The Railroad (7 page)

He was in his office, which was a relief because I didn’t want to spend the morning waiting for him. He looked up at me as I entered the office, eyes somewhat suspicious, as if he sensed something. I stood in front of him and said nothing for a few moments; how can you tell someone you’re walking out the door that very day and leaving a pile of work behind you?  I knew it would take him a few weeks to find someone to take my place and dig through the crap I’d be leaving him.

I thought about why I had to leave just then and it gave me my opening. “I guess you’ve noticed that I haven’t been here lately.”

I had his interest. “Yes,” he said, making a sour face.

“To be honest, I don’t think it’s going to get much better. Something’s happened to me.”

“The subway.”

“Yes, the subway. And everything that happened after it.”

“Are you quitting?”

“Basically, yes.”

“Oh.” He looked down at this desk.

“I can’t really be here anymore. I feel like I want to crawl out of my skin.” I found that I was shaking slightly.

“Sit down, Mike."

Was he going to try and bully me into staying? I sat down slowly, my eyes hooded.

He got up and closed the door, then returned to his desk. “Okay. I figured this was coming. I wanted to talk to you about it, but I didn’t feel like I could. You’re so, fragile. I haven’t looked for someone else, but I have been looking over your specs. I’ve shown a bunch of them to Emma.”

Emma. That stung a little. Emma and I weren’t too fond of each other. She was the kind of business analyst who slapped things into place and expected they would work. Not much in the way of testing, not much planning. She’d been at the company for so many years that her mistakes were considered a necessary part of the process of systems development. And at Todd’s level of technical expertise, he’d never know how bad she was. “I guess that makes sense.”

“I haven’t had much of a choice.”

I smiled, knowing that I could do some damage to Emma before I left, but feeling that damage was the last thing I wanted to inflict. If Emma made some people’s life a bit hairy for a few months at a time by creating buggy systems, so be it. It didn’t exactly seem like a real disaster considering what we’d all been through. “I understand.”

“You’ve never liked me much, have you?”

I had to laugh and I did. “I guess not. It’s not something we need to discuss.”

He looked a bit sad. “I’ve depended on you a lot all these years. Maybe there was even a bit of jealousy because I knew you could get things done. And I had to count on you to get things done. It made me feel a little helpless.”

“That’s not the point of my coming in here.”

“I know that. But I got used to you covering my ass. Maybe I should have shown some appreciation. It gets easy not to say anything.”

“I’m not leaving because I feel abused.”

“I know that. It’s just that maybe I could have handled things better.”

“You’re not just saying that because I was in the subway?”

It was his turn to laugh. “No. I know I’ll get through this. But it’s still not pleasant.”

It seemed the time to end things. I stood up. We shook hands. I went and finished cleaning out my desk, a task I’d started weeks before.

I figured calling Dennis would be the right thing to do. I had been ignoring the fact that he would become increasingly hurt and angry while I wallowed in my self-pity and ignored him, my best friend. Though it would have been simpler, I couldn't see myself slinking upstate without telling him where I was going.

After a few drinks I got up the nerve to dial his number.

“It's me,” I said, knowing that it was a stupid introduction under the circumstances.

He snorted. “Me. I knew a me once. I can't remember his name. I think he was my best friend.”

“I know you're pissed at me. I doubt it will help, but I want you to know that I'm not really in a position to do anything but nurse my wounds. This has nothing to do with you.”

“That's been clear. I'm not really a friend anymore. All you have is the subway.”

“As much as I want to argue with you I'll have to say you're right. Anyway, I'm calling to let you know I'm moving out of the City.”

There was a pause. “Chez Moosehead," he said finally.

“At least you'll know where I am.”

“And what good will that do. Why do you think I haven't tried to call you. I gave up on you weeks ago. Do you think that giving me a courtesy call letting me know you'll be moving away puts us back into friendship status?”

“I guess not. I don't know what to say. I hope...I'd like to think that someday I will get over this and come back. And I hope that if you need me, you'll call me.”

“And what will you do for me if you can't do anything for yourself?”

“I don't want to have an argument.”

“Neither do I. Barbara has called me and explained the situation. At least I could get some information from her since I can't from you.”

“Dennis! I only want to-”

“Whatever it is you want to do, you're not accomplishing anything by calling me like this. I'd say something rude but I don't want to leave that as the last thing we say to each other. So good luck. That's all I have to say.”

I waited a few seconds, trying to come up with something meaningful to say. Dennis must have realized that I would fail at that because he hung up the phone after a few seconds.

*

“So where are you going?” Barbara asked me on the phone.

“The weekend house.”

“You can
live
there?”

“People live their whole lives in houses like that.”

“I guess.”

My weekend house was something we’d argued about since the beginning of our relationship. It was a typical get-away place; something I’d bought cheap. It was an ugly house full of some older generation’s ugly paneling and bad decorating. It had only cost me a hundred thousand and I’d bought it because it abutted on a cul-de-sac right next to an abandoned kiddie park, or what was left of it; it was very private. She’d called it my one streak of rebellion.

“What about the Co-op?”

“I’ll sell it. I got an agent.”

“Oh”. Her voice was subdued; this was real proof that I was leaving.

“You can come up and visit me.”

Her voice got hard. “What I said before still stands. Not until this bullshit is over.”

“Barbara, I know you think you’re really perceptive, but my feelings aren’t bullshit.”

“Good-bye, Mike. And fuck you.

I paused for a second before it hit me. “You know, I just realized that I’m not responsible for you or how you feel. Or I don’t want to be. Interesting, isn’t it?”

I heard a sob before she hung up.

*

How clean it felt to be packing a few things into my car. Imagine, from your own workaday perspective, what it would feel like to simply pick up and leave. Mid-December was cold but invigorating and I was leaving everything that had dragged me down. Nothing was set in stone; nothing was hanging over my head. It was just a big question mark and, amazingly, nothing else. How long had it been since it had been like that for me.

I was heading away, and up to Bardstown, NY, only two hours and change from Chelsea. Before driving off, I stopped and ate at The City View Diner, a typically retro-chic phenomenon a few blocks from my co-op. I had my favorite breakfast: two eggs over medium with rye toast and home fries. The waitress smiled at me as she always did. What would she think if she knew I was leaving the belly of the beast?

I paid my tab, all of six dollars, pretty standard for Manhattan.
This might be your last time here
, I reminded myself. Did the owner sense a difference as I paid my tab? In the car on the way out of Manhattan I saw the scenes that had made up most of my adult life. Finally I drove up the west side of Manhattan to I-95 and a few zigzags to the New York State Thru-way. I still tasted the eggs as I passed over the border into Westchester, out of New York City
. Amazing
, I told myself.

Chapter Four

The first day in Bardstown began for me at about 1:00 P.M. I rose with a hangover that wasn’t much worse than those I’d had in Manhattan for the last few months. I had expected this great renewed sense of purpose, but it wasn’t there. I finally stumbled out of bed and consumed a can of chicken soup to quiet the churning in my stomach. After half an hour of staring out the window, I realized that my spiritual and intellectual ammunition was low and that I needed sustenance.

I tried various things, like a drowning man reaching for a piece of wood. I watched the news earnestly. Then I watched the history channel earnestly. Then I watched the Congressional Channel earnestly. Then I took a nap.

The second day I attacked my bookshelf. Unlike my city apartment, where all the books were technical in nature, I had stocked my Bardstown bookshelf with things that I could buy at upstate bookstores, flea markets and regional fairs. Most of it was stuff I never would have considered reading in the City: philosophy, Eastern religion, self-help books, books on light science, the odd existentialist novel and even such rebellious staples as
The
Electric
Kool-aid Acid Test
.

By day three I started trying to meditate. I emphasized the word “try” because, in the rite by fire of Dain and Crabtree, I had never had to spend time with myself for more than two seconds. Being a mover and a shaker, I had never thought that doing something as seemingly simple as meditation would be difficult. I was wrong.

Meditation didn’t seem to be doing the trick. So I turned to exercise. How many years had it been since I’d done pushups or jumping jacks? The floor creaked below me, alarmingly. I managed about 25 pushups through sheer force of will. Then I collapsed back onto the couch, feeling slightly better thanks to endorphins. I considered a nap. That was unhealthy, I realized, so I went into the back yard to commune with nature. As I passed my cheap stereo, a thought occurred to me. Rummaging in the spare room, I found an old boom-box I had bought on a whim years ago. Sitting on an old dresser was a box of tapes and CDs that held the sum total of my occasional jaunts to Record Haven in the nearby town of Randolph. I settled on “The best of Mozart”, something that seemed appropriate at the time; I loved driving around when I came up to Bardstown and Mozart was the best driving music I’d ever found.

I walked on to the very ugly back deck and managed to plug the boom-box into an outlet just to the left of the sliding doors. I could see the backs of three other houses and I wondered what the stay-at-home wives would think of the sudden infusion of Mozart into their backyards. Would they call the cops? Would they hear anything at all over their televisions and their children’s screams?

I hit the button and did my best to ignore the houses around me and focus on the green hills to my left. There was a state park nearby that I’d gone to a few times with Barbara; it was the best thing to look at in what was a seriously dingy neighborhood. A dog barked, probably in response to my music, ruining what little good mood I could muster.

I tried for ten minutes to
feel
the quiet of my new life, letting the strains of Mozart work into my bones.
This is exactly what I need
, I told myself. I tried to imagine what was happening at Crabtree and Dain, willing myself to see Todd and Emma arguing over some petty detail of a system. Users would come by and make their lives miserable, demanding everything and offering nothing. They would steal an hour at the Szechuan Palace and bitch about everything and everyone they’d come into contact with in the previous three hours at work. They’d wolf down some chow fun and walk back to work with their stomachs in a knot.

It was exactly what I knew was happening to them. It sounded cruel and mind-numbing. And I envied them every bit of pain and frustration.

How could things have gotten so bad for me
, I asked myself. Was I so helpless that I couldn’t spend three days alone without crumbling? I stared bleakly at the other houses around me. I watched a weathervane spin weakly in the sparse winter light. There were lives in those houses, probably a bit healthier than mine.

Had I made a mistake? Should I have stuck it out in the City and made it work?  How could a Wall Street raider live in a place with no challenges, no stress, no sushi?

I walked back into my ugly living room and turned on a bit of solace: the TV channel; all my old childhood memories were there. Then I got up and poured myself a bit of the single malt scotch I’d purchased a couple of days before. It felt good going down.
Fuck it
, I told myself.

*

Cassie Jenz walks with her daughter through a park set on a hill somewhere in Rockland County. The young girl proudly wears a canteen around her neck, knowing that she carries an important contribution to the afternoon. Her mother leans on an old walking stick as she walks. She adjusts the sweater she wears against the late fall cold.

The young girl keeps up a flow of conversation; she is clearly excited about the outing. Her mother listens with half an ear and has to squelch the desire to tell her daughter to be quiet. She is thinking of other things that consume her attention.

The daughter has just begun a story about a girl in her class when a man steps out on the path. He smiles at both Cassie and her daughter, but despite the friendliness of his smile the mother stops short, staring at him nervously. Behind him other men can be seen indistinctly between the trees.

“Oh God,” Cassie says softly.

The man shakes his head. “You knew that this would happen.”

Cassie shakes her head in return, but seems cowed. The man leans forward and takes her hand. At that, the little girl runs forward and swings the canteen at his head, connecting with a resounding thud.

The man rocks back and grabs his head. His hand comes away with blood on it. “Shit!” he screams, taking one step toward the little girl.

“No!” her mother shouts. She leans down toward her daughter. “Stop, Melissa.” She looks back at the man who is grimacing. “I’ll take care of this. Don’t make him any angrier.”

Melissa stands stock still as the man walks up to her mother and grabs her hand, much more roughly this time. He looks around, searching for something, and his eyes come to rest on a whitewashed boulder by the path. He  pulls Cassie down so she’s standing at an awkward angle above the boulder. From his pocket he removes a surgical scalpel. Making a clean incision across her fingertip, he leans forward and begins to write on the boulder in her blood. Only a few feet away, Melissa’s hands clench and unclench as he works.

“Mom?”  Her voice trembles.

When his work is finished, the man drags Cassie along the path. Melissa scans the area, looking for help. She turns to find her mother and her captor moving along the path, away from her. As she debates whether to simply run away, a hand grabs her arm. She looks into the face of a man who has just come out of the trees; he seems almost amused.

As she’s hustled away, Melissa catches sight of the numbers written on the rock in her mother’s blood:

4-5-1

*

I watched the news that night. I’d realized that turning off the parade of old comfortable TV shows was good for me. I could get lost in shows that I’d watched as a kid and disappear down the rabbit hole, never to return. The Trade Center though mentioned often, had receded father into the background than it had when I’d been in Manhattan. Now all the emphasis was on Afghanistan itself and the new war. I watched with a strange detachment; getting Bin Laden was everyone’s dream but I knew it wouldn’t change what had happened to all of us.

I watched for a while, feeling vaguely uneasy. Finally they came to the domestic news. Most of it was pretty standard and didn’t catch my attention. But then there was one item that reminded me of a news story I’d seen a few weeks before.

Tonight, police are searching for Cassie Jenz and her daughter Melissa. They were reported missing yesterday following a trip to Reisler Park in Rockland County. A search revealed one of Melissa’s sweaters in some bushes just off the main path in the south end of the park. On a nearby rock the numbers 4-5-1 were found written in blood.

Jenz had been a fugitive for the past few weeks, leaving home with her daughter in violation of a court order. There have been allegations that Jenz's husband, Paul, had been sexually abusing their ten year old daughter.

Police are considering a connection with the disappearance of Sally Brodman several weeks ago. Like Brodman, Jenz was abducted and the numbers 4-5-1 found written in blood at the scene.

We spoke to John Peltier of the Pauling police force:

The screen cut to what looked like a rumpled looking police detective.
We’ve been considering the possible meaning of the 4-5-1 message. We are hoping this will give us some insight into the motive for these disappearances. At the moment we have no leads.

I had stopped drinking for at least a minute. I stared at the screen as they returned to the studio, wrapping up the story.

Then I turned off the set, not wanting to hear any more. It seemed there was no end to bizarre events in the world. We had a new serial killer.