Brooklyn Legacies

by Triss Stein

  “But wait. Why didn’t you, or someone, report him? Get him some help?”

  “He wasn’t bothering anyone. Didn’t beg. Didn’t live there. Didn’t do a thing but sit on a public bench like anyone else. That’s what it’s there for. And mostly if I offered any help he would turn it down. He took a bottle of water from me once, and an old straw hat one hot day.”

  “But I don’t understand. He was the missing man from the home where Sierra works, wasn’t he? There were advertisements about him.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. I didn’t know that then. He never answered a single personal question. Never! He’d just babble nonsense if you asked. I didn’t hear about those flyers until it was too late.”

  “But why didn’t Sierra? She knew him.”

  “Guess she didn’t see him.” She made a dismissive gesture. “He was only there once in a while. Poor old guy.”

  She patted the album she had given me. “Now, my own ancestors mostly died right here, upstairs, in their big oak beds, and had grand funerals with big black cars.” She stopped. “In the old days, there were carriages, and the horses had black plumes on their heads.”

  “Do you remember those?”

  “What? How old do you think I am? Way before my time. But there were pictures. Some even in the newspapers. You know. Stories headed”—she made quote marks with her fingers—“‘Passing of prominent local citizen.’ I have them here somewhere. Now, my dear, it’s time for me to go to bed and you to go home. Do you want to call a car?”

  “No need. I’ll take the subway.”

  “Keep that book under wraps then, until you are home safely, please.”

  Though I was itching to open it up as soon as I had a seat on a subway car, I had made a promise. But I didn’t exactly keep it.

  On the train, a woman smiled at me from across the aisle. I did my normal New Yorker five-second assessment. She didn’t seem crazy, hostile, or begging. In fact, she looked respectable, older, quite a bit older than I am, friendly.

  Finally, she leaned across. “Don’t I know you? Did we meet at some historical society function? I used to work for Jeremy Kingston at the college.”

  My brain kicked in. “Oh, yes, now I remember. I’m sorry; it’s late. We met at…was it the museum exhibit opening? When I worked at the Brooklyn History Museum?”

  “Yes, that’s it.” She introduced herself and moved across to join me. “Nice to see you again. What are you up to these days? Still at the history museum?”

  I told her what I was doing professionally and then, bursting with excitement, what I was carrying at that moment. I thought she would appreciate it, and she did.

  I opened it to show her, grabbing miscellaneous papers as they drifted out from between the pages, and stuffing them back in. From a quick glance, it was a pile of a few catalogs, some letters without envelopes, a magazine. I stuck them back in to return to Louisa later.

  I thought the woman would appreciate the photos, and we did a little shared squealing over a few. Her stop came too soon, and I bundled the book up to get ready to hop off at the next stop.

  It was late when I got home, and everyone was in bed. I had a quiet hour to look at my loaned treasure. Later I’d make some notes, even catalog the contents if they turned out be useful. Or even better, important. For tonight, I would just browse. There are people who call Vogue or Architectural Digest eye candy, but to me, this was better candy than M&M’s any day. And I do love M&M’s.

  I laughed. Louisa was so right about the hats. There were photos of garden parties and tea parties and departures on ocean liners, and everyone wore gigantic hats. Brims were as wide as the wearers’ shoulders. They were covered with explosions of feathers or flowers or ribbons, or all three. A different style involved a crown so wide and puffed out I could not see how it stayed on a head at all.

  How did anyone wear one of these on a crowded streetcar? I had a sudden flash of a comic moment like a silent film, a lady in a crowd with a wide hat causing havoc with a Charlie Chaplin look-alike.

  And then I thought, silly me, these women did not travel on streetcars. Their private carriages had plenty of hat room. And on journeys, there were hatboxes at the top of the mountain of luggage. I saw them, right there in the photos.

  Toward the end of the book, the carriages in the background became mixed with those quaint early automobiles. The clothing styles became a bit sleeker and more tailored, but Louisa’s house looked much the same. It was built to last forever.

  I put those loose papers back in the book for now, once again grabbing them when they fell at my feet. I wandered around the first floor ordering my home. And I went from thinking about the house in the photos, to the street in the photos, to the man on the bench across that street, facing that house.

  I stopped and sat down, suddenly a little out of breath. Was that my story, the one I needed to write for Fitz? I was past the point of wondering if I should write one at all. He had convinced me. And here it was, the contrast between the beautiful facade of this house, this whole dreamy neighborhood, and real life as it is really lived. The elegant drawing rooms could conceal sad and ugly secrets. Edith Wharton told us that. And a man could die all alone on a lovely bench on a serene street. And a murder could happen next door.

  Chapter Seventeen

  When I woke up I could not shake the sense that I was on to something. It mystified me that it had taken so long.

  After all, I am a historian. I know, really know, that the lovely clothes were cared for by underpaid maids sleeping in cells and waking at dawn to start up the fires. And were made by workers who lost their eyesight embroidering or were poisoned by dyes containing arsenic.

  I know that the battles over building new houses and preserving old ones included snobbery and bigotry on both sides, and arrogance and greed to spare. Better angels were often nowhere to be seen during the infighting.

  But somewhere in my mind, there was a thought—no, not quite a thought but a feeling—that the contrast that told the story most vividly for our time was the tragic story of a forgotten man dying in this pretty, privileged setting.

  Or maybe it was my years in academia reminding me that even if visiting Louisa felt like a storybook, I damn well needed to watch out for romanticizing those misty photos.

  Louisa’s eyes were clear about the old days. My job was to be even more clear.

  I planted my brain in reality. All my other questions were hitting stone walls, but maybe this story unexpectedly taking shape was my story. It meant I needed to know more about the saddest part of it, the other man who died, the one who was not Daniel Towns.

  Sure. Using my abundant free time after my real job, my child, and my lover. Chris was at the age where she preferred me to be uninvolved, so I needed to have appropriate parental watchfulness about that. Joe was my rock before he was my love, but I needed to remember things had changed. I needed and wanted to be all in but had to fight my tendency to become distracted and scattered. I’d lived life that way for so long, I guess it had become normal.

  So. Breathe. Do my job. Be in my life.

  But surely I could squeeze in a minute to call Sierra at work, couldn’t I? To ask about contacting her friend at the nursing home? Couldn’t I? Why wouldn’t she want to talk to me?

  Or maybe I knew enough to find her myself. Her name was Willow, not exactly common. And I had her workplace.

  I keyed in the name of the care facility and added Willow. What I found was a long, annoying list of references to Willow Street and Willow Place, real locations in Brooklyn Heights. I added a string of words about “found dead” and “public bench” and browsing brought me a name. Jonathan Doe. Did that mean even the home did not know his real name?

  And finally, a newspaper story about the dead man quoted a caregiver. Willow Lief.

  No. Willow and Lief? Someone would actually give a chi
ld that name? And with it, a childhood of remorseless teasing? Yet there was a time, before my time, with a generation of children named River, Leaf, Summer and Autumn, Skye and Light and Rainbow and Saffron. Anything was possible.

  Or had she chosen it herself, later? A new name for new life choices? I thought Sierra might have.

  I would find out. Tomorrow. Tonight, dinner with my family. Paying attention where it needed to be paid. Chris updated me on the basketball team politics and produced information about a course to prep for SAT exams. I deferred on that, skeptical of extra costs. Isn’t that her school’s responsibility? I would confer with some other parents. She told me she would be in the park on Saturday, rain or shine, for a photography class assignment. I didn’t remember being so busy at her age. Or, to be honest, so ambitious.

  Joe and I caught up over an after-dinner glass of wine after Chris disappeared into her room. It was nice. Cozy, even. We stretched out on the sofa, legs entwined, Joe working on his laptop, me reading the newspaper. He agreed that the name Willow Lief was highly suspicious. We went upstairs early.

  I tackled Willow Lief in the morning. I had it all planned. Introduce myself. Mention the book I was theoretically writing. Interview her about Jonathan Doe? If I believe I have a purpose, I could make other people believe it too. That was my plan.

  I didn’t anticipate the assistant on the phone who said, “Oh, she isn’t…” then stopped and coolly said staff members are not allowed to tie up the office line with personal calls.

  I politely asked for a supervisor, and she said they did not give any information about employees, of any kind, ever.

  When I tried to justify my questions, she snapped, “You must understand, we protect both our employees and our patients.”

  “About that,” I said, and mentioned Jonathan Doe.

  “Oh. No. No, I certainly cannot talk about that. We are not allowed to discuss that with the press at all. Our attorney…” And then her frosty voice faded off uncertainly.

  “But I’m not the press so maybe you could …”

  “No.”

  And then the phone went dead after the loud sound of someone slamming down an old-fashioned handset. Was I once again being scary? She was unhelpful and even worse, unreasonable.

  It makes me angry to hear no for no good reason. All right, I am not stupid. I could guess that the facility might be in some trouble for losing a patient as they evidently did. A lot of trouble. Her attitude was not personal, but I didn’t actually care. I had a story to write and send to Fitz, and this was a piece I needed. Even if I wouldn’t know exactly why until I had the whole story.

  Could Sergeant Torres put me in touch with someone who had investigated that death? Probably. It might even be her. Would she talk about it? I had no idea. Probably not, I admitted grumpily. Why would she?

  I had work to do this morning, but I was on a roll. One more effort and then to work. I texted Sierra. “Need to talk to Willow Lief. Please help.” And then, before I hit “Send,” I added, “Counting on you.” I had turned to guilt, a mother’s necessary tool. And then I started my actual work for the day.

  I carried my phone with me to lunch, just in case. I wrote out a page of questions for her, if I ever found her. When I found her, I told myself. When.

  Finally, there she was. “Axed her to call U. On leave from job.” I threw myself into one more hour of work and then hit the keyboards again, searching for anything I might have missed about the death of Jonathan Doe. That turned out to be exactly nothing.

  This was not going well at all. Then my phone buzzed just as I was getting ready to leave. Text message coming in. “Willow here. Sierra said call. Don’t like to talk. What?”

  Text? Could I clumsily text the subtleties to someone already hostile? I stabbed in “please call.” And she did.

  By then I was too psyched and simultaneously too unnerved to calmly tell my story about who I was, a harmless scholar, and the story I was trying to write. I rushed through it all, babbling, I was sure.

  She was completely silent. I barely heard her breathing. The only thing that made an impression was when I said, and repeated, that I was not an investigator or a reporter, that I only wanted to know a little more about Jonathan Doe.

  “Not allowed to talk about patients.” She muttered it. I could barely hear her.

  Then she whispered, “But I’m gonna lose my job anyway, so ha-ha, why not? Screw their rules. Yeah.”

  I said, very carefully, “Would you like to talk right now?”

  “No, got to get out now. Where are you?”

  I told her and assured her I could get anywhere I needed to be.

  “You know the health food store on Seventh Avenue? I need to get some herbal tonics. Very stressed. Very, very. Meet me in half hour?”

  Yes, I could do that, easily. She was gone before I could ask how I’d know her.

  I was on the alert for someone Sierra’s age and style who would be on the alert for me. I was startled when a voice from across the aisle whispered my name. I hadn’t noticed her before, a woman much older than Sierra, much older than me. Actually, she was plain old. She was short and chunky, with oddly assorted drab layers of clothing, many chains around her neck and wrist, and long gray braids. Decidedly eccentric but not that unusual a look for the health food store.

  Her shrewd eyes looked me up and down as she whispered my name again and added, “Willow here. In the flesh.”

  I made a belated attempt to pretend she had not startled me.

  “Thank you for meeting me. Is there someplace you’d like to go to talk?”

  “I haven’t eaten today. Treat me to a veggie burger, and I’ll overlook the smell of cooked flesh. Any nearby place will do.”

  I made an “after you” gesture and followed her down the street to one of our many local fancy burger restaurants. It was late afternoon, early evening, actually. And she hadn’t eaten. Was she sick? Had she slept all day? Was she abusing something? Several somethings? She had that look, of something being way off.

  She ordered her burger topped with soy cheese, and then demanded of the young waiter, “What do you have in a natural drink? Herbal without added sugar.”

  He stood up straighter and reeled off a list, assuring us they were all sourced from organic producers. Willow questioned him further and made a selection of ashwagandha. I had no idea what that was and was relieved to learn they also offered soda, fully caffeinated and sugared.

  She looked me over in silence for a long time. “I can tell you need something calming, not that sugary junk. Linden tea would be a help, and valerian, especially if you have trouble sleeping.”

  This from a woman who had a tremor in one hand and eyes rimmed with red. She did not look well at all.

  Did she read my mind? Because she said, “I have self-prescribed the ashwagandha for myself. Exactly what I need to get me right.”

  She did not say another word until our food arrived. She tore into her burger, and I wondered how long ago her last meal was. At last she sat back, looking a bit more alive.

  “You bought me a meal. I owe you more than a tea prescription. What do you want?”

  “I’d like to know about that a missing man. Jonathan Doe? Sierra tells me you cared for him, before he got lost.”

  She turned a little pale and gulped down the last of her tea.

  “I didn’t know you would ask me that. I wouldn’t have come. His tormented soul is resting in peace now. At least I ask the universe for that every day. I still have that much faith.”

  I was feeling a little like Alice here, lost in a backward world. Could I anchor her to what I would call reality?

  “Tormented? Is that why he wandered off?”

  “That’s a ridiculous question. He went on walkabout for whatever reasons buzzed in his head. He had some days when he was almost in his right mind and
others when he was living on another plane of existence entirely.”

  Oh, boy. What did that even mean?

  She saw my face, I guess, because she added, more kindly, “In the medical words used at the home, he had episodes of being delusional and schizophrenic. It never mattered to me what the words were. We care for them and love them either way, try to keep them fed and clean and as well as they can be.” She closed her eyes, as if it all became too much for her. “Bastards. They blame me. Not failure of their security, oh, no. It was all me. I was with another patient. If I hadn’t been, believe me, I would have talked him right down. No one there does it like I do. But you know, they gotta have a scapegoat. Old, old ritual that is, scapegoating.”

  She looked as if she was slipping off into neverland herself. “He could be a sly old guy at times. Very clever, some of them, in their dementia, very calculating. He found a way to slip out of the building. They asked and asked me how he did it.” She smiled slyly. “I didn’t tell them a thing, because I don’t know myself.”

  I wondered what she did know.

  As if hearing the question I hadn’t asked, she said “I knew him as well as anyone could, considering that he didn’t know who he was, and some days didn’t even know who he was pretending to be. But there were times. Well, I sat with him at night and he’d be awake and we’d sit and talk. If he wasn’t up to that, I’d read him back to sleep, but some nights he’d be talking away. Some nonsense, and then something that almost made sense. Almost. He talked a lot about the old days.”

  “Did he? What old days? Tell me more, please!”

  “Yeah, well, you couldn’t always tell if old meant last week or last century. In fact, most of the time he didn’t know himself.” She leaned toward me and whispered, “But I thought he had something on his mind, those last weeks before he disappeared. He was, like, more agitated. More happy, sometimes, and then more upset. Docs said it was his dementia progressing, but what do they know? It’s us, who see them day to day, that know. Something was worrying him.”