Tower of Babel

by Michael Sears

  She looked up at Ted. “You said I would have a green card.”

  Lester shot a sharp look at him.

  “Yes,” Ted said. “We promised. But we all want to know that Miss Miller is safe and being cared for. That’s first order of business.”

  “She did not want to go.” She chose to direct this to Lester.

  Lester nodded, signaling understanding and comforting. It was working. She looked better. Less afraid. “What did you hear?”

  “I don’t know. The ugly one. He said something, speaking German, I think.”

  “Maybe Russian?” Lester asked.

  “Yes,” she said. “I don’t know.”

  “The social worker lady, what’s her name, says they took her to another nursing home.”

  She shrugged. She didn’t know. “Old people do not like change. She was frightened.”

  Lester smiled encouragingly. “None of us do, but you’re right. The old ones take it harder.”

  “I want to help her. I’m sorry.”

  “You’ve been a big help already. There’s nothing to be sorry about.”

  Ted stood. Anora had nothing to offer. It was time to move on and try another avenue, though he wasn’t sure what that would be. “I haven’t forgotten my promise. It may take a little time, but I will do everything I can to make it happen.”

  She didn’t believe him. He could see it in her eyes, but he wasn’t going to convince her by repeating it. Especially since he had no idea how he was going to manage it.

  Lester shook her hand. “We’ll see you again, Anora.” He joined Ted at the door.

  “Would the name of the ambulance company help?” she asked.

  They stood on the front steps waiting for Mohammed to bring the car around. The boardwalk blocked any view of the ocean, but the scent of salt air was refreshing, sweeping away the odors of age, loneliness, and quiet despair. Despite the bleak news, Ted found his thoughts and mood were already lighter.

  Lester wasn’t as sanguine. “She’s dead, isn’t she?”

  Ted had already considered the question. “They need her. If our filing leads to a hearing, the judge will demand we produce her in court or show evidence of why we can’t. If she’s dead, that throws the whole case into probate—which means more delays and the possibility that some third cousin twice removed shows up.”

  “She might simply disappear.”

  “Same problem, only the delays would be worse. No, they’ve got her on ice somewhere.”

  “I’d say the odds of getting any usable information out of the ambulette company are only slightly better than me getting a scratch-off Win for Life.”

  “We’re going to find her, Lester.”

  “Or we could spend the next month calling all the eldercare facilities in the tristate region asking if they took in an old lady yesterday. How many do you think there are? Five hundred? A thousand?”

  “If we get stuck, we start by calling the top-tier nursing homes first. And then we’re going to nail their asses,” Ted said.

  Lester did not look at him. He stared out at the wind-swept boardwalk. “You believe that? Or are you just wishing it was so?”

  “I don’t know, but right now it feels pretty good.”

  “With or without the police?” Lester said, not turning his head.

  “I don’t know that either. Does it matter?”

  Lester finally faced Ted. “When do we get Anora her green card? She’s earned it.”

  Ted grimaced. “I made a promise. I may not yet have a plan, but I am aware I made a promise, and I mean to keep it.”

  Mohammed came into view, his car slaloming through the half-filled parking lot. Lester frowned. “You ever go to Coney Island when you were a kid? Play on those bumper cars?”

  “He’s not that bad,” Ted said.

  “That’s not a ringing endorsement.”

  They walked to the curb. Lester stopped and faced Ted again. “There’s still a lot we don’t know.”

  “That’s a reasonable synopsis of our situation.”

  They nodded at each other, both acknowledging how far they yet had to travel—and the costs they might have to pay.

  Lester looked away first. “And then there’s the immediate question,” he said.

  “What’s that?”

  Lester held up the pastry box. “What the hell am I going to do with this cake?”

  -59-

  Ted left Lester at the Afghan dormitory with instructions to call and get whatever he could from Cross County Ambulette Transportation Services. Mohammed made the midmorning trip to the hospital in record time while Ted hid behind the Daily News, deliberately not watching their erratic progress. When traffic slowed, Mohammed sometimes created a fourth lane on the highway, squeezing between other vehicles like a daredevil motorcyclist.

  Ron Reisner was in the news again, though not on the front page. The sod on the soccer fields, laid a month earlier, had all turned brown and died. Reisner’s legal team said that the great man had no comment. The accompanying picture must have been provided by the publicity department for LBC as it showed Reisner in a one-armed buddy hug with the current governor, together showing more smiling white teeth than the C-list red carpet at the SAG Awards. Ted had to admit, the man did not look like someone who bribed public officials; was alleged to have defrauded subcontractors, tenants, and investors; and was also quite likely a party to attempted murder for hire.

  Passing through the electronic door, which swept open Star Trek fashion at his approach, Ted felt a rush of conflicting emotions. The events of the long night two days previous rushed back at him. His mind had been busy whitewashing fears, a survival mechanism carried over from years of rewriting memories of an abusive alcoholic father. If you don’t think about the really bad things, it’s like they didn’t happen. Almost like.

  “Are you all right?” the silver-haired volunteer at the front desk stage-whispered to him as he stood in the entryway, not sure of what he expected to find when he made it to the ICU. Was Kenzie there? If they had moved her, was that a good sign? Suppose she wasn’t responding to treatment; would they take her off life support? Had they already? He should have called first. Was bad news easier to take when it came over the phone?

  The flip side of the whitewasher. The morbid gloomsayer. Now he was thinking of death.

  “Sir?” She sounded concerned for him but conveyed in that single syllable that he was behaving strangely.

  “Fine.” He nearly strangled on the word. He took a deep breath before continuing. “Is McKenzie Zielinski still in ICU?”

  Pleased at having something to do, she smiled and tapped away at the computer before her. “Yes, indeed,” she said brightly. Printing out a pass, she gave him detailed, and unnecessary, instructions on how to find the elevator. The sign over her head read elevator in eight-inch letters followed by a red arrow.

  It wasn’t until he was riding in the car, each floor announced with an electronic chime at a dirgelike tempo, that another fear, lesser but immediate, bubbled up in the cauldron of his mind.

  The chances of running into Kenzie’s father at her bedside were rapidly approaching 100 percent. Their first meeting had been a disaster. The man might see him this time and scream for security guards.

  The elevator arrived at his destination before Ted had decided on the appropriate opening words.

  He slid the pass through the reader at the windowless double doors marked by both a discreet black-on-grey three-letter sign—icu—and a detailed bullet-pointed warning, printed in a mini font and obviously written by highly paid outside counsel, that cautioned visitors and staff as to what was allowed and forbidden beyond this point. Ted noted that alcoholic beverages made the forbidden list. He could have used a shot of Lester’s vodka right about then.

  Stepping into the ICU was entering a different world.
The overhead lighting was dimmed so that the brightly lit nurse’s station looked like a stage set with actors in place awaiting the entrance of the star. Sound was muffled, even more so than elsewhere in the hospital. People did not speak; they murmured or whispered. The only jarring noises were the monitors beeping sharply in counterpoint to the gauzy breathiness of ventilators. The warring scents of medicines, industrial and personal cleansers, and various forms of human waste created a miasma that assaulted the sinuses the moment the doors opened. Ted thought that while you worked there, you must lose all sense of smell, like fast-food workers who could smell only stale grease when they arrived at home.

  He waded through this alien land, unconsciously holding his breath in anticipation of bad news. He found it.

  The tableau he came upon when he reached her room was devastating. Mrs. Zielinski sat in a chair, her head bowed, murmuring—a prayer?—and holding a ball of tissues. Her husband stood behind her with one hand on her shoulder, his gaze on the peaceful face of his daughter. The ventilator was gone.

  Kenzie’s hair, though cropped in places, was otherwise long and flowing. Someone—her mother?—had combed it, and it fanned out across the pillow. Kenzie’s pale arms were bent, her hands crossed at her chest. She was beautiful and as still as a portrait.

  A stab of emotional pain hit Ted in the gut, and for a moment he felt dizzy. He was too late. She was gone. The universe was asking too much of him right then. He needed time to resolve all the thoughts and feelings that were crashing in on him. Time. He had none.

  Kenzie’s father, possibly sensing Ted’s presence, turned his head. He gave a sad smile and spoke. “Come in. Please. I’m glad you’re here.”

  Mrs. Z looked up at Ted and beamed a smile. “She’s improving.”

  In the next few minutes, the two parents filled him in on the morning’s developments. The swelling was gone. Though Kenzie had not yet come out of the coma, her vital signs were all good. Brain activity appeared normal. Subdued but normal. They would know more when she woke up. This miracle could happen at any moment. Ted was reeling, attempting to take it all in at once. Impossible. One fact stood out: Kenzie was alive.

  “Or it could take longer,” Mr. Zielinski said in a half-hearted attempt at tempering his wife’s expectations.

  She squeezed his hand and went on speaking to Ted. “The doctor was very encouraging.”

  “And he also said it could be another day or two,” Mr. Zielinski said. “Her brain needs to heal, the nurse told us.”

  The stark warnings of the student nurse, Khalil—the three-day horizon, measured in brain wave activity, ending in death, life as a vegetable, or some horror in between—ran through Ted’s mind for what must have been the hundredth time. This time, however, the thoughts broke out of the maddening loop and were gone. Ted could see that the IV was still connected to her arm and the pulse monitor on her right index finger was clasped in place.

  A thousand questions burned to be first out of his mouth. “Does she? Is she?” He quashed an urge to yell in exultation. Her continued safety was his first concern. “Will they keep her here? Or do they move her to another ward?”

  “No one’s said anything about moving her,” the mother said, revealing in her lack of surety that neither she nor her husband had yet considered this question.

  Ted thought this a good time to make amends for his last conversation with Mr. Zielinski—and to suggest that their relief at Kenzie’s improvement must not sway them from continued vigilance. “Mr. Zielinski, I didn’t handle myself very well the first time we met. I tried to bully you—to frighten you.”

  “You were trying to warn me,” Mr. Zielinski said.

  “That’s kind. And maybe more forgiving than I deserve.”

  “My wife told me about your visit yesterday. You managed to get her on your side. Let’s leave our misunderstandings in the past.”

  Ted wasn’t finished. He needed them both to help keep Kenzie safe. “The danger was real. And that hasn’t changed. The police are doing next to nothing. We need to be here for her until she’s strong enough to fight her own battles.”

  “We’re ready to listen,” Mrs. Zielinski said. Her husband nodded in agreement.

  “Then let’s make a plan,” Ted said.

  -60-

  Cross County Ambulette Transportation Services had ceased operating as such two years earlier, according to Lester. Ted had called him while waiting out front at the hospital for Mohammed to return.

  “The assets, including four vehicles, were purchased by Auburndale Transport and Limousine, which provides similar services but which is not, surprisingly, located in or anywhere near Auburndale, but in Brighton Beach.” Lester paused, expecting a response. “Moscow on the Atlantic, as it is otherwise known.”

  “Keep talking,” Ted said.

  “I called them. The lady on the phone spoke with a Russian accent. We didn’t get very far.”

  “What did she say? Anything?”

  “She said, ‘Nyet.’ She said that a lot,” Lester said.

  “How could she resist your charms?”

  “I did learn that they’re licensed in New York, Jersey, and Connecticut, which tells us that Barbara Miller is probably not in Boston.”

  “Or Philadelphia,” Ted said.

  “What’s next?”

  “I’m going into the city to stir things up a bit—without getting beat up. It’s time I got my ex to face up to a few things. I’ll be back later this afternoon.”

  He had another call to make. To his best man.

  “Ted?” Carter said. “My man. It’s not my birthday and it’s not Christmas, so why is my old friend calling me? Getting married again?”

  “Not anytime soon, Carter. What about you?”

  “Getting married? Not on your life. I just heard from Petey. Fusco? Getting divorced. I was his best man, too. That makes me three for three. So, what can I do for you? Hey, come to London sometime. It’s always raining, the beer’s warm, and when you ask for ice in your drink, you get one cube. Otherwise, I love it.”

  “How about we meet up somewhere warm where the drinks are frozen and the sun shines? I need some information. About a guy.”

  “Sure, if I can. Who’s it?”

  “A Russian. Sokol Orlov. Worked at Blandon.”

  “Oh, yeah. In one word, bad news.”

  “Why am I not surprised? Do tell.”

  Mohammed had found a place to grab an early lunch. Though he’d finished it before returning to pick up Ted, the aroma lingered. Ted had skipped breakfast and was overwhelmed by the cornucopia of scents in the car. Lamb, stewed tomatoes, onions, and a laundry list of spices, some of which he recognized and others, exotic or subtle, which wafted by unnamed.

  “What is that I’m smelling?” he groaned.

  “Saltah.”

  “Okay, so that’s what it’s called. What’s in it?”

  “Lamb and . . . I don’t know what you call it here. Weeds.”

  The food was gone; only the maddening smell remained. “I want to go to Manhattan.”

  “Oh, good. I have a brother who went to Manhattan once.”

  “I have to call up, Mr. Molloy.” The doorman recognized him, though it had been a decade since Ted had last passed through this marbled lobby.

  “I understand, Osvaldo.” Ted would have preferred to appear at Jill’s door unannounced. “How’s your boy?”

  Osvaldo’s younger son had obtained a full-ride basketball scholarship to Georgetown. But that had been many years ago.

  “He’s clerking for a federal judge; thanks for asking. Let me ring Miss Fitzmaurice.” Though twice married and in her midthirties, Jill would always be addressed as Miss.

  Ted felt uncomfortably at home, as though he could pick up his mail, check for packages, and head directly to the elevators, hitting the button for the sixth
floor. Of course he could do none of those things without permission.

  “He’s got an offer from some big firm,” Osvaldo continued while he waited for Jill to answer the phone. “But he wants to work in the DA’s office. Hello, Miss Fitzmaurice. I have Mr. Molloy here looking to come up.”

  There was a long pause as he listened.

  “I don’t know, miss. Shall I ask him?” He smiled awkwardly at Ted. “She wants to know what you want.” He held the receiver up so that Jill could hear his response directly.

  “World peace and a solution to climate change,” Ted said. “Oh, yes, and about five minutes of her time. Maybe ten. I came all the way from Great Neck.”

  Osvaldo listened to her response. “Yes, miss.” This time his grin was grim. “She says to send you up. And if you’re not back down here in fifteen minutes, I’m supposed to call the cops.”

  “Thank you,” Ted said. “And give your son my congratulations. The law is a calling, and I hope it treats him well.”

  He stepped into the elevator, and before pushing the button, he checked the time. Would Osvaldo really call the police? He would. Fifteen minutes and counting.

  There were two apartments per floor, all identically laid out. Jill was waiting at the door to 6A when the elevator doors slid open.

  “This had better be good,” she said. “We can talk in the living room.”

  It was no longer his home, and the memories clashed with the changes. The artwork in the entryway, previously three Lichtenstein pop-art prints that they had chosen together, had been replaced by dark line-drawing portraits of unsmiling women. Ted guessed that one was Virginia Woolf, but he could not have said exactly why he thought so. The once-white walls were a soft grey, and the Persian rugs they had purchased through multiple daylong, agonizing sessions at ABC Carpet were gone. They now walked on grey wall-to-wall carpeting a shade or two darker than the walls. The furniture, which had been sprawling, off-white, and built for comfort, was now all black leather with gleaming stainless-steel accents. None of this fit with the Jill he had married. She might have gone along with the changes to expunge any faint remembrances of their past, but the replacements had to have been pushed on her. The sole touch of color was a two-foot-tall glass sculpture on a pedestal in the far corner—a vaguely vaginal shape with streaks of lime green and fuchsia running through it. And spots or dots—black and white specks that gave it visual texture. Jill had would not have picked that piece, he thought. It was a gift from Jackie. He hated it.