# 22 - Chapter Twenty Two "It Hurts to Say Goodbye"

 

It Hurts to Say Goodbye 

Chapter Twenty-Two – El Siegel 

There were so many things happening around me, so many things that concerned me or touched me – another body found in Fairmount Park, the big demonstration at the police headquarters and the police raid up near Allegheny against the some drug cartel, death of its leader and the arrests of its members. 

It was strange. I felt jittery and fidgety. And I didn’t feel involved. It was like everything was distant, and I was detached. 

All the things that were going on, I knew about them through the local news on television and the stories in The Inquirer. But I really didn’t know what was going on with me. I was bouncing around, it was crazy, I kept changing my mind from one minute to the next. 

One minute, I felt I couldn’t give up, that I had to do something, try to find out what really happened to Faith, who murdered her, because I knew the detectives didn’t have an idea who did, and I doubted they were working on the case. Then, my world changed, it was a hundred-and-eighty-degree thing. There was nothing I could do. I just wanted to forget it all, pretend none of it happened, and put it all behind me. I wanted to think about my son, and get along better with Debbi. 

But there I was. Really, it didn’t change. For me, so much was about Faith. My memories of her, the counsel and ideas she gave me, the images of her I guarded for myself, her tenderness, every tender part of her, it was all locked in my mind, and it all kept coming back to me. 

And every time I thought of her, I was reminded that I should have done more for her when she was alive. I should have given to her, and not only taken from her. I could have been a better friend. Could I have protected her? I didn’t know, but I didn’t even try. 

From the moment I was told of Faith’s murder, (That seemed like a lifetime ago.) I spent so much time in Queen Village, and so much of that time in a funk. Sure, it wasn’t clinical depression, but I was downright blue. I couldn’t figure out why it lasted so long. Maybe my neighbors thought I was becoming a recluse. 

Sure, I walked around my neighborhood once in a while, and I had a cup of coffee in some of the coffee shops or cafes not far from my door. I did my grocery shopping, bought some beer and wine, and picked up take-out meals. But I was faced with the same scenes, the same streets, the same little parks, the same restaurants, the same everything.

My neighbors were really good people, always friendly to me, but I didn’t feel the same about them, not as close to them. Since my divorce and the day Debbi moved out, I felt isolated. In fact, it was really Debbi who was the more social being. Our neighbors valued her. I was just the husband that came along with the fun one.

Sure, I made a few decisions. I did a few things that set off a chain reaction, a snowball rolling down a hill and getting larger and larger until it became a force. I kind of stumbled into my decisions. It wasn’t like I made a cold analysis, and then acted in a calculated way. Once the snowball gathered speed, everything happened without me. 

Now, it happened again. I decided I had to stop obsessing about it all. I didn’t want to think about it all the time. I wanted everything behind me. I needed to see different places, think of different things, and talk with different people. I wanted to spend time with Patrick and maybe call my father. 

But then, suddenly I switched and decided action was what I needed. I needed to see other things. I needed to do something. 

I pulled myself off the couch, turned off the radio and the lights, checked the windows and locked the doors, and headed out for something new. 

I headed north on 2nd Street. It was a beautiful Friday afternoon. The sun was bright. The sky was blue, without a cloud. The temperature was pleasant. And, every step I took, it seemed there were more people on the sidewalks. Young people talking and laughing, maybe they got off work early to get to the bars and the restaurants. I saw some people walking along and talking to their real loyal companions, their dogs. And there were even some older couples, enjoying each other and making me jealous. 

I was headed for Market Street, so I passed through Headhouse Square, Society Hill and then over the hill and onto Old City and Market Street, where I stopped.

Not knowing where to go next, I stood in front of the Continental bar and grill and waited. Then, I observed something across the street that hit me. 

A middle-aged man, a black guy, walked out of a convenience store with a big plastic bag, and he began scanning the passers-by on the sidewalk. I noticed he was drawn to a young woman, standing in the middle of the sidewalk, stuffing potato chips into her mouth from a tiny bag in a clumsy, frantic way. She seemed normal, a little short, with dark hair cut short, fairly stylish pants and a light jacket.

I crossed 2nd Street to get closer and just stood nearby, just like other people enjoying the afternoon. 

After watching for a while, he approached her in the most normal way: “You hungry?”

“Oh, man. Yeah, sure am. Haven’t eaten . . . ” 

He asked her, “Want a sandwich?”

“Oh, yeah, that’d be great!”

He reached into his bag, pulled out a sandwich and handed it to her.”

“Oh, thanks so much,” and she pulled away the wax paper and immediately began eating.

Then, he reached back into his bag and pulled out a can of soda pop and a big bag of chips.

Her eyes gleamed. “Sir, thank you so much! Really!”

“Good luck,” he said. 

He immediately resumed surveying the passers-by. 

I walked up to him. “Look’it, I noticed what you did, and it was good, what you did for that girl. Really, it was good of you, and it was a good example for other people.”

“Not a big deal,” he said. “Ya know, these are tough times. If I can help a little, I do.  Every once in a while, I buy five lunches. Then I’m careful. I pick out people really need a meal, and I give it to them. Not a big deal.”

After he walked down Market Street toward City Hall, I thought about what I witnessed. For one thing, the young woman, I sure missed the signals that she needed help of any kind. And then the guy, he seemed like a regular guy. But he seemed to have a sense for people, and he had a good heart. He saw a need, he decided what to do, and he did it. He did what he believed was right. 

Me? What did I do? Yeah, sure, I’m in a tough spot. But I was thinking only about myself, and I was frozen. 

-0-

That evening, I thought about what I could do, me, all by myself. I was home alone, and I couldn’t tell myself I was too busy to do anything. 

The two cops, the Detectives Boswell and Buckley, I didn’t know what they were doing. The raid on the drug cartel up north, up by Allegheny, was only two days ago. And if they were going to go after one bunch of bad guys in the drug trade after another, it seemed they weren’t trying very hard to find Faith’s killer. 

I thought about the date, May thirteenth. That was the date they came up with, after the autopsy and I didn’t know what else. The date wasn’t exact, but it could have been around the time when Faith was killed. And I remember those detectives kept asking me, when they came to my house in what they called “an interview,” where I was and did I see Faith, did we go out after the poetry reading, or did I know who she was with. 

And then I remembered that she told me that she would start helping Lee Stanhope, “Mister Clean,” edit poems, to get them ready for publication. That was the night of my big victory, when I read the first poem I wrote that was any good, “I’m an Angel and a Monster,” when a lot of people thought it was so great, and I started thinking I was a genius. Well, I wasn’t the first person in the world to let his ego take over. 

So, now I had a date and a person to think about. 

Nothing was sure, I knew that, and nothing would be easy. But what I could do is make a list of the restaurants and bars near Gertie’s Pub, places like The Saturn, and ask wait staff people and bartenders if they ever saw Faith and Stanhope together, and maybe around that time.

How could anyone recognize Faith and Stanhope? The programs for “Wonder Words” that Bruce Moore had printed and handed out at every reading at Gertie’s Pub. Not to worry, I wasn’t obsessive for nothing. I saved every program from the sessions I attended. I rushed up the stairs to my second floor and found my pile of maybe a dozen programs in the bookshelves to the right of my desk. I flipped through them. Sure enough, several of them contained photos of both Faith and Stanhope, from the nights they recited their works. 

But then, why a list? I had to admit I was depending on chance, total serendipity. Everything was a long shot, maybe one in a thousand! There were so many joints in that area, around Sansom and 13th Streets, I would just go from one to another, hoping for lightning to strike. If I failed, at least I tried something. If I turn up something, I didn’t know what I’d do. Maybe I’d just tell my friends, the police detectives. If there was something to do, maybe they would pursue it as a lead.   

Something else was happening with me, something positive. I was starting to feel better, better about myself and my life. I was doing something. It all could come to nothing. In fact, coming to nothing was almost sure. But it was action. Maybe it was a start, pulling myself out of the dark hole I fell into. 

And the night was before me. What else could I do? I had thought about a new poem.  My idea was vague, but it was a kernel of an idea. But I didn’t have a title. How about “I miss you”? Maybe it was a little simpleton, a little silly. But that was the meaning. 

Well, words came to me, but they were neither poetic nor inspired. Sure, I wrote them down in my journal, maybe believing they might have a meaning or be useful sometime in the future. 

Here are the words, as I wrote them at the time. I placed quote marks around them as an indication of their authenticity. So, good or bad, astute or naïve, clumsy or profound, they are mine: 

“The spark of life, what is it? Where does it come from? It has different names – the soul, the spirit, consciousness, the self? How could it exist? How could some kind of electrical-chemical impulse jumping the circuits of our brain, our synapses, give us the feeling that we know who we are, and what we are, our feeling of self? And then it drives us, or can drive us to do things, things that are hopefully good, but some times – unfortunately – they are bad and they harm other people. And the feeling can touch other people, hopefully for the good. For some people, that spark is strong, for others it’s weak. And when it’s strong, that spark can give us culture, like poetry. Faith had that spark, and she gave it to me.”   

-0-

The next night, it was one of those between-day-and-night moments, and the city of Philadelphia was like a beautiful woman. The slight breeze caught her long, filmy dress, and from one moment to the next, you got a glimpse of her sleek form, and then it disappeared, and you were left wanting more. And the breeze came back, and there she was, in all her beauty, from the majestic City Hall to the Academy of Music to the lights of Broad Street. 

It was around nine, and I decided to start with The Saturn. It was just like I remembered it since I was there the first time Faith and I went out. The place wasn’t empty, like the last time; there was a good number of diners. But Dottie was at her post leaning against the bar. 

She spotted me, and walked briskly toward me. 

“Hey, good-lookin’, it’s been a long time.” She smiled, and she looked pleased that I was alone. “Where’s your girlfriend? She seemed like a nice kid. I hope . . .  ”

“Dottie, it’s a long story. Can we sit down for just for a few seconds? I’m gonna ask you for your help.” 

She stopped and thought for a second. “Okay, you take that table over there in the corner. You look kinda . . .  I don’t know, not too happy. So, I’m gonna offer you a Guinness on the house, and I’m gonna get the second string to cover for me for a couple minutes.”

When she got to my table, she had the Guiness for me, and a serious look on her face. 

I took a sip. It felt good. “Dottie, I’m gonna give you the short version of the story; otherwise we’d be here all night.” As I talked, I took a good share of my Guiness. And, with every sentence of the story, Dottie’s jaw seemed to drop a little more. 

“Oh, poor dear!” Dottie said. “And I guess that goes for you almost as much as Faith. Sure, I know she’s gone, but you still got some suffering to survive. What can I do to help?” 

I took out the two “Wonder Words” programs and showed Dottie Faith’s and Stanhope’s photos.

“I don’t know what to tell you, honey,” she said, and she placed her hand on my arm. “You can tell me May thirteenth, but I don’t have one of those photographic memories. I can tell you that I seen the guy, think he called himself Lee, and I’m sure I saw him with Faith. But honest, I think he was in here with more than one sweet young thing. Got the idea he thought of himself as a charmer. He couldda been with Faith sometime, But I’m not sure, and I sure don’t know the date.” 

“Dottie, thanks, really, thanks for trying. I’ll let you know if anything turns up.”  I tried to pay for the drink, but she wouldn’t let me. 

“Honey, good luck. Got any more questions, come on back. I’ll leave the light on, you know what I mean.”

I sure couldn’t think I’d strike it rich and find gold the first time I dipped my pan into the creek. I moved on to the next stop. Just down the street toward City Hall, there was a tiny sushi bar called Kiko Sushi. I’d never eaten there, but it was dark and intimate, and it was the kind of place where a couple would want privacy.

I walked in and gave my eyes a few minutes to adjust to the darkness. Before I realized it, there was a short, round man standing in front of me in one of those short jackets in a shiny fabric with a wide, white belt around his waist. 

“You alone? Want good sushi, I have the table in the back for you.”

“Actually, I’m here to ask for your help. I’m looking for a friend of mine, and he used to come here. If I show you a photo of him, can you tell me if you’d seen lately.”

“Oh, you don’t want to eat? Why not try? Are you hungry?”

“Actually, I’m worried about him. Tell you what, if I find him, we’ll both come here and celebrate.”

I assumed he was the maître d’: “Okay, show me the photo. I’ll help you.” 

I pulled two programs from my pocket and held them in front of him. 

“This man, once in a while, I’ve seen him, but a long time ago, maybe more than a year. He came with a lady, but not her, not this one. But this one, I like her better. Nice smile, sweet smile. You come with her, and I give you free sushi. Sweet smile.” 

That visit was not a home run, maybe only a double. At least it told me that Stanhope visited several of the nearby restaurants pretty often. 

Then I headed back to 13th Street and looked at the shoulder-to-shoulder line of restaurants on both sides of the street. Most of them were open, well lit and airy, with tables lining the sidewalk – not the kind of place for intimate talks. 

But squeezed in between two large eateries was a narrow place with just a small window in front, barely large enough to show their menu. A plaque gave the name in a discreet way: Bazuta.

Inside, it was packed and loud. When I found the waiter, he was almost polite, but surely wouldn’t be a source of information.

“Look’it, buddy, look around,” he said, and I could see him surveying his customers. “Think I got much extra time?”  

I visited three more restaurants, and each was less and less helpful. 

Finally, I ended up Gertie’s Café. It was getting late, and I was more than a little bit depressed. I thought I’d earned a glass of Guinness Stout. 

It looked like Rebecca was happy to see me. She was smiling as she walked toward me. She looked even better than I remembered. 

We went through the greeting-an-old-friend ceremony, and then she gave me a clumsy hug, and suddenly I felt all the right things for all of the wrong reasons, depending on the way you look at it. Then, I realized that the only way for me to look at it at this moment was I tried and I failed. I could rationalize, justify myself and say that at least I tried. 

 She offered me Guinness on the house, and invited me to take a seat at one of the small tables near the entrance. When she served me the ale, I explained to her what I was doing. It was a little clumsy, but Rebecca kept standing in front of me; I guess, as the only waitress on duty, she couldn’t sit down. 

“I don’t know if you’re keeping up with everything that’s happening,” I started out. “But right now, the two police detectives, it looks like they’re all involved in taking down one drug kingpin after another. And like they’re not very concerned with finding Faith’s murderer. So, tonight, I been going from bar to bar, restaurant to café, asking waiters and maître d’s if they’d ever seen her in their place with Stanhope.”

“El, that’s good of you, really. It’s kinda like the questions that one detective kept asking me, only he was more interested in the times you were with her. Like I told you, true or not, he wanted to get you.”

She put her hand on my shoulder for just a second. “But, I think I told you. I think I told you before. I’m sure Lee talked to Faith when they were here. Everyone from the poetry group, they all talked to each other. But I’m wondering, why Lee? Why Lee, and not someone else?”

“I’ll tell ya,” I said. “Just around that time, Faith told me she was gonna start working with Stan, editing poetry for Bruce. She seemed real enthusiastic about it. But she wasn’t happy about something else. She said she just didn’t like Stan, didn’t like him as a person.” 

“I guess I kinda knew that, like a lotta people around here. But still, I just can’t remember all the comings and goings of everyone around here.” Rebecca seemed disappointed with herself that she couldn’t help me. 

“Anyway, thanks. Guess I just keep trying.” 

“But El, why don’t you go and talk with Clyde.” All of a sudden, she seemed to brighten up. “I shouldda thought of that before. Just maybe, he sees people come and go all the time. Maybe he remembers something.”

I took my drink over to the bar and perched myself up on a stool. When I caught Clyde’s eye, I asked him if he had a minute. 

“Look around, okay? Place is kinda empty, it’s getting late. What can I do for you?” 

Clyde was a big tall guy with a thin face and sharp features. He always wore jeans and short-sleeved bright Hawaiian shirts that showed off his long, sinewy arms. I got the feeling he laid down the law at his bar. 

I explained. “I’m trying to find some kind of a lead . . .  It’s hard to say, but it looks like the cops that were investigating Faith’s murder, it looks like they lost interest in the case. I wanna find some kinda lead that’ll get them back on the case.”

He put his long hands on the bar and looked up at the ceiling. Then looked back at me. “I wanna help you, that’s for sure. But that’s a very big question. You thinking about anything in particular?” 

“Yeah, you’re right.” I admitted. “I got a few reasons to be thinking about Lee, you know Stanhope. Faith started spending time with him. She was helping edit poems for Bruce, and that involved Lee. But she told me she just didn’t like Lee, just didn’t like him. And those detectives, I think you must’ve seen one of them a few times here, they said Faith was killed around May thirteenth. So, if you saw them together around that time, maybe that’s important.”

“Oh, little Stan,” Clyde smiled. “The world’s gift to the ladies, or so he thinks. I think they had a thing going, and it pissed me off. What people say about Faith is true – so sweet and a good human being. Stan or Lee, whatever you want, he was a fucker. Fuck anything with a pussy. She was too good for him.”

It hit me. I didn’t want to believe it. I didn’t want to think about it. I thought I was  . . . . I thought we, Faith and I, I thought we had something . . . I don’t know what word to use. But here I was, talking about her, and I just had to go through with it.

I went on. “Around May thirteenth, notice anything? See them together a lot, or see them here, and then leave together? Anything at all?” 

Clyde said, “Ya know, I spend a lot of time here, behind this bar. And I notice a lot of stuff, and I remember a lot of stuff. This place is a big part of my world. And for me, for personal reasons that I’m not gonna go into, for me that time frame was real important.”

He stopped, and I waited. 

Then he went on. “Yeah, around there, around that time, I did see the two of them together several times, maybe two, three, no maybe four times. Sat at that table, way back there in the corner. And it wasn’t on the poetry nights. They did have a bunch of paper piled up, like they were like going through it. And Faith, God bless her, she didn’t want to play touchy-feely in public. Couple times, she picked up his hand, took it off her shoulder, and put it back on the table.”

“Ever see them leave together?”

Clyde stared right at me. “Yeah, around that time, yes. And that’s the truth. I hated the guy, but that’s the truth.”

“Lemme ask you one more thing,” I said. “Those two cops, the detectives, would you talk to them, just tell them the same stuff you told me. Ya know, they’re not bad guys, just human and all that. But also, a lot of shit’s going on, and there’s pressure on them. Actually, I get the feeling they’re changing. I get the feeling they’re maybe pretty good guys.” 

Clyde answered right away. “Yeah, sure. Why not? I just don’t want my name revealed. And you can tell ‘em, even though I hate the son of a bitch, little Stan, I’ll tell the truth.”