PulpLit.net

And then she voted, and we all thought,

damn that’s sexy.

“Let’s interview Jean-Pascal Dovet first,” said Hunter, once all the arrangements had been made and the professors were secure in a faculty lounge. “His comment about Inspector Maigret caught my attention.”

“Who’s Maigret? A famous French detective?” asked Weems.

“Very famous, but also very imaginary. He’s a creation of a French… no, I think it’s a Belgian writer, named Simenon. Simenon was incredibly prolific. Some say he was a hack. They say he could write a mystery in two weeks. He must have written two hundred of them. Maybe more. He also claims that he slept with ten thousand different women, including, its rumored, his own daughter.”

“So this Dovet is a wise-guy,” said Weems. “Making jokes at our expense.”

“Some people can’t resist. It may be their way of dealing with anxiety and stress. I read an article in The Chronicle by some shrink who made that point. Humor in cases like that is a defense mechanism. It helps ward off depression and helps with all kinds of other problems.”

Weems stuck his head out into the hall, and asked an officer to bring in Professor Dovet.

Several minutes later there was a light knock on the door. Jean-Pascal Dovet entered and sat down in a chair that had been prepared for him.

“I am first,” he said. “But I trust, in this case, first will not be last,” he added, smiling.

“This murder doesn’t seem to have dampened your mood,” said Hunter. “You seem in excellent spirits and are even joking around a bit. I found it interesting that you would make a joke about Maigret just a short while after your colleague, Azriel Moshe, was murdered.”

Dovet stroked his beard, and paused before speaking.

“Yes,” he replied. “That’s true. But that’s because I am somewhat of a fatalist, you see. I am a physician and have seen countless people die in my work in the hospitals. Some of them have been my patients, of whom I was quite fond. After a while you learn to accept death—to face it, to put it behind you, and to get on with your life. I’m not the kind of person who gets melancholy about death. God makes the decisions and we carry on as best we can, hoping that he has written us into the book of life and not the book of death. Can you understand that?”

“Yes,” said Hunter. “I probably feel somewhat the same way you do about death. It’s part of my job. Now, what can you tell me about this team of scholars that Professor Moshe assembled? What were you doing on the team?”

“Azriel Moshe was a brilliant psychiatrist,” replied Dovet. “He was educated in Boston, where he was born, and came to the University of California Medical School a number of years ago to teach and conduct research. He comes from a very Orthodox Jewish family—I imagine that’s why he was named Azriel. He was interested in Jewish mysticism and was trying to find out whether there was any connection between people who studied the Kabbalah and health, both mental and physical. His theory was that mystics, of all kinds, might have gained some psychological and perhaps even physical benefits from having a belief structure that sustained them. He chose the Kabbalah because of his fascination with it. You know that it has been in vogue, lately. Some Hollywood stars have become involved with it, you know. Like Madonna and even Britney Spears.”

“Yes,” replied Hunter. “I’ve read about them in the papers. What exactly is Kabbalah? I don’t know much about it except that I understand it’s a kind of Jewish mysticism.”

“It’s hard to know where to begin,” replied Dovet. “And hard to explain, because there are so many different things to know and there are so many mystical allusions. The term Kabbalah means, in general terms, ‘the reception’ or ‘that which has been received.’ It developed in medieval times. What has been received is a kind of ancient and holy arcane knowledge, what might be described as secret teachings. This mystical knowledge is found in a holy book, the Zohar, the book of radiance. Kabbalists generally believe in Ein Sof, which literally means ‘endless,’ and is also the term they use for the Creator, which can be described as the first cause or the cause of all causes. That means we can find Ein Sof present in all things in the actual world. On the other hand, all things are present in it potentially. Ein Sof, Kabbalists suggest, emanated ten Sefirot or ‘vessels,’ through which its actions are manifested. These Sefirot are conduits for the actions deriving from Ein Sof, and its existence is spread through them.”

“I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about,” said Weems.

“I can understand,” said Dovet. “You have to be deeply immersed in it before Kabbalah starts making sense.”

“Don’t be put off by Weems,” said Hunter. “He doesn’t have a mind for abstractions. But I can follow you, so please, keep talking.”

“The Kabbalists thought that if they lived a holy life and followed the teachings of the Zohar, the Messiah would arrive and his coming would lead to the redemption of the Jews. A great deal of Judaism is involved with the Messiah, you have to realize that. According to the Kabbalists, this mysterious Ein Sof withdrew its presence from the world. The first divine action, we are told, was this withdrawal, which created a vacuum and this emptiness enabled the world to be created. Ein Sof then sent a ray of light into this vacuum, which was channeled through the Sefirot, the vessels. But the light was so powerful that some of the vessels shattered into pieces and then returned to Ein Sof, their original source. But some became sparks that were trapped in what can be described as material existence. What Kabbalists want to do is free these sparks and return them to their original source and restore them to their divinity. They do this by living a life of holiness and by the process known as Tikkun, which means repair or mending.”

“Now, if you assume that all existence is connected to the divine, everything we do, no matter how mundane, can be used as a means to discover God. Everything, no matter how small and seemingly trivial, contains the essence of divinity. Ein Sof, Kabbalists believe, exists in everything. Some Kabbalists suggest that our entire world is actually the body of God. The secret teachings revealed in the Zohar and other mystical writings, Kabbalists believe, are very powerful and potentially dangerous, so people must be protected from them. That’s why some Kabbalists argued that people shouldn’t be allowed to study the Kabbalah until they are forty years old.”

“I still don’t understand,” said Weems.

“Let me try another way to explain things,” Dovet added. “At the beginning, Kabbalists argue, everything was contained in Ein Sof and part of it. Later, Ein Sof emanated a point from itself—an emanation known as Keter, or the Crown, and from Keter, there was a second emanation, Hokhmah or Wisdom, which represented the start of revelation. This, in turn, led to a third emanation, Binah or understanding, which reveals what exists. After these three emanations, six more Sefirot appeared, representing the six different dimensions of providence—namely Gevurah or strength, Chesed or loving kindness, Tiferet or beauty, Hod or empathy, Netsah or eternity, and Yesod or foundation. Along with these six emanations, there was one more of the Sefirot that emanated, Malkhut or sovereignty. The lower Sefirot draw their power from the ones above them and they all need Ein Sof, but it doesn’t need any of them.”

“I’m not sure, from what you said, where these Sefirot come in,” said Hunter. “If everything is part of God, why do they have a special status?”

“An excellent question,” replied Dovet. “According to some Kabbalists, in the beginning, Ein Sof emanated these ten vessels or Sefirot, which were still part of Ein Sof, since everything is. Some of them have their own colors, based on their function. But the emanation from Ein Sof had no color at all, much like sunlight shining through a stained-glass window. The sunlight doesn’t change its color but the viewer sees light of different colors.”

“So this Ein Sof is an all-powerful presence, so it seems,” said Hunter, “that manifests itself in everything. For Kabbalists, then, if I follow you correctly, everything in the world is part of God and, as such, is a means toward knowing God. Is that right?”

“Very good,” said Dovet. “I’ve tried to make a very complicated and esoteric belief system understandable to you and, quite naturally, have left a great deal out. The other people you interview may provide more insights that will help you understand Kabbalah. All of Kabbalah can’t be understood in one brief chat.”

“That makes sense,” replied Hunter. “So where do you fit into this research team?”

“We were just getting started, so we hadn’t actually conducted any research. I’m a neurologist and Azriel wanted to find out whether the study of Kabbalah had any effect on people’s brains and nervous systems. We planned on taking brain scans—that is, images of individuals before they studied Kabbalah, while they were studying Kabbalah, and after they had studied it, to see whether studying Kabbalah had any impact on various regions of the brain and whether it might have some benefits for people who had suffered minor seizures. We also hoped to take scans of students who were not studying Kabbalah as a control group to see whether we could find anything interesting.

“By understanding what’s happening in the brain, we hope to learn a lot about total body health. All of medicine is a sub-specialty of neurology, which is really the master discipline. It’s like the Ein Sof, except instead of Sefirot we have various medical specialties, from dermatology to oncology, from proctology to surgery. The doctors who practice these specialties all think their specialties are central, the pivot around which all medicine revolves, while we neurologists know our specialty is of central importance. If you don’t have those electrical circuits in the brain firing away, you aren’t good for very much, are you? Azriel may have had an ulterior motive for inviting me to join his team. He suffers from narcolepsy and, at any moment, can fall into a deep sleep. He had spoken to me about it, though, of course, at the University of California medical center here, they have many world-class neurologists.”

“How, exactly, did you become a member of this team?” asked Hunter.

“It was Azriel, of course,” replied Dovet. “I had written some papers that dealt obliquely with Magnetic Resonance Imagery and religious belief and a book on Kabbalah, NeuroKabbalah. Azriel read some of my writings and the book and got in touch with me about joining this team. I wanted to get away from Paris and had visited San Francisco a number of times and liked the city. So I accepted Azriel’s offer and came here. I have a year’s appointment at the University of California Medical Center in San Francisco as a visiting professor. Our team has had meetings most mornings for the past couple of months while we plan our research. It’s very interesting. Or was, before Azriel’s unfortunate and untimely death.”

“What was he like?” asked Hunter.

“Azriel was a brilliant physician and strategic researcher. He was a psychiatrist and had done important research on stress and anxiety. He was, for a time, at Cornell Medical Center in New York City. He got a grant and spent some time in Israel where he did some pathbreaking work on how Israelis deal with stress. You can imagine how difficult it is for most Israelis, living in a country where they are constantly under attack by suicide bomber-murderers. He did pioneering work on how Israelis function in such circumstances. He was a scholar and more interested in conducting research than in having a medical practice, though, as I understand it, he did see some patients in his earlier years here at the medical school. Researchers are animated by the notion that their contributions, their discoveries, help other doctors improve their work.”

“He was invited to join the faculty at the University of California Medical School and came here a number of years ago. He obtained a large grant from some foundation to investigate the Kabbalah and how its study affected people. There’s a rumor that the money originally came from Madonna. Can you imagine that? He put the team together because, in part, he was interested in Jewish mysticism and the Kabbalah and in part because he thought it would be a way to deal with mysticism in general.”

“Yes, but what was he like?” asked Weems. “You’ve not said anything about his personality. It strikes me that his murder was probably connected more to his relationships with others on the team than his interest in this Kabbalah stuff.”

“One should not speak ill of the dead,” replied Dovet.

“Indulge us,” Hunter said.

Dovet sighed, and shrugged his shoulders in resignation.

“How should I put this?” said Dovet. “Azriel was a complicated person. He had a wonderful sense of humor, and was very witty, but he wasn’t the nicest human being in the world. That’s often the case with humorous types. They’ve a lot of hostility and aggression in them that finds its expression in their humor. That was Freud’s theory—that humor involves masked aggression. Azriel wasn’t easy to get along with. He was brilliant and imaginative, but he also tended to be somewhat arrogant. When he was in a bad mood he could get quite nasty and insulting. And he liked to have his own way. He was the director of the interdisciplinary team that he assembled and, though he wasn’t open about it, he always wanted things to go his way. All the time.”

“If that were the case, why didn’t people resign?” asked Hunter.

“It isn’t easy to come to San Francisco and get established, as the other members of the team did, and then suddenly leave. After you leave, what do you do? If you’ve had any experience with professors, you realize that Azriel wasn’t very different from most other academics. I could have resigned, since I have a position at a medical school. But the others were on leaves of absences and soft money and if they left, they’d have no income. So we all gritted our teeth for the past two months and waited for the research to begin. Then we wouldn’t have these terrible meetings, that dragged on endlessly, while we worked out our research program.”

“Did the other members of your team feel the same way as you did?” asked Hunter.

“I believe so,” replied Dovet, “though nobody fought with Azriel at the meetings we had. But from chatting with the others, I got that feeling. Lately, he became, for some reason I can’t put my finger on, hostile toward Svetalana, the Russian historian on the team. There’s a rumor that she dumped him for someone else, though there are also rumors to the effect that they maintained a relationship on the sly. I think he induced her to join the team because he wanted to sleep with her. He had met her when he gave a lecture at the University of Tartu in Russia the year before. There’s some question about who she really likes. She probably led Azriel along to get out of Russia. She wouldn’t be the first woman to do that kind of thing to a man.”

“She’s the redhead, right?” said Weems.

“Yes,” said Dovet. “The redhead. A very beautiful and fascinating woman, but also very difficult…” He paused for a moment. “I… I’m recently divorced and not interested in getting involved with any woman now. But if I were interested in having a relationship with a woman, I could easily be attracted to her. Very easily. In Kabbalistic thought, red represents Binah or judgment. Ironically, getting involved with Svetlana would represent a serious lack of judgment. Or maybe, and perhaps this is a better term, a lack of Chochma, wisdom.”

“So you weren’t—how I should I put it—’interested’ ‘in Svetlana?” replied Hunter.

“Not at all,” said Dovet. His blinked at Hunter impassively.

“What about the other woman—the blonde?” asked Hunter.

“Krista. She’s a medical sociologist from Italy. A lovely woman. Brilliant, warm, full of brio. But also a bit driven and not my type. You sense an enormous amount of energy and passion in her.”

“Is it possible that she was involved with Azriel?” asked Hunter.

“You ask excellent questions,” said Dovet. “As a matter of fact, there was gossip to the effect that Azriel had been sleeping with Krista and then, for some reason, abandoned her abruptly. She never said anything but I’ve heard that she was devastated. Why she got involved with him in the first place is difficult to say. I’ve heard talk that a number of years ago he prevented her from getting a chair at Yale, so you’d think she’d never have anything to do with him. In any case, it looks like he abandoned—I guess the word you Americans would use would be dumped—Krista unceremoniously a few weeks ago. He then turned his attentions toward Svetlana. But it would seem that she wasn’t the least interested in him. Krista spent a lot of time with Leon Gerhard. They may have had a relationship, too. It’s hard to say.”

“Yes,” replied Hunter. “It seems as complicated as the Kabbalah.”

At this Dovet smiled.

“Nothing in the world is as complicated as the Kabbalah, or as simple, to those who are able to understand it,” he replied.

“You mentioned Gerhard. What can you tell me about him… he is, I take it, the psychologist on the team?” asked Hunter.

“Leon Gerhard is an enigma to all of us. He always was cordial and pleasant, but I felt he was holding something back. He also has a good sense of humor. But still, something of a cold fish. From conversations we had, I had the notion—strange as it might seem—that although he’s a rabbi, he doesn’t believe in the existence of God. Yet, like so many people, he was fascinated by Kabbalah and by the complicated structures of thought that has been created in God’s name. Some students of the Kabbalah argue that it’s nothing but different names of God. Leon had a strange relationship with Azriel. He resented Azriel and claimed Azriel ‘used’ him, that he stole his ideas and didn’t give him credit for them. But Leon also was, so the gossip goes, sexually attracted to him”

“You mean you think Leon is gay?”

“A closet homosexual,” said Dovet. “But you didn’t hear it from me.” Dovet shook his head ruefully.

“One thing that is difficult for me to deal with as a Kabbalist,” Dovet said, “is the fact that Ein Sof was present in the soul of the victim, but also is present in the soul of the murderer. The murderer had too much of what Kabbalists call Gevurah and not enough Chesed. That is, too much strength or passion and not enough loving kindness.”

“I can understand that,” added Hunter. “That’s generally the case with premeditated murders. What did you do after your morning session broke up?” asked Hunter.

“I went to my office and searched for a book I wanted to look at,” he said. “I got a phone call from Krista. In the middle of it she asked me to hold the line as somebody had come with whom she had to say a few words. I heard her talking to someone, then two or three minutes later she continued our conversation. It seems she had read an article about imaging and wanted to find out more about it. A short while later, during the middle of our conversation, there was some commotion and screaming. We hung up and I ran out into the corridor, where I discovered what had happened.”

“Is there anything else you can think of that might be of interest to us?” Hunter asked.

Dovet paused for a moment, thinking things over.

“No, inspector. I’ve told you everything I know or that I can remember that in any way bears on this tragedy.”

“I see,” said Hunter. “Since we’ve covered things pretty well in this interview, you can go. We’ll need a second one if we have more questions to ask, of course.”

“Oh,” said Dovet. “More than one interview? Or is interrogation a better term?”

“Whatever you wish to call it,” said Hunter.

Weems poked his head out into the hall, and called down to Officer Abe Kook, one of the officers guarding the professors, “We’re done with our first interview. Would you please escort Dr. Dovet back to the room with the other suspects and bring us Miss Pagetsky—the red-headed woman?”

“Suspects?” said Dovet. “We’re all suspects? I find that word very disturbing, I must say.”

“It happens to be the correct word,” said Hunter. “There’s been a murder and you and your colleagues were here when the murder took place. Unless we have reason to believe a total stranger or somebody we don’t know about killed Dr. Moshe, I’m afraid you’re all suspects.”

At this Dovet got up. He had a grim look on his face.

“Are we done here?” Dovet said.

“Thank you,” said Hunter. “We’ve learned a lot from this discussion.” Dovet nodded tightly and left. Officer Kook escorted him back to the seminar room.

“What a messy murder this is turning out to be,” said Weems. “It’s hard to figure out what’s going on—in Kabbalah or in the minds of the people on this team that Moshe assembled.”

“Talcott—murders are always messy and complicated,” said Hunter. “That’s what makes them so interesting. But I’m sure we’ll get to the bottom of it all sooner or later.”

Sphere: Related Content

When I was in Gibraltar I met this old guy. He said he was from Spain but had lived in Gib for years. He told me he was a gambler and made his living at cards and dice. I told him about dog racing, coursing–how I prefer to bet on form rather than chance. Then he said that there is no form, but the belief in form makes it important; that if I could suspend myself in terms of looking for evidence and just roll the dice that I would always wind up a winner. I asked him why he wasn?t a millionaire and he said, ?How you know I?m not?? So I asked, ?Are you?? and he said, ?No, but maybe I don?t wanna be. Maybe I think losing is wot makes winning so sweet.?

He told me he could beat me anytime he wanted on a roll of the dice. I didn?t take this bait. I thought he was wanting this thing to go somewhere and I wasn?t sure if I wanted the same thing. So I said so.

?Watching form again,? he said–a statement and a taunt. ?For a Gypsy you ain?t got much risk in you, have you,? he said.

At that point he had me. I asked the bartender for a pack of cards. I told this old guy that I?ll draw him for the highest card–one draw–and to name his stakes. That?s when he laughed. I said to him, ?But before you do this, recognize that you are pumping against a Gypsy and, a cockney. Are you prepared to do that? To put yourself at that risk??

?I am,? he said.

He laid 1,000 Euros on the counter. ?Is that ok??, he asked, now unsmiling. I didn?t have that kind of money on me, but I got out what I had. Around 200 quid, and about the same in euros. ?That?s fine,? he said. ?I?ll trust you for the rest.?

We tossed to draw first; by now we had drawn quite a crowd. I called heads as the bartender?s hand covered the coin ?Was that form?? the old guy asked. I said, ?Of course. Everything is. We don?t really live in a chance universe.
?Oh we do,? he said.

The barman lifted his hand and the coin showed heads, so I took my draw. It was the jack of spades–a good card–but he didn?t bat an eyelid.

The old guy took a sip of his whiskey. It was some kind of old blend. I could smell the smokiness of it as he turned towards the pack. His eyes were pale blue. It was at that moment that it struck me; this was strange for a Spaniard. It?s a Semite trait–Jews, Gypsies–to have dark skin and hair and blue eyes. I stared at him. I wanted to find some feeling in him, but I got nothin? but a kind of studied half-interest.

?Now do you wanna halve the bet?? he said.

?How you mean?? I asked.

He looked hard at me and said, ?Well, we can make the bet 500 each if you want, or you can just pick up your money and we?ll call it equal.? I thought for a minute. I had a good card, but if he drew bigger or an equal red card I?d lose. His eyes rested on me. He didn?t look as if he cared either way. There were a few murmurs from the crowd. ?Pick up? and ?draw? muddled together. I felt excited. He had given the decision to me. Right at that point it wasn?t about winning or losing but something far more important.

?Wot?s your bet, son?? he asked. ?You gonna take a risk? Expectation is wot life is all about,? he said. ?Wot we got don?t turn people on. It?s wot we might have. Prove me wrong.?

From this I got the idea that he was backing off–that he actually wanted to cut his losses–but now if I made him draw he would have made me prove him right. This was now total risk and I would prove him right on a second level now.

?No? I murmured. ?You draw my friend. Let?s do wot we set out to do.?

?Is this the Gypsy in you son?? he laughed.

?Maybe,? I replied, ?or maybe I just want to see you react. Maybe that?s enough for me.?

He smiled again. ?I don?t think so baby.? He looked down at the cards. ?I think you are like everyone else. You?re greedy.?

He finished his drink and lit a cigarette. ?You looking for options?? I asked. He sat back in his bar chair and moved his hand towards the deck. His gnawed fingers hung over the pack for a second. Then, light as a feather, his digits drifted down, undriven, in a movement that seemed to be part of the whole environment–cards, bar, and he seemed to be merged. The same entity. At that moment I knew he had done this before. A whole history of this man?s life shot before me. I glanced quickly at the bartender. I looked into his dark eyes. He had seen this before too. I was the away team here and I felt powerless. What I thought I had seemed to have gone. Or maybe it was never with me. The old man grasped his cards like a haul, and his long palm turned over like a wave falling on a calm sandy shore. There was a gasp in the crowd and the bartender leaned back, looking first at the old guy and then at me.

Brian Belton’s newest book, The Star Cafe will be published by Barbican Books sometime next year.

Sphere: Related Content

It started like any other case.
I was sitting at my desk sorting through photos, mostly men caught with their pants down. It was a Friday afternoon and the pictures were sticking together—they made a wet sucking sound when I pulled them apart. The fan on top of my cabinet whirred and coughed, slicing through the dense air, but the currents died before they hit my face, like waves breaking on rocks thirty feet from shore. Cars honked on the street below. A cabbie swore in a language I didn?t understand. It was all too much for me and I was about to call it a day—I could already feel the Guinness on my lips—when Diane, my secretary, buzzed me through the intercom.
“A lady to see you,” she said in a voice she reserved for the customers.
The woman stepped into my office and closed the door behind her. She wore a drab gray dress and a matching hat that covered her eyes. Her skin was ashen. She slumped her shoulders and took short, quiet steps, as if she were afraid she might wake the dead.
?My name is Patricia,? she whispered. She held out her hand. It was limp, like a wet towel, and I wondered if there were any bones in her thin frame at all.
?How do you do?? I said. ?Nathan Beach. How can I help you??
That?s when she lifted her eyes. They were black but shallow, like a one-way mirror. I gestured to the chair across from my desk.
?I need your help,? she said. Her voice sounded thin, as if she were speaking through a tin can. She eased into the chair and I half expected her to slide off like a jellyfish.
?What can I do for you?? I said. Her odd physical appearance had unnerved me, and I was glad we were getting down to business. She would want me to spy on her husband or lover. I didn?t care which, as long as her money was American.
?It?s an awkward situation,? she said. ?I?m a little embarrassed.?
?That?s okay, miss. I?m used to this sort of thing. I?ll be completely discreet.?
?You may not believe me.?
?Try me.?
She put her hand over her mouth before she spoke. ?I?ve lost my will to live,? she said.
A nut job. ?Who of us hasn?t, ma’am? But I don?t think you need a detective.?
?You don?t understand. My will to live. It left me. Three weeks ago. It was a Sunday evening and I was sitting down to watch television. ?The Practice.? I live in a penthouse apartment on Fifth Avenue with my husband. That?s when it happened.?
?What exactly happened??
?You won?t believe me.?
?Try me, ma’am. Trust, first. The case, second.?
?Suddenly she was there. I felt weak, like I was going to pass out, and when I looked up she was standing over me.?
?Who??
?My will to live.? The room seemed to get hotter. ?I want you to find her and bring her back.?

* * *
I get all kinds in the office. Last month a man came in and told me he?d misplaced his spaceship, could I help him find it. I was prepared to dismiss this woman as just another oddball, but there was something different about her. Most of the crazies came into the office all heated up, desperate for attention. Some couldn?t hold still, they buzzed around the room like mosquitoes, but this woman didn?t move. She didn?t smile or plead. She sat motionless, a cold, limp statue.
?I still don?t know what I can do for you, ma’am. It sounds like you need someone a little more professional.? I was hoping she?d take the hint. I even knew the name of a couple of psychiatrists.
?There?s a reason I?ve come to you, Nathan. Do you know what it is??
?Sorry, I don?t.? They usually leave if I let them talk it through. I have nothing against being someone?s ear to chew on. I just wished they?d find themselves a bartender instead.
?You don?t recognize me, do you?? she asked.
I leaned forward in my chair. There was something familiar about her, but it ended there. I may be a bad detective, but I am good with faces. And hers didn?t ring any bells.
?My full name is Patricia Korngold,? she said.
?So??
?My maiden name?s Corwin. Patricia Corwin.?
?Jesus!? I said. ?Patricia??
I pulled a pack of Carltons—I?m trying to quit—out of the top drawer and lit one.
It had been at least ten years. Her face had not really changed. No wrinkles, no crows feet around the eyes. She just didn?t look like the same person. Her face was slack. The muscles in her cheeks had atrophied and she seemed incapable of forming a human expression. She was dimmer now, like a burnt-out light bulb.
?I just want you to look into it,? she said. ?I know it sounds crazy, but you owe me at least that.?
?Okay,? I said. ?Yes. I owe you that much.? The ash on my cigarette dropped to the table and I started to brush it to the floor. Any excuse to look away from her.
?Every day it?s worse,? she said suddenly. ?If I had waited one more day, I don?t think I would have cared.?
I took out a pad of paper. ?Is there anything you can tell me that might make it a little easier??
?Not really,? she said. ?She likes red sweaters.?
* * *
Patricia had been attending Columbia graduate school when we met, getting a creative degree in sculpting. I had just opened my own photo business. I was hired to take some landscape photographs for a woman — it was only my second or third job — who turned out to be Patricia?s roommate. Patricia and I saw each other every day for almost a year. It was passionate in the beginning and it ended badly as those affairs often do.
It saddened me to see how she had deteriorated. She used to wake at the crack of dawn and go running. She would return an hour later with a carton of orange juice and the fixings for breakfast. She?d sculpt in the afternoon for hours, nothing could distract her. She created a miniature statute of me that made me look like fucking Jack Lalane. She had always been a serious girl. But not this serious. What the hell had happened?
* * *
The next morning I took the E train across to the East side. I bought a bagel and coffee from a street vendor.
Her husband worked on the Thirty-Fourth floor of a large office building. I thought I would talk to him first, see what he knew about his wife?s problem. Sometimes the husband is the last to know in cases like this. Often, he?s the cause.
His secretary, a slim, bearded man, told me to sit in a chair in the waiting room. I sipped coffee and chewed my bagel. The walls were painted yellow and green and I wondered what would make a corporate lawyer choose such extravagant colors. The room was air-conditioned and after twenty minutes my hands started to get numb.
I?m usually a patient man. I sit in apartments for hours, after all, waiting to snap the right photograph. But I knew this was a wild goose chase and I wasn?t getting paid — that was a break I had decided to cut Patricia. Now her husband was making me freeze my ass off in his waiting room.
I walked past his secretary—?Sir, ou can?t do that,? he said—and into the office. Patricia?s husband sat behind a large desk, reclining in a leather chair. He put the phone down when he saw me enter and stood.
?Jesus Christ,? he said. ?Who the hell are you??
I slammed the door on the secretary?s face and took a seat across from Patricia?s husband. I lit another Carlton, just to make him stew a little.
?You Henry Korngold?? I asked.
?Yeah. And who the fuck are you? I?m busy.?
?Nathan Beach. I?m here because of Patricia.?
?Patricia who?? he said. His own wife?s name and he draws a blank. Typical. I wondered what Patricia saw in this clown. He was tall — I?ll give him that — with greasy, straight hair and a thick moustache. His skin was pasty and plump. The blue suit he was wearing probably cost more than I made in two weeks.
?Your wife. Patricia.?
?What?s the problem?? he said. ?I?ve got clients breathing fire today.?
?I?m a private detective, Mr. Korngold. She hired me.? Husbands usually quieted down when I told them that. The fear would leap to their eyes, they?d quiver a little and stumble to a seat. Not Mr. Attorney.
?So what?? he said. ?Patricia and I have an open relationship. We?ve discussed my affairs many times. What is this about??
?She came to me. Said she lost her will to live. I mean, literally. I think she may be a little crazy.?
?Patricia? Don?t be ridiculous.? He finally sat down. He swiveled in his chair so he could gaze out the large picture window behind him. ?Patricia has her whims. But she?s happy. I buy her everything she needs.?
?Why do you think she came to me, then?? I sat up in my chair. I felt my advantage slipping away. It?s hard to pump a man for information when he doesn?t give a damn.
?I have no idea, Mr. Beach. My wife and I don?t talk about those things.?
?What do you talk about, then??
?Look.? He swiveled to face me. ?This is getting personal. My wife and I spend a great deal of time together. We attend functions almost weekly, in fact. But I don?t feel like I have to defend our relationship to you.?
I could see that he did. I kept quiet and hoped he?d say something incriminating.
?We talk about many things and she has never mentioned anything about her will to live. Jesus. She attends to our business affairs quite well, actually. Does that sound like a woman who has lost her will??
?I don?t know,? I said. ?Maybe.?
?Okay, Mr. Beach. I?ve had enough of this. I?ll discuss this with Patricia tonight, but I don?t foresee any problems and I expect that we will not need your services after today.?
?We??
?I can call security or you can leave quietly.?
* * *
My curiosity was aroused by Henry Korngold. I had thought he would show concern for his wife. That or fear. But he was defensive and belligerent.
I could understand why a man like Henry Korngold would want Patricia. She had been exceptionally beautiful. Long, straight dark hair, but fine; you half expected it to melt like cotton candy in your hand. But why would Patricia go for him? Hell, she had an enormous will to live as I remembered. That?s what made this case so odd. A guy like Korngold would want to tame her. There had to be more to it than money. Then again, perhaps she had always wanted to be tamed. I certainly was not the one to do it, not then anyway. I was young, stupid — bounced from woman to woman, didn?t want to let any of them get under my skin, not even precious Patricia.
Our affair ended typically, a clich? really. She showed up at my apartment one evening and found me in bed with another woman. She ran.
I tried to convince her it was a one time thing, but my effort was a joke, half-hearted, an attempt to convince myself more than her. I visited her nightly for two weeks and we discussed my infidelity. Some nights we even made love. But she couldn?t trust me again and after a short time we stopped seeing each other. I was relieved.
* * *
I decided to drop the case. Patricia needed a psychiatrist and I needed a vodka tonic.
But I had to see her one last time.
I rang the buzzer at the Korngold?s Penthouse. A tall, slender butler answered the door and told me that he had explicit instructions not to interrupt Patricia.
?Who gave you explicit instructions?? I asked. He smiled with one side of his face only, his lips forming a right angle.
?Listen,? I said. ?Maybe I can ask you a couple of questions.? I handed him a hundred bucks. I wasn?t sure why I did it. It wasn?t the action of a man quitting a case. But I don?t like no-trespassing signs and Henry Korngold had clearly called to make his penthouse off limits to me. What the hell was he hiding?
The butler stepped outside and closed the door behind him.
?Perhaps,? he said. He wore a black and white uniform that fit him loosely around the shoulders.
?Has Mrs. Korngold been acting strange lately?? I said.
?Frankly, no, she hasn?t.?
?You?ve seen no changes??
?None.?
I tried to stare into the butler?s eyes, but he had a couple of inches on me and he was busy tilting his arrogant head like he was trying to stop a nose bleed.
?Then that?s all you know??
?I believe it is.?
?I don?t think I?m getting my money?s worth, then.?
?Sir??
?You?re not telling me anything I don?t already know. Your information?s not worth a hundred dollars.?
?Sorry sir.? He smiled, a glimmer, but I saw that he enjoyed antagonizing me. That was all it took. I unloaded a quick punch into his gut and he crumpled like a house of cards.
?No games. Just tell me what you know about Mrs. Korngold.?
He sat on both knees, bent over. He took shallow, cautious breaths.
?There have been no changes recently,? he said. I inched closer. ?But over the past five years…? He coughed.
?What is it? Over the past five years, what??
?Mrs. Korngold has gone out less and less. She sits home and watches television. She used to get a lot of phone calls, but even those have stopped.?
?Yeah? So what? Lots of people watch television. Why does she sit home? Who?s stopping her from going out??
?I don?t know.?
I put my fist against his face. ?You sure??
?I?m sure. I could only guess.?
?Guess for me, then. Who?s keeping her from going out??
?She is,? he said.
* * *
I sat in Ariel?s, an Upper West Side Bar. Patricia and I used to meet there two or three times a week. The place was swarming with Columbia undergraduates and I felt like I was a million years old. The history between Patricia and me came flooding back. I regretted what I?d done to her, naturally, but there was no changing the past.
Or was there?
I wondered what would happen if I found Patricia?s missing will, crazy as that sounds. Would it be like old times between us? I wondered if I was getting the rarest opportunity in life, a second chance. I doubted it, but I decided to stick with the case a little longer anyway. Maybe I could finally do what I hadn?t done ten years ago.
The college students chattered and laughed. They leaned on each other, groping, touching. A movie played silently on a screen at the end of the bar. A couple of kids shot pool. The clicking of the balls occasionally broke through the din.
If I was going to continue, I needed to decide what my next move would be. Henry Korngold had made it difficult for me to contact his wife. I wasn?t sure she?d be a help to me anyway, not once he?d talked to her. But maybe she had left something in the house, some kind of clue. I asked myself, if I were Patricia Korngold?s will to live — I tried not to laugh when I thought this — where would I go? Nothing occurred to me immediately, but I was drunk enough to wish that she?d want to return to me.
I decided to break into the Korngold?s apartment and poke around. Patricia was the only lead I had.
* * *
It was Friday and I?d been staking out the Korngold?s apartment for several days, waiting for one of their ?functions.? I needed to know both of them were out of there. I watched from across the street. There was still an hour of sunlight left, but I knew they wouldn?t see me waiting. It was the one thing the past ten years as a detective had taught me: invisibility.
The Korngolds left the apartment at 7:30 pm. Patricia wore a long, gray dress and Henry probably thought he looked dashing in a tuxedo and bright red bow tie. I remembered that Patricia had said her alter ego liked to wear red sweaters and I wondered about Henry?s red tie. I knew one thing: Henry Korngold had not lost his will to live.
It was surprisingly simple. I picked the door on my second try and walked into the foyer. I figured the butler was around somewhere and I moved quietly.
The main room was narrow, but the ceiling was at least thirty feet high. A long crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling. I walked up a spiral staircase to my right and quickly found what I was looking for: Patricia?s private study. I locked the door behind me.
It was a small room. Bookshelves filled the walls to my right and left and a simple oak desk stood opposite me. The walls were painted black and there were no pictures. Not even a window. I had expected to see a few old sculptures, but there were none.
The first few drawers contained a lot of business shit. The bottom drawer on the left hand side was locked. I picked it. It was crammed with scraps of paper. I yanked a handful out and put them on the desk. They were all pencil sketches. The first one was a portrait of a young woman eating an ice cream cone. The next few were of animals and trees. Then a few of statues around town: quite a few of the Atlas across from St. Patrick?s Cathedral on Fifth Avenue.
Then there were a handful of sketches of the same famous statue: Michelangelo?s David. There were sketches from every possible direction. From above. From behind. From far away. Sketches of his eyes.
Finally, I found something. It was a full sketch of the David. The details were vivid. It was not that much different from many of the others I had found in the pile.
But it was the only sketch drawn in bright red ink.
* * *
I cashed in a couple of savings bonds and bought a ticket to Florence. That?s where the David was. And I was sure that?s where Patricia?s will to live would be. That is, if Patricia — the real Patricia Korngold — was not completely insane.
I sat on the airplane and wondered for a moment about my own sanity. I was spending money I couldn?t afford to chase after what was almost certainly a sad woman?s psychotic episode. I wasn?t sure if even I believed Patricia, but I wanted to. I wondered what I would find. The old Patricia had been vital, a box of fireworks. The thought of her roaming Florence, frankly, thrilled me.
* * *
I stayed in the Olimpia in Piazza della Repubblica. My room had a view of the Giotto Bell of Santa Maria del Fiore. My guidebook said that the reliefs in the lower row of the tower depicted ?the creation of man and woman, the beginnings of human work, and the inventors of various creative activities: sheep-herding, music, metallurgy, wine-making.? A place where new ideas are born seemed like the right place to be and I felt a warm ball fill my gut, something vaguely familiar from my youth. Maybe people were reborn here too.
It was the middle of summer — hot and sticky — and tourists swarmed the city. I bought a pair of Italian sandals and a flowered shirt. I spent most of my time walking. Florence is a tiny place — a village compared to New York — and I was able to cover most of the city every afternoon. The David stood in the Galeria dell?Academia. I checked it at different times each day.
After a week, my money was running out and I was beginning to think my luck was not far behind. I was strolling along the Arno River, a Saturday. Artists and craftsmen hawked their goods up and down the walkway. Crowds of tourists made it impossible to walk. It was the red sweater that caught my eye.
She was sitting by one of the bridges that stretch across the river. An older woman sat in front of her and Patricia was painting the woman?s portrait.
I walked behind Patricia and joined the other tourists watching the painting come alive. The Arno rippled in the background and it was all I could do to keep myself from touching Patricia?s hair. She looked like she hadn?t aged a day. But then, she hadn?t. This wasn?t the real Patricia, I reminded myself. This was someone or something else.
The tourist smiled when she saw her portrait.
?May I go next?? I said.
Patricia turned. Her face clouded and she narrowed her eyes. The look said she wanted to throw me in the river.
?What do you want?? she asked.
?That anyway to greet an old friend? Let me buy you a beer. So we can talk.?
Patricia rubbed her chin. There was a smattering of white paint on her face.
?Buy me dinner. And you do the talking.?
?Sure thing,? I said. My heart pounded.
* * *
I couldn?t believe how beautiful Patricia looked. She was pristine, like a manifestation of my memory. We sat in a corner of Harry?s Bar, an American restaurant out of my price range, and sipped wine.
?How?d you find me?? she asked. ?I?m impressed.?
?Just a lucky guess,? I said. She attempted to maintain a passive expression, but the set of her jaw betrayed her. She was scared.
?What do you want with me?? She gulped a glass of wine like it was a shot and poured herself another.
?I?ve got to take you home,? I said. ?For Patricia.?
?Oh, fuck that,? she said loudly. ?I?ve had it with her. I?m living now. I?m doing what I want. No fucking way I?m going back to Patricia.?
?I understand,? I said.
?Do you?? She looked away.
?How did this happen?? I asked. ?Patricia was? she was always so vibrant. This — you — it doesn?t make sense.?
?People sell out, Nathan. After a while she was too afraid to do anything except what Henry told her.?
?I just don?t see how she would.?
?People do stupid things, Nathan. Destructive things. But I guess you know about that.?
I deserved that. Besides, I?d missed Patricia?s sarcasm over the years.
?Not Patricia,? I said.
?Not Patricia? Did you ever take the time to get to know what she was thinking? What she really cared about??
?Jesus, I knew her. She just wouldn?t??
?Wouldn?t what??
?Well, marry that fucker Henry, for one thing.?
?Oh Christ, Nathan, you?re living in a dream. She wanted money and security. She wanted an easy life. She thought she could have it all, marry Henry, sculpt in her free time, travel. But Henry is strong, too. He drove her, hard. He insisted she attend his corporate functions, made her dress like an old maid, threatened her with divorce. She fell in line. She had to. She had no skills, no way to make money, and she was afraid. You start to grow a little old, you learn about fear. Isn?t that right, Nathan??
She was arrogant. The arrogance of immortality.
?Patricia deserves another chance,? I said. ?If you come back with me, she can start over.?
?She had her chance. It?s over. She fucked it up and I?m free.?
I could see her point and it was making less and less sense to try to rescue the poor, sagging woman I?d met in my office. She was gray, drab, dead. This woman — this dream — sitting in front of me pulsated with life. Her skin, glossy, like marble, was perfect. What would be the point of dragging her back to the real Patricia? She, the will, would only suffer and it wouldn?t help Patricia any, either.
Besides, I wanted the chance to do what I hadn?t years before. I wanted to stick with this new Patricia.
I touched her hand. I shouldn?t have done it, but I was helpless: the only good thing in my life had returned from the dead and was sitting across from me gulping wine. My heartbeat slowed and deepened, as if my blood were freezing.
?I thought you wanted to take me back to the States,? she said. She leaned over and kissed me, hard. My blood surged, like a dam bursting, and I returned her kiss.
She led me back to her apartment, a small studio with a view of the river.
Touching her again was excruciating. Every caress — her lips, her shoulders, her breasts — carved a fresh hole in my chest.
* * *
I spent the next week following her around. I tried to forget that I was supposed to be doing a job and enjoyed watching her. She ran in the mornings along the Arno. She sculpted until the mid-afternoon and spent the rest of the day painting pictures for tourists. That?s how she managed to pay her way.
One Friday she took me to the Galeria dell?Academia and we stood shoulder to shoulder, staring at the David for nearly an hour. Tourists jostled around us, bustling, mooing at the great sculpture. David was carved out of cold, white marble. The great height, the frozen, tilted head, the position of the arms, one by his side, the other curled in by his chin, clutching his slingshot over his shoulder, made me feel sorry for him. He seemed sad and alone.
I thought I was falling in love. I caressed the will?s brown arm and asked her to marry me. She threw back her head and laughed, but she didn?t answer.
?I don?t think I can live without you,? I said. ?I won?t make the same mistakes I made before. I was young and stupid. I can make you happy.? Patricia?s will smiled and patted me on the head like a dog. She was in control and she knew it. She turned and faced the David again.
?You just care about you, Nathan,? she said. ?You?re the same as ever.?
“Please?”
“You and Patricia deserve each other.”
* * *
So naturally, it happened.
A week after our visit to the David, I had decided to go and watch her paint. She looked lovely and I wanted to possess her. Then a man appeared. He lightly stroked her cheek. They stood together talking. He was a young man, no more than twenty-five — but then, that?s how old she appeared to be — with long, dark hair and fuzzy sideburns. Suddenly, he kissed her. I clenched my eyes shut, curled my fists into rage. I?d thought I?d outgrown that kind of passion.
I thought about running down and confronting her, maybe getting into a fight, but it wouldn?t do. I was deluding myself — it was too easy, here, under the Italian sun, surrounded by ancient art — and I thought I could still convince her to marry me.
* * *
“What do you expect from me, Nathan?” she asked. “I?m not like you. Or other people. I see what I want and I go after it. That?s what I am. And I will never age.”
We were standing in the lobby of her apartment building.
“You?re right, of course,” I said. “I just thought we had something.”
“You had something. I just have me.”
“Of course.” Now what? I had no money and my credit card was nearly at its limit. How long did I really think I could stay in Florence and make love to a ghost?
As I walked back to my hotel I decided there was only one thing to do: my job. The real Patricia was waiting. Perhaps I still had a chance with her. If I could return her will to live then she would be whole again. And real. We were both damaged, but perhaps real love was, at least, possible for us.
* * *
I waited in the dark for her. I sat in the chair by the window, my heart racing.
The door opened around midnight and she came in, stumbling a little bit from drink. She flicked the light switch on the wall and walked toward the mini-bar. Then she stopped and turned her head slowly.
“I thought you might turn up,” she said. She was not startled in the least.
“I have to bring you back. For Patricia. It?s my job.”
“Now you decide you have to do your job? I see.”
“This might be my only chance. And it?s certainly Patricia?s.”
“She won?t want you. Even with me, she won?t.”
“It doesn?t matter. Now tell me what really happened with Patricia.”
“I told you. She was lazy?”
“I?m not buying it,” I said. “Spill it.” My cheek was twitching so hard I could hardly see.
“You narcissistic fuck,” she said. “This isn?t about Patricia.”
“I said spill it.”
“Figure it out for yourself, you lazy prick. I?m not ratting out Patricia. You bastard.”
“Did she love me?”
“Fuck you! There?s no going back in time, Nathan.”
That was for me to decide.
“There?s still time. You — Patricia — can leave her husband.”
“Don?t you see? That?s why I exist. She just won?t. She doesn?t deserve me anymore.”
“I have to try,” I said.
She pulled a gun and pointed it at my head. Her jaw was set and I could see that she would not hesitate to kill me.
“I?m aiming a gun right at your gut,” I said. And I was. My hand was in my jacket pocket.
“I won?t go back,” she said.
“Then I?m sorry.”
I fired first. The bullet hit her in the gut and a bright red gush of blood splashed the wall behind her. She took two quick shots before she hit the floor, but both missed.
I knelt beside the corpse and stroked her hair. She stared off into the distance, panting, smiling. Then she began to fade, like an old photograph, until there was nothing left except her red sweater.
* * *
I was back in New York City the next day. I tried to return to my old routine, forget Patricia, drown myself in bourbon and sodas. But the liquor had somehow lost its punch and I found myself wandering the streets at all hours.
I sometimes strolled past Fifth Avenue and watched Henry and Patricia. Her face was pale and drawn and she could barely walk without Henry?s assistance. Her arms looked like hollow straws and she shuffled when she walked, unable to lift her feet.
One day she stopped suddenly, bent over, slowly, like the minute hand of a clock, and picked up a coin from the sidewalk. She stood again at the same rate and studied it, moving it close to her face. Henry continued walking and didn?t seem to notice that his wife was no longer by his side.
Patricia dropped the hand with the coin by her side, tilted her head to the left as if she were looking at something far down the street and curled her left hand by her shoulder to clutch the hood of her coat. She froze solid like that in a position that seemed familiar to me, though I couldn?t place it at first. The wind tousled her hair, swirling it like the snakes of Medusa, but Patricia remained motionless. People hurried past, flying about their business, but none stopped or took notice. I felt something give way in my gut and I wanted to run, hold her in my arms and make everything right. But I didn?t. It was too late. She was beyond anyone?s help, let alone mine.
I looked closer. Her face looked at peace now, smooth, somehow flawless, but without life. And that?s when I remembered where I had seen that pose. In a Florence museum, standing next to a vibrant force of nature that I later destroyed with a single gun shot.

Sphere: Related Content

You don?t have to be scheming in the womb to become a con artist. All you have to do is be born an innocent pink infant into a poor household. Three other innocent pink infants were born before you. You are four years old. You live in a three bedroom apartment and your daddy just left.
?I?m not bringing home $60,000 a year to live like this! Pay for your own fucking habit!?
You don?t know what a ?fucking habit? is, but you think it must be a fancy dress or necklace or something. Mommy says everyone has to bring money home to her, including you. You always walk around with your face to the ground, scouring it for dropped change. If you?re lucky you?ll find a quarter. Your mommy gives you a kiss if you bring home enough. Do you want a spanking? Mommy taught you what all the different moneys look like. The silver is better than the brown, and the paper is better than the metal. If the numbers on the paper are bigger, you can have real tuna fish in your sandwich instead of the brown kind with the kitty on the can. That man has a twenty dollar bill hanging out of his pocket. Snatch it up. You don?t want a spanking. Your brother Johnny is seven. He is so lucky to be old enough for a paper route. He never gets spanked by Mommy because he gives her paper moneys every week.

When you turn five you go to kindergarten. The other kids call you skeleton boy because you are skinny. They all have light-up sneakers and mechanical pencils and toys with batteries and Pokemon t-shirts. Don?t listen to them when they make fun of your dirty clothes. Don?t cry. Save your tears for later. Grownups sometimes give kids moneys for crying and saying they are hungry.
?Lady, I didn?t eat for a year.?
?Oh you poor little thing!?
Your teacher puts her arm around your shaking shoulders and reaches for her purse. You want to giggle about how you knew what she would do, but don?t. Then she won?t give you any paper and Mommy will be mad.
?Lady, do you have a fucking habit?? Your teacher gasps and looks at you with huge alarmed eyes.
?My daddy left because he couldn?t pay for my mommy?s fucking habit. It must cost a lot.?
Your teacher starts crying and doesn?t give you that fifty dollar bill.

Once you are old enough for a job like Johnny?s you don?t need one. You start borrowing boxes of candy bars from the back room in the gym. The football players in fifth grade are supposed to sell them so they can get new uniforms. There are fifty candy bars in each box and if you sell them for two dollars a piece you will make one hundred dollars. Go door to door in grandma?s neighborhood. All the old ladies think you are adorable. Sell the candy bars during lunch at school. The second and third graders who are stupid enough spend their lunch money on chocolate rather than real food. You sold five boxes in two weeks. Ralphie, the fat kid on the football team, got blamed for the lost boxes of candy bars. Some other player told everyone that he saw Ralphie in the back room eating them one by one. He is SO fat. Don?t feel bad when you see Ralphie cry. You have five hundred dollars. Don?t give Mom all of it. She doesn?t have to know how much you made.
?Look Mom! I got you a hundred dollars!?
?That?s it? What did I tell you last week? Mommy needs two hundred dollars so she can buy her medicine!? Mom throws a bottle at you. She misses. She looks tired and really angry. You?re not exactly scared of her, but you know what you have to do.
?Don?t worry, I?ll get it tomorrow.?
She never asks how you get the money. She doesn?t care. You are not doing anything wrong by taking the money. All those people have what you need and more. You are just taking care of your family. Use it to buy some groceries and things for the other kids and give the rest to mom. Your older brothers and sisters don?t bring home as much as you do. You are such a big man!
Feeling great about being such a good person, you head over to the supermarket. Don?t get the generic brand of macaroni and cheese or the bargain day-old fish. You can afford to splurge. Grab the Lucky Charms for breakfast instead of Spaghetti-os. Get some Lunchables for your school lunch like all the other kids have. Pile up the snacks for your brothers and sisters. Remember that time you all got sick with diarrhea from drinking your town?s unfiltered tap water? Get juice boxes and grape soda and lemonade. Your mom will be so proud of you!
?Hey! Where do you think you?re going with all that??
You hand over the two hundred dollars. Your grin widens proudly as she grabs a grocery bag.
?Doritos. Juice. Bakery bread. Lunchables! What were you thinking? We don?t have this kind of money! Next time you hand those bills right over to Mommy.?
Nod. She looks scary: shaking, eyes widened like a crazy lady, about three inches from your face, shouting. She looks crazy. Nod.
?Okay. Sorry mom.? Maybe you didn?t do a good thing. You were being selfish. You shouldn?t have gotten those Lunchables. That was thinking about yourself a little too much.

You?ve just turned twelve. You are sitting in the library, using the computer. Of course there?s no computer at home. There?s hardly any furniture there. Your mom sold your bed at the last yard sale so she could pay rent. Now you share a mattress on the floor with your thirteen year old sister Jeanie. She snores. And smells. You haven?t slept well in weeks. You saw an air mattress at Wal-Mart for fifty dollars. You?d buy a real bed, but Mom would probably get mad.
?How?d you pay for that? You?re supposed to give the money right to Mommy!?
You have to be careful. An air mattress is good enough for you, and not too expensive. Just come up with some excuses for having just in case she gets mad anyway. ?I didn?t buy it. I found it in a dumpster.? Yeah, she?ll like that one. Or, ?I stole it,? or maybe, ?Someone gave it to me.? And if all else fails, ?Here Mom, you can have it? will work wonders.
You need a new way to make money, though. She asked for five hundred this week, and your usual jobs haven?t pulled in that much. You can?t make people feel sorry for you by telling them about your family?s real problems. You had a hard enough time convincing the school counselor not to put you into foster care. Finding money on the streets isn?t good enough and the school teams didn?t buy any more candy bars after they thought Ralphie ate all of them. You get a brilliant idea. A few weeks ago at school someone came in and asked you and your classmates to give a dollar each for the Cancer Foundation. Cancer! Perfect! Everyone feels sorry for people who have cancer. Sorry enough to give a donation.
You use the internet in the library to look up cancer. Now, find a type of cancer that is common in children. Breast cancer, liver cancer, pancreatic cancer, testicular cancer, lung cancer prostate cancer? you don?t even know what a prostate is. Finally, bingo! Leukemia.
?Leukemia, cancer of the blood, most commonly developed in childhood: symptoms include bruising easily tiredness, nosebleeds, pale skin, anemia, loss of appetite, and protrusion of the upper abdomen due to enlargement of the spleen and liver.?
No sweat. If you punch yourself hard enough you can get a bruise. Do it all over where it?s visible. Now, in order to become anemic you should stop eating red meat and green leafy vegetables. According to the website on anemia you?ve visited, the lack of iron and other minerals could even make you skinnier and paler than you already are! You are a genius! For a final touch, shave your head and eyebrows. On the soap opera your mom watches, this girl Chloe has cancer and she has to wear a wig. All people on TV who have cancer are bald.
This job is your biggest and most difficult. You feel faint from starving yourself. You decided not to eat anything for a week to make yourself look even sicklier. Did you even eat red meat or green leafy vegetables before anyway? The meatballs in Spaghetti-os with meatballs probably gave you all the iron you needed. Your muscles are sore from all the self-afflicted abuse. You look awesome. Perfect. Now for the next step: the doorbell, the rehearsed speech: ?Hi. My name is Billy and I have Leukemia. My family can?t afford the bone marrow transplant that will save my life. I have a donor, but my insurance doesn?t cover the operation. Both of my parents were fired from their jobs for spending too much time at the hospital. With a kind donation, you?d be giving me a chance to live.?
?Oh honey, of course! Will you take a check??
?Yes, ma?am.?
Most women start crying even before you get to ?bone marrow transplant? and pull out their pocketbooks. Even the men cry.
Don?t feel bad for lying to them. You really are in pain. You might die pretty soon. Who knows? You might actually get Leukemia tomorrow. Besides, you really need the money, and they probably don?t. They?re the ones who have enough to be shelling it out to a complete stranger. Just smile at the good you did. Six thousand dollars in one day. Imagine what you could do in a week! Mom will surely give you a kiss for being so good.
?Hey! Where have you been? Out gallivanting around all day while your poor sick mommy sits at home worrying about you?? She throws a bottle at you. She doesn?t miss.
?Sorry Mom.?
You don?t mean it. You realize all of a sudden that doing good for your mom doesn?t do a thing for your own needs. Turn around and leave.
?Where are you going when Mommy needs her medicine??
You need your medicine. Whatever that is. Needing medicine just means needing something that costs a lot of money, like new sneakers with Michael Jordan?s signature on them. You need those and new clothes and a Gameboy and all the food you can eat. Go spend that money on yourself. You?re sick too. The money is all yours. And you know how to make more.

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