“But he is kind of interesting on his own, I think,” says Matthew, pushing his true self back into the conversation. “I mean, isn’t everyone? Or, if not everyone, this guy anyway.” You’re making a mess of this, says BW. “There are surprising things as you go through his apartment,” says Matthew, a little desperately.
“Like?”
“Like one wall is all torn away — partly torn away. You can see into it — you see the framing, the insulation, some foam cups the builders left there. And you wonder why this should be — why is this torn apart?”
“Something was hidden there.”
“A body.”
“Or money.”
“Well,” says Matthew, “you can find the answer in his filing cabinet, a lot of memos to the condo board about an odor, but skip that for now. The thing is that, around the hole, where the wallboard is still in place, he’s written these sayings. Kind of intriguing.”
“And the sayings are clues.”
“Right.”
“But to what?”
To what he is. To his state of mind. To his past. What else? Isn’t that enough?
Obviously not. They want to know what the point is. What’s the mystery?
“Ahhh,” says Matthew, surrendering. “You want to know what the mystery is. Well, at some point, clever player that you are, you notice that a window in the living room is open. Mouse your way over to the window, click on it, and you’re looking out. Click down, you look down. And there he is. Lying on the pavement, flat on his face. There’s a crowd around him.”
“Checked out.”
“Apparently.”
“Why?” It’s Tracy this time. At last.
“Hm?”
“I mean, why would he do that?”
“Oh,” says Matthew, “any number of reasons. Just disappointment. Regret. Hopelessness.” He knows, even as he lists them, that they are diseases she doesn’t understand. “Middle age,” he adds, and feels himself sinking into a slough.
Shut up, will you? says BW. You’re going to lose them, lose her.
“I don’t think he did it,” she says.
“Ah!” says Matthew, under BW’s control. “Neither do the police.”
“Oh, so that’s it,” she says, brightening, pleased. “That’s the mystery. ‘Who killed — whatever his name is.’”
“Matthew Barber. ‘Who Killed Matthew Barber?’”
Shit. Why me?
“So, listen, BW,” says the tallest of the boys, “would you like to go to a party with us?”
BW is suspicious. I don’t like it, he says. Why would these kids be interested in having you come along with them?
“Why don’t you come?” asks Tracy. Matthew almost says yes at once.
Don’t do it, warns BW.
Why not? asks Matthew. They like me. I think they’re flattered that I should be their pal. Well, not pal, exactly, but you know they probably never get to talk to anyone my age, without all the interference that age brings. Do you see what I mean?
Matthew, you’re dreaming, says BW. I’m telling you to be suspicious of this offer. We’re just going to shrug it off. We’re drunk, you know. Getting drunk, anyway. And it is not a good idea to go off with people you meet in bars. We’re just going to get Tracy’s phone number and call — call it a night. We’ll work on her in a couple of days, on our own terms.
“No, thanks,” says Matthew, with a grin and a chuckle to show that he’s taken the invitation as a joke, wouldn’t have thought of it as anything but a joke, and has other, better things to do.
See? says BW. That’s cool. You showed them you were flattered but you knew the invitation was only for the sake of politeness.
“Oh, come on,” says Tracy. “It’ll be fun. You’ll have fun.” It sounds like a promise.
“Well, all right,” says Matthew, bedazzled and hopeful. “Why not?”
Hey, says BW. What’s happening here?
I’m going to get everything I’ve always wanted.
[to be continued]
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🎧 552: “But he is . . .”