The Tell-Tale Heart
1843 / E. A. Poe
True!
Maya, perhaps you don’t know that I had a wife before Amelia and a profession before I became a bookseller. I was once married to a woman named Nicole Evans. I loved her very much. She died in a car accident, and a large part of me was dead for a long time after, probably until I found you.
Nicole and I met in college and married the summer before we entered graduate school. She wanted to be a poet but in the meantime was unhappily working toward a PhD in twentieth-century female poets (Adrienne Rich, Marianne Moore, Elizabeth Bishop; how she hated Sylvia Plath). I was well on my way to a PhD in American literature. My dissertation was to be on depictions of disease in the works of E. A. Poe, a subject I had never particularly liked but had grown to truly despise. Nic suggested that there could be better, happier ways to have a literary life. I said, “Yeah, like what?”
And she said, “Bookstore owners.”
“Tell me more,” I said.
“Did you know my hometown doesn’t have a bookstore?”
“Really? Alice seems like the kind of place that should have one.”
“I know,” she said. “A place is not really a place without a bookstore.”
And so we quit grad school, took her trust fund money, moved to Alice, and opened the store that would become Island Books.
Does it go without saying that we did not know what we were getting into?
In the years after Nicole’s accident, I often imagined what my life might have been like if I had finished that PhD.
But I digress.
This is arguably the best known of E. A. Poe’s stories. In a box marked ephemera, you’ll find my notes and twenty-five pages of my dissertation (most of it concerning “The Tell-Tale Heart”), if you’re ever interested in reading more about the things your dad did in another life.
—A.J.F.
What bothers me in a story more than anything is a loose end,” Deputy Doug Lippman says, selecting four mini-quiches from the hors d’oeuvres Lambiase has provided. After many years of hosting the Chief’s Choice Book Club, Lambiase knows that the most important thing, even more than the title at hand, is food and drink.
“Deputy,” Lambiase says, “it’s a three-quiche max, or there won’t be enough for everyone.”
The deputy puts a quiche back on the tray. “Like, okay, what the heck happened to the violin? Did I miss something? A priceless Stradivarius doesn’t vanish into thin air.”
“Good point,” Lambiase says. “Anyone?”
“You know what I freaking hate,” Kathy from Homicide says. “I freaking hate shoddy police work. Like, when no one wears gloves, I’m yelling, Shut up, you’re contaminating the crime scene.”
“You never get that in Deaver,” Sylvio from Dispatch says.
“If only they could all be Deaver,” Lambiase says.
“But what I hate more than bad police work is when everything is solved too quickly,” Homicide Kathy continues. “Even Deaver does it. Things take time to figure out. Sometimes years. You got to live with a case a long time.”
“Good point, Kathy.”
“These mini-quiches are delicious, by the way.”
“Costco,” Lambiase says.
“I hate the women characters,” Rosie the firefighter says. “The policewomen are always ex-models from families of cops. She’s got, like, one flaw.”
“Bites her nails,” says Homicide Kathy. “Unruly hair. Big mouth.”
Rosie the firefighter laughs. “It’s some fantasy of a lady in law enforcement is what it is.”
“I dunno,” Deputy Dave says. “I like the fantasy.”
“Maybe the writer’s point is that the violin is not the point?” Lambiase says.
“Of course it’s the point,” says Deputy Dave.
“Maybe the point is how the violin affects everyone’s lives?” Lambiase continues.
“Boo,” Rosie the firefighter says. She makes a thumbs-down sign. “Booooo.”
From the counter, A.J. listens to the discussion. Of the dozen or so book groups Island hosts, Chief’s Choice is his favorite by far. Lambiase calls over to him, “Back me up here, A.J. You don’t always have to know who stole the violin.”
“In my experience, a book is more satisfying to readers if you do,” A.J. says. “Although I don’t mind ambiguity myself.”
The groups’ cheers drown out everything after the word do.
“Traitor,” Lambiase yells.
At that moment, the wind chimes sound as Ismay enters the store. The group goes back to discussing the book, but Lambiase can’t help staring at her. She has a white summer dress on with a full skirt that emphasizes her tiny waist. She wears her red hair long again, which softens her face. He is reminded of the orchids that his ex-wife used to keep in the front window.
Ismay goes up to A.J. She sets a piece of paper on the counter. “I’ve finally picked the play,” she says. “I’ll probably need about fifty copies of Our Town.”
“It’s a classic,” A.J. says.
Many years after Daniel Parish’s death and a half hour after Chief’s Choice, Lambiase decides enough time has passed to make a particular inquiry of A.J. “I hate to overstep here, but would you check if your sister-in-law is interested in going on a date with a not-bad-looking law enforcement officer?”
“To whom are you referring?”
“Me. I was kidding about the not-bad-looking part. I know I’m not exactly the blue-ribbon cow.”
“No, I meant who do you want me to ask. Amelia is an only child.”
“Not Amelia. I mean, your ex-sister-in-law, Ismay.”
“Oh, right. Ismay.” A.J. pauses. “Ismay? Really? Her?”
“Yeah, I’ve always kind of had a thing for her. Going way back to high school. Not that she ever noticed me very much. I figure none of us is getting any younger, so I should take my chances now.”
A.J. calls Ismay on the phone and makes the request.
“Lambiase?” she asks. “Him?”
“He’s a good guy,” A.J. says.
“It’s only . . . well, I’ve never dated a police officer before,” Ismay says.
“That’s starting to sound awfully snobbish.”
“I don’t mean to sound that way, but blue-collar men have never been my type.”
And that worked out so well with you and Daniel, A.J. thinks but does not say.
“Of course, my marriage was a disaster,” Ismay says.
SEVERAL EVENINGS LATER, she and Lambiase are at El Corazon. She orders the surf and turf, and a gin and tonic. No need to put on a show of femininity as she suspects there won’t be a second date.
“Good appetite,” Lambiase comments. “I’ll have the same.”
“So,” Ismay says, “what do you do when you aren’t being a cop?”
“Well, believe it or not,” he says shyly, “I read a lot. Maybe you wouldn’t think it’s that much. I know you teach English.”
“What do you read?” Ismay asks.
“Little bit of everything. I started with crime novels. Pretty predictable that, I guess. But then A.J. got me into other kinds of books, too. Literary fiction, I think you’d call it. Some of it doesn’t have enough action for my taste. Kind of embarrassing, but I like young adult. Plenty of action there and feelings, too. I also read whatever A.J.’s reading. He’s partial to short stories—”
“I know.”
“And whatever Maya’s reading, too. I like talking about books with them. They’re book people, you know. I also host a book group for the other cops. Maybe you’ve seen the signs for the Chief’s Choice?”
Ismay shakes her head.
“Sorry if I’m talking too much. I’m nervous, I guess.”
“You’re fine.” Ismay sips her drink. “Did you ever read any of Daniel’s books?”
“Yeah, one. The first one.”
“Did you like it?”
“Not my cup of tea. It was very well written, though.”
Ismay nods.
“Do you miss your husband?” Lambiase asks.
“Not really,” she says after a bit. “His sense of humor sometimes. But the best parts of him were in his books. I suppose I could always read those if I missed him too much. I haven’t wanted to read one yet, though.” Ismay laughs a little.
“What do you read, then?”
“Plays, the odd bit of poetry. Then there are the books I teach every year: Tess of the d’Urbervilles, Johnny Got His Gun, A Farewell to Arms, A Prayer for Owen Meany, some years Wuthering Heights, Silas Marner, Their Eyes Were Watching God, or I Capture the Castle. Those books are like old friends.
“When I’m choosing something new, though, something just for myself, my favorite kind of character is a woman in a faraway place. India. Or Bangkok. Sometimes she leaves her husband. Sometimes she never had a husband because she knew, wisely, that married life would not be for her. I like when she has multiple lovers. I like when she wears hats to block her fair skin from the sun. I like when she travels and has adventures. I like descriptions of hotels and suitcases with stickers on them. I like descriptions of food and clothes and jewelry. A little romance but not too much. The story is period. No cell phones. No social networking. No Internet at all. Ideally, it’s set in the 1920s or the 1940s. Maybe there’s a war going on, but it’s just a backdrop. No bloodshed. Some sex but nothing too graphic. No children. Children often spoil a story for me.”
“I don’t have any,” Lambiase says.
“I don’t mind them in real life. I just don’t want to read about them. Endings can be happy or sad, I don’t care anymore as long as it’s earned. She can settle down, maybe open a little business, or she can drown herself in the ocean. Finally, a nice-looking jacket is important. I don’t care how good the insides are. I don’t want to spend any length of time with an ugly object. I’m shallow, I guess.”
“You are one heck of a pretty woman,” Lambiase says.
“I’m ordinary,” she says.
“No way.”
“Pretty is not a good reason to court someone, you know. I have to tell that to my students all the time.”
“This from the woman who doesn’t read the books with the ugly covers.”
“Well, I’m warning you. I could be a bad book with a good jacket.”
He groans. “I’ve known a few of those.”
“For instance?”
“My first marriage. The wife was pretty but mean.”
“So you thought you’d make the same mistake twice?”
“Nah, I’ve seen you on the shelf for years. I’ve read the synopsis and the quotes on the back. Caring teacher. Godmother. Upstanding community member. Caretaker to sister’s husband and daughter. Bad marriage, probably made too young, but tried her best.”
“Sketchy,” she says.
“But it’s enough to make me want to read on.” He smiles at her. “Should we order dessert?”
“I HAVEN’T HAD sex in a really long time,” Ismay says in the car on the way back to her house.
“Okay,” Lambiase says.
“I think we should have sex,” Ismay clarifies. “If you want to, I mean.”
“I do want to,” Lambiase says. “But not if that means I don’t get to take you on a second date. I don’t want to be a warm-up for the guy that gets you.”
She laughs at him and leads him to her bedroom. She takes off her clothes with the lights on. She wants him to see what a fifty-one-year-old woman looks like.
Lambiase lets out a low whistle.
“You’re sweet, but you should have seen me before,” she says. “Surely you see the scars.”
A long one runs from her knee to her hip. Lambiase runs his thumb along it: it’s like a seam on a doll. “Yeah, I see them, but it doesn’t take away from anything.”
Her leg had been broken in fifteen places and she’d had to have the socket of her right hip replaced, but other than that, she’d been fine. For once in his life, Daniel had taken the brunt of the impact.
“Does it hurt much?” Lambiase asks. “Should I be careful?”
She shakes her head and tells him to take off his clothes.
IN THE MORNING, she wakes before him. “I’m going to make you breakfast,” she says. He nods sleepily, and then she kisses him on his shaven head.
“Are you shaving this because you’re balding or because you like the style?” she asks.
“A little of both,” Lambiase replies.
She sets a towel on the bed, then leaves the room. Lambiase takes his time getting ready. He opens the drawer of her nightstand and pokes around her things a bit. She has expensive-looking lotions that smell like her. He smears some on his hands. He opens her closet. Her clothes are tiny. There are silk dresses, pressed cotton blouses, wool pencil skirts, and paper-thin cashmere cardigans. Everything is in smart shades of beige and gray, and the condition of her clothes is immaculate. He looks at the top shelf of the closet, where her shoes are neatly organized in their original boxes. Above one of the stacks of shoes, he notices a small child’s backpack in princess pink.
His cop eyes clock the child’s backpack as out of place somehow. He knows he shouldn’t, but he pulls it down and unzips it. Inside is a zipper case with crayons and a couple of coloring books. He picks up the coloring book. maya is written across the front. Behind the coloring book is another book. A flimsy thing, more like a pamphlet than a book. Lambiase looks at the cover:
TAMERLANE
AND
OTHER POEMS.
BY A BOSTONIAN.
Crayon marks scar the cover.
Lambiase doesn’t know what to make of it.
His cop brain clicks in, formulating the following questions: (1) Is this A.J.’s stolen Tamerlane? (2) Why would Tamerlane be in Ismay’s possession? (3) How did Tamerlane get covered in crayon and who did the coloring? Maya? (4) Why would Tamerlane be in a backpack with Maya’s name on it?
He is about to run downstairs to demand an explanation from Ismay, but then he changes his mind.
He looks at the ancient manuscript for several seconds longer.
He can smell the pancakes from where he sits. He can imagine her downstairs making them. She is probably wearing a white apron and a silky nightgown. Or maybe she is wearing just the apron and nothing else. That would be exciting. Maybe they can have sex again. Not on the kitchen table. It is not comfortable to have sex on a kitchen table no matter how erotic it looks in movies. Maybe on the couch. Maybe back upstairs. Her mattress is so soft, and her sheets’ thread count must be in the thousands.
Lambiase prides himself on being a good cop, and he knows he should go downstairs and make an excuse to her now about why he has to go.
But is that the sound of an orange being juiced? Is she warming syrup, too?
The book is ruined.
Besides which, it was stolen so long ago. Over ten years now. A.J. is happily married. Maya is settled. Ismay has suffered.
Not to mention, he really likes this woman. And none of this is Lambiase’s business anyway. He zips the book back into the backpack and puts the bag back where he found it.
Lambiase believes that cops go one of two ways as they get older. They either get more judgmental or less so. Lambiase is not so rigid as when he was a young police officer. He has found that people do all sorts of things, and they usually have their reasons.
He goes downstairs and sits at her kitchen table, which is round and covered with the whitest tablecloth he has ever seen. “Smells great,” he says.
“Nice to have someone to cook for. You were up there a long time,” she says, pouring him a glass of fresh-squeezed orange juice. Her apron is turquoise, and she is wearing black exercise clothes.
“Hey,” Lambiase says, “did you happen to read Maya’s short story for the contest? I thought the kid should have been a shoo-in to win.”
“I haven’t read it yet,” Ismay says.
“It’s basically Maya’s version of the last day of her mother’s life,” Lambiase says.
“She’s so precocious,” Ismay says.
“I’ve always wondered why Maya’s mother chose Alice.”
Ismay flips a pancake, and then she flips another. “Who knows why people do what they do?”