happened to them-these Jews. The neighbors because they didn't care, the families because they did. Just another old person, Rodriguez said. Another old person with nobody. Family, yeah, Raoul said. But not to speak of. Twelve old people with nobody. With, that is, almost nobody. For the somebodies had gotten postcards. Dear Greely-The weather's lovely and I'm doing fine. Letters, Dr. Morten said, ostensibly from Argentina, just to let them know that everything was fine. Twelve old people. Like most old people these days. The herd, Mr. Brickman described them. Refugees, William had thought on the plane, running from the crime, the cold, the loneliness. Are there Nazis there, Mr. Gushenow asked. Are there Nazis in Argentina? No…just coconuts. Like in Florida. Where there are coconuts too. Twelve old people who'd taken a wrong turn. A lot like that other case, maybe more than a little like it. In fact, you could almost say that they were one and the same. Every case was the same case, and the case was his own. Twelve old people. Twelve refugees. Why did she go there? William had asked Raoul, the janitor. I think her doctor recommended it, he'd said. The doctor thought it'd be the best thing for her, Mrs. Goldblatt said, talking about another of the twelve. And when Weeks had asked Jean to seek medical help? I've already been to a doctor, Jean answered. And laughed. Begin at the beginning. Begin there, and if you can't swallow it, spit it out. But if you can swallow it, you have to swallow all of it. Even the last part. How did he die? he'd asked Rodriguez. Heart attack, Rodriguez said. The doctor came. But too late. The doctor came. But no one had called the doctor. Weeks hadn't. Neither had Rodriguez. But the doctor came. Every case was the same case, and the case was his own. His own. He came in looking like a ghost, Weeks had said. But Weeks had gotten the expression wrong, he had. People don't look like ghosts. People look like they've seen one. So Dr. Morten had been wrong too. They never found Marcel, he said.
But someone, of course, had.
The someone who could recognize him, the someone who'd been staring at his face every night for over fifty years.
Jean.
Jean had found Marcel. One night, one day, he'd taken a stroll and bumped into a ghost. And then, before he could do something about it, the ghost had found him.
TWENTY-SEVEN
He wasn't like the other one. He showed with the same regularity, he stood in the same spot-he was, give or take a few years, the same age. But he wasn't like the other one.
Mrs. Simpson hadn't exactly figured out why she believed this. Other than a rather strong feeling in her gut- pancreatic gas, her husband called it-she had no particulars she could hold up as evidence. No exhibit As or Bs to lay before the jury; it was hunch pure and simple.
But then hunch had served her fairly well so far in life. Hunch had picked Mr. Simpson out of a crowded college mixer. Hunch had told her this house would be a happy one-despite its mortgage payments, which, at the time, had threatened to break them. And hunch had told her that the Watcher wouldn't be coming back. Hunch had been right; in all three cases, right.
Now it was telling her, fairly screaming at her, that this watcher wasn't like the other one.
Perhaps it was a matter-as dog show judges phrase it-of demeanor. Of bearing. This watcher wasn't quite as sure of himself as the other one was-she was certain of this. The other one had stood like the palace guard; this one stood there like the palace interloper. This watcher, despite no visible movement to speak of, was jumpy.
Hunch told her watching this watcher was going to be interesting.
Already her priorities had undergone a shuffle. Her interest in transforming the lot-her Johnny Appleseed complex as her husband called it-had suddenly paled, revealed perhaps, as the simple sublimation it was. For sometimes watching is real, and doing is chimera; that's what instinct told her. And there was something more: if last season's bird hadn't come back, last season's species had. She wasn't about to level the nest just yet.
But what was the watcher watching? This time, she was determined to find out.
She would take another stroll-another reconnaissance. Under the pretense of surveying her lot, she would survey him instead. She would get a reading. And this time, the sight of a firearm wouldn't make her turn tail.
It was important to do this, absolutely necessary. Because she had another feeling about this watcher-in fact, her hunches were working overtime on him. And they told her that if her maternal instincts had been misplaced the first time, they wouldn't be now. This watcher needed a friend. And she could be a good one. If he was worthy, she'd prove ready.
Now to the fore.
She waited till mid-morning of a rainy Thursday. She slipped on her rubbers; she tied on her rain hat-vinyl with little daisy decals. Then she plodded out, plodded out because she suddenly felt heavy, clumsy, as comically obvious as an elephant stalking a mouse.
He was back at his corner of the lot, as faithful as a crossing guard-more faithful, considering the fact that the crossing guard at the local school had been fired for drinking-or so Mrs. Tyler had recently informed her. The street was fairly soaked now; she had to pick her way between the puddles, resembling, she imagined, an uncoordinated child failing miserably at hopscotch. She actually felt herself blushing-would wonders never cease- when she reached his side of the street she found it difficult to actually look at him.
But she did, starting from the ground up, from a pair of beaten-up imitation leather slip-ons completely covered with beads of water, to a pair of cotton pants-chinos they used to call them-to a plain white shirt soaked clear through. And to the cane, aluminum, which, lined up with his right leg, had completely eluded her from the other side of the street. A cane.
In a way, it shook her more than the gun had. For in her fervid imagination, there'd been no room for this, no place for another appendage of creeping age. She had enough of that at home; she'd been expecting more lethal props. But when she took a moment to think about it- a moment she spent poised between two large and rather oily puddles-she realized that all it had done was confirm her basic hunch. Vulnerable she'd thought him- vulnerable he was. Perhaps a friend was just what the doctor ordered.
But what was the watcher watching?
'Good morning,' she said, in a voice that didn't actually sound like hers.
He turned to look at her; and smiled. No, she thought, this watcher was not like the other one at all.
'Good morning.'
He had a pleasant voice, homey, her mother might have said, not too rough and not too soft either.
And then, before she knew it, they were engaged-vir- tually married-in conversation.
She told him her name. He told her his. She asked about his leg. He told her of an accident.
She told him about the lot, about her committee, about her husband, about Mrs. Tyler's niece's infidelity, about, in fact, the moon.
He told her where he lived, the name of his cane's manufacturer, the advanced weather forecast for the New York City area, the time of day.
And then, just about halfway through their conversation, he told her what she wanted. Not with words, but with a quick pointed look, a look that came more than halfway through their little talk, when plainly beginning to worry about the interruption to his vigil, and evidently too nice to be rude about it, he sneaked a glance across the street. Toward, she assumed, his target, the veritable apple of his eye.
Well. That was her first reaction. Just well. For if she'd expected some other target, if she'd settled on her own rather sinister candidates for the title of who the Watcher watched-and she had-she'd been proven to be sadly and completely off the mark.
For it was only the doctor, the good Dr. Fern. Beloved of the elderly, and caretaker of her own Mr. Simpson's precarious health.
TWENTY-EIGHT
It hadn't been difficult. In fact, given all that had come before it, all the wasted time and wasted travel and
