Time to Go (14 page)

“I'm still so shaken inside from the robbery, I think it'd be wasted on me. I just want to have a small quiet dinner, a little television and then go to bed.”

“After dinner all I want is to read and read, because tomorrow I can sleep as late as I want.”

“We have a lot to do though.”

“We can give ourselves a day.”

“We're still paying rent on the store, and the utilities. And soon as we sell everything, I have to get a good job.”

“Maybe you're right,” she said. They pulled into their street.

“You know what else I think I'll start doing with all my free time if I also don't get a job? Inviting some of those students and professors from the store for dinner at our house. Some of them are very lonely. I'm sure they'll like it.”

“If you do, those nights I'd be sure to get home for dinner on time.”

He parked the car, squeezed her hand, they went into the house.

II

There's a young woman in my building's vestibule. She's smiling at me as I walk down the outside steps and open the door. I've my keys out and am holding a box of books. Do I know her? Someone I've only been corresponding with and never seen and who was suddenly in town or around the neighborhood and decided to drop in? There are those. Happened before at least twice. She says “Hi, I'm Denise,” and unfolds what looks like a power of attorney of several pages and with a back and front cover and bound at top.

“Hello. Anything I can do for you?” I say.

“Yes you can, a lot. Which one are you?”

“Which one what?”

“I bet you're Taub. You have to be, for yours is the only mailbox with no matchbook in the slit, which is why I've been ringing your bell the most. I thought the rest were out.”

“I've been out all day too.”

“Well I thought you picked up your matchbook on your way in before, went out again for a brief errand we'll say and were only now coming back.”

“No.” I look at the mailbox. All of them have matchbooks in the slits but mine. I take one of the matchbooks out of another tenant's slit and see it's an ad for a new hair clinic on Broadway. Afros, facials, pedicures, hair straightening, hairpieces and unisex permanents and haircuts.

“Want this? That tenant's away and I don't smoke.”

“Very nice of you, thanks. I can always use an extra pack.” “And the reason nobody answered your rings before is none of the bells work.”

“So that's why. But you sure you didn't take your matchbook from your mailbox and then go out? Usually I'm right on things like that.”

“I haven't even taken my mail yet.” I open my mailbox. Three return manila envelopes and a circular and the telephone bill from the day before.

“That's a lot more mail than I get in a day. You must do all right or have loads of friends. But now let me tell you what I was doing all my bell ringing and hanging around here for and how you can vote for me today.”

She points to a photograph on the folder's first page. “That's me and these are my credentials, so you know nothing's funny and I'm not here to clean out your home.”

“If this has anything to do with a magazine subscription, you've the wrong guy. I'm dead broke.”

“No, what I got for you is even worse than that. You see, that's my name, Denise Waters. My photo, like a passport photo, though it's not a good likeness, as passport photos never are. And my age, height and eye color, just so nobody exchanges photos on me and goes around with my binder doing my business what I'm about to describe to you. Do you recognize me?”

“Yes, the photo's you.”

“I'm supposed to ask you that, which is why it might sound stupid to you. And the height, five-three, and blue eyes, or are, under these shades. Okay. I'm from N-A-B.”

“For the National Association of Booklovers or something I think I recall.”

“So you know us. Then you know all us students and the organization we're doing this for are honest and straight.”

“One of your members was around about a year ago. Same thing.

The subscriber votes a certain amount of votes for you through the number of subscriptions he buys, and in the end the student who sells the most subscriptions gets the most votes and wins thousands of dollars.”

“One thousand, and not for the most subscriptions. Some are worth seven and eight times as many votes as others, like one to
Vogue
over a slim comic book. Though if you take a comic book subscription for ten years we'll say, fat or slim, that's good too and maybe better than two years to
Playboy
or
Vogue
. But that's not even the worst part of what I'm here to do to you.”

“What else?”

“You see, I want that thousand dollars. I need it. And I'm going to get it, so I'm sure you can afford to put down at least a few hundred votes for me.”

“I can't. Nothing.”

“Let me explain. I have nineteen thousand so far. That's a lot of votes but not even enough to make the semifinals. I need a thousand more and only then I'm in the running for the grand prize. Twenty thousand votes gets me the chance to sell subscriptions for another week against what could be the other thousand semifinalists. And if I get more votes than the rest of them, which I will, the thousand dollars is mine. So you'll help me, won't you? I worked this hard, you don't want to see me suddenly fail. Take any magazine here for a year—the cheapest is worth at least fifty votes for me.” She opens the folder and shows me two pages filled with the names of magazines and how many votes a subscription to each of them is worth for one, two, five and ten years.

“I wish I could, Denise. Honestly, I wish I could.”

“What's your first name?”

“Will.”

“That's a nice name—Will. What do you do?”

“A waiter.”

“You don't look like one. You're too nice. But I bet you make lots of tips being that way.”

“I only started Monday. I owe two months rent and will probably have to borrow to pay it and some other bills. Lights, gas. This phone bill here.”

“Please, something says you're fooling me, Will. You're no waiter. You're not the type to let yourself get that far behind. What do you really work as?”

“I'm a waiter. Other times I'm a writer. Waiter, writer. When I save enough, just a writer. And sometimes when I'm waiting and not too tired, I do both, but not as much writing as waiting. Now I can't do any writing I'm so bushed. The first week or two of going back to waiting does that.”

“I believe you now. What's in the box, books? They look like them.”

“Five hardcovers, five soft, of an anthology I'm in. My. first book. Arrived yesterday but the box was too big to stick in my mailbox so I had to pick it up at the post office,”

“Well if you're someone famous who makes piles of money from writing in books and all, then I know you can help me with a hundred votes.”

“I didn't get any money for this. Just the books.”

“They got to be worth money if you sell them.”

“I'll probably just give them away to friends and my library and keep two.”

“Can I see?” She sticks her hand in the box, pulls out a hardcover. “Let me try and find you.” She reads my name off the mailbox nameplate, turns the book over a few times and says “The cover's black except for a sprinkling of white dots running through the middle of it on both sides. What is it, a photograph of a string of pearls like on a necklace strung out but shot in the dark or so?”

“Night lights from a bridge I think. I'm not absolutely sure.”

“This is a book about bridges? I love bridges. The symbol of them, connecting. Going over things, making traveling easier.”

“It's fiction. An anthology of. Like a story collection of one person though in here of different writers, but not all the stories about bridges of course. Maybe none of them. I haven't read any of the stories yet but mine.”

“Don't play with me, Will. If it's an anthology of stories, I know they can't all be about bridges. I read. I like reading. But I like famous people more. To me anybody who has something in any book is famous. Even if he didn't write the book but just has his name in it for something he did, no matter how bad. But let me see if I can find you.”

“My name's inside with the others.”

“If it isn't and you're also not in the index, then you're not in the book, right? But I'm sure you weren't lying.” She opens the book to the first two blank pages and stares at them.

“Go further.”

“No, I was only looking. Still all black but now no lights. Bridge in the night with no stars or cars or lights on it it could be. Just guessing.” She turns the page.
“The Black Book
. That's the title. And black page with red lettering this time. Very devilish. I think I'm getting the gist of your book now. Edited by Ralph and Ernestine von Blake. That's not you.”

“The couple who put it together.”

“You mean got it together like really got it going, or the other thing?”

“Edited and published the book. They solicited the stories, selected those they wanted, rejected those they didn't, put the book together by choosing which print and paper and who went where and in what order if the author had more than one story in it—I've got four. And designed the cover and frontispiece and so on—this is the frontispiece—and wrote the contributors' notes and promotional copy and got the money for the project and distributors and things like that.”

“Eight fifty it says here.”

“It's a little high but nothing I can do.”

“What I think is you just give two of them away. Then sell the rest for six dollars and make a big profit. Eight times six is almost fifty.”

“Five are soft covers and I have to keep one of each for myself.”

“Then just give away one. What do the softcovers sell for, four dollars, five? You'll still net around fifty. That's some money at least. But your name.” She looks at my mailbox nameplate.

“Keep turning.”

She turns to the contents page, runs her finger down the names of the authors.

“Mine's at the end.”

“There it is. Last one. That's good or bad though I'm sure being first is best, but I could have found it. Looks nice. You're really him. You're famous, Will. Can I have this?” She sticks the book in to her shoulder bag.

“No can do,” I put my hand into her bag.

“Say,” edging away, “what are you doing? Help, police. A thief in our midst, I mean mine. I can't keep it? As a keepsake from a short and lasting acquaintanceship if I do get to keep it? I want to read you. And then carry it around and tell all my friends and the people I talk to about subscriptions that I met you and you were one of their fellow subscribers who gave me this book and lots and lots of votes. Please?”

“Give back the book?”

“You have seven of them. Ten. This is one of ten. What's that?”

“I told you. I've friends and a library to give them to.”

“So I'm not a friend of yours, right?”

“The truth is I just met you. Years ago I might have been that superficially generous with a book I'm in or something I own, but now I can't. I just don't. I don't want to. The book?”

“The Black Book
. Goodbye
Black Book.”
She kisses it. “It's very smooth, the cover. Black is the smoothest color of all in looks and touch. I like it against my face.” She runs the front of the book against her cheek and chin. “You look worried. I'm not sweaty or have makeup, so don't be.” She gives me the book.

“Thanks,” I drop it into the box. “I really have to go upstairs now.”

“Before you do let me tell you in detail what you don't know about our vote system. I can skip the introduction monologue because you know us, correct? We're all college students, working our way, which you know too. Some need money for tuition, some to have fun. I want to have fun with it. I've never had a thousand dollars just to spend on myself. And now I've been real honest with you so the least you can do is take one subscription from me to help me out. We have magazines for everyone.
The Writer
we have. It's right at the end here, alphabetically. You're a writer, so if you don't already subscribe to it it's an absolute must. Indispensable I'm supposed to say. See? I'm being completely honest, telling you what they say should be my pitch.”

“I already told you.”

“Told me what?”

“Debts, rent.”

“So I can't sell any to you? Well that's cool, am I right?”

“I guess.”

“I like you. You're more than nice. You're patient and speak well and write things. You wouldn't let me read anything you wrote but I'll buy your book even if you won't take a subscription from me and give you royalties and read you through.”

“No royalties. And no place to buy it except through a distributing company in Berkeley and maybe one of the better literary bookstores downtown.”

“Then I'll go downtown and buy it. So now you can take a subscription, royalties or not.”

“I'm sorry.”

“Who's he? Somebody else who's famous in this house?”

Ed Turner from the first floor just passed. He might have said “Hi will” as he usually does in a very low voice without ever looking at me, but I didn't hear him. He's already sitting against a parked car.

“That's Ed Turner. He's a tenant here.”

“Writer too?”

“He's a reader. A fantastic reader actually. Retired. Worked as a printer.”

“Printer and a writer. Eggs and butter, I mean toast,”

“Ed was a linotypist.”

“I know. For newspapers and such. Retired. He's old though, but you think I ought to go after him? Not just trying to get rid of me, not that you shouldn't? I've been a pest.”