The Waiting Room (20 page)

"Okay, then," I said—I sensed that she was toying with me—"where is he? Where is Abner?"

"Mr. Feary," she began, "you know as well as I that he's with Phyllis. That's what he told you, I think. Isn't that what he told you?"

"Yes."

"Then that's where he is. Of course, you do have the task of finding Phyllis, and if you're not going to mind your
p
's and
q
's, as I've asked, if you're not going to leave the whole thing alone, then for the sake of us all, Mr. Feary, so you won't go charging around like a wild animal and destroy the very delicate balance that exists between their world and ours—even now I shudder to think what you did to those poor sanitation workers, and I gasp when I think of that woman in red who certainly fell head over heels for you—then I suppose that I should tell you exactly where Phyllis is, shouldn't I?"

I was stunned. "How did you know ... I mean—"

She had been leaning forward, elbows on her knees, hands clasped. Now she leaned back, put her hands flat on the arms of the chair, and assumed a regal air. "I have my sources, Mr. Feary," she said. "I'm afraid there have been quite a few people trespassing where they oughtn't in the past few decades. I don't know why; maybe the world's getting overcrowded—by both the dead and the living, I mean. " She waved the observation away. "Whatever the reason, there are other people ... like myself, hundreds of them, I'm sure, who have taken on the task of monitoring
the comings and goings of . . ." She seemed stymied. She continued, "Of
everyone.
No! Not everyone. Not yet." She seemed suddenly very agitated. She pursed her lips repeatedly and her ample bosom rose and fell in time with her deep sighing. "I'm sorry, Mr. Feary; I'm confusing you, aren't I?"

"No, honestly," I answered. "I understand." It was another lie, of course.

"You're so
polite,"
she said again, but now as if it was beginning to wear on her. "I don't often give advice, Mr. Feary. I make pronouncements, I dispense wisdom"—she grinned—"and sometimes I act pretty damned pompous, I'm sure. But I never give advice. Now I'm going to give advice. I'm going to advise you to get together with that woman, what's-her-name?"

"Leslie?"

"Yes." She nodded. "Leslie. And marry her, or do whatever it is you want to do with her—I'm certainly not going to make judgments about how people choose to live. Buy a house, rent an apartment, live in a tent. I don't care. Just
be happy,
Mr. Feary.
Live!
You'll see—in no time at all, a few months, a year, tops, these
visions
of yours will stop and you can go back to being Sam Feary, Gentleman. That's my advice. Now take it and get out."

I
t
was good advice, all of it, and I ached to take it, but I couldn't, of course. She knew I couldn't. So, sighing yet again, she lowered her head and apologized for what she called her "inexcusable outburst."

"Sure," I said, "it's okay."

And she said, "You'll find Abner and Phyllis in Vermont, in a little house near Burlington. Do you know where that is? Burlington, I mean."

"I'm sorry?" I said.

"Burlington. In Vermont. Oh, for heaven's sake, go get a map."

I shook my head. "Are you telling me that Phyllis and Abner are ... cohabiting—"

She smiled a slight, amused smile. "Yes," she said almost wistfully, almost dreamily, her voice a high, breathy whisper, "cohabiting."

And, though I should have known better, and, in fact, I did know better, I said, "But, my God, Phyllis is dead, the woman is dead, how the hell can she and Abner
live
together in a little house in Vermont if she's dead? The whole thing is stupid… the whole thing is . . ." I cast about for the right word.

Madeline pursed her lips, in annoyance now. "Mr. Feary—
people
do not die.
Bodies
die."

"And what is that?" I burst out. "Pop philosophy? Let's put it on a bumper sticker, for God's sake—"

She broke in, her tone brusque, "I am not here to fence with you, Mr. Feary. The name of the town is Brookfield. They have a little house there and they are living in it,
cohabiting
in it, to use your phrase. And since you are obviously not going to take my advice, my suggestion would be to go to Brookfield, assess the situation carefully, very carefully, Mr. Feary, and then bring that asshole friend of yours back here. Alone!" She waved agitatedly at the door. "Now please go."

I stood at once, turned to the door, put my hand on the knob.

Madeline called, "One more thing, Mr. Feary." I glanced around at her.

She said, a small note of apology in her voice, "I thought at first that I could deal with Mr. DeGraff myself."

"Art?" I said.

"Yes. But I can't deal with him. He has . . . how can I best say this? He has gone beyond my sphere of influence, I'm afraid." A wry smile flitted across her mouth. "It happens."

"And?"

She shrugged. "And I guess you'll have to keep an eye out for him."

"What's he got against
me?
Sure, I never liked him, but—"

"I doubt that he has anything against you, Mr. Feary. But what he does have, in amazing abundance, is anger. I really believe that were it not for his anger, he would quite literally fall apart." She allowed a second or two for that to sink in. It didn't. At the time, I thought of it only as a turn of phrase. Then she said in a tone of clear finality, "Now you may go."

And I did.

~ * ~

Leslie
whoops
at the Philharmonic. When the concert is over and she is pleased with the way it's been done, she whoops and cheers almost as if she's at a hockey game. Some people turn around and look. At first they're taken aback and the impression they want to make, apparently, is that they do not want their evening at the Philharmonic upset by someone who loves being there so much that she
whoops
about it. But then they see her. And she sees them. And it's all right. I like to think that some of them, the next time they are at the Philharmonic and they have been bowled over by what they've heard, that they too will
whoop,
and cheer. But I don't think they will. They are who they are, and she is who she is.

She brings life to them for a moment or two.

~ * ~

Her hands are small and thin. They are very artistic-looking, though she denies that she is creative or artistic. I think she's wrong. I think she hasn't given herself a chance.

I often find myself looking at her hands, especially when our hands are together, hers over mine so my palm is up and hers is down. I think how fragile her hand looks in mine, and it awakens some protective sense in me, although she is not at all fragile and doesn't need to be protected by anyone. When I squeeze her hand tightly—which I do when we're listening to music—and also when I become aware, all at once, of how happy I am with her, she squeezes back and I know how physically strong she is. But still, in those moments when I'm studying her hand, or when she is tilting her head toward me and closing her eyes, I feel protective of her; I feel tender toward her.

~ * ~

I didn't drive straight to Brookfield from Abner's beach house. I went back to my apartment. I showered, I shaved. At one point, while I was walking from the bathroom to the living room with only a towel wrapped around me, I heard giggling from the bedroom. I didn't turn to look. I was trying to cultivate an
ignore them and they'll go away
attitude. It seemed to work then. After a few seconds the giggling stopped abruptly, as if a door had been slammed shut on it.

I called Leslie.

Her father answered. "Mr. Wirth?" I said.

"Yes," he said, "this is Frank Wirth." He sounded very formal, very stiff, not at all what I was used to.

"Hi," I said. "This is Sam Feary. Is Leslie there, please?"

"Yes, hold on."

Moments later, Leslie came on the line. "Hi, Sam. I didn't expect to hear from you so soon."

"Leslie, I'm going away for a few days—" I hesitated. "Is your father all right? He sounded a little . . . he didn't sound like himself."

"Daddy's ill, Sam."

"Oh. I'm sorry. Is it serious?" I felt foolish asking that.

"Yes. It's very serious." She paused; when she went on, her tone was stiffly casual. "You say you're going away for a few days?"

I was suddenly nervous. I got the clear impression that she didn't want to talk and I wasn't sure why—whether it was because she was concerned about her father or because she merely didn't want to talk to me. "Well, like I said, I'm going away, I'm going to a place called Brookfield—"

She cut in, "Yes, that's nice. I hope you have a good trip, Sam."

"Thanks. Actually, what I called about, what I was wondering was—"

"No, Sam," she interrupted. "I can't come with you. I'm sorry. My father is very sick, as I said, and I'm afraid that . . ." She stopped suddenly. I thought I heard her sniffle.

I said, "Are you okay, Leslie?" Nothing. "Leslie, are you still there?"

"Yes, Sam. I'm sorry. A touch of asthma. It happens now and again." A short pause. "Sam, I'd like to come with you—" Another pause. "I really would like to come with you. But I can't leave Daddy. You understand."

"Of course I understand. I hope he's going to be all right. I like him; I mean, he's odd, sure, but—"

"Thank you, Sam. I'll see you when you get back, okay?" I heard her sniffle once more. Then she hung up.

~ * ~

That's when the giggling started again—louder, closer—and when, without thinking, I looked at the open bedroom door, I saw the two young teenage girls in pink taffeta standing very stiffly there, giggling like babies. And, remembering Madeline, I waved toward them with my right hand and I barked, "Oh, get out of here!"

It didn't work.

They moved closer, in little shuffling steps, as if in stiff imitation of an Oriental walk, the volume of their giggles rising with each step.

I still had the towel wrapped around me, of course. I was desperately holding it in place with my left hand.

"Get out of here!" I tried again, but it sounded strained and anemic and I suppose that's the way it sounded to them, too, because their giggling suddenly grew much louder, the pace of their small mincing steps quickened, and I got what I hoped was a wildly improbable picture of myself being eaten alive by these two teenage girls in pink taffeta.

"Get
out
of here!" I tried once more, but they continued to advance on me, their giggling now more like the raucous screeching of a flock of blue jays.

I heard a hard knock at my apartment door, followed quickly by, "Hey, keep it
down
in there!" It was my neighbor, Steve Gresham, from across the hall.

I thought happily,
He can hear them, too. Steve can hear them, too.

"Keep it
down
in
there, for Chrissakes!"

The girls in pink taffeta were very close now, a couple of arm's lengths away, shuffling toward me. "Get
out
of here!"

"I'm gonna call the cops, Feary, I'm gonna call the cops!"

"Get the hell out of here!"

"Okay, pal, that's it!"

The girls in pink taffeta were within arm's reach now. Their giggling was not giggling at all; it was a kind of strange, off-key, shrieking cry.

I wanted to plead with them, "Please, leave me alone!"

But I realized that for several moments I had been screaming, much the way, I think, that a man falling screams—a scream of fear and desperation, and, above all, a scream of awful resignation:
I am going to hit the ground and there is nothing at all I can do about it!

Fear starts crazy fires inside us all, you see. It can create a sort of cohesion that keeps us from flying apart.

They reached out for me then. I felt their cold fingers on me.

"No!" I screamed.

Their fingers pressed hard into my stomach, my chest, my jaw. One hard, cold finger pushed into my ear.

And the high, keening sound of their giggles continued.

I closed my eyes. I saw a big white farmhouse, and a man and woman in their thirties in front of it, pruning some hedges, and a boy of seven or eight running happily about nearby, a pair of cap-powered six-guns blazing harmlessly away at anything that moved.

That boy was me.

He vanished as quickly as he'd appeared. So did the man and woman pruning hedges. And the big white farmhouse.

~ * ~

"Hey, buddy!" I heard. "Hey, buddy!" I was standing. I felt a sharp pain in my cheek.

"Jesus, Feary, what the hell were you doin' in here?" It was Steve Gresham's voice.

I felt another sharp pain in my cheek. "C'mon, buddy, snap outta it now!" The voice was heavy with a tired, bored authority, and I knew even before I opened my eyes that it was the voice of a cop.