Twelve

Henry woke up in his chair with a stiff neck and the bright sun in his eyes. Groaning, stiff-legged, he got up and walked to the bed, where he’d thrown his clothes last night, fumbled in his trousers until he found his watch, and cursed. How could it be ten thirty? Then he remembered: he hadn’t fallen asleep till dawn. That was when he’d given up on a light ever coming on in Angie’s room, or her shadow ever passing behind the drawn shade. Either she wasn’t there or she preferred darkness. He couldn’t decide which was worse.

He got dressed mechanically, without interest. Stared at himself in the mirror while he shaved and thought, You look hungover. Interesting. Who knew you could teetotal all night and still wake up resembling the corpse of a bloodhound.

Speaking of hounds, where was Astra? There, he saw through the window, curled up in the sun on the landing of the outside steps. His usual spot. Since he’d fallen in love, he’d taken to staying out all night, sleeping all day.

Henry’s luck stayed bad when he encountered Smoak in the lounge, tidying up with a feather duster. At least the landlord didn’t know anything yet, either that or he’d acquired tact overnight; all he said was, “You’re up mighty late,” and “Afraid you’ve missed breakfast by a mile,” to which Henry responded with grunts. And Smoak wouldn’t leave. Now he was running a damn carpet sweeper over the rug. Nothing for it: Henry would have to telephone Angie with an audience.

“She’s not here,” Mrs. Mortimer informed him, chilly-voiced.

“She’s not?”

“Nope. She didn’t come home last night.”

That explained it. In the pause that followed, he heard all the disappointment, disgust, and condemnation with which he’d punished himself last night. But then Mrs. Mortimer said, “I expect you’ll find her over at the Hershes’.”

His emotions were raw; he couldn’t speak for a second. “You’re a very kind woman.”

“Just a silly one,” she said and hung up.

Norah Hersh was neither kind nor silly. “Yes, she’s here. No, she won’t come to the phone. Because she doesn’t want to talk to you. No, I won’t give her a message. Write her a letter, why don’t you, and then go away.”

He’d run out of choices. He took her advice.

Dear Angie,

 

I worked at the Sun with a man named Finster. It’s true he was engaged to the lady your cousin spoke of. I won’t talk about her, but I promise that what passed between us was as much of a “love affair” as the one Astra’s conducting with Lulu. But I take all the blame for it. Not my proudest moment, and it seems we reap what we sow. That’s all. You won’t care, but I had to tell you that anyway.

Finster found out. We were up for the same job, assistant managing editor. While I was out on a story, he called in an op-ed under my byline, and they ran it the next day. Somebody cried foul, said it was almost the same as an editorial in the Cincinnati Post a couple of weeks earlier, which it was. I recognized it myself. Great copy. Finster had laid his plans well, and his future father-in-law was the associate publisher. The rap stuck. I got sacked.

Newspapering draws a lot of scoundrels, wastrels, drunks, and degenerates, and we tolerate them. We consider them color. What we don’t put up with is copiers, at least not the egregious kind, and never at the high end of the profession or on the good papers. They’re scum. They get pitched out on the dunghill, and ever after their names are used as curses. If you love what you do, and I did, it’s the end of you.

One friend stuck by me, name of Paddy, an old rummy who took pictures for the Globe. But his liver rotted out and he died, leaving me an inheritance: all his cameras and a dog with one trick.

Here’s the funny part. Paddy had a not very lucrative sideline, cooking up photos of ghosts in haunted houses. You wouldn’t think there’d be much call for that, but fakers have to get their pictures from somewhere, and in a lot of the Northeast, Paddy was their man. Then I was their man.

Only I took it further than Paddy did and became one of the fakers. More money in that if you do it right, although never what you’d call a gold mine. For a while I enjoyed what Lucien called “bilking the credulous and unwary.” I was in a bad way, and it felt like getting in a punch of my own for a change.

What I liked best, though, was changing my name. I can’t make you understand this, so I’ll just say it. Taking my reputation from me was the same as killing me. I didn’t do what they said, but it felt like I had. Hard to explain, but I felt as ashamed as if I’d done it. If booze is poison, I should’ve died, because God knows I gave it my best. But I couldn’t even pull that off, so I did the next best thing. I disappeared.

Sorry, this must be tedious for you. I’ll skip to the middle. By the time I met you, I’d given up drinking and started writing again, started sending pieces out under pseudonyms. To make a few extra bucks, sure, but also because it turns out I couldn’t stop. So Lucien was right again—I am a newspaperman, not a ghost detective.

A lot of scurvy, defrocked journalists end up at the cheap papers, the kind with more pictures than words, or else they become press agents. I thought I was too good for that, but, wrong again. I’m tired of sinking. You probably don’t want the burden of knowing it’s because of you that I saw what I was turning into. So I’ll spare you, and lie, and say it was my better nature finally surfacing. One thing is true: the thought of leaving you and going back to my old life is like ice water in the face. I can’t do it. So I’ll try for any job now, and I’ll write anything, tripe probably, under my own name.

That’s it. I wish we could’ve gotten your house back. I came to love it, too—I never told you that. I see you there. I want it for you. These cameras are worth something, the typewriter’s almost new. They won’t be enough, but even a little money could be a new start. Since no one’s more resourceful than you, I don’t count out the possibility. Especially if the dancing ghost returns to Willow House some moonless night . . .

I’ll never forget you. I’m sorry you can’t believe the main thing, the truest thing I said last night. That you cared for me for a little while is the memory I’m holding closest. My highest honor. The gift I don’t deserve but will keep with me the rest of my life. Be happy.

 

Harry Wilde