The Eggnog Chronicles (10 page)

Read The Eggnog Chronicles Online

Authors: Carly Alexander

12
T
uesday morning, the day before Christmas Eve, I braved the morning cold and scattered snowflakes for a trip to the
Herald
Building. Although I was still on vacation, I'd received two urgent voice-mails from Marty, who said he didn't want to leave a message but wanted to talk in person. Since Ricki and I had ten o'clock facials scheduled at Elizabeth Arden, I decided to pop into the office and score a few bonus points with the boss.
The elevator doors opened to an unusually quiet floor. Ed wasn't gazing out the window by Piggy's tank. Instead, the tank was cordoned off by yellow tape—crime-scene tape—and Piggy's illustrious body floated sedately on the water's surface.
“Oh, no.” I pressed my warm coffee cup to my cheek, then noticed the chalk outline on the counter beside the tank—a crime-scene-style outline of a fish.
Behind me, reporters for Crime Beat snickered behind their copy, the bastards. “Where's Ed?” I asked Carolyn Putzel.
She nodded toward Ed's cubicle where he was tucked in, his head hung low, his spirit broken.
“Ed, what happened?”
He peered at me through smudged spectacles. “I'm not really sure. She hasn't been herself lately, but I thought it was temporary . . . a phase.”
I shot a look at Piggy's body afloat in the tank, feathery fins sloshing on the surface. “Do you want me to take care of her?”
Ed sighed. “Would you? I haven't the stomach for it.”
“No problem.” I went over to the tank and ripped down the crime-scene tape. Someone snorted, and I turned to see Don Mancuso smirking. I held up the tape. “Lose something?”
“Where's your sense of humor?” he asked.
I gathered the tape in a ball, stuck it on his desk, and snatched up his half-empty coffee cup. “Where's your sense of compassion?” I answered as I swept Piggy up in her net and plopped her into Don's latte. I glared at Carolyn and Don. “I'm going to the ladies' room to send Piggy off to a watery grave. When I get back, that chalk outline is going to be gone, right?”
Carolyn pushed out of her chair and snatched two tissues. “I told you it was too much,” she razzed Don.
I was already marching toward the ladies' room, keeping my hand steady to avoid the slosh of fishy latte.
“You were a good fish, Piggy,” I said before I flushed. As I imagined the fish slipping down the pipes and into underground waterways the size of the Lincoln Tunnel, I felt a pang of sorrow for Ed. Piggy had been his escape in the office, a source of contentment and consolation when the events he reported were chaotic and frightening. I couldn't replace Piggy, but I could salute her.
I checked my watch, wondering if I could push back my facial. . . .
“It's so good of you to come in, and during your vacation. . .” Marty said, pressing his hands together in a gesture of prayer. “Thank you, Jane.” He walked around me, closed the door, then spoke in a lower tone. “What I didn't want to say on the phone is that Zachary Khan is dying. My friend in the art world tells me that it's quite serious.”
“And I haven't revised his profile.” I winced. “Sorry, Marty, but he's flat-out refused to see me. He's holed up in his studio loft and his partner fends everyone off. I talked to his partner, Tacitus, a few times, but I didn't get anywhere. The facts are up to date, but—”
“Zachary called here,” Marty interrupted. “He's ready to give an interview, but time is of the essence. I can pass the profile on to Genevieve, but I wanted to give you a shot if—”
“I'll do it,” I said without thinking. “I've always wanted to meet him.” And I couldn't stand to give Genevieve the satisfaction.
“But tomorrow is Christmas Eve, and you're still on vacation,” Marty protested.
“I'll see him today, if he'll let me. It won't take me long to write now that the background research is done.”
Marty sat back and scratched his smooth head, looking relieved. “If you're sure you don't mind . . .”
“You really know how to play me.” I smiled. “That passive-aggressive routine might not score points for you on the editorial board, but it's the only way to make me fall into line.”
The hint of a smile tugged at his lips, his eyes glimmering as he handed me a pink message slip with the artist's number. “Do you think?” He looked boyish, like a wide-eyed kid considering batting strategies at his first Little League game. How old was Marty, anyway? I'd always thought of him as a bit of a curmudgeon, but was he actually that much older than I was? That Woody Allen demeanor could be deceiving. “I've been trying to be more assertive lately,” he said, “but I've been told that my attempts are falling somewhere between whiny and bitchy. You should have seen me put my foot down when the copy department wanted to roll back our deadlines. The guys from sports e-mailed me a headline that said: BAKER SLAM-DUNKS DEADLINE.”
I laughed as I headed for the door. “Sorry I missed that. You can't take a few days off around here without things changing.”
“The world is always changing,” he said, standing behind me. “Perpetual motion. Sometimes we're moving too fast to see it.”
“Such a cosmic observation, Marty.” I turned back to see him leaning against the doorframe, arms folded, sleeves of his charcoal shirt rolled up. How could I have worked for the man for three years without realizing he was exactly my type: a sardonic, brilliant man who flexed his intellectual muscle instead of raising his voice? I swallowed hard, wishing he was still just a boss. “Hey, if I don't see you, merry Christmas.”
“Enjoy,” he called as I walked back to my desk, feeling like a school kid.
 
 
I made an appointment to visit Zachary Khan in his loft that afternoon. Before I left the office, there was one more thing, for Ed. I could imagine the pink-coated lady at Arden crisply yelling that I was late for my appointment, but I shut out the pressures of the day to focus on my profile.
PIGGY, 2001—December 23, 2003
A bright aquatic gem of the newsroom died suddenly today of unknown causes. The golden-finned scarlet fish of unknown species was raised from a guppy by reporter Ed Horn, who provided a home with an abundance of clean water, fish flakes, and wisdom. Over the years Piggy became the Zen-like center of the newsroom, an ethereal diversion, the sole source of quiet peace in a mosh pit of advice. Perhaps Piggy had one advantage over all other fish, for she was dearly loved. Her friends will miss her, but we send her on to distant waters with a fond farewell. Swim on, friend.
It was the most sentimental obituary I'd ever drafted. As I printed it out and dropped it onto Ed's desk, I knew I'd be mocked by my colleagues for weeks.
What the hell. If I wanted their approval, I'd bake them some Christmas cookies.
13
“I
can't believe he's seeing you,” Tacitus said sternly as he threw the elevator gate open and motioned for me to follow him down the hall to the maze of paintings hanging from chains on the ceiling of Zachary Khan's studio loft. “He's seeing no one, and suddenly he tells me to call the Angel of Death from the
Herald.
Well, before you try to trick me with that you-can-trust-me voice, let me say that I don't like you, and nothing you do is going to change that.”
“I appreciate your honesty,” I said.
“I don't understand it. This poor boy spent last week behind an oxygen mask, and now he opens the door to a walking, talking menagerie of bacteria?” He turned back to assess me. “A prayer to the power of the goddess Lysol.”
“I'll try not to breathe while I'm in the same room with him.”
“Better yet, put your hands up, sister,” he said, taking a small bottle of hand-sanitizer from his pocket.
I held out my hands, he squirted, and I rubbed them together. The antiseptic stung my sinuses, but I doubted that Tacitus wanted to hear my complaint.
“Okay.” He turned away and moved past the paintings, not waiting for me to follow. “What are you, anyway? Some two-bit deathmonger looking for a list of everyone Zachary slept with?”
“I don't write for the Society section,” I said, finding it hard to move past the enormous canvases that Tacitus seemed immune to—the layers of paint richly applied with a pallet knife; studies in crimson and magenta, russet, and gold. Once Zachary had attained financial success he had started to hold on to his works of art. Rumor was that his dealer was considering a lawsuit but feared the negative press that would follow someone suing an artist who was dying of AIDS.
“So what the hell do you write, then?” Tacitus bitched. “Fortune cookies?”
“Now there's a job I hadn't considered,” I said thoughtfully, still engrossed in a series of colorful bursts in a field of indigo. “Zachary knows why I'm here. I'm doing a profile on him, and I'd rather do it with his cooperation.”
“Listen, sister”—Tacitus spun round to face me—“If you've got a camera in that bag, you can turn your fanny around and hightail it out of here.”
Meeting his fiery eyes, I cracked open my leather bag. “Just a notebook.”
“Tacitus, are you harassing my guest?” came a voice from beyond the maze of paintings.
We stepped around an abstract gold sculpture of lightning bolts to an open area of the loft where bookshelves, a fireplace, and two overstuffed sofas formed what was once a cozy living space, now dominated by a hospital bed. Zachary Khan was a warm, mocha glow in a sea of white sheets. Despite his weight loss, he resembled the man I'd seen in photos—spiky black hair, wide, expressive mouth, and dark eyes in brown ridges that makeup artists would kill for.
“I'm glad to meet you.” I stepped toward the bed, not sure of the etiquette of interviewing someone so sick—a first for me. “I'd shake your hand, but I don't want to give you cooties.”
“Damn straight,” Tacitus said, nodding toward the sofa. “Have a seat.”
But the furniture seemed miles away. I moved into a rectangle of ivory sunlight by the wide windowsill. “Mind if I sit over here? So we can talk without shouting.”
“Suit yourself,” Tacitus said. As he checked the IV line, the catheter, the items on the bedside table, I began the interview with a few questions from my list—the perfunctory warm-up questions to get Zachary talking. He skipped over his childhood in Philadelphia, told me a few art school anecdotes, and then answered my questions about other living artists he admired.
“I could go on about politics in the art world for days, but anybody can tell you about that,” Zachary said. “I don't want to waste time; don't have time to waste. Besides, I get the feeling you and I can connect on another level. Are you sure we haven't met before?”
“I would remember meeting you,” I said. “But you're right . . . let's just talk.”
“Okay.” He closed his eyes. “I've been dreaming of tunnels with bright light streaming in. So trite, I know, but the light is quite enticing.”
“Can you describe the light?”
“Shades of white: ivory, cream, golden white, cornflower silk.”
“Can you two change the topic?” Tacitus interrupted. “None of that passing to the light. Nobody here is passing to the next world anytime soon.”
“Oh, don't say that, T.T. I'm ready. I pray for a good death.”
“Stop that. You're tired today, but tomorrow will be better.” Tacitus tucked a blanket under Zachary's feet. “You've rallied before, babushka. Just relax for now. After Christmas we'll do Bermuda again. Rent those little mopeds. See the sun set over the hills.”
“Not this time, T.T.”
His eyes bright with tears, Tacitus squeezed Zachary's hand, then turned away and ducked behind the curtain, presumably off to weep.
My sense of decorum told me I should go, that I did not belong here; I was an intruder interrupting the last days and moments these men would spend together. But I remained in my spot on the low, wide windowsill, riveted to this moment, strongly connected to Zachary for some inexplicable reason. I felt less like an observer and more like a fixture of the room, like the elbow joint of the pipes that brought water to this floor: a necessity, an organic part of the whole, but not a big deal.
“He's afraid of death,” Zachary said.
“So am I.”
“Really?” Zachary bit into the word as if it were juicy forbidden fruit. “The Angel of Death lives in fear of the subject of her profession? If I had more energy I'd be genuinely amused. It brings to mind the image of a dog chasing its tail.”
“Well, don't go spreading that around, palsy.” I put my notepad on the sill and pulled my knees up to my chest. “I've got a reputation to uphold in this town.”
“Too late. I'm going to spill all at my next cocktail party.” He coughed, then swiped a folded tissue over his brow. “Oh, Christ, I think I've got a fever. This body . . . once it served me well, climbing ladders and scaffolds to paint walls and enormous canvases. I used to scale that pole in the corner, hold on with my feet and one hand while I painted with the other. But that body is long gone, and I find it difficult to stay connected to this limp shell I've become. It's not me anymore.”
“Do you feel as if your body has betrayed you?”
“Not really. It's more like the body has completed its job and is ready to be transformed.”
“Transformation?”
“To ashes,” he said. “Dust. This time next year, if I'm lucky, I'll be enriching the soil around my mother's tulip bulbs.”
“And what if you're unlucky?”
“That would be another torturous year in this body.”
“So you believe in an afterlife?” I asked.
“Absolutely. I can't believe in a healthy, creative light just going out. The spark—that energy?—it must go somewhere. And I have a very healthy spirit. Inside my soul yearns to wander, but it's trapped in a body that can no longer walk, let alone ride a moped over the hills of Bermuda. The thought of that is exhausting, and I don't want to be tired anymore. I want to ride, I want to fly . . . and that is not going to happen in this body.”
“Then you're not afraid?”
“I'm ready to morph. Just praying for a good death.”
“A good death?” I thought of my own glimpse of death's door and felt a shudder. “That's a contradiction of terms.”
“Is it?” Zachary smiled. “I'll get back to you on that one.”

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