by Rick R. Reed
The pain was apparent on his mother's face.
"Please son. C'mon." She tugged at Randy's arm. He let her lift it and when she let go, the arm slumped back down to the arm of the chair, as if he were asleep.
His mother turned to his father. Her voice was tinged with bitterness. "Why don't you do something for the boy, Papa? Why do you sit there like that? Our boy needs help. For God's sake, help him."
The old man stared at his wife as if she were a stranger. After a time his mother slumped back into her seat and began weeping.
Randy's mind wandered back to his evening's work at the ice cream parlor. Maybe if he went back there and started over again, the evening would have a different outcome. He would go upstairs to the apartment and the radio would be on. The corridor would be filled with the smell of supper cooking. Maggie's footsteps on the kitchen linoleum. The small slap of the refrigerator door closing. He would place his key in the lock and all the muted sounds and smells would increase and he would know he was home. Maggie, wearing old jeans and a hooded red sweatshirt, would hurry in from the kitchen. Maybe he could go back.
Jarring: Maggie is dead. They were supposed to play volleyball the following night.
Randy stood and stretched. "I need to be by myself. I'm going to walk. Tell the detectives I'll be home in a couple hours."
His father nodded. His mother, panic already spreading over her features, said, "No, Randy. I don't think that's a good idea. You gotta stick around, in case they find out anything. You don't wanna be alone, huh? At a time like this . . . Let me take you to see Father Frank."
His father's voice cut into the room. "Let the boy alone, Theresa, please. If he wants to be alone, for Christ's sake, let him be."
Randy glanced at the family tableau as he left the room. His worn mother standing above his father, staring. Her mouth was open. His father once more bowed his head. And his hands . . . Randy noticed the trembling.
Pat Young had lived across from the two-flat at 2511 S. Oak Park Avenue for five years. She had watched the Mazurskys move in from the same window she watched from right now. She had been drawn to Randy's wiry good looks and made certain to position herself at the window when he went to and came home from work.
Pat had plenty of time to do her watching. An employee of U.S. Steel in Joliet, she had been injured when she had fallen from an overhead crane.
Everyone had told her how lucky she was. She didn't think a broken back and being confined to a wheelchair for the rest of her life was any kind of luck. But, she supposed, she was alive. And as long as she lived she would collect her disability checks from the mill. It was easy to get around her first-story studio, and when the soaps got too boring there was always her window.
Pat had been a studier of the neighbors' comings and goings for over a year now. And the
Mazurskys were by far the most interesting of her neighbors. They were so insufferably happy.
Pat took a certain glee in watching them. She wondered how two people could spend so much time together and remain happy. She decided it was all a facade; Pat watched with anticipation for the day when she would see some trouble. She wanted to see them as she knew they really were.
Today had held a special reward for all of Pat's efforts. She had just finished her lunch of a sandwich and an hour of All My Children when she glanced out the window and saw a not at all unattractive young man following Maggie Ma-zursky up the stairs. Pat knew, because it was early afternoon, Randy would not be home from work for hours. She had had only a glimpse of the man, but she was certain he was a real looker. She had managed to notice the broad shoulders and the powerful physique, the curly brown hair, and even the handsome mustached face in the few seconds she had seen him.
Pat giggled as she thought about what must have been going on in the Mazurskys' upstairs apartment. And she was determined to have another look at the man when he came out. Being crippled prevented a lot of things, but it didn't stop her from fiercely admiring the opposite sex. Her small apartment was crowded with issues of Playgirl and Cosmopolitan.
She had made sure to keep glancing toward the window as she watched General Hospital. In less than an hour the man emerged, and his behavior confirmed Pat's suspicions. There was a great energy to the way he walked; he practically glowed. She grabbed her binoculars from the table alongside the window and focused them. She had the man in a much closer perspective now. She was not disappointed; he was much better-looking than she had hoped . . . and he was smiling.
Pat sat back, a smirk of satisfaction on her pale face. So the Mazurskys, the "happy couple" on the block, were not as happy as they seemed. Perhaps Maggie was even happier. Why shouldn't she be? Pat would be, too, if she had two men who looked so good servicing her.
Bitterly, Pat thought perhaps she could have had the man who'd just left Maggie Mazursky. Could have had . . . once. Before the accident Pat had been twenty-three and the object of considerable lust among her coworkers. She had not minded the leers, the whispering when she walked by.
She no longer cared. Pat rarely left her apartment and her skin had taken on a whitish pallor; there was a dullness to her eyes, eyes that had once been green and vibrant. Her red hair, once long and wavy, was now cut by Pat herself. She snipped away in front of a mirror until all but a couple of inches clung close to her skull.
Who cared about looks anyway? There wasn't much a man could do with a cripple, right?
Later that evening Pat's glee turned to morbid fascination. Randy hadn't returned home from work at his usual time, and Pat laughed aloud at the thought that maybe he had something going as well.
She had forgotten the Mazurskys when she heard the sirens. She clicked off the television and the table lamp by the window and wheeled herself close; her knees touched the wall. She watched, shrouded in darkness. Two heavyset men emerged from the building, carrying a stretcher. On the stretcher was a form covered by a white sheet. Pat swallowed hard as she saw Randy Mazursky, close to the stretcher, his tall body stooped. He was crying.
The red whirling light reflected off the pale brick of the Mazurskys' building. Pat watched as Randy climbed into the back of the ambulance with what must have been Maggie.
Pat felt a mixture of emotions, fear and curiosity the most prominent. 01
Pat wheeled herself away from the scene. It was time for Jeopardy!
Halfway into the show Pat heard a knock at her door. She was tempted not to answer, but the volume of the television was too loud and her lights too bright to ignore any visitor.
Wheeling herself to the door, Pat wondered who could be calling on her. As she opened the door she saw the familiar blue uniform of a Berwyn police officer. She took the young man in with a grin; he was good-looking: tall, broad-chested, slim-waisted, with brown eyes and black hair.
Pat took on an innocent expression. "Can I help you, officer? Is anything wrong?"
"I'm afraid so, ma'am. There's been a murder in the apartment building across the street. Margaret Mazursky. Did you know her? Know who she was?"
Pat smiled up at him. "I'm sorry . . . no . . . I don't get around much." She gestured at her legs.
The officer looked sympathetic. "Well, we're trying to get around to the neighborhood people, trying to see if they remember anything suspicious. Do you think you saw anyone leave the Mazurskys' apartment today? Did you maybe see someone in the neighborhood you haven't seen before?"
Pat shook her head. "No on both counts, officer. I saw nothing."
"Are you sure, now? Sometimes we see things and don't think anything of them. Maybe in a different light you'd remember."
"No, officer, I don't think so. You see, I haven't been feeling well lately. I was asleep most of the day. And I've pretty much been watching TV the rest of the time. I'm sorry ... I didn't see a thing."
The policeman scribbled something in a notebook. "Could I have your name, please?"
"Pat Young."
"Thanks a lot, Ms. Young."
He turned to
leave. Pat called after him, "Officer, is it going to be safe around here?"
"Well, we'll be having a lot more patrol cars in the area for a while. Try not to worry. We'll be watching. And keep your doors locked."
Pat closed the door. The TV volume seemed louder than she'd left it. She shut it off, annoyed with the electronic voices. "Shut up," she whispered to the TV. "I have my own reasons for doing what I do."
She conjured up an image: the handsome man stepping lightly from Maggie's apartment building. He glowed.
She must find out who he was. Then Pat would see who was glowing. The disability checks from the mill seemed to get smaller and smaller with inflation eating into them. A nice little supplement could help out a lot.
After all, he was dressed perfectly. Clothes like that didn't come from K mart.
Pat wondered about his relationship to Maggie. Had she known him? Why had she let him in?
She didn't know how, but Pat Young was determined to find out the handsome stranger's identity.
And when she did, well, good-bye Berwyn.
After hours of walking Berwyn's orderly streets, Randy found himself in front of the building he and Maggie lived in. There were still police vehicles parked in front, and as he looked up, he saw lights and silhouetted forms moving in front of the windows. Every so often he saw a flash from a camera. Evidence technicians. Would they find anything? Randy wondered how there could be any clues; Maggie had no enemies.
He no longer felt that the building was home— it could never be that without Maggie. He glanced up at the February sky: black, stars glittering, a three quarter moon shining, lighting the winter-dull street with silvery light. Somehow Randy felt the earth should look different, in deference to his loss. But the wind overhead, the bare branches stretching into the night, the sound of cars whizzing by en route to more orderly and untouched lives surrounded him. Didn't anyone care?
He glanced up at the windows once more. With the lights still burning, the apartment had the nerve to look warm, almost inviting. Randy rubbed his arms through the wool of his sport coat and realized he was cold. Even his own body betrayed his loss. He walked on, trying to get his blood to move once more, trying to ignore the cold.
When he came back an hour later the apartment was dark and the official vehicles were gone. The street looked normal once more, as if nothing had happened.
Randy felt in his pockets for the front door key. Inside, it would be warm. If he couldn't stand being in the apartment his mother would love it if he came home to her. Barring that, Chicago was filled with hotels, YMCAs.
Randy swallowed, took a breath, and made his way up the walk to the door. Barring all thought, he put one foot in front of the other going up the creaking, dark-stained wooden staircase.
Across their door was a sign that something had gone awry. A large yellow banner hung across it. crime scene—ongoing investigation, do not enter. Randy thought the officers wouldn't mind if he went inside, and he slid his key into the lock.
As he opened the door Scruggums pounced for his feet. Randy picked the cat up and sat down on the couch. The cat clawed at his tight embrace, but Randy needed something to hold on to.
The sobbing began. Dry and painful at first, Randy's mouth opened in silent anguish, his eyes wide, his shoulders shaking with the force of his grief. When the tears began, the cat jumped from his lap. She gave him one curious look before she disappeared under a ladder-back chair in the dining room.
Randy stood and made his way around the empty apartment, turning on every light. The apartment filled with light, hummed with electricity. Randy stood in the kitchen, taking large quivering breaths as he sought to end his tears. As much as he tried to take in the plain surroundings of the kitchen, all he could see was Maggie, lying sprawled on the floor, her dark hair fanned out behind her as if arranged, the slight protrusion of her stomach, the white tinge of her skin. Every detail stayed with him in vivid color; he would never forget.
He glanced around the room, trying to force himself to see it for what it was: a room. It held nothing. As he glanced around he saw a glimmer near the refrigerator. At first his eyes swept by, seeing only the chrome of the refrigerator's bottom. Quickly he realized there was more. He stepped to the refrigerator and knelt.
A silver lighter lay near the refrigerator. Randy grimaced as he picked it up, noticing that a dark brown blotch covered the lower portion of the lighter. The blotch had to be Maggie's blood.
Randy scraped some of it away and revealed the initials J.D.M. engraved in script.
Randy filled with anger and his tears returned. He fell forward on the floor, clutching the lighter tightly in his hand. "I swear by God," he whispered, "I'll get you, J.D.M. I'll get you if I have to die doing it."
Randy curled into a ball, holding the lighter close. Near him rested the chalk outline of his wife's body.
Randy knew he could not stay in the apartment. He dialed his parents and they offered to pick him up. He said he would rather walk, and they let him.
The lighter was in his pocket as he locked the door behind him.
3
Anne MacAree took off the black sable coat and handed it to the photographer's assistant. She glanced back at Louise, the photographer, who called after her, "Thanks so much, Anne. These are going to be terrific."
Anne had just finished shooting several ads for Evans Furs. They were having an end-of-winter sale, and the ads would be appearing in the Tribune toward the end of March.
The weariness overcame her as she sat in the cramped studio dressing room. As she tissued off her makeup she noticed how tired she looked, not a good sign for a professional. There were dark rings around her eyes that the makeup had buried. Her shoulder-length blunt-cut black hair didn't have the oriental sheen it usually did. Her eyes lacked something—vivacity.
She ran a brush through her hair and put all of
her things into a worn leather satchel, slung it over her shoulder, and left the studio. Outside she hailed a taxi and took it to Harry's on Rush Street. Maybe an afternoon Tanqueray would be just the thing to help her sleep. She had gone without the past two nights.
The bar was filling up with the afternoon happy-hour crowd. She got a small table to herself near the wall. Giving her drink order, she stared at the business-suited men and women, feeling only slightly out of place in her jeans, boots, and white cotton sweater.
The drink came and Anne, in her exhaustion, toned down the voices, filtered out the smoke, and sipped her drink, trying to quell the thoughts in her head.
For three months Anne had considered leaving Joe. It was not because she was being unfaithful, or wanted to, not because he was (as far as she knew), and not because he was neglectful or she was bored. Her reasons were more insubstantial. Things would have been much easier if there were another woman or man.
But the Joe MacAree she had married was not the Joe MacAree she lived with today. The change had been gradual; Anne could never pinpoint a time when the change had occurred.
Anne knew, though, that the change in her husband had gone beyond a tolerable point. And she could pinpoint when he had passed the point of tolerability. Last night Joe had come home seeming filled with an inexplicable joy, so happy he was just about quivering with it. But when Anne, smiling, pressed him for an explanation, so she "could be happy too," he could do no better than reply he was just feeling good, "no special reason, Annie, darling." She had not known where he had spent the afternoon, since the desk in his office was clean and their answering service had given her a whole list of calls to be returned. When she asked him about this, he replied he had spent the entire day at the Lincoln Park Zoo. Anne had to laugh at that, but it was not a comfortable laugh.
Later, things turned dark. Joe's passion that night was unmatched by anything in their five years together. At first Anne had been flattered by his lust. But soon things shifted out of her control, away from anything she would have desired. He took her roughly again and again, until she c
ried out in pain. But her fists beating on his back and her cries went unheard or unacknowledged. Anne had been used the entire night.
She had decided the next morning she would leave him. He had gone for the day, this time on real business . . . seeing several of the clients he wrote ads for. Anne had seated herself in his office to write him a letter, not a good-bye letter but just one to let him know she was leaving for a while and she would be getting in touch soon.
As she looked through his desk for paper she found the shoebox. On top was a clipping from that morning's Tribune. It described the murder of a Berwyn woman. Anne was puzzled.
Below that were other clippings, all about murders of women in different areas in and around Chicago. A chill swept over her then: Who was this man she was living with?
Anne stuffed the clippings back in a drawer. She tried to ebb her fear: It's nothing. Your husband, like the men who read those detective magazines, has a rather unusual preoccupation with murder. It's nothing. Even if it is unpleasant, it's probably completely normal. Primitive aggression in the urban male, something like that.
She turned off the light in Joe's office and left quickly. She would ask him about the clippings later. Maybe she shouldn't leave him just yet. He might need her help. Maybe last night was an isolated incident. Surely every marriage has at least one episode like that.
Surely.
And where was he all day yesterday?
Anne drained the drink. She had spent the last night unable to sleep, unable to keep the clippings out of her mind. Joe slept soundly beside her, his presence an unwelcome warmth.
She had read until dawn.
Anne put a dollar down on the table and left the bar. Outside, a wet gray snow had begun to fall. Joe said he would have dinner waiting.
Joe had gone all day without missing the lighter. He had spent the morning with the Nature Snack people—owners of a chain of health food stores who would have worn gas masks if Joe had lit up a cigarette.