By day he was
director of the Buffalo Institute of History, composed, cool, and capable in
his position. By night he fell to pieces, sleepless, ashamed, and angry.
Considered by some
to be a hero for implementing his plan to turn the former Central Terminal into
an education site--in just four years the Terminal transformed from a cold and
dusty architectural wonder into a place where both local residents and tourists
learned about Buffalo's place in history--Green was
coming apart quickly, seemingly unable to hide his skeletons much longer. Always
engaging in the daytime hours, always able to impress a group of visitors with
his knowledge of grain elevators and steel production, Green would rush home at
5:01 each afternoon, lock the doors, screen his calls, and cower in his one-bedroom
apartment. Desperate to participate in the nightlife that was going on around
him, Green instead hid from people once his work day was done and nervously
counted the hours and minutes until he had to return to his place of work the
next day. All that kept him going was thoughts of the weekend, which meant two
full days to work on his escape plan. He needed as much time as possible to discover
a way out of this mess. Confined by convention from Monday to Friday, the weeks
and months went on without him as he continued to pray for a better day. He
wished for a day without worry, a day without anxiety. He tried to conceal his
state of mind by working pleasant phrases into his daily interactions--“no
worries” he would tell the co-worker who made a mistake on the job, “never
better” he would tell his neighbor when asked how he was doing.
At 9:30 a.m.
on a Thursday a group of college students visited the Institute for a one-day
crash course about Buffalo
architecture. Green offered glowing remarks about Wright, Olmstead, Richardson,
and Sullivan. He beamed when he spoke about the Richardson
Towers and the Guaranty Building Buffalo has ever seen!” The
group was fooled by Green’s schtick. They were unable to see through him.
Relieved when his work day was done, Green quickly headed
home and followed his usual routine: lock the doors, dim the lights, and spend
the evening in the room with no windows. Hours of dark thoughts passed. He
tried to turn in early--at 10:00 p.m.--but at 11:45 he was still awake and afraid. Couch to bed, bed to
couch, and couch to bed once more. It didn’t matter. It seemed like yet another
sleepless night. Somehow Green managed to drift off to sleep by 2:00 a.m., and he
was surprised to awake to the sight of his alarm clock, which read 4:12 . Two hours felt like a lifetime
of sleep, and with pleasure in his mind and body he fell back to sleep. His
good feeling was short-lived. He encountered a nightmare sometime during the five
o’clock hour. The nightmare ended with a television news clip: The circumstances surrounding Thomas Browning’s death remain mysterious. The
philanthropist, well known as a central figure in the genesis of the Buffalo
Institute of History, was last seen on a train leaving Buffalo
that was destined for New York City
On Friday, back to work, Green did his best to conceal his
misery. He continued to receive accolades and positive press. Friday’s edition
of The Buffalo Times heralded him as
a savior of the old Central Terminal. He was characterized as someone who had fought
the good fight, a man who refused to believe that the Terminal was a dinosaur
and one who was determined to breathe life into a building that he loved. In
some ways Green’s life had become a test, an experiment: how long could he function
without coming unglued? Was it a matter of months, weeks, or days before his
secret caught up with him?
After work on Friday Green packed his bags. He figured he’d
get lost in Toronto
for the weekend. He’d wait in Toronto
until he made the exchange with Gottlieb. He wished he could trust Gottlieb, wished
he could confide in him. But Gottlieb wasn’t a friend. They were forced into an
association because each had something the other needed. Gottlieb didn’t know
Green’s secret, he just knew Green had something to hide. Gottlieb took pleasure in seeing Green
squirm. That was his way.
When Green arrived in Toronto he checked into a
hotel. He sat by himself at the hotel bar drinking the day away, wishing he
could turn back the calendar four years. This mess was four years in the
making. One bad decision had led to another. Lies turned into bigger lies.
Deceit became his everyday. He continued drinking, wondering if his secret
would die with him.
His secret? He knew well the person who pushed Browning off
the train.
THE END
Author’s
note: I wrote this story in 2005. I submitted it that year to Artvoice for a short story contest. The story was selected for second
or third place (I can’t remember which one).
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