But there was no need for it, since the work day was over anyway and Ms. Yardley was already on her way out.
"Closing time!" the security guard called. Along the corridors every third light winked off in warning. As I walked out I thought about the speed with which Mr. K. had solved the riddle, and about the confidence with which he had said, `That's the only solution'. Suddenly I knew what I had to do. I walked straight to Port Authority, took out the brochure from The Society for Proper Nutrition and Care of the Body, and went over to the information booth. The address was in Nyack, and a bus left Platform 11 every fifteen minutes. An hour and a half later I was there.
I got off at the main street, not far from the Helen Hayes Theater. I showed the brochure to a saleswoman in one of the many souvenir shops there. She pointed me down the street toward the beach and the remains of a promenade which you undoubtedly remember from Woody Allen's film, Manhattan. A little bit further on was a large, white, wooden house with all its lights on. A sign in the garden announced that here was The Society for Proper Nutrition and Care of the Body - Offices and Warehouse. When I pushed the gate open I again thought of Mr. K. I was no longer sure whether the fact that he had solved the riddle in three minutes proved that his solution was the right one, or that both of us were making the same mistake.
No matter what, I said to myself, fruit is not always sweet.
The front door was open. The waiting room was bisected by an empty counter. On the wall hung a black plastic board covered with white plastic letters that read, "Winners of the Vacation Cruise". There were eight names listed underneath. I read the list twice. Mom's name wasn't on it.
That was enough. Now I was sure all my suspicions were right, and the only thing left for me to do was to get home as fast as I could. But just then someone behind me asked, "Yes, can I help you?"
I turned around. A short man wearing a suit like the ones TV car salesmen wear was smiling at me pleasantly.
"I...” I stammered, "about the riddle."
His smile got even wider. "Yes, sir."
"I'm the son of one of the winners...”
He studied the board, weighing which of the names I might belong to.
"Levin," I said, "Naomi Levin."
"Levin?"
"You called... you said that she won...”
His smile became a snide sneer. "There's another list, she's probably on that one...”
I asked that he check and let me know. He mumbled something about the office being closed and the secretaries all having gone home. I asked why the names on the other list weren't on the board.
He went over to the wall and pressed a switch. All the lights went out except for one at the end of the hall.
"Now, if you'll excuse me, I must close up...”
"She wrote that fruit is sweet...”
"Please...” he said. In the sudden dimness I got confused for a moment. Instead of going toward the main door I started walking down the dark corridor.
"Hey," he shouted, "where do you think you're. . ?"
Light filtered from under the doors along the corridor, and I could hear faint murmurings of conversation. One of the doors was open. I peeked inside. The room was taken up by a large, ornate desk and a Persian carpet. About ten golf clubs were arrayed in a fancy stand, and there were trophies resting on the mantel of a fireplace. A cup lay on its side on the corner of the carpet. A golf ball was stuck inside it. There were other golf balls scattered around the room. I remember wondering what about my mother's life could possibly interest people who were rich enough to amuse themselves playing golf on an expensive carpet. The guy ran after me and caught me by the sleeve.
"Pleeeease," he pleaded, "these are not reception hours."
I could have shaken him off with barely a shrug and continued to nose around the rooms until I'd found something to satisfy my curiosity. But I'm not like that - or maybe I just wasn't desperate enough yet. I let him lead me out.
"Don't you think it's strange," I tried to appeal to his logic, "... a woman who writes in that fruit is sweet gets a notice that she's won and then doesn't even appear on your list...”
He said, "I don't know. That's not my department." He shoved me past the door and locked it securely behind me.
*
When I got home to East Neck I didn't call Mom up and ask her to come pick me up in the car, like I usually did; I preferred walking home, so I could think. My worst fears had been confirmed: the events in the Lincoln Tunnel had not been an accident or a mistake, and she hadn't won the cruise by chance. Somebody really was trying to harm her. I went over all the ways I could prevent her from going on the cruise, but I couldn't think of anything that would work. In order to calm myself I started to run, but then I found myself thinking, in rhythm with my pace …last wise lover, last wise lover… exactly as she had written.
I entered the house through the garage, as usual. I lingered by the door that led to the basement. Now that the threat to Mom had become quite real, something else began to bother me about that night in the Lincoln Tunnel: why had Mom been cleaning the basement?
Think about it: it's night, practically morning. Your son comes home after being in an accident and tells you strange things, and you go down to the basement and turn on the dryer (and it's not laundry day). And of all the things you could possibly do you start collecting trash that had never been there before, and start grinding it in the kitchen garbage disposal.
I went down the steps to the basement. The floor had been washed clean. I didn't know exactly what I was looking for. I looked under the cabinets, behind the furnace, in the tool chest, and in the few suitcases that were lying around. I didn't find anything except for tools, old clothes, a few of Dad's old canvases, and some odds and ends. There was only one place left to look: the crate where Mom kept her childhood books, old letters, documents, family photos, and notebooks from the Graphic Arts Institute where she had studied as a girl, in Bucharest. This crate had always been considered her territory, off limits to the rest of us. But I had to check, even if only to peek. The top was fastened with a combination lock. I tried Dad's birthday, Mom and Dad's anniversary, and Mom's birthday, without success. Finally I twisted the lock according to my birth date. The lock opened. I lifted the lid. The books were clean and well-preserved, as if they had just been purchased. The letters were packed in closed plastic bags. I gingerly felt down among them, discovering layer after layer. After about three layers, exactly in the center of the crate, I found it.
There was a Polaroid camera with an attachment that turned the pictures into slides, a flash, two rolls of film, and a telephoto lens. I set the camera up, except for the film, and pressed the button. The flash washed the basement in white light. More confused than ever, I carefully replaced everything. As I was putting the last layer of books back in place, someone brushed against the window. I jumped in alarm - but it was only Debbie. She pressed her face against the glass until her nose and mouth were like buttons. That was one of our games. This time, I didn't find it amusing. I opened the window and she jumped inside with open arms.
"Hi," she said, hugging me, "I saw the light on and I knew I'd find you here."
I hugged her back as hard as I could, which wasn't very hard since I was preoccupied wondering what to say to her, how much I could and should tell her. And really, there was nothing I could tell her. It would be best if no one knew about the guy in the Lincoln Tunnel; I absolutely couldn't say anything about the other guy, the one who'd brought Mom in the car; and I'd already said far too much about the slide. What was left, Aunt Ida's 'bubba meisas' tales?
She sensed that I was uncomfortable.
"What's the matter, Ronny? Didn't you miss me?"
"I missed you."
"How was the party?"
"Ok."
"I heard you weren't there."
"I was there and left."
"I also heard you haven't been around much lately... none of the gang has seen you...” She rested her hand
on the back of my neck, "Maybe you didn't feel like seeing anyone while I was gone?"
The pressure of her hand annoyed me. I gently moved aside. She turned toward the crate and asked, straining to sound natural, "What are these books?"
"They belong to my Mom."
She picked up one of the books and tried to decipher the title. I grabbed it away from her and slammed down the lid of the crate. She sat down beside the furnace. "You don't seem so happy to see me...”
I had an overwhelming need to tell her something of what was going on. I thought about the guy who was destined to die.
"If you knew that someone was going to be murdered," I said in a low voice, "because of someone else who is very close to you...”
"What are you talking about? Who is this someone?"
This, of course, I could not tell her.
"No one," I said, "just a joke."
She eyed me suspiciously. "Usually, jokes make you laugh."
There was no point in me hiding my annoyance.
"I've had a few problems."
"Your mom told me," she jumped up and hugged me again.
"My mom? When did you two talk?"
"Yesterday, on the phone. I called the minute we got back. She told me you'd had a rough time without me." She rubbed her face against my chest and purred the half-hoarse, coy purr which usually made her seem very sexy, but now only made her sound half-hoarse and coy. "I had a rough time without you, too," she tugged at the light cord. "I missed you. I was so bored and lonely."
As we kissed, she began to tell me about her vacation: three depressing weeks camping in Louisiana, her father and her brother going off to fish every morning. Her mother would bake in the sun for hours... and if it hadn't have been for another terrific girl who lived nearby and took her to the movies and to drink beer, she would have gone out of her mind.
Debbie is a very attractive girl. (You saw her a couple of months ago, at the surprise party they threw for my seventeenth birthday: tall; long, black curls; blue eyes.) This whole time we were squeezing each other in our favorite places and doing all the usual things to each other, but nothing was happening - until she started to describe this castle near their camp grounds, which had been brought over in its entirety from France in the previous century at the request of some millionaire. "There were great lawns there," she explained, "and marble statues of naked men and women...” I thought back to Miss Doherty's buttocks and what had happened that afternoon in the stacks, and every ounce of me came to life. Debbie was the first to notice.
"You see," she said with such compassion that I felt wretched and ashamed, "I knew that once you loosened up everything would be all right."
On second reading, the last details seem pretty irrelevant. I'd erase them but for the significant role Miss Doherty played in what happened later.
THE FOURTH NOTEBOOK
The next two days were the 29th and the 30th of August, eight days before the mysterious man whom I didn't know would die, and things would get "uncomfortable" for Mom if she didn't stop the even more mysterious thing that she was or wasn't doing.
No one was upset about it except for me. Dad came back from his trip out west and, as usual, went to sleep. Mom tended the garden, cooked a little, read, and wrote in her notebook, which was no longer behind the buffet drawer, but had been moved elsewhere. As usual, Aunt Ida did more stupid things, all of them related to Marvin or what was left of Marvin - photography. On Saturday morning we dragged her out of the bathroom, where she'd drowned a bunch of negatives she'd found in the tub, and on Sunday we spent an hour convincing her not to take the bus into the city to buy film and printing paper. In the afternoon some friends called me and invited me to a softball game. I declined the invitation. A few minutes later I regretted it. An argument between Mom and Dad that had begun in a series of terse whispers escalated to the slamming of the bedroom door, where Mom isolated herself, fuming. Dad fell asleep on the couch in the living room, the newspaper over his face. The stage was set for a big fight, which undoubtedly would have broken out later that afternoon if you hadn't arrived.
I was surprised (only later did I realize that the visit had been secretly arranged by Mom and Dad to try and clear up an old disagreement between you and Aunt Ida) but it was a nice surprise. I'd always loved seeing you. When I was a kid it was because I knew you'd never show up empty-handed (and I never had to wonder, `Did he bring. . ?' just `What did he bring?'). Later, it was our conversations, the things you taught me (you gave me my first lesson about sex - remember?), the little treats that only you knew how supply (the twelve flavors of ice cream that you'd had sent to your apartment the night Mom and Dad went to an Independence Day party at the consulate and left me with you, as usual), and the more serious things you got me interested in, always with the help of some object that had just `happened' to come into your possession (the stamp collection, the microscope, the electronics set... ).
But this time there was something else, because besides the power, the wisdom, and all the other things you had, you were simply the man I needed. I ran toward your car just as I had when I was a kid, filled with the usual joy at seeing you and overcome with relief. Here was the solution to all my problems. Who could be better than you, the family success story? You knew about life, knew how to fill it with substance and wealth; you had friends like the mayor of New York, and signed photographs of President John F. Kennedy and of yourself seated beside President Harry S. Truman resting on the mantel of your fireplace...
"Hey, Uncle Harry," I called as the heavy electric window slid down into the car door. As always, you wagged your finger at me and said, "Harry, without the `uncle'".
"Harry," I said and, unable to control myself, peered inside the car. You smiled. On the front seat next to you there was, as usual, something for me. This time it was a tiny Walkman, wrapped in bright plastic.
"They told me you go back and forth to the city on the bus every day," you said as you handed it to me, "and I know how boring those rides can be...” You got out of the car, put your hand on my shoulder and winked. "How's she behaving?"
Even without the wink, I knew who you meant.
"She's all right," I said, "as long as you don't mention Marvin."
You snickered and turned toward the house, your hand still on my shoulder.
"I wonder how she looks," you said. "It’s been a long time since we've met. You know how it is when you've decided you're angry...” I wanted to ask you what the argument between you had been about, but there were other matters of greater importance. I was debating how to begin and whether I should wait until you had exchanged the usual polite greetings with everyone, but before I could decide Mom came out, Aunt Ida at her heels.
I wonder if you, too, noticed all the little things that happened there. You kissed Mom on the cheek. You extended your hand to Aunt Ida. She took it but didn't shake it, just held on to the tips of the fingers as if it were something dead, and said how considerate it was of you to devote your one day of rest to visiting the sister of your deceased wife, without whom you would have remained a petty importer of forged fragrances from Hong Kong. You took the insult gallantly and continued on inside, where Dad was waiting for you. He had just gotten up from his afternoon nap and looked wrinkled and worn. You gave him a comradely slap on the back. It was sad to look at you both, to see how little likeness there was between you, considering you were his uncle and you had the same facial features. Dad looked tired and harried, despite having slept. You looked fit and chipper in your sport suit, with your shock of white hair and eternal tan.
Mom served coffee and cake. That's usually when I cut out, but this time I stayed in the hope that I could drag you over to a quiet corner and speak my mind. Mom, contrary to what I would have expected, did not seem pleased by my presence.
After we'd eaten the cake she said, "I'm sure this is boring you, Ronny," and before I even had a chance to answer, added, "besides, you promised me you'd straighten up the yard." That was an
ancient promise, and it was clear to both of us that it wouldn't be kept this vacation. So she could have only meant one thing: please make yourself scarce.
I started to get up, but, taking my side as usual, you said, "He's a big boy already; we have nothing to hide from him."
I stayed. The conversation was fascinating, maybe because you discussed things I had never before contemplated. For example, the fact that your spacious apartment in Manhattan had actually belonged to the father of your late wife and Aunt Ida, who therefore had a partial claim to it; or Aunt Ida's contention that you still owed Marvin several tens of thousands of dollars, which he'd loaned you to help you purchase and set up your spice factory in Mexico, plus an additional sum that Marvin had invested in an herb-drying plant you'd acquired in Panama. You offered Aunt Ida a "certain" sum of money (cautious not to state exactly how much) in exchange for all of her claims (adding, in a whisper, "Without addressing the question of whether they're justified or not"). She said she'd think about it.
You requested an answer by the end of the month, and Aunt Ida asked, "What's the hurry?"
You answered calmly, "Because after that I won't be here."
We all were silent. It was impossible to know what the others made of this, but for me - perhaps because of Mr. K., with all his pills and pains - there could be only one interpretation.
"Are you sick?" I asked.
Mom and Dad gasped disapprovingly. You chuckled and said, "No, it's not that, I'm just finishing up here and moving to Florida."
I was more shaken than the others, perhaps because life would seem so different without you.
Aunt Ida, on the other hand, noted hoarsely, "To enjoy the spoils, eh. . ?"
You pursed your lips, and for a moment it seemed as if you were going to say something rather unpleasant; but in the end you exhaled, "Business has become difficult, there are problems...”