The Sad Man - Writers Forum

Reilly Roark Larson · 02-12-2008, 01:36 PM

This is more an experiment with giving the reader knowledge through character interaction, than a story, but I hope it holds up on it's own. I'll warn you, punctuation is not my strong point.

This is now a revision with a few more descriptions added in. I was tempted to add many more, but I was afraid to ruin the dialog by spreading it too thin.

The Sad Man

Staring down at his notepad in a rough left hand, the officer asked, “Ma'am, what can you tell me about this, Mister...uh.”

“Doctor,” she said, her hands still held a gasp below her chin as firmly as the doorway she leaned against held her.

“Ma'am?” His upturned eyes in a bowed head mirrored more annoyance than questioning.

“Doctor... Dr. Morrow.”

“Yes, Ma'am.” Eyes falling back to guide the pen in his right hand, he struck a line through a few scribbled marks and replaced them with more incoherence. “What can you tell me about Dr. Morrow?”

Closing her eyes she said quietly, “Not as much as I thought.”

He looked up again, “Ma'am?”

Her left hand rested on her breastbone and her right began to rub the tired eyes of her titled head. Her face full of consternation, she raised her voice to a more distinguishable level. “Not as much as I thought.”

“Yes, Ma'am.”

Her right hand dropped to rub her left absently while her eyes opened to stare at him, “He lived here when I moved in. I didn't know him that well.” An indifferent stare told her to continue. “Well, we only talked from time to time, when we would see each other in the hall or the laundry or something. We'd say 'hi' and talk a little. You know, nothing big”

Poised to write, the pen in his right hand shifted to a pointing position. His bent head rotated to the left. The penned hand crossed his body and pointed at the apartment across the foyer. Turning his head back to eye her, the officer asked, “But you knew him well enough to enter his premises without his permission?”

The hands in front of her chest had been almost writhing in each other, but now had stopped completely as her eyes dropped. With a voice swelling with admonishment she said, “No.”

In one motion, the pointing pen came back to the pad and shifted back into writing position.“Then why did you enter?”

Reaching across her body, her right hand clasped around the door molding before she released an answer more plea than informative. “Well, his door was open, and it's never just open. I thought..I thought something might be wrong. I called out, and no one answered. I didn't mean to do anything wrong. I just wanted to help. I leaned in and called out again, but nothing. It was just so strange, you know?”

“If you thought something was wrong, why didn't you call us?”

His flat tone was starting to scare her a bit. Her head was cycling through a scene where he slowly put away his notepad and lifted his handcuffs. What would people say? They would see me taken away, and think I had something to do with it! The fingers of her right hand found a secular rosary in the bumps and pits of old layers of paint on the molding and ticked off prayers with every segment. “I...I...I didn't...didn't think about it, you know. Maybe he just, you know, left the door open, or thought he had shut it, or,” her eyes were starting to dart a little as she thought. “This building is kind of old, and the doors don't fit right anymore, and they just don't shut right. Mine does it all the time. Sometimes when it rains, the wood swells or something, and I have to really slam it, or it just won't close. The latch or post or whatever it's called, just won't fit. I've called the super about it.”

His right hand raised to stop her, “Ma'am, it's all right.” His voice had softened just enough to give her a life line. She took it and stood like a castigated child. “That's when you entered the premises?”

Her eyes pensive and downcast, she said, “Yes.”

“That's when you saw,” he began, having noticed how scared she looked, paused. She didn't know anything about this. Having softened his voice more, he continued, “the body. His wife.”

She took a deep breath while remembering. “Yes.” She closed her eyes. “That was the worst thing I've ever seen.” After slowly opening them but not meeting his, she added, “That's when I called 9-1-1.” Tears were being pulled from her eyes from the horrific memory.

The officer thought. Keep her talking. Don't give her time to break down. As a token of good faith, he placed the pen with the pad and slid his right over them both concealing them from her sight. Shifting his weight back to his heels, his body seemed a bit less threatening. “Did you know he had had a wife?” he asked hoping to smooth her disquiet a bit more.

Her fingers slowed their search along the molding while she relinquished a somber smile. “Yes, he told me once. Said she had been a model. Said she was beautiful. He looked so sad when he said that. Such a sad man.” She took a moment to remember it well. “He said, they had been in an accident, and she was paralyzed. She could only,” she paused, squinting her eyes to focus her sight on her memory “only move her eyes. Asked me if I had read the Count of Monte Cristo. I told him I hadn't, but I would.” She looked up, a little ashamed. “I looked at it in a store once, but it was so big.” Garnering a deep blush, she continued, “He said there was a character like her in that book. An old bona fide-est, or something. He said he could talk with her like that. With her eyes, only faster. Said he was helping her write a book. He said he had been a doctor, and had enough money to live okay. He said he didn't have to work. He could just take care of her.”

The officer thought she was starting realize what had happened. With a compassionate look he asked, “Did you ever see her, say through a window, or door way?”

“Yes, a few times. He said she liked to feel the sun on her. He'd put her wheelchair by the window, but always with her back out to the street during the day, and at night he'd turn her to face the street with the light out. Just, you know, to see people.”

“So, you never saw her face.”

“No. No. Never. Just her hair, but Nancy told me it was a wig.”

He looked interested, “Nancy?”

“Yes, Nancy. She lives in,” she started, seeming to look vaguely up through the building. “She lives in,” her eyes locked onto the right direction and pointed, “in 4-B. She works down at the wig shop,” once again pointing a general direction, “on the corner here. She said the doctor came in and bought a wig for his wife.” Her finger finally got accurate and gestured to the apartment across the foyer. “When I heard that, I was so sad for her. I wondered just how bad the accident had been. I thought, maybe, burned.” Hers eyes looked more perplexed by the moment. “He said the accident had, in her eyes, ruined her. He started to cry a bit when he said that. And she just didn't want anyone to see her.”

Leaning lightly to the right, his shoulder found the wall less than a foot from the door molding. A weary sigh passed his lips. “You never thought anything strange about him or never seeing his wife?”

Her face was shifting to pensive again. “No, I guess I never did. You never know. I didn't think it was my business. He just seemed like such a sad man. I just never thought anything like this,” she said, letting her voice fall away. After a moment she leaned towards him and she asked in a whisper, “Have they found him?”

“Yes, Ma'am, about half and hour ago,” he said as he put his notepad in its place.

Hopeful for information, she asked, “Did he say anything?”

“No, Ma'am, didn't say a thing.” He cast a conspiratory look behind himself and added, “The tech guys” pointing with his thumb to the technicians in the apartment, “found his old I.D. We found some records on him, including where he used to work. The Westmore Mortuary. They said she died about five years ago in an automobile accident. He was driving and fell asleep. They said,” he paused to let out an astonished breath. “They said he didn't take it that well, took the body and ran.”

“Such a sad man.”

Danny77 · 02-12-2008, 05:56 PM