He hung up the phone.
“That was my father,” I said.
“No it wasn’t,” said Arthur. “That was,” he looked at the envelope, “Barry Parkinson. Barry Buster Parkinson. Who’s that?”
“My old professor,” I said. I’d forgotten all about Barry and the bones.
“There’s his number,” said Arthur.
“I’ll call him later,” I said.
Arthur lit a cigarette and then headed for the door. “I’m going out again.”
“Why?”
Arthur cocked his head to one side. “The snow’s all melted now at the shoreline and I’m not sure, but I think I saw something out there. The tide’s out.”
“What was it?”
“Kevin was freaking out, so I couldn’t get a good look. There was seaweed on it.” Arthur looked at me gravely. “I think it was a typewriter.”
Half an hour later Arthur had come walking up the point carrying the old Olympia. He set it in the center of the living room and we both had a drink and a smoke while looking at the damned thing. We were silent for some time and then Arthur said,
“Do you have Travis’s number?”
“I can’t find it,” I said. “I don’t even know Travis’s last name.”
“It’s Connor,” said Arthur. “His last name is Connor.”
“How do you know that?”
“I asked him. I said, ‘What’s your last name? When you get famous, I’ll buy your book.’ And he said, ‘Connor.’”
Arthur called directory assistance and after talking to two Connors—one a cousin of Travis—was soon on the phone with Travis’s mother, who was wondering what had happened to her boy. They hadn’t spoken since New York. Where the hell was he? Arthur was polite on the phone. He said he’d make inquiries on this end, dig around a bit. He’d call the Greyhound station, although a month had passed since Travis had hitchhiked his way out of our lives. If he heard anything, Mrs. Connor would be the first to know.
No one at the Greyhound station remembered him, but even if he’d passed through there, he wouldn’t necessarily be remembered. Travis would have used cash and in addition to that, the turnover of employees was high. Half the people who had worked there the previous month had moved on.
“He could be anywhere,” I said.
“Why would he throw his typewriter into the bay? I don’t like it. Maybe we should call the police.”
“And tell them what?”
“Tell them that he’s disappeared.”
“Maybe he hasn’t disappeared. Maybe he’s just gone somewhere else.”
“Isn’t that what disappeared means? Isn’t the ocean floor somewhere else?”
“I meant something more along the lines of Key West, or maybe back to New York, wherever it is that writers go.”
“He threw his typewriter in the bay. That’s an act of desperation.”
“You think he killed himself?”
Arthur considered. “He didn’t seem like the type. He had a big ego.”
“I thought Travis was a cocky guy.” I shrugged my shoulders. “Maybe he did kill himself. He drank a lot.”
The wind picked up suddenly and the doorway at the end the hall, the doorway to what had been first Johnny’s and then Travis’s room, slammed shut. Arthur was cracking his knuckles looking at the typewriter. Perhaps if we put a piece of paper in it, Travis could type out a message from wherever he was.
The typewriter sat in the middle of the room for a week until I had enough of it and on a Tuesday, trash day, hauled it to the trash can before Arthur was up.
The body washed up a few days after that. Hikers—trying to get a good look at some juvenile osprey—found it out on Wolf’s Neck, across the bay. The police contacted us to see if we had any ideas. They said they were calling all the people whose properties lined the shore, but I was suspicious of this. Of course, they were calling us because of Johnny, but didn’t want us to be on the defensive. Arthur immediately volunteered everything he knew about Travis and soon we were driving into Portland to identify the body, which had been lying in the water for quite some time.
The morgue was cold but not particularly gloomy. The place was brightly lit and clean. All the people rushing back and forth in their white coats, carrying various pruning shears and hack saws, actually seemed the embodiment of industry. I found the place rather cheering. Arthur kept taking his cigarettes out of his pocket, and then putting them back. I grabbed his hand and held it, which made him smile at me in a quick, forced way. I let him have his hand back and he started drumming on his knees with his forefingers, until they were finally ready for us. I walked bravely to the window, but Arthur hung back. Detective Yancy was there, but I didn’t recognize the officer he was with. The two men stood patiently, waiting for some verdict.
“Arthur, come take a look.” I turned to Detective Yancy. “That’s not Travis.”
Arthur looked, and turned quickly, sickened. “How can you tell?” The corpse was badly rotted.
“Arthur, look again.”
Arthur took a deep breath and came back to the glass. He was thoughtful for a minute, deep in concentration. Then he nodded to me. “I’ve never seen that guy. He’s taller than Travis by half a foot.”
“And the clothes are all wrong,” I added. “This isn’t Travis at all.”
No doubt Detective Yancy was deeply disappointed. And he was faced with having to identify the body. Maybe some other luckless soul’s life had quit on his watch. But maybe, glimmer of hope to him, we were lying. However, after the autopsy was finished, the man was thought to be older than Travis, in his forties. Not only that, but he’d been in the water a long time. The coroner suspected he’d been dead since early November. An expert from the FBI was coming up from Washington to make a final assessment.
“Key West,” I whispered to Arthur.
Maybe a week after that, on a Thursday, I was walking with Kevin in the woods when I saw a police car out on the road. I wouldn’t have been able to see it, but the leaves had only just started springing out on the branches. Instinctively I knew that the car was headed for the house.
I called to Kevin, but he didn’t come. I could see the plume of his white tail disappearing into a ditch. I called him again. I figured he’d gone after a rabbit. I’d get him later. I walked up the slope to the house and sure enough, the police car was rounding the gravel drive.
Detective Yancy and Officer Brown got out of the car. I feared the worst, that soon the property would be crawling with police. Officer Brown and Detective Yancy went straight to the front door but I caught up with them before they could ring the bell.
“To what do I owe this pleasure?” I asked.
“Good morning, Miss Shea. How are you?” asked Detective Yancy.
“Never been better.”
“I’ll be needing to have a few words with you and with Mr. Verhoven.”
“He’s asleep.”
“At ten o’clock in the morning?”
“He works nights. He’s a musician. What is this about?”
“You don’t mind if I have a look around, do you?” said Detective Yancy. He had his hand on the doorknob.
“What is going on?” I turned to Officer Brown, who looked deeply embarrassed.
“Mrs. Connor, Travis Connor’s mother, has filed a missing persons report,” he said.
“He’s not here,” I said. I opened the door and the two policemen followed me in. “I’ll wake Arthur up.”
Detective Yancy had picked up my copy of Typee and was looking at the cover.
“Is that necessary?” I asked.
The detective handed the book absentmindedly to Officer Brown, who smiled at me sheepishly.