The Donovan house was located across from the park. It was a red brick Dutch Colonial, with a circular driveway and an impressive front lawn that whispered class. As I parked my car, I caught a glimpse of the spacious backyard with flower beds that probably bloomed with tulips and impatiens in spring. A white picket fence strung with climbing vines, roses I'd bet, surrounded the yard. It was the kind of backyard kids dream about, particularly if they grow up in the projects like I did. I remembered what Annette had told me about Rebecca Donovan and got sad for her all over again. Here she had a big old house, planned for a big old family, and everything she had dreamed about had been snatched away. I thought about my own son then, as I always do in these situations, and gave a quick prayer of thanks for my good fortune. My mind was still on Jamal when Rebecca Donovan opened the front door.
Her eyes were what struck me first. They were brown and as soft as a puppy's, but the sorrow in them revealed her grief. Yet she had the quick smile of a little girl, which lit up her face and brought a smile to mine. Her hair was streaked with gray and pulled into a bun at the nape of her neck, which made me recall Annette's nickname for her. Her pretty skin, the color of unshelled walnuts, was dotted here and there with freckles.
“Come in, Ms. Hayle. I'm an early bird. My husband didn't come into his own until noon. Since his death I've reverted to my own ways,” she greeted me when she opened the door. I was struck by her warmth and how different she seemed from the woman I'd spoken to on the phone two days ago. The mention of her late husband so early in our conversation also surprised me, but he'd been dead only since the end of August, less than a year. She was still mourning him, and would be for a long time.
She was dressed in stylish earth-brown wool pants and a neat, rust-colored silk blouse. Tasteful gold stud earrings peeked from her ears and a thin gold chain graced her neck. In her casual way, Rebecca Donovan was as elegant and understated as her classy home. She too could have stepped from a magazine on upscale, suburban living.
“Thank you so much,” I said, suddenly conscious of my lint-covered black wool coat, which I keep forgetting to take to the cleaners. I'd meant to wear my good one, but it was the first thing I grabbed when I stumbled out of my house at what seemed like the crack of dawn.
“I hope it's not too early for you.”
“No, it's fine. It does my soul good to get moving early,” I said, lying. I enjoyed getting up this early in the morning about as much as a toothache. But it was a clear, bright winter's day and once I got going, I felt virtuous.
“Would you like some coffee?”
“No, thanks, I've had my quota for the day.” And wouldn't have made it this far if I hadn't, I said to myself.
“You don't mind if I have some, do you? I thought we could talk in the sunroom. On a morning like this it's so cheerful and warm in there. It used to be our favorite room, mine and Clayton's. On snowy weekends, Clayton would build a fire, and we'd just sit there in front of it and chat clear into evening.” Her eyes had filled with tears and she turned her head to hide them. “Please, make yourself comfortable. I'll only be a moment.” She nodded toward a room that adjoined the well-appointed living room and I headed toward it.
I was taken aback when I entered it. The room was a shrine to her late husband. Awards and plaques from countless clubs and civic organizations filled the bookcases, many stacked against one another at odd angles. Large photographs of him alone and them as a couple covered every conceivable space. Birthday and anniversary cards and thank-you notes were tucked in front of books and on the table.
I understand grief. I understand the anger it brings, and how it can drive you crazy. I understand how far you must go into it in order to come out on the other side, and the wild places your mind will take you. Yet I was overwhelmed by the depth of this woman's pain.
Walking around the cozy room, I randomly picked up items, fascinated by the life that had been preserved—his pipes, toy models of his Porsche and motorcycle, mugs, cups, and plates with his name stenciled in fancy lettering. One that said “Here Come Da Judge” brought my last conversation with Jake to mind and made me smile.
A bar in the corner of the room covered with glasses stacked next to liquor bottles looked ready for service, and a bottle of Balvenie Portwood Scotch drew my attention. My brother Johnny used to call this twenty-one-year-old Scotch “a whiskey lover's poison.” He drank Johnnie Walker Red, but liked the good stuff—and this was the good stuff—when he could get it. It was what I always gave him for his birthday. It was what he was drinking the night he put his gun in his mouth.
On the top shelf of a small bookcase was a black porcelain vase with a golden lid, which caught the morning sun and gleamed as if it had just been polished. It was a beautiful vase; I'd never seen one quite like it.
“I see you're admiring my vase. Actually it's an urn now, which contains my husband's ashes,” Rebecca said, as she entered the room with a silver tray loaded with coffee, cream, sugar, and two dainty china cups. “Clayton brought it back from a trip to Japan. He loved it so much, I thought it would be fitting.”
“Did he collect ceramics?”
“No, he just saw that vase and fell in love with it. If Clayton collected anything it was liquor,” she added with a nod toward the bar and a chuckle. “I rarely touch it, that's why there is so much of it left. I only drink when somebody insists that I join them. Nobody ever had to force my Clayton, though. He was a serious drinker. He liked good Scotch and good times.” She put the tray down on the coffee table in front of the brown leather couch.
“That's what Clayton always told me. He'd say, ‘Baby this is what I want out of life—good times and good Scotch, and good loving from you.’ He'd always add that when I cocked my eyebrow to remind him.” She chuckled at the memory as we sat down. It was a luxurious couch, deep, soft, and made for someone who liked comfort and didn't mind paying for it.
“Yes, my late brother liked Scotch, too,” I said, trying to put my thoughts about my brother out of my mind, but they were always there, lurking in the corners. Rebecca Donovan's loss was far more recent than mine, and my heart broke for her. Sitting with this woman and the grief she still carried, I suddenly felt that those key words I'd jotted down in my notebook were irrelevant.
“Whenever Judge Donovan's name comes up, everyone says what a remarkable man he was and what a loss his death was to Newark. I'm so sorry I never had a chance to meet him.”
That made her smile, but her eyes brimmed with tears again.
“Why don't you join me? One more cup won't hurt.”
“The last time I started off the morning with too much coffee on an empty stomach, I turned into a gorilla,” I said, remembering my hopped-up conversation with Larry Walton.
“Would you like something to eat?”
“Oh no, I'm fine. Actually, I did have some cereal this morning, so maybe I will have a cup,” I said, quickly letting her know that I wasn't angling for a meal. She poured two cups of coffee and sank back into the couch.
“You would have liked my husband. Most women did. We were older when we married, and I felt lucky to get him. Not a morning goes by that I don't expect him to come dashing in at dawn, after a late night out with his boys looking for a midnight snack when all I want to do is sleep.” She shook her head, as if still scolding him.
I tactfully glanced away and sipped my coffee, thankful I had it. From what Jake said, those late nights out usually involved the other gender.
“His death shook up so many people,” I said, stating Jake's re-peatable comment.
“Yes. But in a way, it was almost predictable.”
Her response surprised me. “Why do you say that?”
“My husband loved to take chances. He was a daredevil and a half. He loved the thrill of living on the edge. I'm not sure what he saw in me, because I'm so very different.”
“Opposites attract!” I volunteered the old cliche, and she nodded in agreement.
“If he'd been a
more cautious man, he would have heeded the signs that his body was giving him. People die of walking pneumonia because they don't pay attention to their health until it's too late. You've got to listen to your body, slow down, take it easy, rest your bones when you're sick. Clayton was like a fireball. Nothing would stop him, not even an illness that turned deadly so quickly.
“He wouldn't rest. He wouldn't see a doctor. There was always somewhere to go, someplace to ride or late night appointment to keep, and before he knew it his lungs had filled with so much fluid he couldn't breathe. He was wheezing and coughing so hard I thought his body would break. I rushed him to the emergency room, but it was too late.”
I was sorry I'd made her relive her husband's death. I remembered Annette's words about her not revealing her true feelings, but as far as I could tell, she had shared them with me. I knew from experience that it's often easier to unburden yourself to a stranger than a friend. Folks have told me unbelievably personal stories on late night flights or long train rides. The kindness of strangers has comforted me more often than I care to remember, and I was glad to play that role for her.
“The terrible irony was that I'd had a very serious and painful medical emergency of my own a few months before, and he'd brought me to the same hospital, the same cubicle even. I never want to see that place again,” she added with a shudder and I nodded that I understood.
Neither of us spoke for a while. I placed my notebook down on the coffee table, and she added more cream to her cup.
“I'm sorry to burden you with this,” she said after a moment. “I know you didn't come here to listen to my sad story.”
“No, it's really okay. How are you doing now?”
She smiled slightly. “Not too great. I have a terrible time sleeping at night, so my doctor prescribed a very strong sedative. But I don't like to take sleeping pills, so I haven't even bothered to open the bottle. You can't take drugs forever. Sooner or later you have to face reality, and do the things that will make reality more acceptable, things that make it easier for you to get through your life. You need to find some kind of final resolution, one that will give you peace at last.”
“Yes, that's true. Sometimes, I find it hard to sleep, too,” I said, desperate to share something about myself, and draw her away from this painful subject. ‘And when I wake up, the look on my son's face tells me that my rest was not exactly restorative.”
We both laughed a little at that and she asked,”You have a son?”
“Yes. Jamal. He's growing up faster than I ever thought he could. One moment you're nursing them and the next—” I stopped mid-sentence when I noticed her anguished expression. Here I'd gone and raked up another tragic memory for the woman. “I'm sorry,” I stammered.
“I see you've talked to Annette, and she's told you what happened to my little boy.”
“Yes. I saw her yesterday.”
Her lips drew into a thin, sad smile. ‘Another irony in my life. Clayton died on the last day in August. Our baby died the same day, but three years earlier. I don't know what I'll do this year when that day rolls around again. I had Clayton to help me get through it before. Now—” She paused and then continued. “I named him after his father. Clayton Donovan Junior. He was so pleased to have a son.”
When somebody shares that kind of sorrow, it's hard to know what to say. If you know them well, you ease their sadness with a hug or touch, otherwise you try to come up with words you hope will be healing, which was what I tried to do.
“Mrs. Donovan, you've given so many gifts to so many people. You've changed and enhanced so many lives, and I'm sure you will continue to do that. I'm sure your husband knew how fortunate he was to have you in his life. Your friend Annette Sampson certainly does. She has such respect and love for you, too.”
‘Annette and I were girls together, and somehow we've managed to maintain a friendship, even though she's done a great many things I don't approve of.” Her tone was remarkably judgmental, and I was reminded momentarily of the old “church lady” routine Dana Car-vey used to do on Saturday Night Live. But then she chuckled, and the warmth came back into her eyes. ‘Annette is my friend, despite her selfish, immoral blunders.”
“I take it you're referring to Celia Jones.”
“Yes. Miss Celia Jones.” A pained look, a grimace really, settled on her face and she gulped her coffee down hard, as if washing Celia down with it. “Did you know Miss Celia Jones?”
It was odd the way she phrased it, spitting out Celia's name. The bond between us was suddenly broken; the mere mention of the possibility of a relationship with Celia had snapped it. She was the aloof, proper lady again, the one I'd spoken to on the phone. But in a way, I was relieved. We were back on a professional level, and I could ask blunt questions more honestly.
“She was my best friend in high school.”
“I hope she was a better friend to you than she was to many others.”
“I hadn't seen her in years.”
“That was wise on your part.”
“You mentioned before that you met her at a women's shelter?” I said, eager to go back to why I'd come.
“Yes.”
“I understand that you introduced Celia to Annette Sampson.”
“Yes, I did.”
“I sensed that Mrs. Sampson was very bitter over the fact that Celia left her. Was she angry because you introduced her?”
“No. We still have our breakfasts. Annette didn't blame me. My regret is bringing Celia Jones into all of our lives, but I was just trying to do the right thing. How could I possibly know it would end up like this.” She shook her head slowly, as if still trying to fathom the unraveling of her friend's life.
“I'm curious about Brent Liston. You stated when we spoke before that the judge had helped Celia escape from him?”
I couldn't tell exactly what aspect of her face changed. Was it her eyes that widened slightly or her lower lip that hardened into a pout? Something was altered. I wondered if it was the mention again of her husband or had it been the thought of Brent Liston.
“It's pretty simple really,” she said, her tone belied what showed on her face. “I took Celia to meet Clayton, and he was very kind to her. I think he felt very sorry for her because he did everything he could to make things easier for her. I found out after he died that he had even given her some money; he was that kind of man. He put away Liston to help her feel safe. Liston had just gotten out, but both Clayton and I agreed that she should be protected from him, so he put him away for a while to protect her and her son.”
I got an eerie feeling in my bones and suddenly I was afraid for her, living alone as she did in this big house.
“Has Brent Liston ever threatened you?”
“No.”
“You mentioned before that you're going out of town tomorrow. To Connecticut, I think you said. Will you be safe there?”
She smiled, trying to put me at ease. “I feel very safe there. It's isolated, but I like it that way, and I can take care of myself. Thanks so much for your concern, Ms. Hayle. Can I call you Tamara? I've shared so much of myself with you, I feel as if I know you. Please call me Rebecca.”
“Okay. Thanks. Tamara is fine. Where in Connecticut are you going?”
‘About half an hour out of Hartford in a small town called Ash-ton. It's a lovely old town founded in the 1700s, mostly woods and farmland. Clayton and I fell in love with the place the moment we saw it. Maybe you and your son would like to visit me someday.”
“I'd love to,” I said but couldn't picture Jamal sitting happily in a house in the woods with two middle-aged women for more than fifteen minutes. “Is it hard to find?”
“Not if you know where to look. The town is very small, and everybody knows everybody else. We're the only black people who've bought there, so you can literally ask anybody in town—any gas station or convenience store attendant—where Judge Donovan lives, and they can tell you.”
“Do you ever feel vulnerable, like if so
me criminal wanted to get even with the judge, he'd know where to find him?” I thought again of Brent Liston.
“It doesn't worry me, but I think it must have occurred to Clayton. He doesn't like guns, but he kept several there, and he showed me how to use them.”
“Probably a good idea. It must be great to have a country home. Most folks I know considered themselves lucky to have the one they live in.”
“It's fun during the summer. We used to have friends visit us all the time. Larry Walton came up regularly with his wife and daughter when they were together, and Annette and Drew spent many weekends with us. I like to go there in the winter now. I love to see the leaves change in October, and that first snowfall. Clayton is always with me.”
She began to gather up the coffee items, placing them back on the tray, and I recalled Annette Sampson's hint that it was time for me to go. But yesterday's tension was absent today. I admired this woman's quiet dignity and suddenly cared a great deal about her welfare.
“I have one more question,” I said.
“Sure. What is it?”
“Why did you go to Celia's funeral, Rebecca?”
“Because it was the proper thing to do,” she said quietly, and after we had shared our thoughts about loneliness, insomnia, and the virtues of good coffee, I left Rebecca Donovan to her memories and headed back to my office.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
It was going on noon when I left Rebecca Donovan, so I picked up some lunch and the Star-Ledger on the way back to my office and made another attempt to contact Aaron Dawson. His phone was still disconnected, so I settled down to enjoy my tuna on rye, Diet Coke, and whole-wheat doughnut picked up as a special treat from the Dunkin’ Donuts on Central Avenue.
Although Rebecca Donovan hadn't told me anything new, I was sure she'd turn out to be a valuable resource. Even though the mere mention of Celia's name had set the woman's teeth on edge, there hadn't been the passionate response I'd gotten from others. Whether people loved or hated the girl, they seemed to do it with all their heart.
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