Low Life (11 page)

He licked his lips.

He had to make her believe. She hadn’t seen him for weeks. Her memories of him weren’t fresh. He could make her believe. He had to.

‘Why?’ he said, then cleared his throat and swallowed. His tongue was sticking to the roof of his mouth. ‘Why would you say that?’ He smiled. ‘Who else would I be,
sugar bear?’

She returned his smile then, only hers was real. Had he stumbled upon a correct phrase when he called her sugar bear? He thought he must have. He swallowed and then smiled again. This time his
was real too.

There’s my sugar bear,’ he said.

She reached out and touched the scar curving down his face from cheekbone to chinbone. She traced the pad of a finger across it.

‘What happened?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your face.’

‘Accident,’ he said, guessing. ‘You remember.’

She shook her head.

‘I remember twenty-five thousand dollars in surgeries to have it removed,’ she said. ‘What have you done to yourself?’

‘I don’t . . .’

He shook his head.

‘Goddamn it,’ she said.

She appeared to be on the verge of tears again, but then she looked away, blinked several times, and swallowed. It passed. She had the weary and ragged look of a woman who had suffered her
husband’s insanity for a long time. Simon hadn’t seen it on her before, but he saw it now. The tired eyes, the set jaw.

He’d been insane. She had loved Jeremy Shackleford, but he had been mad. Maybe that was all there was to Shackleford wanting him dead. Maybe Shackleford had seen him on the street and
their similar appearance had been enough to send him over the edge. It could be that simple, couldn’t it?

There was no rule that said things had to be complex. Didn’t Occam’s razor even state the opposite, that the simplest answer was usually the correct one – that you should cut
away all that was superfluous?

But
was
that an answer? Simon wasn’t sure.

‘Why are you wearing your old glasses?’ Samantha said.

‘I don’t know,’ he said.

She grabbed his face in both her hands and looked at him and said ‘Goddamn it’ again, and then she pulled his face to hers and kissed his hair and his cheeks and his chin and his
mouth and his neck.

‘Goddamn it.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘You’re always sorry.’

‘I’m sorry for that, too.’

‘I know,’ she said. ‘Let’s get you into a bath. You smell like you haven’t had one in weeks.’

Simon stood barefoot on the cold tile floor. The bathtub was running hot water, and Samantha had put soap into it, so there was now a mountain of foam just beneath the faucet
– a reverse volcano into which water was rushing. Steam rose off the liquid’s surface.

‘Do you remember anything?’

Simon shook his head. He thought it was best if he remembered nothing. If he had nothing to say he was less likely to say the wrong thing, to give himself away.

Samantha pulled his corduroy coat off and hung it on a brass hook poking from the door, and then unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it off him.

‘I thought you donated all these clothes to Good Will.’

‘I – I boxed them up, but I never drove them over.’

Samantha unbuttoned his pants and shoved them down his legs. They piled at his feet and he stepped out of them. He had hairy white legs covered in skin like a plucked chicken, thin hair except
at the knees, which his pants had rubbed bare, and thin calves lined with blue veins.

‘Get in the tub,’ she said. ‘I’ll scrub you down.’

He walked to the bathtub and stepped his right foot into the water. At first he couldn’t tell whether it was hot or cold – the shock had confused his body – but after a moment
his nerves were reoriented, and he yanked his scalded foot back out, sucking in air through his teeth.

‘Don’t be a baby. Get in.’

Simon tried a second time, going easily, first one foot and then the other. He stood still a moment, letting his body adjust, and then lowered himself in slowly, hands gripping either side of
the tub. He was all right until his scrotum touched the water, and then he stood up again, or tried, but couldn’t manage it before Samantha pushed him back down. His skin turned pink.

He kept waiting for Samantha to see some scar or birthmark on his body that Jeremy didn’t have, or to notice the absence of a scar or birthmark, but neither of those things happened.

Samantha grabbed a dry loofah from the edge of the tub, soaked it in the water, squeezed it out, and scrubbed Simon’s back.

‘How did you get home?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Your car’s been in the garage.’

‘Oh, right.’

‘So?’

‘I took the train,’ he said, despite the fact that he had never used the city’s public transportation system. He had seen the tracks near Union Station, and occasionally saw
one of the light rail trains rolling to or from Pasadena, and every once in a while walked over subway grating on the sidewalk, in Hollywood and Koreatown, but he’d never actually ridden one
of the city’s trains, or even one of its busses. Still, it was the first thing that came to mind, and it seemed to do the job – Samantha asked no more questions.

She scrubbed at his back silently for a couple minutes.

‘My show’s tonight.’

‘Your show?’

‘My exhibition. My paintings.’

‘Oh.’

‘I have to go. Gil’s been planning it for weeks.’

‘Okay.’

‘What do you want to do?’

‘I’ll stay home if you want.’

‘I don’t feel comfortable leaving you home alone.’

‘Then I’ll come with you.’

‘Do you think you’ll be okay? I know you hate crowds, and on top of everything else—’

‘I’ll be okay.’

‘Sure?’

He nodded.

Samantha bent down and kissed the back of his head.

‘Okay. Now wet your hair.’

Then she shoved his head down, forcing it underwater.

There were still beads of water dotting his naked back, and his clean underwear was spotted with moisture. He stood in front of his side of the closet – Jeremy
Shackleford’s side of the closet – looking at ten suits, five of them gray, three black, one brown, one dark green. They were hanging on wooden hangers, and they were all facing in the
same direction. To their right, about a dozen dry-cleaned white shirts. To the right of the shirts, cardigan sweaters in various colors, about half of them plaid. And at the end of the closet, a
tie rack with at least a dozen silk ties hanging from it, each facing out so that Simon – Jeremy – could examine the patterns and pick which one he wanted. On a shelf above all this,
several white T-shirts – no yellow sweat stains in the pits of these – folded and stacked neatly.

Simon grabbed one of the T-shirts off the shelf and slipped into it. It took a bit of effort because the moisture on his body clung to the fabric, but soon enough he had it on. He grabbed the
brown suit and pulled the pants off the hanger, tossing the jacket to the mattress behind him. He slipped into them, wondering how they would fit. They were a bit big around the waist – which
was nothing a cinched belt couldn’t fix – but otherwise the fit was nice.

Samantha walked in wearing a paint-splattered pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She was carrying two cups of coffee. She handed him one of the cups and the warmth of the porcelain against the palms
of his hands felt good.

‘Thank you.’

He sipped his coffee. She’d prepared it just how he liked – lots of milk, no sugar.

‘You’re still wearing those glasses.’

‘Yeah.’

‘Well, I hate them.’

‘Oh.’

‘Please don’t wear them.’

‘Okay.’

‘There’s contact lenses in the medicine cabinet. I checked.’

‘Okay.’

He sipped his coffee again, and then set it down on the dresser. He grabbed a white button-up shirt from the closet and put his arms into it and buttoned it, starting at the bottom to make sure
the buttons were lined up, and then sliding the rest through their buttonholes and into place. Then he grabbed a green checkered cardigan, put that on, and started looking for a tie.

‘Are you going somewhere?’

‘I thought I’d go to the college. Do I have a class today?’

Samantha nodded. ‘In an hour. You have that one Monday class. The history of geometry or something.’

‘It’s Monday?’

Samantha nodded. ‘But are you sure you’re ready to go back to work?’

‘I think so.’

‘You’re okay?’

‘I’m fine. I want to get back to work.’

I want to find out why Jeremy Shackleford wanted me dead.

‘Howard’s been covering your classes. He can cover one more.’

He had no idea who Howard was.

‘How many did I miss?’

‘Several.’

‘Several?’

‘A week’s worth – six. Classes only started a week ago or you’d’ve missed more.’

He nodded.

‘What did you tell him?’

‘Who?’

‘Henry.’

‘Howard?’

‘Howard.’

She paused and there was concern in her eyes. She looked like she might say something about him using the wrong name, but then she didn’t. ‘I said you’d had an accident and I
didn’t know when you’d be able to work – and with that fucking scar on your face—’ She sighed. ‘Anyway, I think everything’s okay.’

‘Good,’ Simon said. ‘Thank you.’

Samantha nodded.

‘I made you a two o’clock appointment with Dr Zurasky.’

A pulse of pain throbbed just above Simon’s left eyebrow and his eye began to water. He pinched his eyes closed, opened them after several blinks, and looked at Samantha.

‘How did – how did you know about Zurasky?’

‘Of course I know about Zurasky. My sister referred us to him.’

‘When?’

Samantha said nothing for a long time. She just stared at him. Then: ‘Are you
sure
you should be going to work?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You don’t seem fine.’

‘Well, I am.’

‘You don’t seem yourself at all.’

‘I’m just— When did I start seeing him?’

‘You saw him a few times two winters ago, I think, then last June— You know this. I don’t know why we’re having this conversation.’

‘I don’t remember.’

‘I don’t think you should go to work.’

‘I’m going.’

‘I’m against it.’

‘I need to. I don’t want to feel like – I don’t want to feel like an invalid.’

Samantha bit her lip.

‘If you think—’

‘I’m fine.’

He took the disposable contact lenses from their boxes in the medicine cabinet, first the right one and then the left. He peeled the foil from the top of the right lens case,
being careful not to spill the saline solution, and then got the lens on the pad of his index finger. He examined it a moment to make sure it was right side out and once he was sure it was he held
his right eye open with his left hand, and settled the lens gently onto the green of his eye. He blinked a few times, wiped at the water running down his cheek.

He closed his left eye and looked at his own reflection with his right. It was somewhat blurry, but not as blurry as he had expected it to be, and the blur might be the result of his being
unused to wearing contact lenses. He might be able to get away with wearing these despite the fact that the prescription wasn’t made for him.

He peeled the foil off the container for the left lens and repeated the process. He blinked both eyes several times. He felt something in his left eye, looked closely at his reflection and
thought he saw an eyelash floating around in there, rinsed it out with saline solution, blinked again, wiped the water off his face again, and looked at his own reflection again.

‘I’ll be goddamned,’ he said.

His car was a Saab. At first he thought it was the same Saab that killed the mutt he had fed, but there was no blood on the rear license plate and it didn’t look like it
had been washed recently. It was covered in a thin coat of grime. Also, Samantha said it had been in the garage. And Jeremy, being dead, couldn’t have driven it back here. Death tended to
hinder such activity.

He got inside, started the engine, slid the transmission into reverse, and backed out of the garage, careful not to hit Samantha’s car, which was parked in the driveway to his right. He
rolled out into the street, put the car into drive – and drove.

While he drove he thought about what he was doing and why. Was he really doing this in order to find out why Shackleford had broken into his apartment – was he really doing this in order
to find out why Shackleford had wanted him dead? Or was he doing it because Shackleford had had everything he’d ever wanted, everything he’d dreamed of but had never attained –
because he wanted to step into a life he’d always desired but which someone else had built?

‘There’s no reason it can’t be both,’ he told himself while he drove. Shackleford was already dead. Why shouldn’t he step into his place – if he could get
away with it?

Jeremy Shackleford’s office was a small rectangular box, about eight feet wide and ten feet deep. The walls were roughly textured and one of them – the one to the
left of the oak desk which sat in the middle of the room, facing the door – was painted green. A captioned picture of Bertrand Russell hung there. The caption read:

Simon sat at the desk and looked around. He pulled open a drawer and found a pint of whiskey. He unscrewed the whiskey and took a swallow. It burned his throat and felt good and warm inside
him.

The clock said he had half an hour before his class started. That gave him some time to search the place. He took another swallow of whiskey, put the bottle back, and started looking.

Fifteen minutes later he walked into the room where he would be teaching. He’d found nothing in the office, but then he had no idea what he should be looking for. Maybe
once he knew more he’d know better what to look for. He glanced around the classroom. It did not surprise him to find that it was small – about big enough to hold an algebra class in a
high school. This was an arts college, after all; people loved neither their maths nor their sciences at such institutions. He was glad for that. He was pretty sure he could handle teaching the
history of geometry to students who were fidgeting and thinking about the short film they were directing or the oil painting they were in the middle of – or whatever – without too much
trouble. If he’d had to deal with people who gave a damn about mathematics, it might have been a problem.