The 56th Man (2 page)

Eventually, though, the knob and tape took on
the aspect of an adversary. Not an enemy, but a prize to be sought
and won. His father was a stout believer in excellence. The boy had
already learned that goals were not frivolous. Once your mind was
set on something, you had to see it through--triumphantly. He had
to get the knob. His father would be so proud.

He heard his mother calling for him. She
would make him come back inside the house, and all he would have to
show for his bad behavior would be a pile of branches and a reed
basket half-full of unripe fruit. Perhaps she would forgive the boy
if he came back with something valuable. And the only thing that
looked valuable to him at the moment was the knob in the tree. He
leapt again. The tips of his fingers brushed the tape.

His mother was on the back steps.

"
What is
that?
"
she cried out.
"
Get away from it! No!
No!
"

He turned and saw her racing down. The boy
could not recall ever seeing her run, whether in a dress or in the
slacks she was wearing now. It seemed comical--until she reached
the bottom of the steps, turned past the well-trimmed bushes that
ran along the base of the raised patio, and tripped on the unseen
pile of branches he had so helpfully piled up along the path.

She cried out in pain as she
fell, cried out again when the boy turned away from her.
"
No! Get away!
No!
"

"
But
Ummi...!
"

He was more frightened than ever. How could
he explain his actions without showing their cause? He jumped
again, missed again. Then he heard his mother's footsteps. She had
freed herself of the branches and was running toward him.

"
No!
"

"
Yes! See? It's
a game! It's a prize!
"

Desperation lent him strength. He jumped once
more--and his fingers closed on the tape. He held on with all his
might as he dropped back on the crate, pulling the tape and the
knob after it. The knob got stuck, but now the boy had the tape
firmly in hand.

"
See! A
prize!
"

His mother had almost reached him when he
gave the tape a violent yank.

There was an intense flash.

And then the game was suddenly and horribly
over.

TWO

"Hey, don't jump man." There was a trace of
sarcasm in the young man's amiability as he guided his bicycle
along the curb. He was accompanied by an equally young woman. Ari
thought they had the air of college students, sleek and untrammeled
in their liberal arts cloud. He noted the flat rear tire of the
girl's bike. Neither of them had thought to bring a hand pump.
Cycling was not the primary means of transportation in this
country. Not yet, at least.

Ari smiled in response to the young man's
quip. "It would never occur to me to jump without taking someone
with me."

They paused, hesitating to pass him. At a
rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike, the pump attendant had shot him
an unfiltered scowl through the windshield--a clear reaction to his
OPEC complexion. Perhaps this was due to the price of gas. But the
young cyclist didn't have the look of someone with the courage of
his prejudices. Perhaps Ari should not have made the inflammatory
remark. But there it was.

The young man nodded at the girl and they
pushed their bikes around the parked car, away from Ari and the
bridge rail.

"You're blocking the bike path, man," the
young man said over his shoulder as they walked away.

Ari studied the white line that demarked a
narrow lane the length of the bridge. A bike path? He had thought
it was a parking lane. Where he came from bicycles were an integral
part of the traffic pattern, not segregated to the side.

Bracing his back against his car, he propped
his feet on the narrow concrete sidewalk and gazed out at the James
River. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket and took out
a map of Richmond. He quickly pinpointed his location, then traced
the line that had been marked out for him. He estimated he was
still several miles from his destination. He refolded the map and
returned it to his pocket. He stared out at the river a little
longer, taking note of people far below, jumping from boulder to
boulder like gnats on dirty soap bubbles. Then he hunched back to
his feet and turned. And frowned. The car was a Scion xB. Ari had
seen dilapidated heaps drawn by donkeys with more flair.

Riverside Drive was a narrow lane that
squirted in and out of every cove and cranny on the south bank of
the James. Ari drove at what he considered a perfectly normal
speed, leaving a trail of swearing cyclists, who used the road to
access the state park. After passing an apartment complex near the
bridge exit, he saw nothing but residential housing on the bluffs
overlooking the river. It was a sedate, older neighborhood, with
chrysanthemums, asters and dahlias draped down the slopes like
tossed bouquets. Across the road a chain of black-eyed Susans were
like token charms on the forest that shackled the river.

He crossed Huguenot Road, collecting one or
two irate honks from drivers coming up from the toll bridge. To
him, that too was part of a normal traffic pattern.

Riverside continued, sloping down until it
passed another park entrance, then flattening along a field that
was nearly level with the river. Traffic signs advised Ari that
there were pedestrians in the area and that the speed limit was 20
miles per hour. He found them nonsensical--both the limit and the
pedestrians, some of whom flagged at him with their arms. Slow
down? Why? This was a nice, clear stretch.

The road turned away from the river briefly.
He stopped to check the nearest house number. Getting close.

He took the next curve slowly, keeping half
an eye on the addresses. The houses here were larger, with thick
borders of hedges and trees, imparting privacy and a sense of
country living. He was approaching the river again. He made a right
at Beach Court Lane and drove past a man sweeping a wand-like
instrument back and forth at the edge of his yard. The man glanced
up. Ari suspected traffic was not that uncommon here, but not that
common, either.

He stopped at the next house. The number on
the mailbox matched the one handwritten on the map. Someone had
slapped a SOLD sticker across the FOR SALE sign out front. If there
was a mistake, or a misjudgment, it was not his. Two bouquets of
mixed flowers lay on the ground on either side of the mailbox post.
Ari smirked. Was he being welcomed?

He hesitated pulling into the driveway,
instinctively unwilling to stamp it with the burden of ownership.
He switched off the engine, got out, and strolled a half dozen
yards before stopping. Beach Court ended in a narrow turn-around a
stone's throw from the James. A large patch of woods blocked all
view of Riverside Drive and the houses further up the hill. All Ari
could see of his immediate neighbors were two mailboxes on either
side of Beach Court Lane. The man trimming his yard was
invisible.

From the front, which faced the river, the
house looked deceptively like a split-level rancher. A slight
architectural variation became apparent from the road. The garage
was tucked into the side. It was much lower than the front lawn,
which dropped sharply to come level with the driveway. The bottom
story cut through a small hill, perhaps part of an ancient
embankment.

He stepped out onto the immaculate lawn,
which swept downward to a narrow beach where several ducks were
taking refuge from the rapids downriver. A gazebo, raised on a
brick foundation against the threat of floods, provided an outpost
of calm near the water's edge. The decorative bushes that dotted
the yard were trimmed to an almost unnatural perfection. The real
estate people must have hired a professional landscaper to maintain
the yard.

The slate roof imparted an expensive patina,
while little rustic touches contributed to the air of discreetly
advertised wealth. He could just glimpse another house about fifty
yards up the river.

He circled around the side, where the true
size of the house was revealed--two floors and a basement--and
stutter-stepped down a sharp slope to a patio. From this angle, the
trees in the back loomed up like deep forest. Taking out a set of
three keys, he judged which would most likely fit in the sliding
glass door facing the patio and inserted it. He slid the door open
and entered.

His shoes clicked on the highly polished tile
floor as he crossed to the center of the room. After standing
silently for a minute, listening, he called out, "Hello!" He did
not expect an answer. He was testing the acoustics, which responded
with a muted, hollow echo. He was drawn to a humming sound from
behind a pinewood door. Opening it, he discovered a water heater,
its PVC piping disappearing into the wall. There was also a washer
and dryer.

Returning to the center of the basement, he
reflected on its emptiness. This must have been the rec room. Four
indentations in the tiles suggested a pool table. Perhaps there had
been a dart board at that wood-pasted hole in the walnut paneling.
This would have been an ideal place for children during winter
days, isolated as it was from the rest of the house, from
parents.

He found the stairs. Swinging open the door
at the top, he found himself in a short hall leading to the
kitchen. The stove was set against the wall, underneath a row of
cabinets. Pots and cooking utensils dangled from a wide brass ring
overhead. Plastic shopping bags were strewn across the counter. Ari
glanced into several of them, frowned, then turned his back on the
counter. He opened the refrigerator. The top shelf was stocked, the
lower shelves were empty.

He toured the rest of the first floor. No
carpets, not a single stick of furniture beyond the kitchen’s small
round table and its two ladderback chairs. Nothing but dark olive
window curtains to absorb the hollow echoes of his footsteps. In
the front room he pulled back the curtain on the picture window for
an unobstructed view of the gazebo and the river.

Upstairs was a little more interesting. The
bedrooms were without beds, but there was a computer in what Ari
presumed had been the home office, or perhaps some kind of studio.
Although the windows here were covered with the same thick fabric,
a skylight removed the somber darkness. The computer table and
chair was the only furniture he had seen outside the kitchen. A
cable ran from the wall to the mini tower. Nothing wireless. He sat
in the chair and switched on the computer. It booted up quickly,
opening onto a screen requesting the user name and password. Ari
took out his wallet and removed a slip of paper. He studied the
paper, brooded a moment, then returned it to the wallet. He
switched off the computer.

A closet in the upstairs hall contained
towels and wash cloths. In the bathroom was a bottle of shampoo, a
can of shaving cream, a disposable razor and a bar of soap still in
its wrapper.

He was back downstairs, looking out the
picture window, when he heard a car door slam shut. Leaning
forward, he could just make out the road and the entrance to the
driveway. A police cruiser had pulled up behind his Scion. An
officer had gotten out on the passenger side and was approaching
the box-shaped car. He peered inside. Ari clearly heard his
one-word shout:

"Suitcase!"

The driver of the prowl car got out and
looked up at the house. Ari did not move away from the window. He
was certain he could not be seen from that angle, with the sun
reflecting off the glass. Without thinking, he reached across his
stomach with his right arm and gripped the left side of his belt.
When he noticed what he had done he smiled grimly.

The driver studied the SOLD sticker, then
said something to his partner, who shrugged and shook his head, Ari
thought, in disgust. He came back to the cruiser and removed a
small wreath from the rear seat. He came around and placed it
against the mailbox post. The driver seemed to find something
aesthetically awkward about the placement and crouched down to
align the two bouquets on either side of the wreath. Then he stood
and returned his gaze up the hill. His partner said something and
he shook his head. Sorrowfully, perhaps.

Both officers got back into the cruiser.
Slowly, they circled the turnaround and were out of sight as soon
as they passed the driveway.

Reaching into his pocket, Ari took out a pack
of Winstons. He was about to light up when he remembered there was
no ash tray on the premises. He doubted there ever had been. There
was no hint of tobacco smoke beneath the prevailing atmosphere of
pine-scented disinfectant. To his thinking, the house smelled like
a hospital ward.

He went outside to pull the Scion into the
driveway. The police cruiser had stopped along the grassy curb at
the next house. The groundskeeper was leaning on his trimmer as he
spoke to the officers, who remained seated in the car. He was
pointing down the street. When his eyes followed his arm he saw Ari
watching him. He lowered his arm, smiled uncertainly, and nodded.
Ari sensed the policemen watching him in their rearview mirrors and
nodded back at the groundskeeper.

Getting into the Scion, he pulled up the
driveway, stopping a few feet short of the double garage. Taking
out the set of keys, he guessed which of them would work on the
garage door--the odds were down to fifty-fifty, now that he had
used one on the basement--and again guessed right. He heard the
bolt click, and he turned the lever. As he raised the door he noted
the motor in the garage ceiling. He scouted around for a remote,
but could find none.