Apart From Love (46 page)

What I found in the drawer was like, confusing. There was no way for me to read the whole thing clear through to the end, ‘cause it was way too long, and anyhow, from the beginning, them letters was too small, and the writing too dense or something, which made me start yawning right away.
 

Even so, I know one thing: for Lenny, this must have been a labor of love, something he did for his son, for Ben to remember him by. I must find him, and let him know that.
 

Several times over the last few months, Ben would come in here—but only when I wasn’t home. Like, he was invisible. He hated this place, but couldn’t do without it. Them memories in his head, they would play tricks on him, pulling him back here. Also, I figure he wanted to stay close to his father. And to me too, I bet.
 

I could always tell, later, that I’d just missed him, because there was a trace of his smell, like, still hanging in the air, and because he’d moved things around: a pillow’d been squeezed into the corner of his bed, or there was a new footprint in the dust. I swear, he must have wanted to be found out.
 

But not anymore—or else he’d be here, to talk to them cops. So I find myself saying what needs to be said—not directly to him, but to the tape recorder. I’m careful to sound as dry and cool as my voice would let me, ‘cause you don’t never know who’s out there, listening.
 

When I’m done, I place the tape in its plastic case, and tuck it down there, behind Beethoven’s bust, which I turn around to face the balcony, so the tip of its nose kinda shines in the daylight, which can draw your attention. I hope that sooner or later, Ben’s gonna notice it. My voice sounds pretty formal—but it’s too much, now, to do it over.

Your father left you a stack of pages here, in a secret drawer in his desk. It’s his story, which he finished—or at least, was close to finishing it. I bet he wanted you to read the thing.
 

Where shall I mail it to? Let me know.

For two days I wait, and there isn’t no answer.
 

Then, on the third day, I come in from my daily visit to my baby at the hospital, and the moment I unlock the door, I see that Beethoven has turned around, somehow, so its face is totally in the shade, but like, them marble eyes seem to glare pretty hard—this time at the entrance, at me. Tucked behind it, I spot the same tape I’ve used—except it isn’t in the plastic case no more.

So my heart starts to hammer, inside. I put the tape in the tape recorder, and
Play
. My voice isn’t there. It’s been erased. Overwritten. His voice sounds drier, and even cooler than mine. It says:

Burn it.
 

Which sets me back on my heels. At once, I go ahead to
Record
:

It don’t belong to me. You do it.

This time, a whole week passes by until Beethoven swings around. Ben’s voice says:

I can’t. This story has our voices in it.

So I say:

I bet he tried to write ‘us’
—
but them characters ain’t who we are. Now, the thing I’m worried about is not his story
—
but the tapes, which I’m about to destroy. Unless you tell me not to.
 

It’s just, I don’t want them to be found, ‘cause the cops were here twice already. It’s like, they ain’t exactly sure what to look for. They don’t seem to get how Lenny hit his head on the mirror and still managed to get to Sunrise home, with no one seeing him coming in. They don’t really believe that’s what happened.
 

I bet they suspect I might have killed him
—
but like, why would I stash his body in someone’s bed, let alone Natasha’s? Then, there’s Mr. Bliss: he tells me now he wants to visit, to give me his condolences or something.
 

So by tomorrow, our voices is like, history. Gonna be erased. Or, if you wish to keep them, I can mail them tapes to you. Just tell me where to.

A week drags by—seven sleepless nights—during which I find myself missing my ma so much that it hurts, because now that the little one is finally here, I don’t even get how she did it, like, how she managed to take care of me all these years, all on her own. No wonder she ended up being grumpy, which is one thing I’d rather forget.
 

Between feedings I go through the process, erasing one tape after another. I do it by recording stuff over them. What kind of stuff? Just anything.
 

Like, my baby crying at night. The way his whining turns into a giggle as I touch my nipple to his lips, just before he settles into his rhythm, like, suck, suck, swallow, breathe; suck, suck, swallow, breathe. The way I lay him over my shoulder and pat his back, to ease the hiccups. The distant sound of a door sliding along its track, as the neighbor comes out to her balcony—the one opposite us—to water her pot of geranium. Some kid out there, practicing his piano. Stuff.

Then, late one evening, I notice the tape’s changed place. This time, it’s out in the open, right under Beethoven’s nose. It’s like, a hint that there isn’t no need to hide what we say to each other.
 

Ben’s voice says:
 

I happened to be out of town for a few days, so did not get your warning in time, about the tapes I mean, nor could I stop you.
 

As to my father’s story, I still do not know what to do with it. I glanced at it, lying there in that secret drawer, and even read a few passages, some of which were too painful for me
—
and others which I cared nothing for, as they seemed overly fictional.
 

At one point the whole stack fell out of my hands, and the papers spread out. I picked them up and stuffed them back in the drawer, as best I could
—
but they are totally scrambled now. I doubt I can rearrange them so they will be in the right order, I mean, his order, the way he wrote it. Can you?

I wish I had the tapes, but what’s gone is gone.

I say to myself, Oh shoot, and let a week go by before responding:

I did give you time to stop me.

Ben’s silent, no sign from him for more than a week. I ain’t even sure if the tape’s been touched, like, if he’s got my message. I don’t want to wait no more, so this morning, before going out for my walk down to Santa Monica beach, which I do every day with my baby, I record over my previous message:

Where are you? Me, I know you can’t be too far.
 

You angry with me?

Later, like, twenty minutes into my walk, I figure I need a sweater for me, and a blanket or something for the little one, ‘cause I reckon it’s turning kinda windy. So I go back, and I think I see someone, some passerby running the other way, into the back alley.
 

I climb up the stairs, turning over my shoulder once or twice, to see if I can tell who it is, ‘cause like, something about him looks awful familiar. But like, he’s already gone.
 

Then, as the door opens, I see that the tape recorder’s been moved, and I tell myself, Look! It’s still recording! So I hurry in,
Stop, Rewind
,
Play
, and then I close my eyes, and like, I take him in, because I so enjoy the sound, the deep sound of his voice.

No, not angry.
 

How can I be? I will never forget what you did for me.
 

And later, I could not believe it when you pushed the yellow manila envelope into my hands, with all that money in it, the day dad threw me out. I only used a small portion of it, that first week. By now I’ve nearly replenished what was spent. I am working now, and plan to give you back the amount in full.
 

Oh, and another thing.

I’m so glad that in addition to that envelope, you put the photo album in my suitcase. I barely noticed when you did it, nor did I realize what it was that I carried out with me, as I left this place.
 

Since then, I cannot tell you, Anita, how many times I have taken the album out, and opened it to that one page, on which a picture used to be missing.
 

You must have noticed it: at the top, there is a picture of my mom, from the time she was very young
—
perhaps your age
—
and pregnant. At the bottom, there is a picture of a little boy fascinated by that single candle in front of him, on his birthday cake. In between these two pictures, there used to be another one, which
—
try as I may
—
I cannot remember. Strangely, it has gone missing.
 

In its place I find, to my surprise, a small, black-and-white ultrasound image. It shows a profile of a baby, curled in the womb. I know, of course, that it could not have been me. The photo paper is much too fresh, and hasn’t even begun to yellow. Even so, that picture
—
which you must have inserted there
—
has filled a hole.
 

Somehow it makes me feel as if the first stages of my life have been fully recorded.
 

What can I say to that, except:

Don’t look back, Ben.
 

Like, don’t Rewind.

Play.

To which he answers, later that night:

Stop.
 

It is your turn now to find me.

Eject
—

As Written by Mr. Bliss, Attorney

I
n writing this Introduction
I shall make every effort to avoid making it read like a legal brief. As an attorney at law, I claim neither knowledge nor any kind of experience in the task of literary editing. However, the body of work that my longtime client, Mr. Leonard Kaminsky (hereby named The Author) left behind him, which was found, rather unfortunately, in a fragmented and highly unfinished state, made it necessary for me, for professional as well as personal reasons, to rise to the task.
 

I served the author for nearly thirty years. Smart and tightlipped, he gave me the impression of someone who is likely to conceal some secret affairs, someone with a healthy appetite for the ladies, an appetite matched only by his experience.
 

Which at the time, I considered enviable.

Quite often, when I would attend a concert, I could recognize him down there in the front row, accompanied from time to time by an extremely blond girlfriend, whose name as I recall was Lana. He would listen intently to the music, his face glowing with joy, which was as remarkable as her boredom.
 

Such were the circumstances when, according to the newspapers of the time, he fell madly in love with his first wife, the renowned pianist Mrs. Natasha Horowitz (later, Kaminsky). The spark happened instantly, while he was watching her performing on stage. Soon afterwards they married, over the bitter objections of her family.
 

Then, less than six years ago, the author mentioned to me (quite abruptly and out of context) that having suffered through the misfortune of watching her deteriorate, he was determined to assemble a ‘collection of voices’, with the goal being the ‘preservation of time.’
 

However, until unearthing the pile of notebooks, which contained various fragments, various blurbs of his writing, and until coming upon the three audiotapes, which were labeled in his handwriting, I had absolutely no inkling what he had meant.