The Death of Perry Many Paws (20 page)

“Can you tell me anything about the story? I’ve never read it.”

“It was first published in 1840 in
Burton’s Gentlemen’s Magazine
. That was the last issue of that periodical although I’m sure the demise of the magazine was in no way related to Poe’s story.”

Perhaps if the magazine had been named in a way that invited women to read it, it might have survived longer.

“It also appeared simultaneously in a periodical named
Atkinson’s Casket
.”

Another catchy magazine title.

“Can you tell me what the story is about?” I asked.

“Of course.”

There was a long moment of silence. I mentioned earlier that quiet times between friends and loved ones are comfortable and soothing. This was not one of those times. Hiram finally gather his thoughts.

“It’s about a man who has been ill who sits in a coffee shop in London and watches the people passing by. We aren’t sure what his illness is, medical or mental, but he has a lot of free time on his hands to just sit all day and people watch. He feels isolated and notices that each person in the crowd is just as isolated as he. One man catches his
attention, an old man in ragged clothes. He decides to follow him. At some point the narrator thinks the old man may have a dagger under his coat but he never actually sees one. The old ragged man wanders through London all night and the narrator follows. The old man goes into the poor and desolate sections of the city and through the markets until he makes his way back into the center of London. At the end of the chase the exhausted narrator stands in front of the old man and the old man does not even notice him. The narrator surmises that the old man is guilty of some horrible haunting crime, although he has no idea what it was, and that this crime condemns the man to wander forever through the streets of London, trying to forget.”

“It seems sort of inconclusive.”

“Life is inconclusive. We all have to draw our own conclusions. It keeps you thinking.”

“But this isn’t life, Hiram. It’s a short story. It should have a real ending.”

“But all writing is about life, isn’t it? Most things in life don’t have neat conclusions.”

Well, apparently he hadn’t read any Perry Many Paws books because they all had clear conclusions with a lesson or two thrown in. It’s hard to have a life lesson if no one understands how the book ends. I decided I had taken up enough of Hiram’s time so I thanked him and popped my head into Grace’s office to tell her goodbye. Hugh was still there so I just waved and left. I wondered how Grace would feel if I told her there were no conclusions in life; we were all condemned to just wander through and make assumptions and then die without any answers. Very unsatisfactory.

am and I lingered over breakfast the next morning. It was Saturday and he had his day planned— a ten o’clock squash game with his friend John Sullivan, lunch at a sports bar followed by the local high school football game where John’s son was making his debut as the back-up quarterback. I had the whole day to myself.

Abbey had called last night and asked if she could bring some friends home for Thanksgiving. One of the girls in her dorm was from California and wouldn’t be making the trip home so close to Christmas. One of the guys in her Anthropology class (‘no, he’s
not
a boyfriend’) was from New Zealand and wasn’t going home again until summer. We encouraged her to invite them. Claudia and Sybil would be joining us, as well as Syra, Bing, Diane and her family, Grace, Hugh and Ryan. I made a mental note to reserve the services of the Birdsey Falls Dust Bunnies to come clean the house and the guest rooms right before each of the holidays. I kept Abbey’s room and the guest room Grace had stayed in dusted and vacuumed, but the other rooms weren’t spruced up until we knew people were going to use them. I didn’t want to send either of Abbey’s friends back to college with lungs coated in dust, not to mention a very low opinion of my housekeeping skills, however accurate it might be.

Abbey had asked if my brother Graham would be here again for Thanksgiving. He wasn’t a regular for the holidays but popped in once
in awhile, usually when he had a new book out and was traveling up and down the East Coast promoting it. Last Thanksgiving he’d been doing the rounds for his new book,
The Argosy of Narcissism
, which was out “in time for the holidays.” Why anyone would buy this book for the holidays, or any time, was beyond me. In his latest book Graham proposed that bisexuality was neither a deviant nor a normal alternative to hetero- or homosexual relationships and was not actually driven from any kind of sexual need or desire at all. He claimed that the bisexual was really asexual in his or her libido and was an extreme narcissist who needed the adoration of both men and women to be satisfied emotionally. The sex act for the narcissist was just the affirmation of his or her desirability and meant nothing to him/her sexually.

This theory, including numerous examples of famous bisexuals and their intimate sex lives, were expounded at the Thanksgiving table last year. Graham is the ultimate pompous ass so the delivery alone was irritating notwithstanding the actual subject matter. Cam and Abbey both claim that Graham is the evil twin of Kelsey Grammer’s character Frasier, without the humor, charm or humanity. I have to agree. Although it’s hard to get in even a “please pass the cranberry sauce” when Graham is pontificating, somehow Grace was able to interject her personal theory of bisexuality, which was that bisexuals were actually very old souls who had lived many lives as both men and women and thus didn’t feel confined to loving just one gender. It was a Thanksgiving dinner to remember and I understood Abbey’s concern about it being repeated when she had friends here. Luckily for all of us, Graham was in England researching a new book, the subject of which I was blissfully unaware.

Cam was planning to stop at Grace’s house on the way home and pick up Franklin’s newspapers. I had hurried home after my trip to the bookstore yesterday and written down my ideas about the hot air balloon adventure for Perry and his friends. I decided to spend
the morning working on my idea and then send an outline to Tim. After lunch, when I knew Syra was at her weekly breast cancer support group, I would wander over to see Bing and pump him for information about his mother.

Cam headed out about 9:30 and I worked on my outline, so fully immersed in it that I lost all track of time. It’s a wonderful and a scary feeling, to be able to transport yourself so far into your own head, and so deeply into what you are writing, that you don’t even realize time is passing and an hour flies by like a minute. It’s like being drugged or hypnotized. Satisfied that I had something decent to send to Tim, I emailed him and then made myself a grilled cheese sandwich with a couple slices of bacon. I read the morning paper while I ate. The
Birdsey Falls Gazette
is not very large so the paper was read long before the sandwich was finished. I stared out the window while I ate the other half and tried to channel Uncle Franklin. This would all be much easier if his spirit would come to me and explain his death so I could pass it on to the police and we could all get back to our pre-murder routines. No amount of staring would bring his spirit to me, so I rinsed off my dishes, loaded the dishwasher and gave Bing a call. You can’t just pop in on Bing when he is home alone because he simply will not answer the door. He won’t answer the phone, either, but he will listen to your message and then, sometimes, call you back. Luckily I was among the select few who warranted a call back and we agreed that I would come over in a few minutes.

I put the photo of Hetty and the other kids in my bag before I went over. I hadn’t decided how I would approach this whole thing but wanted to have the photo with me just in case. Bing was standing at the door when I got there, anxious to get me inside. I had barely gotten into the house before he closed the door and locked it. I could smell cinnamon and my stomach started anticipating something sweet and sticky to eat.

Bing ushered me into the kitchen, his favorite room. Syra claimed he did everything but sleep in there. Their house is small, and the kitchen not large enough for someone as devoted to baking as Bing. After they moved in they had a second kitchen built in the basement, and Bing did all his experimental cooking down there. This morning he had made a small batch of cinnamon rolls in the upstairs kitchen.

We sat at the table and Bing took the fragrant rolls out of the oven, scooped them on to a plate and slathered them with white frosting. They were so warm I could hear the raisins percolating under the frosting. If I’d been Mycroft I would have had a puddle of drool on the table in front of me.

“Yum.” I inhaled the sweet smell and felt the warmth in my hand. This was heaven. My stomach completely forgot the grilled cheese sandwich and pleaded for me to start eating. I obliged. “These are perfect, Bing.”

Bing gave my shoulder a squeeze and sat down. He’s a very warm and affectionate person and I’ve often thought it must be difficult for him being afraid of people and yet having a need to connect. “Have as many as you want. I always make more than Syra and I can eat. It’s very difficult for me to make pastries for just two people.”

“And we’re all the better for it, believe me. Fatter too.” Bing did resemble the Pillsbury Doughboy and, if not for the fact I was about six inches taller than Bing, I probably would, too. Weight control is extra difficult if you’re short. I wondered if Bing had always been round. I bet he was an incredibly pudgy and huggable baby.

I then invited Bing and Syra for Thanksgiving, pretending that was why I’d come over. We discussed my menu, which was always the same, and Bing agreed to make pies, which he always did. I wondered if not seeing anyone but Syra was more difficult for him since she’d had her mastectomy and radiation treatments. Bing is a nurturing person so I knew Syra received loving care, but who took care of Bing when she
wasn’t up to it? I resolved to try to invite him over to the house more often, even when there wasn’t a WOACA meeting, so he could have someone to talk to other than Syra if he needed to.

“Abbey’s bringing two friends home with her for Thanksgiving. Will that be all right with you?” I asked, knowing that he was very uncomfortable with strangers. “Claudia and Sybil will be there as usual and Diane’s family, Grace, Hugh and Ryan, so there will mostly be people you know. Just two that you won’t.”

Bing rubbed his mouth with his napkin. “Just two new people?”

“Yes, friends of Abbey who live too far away to go home for Thanksgiving. One is from California and one from New Zealand. I’m sure they’re very nice.” I started licking frosting off my fingers—pointless—because I was only going to get them sticky again when I had my second cinnamon bun.

“I guess that’s OK. I probably wouldn’t need to talk to them very much. Maybe not at all.”

“I can seat you at the other end of the table.”

It suddenly occurred to me that I should invite Hiram for Thanksgiving and see how he and Bing hit it off. They both kept to themselves. They could sit next to each other, never speak and both be happy as clams.

“Will your brother be there this year?” Needless to say, Bing hadn’t participated in the origin of bisexuality conversation last year, and had been outright horrified.

“No, Graham’s in England,” I assured him. Somehow I needed to get this conversation steered in the right direction without being too obvious. “These cinnamon buns are really good, Bing. I wish my mother had liked cooking and passed that love on to me. Was it your mom who taught you how to bake?” I was glad Grace wasn’t here because this was such a lame subject introduction that I knew we would have both burst out laughing.

“Yes, my mom was a great cook. She understood how hard it was for me to leave the house so I got to stay home and bake with her. I had to do some lessons, too, but mostly we cooked and ate. I didn’t have to play with any of the kids. It was a wonderful childhood.”

Wonderful childhoods are obviously in the eyes of the beholder. I was sure it wasn’t even legal back then to not send your child to school. Was baking considered home schooling?