn’t.”
Lois stood in the door, her arms crossed, looking at him. “You look a little tired,” she said.
“I feel fine,” he lied.
“I’ll get Jeff,” she said. “But John—”
“Yeah?”
“Don’t expect a lot. I mean with Jeff. Go slow, okay?”
“Yeah, sure. I will. I mean go slow,” said Smith.
Lois went back inside and shut the door. Smith stood on the path and waited. The front lawn was short and brown and the big maple tree was all but bare with a few withered leaves clinging to the high branches. He wondered who had raked the leaves that fall. Raking and bagging the leaves was something he always enjoyed doing, even when he was drunk and could hardly stand up. The house looked the same except for a large red decal that was pasted on the sidelight of the front door. Printed in a crescent over a large black hand in a stop gesture was Protected by Guard-All Home Security. Smith zipped up his jacket. The door opened and Lois came out with Jeff, her arm around his shoulders.
“Hey, champ,” said Smith. He had not seen Jeff for six months and did not have a clear recollection of the last day he saw him.
“Hey, Dad.” Jeff was wearing a red leather jacket Smith had not seen before. He had Smith’s dark hair and eyes, but his mother’s pale complexion. He was tall for 12. He was holding a football.
“You still playing computer games?” said Smith and handed him the package.
Jeff took the package and looked at his mother. “Thanks,” he said. He ripped off the wrapping paper. It was Zombie Kill. Lois looked at it and frowned at Smith. Oh Christ, Smith thought.
“So what are you guys going to do?” said Lois.
“Maybe we could throw the ball around?” asked Jeff.
“Yeah, sure,” said Smith. “That’d be great. We can go down to the park.”
“I’ll get my jacket,” said Lois.
“You don’t have to come, Mom,” said Jeff.
“I need the air.”
It was a mild day for January but there was a stiff wind blowing off the lake in the park and Smith felt cold. Lois sat on a bench by the asphalt path watching Smith and Jeff toss the football back and forth in the field by the lake. Jeff had a good arm and could throw the ball far and accurately, but Smith, who had never been good at sports, kept dropping the ball. When he threw it back to Jeff the ball would go end over end in a crazy way and bounce a few yards before it could reach him.
Smith wanted to sit and talk to his son, but Jeff kept motioning him away, wanting him to go deep, and catch the bombs he threw. Smith kept running out, missing the ball, and running back close enough to reach Jeff with his throw. After twenty minutes he was cold and out of breath, but he didn’t want to stop. He ran out for a long, looping pass and stretched his arms out as far as he could, wanting desperately to get his fingers on the ball and make at least one great catch, but hit a wet spot on the grass and fell hard. He sat on the grass and breathed heavily. He saw Lois in the distance, sitting on the bench, with a tall man who had suddenly appeared sitting beside her. Jeff ran toward Smith, but passed him and went after the ball. He walked back slowly, the ball under his arm, and sat down next to him on the cold ground.
“So how have you been, champ?” said Smith. He looked over his shoulder at Lois and the stranger on the bench.
“Okay,” said Jeff. “I guess.” He was pulling on the laces of his sneakers. His cheeks were red from the wind. “Dad?”
“Yeah, champ?”
“Why did you do it?”
Smith took a deep breath and it hurt. “Drinking—alcoholism—it’s a disease, Jeff—”
“I don’t mean the drinking,” said Jeff and yanked a clump of grass up by the roots and scattered it over his sneakers.
“What did I do?” said Smith. “I don’t remember everything. Did I hurt you? For Christ’s sake, champ—”
“You almost killed her,” said Jeff. “You know what you did.” He was crying.
“No,” said Smith, “I don’t know. I know the police came. But your mom, she sent them away, right? I would never hurt her—or you—or anybody—”
“She won’t let anyone see her neck,” said Jeff. “Her neck. It still shows.”
“What did I do? Tell me for God’s sake, please,” pleaded Smith. He could see Lois and the tall man standing up now by the bench and looking their way.
“Go out for a pass,” said Jeff.
“What?”
“Go out for a pass,” yelled Jeff.
Smith got up clumsily and started running. He had run about thirty yards when he felt the rock-hard ball hit him square between the shoulder blades. It felt as if it had passed right through him. He was stunned. He stood in the field and watched his son run toward Lois and the tall stranger.
By the time Smith got back to his apartment, it was dark and raining. He opened the door and walked into the living room without hesitation. He hung up his jacket in the closet. The red light on his answering machine was blinking and he clicked it on. “John, it’s Sarah, I hope--” it began, but Smith immediately pressed erase. He sat on the couch and stared out the window at the cold silent night for a long time. He heard a cough. One cough. Then another. He went into the bedroom. Kafka was sitting on the left edge of the bed. His eyes were black and unseeing. His white shirt was open on his emaciated chest. Smith took off his wet shoes. He laid down on the right side of the bed, on his side, facing the rain-streaked window. Kafka sneezed. “Gesundheit,” said Smith. He fell asleep.
Paul Negri has twice won the gold medal for fiction in the William Faulkner-William Wisdom Writing Competition. His stories have appeared in print and on line in The Penn Review, Into the Void, Jellyfish Review, Pif Magazine, Concho River Review and over 40 other publications. He lives and writes in Clifton, New Jersey.