“They were put up for adoption. There was an adoption agency in New York City that specialized in placing twins. So Ed managed all that.”
“We did a search on Trudy’s social security number. We did not find a mental hospital or any hospital stay in 1978 or ’79.”
“All I know is that the adoption agency covered all the expenses. That might explain why,” Naomi said.
“Abortion was legal in 1978. Why didn’t she just have an abortion?” I asked, getting myself back into this conversation with a question Dad would probably never ask. Which was made crystal clear when he shot me a look that said, I can’t believe you just went there.
“We weren’t privy to why they made that decision, but I think the adoption agency applied a lot of pressure.”
“Okey dokey,” Dad said, his verbal cue for pivoting to a new line of questioning. “We were told that a woman gave them five thousand dollars to start a new life. Was that you or your mother?”
Alfred snorted. “Besides the fact that she didn’t have two nickels to rub together, our mother was as cheap as the day is long. There is no way she would give anyone that kind of money.”
“You sure of that?” Dad asked.
“I can’t be one hundred percent sure, but I would bet Popeye’s life on it.”
“Oh Al. Stop it. That’s disgusting.”
“You know what I mean,” he said to Naomi. “You think Mom would give five thousand bucks to Ed?”
“No.” She turned to me and Dad. “Al’s right. Mom didn’t have that kind of money. And if she did, she certainly wouldn’t part with it. Our dad left her very little. She lived on a small fixed income. And no, I didn’t give them the money. If he asked, I might have. But he didn’t.”
“Was Ed the youngest of the three of you?” I asked.
“Yes. He was a bit of a surprise baby. I’m ten years older than him. And Al is two years older than me. Our parents’ marriage was on the rocks—maybe they thought a baby would bring them together.”
“And did it?”
“Not really. They bickered all the time,” Naomi said. “My teenage years weren’t the happiest time of my life.”
I nodded in solidarity, but caught myself when Dad turned his head in my direction.
“What does this have to do with Ed’s death?” Alfred asked.
Dad replied, “We have reason to believe that Ed was extorting money from someone. Perhaps the person who got Trudy pregnant . . . assuming Ed is not the father. Or someone else who caused Trudy harm in some way. The two of them could’ve had dirt on someone and that someone was willing to pay Ed and Trudy to keep it from going public. That’s what we are trying to figure out. And it’s why we think their vanishing act in 1978 and Ed’s murder in 2008 are related.”
“Is it possible they got the original five thousand dollars from the person they were blackmailing?” Alfred asked.
“Anything is possible,” I said. “But we were told by a friend of Ed’s that the money was given as a gift to start a new life. Of course, Ed could have made that up. Maybe they were satisfied with that meager amount back in 1978, but then had a change of heart in 1995. That’s when, according to the Waltham police, the money started showing up in Ed’s bank account. In October 1995. Doesn’t mean he wasn’t getting cash before then and simply stuffing it under his mattress. But it could also mean that their departure from the area and this mystery money are not related and, for that matter, his murder was just a random act.”
“We’re trying to keep an open mind,” Dad said. "But the more we know about why they left, the greater the likelihood we find the person being blackmailed . . . and, hopefully, our motive for murder.”
“All these years we didn’t say a word about her being in Rochester or the fact that she was pregnant,” Naomi said. “We kept our promise to Ed. Even when the police contacted us about his death, we didn’t bring up their past. Didn’t think it was relevant. And they didn’t ask. But when you called, we figured it was time to let someone know what we knew. And if there is a connection to Ed’s death, I hope we were helpful to your investigation. Unfortunately, we don’t know a whole heck of a lot. We moved to Massachusetts soon after they showed up in Rochester.”
“When exactly did you move here?” I asked.
“Let’s see . . . that would be soon after Trudy gave birth, which was in March 1979. My husband and I moved to Hull in June 1979. Al moved to Weymouth right before Christmas that same year. My husband got a job in the area, managing apartment buildings . . . and hired Al.”
“Did you have contact with Trudy and Ed when they moved to Massachusetts?”
“Not really,” Naomi said. “Like I said, we were never close. They didn’t even tell us they moved to the state. We found out from my mother.”
“I wish there was more we could tell you,” Alfred said.
“We’re hoping Trudy can shed some light,” Dad said. “We’re going to see her tomorrow.”
Naomi and Ed exchanged glances.
“Good luck trying to get anything out of Trudy,” Alfred said. “We visit her once in a while. She’s pretty far gone. But there are days of mild lucidity. Maybe you’ll catch a break.”
“Sometimes she addresses you like you're one of her friends from back in the day,” Naomi said. “One day I'm Rita, another day I’m Sandra. I’ve even been called Maxine. I think she is conjuring up old memories and reliving them in the present.” She momentarily gazed off into space, a wistful expression on her face. “I just play along so as not to upset her.”
“Hmm, interesting.” I lifted a second cookie off the plate, revealing the tentacles of the octopus. “One last question. Do you know the name of the adoption agency?”
“Hold on one moment.” Naomi left the room. Popeye followed her.
We sat quietly for a few minutes. Dad took a sip of lemonade and a bite of his cookie.
“You should come back to Hull in the summer. Beautiful beaches,” Alfred said. “Naomi loves living near the ocean. As you can see, my sister’s gone a little overboard with—”
Naomi reappeared with a scrapbook and sat down between me and Dad. Popeye laid on top of her feet. She turned a few pages and pointed to a picture of Trudy, looking very pregnant and sad, and Ed, expressionless. “I couldn’t even get them to smile for this picture.” She leafed through a few more pages and then stopped. She pulled back the plastic coating and released a business card. “Grace Wilson Adoption Services,” she proclaimed. “I knew I saved it.”
“Do you mind if I take the picture of Trudy and Ed? I can mail it back.”
Naomi turned back to the page with the photograph of a melancholy Trudy and a glum Ed, carefully removed it, and laid it on the coffee table next to the business card. I took a picture of the business card and placed the photo in the front pouch of my backpack.
“Are those your parents?” Dad asked, pointing to a photograph beneath the plastic sleeve.
“Yes. Amelia and Max.”
“My ex-wife, Vera, is from Rochester. Her parents are Ann and Walter Sherman. Know them?”
“Dad, Rochester is a big—”
“Did your wife—sorry, ex-wife—have an older brother named Donald?” Alfred asked.
“Why yes, she did.”
“I went to school with Donald, but we weren’t friends. I remember the family moved away when we were in middle school. I kind of remember his parents. Our mother was like a freelance bookkeeper. If memory serves me correctly, Walter owned a hardware store—I think she balanced his books twice a year.”
“That’s right. He did, owned it with one of his brothers,” Dad said.
“Small world, huh? I don’t remember Donald’s sister . . . Vera, you say. Naomi, do you remember a Vera Sherman?”
“How old is she now?” Naomi asked.
“She’s seventy-five,” Dad said.
“That makes her two years younger than me, so not likely we crossed paths back then.”
“Where is Donald, the
se days?” Alfred asked.
“Unfortunately, he resides at Saint Francis Cemetery in Phoenix, Arizona.”
Alfred sighed and shook his head. “When you get to be our age that’s a pretty common response to that question.”
22
Sunday, November 18, 2018
I HAD forgotten to fully close the curtains before conking out last night, and now the morning sun was leaking into the room. I lifted my head off the pillow and eyed Dad, sound asleep in the queen bed next to me. This side trip was taking a big bite out of Dad’s travel budget, so we decided to share a room. It was just one night.
I quietly slipped out of bed and into the clothes I’d worn the day before, which were beside the bed, piled on the floor. I checked my weather app. The temperature was hovering slightly north of fifty degrees. Nice enough for a walk on the beach. And since we didn’t get to the beach in Florida, this would have to do. A puffy coat and UGGs instead of a bathing suit and flip-flops.
When I stepped outside, the clammy, briny, sulfuric scent of the ocean invaded my nasal cavities. A contradiction in scents: refreshing and acerbic. Seagulls squawked and screeched overhead as I made my way across the beach parking lot. The sun was low in the sky, the wispy clouds reddish orange and yellow, reminiscent of the background in Edvard Munch’s The Scream painting. I took a selfie—a one-handed scream face and texted it to Ray. He texted back a laughing-so-hard-I’m-crying emoji.
The tide was high, crashing rhythmically against the seawall, so I walked along the concrete promenade that ran parallel to the beach. An octagonal building came into view, piquing my curiosity. I crossed back over the main boulevard and found myself standing in front of a carousel, closed for the season. On my way back to the hotel, I passed a shuttered arcade, a couple of boarded-up ice cream walk-up windows, and a closed beachwear shop. The only other human I spied was a man walking his dog along the promenade. Beach towns were like the Catskills—bipolar. Lonely and depressing during the winter. Raucous and lively during the summer. The people who lived in these places year-round either tolerated, ignored, or welcomed the ebb and flow of tourists and seasonal homeowners.
When I got back to the room, Dad was still out cold. Should I wake him? I was hungry.
I whispered, “Dad? Dad?”
He groaned.
“You hungry?” I said softly. “I walked past a diner. Wanna go?”
His eyes popped open. “Yeah.”
DAD NODDED off on our drive north to Trudy. Without a passenger-seat navigator, I propped my phone up against the dashboard console and tried to take it easy around curves to keep it upright. I was in a good mood. This side trip was worth the time and expense. So Trudy was pregnant. That was quite the nugget of news. If she gave birth in March 1979, she got pregnant in June 1978. Dad and I had four theories. One, it was Ben’s and she did not want to raise a child with him (for which, with what her roommate Rita told us, I wouldn’t blame her one bit), and Ed didn’t want to raise Ben’s kids. Two, it was Ed’s and she didn’t want Ben to find out. But if that were the case, wouldn’t Ed be more inclined to keep the babies? Three, she had an affair with a man who wouldn’t—or couldn’t—take responsibility. Perhaps this guy was married or was a hotel guest of a higher social status. Four, she was raped. That would explain her fear, her disappearing act, and their decision to not raise these babies. It might also explain the extortion scheme. But why wait seventeen years to start shaking down the rapist?
We had the name of the adoption agency. Not sure how helpful getting in touch with them would be. Such agencies tend to be closemouthed when it came to closed adoptions. And I was not sure what legal jurisdiction we had for opening sealed files.
Between Eleanor Campbell’s uncanny memory and Alfred’s description of his mother’s penny-pinching ways, we felt fairly confident Ed’s mother was not the person who had given Trudy and Ed the money. I was more of the mind that it was the woman wearing the blue-and-white scarf who visited Trudy right before her disappearance. For that matter, it could have been her friend, Maxine. But if it was, Maxine took that secret to her grave. And honestly, did it really matter? Obviously, someone had been willing to help.
“HELLO TRUDY.” Dad pulled up a chair to face her. “How are you today?”
Trudy smiled and nodded. She looked up at the nurse standing beside her—a woman whose age was hard to peg. Could’ve been as young as forty or as old as sixty. There was a rumor of a mustache on her upper lip, a few stiff hairs jutting from her chin. Her gray-streaked brown hair was pulled back and swirled into a tight bun. A stray bobby pin poked out the side of it.
“Trudy. These people say they are old friends of yours. From New York.” She shot me a look: Do not upset her.
“Hi Trudy,” I said, crouching down next to Dad’s chair, one knee touching the floor for balance. “Do you remember living in Brooklyn, New York?”
Trudy smiled and nodded. I wasn’t sure if she was nodding yes to my question, or just nodding. I looked up at the stone-faced nurse for clarification but got none.
“New York, New York,” Trudy crooned in a high-pitched, babyish voice.
I took that for a yes. Natalie thought I might be able to jog some memories if I took her on a chronological stroll down memory lane using old photographs and newspaper articles, starting in Brooklyn and winding our way to Waltham. I reached into my backpack and pulled out a stack of pictures and papers. I showed her a picture of herself and Sandra Leer posing in front of her house in Mill Basin.
“Do you recognize the people in this photograph?”
“Me.” Trudy pointed to her younger self. “Sandy like the beach.” She pointed to Sandra.
Sandy. Sandra. Close enough. I handed her an old postcard—the main lobby of the Cuttman Hotel.
She slowly drew the postcard close to her nose and sniffed it. She handed it back to me and smiled broadly. “Work!”
“That’s right. The Cuttman. You worked there as a coffee-shop waitress. You’re doing great!” Next up, an old newspaper clipping of Rachel and Stanley receiving a community award. I placed it on her lap. “Do you know these people?”
When she looked down, her smile inverted. She turned her head away. When I removed the clipping, she folded her hands in her lap. A subtle gesture, but message received loud and clear. I placed the clipping on the bed next to her and continued. I held up a photocopied picture of Scott, circa late seventies, that I downloaded from Meryl’s Facebook page.
Her smile reappeared. “Handsome.”
“Did he hurt you?”
She bowed her head for a few seconds. When she looked up, she said, “Helped me.”
“Helped you? How?”
Trudy grinned. “Nice. So nice. Handsome. My hero.”
“Can you tell me how he helped you? Were you in trouble? Was someone else trying to hurt you?”
Trudy jolted forward and back while swinging her head from side to side. The nurse cleared her throat. I looked up at her. She had that don’t-push-it-or-you’ll-have-to-leave expression on her face. Fine. If Trudy’s mind was not playing tricks on her, she tacitly confirmed that Scott was not the bad guy. But he knew something if he helped her. I shuffled the photos and found one of Ben. I held it up.
“Ben,” she said flatly.
“Did he hurt you?”
“I don’t like Ben.”
“Why?”
She pushed my hand away. “Leave.”
“That’s enough,” the nurse said. “She wants you to leave.”
“No,” Trudy barked. “I leave. I leave Ben.”
I spun back toward Trudy. “Do you remember why you left Ben?”
Trudy shook her head vigorously as though she was trying to dislodge the memory. She looked at me and shrugged. “More pictures?”
I made quick eye contact with the nurse and she nodded approval. I showed Trudy Lenny’s old mug shot. “Do you know him?”
She stared at his picture for a solid minute. “Maybe.”
“Maybe?”
Trudy shrugged.
That morning, Ray had texted me a picture of Renee Carter he retrieved from her missing person’s file. I held up my phone. “Do you know her?”
Trudy squinted at the screen. “Pretty.” She shook her head no.
“Just because she says no or maybe, doesn’t mean she didn’t know these people,” the nurse said. “If you were here yesterday or came back tomorrow, she might have a different answer.”
“I understand.” I picked up a photo from the top of the stack. “This is Ben’s sister, Joyce. And your nephew, Jake.”
“Joyce and Jake, Joyce and Jake,” she sang in a high-pitched voice. “Bowling! Joyce likes to bowl. I can’t bowl.”
“That’s right, Trudy. She’s a champion bowler. Do you know where she got her baby?”
She pointed to my stack of photos. Lenny’s mug shot visible on the top of the pile.
“Him? Lenny Berman? Are you sure?”
Her face lit up. “Shhhh. It’s a secret. I know a secret. Ben said don’t tell anyone or else.”
So, she knew about this. Which means Ed probably knew about this. So this could be what the extortion scheme was about. But where would Lenny come up with two thousand dollars every month? People don’t blackmail poor people. Blood from a stone.
“Or else, what?” I whispered.
“They’ll take the baby away! Bye-bye baby.”
“Speaking of babies . . .” I handed her the photograph Naomi Resnick had given me. She glanced at it and handed it back.
“Can I ask you about this photo?”
She nodded yes.
I pointed to Trudy’s distended belly. “Who is the father of your babies?”
She pursed her lips tightly, creating a thin line where her mouth used to be. Then she opened her mouth and started making a clucking noise by pressing her tongue against the roof of her mouth and releasing it.
The nurse moved closer to Trudy. “You’re upsetting her.”
I placed my hand on Trudy’s knee and whispered, “I’m sorry.”
The Disappearance of Trudy Solomon Page 17