Let me just read to you how their letter ends. “To sum up, your son, Timothy J. Burns, was found dead with a female friend, both their heads surgically removed by an unknown assailant. Every means within our power has been employed and will continue to be employed in finding the killer or killers involved in this brutal crime, but so far with little success. You have our deepest regrets. And it is also only with our deepest regrets that we were unable to ascertain till now where Mr. Burns’ family lived, for, unfortunately, there were no records of any kind in the city under Mr. Burns’ surname, as he was known almost exclusively as Timothy X. James.” It’s addressed to both of them — that’s how much they know. But how can I show it to him? One after the other, bing-bang, though actually Timothy’s first, though his might as well be postdating Mom’s with Dad theoretically just getting the news. I’m going to shelve it for now and let him think Tim’s taken an extended vacation to one of his distant lands as he was always planning to and will one day be popping in on him soon with all sorts of souvenirs. Dad’s not going to last much longer. And later on, when it comes to divvying up whatever’s left of the estate and if there is any insurance on Tim, I’ll drag out this old letter and explain to the lawyer and insurance company alike why I couldn’t for Dad’s sake submit it in to them till then. But what do you think? I can’t go ahead without also your say-so, for no matter what you maintain, you’re as much a member of this family as me.
“Mr. Hirsch?” “Yes.” “Fine. I’m calling about your wife, Tina Hirsch, also going by Tina Abbot, Bettina or Tina Abbotman, Bettina or Tina or T. J. James.” “Never James. That she only used to get their apartment and for welfare.” “I’m calling about her.
I’m afraid I’ve bad news.” “If you tell me she croaked, that’s not bad news. If you tell me she almost croaked or was shot, butchered and raped but somehow survived, now that’s bad news. Anything else about her but her final departing I don’t want to hear. I am not responsible. Get that? I in fact took out one of those no-longer-responsible ads in our newspaper to that effect, and can get the date and page for you if you’ll hold on. She left me. The courts know that. We’re still legally married but legally separated and in three weeks’ time will be legally divorced, with her having no legal rights to ever again see our kids. So I don’t want to hear of her. Anything there is, phone my attorney, 3621466. For to me and to the children, whatever you have to say about her, she’s dead.”
“You think that’s bad? Shit. Once upon a time back, but you probably read it in the papers. Big stuff. But you never read the papers you say.” “Never. Always give me books.” “Well this was in the papers. Big mystery of the month. Do you like mysteries?” “That’s the type of books. Those first and then space. Love them.” “This was called the Doubleheader Case. Something about baseball at least, happening around when spring training was ending up or the regular season just begun I think. But that was me.” “You were the Doubleheader?” “You heard of it?” “Of what? To this riddle, tell me the answer.” “There were two unidentified heads. Me. Shot them. Cut them up into nitty-bitty pieces except for the heads. The nitty parts went down the johnnies and out the car windows and over the bridge free and clear. Here a piece, there a piece, everywhere a piece-piece — just like our old Uncle Mac. The two heads I took out in a knapsack and put them where they could be found near a baseball diamond in the park.” “No hidden meaning intended?” “Why? And it wasn’t I didn’t like these kids. They seemed all right and I appreciated what they were trying to do, even though I couldn’t help them.” “I’m not really interested. Can I get back to my reading?” “Let me tell you, though, repeat a word of it and I swear you won’t be around to yap again.” “But I said I’m not interested. I’ve heard it all. I’m busy. I want to read. Heard all there is for a lifetime. I don’t want to know anyone’s secret secrets anymore, so don’t tell me a thing.” “But it’s all right for you to blab on about yourself though.” “You thought that was myself before with that dumb slut? Hell, that was what I read in this book.” “Show me where.” “It’s there. Inside. How can I find it again? One of the pages. But I only read it.” “I thought so. But this couple. They lived around the block. I’d seen them before. Very political people. Not like they held jobs in politics. Just interested in improving the city and country and enrolling people up for their new party and starting strikes and all those political goings-on. So I visited them one day, or rather they visited me.” “Which was it?” “Remember: don’t repeat anything of it.” “Forget I asked.” “They visited me. I was home and they knocked and said will I join up? Sure, baby, I said, I’ll join anything, come on in and have a good time. They had a petition they wanted me to sign. I said have a shot of whiskey with me first. They said they were in a hurry, had a thousand more names to sign up. She was very pretty, glasses and all.” “What’s wrong with glasses?” “For you, yes, but for a woman — well she was all right, I didn’t complain.” “All my sisters wear glasses and one once even modeled for television in them.” “I wasn’t insulting your sisters. I’m sure they look great in them.” “People have such prejudices about the most stupid things.” “Anyway, I was, I have to admit, a bit drunk at the time, and when she sat down—” “I have a cousin, for instance. Can’t stand women with long straight hair. It gets him right here every time. Frizzy hair, kinky or curly hair, any kind of hair but long and straight. He says all women ought to have short, wavy hair — that would be ideal. Or at least not past their shoulders, but certainly not longer than that, and absolutely not longer than that and straight. I said to him that’s ridiculous. He said no, women were not born to have long, straight hair. I told him I never heard anyplace about women or men or anyone where it says that. He said no, long, straight hair is only meant to get men attracted to them and that’s not what hair on women was meant for.”
THE ONLOOKER
His daughter puts her arms out, waves her hands, shakes her feet, wants to get out, so he unbuckles the strap around her, takes the shopping bag off the back of the stroller so the whole thing won’t tip over when he takes her out, takes her out, stands her up, puts the bag on the seat and follows her with the stroller down a corridor of the mall.
“Stella, let’s go in here a second,” he says when he sees there’s a sale going on in the classical record store, but she continues walking, looks back, wants to be chased her expression says, so he follows her, saying “I’m going to get you, I’m going to get you,” she stops in front of an ice-cream store and looks at him. She wants to go in her expression says. “I’m sorry, we can’t,” he says. “Stella, don’t! Come here!” She goes in. He leaves the stroller outside the store, goes in, takes her hand, she already has several small peppermint canes in her other hand. He holds out his hand, she drops the canes into it, he puts them into their box near the floor. He walks her outside the store, points the stroller to the record store, sets her behind the stroller so she can push it, she pushes it a few feet and then turns around and starts walking. A short man around seventy is looking at her, smiling. “She wants to go her own way,” he says to Will.