The Memory Book Read Online Free PDF Page B

came down and the students moved in. Now the O appeared as the last letter in the word “Toronto.” Soon it was dripping icicle meltwater over the intersection.
    “I know that the cops have been taking an interest in what happened.”
    “How do you know that, Benny?”
    I paused for about ten seconds. “I don’t know how I know that. Maybe it was one of the nurses.”
    “They weren’t supposed to tell you.”
    “What do you mean, not tell me? Who declared a news blackout? Sam, you know I don’t like being manipulated.”
    “Settle down. Don’t lose your cool.”
    “I always lose my cool when I’ve got a cracked skull.”
    “Don’t have a stroke on me. Calm down.”
    “Do you know which cops are taking the biggest interest?”
    “No, I don’t. They’ll be in touch when you are feeling stronger. Meanwhile, what do you need?” At this point, the conversation grew domestic. We discussed razors and underpants with a seriousness that was new to both of us. Sam jotted down my suggestions on the back of an envelope and in about ten minutes was saying his goodbyes.
    So, I was working or visiting in Toronto when I got hurt. I hadn’t a clue why I had been in Toronto, nor why I was a hundred kilometres from my office, where the mystery could be cleared up. My records might not satisfy themore scientific of my colleagues, but I’d always been able to give a fair account of my activities both in court and to the tax people. I always kept track of my cases and where my money came from. If I was in Toronto on business, then there had to be some record of it. It was a two-hour drive from Toronto in the middle of the afternoon. Then I remembered that my driver’s licence was suspended. Damn it! I was further away than ever from getting to the bottom of this.
    I tried to find a piece of paper and something to write with. I found the stub of what might have been an eyebrow pencil or a failed crayon and tried to use that to make a note on the fly-leaf of a book some predecessor had left behind.
    If I had driven from home to Toronto in my own car, then certain things had to follow: after this length of time, my Olds must be somewhere collecting parking tickets or beginning to attract attention of some kind. Locating the car was a first step in tracing my reason for being in Toronto. There might be an address, a note, a name. Something. I made a note on the fly-leaf of the old book, again surprising myself that I still remembered how to make my letters. I took my eyes off what I’d written, looked out the window for a moment, then tried to read my writing. I got the first letter wrong, tried again, working out the relationship between the letters that made them into words. When I got about halfway, I remembered how the rest of it went. I sighed, then closed the book.
    The book was The Lady in the Morgue by Jonathan Latimer, as I discovered after three minutes of hard work breaking the code of the letters. I flipped to the title page. It had been written before I was born. But it had real staying power in the hospital library. I remembered the author’s name. It was buried in the farthest colonies of my memory. An aunt, who was always reading, had told me about him. The author had got himself in trouble with Senator Joseph McCarthy’s House Un-American Activities Committee during the 1950s. Why did I remember things like that when I still couldn’t get my nurse’s name straight?
    I fished my wallet from my clothes, which were stuffed into the small closet near the bathroom. I was tired. Being kept in bed steals all kinds of resources. Strength tops the list.
    Pulling my cards and papers from my wallet was a peculiar exercise, like pulling out the wallet of someone who could no longer do the job for himself. The wallet itself could have belonged to a stranger. There were no clues that announced, “Hey! Remember when you tore this bit of leather? Remember this photograph of Ma and Pa?” The photographs did reassure me,