TV without expression. Which is it, the toothy MC was saying, the door on the left or the door on the right? The two watchers had reached the age where they'd grown wise to this sort of con game; they knew that both doors eventually led to the same place-to here. Another man sat by the window, staring down at his shoes, his right arm hooked to an IV. He, at least, had a visitor, the only visitor in the visiting room besides him- a young girl, his granddaughter, William guessed, who was trying to make conversation. She was making conversation, only it was just a bit one-sided. The only voice he heard was hers. 'So we took Sam to the veterinarian,' she was saying, 'and the veterinarian said he had worms or something, you know the way Sam scratches himself, you remember, don't you…' But if her grandfather remembered, he didn't say so. William sat down on the metal bridge chair furthest from everyone. 'Jack!' Someone, William suddenly realized, was calling out to him. It was one of the men by the television. 'Jack,' he repeated, staring at William with a rabid expression. 'Jack, you old… you old…Jack…' 'Sorry,' William said, feeling the old dread again, pulling at him like something drowning. 'I'm not Jack.' 'Yes you are… yes you are… yes you are… you're Jack…' 'Okay,' William said. 'I'm Jack.' 'You don't say… you don't say… where's my candy, Jack… where's my candy…?' 'I don't have it.' 'Where… where… where… where's my candy…?' A black orderly wandered in. 'Now, Mr. Bertram, you know that's not Jack. Now when does Jack visit you?' 'Saturday… Saturday… Saturday…' 'That's right. You know what day it is today?' 'Saturday… Saturday… Saturday…' 'No. Today is Thursday, Mr. Bertram. That's right. Jack will be here Saturday. You'll get your candy then.' Mr. Bertram seemed satisfied with that; he turned back to the TV A minute or so later, they wheeled in Mr. Koppleman. William's first impression was that Mr. Koppleman didn't belong there. His eyes seemed much too alert, and his body, chairbound though it was, seemed much too sprightly. He actually wheeled himself in-two orderlies trailing him like Muslim wives, his arms, too long for his blue pajama sleeves, working the wheels like nobody's business. He was looking right at William, another sign that senility hadn't claimed him just yet, that he knew, at least, a stranger when he saw one. 'You here for Mr. Koppleman?' one of the orderlies asked him. 'That's right.' 'He's all yours, man.' The orderly had a Hustler magazine tucked into his coat pocket. William could make out one large nipple and a pair of fuck me glossy lips. The orderly pulled it out of his pocket and flopped himself down in a chair at the end of the room. The other orderly went over to the man sitting with his granddaughter and without a word to either one of them grabbed the back of the wheelchair and began to roll it toward the door.
'I wasn't done talking to him,' the girl said. 'I didn't say goodbye.'
'What's the difference,' the orderly said without looking back at her, 'he ain't gonna hear you anyway.'
'He does hear me…' the girl said. 'He does…'
But the orderly had already pushed him through the door and didn't bother answering her. He too wasn't hearing her anymore.
Mr. Koppleman chuckled.
'He doesn't hear her,' he said. 'He's not… aware anymore.'
'No,' William said, his attention back where it belonged. 'But you're aware, Mr. Koppleman, aren't you?'
'Of everything,' Mr. Koppleman said. His skin was the most unearthly white, William noticed, white as milk. 'I'm aware, for instance, that I don't know you. I don't think I've forgotten you-pretty sure I haven't forgotten you- so it must be I never met you.'
'My name's William,' and he stopped here, not exactly sure what to say, quickly roaming through his grab bag of friendly lawyers, representatives, and old acquaintances. 'I'm here about a friend. Someone, I think, you did meet.'
'Well, I've met a lot of people, you know. More than a dozen. More than two dozen. Could even be as high as a hundred. How's that?'
Okay, William realized now, so maybe he wasn't that alert. Maybe he was slipping just a little. Maybe it wasn't exactly brightness he'd seen in Koppleman's eyes then, but the kind of glow a bulb gets just before it burns out for good. And now he wondered if Jean had seen it too.
'The person I'm talking about, you would've met real recently. No more than a month ago. His name was Jean. Jean Goldblum. What do you say. Does that ring a bell…?'
'What sort of bell?'
'Your memory, Mr. Koppleman. I need to know what you remember. Now take me. Sometimes I forget what I did this morning. But when I meet an interesting person, that's different. Then I don't forget a thing. Are you like that?'
'There are church bells. Doorbells. Bicycle bells. Jingle bells. And wedding bells… those too.'
'Yeah, Mr. Koppleman,' William said, feeling the exasperation of someone who's passed countless Food Just Ahead signs down the pike only to find the place burnt to the ground when he gets there. It was the sort of hunger that could ruin your day.
'Alpine bells. Bluebells. Cowbells. Wedding bells-did I mention those…?'
'Uh huh.'
'My wife,' Mr. Koppleman said, 'was a lovely woman. My greatest pleasure was watching her before a mirror. I don't remember her face now, but I remember the way she put her hair up every morning before the mirror. With tortoiseshell clips. So elegant. There's a mystery there in women, that has to do with the way they put themselves together.'
It was a little like listening to a faulty radio, William thought as Koppleman talked on, a radio that keeps drifting from one station to another completely at random. First the news, then some music, a three-six-three double play, then back to the latest bombing in Bosnia. Though not entirely at random, for it seemed to be words that set him off in one direction or another, like those word association tests psychiatrists use to see which way the mind jumps. Wedding bells had made him positively leap, race way back to a time when his wife put her hair up so elegantly before a dresser mirror. And getting him to jump back was going to be hard-for despite his impatience, despite his hunger, despite the fact that all he had was Mr. Koppleman, who didn't exactly have his faculties in full working order, he felt just a little callous here, like a burglar sifting through the family jewels, flinging them left and right in an effort to find the right one. Mr. Koppleman's memories might mean Jack crap to him, but to Mr. Koppleman they were pure gold. But there was no choice-those taillights were already rounding the corner, while William sat stuck at a traffic light. He'd have to lead Mr. Koppleman back. No two ways about it. He'd have to lay a few crumbs along the way maybe, then lead him back, the way you tempt a wary cat back into the house. Here kitty… kitty…
'So, Mr. Koppleman,' he said now. 'Your wife? She been gone long?'
'I don't remember.'
'Losing our loved ones-that's tough…' trying to guide him back into the past, but suddenly bringing himself there first, imagine that, Rachel sitting there clear as day, and smiling at him too.
'I don't remember,' Mr. Koppleman repeated.
'Take me again. I lost my wife too.' Well, he had, hadn't he? Lost her in a motel on Utopia Parkway and never could find her again.
'Sorry to hear it.'
'Yeah. And that's not even mentioning all the friends I've lost.'
'I've got a bunch.'
'That's good, Mr. Koppleman. Wish I did.' And he did too.
'I've got a bunch of friends. The thing is, we keep missing each other. They come to visit me but I never see them.'
'Sure. That happens.'
'I've got to straighten that out.'
'Yeah. You ever get to see anybody?'
'Sometimes.'
'Like who…?'
'I've got to straighten it out. Talk to the management here…'
'Tell you what,' William said. 'I'll talk to them for you.'
'What…?'
'Who came to visit you, Mr. Koppleman?'
'You'll talk to them for me?'
'Sure.'
