'To Miami?' He had a sudden image of Jean at Sea World maybe, of Jean munching bananas in the Keys.
'I'm not sure.'
'What makes you think he went to Miami Mr. Weeks?'
'Well, he went somewhere. He said he'd been away. And that last time he came to see me, he was tan. Not just tan. It was the way he acted too. Like he'd been on the best vacation of his life, rejuvenated kind of. Like he'd found something.'
'In Miami.'
'I'm not sure,' he said again.
Something wasn't right here.
'But why did you think it was Miami? I said all these people live in Miami and you said oh yeah.'
'I don't understand…'
'That's okay, Mr. Weeks. I do. You thought it was Miami because you'd looked at the file and seen it there. You said you didn't, but you did. You peeked.'
Weeks looked just a little sheepish now, maybe even kind of embarrassed. Anyway, he didn't look too well.
'You know what, Mr. Weeks?' It was starting to come together for him now, not perfectly together, not beyond a doubt and eureka together, but at least he had this theory now, a theory he was starting to like, was starting to become even a little fond of. 'I think you did what Jean wanted you to do. He bequeathed it to you, didn't he? I think he wanted you to look. I think, in a way, he was counting on it. That's why he gave it to you. I think he was counting on something else too.'
'What?' His eyes, his whole tired white face seemed to be asking him, pleading with him, in dire need of an answer. And quick. For William could suddenly see that this, all this, had been a great strain on him. Think about it. He'd been appointed keeper of the flame, but he'd never been told why or for how long.
'Maybe,' William said, speaking slowly, laying it out now, not just for Weeks but for him, 'he was hoping one day someone else would come knocking on your door, not just anyone, but someone you knew, maybe someone whose picture you'd seen. Maybe even an old Boy Scout asking for donations.'
There it was. As theories went, it wasn't half bad. It even made a little sense. Anyway, it'd do. And now, it was time to go, he was absolutely sure of it. But he had one more question, just one.
'Mr. Weeks, why didn't you go to the funeral? You, his conscience, why didn't you go?'
'Oh,' Mr. Weeks said, as if he'd just been asked something inexplicably stupid, because he had, 'but I don't go out anymore. I haven't gone out in years. Not in years.'
And William, looking at the heavily draped windows, so carefully battened down against the light, thought yes, he's telling the truth, isn't he. He'd been sitting in a kind of zombie land, a land of the living dead, without a single spring or a single daybreak, a world stuck in time. And now he thought that maybe he'd been sitting there for longer than he'd realized. Outside was the real world, all they really had, where things were born every minute, and where they died only with a struggle, and sometimes not even then. He could be mistaken, but he actually thought he had a smile plastered across his face. No kidding. All because he was leaving the darkness for blue skies, his red file clutched firmly under his arm. Okay, put it this way. He was, in a matter of speaking, coming home.
THIRTEEN
Rise and shine. Up and at 'em. Charge. Ringggg. It was, he supposed, the first time in a long time that he'd picked up a phone in anger. 'Directory Assistance-for what city?' the voice said. And all William could think of, other than the fact that the woman who eventually came on the line seemed pissed off for no discernible reason, was that the bill would be pretty steep, or, at least, more than he could afford. Funny thing-the phone. For some time now, it had sort of been reduced to just another aid for the elderly- like those buzzers they put at the bedside of an invalid. Call it a symbol of his own increasingly feeble existence. All his calls: to Social Security, to Con Ed, to the VA, a late check, a high bill, were, of course, all cries for help. Last night's call to that woman hadn't been different, just more alcoholic perhaps.
'Miami Directory Assistance,' the woman intoned, slightly more pissed off than before.
So, okay, this was a cry for help too. But this was offense instead of defense, action instead of reaction; this felt different. Though there was always the chance, William thought now, that he was kidding himself. Back as he was in the real world, there was always that chance, and given his track record, that likelihood.
Back in the real world, you can fail. Absolutely.
He'd fed the operator the first name in the file, and she'd answered 'No such listing.'
Okay, the fifth word in the Boy Scout Pledge: I promise to be faithful, loyal, thrifty (that one wasn't hard), courteous, and diligent.
Diligently, he fed her two more names. Which turned out to be the limit for one call. So he called back. And guess who came back on the line? You guessed it. But interestingly enough, it seemed that her level of courtesy began to increase in direct proportion to his level of futility. He could swear it did. As each name came back empty, her responses to him became more sympathetic, as if she sensed his frustration and was trying to soothe it.
'I'm sorry, sir, there isn't any listing under Joseph Wal- dron,' she said in answer to his ninth, tenth?… inquiry.
Several names turned up several numbers, but those names lived at addresses different from the ones listed in Jean's file. What the hell-he took them anyway.
Finally though, the list was exhausted. And so was he.
It was past ten. The boarding house had long ago settled in for the night. He could just make out the buzz of Mr. Leonati's TV; it sounded like June bugs flying kamikaze-like into a zapper. Outside, someone was bouncing a basketball; someone else was giggling; two cats were screwing each other in the alley.
They were the same sounds he heard every night, more or less. But they didn't sound the same. Think about it. They were like the commotion of a neighborhood parade- July 4th maybe, the kind that used to make his pulse pound with excitement till he grew old and it made his head pound instead. From wanting to join up to wanting to tune out in the blink of an eye. But now? He'd say he was definitely in the wanting-to-join-up camp again. Yes, now there was a parade down there that he wouldn't mind joining, or at least tagging along with for a while. Nope, he wouldn't mind that at all. Then again, he wasn't exactly Toby Tyler anymore and this running-after-parades stuff took a bunch of things he'd thought he was fresh out of. Like hope for instance. Yeah, he was running a little low on hope these days. Still…
He dialed the first number: a Mrs. Ross.
'Hello,' a woman answered.
'Am I speaking to Mrs. Ross-to Mrs. Alma Ross?'
'That's right. Alma Ross. What can I do for you?'
'You've got it backward,' William said. 'I'm about to do something for you. For if you're the Alma Ross, lately of 1629 Collins Drive, you're due for some money. An inheritance actually.'
'I don't live at 1629 Collins Drive.'
'No, of course not. But you did, didn't you, at one time?'
'I don't live at Collins Drive,' she said again. 'What inheritance?'
'Oh,' he said, sounding very disappointed, which, actually, he was. 'Perhaps there's been a mistake. You weren't contacted by our representative-a Mr. Jean Goldblum?'
'Never heard of him.'
'And you never lived at 1629 Collins Drive?'
'No.'
'Then there has been a mistake. I'm sorry for bothering you.'
'What inheritance was that-'
He hung up, then put a line through her name. Different addresses, different people. Well, he thought, what had he expected?
He tried the other three as well. Two of them were home, one wasn't, but the two that were home weren't
