# 6 - Chapter Six "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 Chapter Six "It Hurts to Say Goodbye" 

Chapter Six – El Siegel 

There’s one talent of mine I’m not proud of: I over-work things in my head. Once any kind of a troubling issue – an idea, an event or a person – enters my mind, it’s locked in there, and then it keeps working on me. Sure, I try to push that thing down, repress it so I’m not reminded of it, but it comes back, it rises up in my consciousness, over and over, like an obsession.   

Like those two Philly cops: It was like a bad dream. I kept imagining their faces bobbing up in front of me, too close. And I had an idea what would happen. They said they wanted to talk to me, that was all. They said only a few questions, only a few minutes. Of course, I knew that was their sales pitch to get their foot in the door. Still, I knew I would have to talk with them at some time. 

I thought, if I kept refusing to talk with them, their demand – and that’s what it was – would stay in my mind, keep coming back to me, along with my memories of Faith. But if I agreed and actually talked with them, then maybe I would have a small sense of closure. Maybe I could put one part of this horrible time behind me. I wouldn’t have that part hanging over me. 

Yes, I knew that my memories of Faith would keep streaming through my mind like the newsreel in an old-time movie theater – the scenes, the images, the background music and the emotions. Yes, all that would keep going. But at least I wouldn’t have to keep trying to put off Lieutenant Boswell and Sergeant Buckley. At least, one part of the horror show would drop from the screen. 

For the three days since their visit, I was almost a prisoner in my own home. Of course, I went out to buy groceries and pick up prescriptions I needed, and I took short walks near my home. When we moved to the city, Debbi and I used to take walks and discover our new neighborhood, the historic houses, the bars and restaurants, the little shops. We even enjoyed meeting our new neighbors. I still think of those days and regret we grew apart and couldn’t enjoy what we had together. 

I’m getting off the subject. Since those days, my life changed so much. At this point, I felt disconnected from my past without the normal family ties that help most other people through tough times. I felt like an outsider. No, I was an outsider. I spent so much time thinking about those two cops and how to get them off my back. I was alone in my empty Philly home, wandering from room to room. I watched some television, mostly the news, I read a few of the books I’d put aside stacked on my nightstand, and I even read some of my entries in my journal and the few poems I’d written, with Faith’s help.

And I thought of her and how we became friends.  

More memories came back to me. My youth was spent in the suburbs outside Philadelphia, in Ardmore. I was an only child, and I got on just fine with both of my parents, actually more than fine. My dad was an English teacher at Lower Merion High School, just one block from our home. I attended his high school. We didn’t try to hide anything, but we were careful not to give any wrong impressions. Like, he was never my teacher, but at home we did talk about books, mainly novels, and, if I asked him, he read over some of my papers. 

My Mom was a therapist, and she had her own practice in the city. She told me her specialty was helping people with difficult “life issues,” and that always sounded vague to me; she helped people in different age groups, like adolescents, older folks, and even some Philadelphia notables. She never mentioned the names of any of her patients, but she did mention some of the problems she treated. 

At school, I was a good student and I was happy. I didn’t worry about being popular. I had my group of friends, and I know some of our classmates called us nerds, but my friends were all I needed. It was that simple. Sometimes after school, some of my friends – both guys and girls – would come over to my house, and we’d sit around and listen to music and talk. The strongest drink was Coca-Cola. The worst things we did were like eating something my Mom prepared for dinner. Maybe some people would consider it boring, but there were no drugs, no binge drinking and no wild sex, actually no real sex at all. 

Back then, I thought I was the most normal teenager in the world, and I guess I was. It’s said we’re the worst judges of our own characters and psyches, and maybe I don’t know much about myself. I sure don’t know why I changed later in life, when I became tense, maybe even obsessive, and just a bit short-tempered once in a while. 

I always thought of my high school years as golden. I had a good life. I had friends, freedom, and a lot more. When I had friends over at my house after school, I really preferred talking with the girls. A few of them told me about their problems, mainly with guys, like jocks that couldn’t understand the word “no.” I gave some girls advice, nothing genius, really, and I even told a few sports stars to back off. I was no big hero; I just wanted to help. 

Why? I don’t know when it happened. I’m sure you’ve discovered – in reading this account – that I’m weak on dates. But at some time in my life I placed girls on a pedestal for their beauty, their softness, and their subtlety and patience. I just loved, and I continue to love being with them. And at my house after school, once in a while when I was alone with a girl I liked, we shared harmless petting and made some wonderful discoveries.  

And for some reason, even though it could appear a contradiction, I started considering myself some kind of a protector of girls – no big hero, I just wanted to help them. If I benefited in some way, maybe that was a justified natural result. 

Well, if I believed in my childish pretentions years ago as some kind of a protector of girls, that adolescent role was surely past. I failed to protect Faith when she needed help.  

But in my mind, something else was happening. Thinking about her and the time we spent together, remembering how selfless and giving she was, it all makes my heart feel warm and it gives me a new faith in human nature.  

Thinking of her brings me deep hurt and deep pleasure. 

-0-

I remember one night in my Philly row house, maybe just two weeks after Faith and I shared ale and hamburgers for the first time at The Saturn, Faith was trying to help me with my poetry.

We rejected tea and decided on red wine and cheese, and we felt cozy on one of my two leather couches. After just one glass, I was beyond feeling guilty about being with a woman in the home I had shared with Debbi and Patrick. After all, I had been living the life of a bachelor for more than six months; Debbi was renting a condo up by Washington Square, and Patrick was living with her but spending more time at Temple University’s campus.  

Faith was telling me how she felt about “Wonder Words.” “When you look at our society, when you see how fake so much is, and so many people are so phony, and then you look at our poets at “Wonder Words,” my gosh!”

Her voice was rising. “The poets of ‘Wonder Words,’ here we are: we’re expressing our ideas, we built up our courage to recite our works, and we’re gambling because we don’t know how people’ll respond. 

“I know ‘cause I been there, so when everyone claps and shouts, it’s just so great, it fills your heart. You can’t imagine the emotion.” She stopped like she was out of breath, and then she took another a few sips of her wine. 

Faith mentioned that she had just attended a reception at her law firm, and that was why she was all dressed up in a short black dress and black stockings and a touch of makeup that made her dark eyes and full lips stand out. 

She caught her breath. “And the guy we have to thank for ‘Wonder Words’ is Bruce. You met him, and I know you got a good vib from him. He gave us this forum, he organizes everything; he administers it all. And then he publishes our poems. And he doesn’t talk a lot about it, he just does it.” 

We started working on some of my texts. I knew that my first attempts weren’t great, and I was ashamed when we looked at my scribbled lines. Faith was patient and calm. She read the works carefully, taking her time. Then, she pointed out some of the passages she liked.

Faith said she wanted to explain the steps she followed when she wrote poetry. First, she said, she had to decide what she wanted to accomplish, and Faith said she tried to expand the readers’ or the listeners’ knowledge and touch their emotions. Then, she said, she has to decide what ideas or messages she wanted to get across. 

Don’t worry, she told me, just let it happen because our subconscious mind would take over and do a lot of the work. More and more, she explained that she would sometimes wake up at three in the morning with ideas and words laid out visually in her mind, and she would rush to her diary to note it all down before returning to bed. 

Then, she explained, she had to choose the words and images to express the ideas. She said she had to be sensitive to the sound of the words and their usage. She took my text and showed me that, while I was writing about love – yes, really – the words I’d chosen sounded harsh, while they should be soft and squishy. 

She explained that we poets have big advantages: The English language has more words than any other language on Earth, and so many foreign words are common in American usage; and our subconscious had been working on the word choice also, and we just had to pay attention to its work. 

And when the poets recite their poetry, they have to learn how to use their voices, Faith said. Poets have to learn to modulate their voices, which is not a mechanical function but should come naturally with the meaning of the text. I shouldn’t have a problem, she said, because my voice is soft and warm, “well, you know,” and she let her voice trail off.  

I was overwhelmed. “How can I do all that?” 

She raised her eyes to mine. “El, don’t worry about it. I know you can. You just have to keep doing it. Just keep thinking about it and writing! You’ll succeed. And you’ll use every part of your capacity, and your subconscious.”

“Faith, thank you so much. Really, so much.”

Faith said, “But you gotta be careful. I put a lot of thought into how and what I write, just like I do with everything else I do. But all of this is just me, just the way I look at it. There’s a million styles and a million methods.

“This is just my approach. And you know, this is just a kind of guide, like a map. Some times there’ll be miracles, and it’ll all come to you in one fell swoop, and there will be other times when nothing works; you feel just totally blocked. So, you gotta keep trying. That’s just the art of the poet.”

At that point, my God, there we were, warm and cozy, exhausted and energized at the same time. Faith’s black dress was sleeveless, and she had fine, smooth shoulders, and her little black dress was really little, I mean short, and it rode up on her slick, beautiful legs. 

We were almost snuggling together on the leather couch, with our shoulders and legs touching. We had sipped wine until, well, I didn’t even notice, the bottle was empty. 

She said, “Then there are surprises. That’s the creative process. Things happen, like this.” 

Like this happened. Faith’s hand reached out, and she put it on my knee.  Her hand felt warm. She moved her face toward mine and opened her mouth, just a bit, and I could see her perfect teeth and the pink and wetness of her mouth and tongue. I remember that we kissed, it was a deep kiss, and it was wonderful. 

I can’t say how much time passed, it was a lot. And then she pulled away and said, “Oh, by the way, I love your blue eyes.”

She was so giving, I remember my time with Faith with so much pleasure, and with so much hurt, a hurt that felt like a knife in my gut. Why did she have to die? 

-0-

It was the morning of the fourth day after Lieutenant Boswell and Sergeant Buckley told me of Faith’s death. 

The two of them seemed higher than me, I didn’t like that I had to look up to them. I don’t know if one of my leather couches was lower than the other, or what, but sitting across from them, I felt at a disadvantage. 

Lieutenant Boswell was taking his time. He took a sip from the glass of water I got for him (I wanted to be a good host.), and then went back to studying a sheet of paper on a clipboard he’d brought with him. Sergeant Buckley wore a forced smile and avoided my eyes. 

The evening before, when I telephoned Buckley, I told him I would agree to being interviewed, but I refused to be mirandized. If I’m mirandized, I explained, that means I was a suspect, and I’d be arrested, and then I’d have my lawyer there. “You asked me to help you,” I explained, “and that’s a different thing, a totally different thing. I’m just helping you. If I’m a suspect, you better arrest me, and I’ll get my lawyer.”  

He asked me to stay on the line for a few minutes. When he came back, he said they could accept that condition. 

When the interview started at around ten a.m. on the next morning, Boswell was all business. “I’m gonna share something with you,” he said. “Our autopsy, the police autopsy, it says the victim could’ve been murdered on the evening of May thirteenth. They can’t be exact, ‘cause they don’t know how long her body was out there.”

Then, bang! It came. “So, we wanna ask you: Where were you on the evening of May thirteenth?” 

I wasn’t going to be rushed or bullied. “I don’t know, really. If it was a Wednesday, it’s probable that I was at Gertie’s Pub, that’s my night for poetry, it’s the poetry group.” 

Right away, Boswell hit back. “Did you see the victim there? Did you see Faith Gruen that night?” 

“I’m not sure. She went just about every session. I can tell you she was devoted to poetry and to the group. And I’ll tell you that, if she was there, I saw her, and I usually talked with her.” 

“Did you leave with her?”

I made a point, so I waited before answering. “I’m not sure. It’s possible. Once in a while we did leave together. And once in a while we did have a drink together, or maybe even a bite to eat. But I’m not sure, because I don’t exactly remember May thirteenth.”

“What was your relationship with the victim?” 

“We were friends, good friends. But I wanna tell you, I could be her father.”

Boswell looked confused for a few seconds. “Wha . . . ?”

“Look’it, I should say that in a different way. What I meant, I’m old enough, I’m not a spring chicken, I’m old enough to be her father. But we were good friends. Let’s just leave it at that.”

Then Boswell started asking me a bunch of questions about the “Wonder Words” group and Bruce Moore. I started answering them, but the detective wanted so much detail that I finally said: “Listen, I was . . . and now I’m still a new member. Why don’t you talk to Bruce Moore?”

It was strange. So far, Buckley hadn’t said a word. He didn’t look tense, but he was ill at ease. He avoided my gaze. I was sure he didn’t want to be there. When I put that fact together with Boswell’s aggressiveness, I had to conclude that I sure didn’t trust Boswell. And frankly, Boswell didn’t seem to be a smart detective, or maybe even a subtle person. It was like he was playing a game, like he was trying to trick me.   

Like, when he asked me: “Did you ever go to the Art Museum with the victim?” 

“Sure,” I said. “I’ll answer your question. But it doesn’t seem to have anything to do with her death. Well, the answer is no.” 

Then, Boswell leaned forward and asked, “When was the last time you went to Fairmount Park?”

I stopped and thought that seemed like a silly question, that Detective Boswell was losing it. “I live in the city, center city. I have no idea. I must have been a little kid. I haven’t been in the park for years and years.” 

Boswell looked over at Sergeant Buckley and asked, “Eddie, you got any questions? Anything you wanna ask Mr. Siegel?”

Buckley looked surprised. “Doug, I’m fine. I kinda think that this is your show. You’re doing fine. Can’t think of anything right now.” 

“Okay,” Boswell looked like he didn’t know what to do next. Finally, he said, “Okay then, just one or two more questions. “The people that go to your poetry sessions, what kind of people are they?” 

“They’re all kinds of people,” I said. “Young and old, really all kinds. I can say one thing, they’re people who like poetry and beer. Actually, it’s fun. I think you’d enjoy it. It’s Wednesdays at seven. Honestly, it’s fun. You ever been to Gertie’s?” 

“Oh no, not me.” His answer came fast. 

There was a long silence. Boswell looked lost. Then he just started talking. “Sure a lot of restaurants and clubs and stuff around here. For you, is it fun to live here?”

I didn’t want to stretch out the interview. “It’s not bad, really, not bad at all.” 

It was a mistake, and I regretted that I’d agreed to it. The two cops were polite when they left. Boswell even thanked me profusely for my time. But I didn’t feel better, and I didn’t gain any closure. And I believed that I’d probably see that pair of Keystone Kops again.