Rules of Civility (44 page)

I knelt to look at the stack of books. They were the reference books from the study at the Beresford and the book of Washingtonia that had been given to him by his mother. But there was also the edition of
Walden
that I'd seen in the Adirondacks. It was a little more scuffed around the edges now, as if it had been carried in a back pocket—up and down the trail to Pinyon Peak, up and down Tenth Avenue, up and down this narrow flophouse stair.

Tinker's footsteps sounded on the landing. I sat on his crate.

He came through the door with two pounds of coal wrapped in newspaper. He got down on his knees in front of the stove and set about lighting the fire, blowing on the flames like a scout.

He always looked his best, I thought to myself, when circumstances called for him to be a boy and a man at the same time.

 

That night, Tinker borrowed a blanket from a neighbor and laid out two beds on the floor a few feet apart—maintaining the same respectful distance that he had established on the roof when I'd first arrived. I rose early enough so I could get home and shower before work. When I got back in the evening, he leapt up from the HALLELUJAH ONIONS as if he'd been waiting there all day. Then we went across Tenth Avenue to the little diner on the piers with the blue neon sign that read
OPEN ALL NIGHT.

It's a funny thing about that meal. All these years later, I remember the oysters I ate at the 21 Club. I remember the black bean soup with sherry at the Beresford when Eve and Tinker had returned from Palm Beach. I remember the salad I had with Wallace at the Park with blue cheese and bacon. And, all too well, I remember the truffle-stuffed chicken at La Belle Époque. But I don't remember what we ate that night at Hank's diner.

What I remember is that we had a lot of laughs.

Then at some point, for some stupid reason, I asked him what he was going to do. And he grew serious.

—Mostly, he said, I've been thinking about what I'm not going to do. When I think of the last few years, I've been hounded by regrets for what's already happened and fears for what might. By nostalgia for what I've lost and desire for what I don't have. All this wanting and not wanting. It's worn me out. For once, I'm going to try the present on for size.

—You're going to let your affairs be as two or three, and not a hundred or a thousand?

—That's it, he said. Any interest?

—What'll it cost me?

—According to Thoreau, nearly everything.

—It'd be nice to have everything at least once before giving it up.

He smiled.

—I'll give you a call when you've got it.

 

When we got back to Hank's apartment, Tinker lit a fire and we swapped stories into the night—the details of one circumstance triggering the memory of another and then another in effortless succession. Like two teenagers who've struck up a friendship on a cross-Atlantic steamer, we raced to trade reminiscences and insights and dreams before reaching port.

And when he laid out our bedrolls at the same respectful distance, this time I pushed mine over until there wasn't a breath of space between us.

The next evening, when I returned to Gansevoort Street, he was already gone.

He hadn't taken the fine leather case. It was sitting there empty beside the stack of books, its lid leaning against the wall. In the end, he had stuffed his clothes into his brother's gunnysack. I was surprised at first that he'd left the books behind; but on closer inspection, I saw that he'd taken the little, worn edition of
Walden
.

The stove was cold. On top of it there was a note in Tinker's hand, written on a torn endpaper.

I'm not sure where I'm going,
he concluded
. But wherever I end up, I'll start every day by saying your name.
As if by doing so, he might remain more true to himself.

Then he signed it:
Tinker Grey 1910 – ?

 

I didn't linger. I went down the stairs and into the street. I got as far as Eighth Avenue before turning back. I trudged all the way across Gansevoort, back over the cobblestones, up the narrow stair. And when I got into the room, I grabbed the painting of the dockworkers along with the volume of Washingtonia. One day he would regret having left them behind. I looked forward to being in a position to return them.

Some of you will think this a romantic thing to have done. But at another level, the reason I went back for Tinker's things was to assuage a sense of guilt. For when I had walked in the room and found it empty, even as I was fending off a sense of loss, a slender, vigorous part of myself was feeling a sense of relief.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

A Ghost of Christmas Past

On Friday, the 23rd of December, I was sitting at my kitchen table cutting slices from a ten-pound ham and drinking bourbon from a bottle. Beside my plate was a proof of the premier issue of
Gotham
. Mason had spent a lot of time thinking about the cover. He wanted it to be
Eye-Catching
,
Beautiful
,
Witty
,
Scandalous
, and above all else, a
Surprise
. So only three copies of the mock-up existed: Mason's, the art director's, and mine.

It was a photograph of a naked woman standing behind a five-foot-high model of the San Remo apartment building. Through the windows you could see her skin, but curtains had been drawn selectively to obscure your view of her finer parts.

I had been given one of the mock-ups because the image had been my idea.

Well, sort of.

It was actually a variation on a painting by René Magritte that I had seen at the Modern. Mason had loved the idea and bet me my career that I couldn't find a woman to pose for it. The photograph was framed so that you couldn't see the woman's face, but if the curtains on the fifteenth floor had been open, you would have seen a pair of eggplant-colored silver-dollar aureoles.

 

That afternoon Mason had called me into his office and asked me to sit—something he hadn't done more than twice since the day he'd hired me. As it turned out, Alley had been on the money with her plan—both of us were going to be held on for another year.

When I stood to go, Mason gave me his congratulations, the proof with the mock-up and, as a bonus, he threw in the honey-baked ham that the mayor had sent him. I knew it came from the mayor because His Honor's warm wishes were written on a golden card in the shape of a star. Lugging the ham under my arm, at the door I turned back to thank Mr. Tate.

—No thanks are necessary, he replied without looking up from his work. You've earned it.

—Then thank you for giving me the opportunity in the first place.

—You should thank your sponsor for that.

—I'll give Mr. Parish a call.

Mason looked up from his desk and eyed me with curiosity.

—You'd better keep a closer eye on who your friends are, Kontent. It wasn't Parish who recommended you. It was Anne Grandyn. She's the one who twisted my arm.

 

I took another slug of bourbon.

I wasn't much of a bourbon drinker, but I had bought the bottle on the way home thinking it would go well with the ham. And it did. I had bought a little Christmas tree too and set it up by the window. Without decorations it looked a little forlorn, so I pulled the mayor's golden star off the ham and propped it on the highest branch. Then I got myself comfortable and opened
Hercule Poirot's Christmas
, Mrs. Christie's latest. I had bought it back in November and had been saving it for tonight. But before I could get started, there was a knock at the door.

 

I suppose it's an immutable law of human nature that we sum up the events of the year as we approach its end. Among other things, 1938 had been a year of knockings at my door. There was the Western Union boy who brought Eve's birthday wishes all the way from London; and Wallace with a bottle of wine and the rules of honeymoon bridge. Then Detective Tilson; then Bryce; then Anne.

In the moment, only some of those intrusions seemed welcome; but I guess I should have treasured them all. Because in a few years' time, I'd be living in a doorman building myself—and once you're in a doorman building, no one comes knocking ever again.

 

Tonight, the knocker at my door was a heavyset young man dressed in a Herbert Hoover suit. The walk up the stairs had winded him and his brow looked waxy with perspiration.

—Miss Kontent?

—Yes.

—Miss Katherine Kontent?

—That's right.

He was greatly relieved.

—My name is Niles Copperthwaite. I am an attorney with Heavely & Hound.

—You're kidding, I said with a laugh.

He looked taken aback.

—Hardly, Miss Kontent.

—I see. Well. An attorney making house calls on the Friday before Christmas. I hope I'm not in some sort of trouble.

—No, Miss Kontent! You are not in any trouble.

He said this with all the confidence of youth, but a moment later he added:

—At least no trouble of which Heavely & Hound is aware.

—A well-considered qualification, Mr. Copperthwaite. I shall bear it in mind. How can I help you?

—You have helped me already by being home at your previously listed address. I come at the behest of a client.

He reached behind the doorjamb and produced a long object wrapped in heavy white paper. It was tied with a polka-dot ribbon and had a tag that read DON'T OPEN TIL XMAS.

—This is being delivered, he said, as per the instruction of—

—One Wallace Wolcott.

—That's right.

He hesitated.

—It's a little out of the ordinary, as . . .

—As Mr. Wolcott is no longer with us.

We were both silent.

—If you don't mind my saying so, Miss Kontent, I can see that you are surprised. I hope the surprise is not an unpleasant one.

—Mr. Copperthwaite, if there were mistletoe over my door, I would kiss you.

—Well, yes. I mean . . . no.

He stole a glance at the top of the door frame, then straightened his posture and said more formally:

—A Merry Christmas to you, Miss Kontent.

—And a Merry Christmas to you, Mr. Copperthwaite.

 

I was never the type to wait until Christmas morning to open gifts. If I've got a Christmas present in my grips on the Fourth of July, I'll open it by the light of the fireworks. So I sat down in my easy chair and opened this package that had been waiting so patiently to come knocking at my door.

It was a rifle. I didn't know it then, but it was a Winchester 1894 from a small run overseen by John Moses Browning himself. It had a walnut stock, an ivory sight, and elaborate, floral scrolling on the polished-brass frame. It was a rifle you could have worn to your wedding.

Wallace Wolcott sure had the gift of timing. You had to grant him that.

I balanced the rifle in my palms the way that Wallace had taught me. It probably weighed no more than four pounds. I pulled back the action and looked inside the empty chamber. I closed it again and leveled the gun against my shoulder. Sighting down the barrel, I aimed at the top of my little Christmas tree and then I shot the mayor's star right off the top.