The Madman's Tale (82 page)

“I didn’t know it was you that came for me,” I said.

Big Black laughed, and looked over at his brother. “Well, it’s not the sort of thing we do a whole lot anymore. Not like the old days, when we were young guys working at the old hospital and doing what old Gulp-a-pill wanted. No more. But we got the call, and we hurried right over and we’re just damn glad we got there before you, well …”

“Killed myself?”

Big Black smiled. “You want to put it that bluntly, C-Bird, well, that’s exactly right.”

I leaned back a little onto the pillows and looked over at the two men. “How did you know …,” I started.

Little Black shook his head. “Well, we’ve been keeping an eye on you for some time, C-Bird. Getting regular reports from Mister Klein at the treatment center about your progress. Plenty of calls from the Santiago family, ’cross the
hall. They’ve been helping us watch out for you. Local police, some of the local business men, they all pitched in, help keep tabs on C-Bird, year in, year out.

I’m surprised you didn’t know.”

I shook my head. “I had no idea. But how did you arrange …”

“Lots of folks owe my brother and me, big-time, C-Bird. And there’s lots of folks who are always looking to do a favor or two for the county sheriff”—he nodded toward Big Black—“or a city councilman …”

He paused, and then added: “Or a federal judge who has a most genuine and mighty big interest in the man who helped to save her life one real bad night a number of years ago.”

I had never ridden in a limousine before, especially one driven by a police officer in uniform. Big Black showed me how to make the windows roll up and down, and then he showed me where the telephone was and asked me if I wanted to make a call—at taxpayer’s expense, of course—to anyone, which I might have liked, but I couldn’t think of anyone that I wanted to speak with. Little Black gave the driver directions to my street, and he held onto a small blue duffel bag that contained two sets of clean clothes that my sisters had given me.

When we turned down the narrow block that led to my apartment, I saw another official-looking car parked outside. A driver in a black suit was standing by the door, waiting for us. He seemed to know the Moses brothers, because when we got out of the limousine, he merely pointed up toward the window to my apartment and said, “She’s upstairs waiting.”

I led the way up to the second floor.

The door that had been burst from its hinges by the Moses brothers and the ambulance crew had been repaired, but was wide open. I stepped just inside my apartment, and saw that it had been cleaned up, fixed up, and restored. I could smell new paint, and saw that the appliances in the kitchen were new. Then I looked up, and saw Lucy standing in the middle of the small living room.

She leaned a little to the right, using a silver aluminum cane for support. Her hair shone, glistening, black, but with a little gray around the edges, as if she was showing the same age that the Moses brothers had. The scar on her face had faded further with the passing of the years, but her green eyes and beauty were still as breathtaking as the day I’d first seen her. She smiled, when I approached her, and she held out her hand.

“Oh, Francis,” she said, “you had us so worried. It has been so long, and now, it is good to see you again.”

“Hello, Lucy,” I said. “I’ve thought about you often.”

“And I about you, as well, C-Bird.”

For a moment, I remained rooted in position, frozen a little like I was the first time we’d met. It is always hard to speak, think, or breathe, at some moments, especially when so many memories are reverberating in the air, just behind every word, every look, and every touch.

It seemed to me that I had much to ask her, but what I said instead was, “Lucy, why didn’t you save Peter?”

She smiled ruefully, and shook her head.

“I wished that I could,” she said. “But the Fireman needed to save himself. I couldn’t do it. Nor could anyone else. Only him.”

She seemed to sigh and as she did so, I looked past her and saw that the wall where my words were collected remained intact. The rows of writings marched up and down, the drawings leapt out, the story was all there, just as it had been the night the Angel had finally come to me, but I’d slipped through his grasp. Lucy followed my eyes with her own, and half turned toward the wall.

“Quite an effort, C-Bird,” she said.

“You’ve read it?”

“Yes. We all have.”

I didn’t say anything, because I didn’t know what to say.

“You understand, some folks might be hurt by what you describe,” she said.

“Hurt?”

“Reputations. Careers. That sort of thing.”

“It’s dangerous?”

“It might be. Always a little hard to tell.”

“What should I do?” I asked.

Lucy smiled again. “I can’t answer that for you C-Bird. But I have brought you several presents that might help you to make a decision.”

“Presents?”

“I guess, for lack of a better word, that is what you might call them.” She gestured with her hand at a simple brown cardboard box that was pushed up against the wall. I walked over to it and reached inside and took out some items collected inside.

The first was a package of large yellow legal notepads. Next to that was a box of Number 2 pencils with erasers. Then, below those, there were two cans of eggshell white, flat latex wall paint, a roller, a tray, and a large, stiff paintbrush.

“You see, C-Bird,” Lucy said carefully, measuring her words with a judge’s precision and pace. “Just about anyone could come in here and read the words you’ve put up on the wall. And they might interpret them in any number of
ways, not the least of which is to wonder just how many bodies
are
buried in the old state hospital graveyard. And how those bodies happened to get there.”

I nodded.

“But, on the other hand, Francis, this is your story, and you have the right to tell it. Hence the notepads, which have a slightly greater permanence, and significantly more privacy to them than the words scrawled on the wall. Already those are starting to fade, and pretty soon, they are likely to be illegible.”

I could see that she was telling the truth.

Lucy smiled, and she opened her mouth as if to add something else, but then stopped. Instead, she simply leaned forward and kissed me on the cheek.

“It’s good to see you again, C-Bird,” she said. “Take better care of yourself from now on.”

Then, leaning heavily on her cane, dragging her ruined right leg with every step like a memory of that night, Lucy slowly limped from the room. Big Black and Little Black watched her for a moment, then they, too, wordlessly, reached out, shook my hand, and followed after her.

When the door closed shut, I turned back to the wall. My eyes raced over all the words there, and as I read, I carefully unwrapped the pencils and the pads of paper. Without hesitating for more than a few seconds, I quickly copied down from the very top:

The painting, I thought, could wait for a day or so.