OWEN KING The idiot'sGhost H H o dropanything besidestrash bagsdownthegarbagechutewas ■M a violationofbuildingrules,butthatdidn'tstoppeople- they pitchedall sortsof junk.Even Trevor, who had been a porterat the building foralmosta decade,shouldhaveknownbetter thantobe foolingaroundin thebasementdumpster at thebottomof thechute.In Kurtsopinion,hehadknownbetter. Maybethekidwasn'ta genius, but hehadbeena goodworker. Trevor justcouldn't helphimself. "He wasa goddamnedidiot," saidLinda,Kurt's wife. Kurtwas thelong-time superintendent of theupperWest Side high-rise. Itwasa pleasantbuilding, a burnished silver cylinder ofnineteenfloors , populatedbyaffluent peoplefrom many walksoflife.What happenedtoTrevor feltso deeplyoutofplace- inthecontext ofKurt's steadyexistence as a fixer, andwithinthenicebuildingitself, whereso manywell-kept families lived- thatthesuperfoundthereality ofthe tragedy hardtoaccept,andhepacedhisapartment ina funeral suit. Trevor hadlikedjunk,shiny stuff, toys.He hadbeensoft-hearted. Likea kid,he hadhada thing forlittleanimals.Theycalledpeoplelike Trevorspecial,and Kurtthought thatwas right, becausethedead man hadbeensweetand nevercomplained, whichinthisworldwasuncommon .ItwaswrongforLindatotalkabouthimlikethat. "Stopthat," Kurtsaid. "Why>It'sthetruth." "He's dead, Linda" "He's dead, Linda."She repeatedhiswordsin a childishwhine. "So>Does thatmakehimsomehowlessofanidiot?I calla spadea spade. Maybethatmakesme awful, but I do. And Trevorwas a goddamned idiot."As Lindaspoke,sheyanked a cushionfrom thecouchand tossed itaside.Kurt'swifehad notattendedthefuneral. Itwas fourin theafternoonand shewas inherbathrobe. The massofgray andyellowwire 87 thatwas herhairevokedin herhusbandsminda picturehe had once seenofa tumbleweed. "I can'tfindthefucking controller!' Sheflung anothercushion.It hitthewallandtilted a picture. "Youknowhowthepeoplewholivehereare,"saidKurt, whonormally preferred toleaveheraswidea berth aspossible, butwasunableto holdback."Theythrow outnicethings sometimes. Don'tyouremember thewomanon fourthrew outallherhusband's suitsthattime?" Thisreference wasa bitdisingenuous; thephilandering husband's suitshad heldno valueforTrevorand he had giventhemto Kurtas a gift. "Checkout thefancy, boss!"Trevor had said in hisinimitable way whenhe presented thearmloadof Italiansuits,onlyslightly soiledby usedcoffee grounds andcoleslaw "He was a goddamnedthirty-year-old idiot,and hegothisbrains bashedoutbya toaster, andthat's thefact." Now shewasshoving atthe couch;itmadea grinding noise."Butalso,I don'tgivea shit." "Well,I givea shit," said Kurt,butcouldn'tmanageto summon anyheat,andthisembarrassed him.A wifeshouldn't talklikethattoher husband, andcertainly notaboutsucha gravesubject.Didn'tsheknow thathehadcaredfortheboy? Lindahad,inthelasttenorfifteen years, grownmean.Shenever missedan opportunity to proclaimthatthemostunhappy things were facts andviceversa.The superfounditimpossible totracethechangein hiswife.Therehadbeena timewhenshehaddancedwhileshecooked dinner,sashayedback-and-forth betweenthe stove,the refrigerator, and thecounter, dancedto whatever musicplayedfromthetransistor radiothatsaton thewindowsill. Lindahad alwaysbeen sharp, buther cynicism usedtobe funny andappealing.Itwasas though a curtain had fallen, momentarily obscuring thewomanhehadmarried, likeanactress on stageattheconclusion ofa play. Then,whenshehadsteppedoutto thefootlights, shewas suddenly thiscrone,grimand definite on every subject.Or maybeitwas thatLindahad emergedto see,insteadofa finely dressedaudience, Kurtalone,andrealized, "Oh,God,thisisit,me andthisdusty oldmanuntiltheend."Anyway, thebottomlinewasthat shewasn'thappy - notwithhim,notwithanything. 88 The transistor radiointhekitchen haddieda longtimeago.Kurt remembered carrying thedead deviceto thebasement, likeyouwere supposedto,notthrowing itintothetrash chute. Lindasbitterness notonlymadehimfeelhelpless, itstruck himas intensely female-andyet, inthiscase,hecouldnotleaveitalone.Wasit becausehewasafraid shewasright? Was itbecauseheknewshewasright? Afterall,theporterhad been mentally disabled,and hisdemise hadbeen- avoidable. Trevor hadbeendigging inthebasementdumpster, hisheadsituateddirectly beneaththetrashchuteat theverymomenta cherry red, chrome-trimmed, four-slot toastercame bangingand crashing down thesheetmetalthroatthatrantheheightofthebuilding. The sound musthavefrozen him. The impactkilledhiminstantly, andhorrifically. The porter s skull was cleaved,and hisbrainssprayed all overthebasement, bitson the dumpster, bitson thepipes,flecks ofgray matter on thedustyZabar's coffee mugthatsaton thehighshelf wayon theothersideoftheroom. "I givea shit," Kurtrepeated.He had stoppedpacing.Therewas a couchcushionathisfeet.Lindawas on theground, straining an arm underthecouch.Shegrunted witheffort. "Youhearme>I givea shitaboutTrevor." "Ughhh," saidLinda,scrabbling underthecouch. On a morningsome yearsearlier,Kurthad discoveredTrevor prospecting in the cementplanterin frontof the building.This big blondedraft horseofguywas on hiskneeson thepavement, scraping andstabbing awayatthedirtaroundthebaseofthedogwoodtree, using a little jaggedpieceofwood- likeoffa crateorsomething. "The fuck is this>" Kurthadasked. The bigguylookedup.His lowerlipwasshaking. "Don't gimmethat,fella.That'snotyourtree."Partofthesuper was alreadyinside,callingthecops to comeand escortthisgiantdope 89 to thenearestsoftroom,whenhe noticeda ragon thesidewalk bythe planter. The ragwas a sparrow, Kurtrealized, likea hundredothershe had seen overtheyears, a sad littlenuggeton thepavement, feathers ticking slightly inthebreeze. "Theydon'tunderstand windows, do they?" theguysaid,and his wide,dampeyeshadbeenlikewindowsthemselves. The supercouldsee through themand intothepoorboys head,and itwas a vaultofclean air,sweetair,harmless air. "Oh, forheavens sake,"he said,and broughtTrevorinside.He founda smallbox,andthey putthesparrow inthat, anduseda trowel to bury itaroundthesideofthebuilding wheretherewas a patchofhalfhearted grass. Lifewas supposedto curea person,makethemtoughand ready fortheeventual. WhyKurthadgradually softened instead, he couldn't explain. Inthewarhedroppedfirebombs. The oddssaidthathehadkilled manymen;he had certainly seen dead men,theirhorrific, blackened half-faces. Butat sixty-eight, withplenty oflifebehindhim- thewar, anda halfcentury oftough, honestlabor- hishairhadbecomelikea baby 'shair, wispy white;andhewassoft; seehowhelethiswifejab athim. The kidkeptcoming aroundafter thatmorning, andhewasstrong andheaccepteddirection, andthebuilding neededa porter. Kurthired himandlethimputa mattress inthebasementstorage closetso hehad a safeplacetostayatnight. Now thekidwasdead,brainsallover. "There!Yes...