“I am by no stretch of the imagination young unless I have morphed into a tortoise. I’ve earned my years. It is the end of them I regret and not their number which I savor.”
She had said that to me once when I told her I wasn’t interested in growing old. Now she wanted a joke. For almost a year now, I had not only been responsible for refreshments but also for telling a joke. I do not smile. I do not laugh. When my wife Catherine was hit and killed by Victor Woo’s car, I had lost my ability to consider happiness. Ann worked to have me lose my hard-earned depression, and I struggled to hold onto it. A joke delivered was a concession. It took research on my part.
“ ‘I have of late, but wherefore know I not, lost all my mirth,’ ” I said. “ ‘This goodly frame seems to me a sterile promontory.’ ”
“Shakespeare,” she said.
“Yes, and Hair. Catherine liked Hair. We saw it four times.”
“You liked it?”
“No.”
“But you remember it.”
“Yes.”
“A joke, Fonesca. It is time to pay the toll.”
Ann was well groomed, wore colorful tailored dresses, and had her white hair neatly trimmed short. She always wore a necklace and a wide bracelet. She had dozens of baubles of jewelry either made by her husband, a long-retired investment broker, or chosen by them during one of their frequent travels all over the world.
She skillfully managed to get the soaked end of her biscotti from cup to mouth without dripping-a skill I admired.
“A psychologist’s receptionist says, ‘Doctor, I have a man out here who thinks he’s invisible.’ And the psychologist answers, ‘Tell him I can’t see him now.’ ”
“I’m sufficiently amused,” Ann said. “You think this joke is funny?”
“No.”
“But you understand why others might?”
“Yes.”
“Progress. Tell me about your house guest,” she said finishing the last moist bite of biscotti.
“Tell you what?”
“Whatever you wish to tell me. Does he like biscotti?”
She took a sip of coffee, looking at me over the top of her cup.
“I don’t know. He killed my wife.”
“Catherine.”
“Catherine.”
“And now he lives on the floor of your office and is going to live with you in your new office?”
“I think so.”
“Why?”
“Why do I think so?”
“No, why is he going to live with you?”
“He doesn’t say.”
“No, I meant, why are you letting him live with you?”
This struck me as a good question.
“I don’t know.”
“Think about it and give me the best answer you can in your next office visit.”
“No joke?”
“When you laugh and mean it, you can stop bringing me jokes.”
“I’ll bring you a joke.”
She finished her coffee, examined the bottom of the cup, daintily reached in with her little finger to retrieve a biscotti crumb, and deposited it on her tongue.
“Some boys want me to help their friend get out of jail.”
She looked up, definitely interested.
“What did this boy do?”
“They say he did nothing. He’s accused of killing a man named Philip Horvecki.”
She shook her head and said, “So I have read. He has a daughter?”
“She’s missing,” I said. “She may have witnessed the murder.”
“From what I have heard and read about him, Horvecki was an angry man, a very angry man, and proud of it. He could have used intensive therapy.”
“He was angry about Pine View School.”
She smiled. “And many other things,” she said. “Taxes, landfill, religion, the price of gasoline.”
“But mostly Pine View and Bright Futures.”
“So I understand.”
“You know something more about him, don’t you?” I asked.
“Nothing I can talk to you about.”
“He’s dead.”
“And you wouldn’t mind my talking about our sessions if you were to die?”
That gave me pause.
“I wouldn’t like it.”
“He was a patient of yours?”
“No,” she said.
“His daughter?”
I was about to push the issue when Ann rose from her chair with a bounce. I got up. “There’s someone in the waiting room who is here to see me. Do you mind going out the other way.”
“The other way” was through a door that opened into the offices of a Hispanic real estate and law office. I went through the door. A young woman, pretty and dark, was at one of the two desks in the outer office. She was on the phone and speaking in Spanish. I nodded as I went out onto Main Street, turned left, and then left again down Gulf Stream. My plan had been to walk back to my office.
But before I had gone five steps, someone offered me a ride.
2
He was smiling. He was one of those people who wore a perpetual smile. It didn’t mean he was happy or amused. He walked at my side, a few inches taller than me, a few pounds heavier, a few years older, and much better dressed. His dark hair was brushed back. His dark eyes were moist.
“You want a ride,” he said, his voice almost Robert Preston musical.
“No, thanks,” I said.
“It wasn’t a question,” he said, keeping pace with me. “I was letting you know that your fondest wish at the moment was a ride in an almost-new red Buick LeSabre. The car was washed this morning and sprayed inside with the scent of a forest. You’re not allergic to scented sprays, are you?”
“No,” I said, continuing to walk.
“Good, very good. I’m new to Sarasota,” he said. “Been here a few weeks. I like what I’ve seen so far. Air smells good, fresh. Know what I mean?”
“Yes.”
He looked to our right, beyond the manicured bushes and well spaced trees, toward the bay.
“And the birds, magnificent,” he said. “I’m from L.A…”
We were just passing a high-rise apartment building on our left.
“We have to turn around,” he said. “I’m parked back there.”
“I’d rather walk,” I said.
