The Learners: A Novel (No Series) (13 page)

IT’S TRUE!!

That was it. No note, nothing else.

So much for forgiveness. The questions took over.

How did she send it to me without paying postage? And from beyond the grave?

Self-explanatory. Our fine postal pushers aren’t exactly smart enough to send Sputnik into orbit. I sent this weeks ago. Then they bounced it back to where they thought it came from originally. I knew it would take those chowder-heads forever to process it. And I wasn’t supposed to croak in the first place, remember?

What did it mean, what was I supposed to do with it?

Well now, that’s for you to figure out, isn’t it?

Was this just a dumb joke, or was she trying to tell me something? And if so, WHAT, for Chrissakes?

See above, dick stain. Besides, you’re only imagining all of these answers anyway. Adios for now! Vaya con queso!

Bitch. Unforgivable bitch.

My first thought was to call Levin. And I almost did. But with my finger hovering over the dial I thought better of the idea. It wasn’t like I’d received a coherent, impassioned good-bye letter, which wouldn’t have been her style anyway. It was a confusing, baffling, reminder of her questionable sanity. And Levin’s life was troubled enough. Why inflict this on him? No.

I decided: This gesture, whatever it meant (probably nothing), was between Himillsy and me, period.

It would be best that way. Best forgotten as soon as possible.

“Here’s to you, maestro of the marking pen.” Tip clinked his martini glass into Sketchy’s frosted mug of Rheingold ale.

“Hear hear! Many happy returns,” I followed suit with my gin and tonic.

“Skol,” he said, quietly.

Sketch famously hated any sort of fuss whatsoever on his birthday, but Tip managed to talk him into allowing the two of us to take him after work to his favorite dive bar, Saluzo’s, on Wooster Street in Little Italy. Great burgers, white paper tablecloths just perfect for doodling, and best of all for Tip—the perfect name. “It sounds like some juiced-up lush trying to pronounce ‘sleazy losers.’ Genius.”

“Lookin’ good, Speary.” Billy Saluzo Jr., the bar-keep, gave us the thumbs-up. “First round on the house.”

“Yes, I honestly don’t know how you do it, Sketcher,” purred Tip, “you look like a million lire.”

“Don’t listen to him.” I gave Sketch’s arm a gentle nudge. “How does it feel to be fifty-seven?”

“Heh. Just a smidge better than it will feel to be fifty-eight. If I live that long.”

“God, and I’m going to be forty any minute. It’s tragic.” Tip frowned. “Do you realize that when Mozart was my age he’d already been dead for five
years
?”

I couldn’t resist. “And you’re going to join him soon if you keep chain-smoking like that.”

“Oh, tosh. Do you want to know something?” Some people spoke volumes. Tip spoke leaflets. “You don’t actually live longer by giving up smoking. It just
seems
longer.” He ignited the end of a Pall Mall in defiance. “Honestly, if I read one more thing about the possible effects of smoking, I’m going to give up reading.”

“Here, Sketch,” I said, removing a manila envelope from my knapsack. “It’s not much. I only found out yesterday it was your birthday. Sorry.” I slid it across the table.

“Hey. Hey, you didn’t need to do that.”

“Wait’ll you see it.” I laughed, all nerves. “Then you’ll
really
think so.” Please like it. Oh,
please
.

He opened the flap and gently slid out the drawing I’d been up till three trying to make into something worthy of him. And failing miserably, of course. “Heh. Would ya look at that. Your shading’s getting better.”

Originally I was going to try do Little Nemo meeting Krinkle Karl in Slumberland, but there wasn’t time. So instead I’d drawn a hyper-detailed Baby Laveen, brushes in one hand and palette in the other, bowing regally before the feet of an otherwise unseen master, towering above him. The caption read

A S
KETCH IS WORTH A THOUSAND WORDS
. H
ERE
’
S THE FIRST TWO
: B
IRTHDAY
. H
APPY
.

Sketch whistled. “That’s darn good.”

“No it’s not, really. But at least it’s proof that I’m practicing, right? Every night, really.”

“Say, that
is
pretty good, Hap,” said Tip, trying to pull Billy’s attention from the Yankees game on the TV under the cash register, “maybe we could use it on—”

“Hot-cha!” Dick Stankey burst through the door. Sketch’s face lit up. He slipped the drawing back into the envelope and bolted up from the table.

“Stankey! You bastard!” I’d never seen him so glad to see anyone. Tip must have called and invited him. They hugged, as if they hadn’t seen each other in months. “What’ll it be, piss or vinegar?”

“Hah! What the heck—a Manhattan. With a lot of cherries!”

“Billy,” Tip called, “make it so. And another for me.”

With Dick’s drink plopped in front of him, talk turned to his family, the weather, and the Yankees’ playoff prospects—everything but what was begging, finally, to be discussed. We all strenuously avoided it.

Except Tip. Well into his second martini, he decided to acknowledge the elephant in the room. “So, Stanker, what’s the skinny on the new skinny?”

Silence.

Tip, Jesus. Not here, not now.

Stankey rebounded with strained ebullience. “What, Lenny? Oh, he’s just a big noise.” A snort. “And talk about dumb—he has to pull out his dork just to count to eleven. Eh, Sketch?” Yucks all around, but there was no hiding it: the faint yet unmistakable odor of desperation wafting off his pasted-on smile. He would not concede to it, not tonight. Change of subject. “Hey Sketch, remember Krinkle in the old days, with Lars?”

And it popped, unbidden, into my mind:

memory.

Stop. Stop it. I will not think of it.

“Heh, oh yeah.” Sketch chuckled. “He was a quick study, that’s for sure.”

study of memory.

This was happening more and more in the last two days, ever since I received Himillsy’s letter—pieces of the Yale psych ad, inserting themselves into my thoughts, into conversation, triggered by any related phrases. It was as if Tip’s word-association game had taken over my mind.

“I sure learned a lot from him.”

memory and learning.

Enough. I will put an end to this, now.

“Sketch,” I said, “tell me something about Lars. What was he like to work with?”

“Heh. Lars.” He lit up his pipe, thought a moment.

“The thing about Lars was, he could look inside you, and it was like he was trying to find something. And then he would. And then he wanted to mine it and refine it and use it. And the thing was, you really
wanted
him to. Because God knows you couldn’t.”

“Yeah, he was the goods,” said Dick, crunching his maraschino cherries. “Remember that time he ran that joke ad on April Fool’s Day about the all-you-can-eat chips contest? We sold tons! And no prize money! That was a pisser!” He snorted, shook his head. Then, “Holy buckets! Look at the time. Hey gang, gotta run. Happy returns, Sketch. What am I owe ya?”

“Eh, your dough’s no good here,” he grinned, “you big sissy.”

They hugged again, and Stankey was off.

Sketch excused himself to the men’s. I turned to Tip. Something I’d been wanting to know for a while now: “Does Sketch have any family? What’s that story?”

His face darkened. “Oh, I guess he didn’t tell you yet. It’s so sad,” he sighed. “He’s been a widower for almost twenty years now. His dear sweet Mairley died in childbirth. He lost them both.”

“Oh my God. He never said a word of it.”

“He doesn’t advertise it.” Tip didn’t seem to recognize the pun. “He waited a good two years before he told me.” A cheer from the TV. Score one for the Yanks. “But I’ll never forget it, when he told me, the way he said it.” He took his eyes away from mine. I saw the threat of actual tears. “He said…‘I became one sock.’ ”

The next morning Mimi called another Krinkle strategy meeting. And I formed a little strategy of my own. After I heard her office door close, I took my coffee mug and went downstairs, past Miss Preech, and into the pantry. I poured a cup, then stealthily opened the rear exit on the other side and mounted the service stairway to the second floor. Once the coast was clear, I tiptoed down the hallway to Mimi’s office and planted my back to the wall to see what I could hear. As luck would have it, the milk-glass transom above the doorjamb was cracked open a good six inches and I could just make out their conversation.

“—we need to convince this Lenny that we’re on his side,” said Nicky, “that we want to sell to the widest possible audience.”

And bang, it flashed, again:

Factory Workers

City Employees

Laborers

Barbers

Businessmen

Clerks

Professional People

Telephone Workers

Construction Workers

Salespeople

White-collar Workers

Others

Stop thinking about it. Stop it. Forget it.

Mimi: “
I
know…” a pause, “I want you to start thinking about Krinkle Karl as someone adults could look up to. Maybe even ask for advice. Yes! That’s it—like Monsignor Sheen. Or J. Edgar Hoover. Of course!”

“Great idea, Mummy.” Every time Nicky referred to Mimi this way, I never failed to think: Goodness, that’s not very nice. Yes, the resemblance to Boris Karloff is undeniable, but she IS your mother.

“Thank you, Nicky. Poopy, what do you think?”

Poopy? Who the hell was Poopy?

Preston: “For two cents I’d tell ’em all to go pound sand!”

Mimi sniffed. “Poop, that’s not going to help the cause.”

“If I may,” said Tip, “this all points to what I’ve been saying all along: Ads don’t sell products,
stores
sell products. Right?”

Nicky, irritated: “Oh, not this again.”

“I’m sorry, but it’s true. All an ad can do is give you a
need
for something…

Persons needed

“…to plant the seed of inquiry, the quest for knowledge…”

for a study

“…about something you didn’t realize you needed in the first place. Or something you forgot.”

of memory

I couldn’t escape it: anything I heard, read, or saw held a connection to it. Himillsy, why did you send it to me, why?

There are no further obligations.

Forget it. Let it go.

Except.

Oh come ON, you ding-a-ling.

Unless I’m not supposed to let it go at all. Is that it, Hims, just the opposite, because you…did you?

I’ve been doing brain exercises, remember?