The Memory Book Read online

  “Look, I’m in no shape to help anybody. I get winded tying my shoelaces; I can’t keep three things straight in my mind at once. You’d be better off talking to the cops about this. Pete Staziak and Chris Savas.”

  “I’ve talked to Staff-Sergeant Sykes.”

  “Good. He’s the guy. Forget about Staziak and Savas. They’re in Grantham, where I live.” Once again my acquired idiocy was catching up with me: I still couldn’t remember where I was. My stomach groaned like a stalled car’s reluctant ignition.

  “You see? My head’s still not functioning. I forgot. That’s why I’m on sick leave from my work. My mind doesn’t have a bookmark in it. I’m not even dead certain that I was working for your roommate. I don’t know anything for sure. Do you know why I was helping her?”

  “Something to do with one of her professors: Dr. Herbert Haddow.”

  At last I had a name! “I suspected that she might be involved with one of her teachers.”

  “Not quite her style, Mr. Cooperman. But what if something has happened to Rose?”

  “If anything has happened to your friend, it probably happened around the same time I was attacked, and that was months ago.”

  “So, you’re going to just walk away from her?”

  “Listen, please. I’m not up to a real job. I don’t have the sap left in me. Maybe next year this time, I’ll be stronger. I may even be able to remember what happened two days running.”

  “That’ll be too late.”

  “It’s too late for me, Sheila. Don’t you see?”

  “Will you ever recover your memory?”

  “When I ask that question, my doctor asks me whether I’m getting enough exercise. I don’t think they know.”

  She nodded slowly, showing she understood. But I couldn’t leave it at that.

  “You see, I wouldn’t know where to start. Even if I could get out of here. Besides, I don’t even know for sure that I was working for your friend. Or if I was, how long I’d been doing it.”

  “But you have to help me. There’s no one else.”

  “How many ways do you want me to say it? Hell, I don’t know what she looks like. Or that crazy professor of hers.”

  “She’s small, pretty, and with enough teeth for both of them. Have you changed your mind?” There was a forlorn hope in her eyes.

  I shook my head.

  “The Yellow Pages are full of private investigators who don’t fall asleep every twenty minutes and who can remember names. Before this happened to me, I’d have been your man, but not now. I’m not any good.”

  She looked stricken. I held the door for her and we walked to the elevator. I tried not to look at her directly. She didn’t meet my eyes then either. The ping of the elevator announced the end of this awkwardness.

  I continued our conversation in my head as I walked back to the room. More reasons came to mind why I couldn’t help her. I stretched out on the bed, feeling like a malingerer. “I’m sorry,” I said to her in my imagination. “You can get far better help than I can offer you.” The imaginary Sheila nodded, clenching her teeth. I thought of myself working the investigation with my mind like Swiss cheese. Finally cornering my leading suspect, I’d announce to the world that the guilty person was What’s-his-name!

  “You look down in the mouth, Mr. Cooperman, like a man who’s just had to put down the family cat.” It was, Rhymes With. I rolled over in her direction. She looked crisp in her uniform, but soft and friendly too.

  “Hi,” I said. “I just had a visitor.”

  “I saw her. She looked mighty peeved about something when she left. What did you say to her, Mr. C?”

  “I told her I couldn’t help her with her problems because I was hanging around this place.”

  “You told her the truth. You can’t help yourself out in the street.” She brushed a strand of hair from her eyes and let her fingers tidy it without looking. “You wouldn’t be much of a help to anybody else that I can see. You’re still recovering, man. No, you’ve got to work at getting out of here by going down to the gym. Your therapist was up here looking for you.”

  “I forgot.”

  “I know. I know. I hear that a hundred times a day. It’s endemic. Why don’t you take your cute butt down to the gym and surprise her?” Her smile returned as she looked down at me.

  “I will. I will.”

  “Mr. C, that was the woman who was here before. She said she was your wife.”

  “My wife? But I’ve never even been engaged!”

  “Well, you tell her. She’s been here to see you before.”

  “She was probably afraid you wouldn’t let her in if she wasn’t kin of some kind. Did she call herself Mrs. Cooperman this time too?”

  “I don’t know. I wasn’t on the desk. Ask them.” She backed away, giving me a parting toss of her head to show me that things weren’t that bad after all.

  I made my way down to the gym on my own. I took the elevator at the far end of the corridor. It seemed simpler than the last time, less confusion about the floor number I was aiming for. For about forty minutes I climbed stairs, walked a treadmill, and rode a stationary bike that presented simulated hills to me as I pedalled. The woman in charge gave me verbal support from time to time. She had a pleasant way of speaking. It was original and colourful. She said she came from Hamilton. That was the best thing I’d ever heard about that place.

  Afterwards, I felt like a shower, but I felt unequal to the task. I settled for a lie-down on my freshly changed bed. I was surprised how quickly I was asleep.

  SEVENTEEN

  The light that came through my window pitched the same shapes on the curtains, and the same footsteps and wheels ran along the hallway. The same high-pitched arpeggios of Island laughter rang outside my door, announcing another ordinary day here at the rehab. The day got off to a bad start, however, when I tried to brush my teeth with hair cream. It was the sort of day when I’d be sure to mistake apples and oranges and, if I were on the outside, try to put my leftovers in the dishwasher and the dirty cups in the fridge.

  Then it got worse. A letter arrived addressed to me here at the hospital. I didn’t know its contents until Anna breezed in from who knows where and read it to me.

  Its strident and bullying tone seemed out of place in this healing environment:

  Dear Mr. Cooperman,

  It has come to our attention that you have been pursuing your private business on the property of Simcoe College, that you have been doing so without sanction or permission from the governing body of the College, and that you have been a source of upset and disruption to both the students and the faculty alike. If you have legitimate business that brings you to this college, you must make the nature of your business known to the Board of Syndics before being allowed to have access to the students in our care. Your compliance with this request is imperative, and any further breach of our rules will be dealt with by our legal advisers. A copy of this letter is being sent to the body governing the licensing of private investigators in the Province of Ontario at Queen’s Park.

  Yours sincerely,

  George W. Nesbitt

  “Well, Benny, you’ve been told off in no uncertain terms and threatened to boot.”

  “I don’t like the sound of that.”

  The tone of the letter chipped away at my exaggerated opinion of higher education.

  Who was this George W. Nesbitt? Was he an academic, a university cop, or what? And how many people over there knew what happened to me or where to find me? That girl, the one who came to see me, she knew where. Well, I guess I’m still visible. I began to wonder how many people I had questioned when I was last on the campus. It couldn’t have been very many. Students don’t usually complain to the university cops about things like that. Or at least I didn’t think they did. I thought that they were more worried about old geezers trying to pick up young women and luring them away from the hard chairs in the library to the comfort of a hotel-room mattress.

  The lette
r excited my heart rate, as my nurse informed me, as she checked my oil and gas. I wanted to march down there and find out what was going on and see that it was written up and printed on every front page from St. John’s to Victoria. The nerve and the gall!

  “Don’t let this creep upset you, Benny. I see a frightened bureaucrat behind that letter. I don’t think it’s much more than that. It’s rude and bullying, not up to the university’s high standards. I wouldn’t lose any sleep over it. When the university’s heavy artillery comes after you, it won’t start with a popgun like that.”

  “I wasn’t planning to trespass on their sacred turf again. I wouldn’t know where to start or whom I’d talked to already. It’s too complicated.”

  “Yes, I know. But listen, my dear heart, wasn’t your trip to the campus some time ago?”

  “Months.”

  “Then why are the university people contacting you now?”

  “I have made a few phone calls. I’ve talked to a few people.”

  “True …”

  “Maybe somebody on the campus is stirring things up. That’s a guess. If there is some bottom to all of this, if the girl was mixed up in something serious, then the university partly and the college definitely will suffer from any bad publicity. I wish I could go over there!”

  “Would you like me to see this Sheila person you told me about? I’m going to be there this afternoon.”

  “I was just talking to her. Was that yesterday? She came here, asking for help, and I sent her away.”

  “That couldn’t have been easy for you.”

  “Yeah. And there was something else. But I can’t put a name to it yet. Perhaps you could try to explain to her why I can’t take on the search for her missing roommate. And see if you can get any names or details of what’s going on over there. Sheila did tell me something about a professor. You should be able to dig up something, especially if Rose is truly missing.”

  “Missing to you, to me, Benny; missing to Sheila Kerzon, but not yet missing officially to the likes of George W. Nesbitt. If it makes you any happier, my dear, the letter bothers me too. It’s officious in the extreme. It’s like giving the third degree to someone who reports that the plumbing isn’t working in the third-floor loo of the engineers’ residence. It’s energy spent in the wrong direction.”

  “There’s a lot of that around these days. And stop hanging around those pimply, beer-swilling engineers. They’re jailbait, professor.”

  “I have to keep reminding myself. But they are so healthy!”

  “Good health in the young is a notorious device for disarming vigilance in horny female professors. I read that somewhere.”

  “You aren’t thinking of renewing your lease with me, are you?”

  “I could be. I could be thinking of making an offer. You never know. I can’t remember what I’m missing.”

  “You didn’t get hit on the head that hard.”

  “Come and rub the bump through which my youth escaped.”

  “Benny!” She looked genuinely shocked. I tried to review what I’d just said, but for the moment, it was gone. Then the context returned with a ding.

  “I mean my head, idiot!”

  “Sure you did.” She began to gather her things together. “Bye, now.”

  “Hey, you look out for yourself, okay?” I had a sudden vision of Anna being dropped into the Dumpster.

  “I always have. I’ll see what I can find out about that fellow with the initial.”

  “George W. Nesbitt. I’m writing it down. The W stands for warthog.”

  “Or Want-wit. I’ll call later. G’bye!” Her kiss was more than a perfunctory peck, I am glad to say. Something to remember.

  In my shattered memory, dinner that night gave me a lift. I felt like a grown-up for the first time in a long while. The meal was indifferent—well-done roast beef, or maybe lamb or turkey, and green peas that alternated hard and soft centres. The diplomat was sitting to my right, my roommate opposite, and one of the remaining gourmets—one had been discharged—next to him. I had forgetten all of their names.

  “The situation in the Middle East is extremely dangerous just now,” said the gourmet.

  “When has it been anything else?” demanded the diplomat.

  “I’ve never had a bad meal in Tel Aviv.”

  “I’ve never had a good one. But that’s the diplomatic curse. They try so hard and they always fail. It’s like the rubber chicken you get in American hotel dining rooms.”

  “And Canadian!”

  “And English!”

  “No! I protest that I have eaten very well in London and in some of the big hotels.”

  “Read your Orwell. You were lucky.”

  “I don’t think so. I think English food has improved over the years. The prices are terrible, but the food is better.”

  And so on. At the end of the meal, I was feeling both well fed and superior. I felt like ordering brandy for everybody and offering cigars around. Smoking was not allowed and the brandy was unobtainable, but the conversation had lifted the spirits even if we were not allowed to partake of any.

  It was at least an hour after dinner before I heard from Anna. I had all but given up on her and was feeling peevish and unloved, when the call came. I checked my watch for the first time in weeks: it was seven-thirty.

  “Benny! Are you still there?”

  “Sure. I was just experiencing a sensation of relief. I had started wondering whether to look for you in a Dumpster somewhere.”

  “That’s not funny, but thanks for the thought. I’m okay. I did some nosing around, as you like to say, asking about your Professor Haddow.”

  I tried to remember who Haddow was; then the name began to resonate: he was the professor Rose was interested in. The one she came to see me about, if I’ve got that straight. But when did I tell Anna about him? That I never did get straight.

  “Professor Haddow? Yes? Did you talk to him?”

  “Forget about him. He’s long gone from here, Benny. Old enough to have been in World War II. Retired. He can’t be your man.”

  “But Sheila Kerzon said … Why would she…?” I tried to think through our conversation at double speed. Brains should work like recording machines. When I didn’t get anywhere after a minute, I shrugged and took a breath. “Okay. Exit Professor Haddow. What else did you get?”

  “That’s my news! Rosie Moss had a campus … beau—that’s too old-fashioned. ‘Boyfriend’ is too public. You know what I mean. An older man. An extracurricular interest. He’s a lecturer in biochemistry, one of her instructors. A nice guy from all reports. Good-looking and an inspired teacher. But here’s the thing. He was slipping in his work last term. He even failed to meet some of his classes. That’s a serious no-no around any university, Benny. And now he’s gone missing too.”

  “Vanished? Just like that? Well, I’ll be damned!”

  “And I couldn’t find your friend anywhere. Sheila Kerzon.”

  “Then how do you know about Rose and the professor?”

  “I talked to several of the summer school students in a campus café, the Tuck Shop. It’s very twee and crumpets. A hangout for undergraduates. They all said the same thing. It’s synoptic, Benny. I’ve got Matthew, Mark, and Luke on this.”

  “Forget the Gospels for a minute. Do we know this young fellow’s name?”

  “I’m sorry. I keep forgetting about your poor memory. He’s Dr. Steven, with a V, Mapesbury. He has a degree from Exeter College, Cambridge, which means that he came to us with impressive credentials.”

  “I thought Exeter was a prep school for the wealthy.”

  “See how wrong you can be. This Exeter is covered in very old ivy. You can take my word for it.”

  “The last time I trusted anyone about ivy, it turned out to be Virginia creeper. So don’t mess about with me, woman.”

  “Your man has a good reputation. He’s been around for the last five years. He may have put down roots. You can check that in the phone book.
Can’t be too many Mapesburys. He’s a good teacher, from all accounts, and very popular with the kids.”

  “Will you be here tomorrow?”

  “Nope. I’ll be back on Thursday. Good hunting.”

  There was only one listing for Mapesbury in the Toronto book. It took me some minutes to locate it, because for a while I was searching for it under W. I’ve been looking for a theme to my war with the alphabet, but I haven’t found it yet.

  “Mapesbury, S.P.” It could be an estranged wife or it could be a dead end of another sort. I tried out my fingers on the phone without allowing myself time to brood about it.

  “Hello?” It was the voice of a little girl or boy.

  “Is your mother or father there?”

  “My mother’s here, but I thought you were going to be Daddy because it’s my birthday today.” I decided that it wasn’t a little boy. Little girls take pains to sound grownup on the phone. Little boys are less interested.

  “Well! A very happy birthday from me to you. I hope you get what you’re hoping for.”

  “I hope that Daddy remembers.”

  “Could you let me speak to your mother?” The kid was breaking my heart. She left the line without speaking again and I could hear the sound of a far-off conversation, then the approach of footsteps.

  “Hello? Who is this, please?”

  “My name is Cooperman. Ben Cooperman. I’m looking for Steven Mapesbury. Can you help me?”

  “Ha! If you’re looking for my scapegrace husband, you’d better join the queue. He’s becoming the most popular missing man of the year.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “Not counting nightmares, I haven’t seen him for months. Not since Good Friday.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said, not knowing what else to say.

  “So am I. So are the children. We are all sorry and doesn’t being sorry make all the difference?” She was using a portion of bitterness to cloud the painful absence. The mother was made out of the same stuff the daughter was. I had to pinch my nose to go on talking. Only, she started first.

  “May I ask to whom I’m speaking? I didn’t catch your name when I came on the line and Dympna didn’t catch it either.”