them, feeling a bit self-conscious at
invading a dead guy’s space. There was a living room, decorated
Southwest style. It had tasteful pottery on shelves and a fine-
looking Navaho rug hanging on the wall. The furniture was
square, darkly stained mission-style stuff. The room also had a
big leather sofa, a matching recliner, and a big screen TV. Aha!
Finally, something that looked like a person actually lived in
this place. It was still tremendously sterile, however.
I slipped into his bedroom. More mission furniture. I
poked around in the drawers of night tables and a small desk.
They contained the usual junk you discover in small drawers:
tissues, an old battery, a few paperclips, assorted plastic pens
without their caps. I would have thought the meticulous Ms.
Westmann would have had the house cleaned out by now.
There was a walk-in closet. Westmann’s wardrobe was
casual: denim and chinos. A canvas barn coat. A dusty daypack
was dumped in a corner on top of a pair of well-worn hiking
boots. There was a battered straw cowboy hat on a peg. The
closet smelled faintly of old cologne, wood smoke, and tobacco.
Finally, a place that didn’t appear to have been totally sanitized.
The clothes on hangers and shelves were neatly arranged, but
there was stuff in here that hadn’t been cleaned, as if someone
had been reluctant to scrub away the last private vestiges of
Westmann’s presence on the earth. Maybe she was more senti-
mental than I gave her credit.
As I looked around the closet, I noticed that there was a nail
80
Kage
high up on the inside of the door’s lip with a braided leather
lanyard hanging from it. I took it down, the leather felt soft and
worn. A single key hung from it, shiny with use.
It took some skulking, but I eventually found the lock that
the key opened. Actually, even with the skulking, I wouldn’t
have found it, except that I tripped on a rock in front of the
door, and to save my graceful self from bashing my head on the
wall, I put my hand on the door and it gave just enough for
me to notice the entrance. The key slipped into lock easily, and
when I swung the door open, I knew I had found the mother
lode.The room was small and seemed dark and cramped when
compared to the library in the main house. A heavy old
wooden table was piled high with papers. I closed the door
and switched on the reading lamp that waited there. It threw
an intimate, yellow light across the table, and made the shad-
ows in the corners seem to swell and draw nearer. I sunk down
into a cane-bottomed chair that creaked with old age. I looked
around open-mouthed.
I shouldn’t have been surprised, I suppose. Eliot Westmann
was a bit of a recluse, someone who hid himself purposefully
from others. Even in the security of his own retreat, old habits
must have been hard to shake. Nestled here in this aromatic
cell, protected by wood and stone, were the pieces of his life
that he hid from view. Here were the pictures, newspaper clip-
pings, and other scraps that marked his passage through life.
A ceramic ashtray held a well-worn pipe, its bowl grown cold.
A thick, crude shelf rested on rounded pegs driven into the
wall. It held an oil lamp, its glass globe partially blackened with
use, and a book of matches. Two good-sized rocks served as
bookends, encompassing a series of leather-bound journals. I
81
John Donohue
brought them down and carefully made a space on the battered
old table.
Westmann had a spidery, although legible hand. The vol-
umes appeared to go back a few years. I surveyed the pages
quickly, intending to go back in more detail later. Westmann’s
journal was a combination of personal diary and a record of
ongoing work. There were details of parties and people he met.
His love life. There were a few snapshots shoved in among some
particularly lurid pages. Young women in a hot tub smiled at the
camera. The desert sky was dark behind them, with only a
invading a dead guy’s space. There was a living room, decorated
Southwest style. It had tasteful pottery on shelves and a fine-
looking Navaho rug hanging on the wall. The furniture was
square, darkly stained mission-style stuff. The room also had a
big leather sofa, a matching recliner, and a big screen TV. Aha!
Finally, something that looked like a person actually lived in
this place. It was still tremendously sterile, however.
I slipped into his bedroom. More mission furniture. I
poked around in the drawers of night tables and a small desk.
They contained the usual junk you discover in small drawers:
tissues, an old battery, a few paperclips, assorted plastic pens
without their caps. I would have thought the meticulous Ms.
Westmann would have had the house cleaned out by now.
There was a walk-in closet. Westmann’s wardrobe was
casual: denim and chinos. A canvas barn coat. A dusty daypack
was dumped in a corner on top of a pair of well-worn hiking
boots. There was a battered straw cowboy hat on a peg. The
closet smelled faintly of old cologne, wood smoke, and tobacco.
Finally, a place that didn’t appear to have been totally sanitized.
The clothes on hangers and shelves were neatly arranged, but
there was stuff in here that hadn’t been cleaned, as if someone
had been reluctant to scrub away the last private vestiges of
Westmann’s presence on the earth. Maybe she was more senti-
mental than I gave her credit.
As I looked around the closet, I noticed that there was a nail
80
Kage
high up on the inside of the door’s lip with a braided leather
lanyard hanging from it. I took it down, the leather felt soft and
worn. A single key hung from it, shiny with use.
It took some skulking, but I eventually found the lock that
the key opened. Actually, even with the skulking, I wouldn’t
have found it, except that I tripped on a rock in front of the
door, and to save my graceful self from bashing my head on the
wall, I put my hand on the door and it gave just enough for
me to notice the entrance. The key slipped into lock easily, and
when I swung the door open, I knew I had found the mother
lode.The room was small and seemed dark and cramped when
compared to the library in the main house. A heavy old
wooden table was piled high with papers. I closed the door
and switched on the reading lamp that waited there. It threw
an intimate, yellow light across the table, and made the shad-
ows in the corners seem to swell and draw nearer. I sunk down
into a cane-bottomed chair that creaked with old age. I looked
around open-mouthed.
I shouldn’t have been surprised, I suppose. Eliot Westmann
was a bit of a recluse, someone who hid himself purposefully
from others. Even in the security of his own retreat, old habits
must have been hard to shake. Nestled here in this aromatic
cell, protected by wood and stone, were the pieces of his life
that he hid from view. Here were the pictures, newspaper clip-
pings, and other scraps that marked his passage through life.
A ceramic ashtray held a well-worn pipe, its bowl grown cold.
A thick, crude shelf rested on rounded pegs driven into the
wall. It held an oil lamp, its glass globe partially blackened with
use, and a book of matches. Two good-sized rocks served as
bookends, encompassing a series of leather-bound journals. I
81
John Donohue
brought them down and carefully made a space on the battered
old table.
Westmann had a spidery, although legible hand. The vol-
umes appeared to go back a few years. I surveyed the pages
quickly, intending to go back in more detail later. Westmann’s
journal was a combination of personal diary and a record of
ongoing work. There were details of parties and people he met.
His love life. There were a few snapshots shoved in among some
particularly lurid pages. Young women in a hot tub smiled at the
camera. The desert sky was dark behind them, with only a
Similar Books
