Dover Beach (16 page)

Little enough to ask, I suppose. "Okay, Art," I said. "Immortality. You got it."

He cackled. "Thanks, Walter. England! Now be sure to send me a postcard from Stratford-on-Avon and—and Wimpole Street."

I grinned. "Sure thing, Art. Immortality and postcards." We embraced again, and I left his shop.

"And Dover Beach!" he called out after me as I walked through the slush on School Street.

* * *

Cindy Tappen was sitting in the cafeteria at Northeastern. I told her.

She was suitably impressed. "You're a private eye? And you're going to England? Walter, that's so—so sexy."

I shrugged my most casual, sophisticated shrug. "It's a job."

She leaned closer, put her hand on my thigh. "When you come back, Walter, why don't we get together, have a shot at making that baby you were talking about the other day—okay?" Then, like Stretch, she thought it through. "But wait a minute.
Are
you coming back, Walter?"

"If I wasn't before, I sure am now," I said. I squeezed her hand.

Cindy grinned. "I can hardly wait."

On the way out, I saw Professor Hemphill slouching along one of the cinderblock corridors. I hadn't planned on saying good-bye to him, but fate had thrown him in my way. "Professor," I called out.

As before, he didn't look pleased to see me. "Yes?"

"I just thought I'd tell you," I said. "You seemed so certain that Robert Cornwall was dead. But I found some evidence that he did in fact go to England."

He blushed. "Are you saying I'm a liar?"

Touchy fellow. "Not at all. I'm just telling you what I found out." I told him about the letter.

He seemed unimpressed. "Have you considered that your evidence might be fabricated?"

Well, no, I hadn't. "Why would anyone fabricate evidence?"

"I don't know. Why would I lie?"

I shrugged. "I don't know." It looked like I wasn't going to get anywhere with him. "Well, listen, we're going over there to find him, and if we do I'll let you know what really happened, okay?"

That seemed to give him pause. "You're going to England?"

"Right. Me and my client—the one who thinks he's Cornwall's clone."

"Your letter doesn't say if Cornwall is still alive, does it?"

I shook my head. "It just says he went there. Maybe he's dead. Maybe he's hanging around, waiting for visitors."

Hemphill looked puzzled. And then he got that misty, faraway look I had seen before. Too many memories, I figured. A friend he thought was dead might still be alive. Maybe he didn't have that many friends still alive. Eventually he shook it off and came back to the present. "Well, this is certainly interesting news," he said, in a tone of dismissal. "Please let me know what you find out."

"I'll be happy to."

And I left him there, an old man in a dreary hallway, struggling to escape from the past.

* * *

Stretch was full of practicalities. "You should put up a sign in your office window saying you're coming back."

"Fat lot of good a sign did
you
."

"Well, we can check the place for you," I reminded him. "All right. I'll put up a sign."

"How much money are you going to take?"

"Oh, I don't know." I had been planning to take every cent I had, but suddenly that didn't seem like a good idea. "I guess I'll let my client take care of me. I'll be back soon enough. You can look after my money."

"Well, all right. The exchange rate makes it practically worthless over there, anyway. Now, what about clothing?"

"Stretch," Gwen said. "He's a big boy now."

"Bigger than Stretch, anyway," Linc said.

I stared at my stew.

* * *

"I'm going away, Ground Zero. Know any good-bye songs?"

The old man's hands moved over the accordion keys. "Good-bye thongth," he mused, and then it came to him. "Beatleth.
Magical Mythtery Tour."
He played a couple of chords, and then started to sing.

You thay good-bye, and I thay hello, hello, hello.

I don't know why you thay good-bye I thay hello.

(Hello good-bye hello good-bye.)

I don't know why you thay good-bye I thay hello.

This was not the most meaningful Beatles' song I had ever heard. I tossed a penny into his hat. "Thanks, Ground Zero."

"Good-bye," he said.

"Hello," I said.

* * *

The last night. A last supper to remember: ham, boiled potatoes, cornbread, beans... it was embarrassing. Bobby came for the last dessert—walking over from South Boston with Doctor J, since Mickey was fixing up the van for the drive to the airport in the morning. He arrived, red-cheeked and runny-nosed from the cold, carrying a bottle of Scotch. "See if you can find some more of these over there, will you, Wally?" he said as he opened the bottle. "I'm running low."

"I'll keep an eye out."

Linc and Stretch joined Bobby in drinking the Scotch. Everyone ate Gwen's apple pie. Linc made a toast. "To the Sandman. May his fame spread to every jealous husband and worried parent and good-looking blonde in distress. May his fees be exorbitant and his risks trifling. May he live life to the fullest and die in bed."

"To the Sandman," everyone cried.

I stared at my pie. No one said being a private eye was easy.

When the apple pie was gone, we moved to the parlor. Gwen sat on the piano bench; I sat next to the Christmas tree (still not quite straight); and Bobby, Linc, and Stretch plunked themselves down on the couch with the bottle of Scotch. The Scotch made them rather maudlin, and they started reminiscing about all the good times they had had in their lives. Strange, the pockets of happiness and humor they could find to talk about. I suppose even the inhabitants of hell have their little memories of the place to cherish.

They noticed after a while that I wasn't talking. "Wassa matter, Walter?" Stretch demanded. He wasn't used to Scotch. "Dincha ever njoy yourself here?"

"Come on, Wally," Bobby said. "What's your favorite memory?"

I didn't like this game. I thought for a moment. "I suppose," I said, "that it was the first time I ate pineapple slices."

"God, tha's the dullest thing I ever heard," Stretch mumbled.

Linc laughed. Bobby shook his head.

"Why don't we sing carols?" Gwen suggested. She turned around on the piano bench and started playing "God Rest Ye Merry, Gentlemen." That seemed to put an end to the memories. After a few carols Linc went to bed and Stretch passed out. Bobby finished off the Scotch, then Doctor J led him, drunk and dim-sighted, out into the night. The party was over.

Gwen and I carried Stretch upstairs; he wasn't much to carry. We tucked him in, then went into our room and silently got into bed ourselves.

"We've been through a lot together, haven't we, Gwen?" I whispered into the darkness.

"A lot."

"Saying good-bye isn't easy."

"Then don't say it, Walter. You'll be back."

I teetered on the brink of confession, and then retreated, a coward at heart. "It doesn't seem fair that I get to go and you don't."

Gwen allowed herself a sigh. "Whoever said life was fair?" she asked. "You're doing what you have to do. Don't feel guilty, Walter. Life's too short. Whatever you do, don't feel guilty."

Fat chance. But when Gwen gave an order, you had to obey. "Okay," I said.

"Now, tell me, where are you going to visit while you're over there?"

"Oh, I haven't really thought about it. Art gave me a list of literary sights: Stratford-on-Avon, Dover Beach...."

Gwen considered. "Dover Beach. Isn't that where ignorant armies clash by night?"

"Well, um, sort of."

"Well, you should think about all the wonderful places you're going to see, and don't worry about good-byes. Okay?"

"Okay."

We kissed, and she turned away. Before long she was asleep—or maybe just pretending to be asleep. Then I realized that we hadn't gone through our nightly ritual—that we would never go through it again. And that was almost enough to make me forget all about my dream. "Gwen?" I whispered.

No reply. I wanted to shake her, to make her wake up and say the words we had said to each other for so long. But I didn't. If Gwen had wanted to say them, she would have said them. Gwen knew what she was doing; Gwen knew everything. I hugged her from behind, feeling her thin body beneath the flannel nightgown, smelling the soapy cleanness of her skin, remembering.
Ah, love, let us be...
It
was too much. I got out of bed.

Too restless to read, I walked downstairs, found my coat, and went out into the night. It was cold and clear. I crunched over to the statue of Columbus. "I guess I should say good-bye to you too," I said. "You understand, right? 'There lies the port; the vessel puffs her sail; / There gloom the dark, broad seas.' Another one of those English poets. The guy wasn't talking about you, but the point is clear, right? 'Tis not too late to seek a newer world,' right? You know it, everyone knows it."

If the statue knew, it wasn't saying. I stood staring at it for a while, hands jammed into my pockets, waiting for inspiration. Then I felt a crumpled piece of paper, waiting to inspire. I took it out and read it by starlight.

The End Is At Hand

Swell. I closed my eyes and fought off the memories while I whirled through space in the midst of those silent stars. Was it the whirling or the memories that made me dizzy, that made me clutch at Columbus to keep from falling into the snow?

Hard to say. After a while I returned the paper to my pocket and walked back home. I sat next to the Christmas tree and stared out the window until it was light, and Mickey arrived in the van to drive Winfield and me to the airport.

Chapter 16

Hello good-bye hello good-bye.

We were in the air. We were flying. It was real.

I was terrified; I was ecstatic; I was numb. I had lived so long amid technology's detritus that it was astonishing to be able to sit back and let technology help me, let it set me free. I was certain it would let me down—we would crash into the Atlantic, we would explode in midair, we would sputter to a stop and have to turn back. But none of these things happened. The engines hummed peaceably; the clouds rushed past us, heading dopily in the wrong direction; the flight could not have been more normal. I was the one who wasn't normal.

Winfield was hung over and didn't say much. That was all right with me. There were about a dozen other passengers. They all looked vaguely official, and they all seemed to know each other. They ignored us, except for a suspicious glance or two, so I had little to do but dream and fret until, after endless hours, the plane landed, and we were in England.

England.
This fortress built by Nature for herself/Against infection and the hand of war.
"It doesn't seem possible," I murmured.

Winfield shrugged. "Boston was what didn't seem possible."

I walked groggily across the tarmac and into the terminal, trying not to gawk. It was twilight. There were electric lights everywhere. Music was playing. We got on an escalator that worked and found our baggage whirling around on a conveyor belt. Then we went to Customs.

It took a while. The agent was extremely interested in us. He studied our passports, counted up Winfield's cash to make sure we wouldn't be a burden on society, and asked us the purpose of our visit.

"I'm looking for my father," Winfield said, and he gave a vague summary of his story.

The agent nodded sympathetically. That was as good a reason for coming to England as any. "Have to search your bags, however, I'm afraid."

Nothing to be done. He found the Smith and Wesson in my underwear. He took it away. "Not in England, sir," he said.

I had a feeling that a bribe was not in order. Everything was all right, though, because finally he let us pass, and we had arrived—officially, legally, undeniably. Winfield changed his new dollars for pounds at a booth in the terminal, and then we walked outside; the terminal doors graciously slid open for us when we reached them. "Isn't it amazing?" I said.