Pay It Forward (18 page)

T
he 800 number rang directly into his home. And rang and rang. It rang intermittently in the middle of the night, jarring him out of sleep. The callers seemed surprised, at least as surprised as Chris. They mumbled that they’d expected an answering service or voice mail or something. Most wanted more information about the show they’d seen earlier that night. Nobody seemed to have information. Everybody seemed to want it.

At six in the morning he gave up, drank a pot of coffee, and watched the phone. It didn’t ring for hours. He fixed himself a small glass of brandy, feeling he deserved it somehow in lieu of sleep. And peace—he wanted peace. He thought of it as artificial peace. But he needed more than a small dose of peace, so he poured another.

At ten after nine the phone rang again.

The caller said, “I want to talk to someone who’s responsible for that stupid news program last night.”

“Well,” Chris said, “the thing is, you
are.
”

He listened to a silence on the line.

“Oh. I am?”

“Yes. You are. My name is Chris Chandler and I wrote, produced, researched, and otherwise put that story together.”

“Well, it was a piece of crap, man.”

“Everybody’s a critic.” He took a long pull on his brandy. It was helping him feel more relaxed.

“I can’t believe you bought that crap about that guy. Sidney G. Man. He is such an asshole. He is a total liar. Totally. How could you have bought all that crap?”

“Actually, I didn’t.”

“You didn’t?”

“No.”

“You didn’t believe he thought up that whole thing?”

“No.”

“Then why did you make that stupid story?”

“Well, it’s like this. I know he’s a liar, but what good does it do to say so? I got nothing to go by. I don’t really know. I was hoping somebody who actually knows something would help me call him a liar.”

Chris did not feel inclined to believe he had such a person on the line or, suddenly, that he likely ever would.

“Well, I know something, and I say he’s a liar.”

“You know where he got this idea?”

“Yeah. He got it from me.”

Oh, right, kid. I see. It’s not all Sidney G.’s idea. He’s just a lying asshole. You thought the whole thing up. You deserve all the credit.
“Okay. So you’re the real hero, and I should do a show about you?”

“No, I didn’t think it up. I just paid it forward. I just found that asshole getting beaten half to death behind a bar in Atascadero and I saved his butt. I told him about the Movement.”

Chris felt a little tingle behind his ears. Atascadero. Stella said Sidney hid out in Atascadero when things got too hot. But he hadn’t mentioned that in the story, he quite purposely hadn’t, because he didn’t want Sidney to know he’d ever talked to Stella.

“Uh. You know, uh…what’s your name?”

“Matt.”

“Matt. I’m sorry, Matt, if I was being a little rude. All night I’ve been up talking to people who know less than I do about all this. So, listen, you don’t happen to know how this thing got started, do you?”

“Only that it didn’t start with that asshole Sidney G.”

“And you don’t know who it was that paid it forward to you?”

“Well, yeah. Of course I know that. Her name was Ida Greenberg.”

“Wait. Wait just a second, okay, Matt? I have to get a pen. I have to get a whole lot of information before you hang up. Don’t hang up, okay?”

C
HRIS SAT BAKING FOR A MOMENT
at the curb. Atascadero was hot, unbelievably hot. The guy who rented him the Ford said this was unseasonable, like that should somehow help. Chris had rented the Fairmont at the San Luis Obispo airport. It felt boxy and strange, like something his father would drive. It did not have air-conditioning.

He checked the address again, the one that Mrs. Greenberg’s neighbor had given him. Supposedly the address of a son, the sole surviving heir. He shut down the engine and walked up to the door.

He knocked. Waited. Knocked.

He heard the sound of a small, high-revving engine, like a power mower. He couldn’t tell if it was coming from the backyard of this house or the house next door.

He walked around to the back and looked over the ancient wood fence. A man in his forties was cutting the grass. He wore a sleeveless white T-shirt and tight jeans that made his gut and love handles stand out in sickening relief. Dark hair jutted out at the collar and sleeve lines.

Chris already didn’t like him.

He didn’t seem like a man who would keep an obsessively neat garden, but that’s what Chris saw. Flower beds covered in chips, roses trimmed and tied back. Not one blade of crabgrass on the lawn. Seemed this guy could tend his yard but not himself.

He called hello a few times but couldn’t make himself heard over the roar. He leaned on the fence and waited, feeling sweat creep down the nape of his neck and run down his back.

When the man finally saw Chris out of the corner of his eye and looked up, Chris waved his arms. The man stopped and cut the motor, leaving just a humming echo in Chris’s ears and a welcome silence.

“I’m looking for Richard Greenberg. Would you happen to be him?”

The man wiped his forehead with the back of his hand and ambled over to the fence. He didn’t seem to be in much hurry.

“My name is Richard Green.”

“Oh. Maybe I got my information wrong. I’m looking for Ida Greenberg’s son, Richard.”

“Yeah. Okay. You got him. Whadaya want?”

“I just wanted to ask you a few questions.”

“About what?”

“About your late mother.”

Richard snorted. “Not exactly my favorite topic.”

“Why’s that?”

“I got my reasons.”

“Because she didn’t leave you anything?”

“What the hell do you know about that? Hey, who are you, anyway? You some kind of friend of hers? Yeah, all right. She stiffed me when she died. You know that much. Left me one dollar. Left the rest of her life insurance to these people she hardly knew. That’s what kind of swell lady my mother was. What the hell do you want to know and why?”

“That’s what I wanted to talk about. Her will. What about her house? Did she own it?”

“Her and the bank. She left me in the cold, I’ll tell you. One lousy friggin’ dollar. Now I gotta live over this guy’s garage and do his garden so’s he’ll gimme a break on the rent. Which is kind of ironic. Because I think the reason she stiffed me was that she got mad at me ’cause I didn’t do her garden. I figure this is, like, Ida’s revenge. What the hell is your stake in this?”

“I’m just a reporter looking into a story. It seems she was passing on some kind of…I’m not sure how to explain it. Like a chain letter, but with deeds instead of letters.”

“I don’t know nothing about that. I got no idea why she did it.” He turned quickly and started back to his mower.

Chris reached into his pocket and pulled out the photocopy Matt had made for him and given to him on his arrival. The letter. “I’ll tell you why she
said
she did it.”

Richard turned back. “Said to who?”

“One of the people she left the money to. In this letter.”

He moved closer again. “That crazy cat lady?”

“No. The kid from the grocery store.”

“Oh, right. That was so rich. What a slap in the face. I been her son for over forty years. These two little teenage slobs bag her groceries and they get my money.”

He ripped the photocopy out of Chris’s hand. Chris watched him read silently for a few seconds.

“‘I don’t trust that he would use it the right way.’ That’s a good one. Christ. I would have invested it in eating. That’s such a lie. She was pissed about the garden.” He threw the letter up into the air. The pages fluttered onto the still-uncut grass. “I said I’d do it. She finally paid some kid to. Said she didn’t pay him, he did it for free. Yeah, right. Kids love to do that. She was obsessed with that garden. She never loved
me
that much. I gotta finish here.” He walked away from the fence again.

“Excuse me. Can I have my letter back?”

Richard ignored him and pulled the string on the lawn mower; the noisy engine jumped to life. Chris pulled himself up
to the top of the fence and scrambled over, rescuing the letter just before Richard could run it through the shredder.

“D
ID YOU TALK TO THE LADY
at the cat shelter?”

“Yeah. She really didn’t know Mrs. Greenberg at all.”

“I didn’t really, either. I just ran her groceries over the scanner.” Terri stood in the alley behind the grocery store, lighting an already half-smoked cigarette with a disposable lighter. “I know. I shouldn’t smoke. I’m trying to quit. Really. That’s why I only smoke half at a time.”

Chris sat on his haunches with his back up against the brick of the building, his eyes closed against the heat and glare. A light breeze had come up, and even the breeze felt hot.

He shrugged slightly. “I didn’t say anything.”

“No. I know you didn’t. I don’t know. I wish I could help you.”

“Did you talk at all when she came in?”

“Barely. She usually complained about her arthritis. She was nice, though. I make her sound like she wasn’t. But she was. Nobody likes to listen to someone complain about aches and pains. But I figured she had to tell somebody. You know? She was lonely. Her husband died. So I listened. Now I’m glad I did. I mean, for eight thousand dollars she could have told me about every ache she ever had.”

“Do you remember the last time you saw her?”

“Kind of. She was in a good mood.”

“What did she say?”

Terri let her head drop back and closed her eyes. Blew smoke up into the heavy heat. She shook her head. “It was such a long time ago. You know?”

“Okay. I understand. Look, I’m staying at the Motel Six.
Maybe another day, maybe two. I don’t know. Maybe I’m wasting my time and I should go home. But if you think of anything. If anything comes back to you. Give me a call, okay?”

“Sure, okay.”

“And if you think of something later…” He handed her one of his cards.

She read it, slipped it into her shirt pocket, and ground the cigarette under the toe of her shoe. “I guess my break’s over. Sorry I wasn’t much help.”

“You were as much help as anyone else,” he said, and walked back to his rented oven.

H
E FOUND HER HOUSE.
That was easy. The tricky part was explaining to himself why he even bothered. A dead woman’s house wasn’t likely to tell much of a story.

The sun had dipped to a slant, the day’s heat broken, but barely. He stood in front of the little blue-gray house and admired the garden. Perfectly tended. Someone new must be living here now.

He knocked on the door; no reply.

He sank onto the top porch step and began to feel stuck. His motivation to leave drained away. He could go get dinner, but he wasn’t hungry. Why go back to the motel when he wouldn’t sleep?

A boy rode down the street on a heavy old bike, delivering the afternoon paper. He didn’t throw one at Mrs. Greenberg’s house. Maybe the bank still owned it.

But banks don’t keep up the yard work. Do they? Maybe whoever lived here didn’t take the afternoon paper.

He took his MasterCard out of his shirt pocket and stared at it. Tapped it on his knee. He’d maxed it out, then transferred the balance to a Visa with a better rate. And sworn he’d cut this one in half,
so as not to double his debt. But he hadn’t cut it in half. He’d used it for a plane ticket, and a motel, and a rental car. And for what?

A woman came out of the house across the street to fetch her paper. Chris sprang to his feet.

“Excuse me,” he called and sprinted over. It seemed to alarm her. “Excuse me, can I just ask you a question about this house across the street?”

“Old Mrs. Greenberg’s house?”

“Right. Did you know her very well?”

“Not very.” She crossed her arms, uncrossed them, tugged at her housedress nervously. “My husband doesn’t think we should get too friendly with the neighbors.”

“Is someone living in the house now?”

“No, it hasn’t been sold yet. The bank owns it.”

“Who’s keeping it up so nicely?”

“I really couldn’t say. If you’ll excuse me.”

She backed through her door and closed it quickly. Chris took a deep breath and walked back to Mrs. Greenberg’s front porch. He stood looking through the front windows. Sheets covered the furniture. Everything seemed coated with a fine layer of dust. He collapsed on her steps again.

He should just go home. He knew that now. He couldn’t interview a dead woman, and even if he could, where would it lead him? Someone paid it forward to her. Maybe she didn’t know that person’s name. Maybe she was part of the twelfth generation, or the hundred-and-twelfth. If he was the best investigative reporter on the whole goddamned planet, and he wasn’t, he would never trace it all the way back to its roots. Not without some kind of written record.

The paperboy came back and dropped his bike on Mrs. Greenberg’s perfect lawn. He came up the walk toward Chris. Chris waited, figuring the kid was heading for him or had something to say to him, but he took a detour around to the side yard. As he walked by, Chris saw he was carrying a bag of dry cat food.

When he came back, he had a pair of hedge clippers.

“Hi,” Chris said as he walked by.

“Hi.” The boy began trimming the hedge that ran like a fence against the neighboring property. It wasn’t looking too seedy to begin with.

When he’d worked his way closer, Chris said, “You’re the one keeping this place up.”

“Yeah.”

“Who pays you to do it?”

“Nobody.”

“Why do you do it, then?”

“I don’t know. Just because.” He furrowed his brow and concentrated on his work for a moment. Then he looked up and said, “I don’t think she would like to see it get all ratty again. I don’t know if she can see. What do you think?”

“About what?”

“Do you think that when somebody’s dead they can still look down like that?”

Chris wrestled with the question for a moment, then shook his head. He’d never really pinned down what he believed in that respect. “I guess not. But I’m not sure.”