Shakespeare and The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire and most of the thick new books tired his eyes. But he had no trouble at all reading Zane Grey, Max Brand, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Sax Rohmer, Rex Stout, Erie Stanley Gardner, or Ellery Queen. He went through everything they ever wrote.
But he spent most of his time building model airplanes. His specialty was World War II fighters. He had whole squadrons of Stukas, Thunderbolts, ME 109s, FW 190s, Spitfires, Mustangs, and Zeros lined up on shelves all over the cottage.
In the mornings he’d go for walks in the hills or drive to Fresno to do his shopping.
The cottage was only a few miles from the San Joaquin River and in the afternoons he would go to the cemetery to visit Joanna.
Her real name was engraved on her headstone.
Joanna Eris
with the dates of her birth and death. Her epitaph was
Rest, perturbed spirit.
That had been one of the many passages underlined in her paperback Hamlet. He’d chosen it at random.
He would sit beside her grave for hours, chatting with her, sharing their memories, telling her stories.
When are you coming to bed? she would ask. And they would both laugh. This was their daily joke. It referred to the nearby burial plot he’d bought for himself. It was all ready for him.
At sunset he would go home.
He’d watch television in the evening, then read or work on his planes until midnight, then either lie on his cot or sit in his armchair and doze until dawn.
After her accident, when he’d had her body flown to California, the FBI pulled him in for questioning several times.
They wanted to know who and what he was and why he was so interested in the ‘subject’ Rita Holden, AKA Nita Iqutos, AKA Charlotte Vincent, AKA Dorothea Bishop, etc., etc., née Joanna Eris.
He’d told them vaguely about his involvement in the Paul Hugo case when he was working for Watchmen, Inc. (He’d felt that this was somehow fitting, ending her story as it began, with Paul Hugo. It more or less closed the circle.) He hadn’t given them any details. He’d merely stated that during the course of a routine inquiry – years ago! – he’d encountered the ‘subject’ in Chicago … or had it been San Francisco? or LA? Anyway, he’d met her again in Trenton when she was working as a waitress in The Hessian Barracks. He’d invited her out to dinner. They’d had a few drinks together, then she’d stolen his Porsche. He’d claimed her body because he wanted her to have ‘a Christian burial.’
They’d only half-believed him.
They’d put him in a lineup and brought in Duke, Abdel Idfa, and Martine to see if they could identify him. Duke and Abdel hadn’t the faintest idea who he was, and Martine had played dumb.
Later she and the Eye had had a few seconds alone together in the outer office. They hadn’t spoken. They’d both been afraid of bugs, so they just stood there staring at each other gravely. Then the Feds had called her into the other room, and before leaving she’d winked at him.
He laughed, remembering it. A wink was as good as a nod!
Finally, after the third or fourth interrogation, he’d told them all to go fuck themselves. They hadn’t retaliated.
And he’d gone to Fresno and rented his cottage – his ‘antechamber’ as Joanna called it. Hurry up! she kept saying. It’s cold in here alone!
His neighbors thought he was a widower. The kids called him Pop. His landlady, a swinging young matron who lived in Reedly, adored him. ‘Did you see what he’s done to the hovel!’ she would rave to her friends. ‘The roof and the windows and the porch? It looks brand new! Why, even the John works! If he wasn’t such an old dear I’d kick his ass out of there and sell the place for eighty thousand dollars!’
And time passed. Midnight, dawn, the morning, the afternoon, and twilight.
Once every five or six months he’d clean his .45 and drive to Oakland or San Mateo and hold up somebody for a few hundred dollars. This kept him in spending money and paid his rent. Only occasionally would he ask himself, What the fuck am I doing? The answer was always the same: Waiting.
Every so often he’d spend an evening with Father Anthony, the local priest. They’d drink beer and play gin and talk about football and God.
‘The Oakland Raiders, that was the team! Remember Cozie? And remember Ken Huff of the Colts?’
‘Mike Fanning was probably the best.’
‘Fanning couldn’t come anywhere near Cozie or Ken Huff. But my all-time favorite was Bartkowski!’
‘He played with the Eagles, didn’t he?’
‘What are you saying? The Eagles! He was with the Falcons … uhh … was that little girl down in the cemetery baptized.’
‘No, Father.’
‘And if I – uhh – read the names on the stones correctly, she was born out of wedlock?’
‘Yes, Father.’
‘Well – uhh – of course Fanning was great too. The last time I saw the Rams play was in seventy-five. Live, I mean. Against the Forty-niners …’
‘What does God see, Father, when he looks at us?’
The question didn’t take the priest aback. He was a wise old man who had served in many parishes, and nothing surprised him. ‘If I knew that, pal,’ he laughed, ‘I’d be God myself. Whatsoever he beholdeth is for his eyes only.’
On the last night of his life the Eye dreamed of the corridor. He found the door, and it was unlocked. He opened it and stepped into the photograph.
And there he was!
The fifteen lovely faces turned to him, alive and miraculous and startled.
He stood before them, absolutely certain that he was awake and that everything else, the whole long, long saga of his longing, had been a dream.
Maggie? he asked.
But he died before his lost daughter could answer him. And they buried him beneath the oak trees beside his inviolate bride.