“I’d appreciate your help,” he said. He stood aside while I stepped forward and unlocked the back door. Henry had left the humidifier on the kitchen table, and William scribbled him a note before he took the apparatus.
“You going home to bed?”
“Not until after work if I’m able to hold out that long. Friday nights are busy. Young people revving up for the weekend. If necessary, I can wear a surgical mask to prevent my passing this on.”
“I see you’re all dressed up,” I said.
“I just came from a visitation at Wynington-Blake.”
Wynington-Blake was a mortuary I knew well (Burials, Cremation, and Shipping-Serving All Faiths), having dropped by on previous occasions. I said, “Sorry to hear that. Anyone I know?”
“I don’t believe so. This is a visitation I read about when I checked the obituaries in the paper this morning. Fellow named Sweets. No mention of close relations so I thought I’d put in an appearance in case he needed company. How’s Gus doing? Henry hasn’t mentioned him of late.”
“I’d say fair.”
“I knew it would come down to this. Old people, once they fall…” He let the sentence trail off, contemplating the sorry end of yet another life. “I should call on him while I can. Gus could go at any time.”
“Well, I don’t think he’s on his deathbed, but I’m sure he’d appreciate a visit. Maybe in the morning when he’s up and about. He could use some cheering up.”
“What better time than now? Raise his spirits, so to speak.”
“He could use that.”
William brightened. “I could tell him about Bill Kips’s death. Gus and Bill lawn-bowled together for many years. He’ll be sorry he missed the funeral, but I picked up an extra program at the service and I could talk him through the memorial. Very moving poem at the end. ‘Thanatopsis’ by William Cullen Bryant. You know the work, I’m sure.”
“I don’t believe I do.”
“Our dad made us memorize poetry when the sibs and I were young. He believed committing verse to memory served a man well in life. I could recite it if you like.”
“Why don’t you step in out of the cold before you do.”
“Thank you. I’m happy to oblige.”
I held the door open, and William moved far enough into my living room so I could close it behind him. The chill air seemed to have followed him in, but he set to work with a will. He held on to his lapel with his right hand, his left tucked behind him as he began to recite. “Just the last of it,” he said, by way of introduction. He cleared his throat. “‘So live, that when thy summons comes to join / The innumerable caravan which moves / To that mysterious realm, where each shall take / His chamber in the silent halls of death, / Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, / Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed / By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave / Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch / About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.’”
I waited, expecting a perky postscript.
He looked at me. “Inspirational, isn’t it?”
“I don’t know, William. It’s really not that uplifting. Why not something with a touch more optimism?”
He blinked, stumped for a substitute.
“Why don’t you give it some thought,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’ll tell Henry you stopped by.”
“Good enough.”
Saturday morning, I made another run over to the residence hotel on Dave Levine Street. I parked out in front and let myself in. I walked down the hall to the office, where the landlady was tallying receipts on an old-fashioned adding machine with a hand crank.
“Sorry to interrupt,” I said. “Is Melvin Downs in?”
She turned in her chair. “You again. I believe he went out, but I can check if you like.”
“I’d appreciate that. I’m Kinsey Millhone, by the way. I didn’t catch your name.”
“Juanita Von,” she said. “I’m the owner, manager, and cook, all rolled into one. I don’t do the cleaning. I have two young women who do that.” She got up from the desk. “This might take a while. His room’s on the third floor.”
“You can’t call?”
“I don’t permit telephones in the rooms. It’s too costly having jacks installed, so I let them use mine when the occasion arises. As long as they don’t take advantage, of course. You might wait in the parlor. It’s the formal room to the left as you go down this hall.”
I turned and went back to the parlor, where I prowled the perimeter. While the surfaces weren’t cluttered, Juanita Von did seem to favor ceramic figures, knock-kneed children with sagging socks and fingers in their mouths. The bookshelves were free of books, which probably saved her cleaning women the effort of dusting. Limp sheer curtains at the window filtered sufficient light to make the air in the room seem gray. The matching sofas were unforgiving, and the wooden chair wobbled on its legs. The only sound was the ticking of the grandfather clock in one corner of the room. What kind of people lived in such a place? I pictured myself coming home to this at the end of each day. Talk about depressing.
I spotted six neatly stacked magazines on the coffee table. I picked up the first, a copy of last week’s TV Guide. Under it was the November 1982 issue of Car amp; Driver and under that was an issue of BusinessWeek from the previous March. A few minutes later Juanita Von reappeared. “Out,” she said, sounding entirely too satisfied for my taste.
“Not to get repetitive here, but do you have any idea when he’ll be back?”
“I do not. As a proprietor, I’m strictly hands-off. If it’s not my business, I don’t inquire. That’s my policy.”
Thinking to endear myself, I said, “This is a wonderful old house. How long have you owned it?”
“Twenty-six years this March. This is the old Von estate. You might have heard of it before. Property once stretched from State Street to Bay and covered twelve square blocks.”
“Really. It’s quite a place.”
“Yes, it is. I inherited this house from my grandparents. My great-grandfather built it at the turn of the century and gave it to my grandparents the day they were married. It’s been added onto over the years as you can tell. Corridors go every which way.”
“Did your parents live here as well?”
“Briefly. My mother’s people were from Virginia, and she insisted that they move to Roanoke, which is where I was born. She didn’t much care for California and she certainly had no interest in local history. My grandparents knew she’d talk my father into selling the property once they were gone so they skipped a generation and left it to me. I was sorry to have to break it up into rental units, but it was the only way I could afford the upkeep.”
“How many rooms do you have?”
“Twelve. Some are larger than others, but most of them have good light, and they all have the same high ceilings. If I ever come into money, I intend to redo the public rooms, but that’s not likely to happen any time soon. I sometimes discount the rent a bit if a tenant wants to paint or fix up. As long as I approve the changes.”
She began to tidy the magazines, her attention turned to the task so she wouldn’t have to make eye contact. “If you don’t mind my asking, what’s your business with Mr. Downs? I’ve never known him to have a visitor.”
“We believe he witnessed an accident in May of last year. This was a two-vehicle collision up near City College and he offered assistance. Unfortunately, one’s now suing the other for a large sum of money, and we hope he has information that might help settle the dispute.”
“Way too many people suing in my opinion,” she said. “I’ve served on juries in two different lawsuits and both were a waste of time, not to mention the taxpayers’ dollars. Now, if we’re done chatting, I’ll get on with my work.”
“Why don’t I leave Mr. Downs a note and he can contact me. I don’t want to turn into a pest.”