Searching for Caleb Read Free

at him. He pursed his lips and studied an inspection certificate.
       On the eighth floor, at the end of a long dark hall, they pressed another button. Bolts slithered and locks rattled, as if connected somehow to the button. The door opened three inches and a rouged, seamed face peered out from behind a police chain. "Yes?" she asked.
       "Mrs. Tabor?" said Justine.
       Puffy eyes took her in from top to toe, her streaky ribbons of hair and her brown coat with the uneven hemline. "What is this," Mrs. Tabor said, "are you selling something? I don't need a thing and I already have religion."
       So the grandfather had to step up and take over. There was no mistaking the elegance of his bow, or the way he raised one hand to his head even though he wore no hat. He presented her with his card. Not his business card, oh no, but his calling card, cream-colored, aged yellow around the edges. He slipped it beneath the police chain into her jeweled hand.
       "Daniel Peck," he said, as if she could not read, and she looked up into his face while one finger tested the engraving. "Peck," she said.
       "I knew your husband. Paul? Back in Baltimore."
       "Why didn't you say so?" she asked, and she unhooked the chain and stood back to let them in. They entered a room that Justine might have grown up in, all wine-colored and velvety, giving off a scent of dust although every piece of furniture gleamed. Mrs. Tabor's white hair was precisely finger-waved, webby with beauty parlor hairspray. She wore black wool and ropes and ropes of pearls. Her focus was on the old man and she barely looked at Justine even when he remembered to introduce her. "Of course you do know about his passing, Mr. Peck," she said.
       "I beg your pardon?"
       "You'll have to speak up," said Justine. "He left his hearing aid at home."
       "You know he passed, Mr. Peck."
       "Oh. Passed. Oh yes. Yes, naturally, I read it in the paper. You see we hadn't heard of Paul for many many years, we-" He followed, absently, to the couch where she led him. He sat down beside Justine, pinching the creases in his trousers. "We had no idea where he might be until that death notice, Mrs. Tabor. Why, I've made several trips to New York in my life and never even knew he was here! Never guessed! We could have talked over old times together."
       "Oh, it's sad how people lose track," said Mrs. Tabor.
       "Well, I wanted to offer my condolences. Our family thought highly of Paul and my brother Caleb in particular was very close to him."
       "Why, thank you, Mr. Peck. It was painless, I'm happy to say, sudden and painless, just the way he would have wished it. All the more shock to me, therefore, but-"
       "What was that?"
       "Thank you."
       "My brother's name was Caleb Peck."
       "What a fine old-fashioned name," said Mrs. Tabor.
       The old man looked at her for a minute, perhaps wondering whether it was worthwhile asking her to repeat herself. Then he sighed and shook his head. "I don't suppose you knew him, did you?" he said.
       "Why, not that I remember, no. I don't believe so. Because of Paul's work we moved about so, you see. It was difficult to-"
       "What? What?"
       "No, Grandfather," Justine said, and laid one hand on top of his. He looked at her dimly for a moment, as if he didn't recognize her.
       "I assumed he might have kept in touch with Paul," he told Mrs. Tabor.
       "Written, or sent Christmas cards. Or visited, even. You know they were very close. Perhaps he stopped to see you on his way to someplace else."
       "We never had many visitors, Mr. Peck."
       "Pardon?"
       He looked at Justine. Justine shook her head.
       "Or possibly Paul just mentioned his name on some occasion," he said.
       "Possibly, yes, but-"
       "Yes?"
       He snatched his hand from Justine's and sat forward. "When would that have been?" he asked.
       "But-no, Mr. Peck, I can't say I remember it. I'm