wrinkled. I walked over to it, put my hand on the dented pillow while the super made a beeline for the dripping tap. The sheets still felt warm. There was only one window, and although it faced the street, light was blocked by the adjacent building whose bay windows projected further out, encroaching on the sidewalk. It was mid-afternoon and very cold. The room darkened quickly.
While the super looked under the sink I walked over to Jack’s desk, which had been positioned in front of the window. Photographs of Jack with various people and photocopies of articles had been taped to the walls. I glanced at one about POW Garwood, falsely accused of something I couldn’t make out. Bug Suspect Got Campaign Funds. Radio Hanoi. . . . An article about mining strikes in England, written by Jack Kews, was tucked into a beat-up copy of Zola’s Germinal. I had to be careful the super didn’t catch me snooping. The articles were eclectic, and the walls’ contents made the room resemble that of a student writing papers for an array of classes that might not, at first glance, have much to do with one another. A jar of Wonderbond Plus glue and a staple gun lay on top of some papers, and enclosed in a paperweight was a scene of a hillside with a shovel stuck into it. When I shook the plastic bubble, snow fell. The desk served as a kitchen table as well. A plate of fried eggs and toast lay to one side, on top of a pile of books. I touched it, and to my surprise the food, too, was still warm.
“You sure you haven’t seen him?”
“I’m not always sitting out front. He could have left while I was next door picking up mail.”
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