“Like where?” she said.
“Think you have another dress in your closet? How about a red one? Because a resident wants to spend some time with you. Only you. No beeper. How’s that sound? Hey, if you give me your address, I’ll even pick you up.”
The temperature in the room seemed to drop ten degrees. I couldn’t figure out what I had just managed to do or say to ruin a perfectly good romance.
“I never told you where I live.” Gabrielle hesitated.
“No, you didn’t,” I said. I decided to give her some time, so I waited. After what felt like a couple of minutes, she finally spoke.
“I was hoping I wouldn’t have to explain everything, but—“ Her eyes brimmed with tears. “There’s a few things about me that you probably ought to know.”
“Are you crying?” I said. “Look, if you’d rather have a pizza at my place, that’s fine with me. I just thought—”
In an instant, Gabrielle’s face brightened. Minus the frown and a few worry lines, she looked like a giddy schoolgirl. “Oh! That would be so perfect!”
We ended up at my place.
Yeah, it was perfect.
TWENTY-SEVEN
I proposed to Gabrielle that same night. We were married six weeks later. Yes, you heard me correctly. Six whole weeks. Even I couldn’t believe it.
For one thing, I was still in training, with another year to go. I thought Gabrielle would want to wait until I finished my residency. No way, was what she told me. She said she’d already done the “white wedding,” and the only promise it kept involved spending a lot of money. That, she told me, wasn’t the kind of promise that interested her. I liked what I heard. So, I figured, why wait? I knew Gabrielle was The One. We told my family that we wanted a simple wedding, nothing fancy. My sister Rosa, however, had different ideas on that subject. But, I’ll get to that part.
First, there was the dilemma of what to do with the recently departed Eddie Raines. As it turned out, Eddie actually had a brother. Victor Raines owned an appliance store and sports bar on the South Side, and from time to time, he would have Eddie over for a few beers and a ham sandwich or two. Maybe Victor felt guilty about the way that Eddie lived, or perhaps worse, the way he died. Whatever his reasons, Victor fronted the money for a very basic funeral. As far as I could tell, Eddie had no other relatives. At least, no one else came forward to plan or attend the funeral service. Victor said he was no good with words, and I believed him. I wrote and delivered Eddie’s eulogy, based on what little I knew of his life and death—may he rest in peace.
As I’ve said before, I believe in caring for my patients as I would a member of my family. Knee deep in plans for our wedding, we didn’t want to plan Eddie’s funeral. As his doctor, however, I felt his life deserved a respectful closure.
For once, we all got lucky. Well, perhaps luck doesn’t accurately describe the situation. Looking back, I’d say it was more like the hand of opportunity knocking on the door of convenience.
While packing up Eddie’s house, Victor discovered a box in the linen closet beside a can of Turtle Wax labeled, “Lori’s Ashes.” Victor said any way you looked at this mess, Lori would be better off hanging out with Eddie than with the Turtle Wax. So, he stashed Lori’s ashes in Eddie’s coffin, and they were buried together. To this day, I don’t know if it was the right thing to do—or not. That issue taught me the value of flexibility. Indeed, answers are not always defined.
During this time, a grab bag of unresolved feelings emerged. As it turned out, Eddie’s brother felt much the same way. When Eddie died, we fully realized our mutual disrespect for some of his more questionable choices. But, that’s how it is with my chosen profession. With each day that passes, I realize that fact more and more. A physician can’t allow personal feelings any airtime. It’s all about what’s good for the patient—which brings me to the subject of Starr Hixson.
We saved her life—the team at the ER—Dr. Kinney, myself, Nurse Potts, and I suppose in his own way, Dr. Skelton. I will never forget the day Starr confronted us. We gathered outside her room with some balloons and donuts to celebrate her discharge. She came to the door in her shiny new wheelchair.
“You think this is funny? Go to hell, all of you! Look at Starr in her new wheelchair. Starr in her diapers. Got just what she deserved. Let’s throw her a party and stare at the new Starr. She’s moving to the fucking nursing home for the rest of her goddamn life. Starr Hixson got the booby prize! Isn’t she lucky?”
After Starr’s emotional display, Mary Potts slammed the door in her face. Nevertheless, plenty more was said behind that closed door. Dr. Kinney announced that Starr Hixson filed a lawsuit against the City of St. Louis, The Mayor of St. Louis, University Medical School, and all of its medical personnel. In it, she claimed that by saving her life and forcing her to live, she was subjected to “cruel and unusual punishment.”
To this day, the case haunts me. Did we do the right thing for Starr? Like Dr. Skelton said, there are some things that will never be explained or understood. In so many ways, Starr Hixson was destined to join that notorious Hall of Fame.
Meanwhile, our arrangements for Eddie’s funeral provided Rosa with time for her own arrangements. And so, we had a blowout reception at the parish hall, after a Mass at St. Ambrose Church, even though I couldn’t remember the last time I visited a church. I suppose it made my family feel married to us as a couple. I did enjoy the photos a lot, especially the one of us in the patrol car with JUST MARRIED plastered all over the bumper—a real “one of a kind” picture for my office. I took one day off for a honeymoon night at a hotel by the airport. The next day, I went back to work.
Now, though, I viewed the world through fresh eyes. Everything around me seemed new and different. Life felt the way I believed it could, if a man got lucky. At last, I was headed for graduation. Finally, I believed my life was on track.
However, as I said earlier, no one has a crystal ball. Even if I could have foreseen the future, I wouldn’t have wanted to believe what happened to us that night in early February, 1979.
Outside, the wind shrieked and howled. I slammed the entry door of the apartment building, and checked the mailbox for the daily dose of junk mail. With each passing minute, life was good and getting better. Even a guest appearance by Sol, clad in an undershirt stained with leftovers from breakfast and lunch, couldn’t upset my imaginary apple cart. Everything was just perfect—maybe too perfect.
“Hey there, Doc!”
I didn’t turn around to verify the speaker’s identity. Immediately, I recognized the voice. “What can I do for you, Sol?”
Sol ran his thick fingers through a shock of matted hair. “Before you go upstairs, I was thinking you should know what happened around here today.”
I didn’t look at him. Instead, I continued to thumb through the bulky stack of catalogs and bills. “Something happened, hmm?”
“Look at me, Pizza Man,” Sol said. “I am taking time away from my busy day to inform you about the shenanigans going on at your place today. And you, you can’t even look at me.”
I stopped myself. I couldn’t believe I behaved so rudely.
“You’re right, SoI. I apologize. I’ve been too distracted these days. What did you just say?”
“That’s more like it. Look, Pizza Man, I’m only trying to help you out here. Say a guy that creepy comes around my door looking for my wife, you better believe Solomon Freeman here wants to know about it. Figured you would too. See, I think we’re a lot alike, you know?”
“I don’t understand what you’re saying. Did we have a problem here today?”
“You tell me. All’s I know is, some dude starts banging on your door this morning, sometime around 11:00. Of course, you didn’t answer. So here he comes, back every hour, on the hour. Well, you know me. That time of day, I practice my lines. You wouldn’t believe the number of callbacks I have every afternoon. And, as I’m sure you can imagine, my serious-type concentration gets pretty intense, even for me. Cynda prob
ably already told you this part, but my dramatricks coach says with rare-type talent like mine, there is no limit to the heights I can climb into. You ever heard of a book called ‘Wuthering Heights?’ Yeah, well. It’s really all about me. ”
“I hadn’t realized that.”
“Wuthering. Heights. Check it out, I’m just saying.”
I had never seen Sol look so hopeful or content.
“I can’t play games, Doc. Obviously, I’ve got very serious-type work to do here. So, about the third time this creep comes back, the ruckus starts up again, and I open my door. I’m standing out here in the hall by my apartment, and I ask this guy, what does he want already, huh? He tells me he’s looking for a lady cop, and do I know if she lives in here?”
I shrugged and shifted the weight of the mail to my other arm.
“Well, what did you say?”
“I said, I wasn’t sure who lived upstairs. Because I don’t.”
“Don’t what?”
“Live there. I live on the first floor, remember?”
“Sol, you know that I got married. And that my wife is a police officer.”
“Yeah. I also know that Cynda and me have never been invited up to your place for even a tiny crust of pizza, or a drop glass of beer. Even though I know that you and the Missus order out quite a bit.”
“Okay, we’ll have to do that. I didn’t know that you wanted to get to know us better.”
“I’m just saying. Anyway, when this guy, whoever he is, figured out he wasn’t getting any details from Sol here, he told me to mind my own business.” Sol shrugged his beefy shoulders, and a tattoo of a mermaid riding a wave bounced and curled on his forearm. “Like her? Everybody does. She’s supposed to be Cynda.” Sol stabbed the air with his index finger. “I’ll tell you something else. Guy’s been here before. I know that much.”
“You’re sure about that?”
“Look, I don’t say things I don’t mean. A guy that smells like a big wad of used chewing gum sticks in my mind—and my nose. See, I don’t like fancy cologne. I told him so.”
“Did he say he’d be back?”
“Nope. But, my guess is, he will be.”
“Why do you say that?”
Sol shrugged. “Because he always is.”
“Why didn’t you tell me about this guy before today?”
I’ve been pondering his reply ever since.
“Before today, Doc, you were never at home, that’s why. I couldn’t tell you anything. Since you got married, you’re a lot easier to find.” He shook his head. “A lot easier. And, when you’re not so tired all the time, so now you can remember a few things. I’m just saying.”
The rain pelted the flat roof of the brick building while I hustled up the stairs to our apartment. After what Sol just told me, I started thinking we should think about moving somewhere else. I shoved my key into the lock, and the door surrendered easily—far too easily.
I opened the door and stepped into the tiny living room. The grandmother clock chimed seven times. I tossed my white coat on the chair. Something clattered onto the hardwood floor. Groping in the shadows, I found a tin of chewing tobacco. Wintergreen flavor. Hmm.
A sudden rustle startled me. Behind me. There, beside the clock.
“Turn around, you SOB!” Virgil leered. “I’ll teach you to steal what ain’t rightly yours! Nobody steals from Virgil Burns and lives to talk about it. Nobody. And you won’t neither.”
The rattle of a key in the lock startled him.
“You expecting company?” The stout man turned toward the front door and focused on the lock. “Cause I don’t like company. Never did.”
The door opened. It was Gabrielle. At the sight of Virgil Burns, her face became a mask of fright and confusion.
“Well, if it ain’t Miss Gabby herself! I’ll be danged. You’re looking good, baby. Real sexy.” He shook his bovine head. “All dressed up and no place to go.”
“The last time I heard that drawl, I left you and Texas behind me,” she said.
“Don’t move. Stay right where you are.”
She reached into her purse for her Beretta pistol.
“I don’t think so,” Virgil said.
A bullet pierced her abdomen. The lanky woman collapsed, her sleek red dress entangled in her long legs. “Virg! Why, you…” She moaned in agony.
Virgil aimed his gun at my head.
Deep breaths, Gabrielle. She fumbled for the pearl-handled .32 pistol, now concealed in her thigh holster. Deep breaths. Breath one, two, three.
“I don’t think so,” Gabrielle said.
Now!
Her bullet struck Virgil at the base of his skull. Like a pithed frog, he dropped in a heap.
I rushed over to help Gabrielle.
“Oh honey!” I said. “You’re bleeding! Where’s your radio?”
“On… the… bed.” Her voice sounded fainter with each breath.
I rushed to the bedroom, and snatched the radio from the pocket in her uniform shirt.
“Officer down! Officer down! Gabrielle Spezia, Hampton Avenue.”
There seemed to be no end to the bleeding, though I struggled to apply pressure to the bullet wound. Gabrielle’s face looked as pale as new porcelain. Her teeth chattered relentlessly.
“Hold me, Tom,” she whispered. “I’m so cold. So, so cold.” Gabrielle wrapped her arms around my neck, and I pressed her body close to mine. Deep in my heart, I believed it was the last time I would do that.
TWENTY-EIGHT
Virgil shot my wife in her spleen. After surgery to remove it, she remained in critical condition for several weeks. The ambulance driver rushed Gabrielle to the best hospital for a gunshot wound. Guess where he took her? St. Louis City Hospital. The staff rallied to care for her as if she was a family member. It was during this recovery period that the details of Gabrielle’s past life surfaced—the good, the bad and the ugly, for better or for worse.
After one particularly trying day, I wandered into the sports bar where Gabrielle and I went on our first date. Barely a minute passed when I recognized a familiar voice.
“You’re cute. We should go out sometime.” I glanced at the woman standing by my booth.
“Miss Jones?”
She grinned, slid into the booth and sat directly across the table from me. “I knew you’d remember me.”
“How can I help you?”
“Help me? What is this? I don’t need no help. I just want to say hello.” Her smile turned into a pout. “You want me to leave, don’t you?”
“It’s just that I’m a married man.”
“So?”
“So, I don’t think it’s appropriate for me to be sitting with an attractive woman such as yourself, in the place where my wife and I went on our first date.”
“Hmm.”
“Please don’t say that.”
“Why not? Okay, don’t answer that. Just tell me one thing.”
“Okay, one thing. And, then I think you should leave. Deal?”
“Fine, fine. Who is this goddess that you be married to, huh?”
Finally, the lady said something to make me smile. I laughed when I told her.
“Does the name ‘Officer Burns’ ring a bell?” I thought she was going to throw her purse at my head.
“Please sit down, Miss Jones. You’re causing a scene.”
“If that nasty ass cop’s so hot, where is she, huh? She should be with her husband, instead of driving around, beating on working girls. Serve her right someone like me take you away.”
“She’s in the hospital.”
“She is, huh? Guess you be trying to make me feel bad. But, I don’t.” Something about the way she stopped talking caused me to do the same.
“Miss Jones,” a heavy set man said. “We meet again.”
“I wadn’t doing nothing.”
The man turned to address me.
“Is this lady bothering you, Dr. Spezia?”
“No, she was just leaving.” I sup
pose I looked a bit surprised that the man knew my name, because immediately, he extended his hand.
“I should introduce myself to you, Dr. Spezia.” He shook my hand. “Sergeant Reggie Combs. Of course, I know who you are—so does the whole St. Louis police force. Of course, not in the same way that they know Miss Jones here.” He turned to her now.
“I was just wondering if you knew anyone named Virgil Burns?” he said.
“What he look like?”
“Here’s a photo. Tell me the truth, now.”
Miss Jones bit her lip and looked at the floor.
“Miss Jones? What we got?”
“Look, I was just having a drink in here one night, like I like to do sometimes, minding my own business. And, he comes up and he ax me, can he buy me a drink? Well, I tell him, he can buy me lots of things, is whut I say. And, then he say, do I know any cops? And, I say, most of’ ‘em, yeah. He pulls out a pitcher of hisself and the tall cop what beat me up and he say, you know where I can find her?”
“How did you know where she worked?”
“Same way she know where to find me.”
“So you gave him the information?”
“No.” She uncrossed her legs and stood up. “I was working that night. I did whut I do. I sold it to him.”
Do you remember when Gabrielle told me that she had been married once before? That’s right, on our first date. Well, it turned out her ex-husband, Virgil, trailed her all the way from Texas to St. Louis and used to be in my apartment. When he arrived, he starts asking around—never could keep his mouth shut. Told Neesie Jones he used to be a cop.
He shot a lady cop alright, on time and up close. She looked a whole lot like Gabrielle too, which, under the circumstances, wasn’t surprising. Remember the night Gabrielle knocked on my door, searching for the perp that shot the cop in the next block? Gabrielle moved into that apartment after the murder. According to Sergeant Combs, that cop was Michelle, Gabrielle’s sister. Until now, I never knew she had a sister. Suddenly, I recalled the night I proposed to Gabrielle, and how she told me about some things I should know. I guess this was one of them. There was something else. Gabrielle has always enjoyed the friendship she shared with Rosa my sister. I never understood until now. Hmm.
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