Don't I Know You?

by Karen Shepard

  It seemed like a straightforward answer.

  McGuire came back out of the kitchen.

  “Which ones did you take?” Steven asked.

  McGuire showed him. One from the beach last summer. Another that Phil had taken on the roof just a couple of weeks ago. “Those are good,” Steven said.

  “Why don’t you and me head downstairs,” McGuire said. “Get you something to eat or something.”

  Steven shrugged and looked around. “Should I bring anything?” he asked.

  McGuire waved a thick hand. “Nah,” he said. “You can get what you need later.”

  Phil started out with them. McGuire put a hand on his arm. “Detective Adams will be taking you down in a minute; if you could just wait for him here,” he said. He called a uniform guy over and told Phil that the officer would look out for him until Detective Adams got back.

  “I don’t need looking after,” Phil said.

  Detective McGuire put his hands up. “Didn’t mean nothing by it,” he said.

  “I want to be with Steven,” Phil said.

  Detective McGuire shook his head. “Not right now, sir. Not right now.” He nodded at the officer, who held Phil’s elbow and steered him to the couch. It was gentle, like he was taking him out onto the dance floor.

  Phil looked at Steven over his shoulder. “I’ll be right up here,” he said. “If you need anything, you make them come get me.”

  Steven nodded.

  “I’m not hungry,” he said.

  “Thirsty?” Detective McGuire asked.

  Steven shook his head.

  “Well, I’m thirsty,” McGuire said. “This heat, I’m drinking my weight in Cokes.” He patted his belly.

  He looked like a detective. He had on worn black dress shoes, a sport jacket, a tie frayed at the edges. They looked like clothes someone else had picked out for him from four different closets.

  On their way out of the apartment, Steven reached into the basket on the table by the door and slipped his mother’s keys into his pocket. He held his hand around them so they wouldn’t make any noise.

  Detective McGuire pressed the down button. The elevator made its sounds. Someone was making stir-fry.

  “I love Chinese,” Detective McGuire said. “You?”

  They used to go to Moon Palace after school on Wednesdays for dumplings and shredded pork with Peking sauce. His mother was nice to the owner, so Steven got free Shirley Temples.

  “Your mom cook Chinese?” McGuire asked.

  It felt like no one had talked about her until right then.

  Steven shook his head. “She was Italian,” he said. “Mostly Italian,” he added. “Some German.” He didn’t know why he was telling him this stuff.

  “Mostly Italians like Chinese,” he said.

  Steven didn’t argue.

  “You ever go down to Chinatown for dim sum?” he asked.

  He had, once. A place with the steepest, longest escalator he’d ever been on. He nodded. “Some place with an escalator,” he said. “Near the Manhattan Bridge.” They’d been with a friend of his mother’s. A big Russian guy. When they went to restaurants, it was always with a guy.

  McGuire nodded. “I been there. That’s a good place.”

  They watched the numbers. Half of them didn’t light up anymore.

  “Amazing,” McGuire said. “Amazing how they can get all that stuff into those little dumplings.” He really seemed amazed.

  Steven’s insides felt like he had a fever, but when he touched his cheek, his skin was cool. It was like he was touching someone else’s head. He leaned his forehead against the wall of the elevator. He could feel its hum through his skull.

  “Okay?” Detective McGuire asked.

  Steven closed his eyes and shook his head.

  “You’re in a kind of shock,” McGuire said. He put his hand on Steven’s forehead under his bangs like he was checking for a fever and left it there for the rest of the ride. A few years ago, he’d had a fever of 105. His mother and the boyfriend who’d taught him to ride a bike had soaked washcloths in alcohol and tucked them under his arms.

  Manuel, his wife, Tina, and their two little girls were standing in a group outside their apartment staring. Tina ran to hug him. Her apron smelled of plantains and felt rough and worn, like the punching bag Michael from upstairs used to have. He let her hug him as long as she wanted.

  Detective McGuire tugged his T-shirt gently. “Come on in,” he said.

  “You tell them everything,” Tina said. “You tell them everything you know so they can catch this guy and let him rot in jail.”

  “Tina,” Manuel said softly, touching her arm.

  Manuel thought she was hotheaded. She thought he was too nice. Too good for his own good, she told Steven’s mother. His mother said their arguing was a sign of how much they loved each other.

  Their apartment had the same layout. They crowded into the kitchen. Detective Adams was on the phone. He sounded like he was talking to his boss. Steven wondered what Phil was doing upstairs.

  Detective McGuire poured himself a glass of water. There was coffee in the coffee pot and a full mug on the counter. The mug was blue and orange. Manuel liked the Mets. Tina liked them more. Manuel and Tina shared a coffee every night after the girls went to bed. Sometimes, if his mother was out, Steven hung out down here with them. He figured they’d had to wake the girls up. He felt bad about that. He wondered where they were waiting while their kitchen was being used.

  Detective Adams got off the phone and looked at him. “How you doing?” he asked.

  “Okay,” Steven said.

  “It’ll get better,” he said. “I know it doesn’t seem like it now, but it will.”

  He might’ve been right; he might’ve been wrong. Steven had no idea. It was a nice thing to say. People being nice to him always made his molars ache.

  Adams told Detective McGuire he’d go get Phil and that they’d use the living room. Detective McGuire said they’d stay in here.

  Adams left and McGuire sat at the table next to Steven. He pulled a bag of mini Goldenberg Peanut Chews from his jacket pocket and offered it to him. Steven took one and unwrapped it and held it in his hand looking at it. McGuire popped two into his mouth at once.

  “How ’bout we talk a little,” he said. It wasn’t a question.

  “Okay,” he said.

  He could see the detective’s notebook in his shirt pocket. He left it there.

  “Okay.” He pushed his chair back and leaned forward on his thighs. “I know this is gonna be hard, and I’m sorry we have to do any of this, but whatever you can tell us will help us catch whoever did this. And that’s what we all want.”

  Steven hadn’t been thinking about the guy at all. What was wrong with him?

  “Start at the beginning,” McGuire said. He put the bag of peanut chews on the table. “Try not to leave anything out.”

  He left out the part about the closet. He left out the touching her part. He left out feeling like a baby.

  When he got to the part about the guy in the bedroom, McGuire raised his eyebrows, and then he said, “Sometimes in situations like these you don’t think; you just do.”

  I’m a situation, Steven thought.

  “Did you recognize the guy?” McGuire asked.

  “Everyone has those sneakers,” Steven said.

  McGuire smiled. “Tell me about your mom,” he said.

  The second he said it, Steven didn’t have a thing to say.

  He wasn’t being a wise guy. It felt like whatever he said next was it. It would be who she was, the way they all remembered her.

  If she wore her hair in a ponytail for too long, she got a headache. Her feet were always sore. Sometimes she switched price tags on things they couldn’t afford. She said her waist was tiny, her hips were wide, and all her pants gapped around the waist. She rolled her socks around her hand before putting them in her sock drawer. She had vaccination marks on both her arms. She played the Who when she
was sad. She wore her mother’s wedding ring on her pinky. She had brown eyes and thick black eyebrows that she never plucked. She wore lipstick called Pink Chocolate. When she smiled, she looked like somebody famous.

  He didn’t say any of that. The peanut chew was melted. He closed his hand around it.

  “How ’bout your dad?” Detective McGuire asked. “Is he around?”

  “San Diego,” Steven said. “They’re divorced. Since I was six months old.”

  “Does he visit?” he asked.

  Steven shook his head. “Not me,” he said.

  Detective McGuire uncurled Steven’s fingers and took the melted candy. He took a handkerchief out of his pants pocket and wiped Steven’s hand.

  “I’m divorced,” he said. “I got two kids; two girls. Every Wednesday night for dinner; every other weekend.” He sounded like he was reciting a poem.

  “If I was your dad—” he said. He looked at Steven sadly.

  Steven waited for him to finish.

  “Why’d they split?” McGuire asked.

  Steven shrugged. “No one tells me anything,” he said.

  “D’your mom talk about him much?”

  “Not really,” Steven said.

  “Did he help out with the bills?” McGuire asked.

  “He pays for some of school,” Steven said. For no reason, he added, “I got a scholarship for the rest.”

  Detective McGuire seemed unimpressed; he was folding his handkerchief into quarters.

  “Must’ve been hard for your mom,” he said. “On her own in the city; raising a kid.”

  “I guess,” Steven said. “Are you gonna call my dad?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” McGuire said. “We’ll call.”

  “I don’t want to live with him,” Steven said.

  A few times, he’d looked up the number and called, daring himself to let it ring one more time before hanging up. Once, a man had answered, and Steven had frozen. “Hello? Hello?” the man had said before hanging up.

  “Why not?” Detective McGuire asked.

  Steven shrugged.

  “It must’ve been nice,” McGuire said. “Just you and your mom. That’s something you could get used to.”

  She liked white rice with melted cheddar on top. She ate and drank things Steven wouldn’t touch: millet, Postum, sprouts. Never eat French onion soup on a first date, she’d told him. French onion soup, lobster, cherry tomatoes, big pieces of lettuce. Guys dumped her more often than she dumped them. Sometimes, over a couple of years, they dumped her more than once. At the Bicentennial fireworks last month, she’d covered her eyes instead of her ears. She was tired a lot.

  It sounded like there was a party going on in the lobby. Detective Adams poked his head in the kitchen. “Must be thirty or forty people out there,” he said. “Gave a statement to the reporters.” He held up Steven’s mother’s address book. “Called the father,” he said. “He’s coming in tomorrow. Plastic surgeon.” He left.

  Detective McGuire gestured toward the living room with his head. “How long’s she been with him?” he asked.

  “A couple of years,” Steven said.

  “Huh,” he said.

  “What?” Steven said.

  He spun a peanut chew around on the table. “Nothing,” he said. “It’s just surprising they hadn’t moved in together. Two years. That’s a long time.” He leaned back and stretched his legs out, crossing them at the ankles. “She must’ve wanted to get remarried. Give you a real family.”

  “Me and her are a real family,” Steven said.

  “Sure, sure,” he said. “But I don’t know, there was something about Phil—” He ran his hand through his hair and shook his head like a horse. “Nah, I don’t know. Like he was the kind of kid who wouldn’t bring enough to share, you know what I mean?”

  Steven didn’t, but he nodded anyway. He remembered that he and his mom didn’t matter much to McGuire.

  “Who were her friends at work?” McGuire asked.

  “She didn’t really have friends,” Steven said. “Christine. Angela.” He tapered off.

  “What do you think of Phil?” McGuire asked.

  “He’s good,” Steven said. He wanted someone to tell him where he was going to sleep, and to take him there.

  “Was she seeing anyone besides him?”

  Steven shook his head.

  “He seemed kinda angry to me,” McGuire said. “He ever lose his temper?”

  One time he’d thrown Steven’s books off his shelf. Steven had done some drawings on what turned out to be important papers. Phil had called him a little shit. He’d apologized after.

  “Not really,” Steven said.

  “What about with your mom?” McGuire asked. “It might’ve been why they hadn’t moved in together. She might’ve been thinking of you,” he said.

  Once, a woman had shown up at the door when Phil wasn’t there. Steven’s mother was in the bedroom. He went to the door and looked through the peephole. The woman was pounding on the door, screaming for Phil. She had blond hair and a scarf around her neck and her coat was unbuttoned. She was screaming for him to come out, to talk to her. She was calling him a lot of things. Steven’s mother came out of the bedroom, fastening her robe as she walked. She took Steven by the shoulders and pulled him away from the door, and they both stood there in the front hall, watching the door and listening to the woman on the other side of it.

  “I don’t know,” Steven said. “I know what you’re thinking,” he said. “I’m not stupid.”

  “Of course you’re not,” McGuire said. “That’s why I’m talking to you like this, because I know you’re smart and you loved your mom and you want to help us catch who did this to her.”

  Phil and Detective Adams were talking in the other room. Every now and then he could make out something they were saying. “I don’t think so.” “Not that I know of.” “No.” “She didn’t go to bars.” “Yes.” “No.”

  McGuire leaned forward and put his hands on the table. They were big and soft-looking. “I’ll be honest with you, Steven. There was no sign of forced entry. Stabbings indicate more anger than guns. We got six stab wounds here. In cases like this, it’s almost always someone she knew, and someone she knew pretty well.”

  He had a kind of pained expression, like he was embarrassed to be talking about it. Steven felt like he was hearing what he already knew.

  “Sometimes it’s about money. Sometimes it’s about jealousy or love. Sometimes, if there’s a kid, it’s about custody.” McGuire looked up. “That’s why I was asking about your dad,” he said.

  “My dad didn’t want me,” Steven said. “They didn’t fight about money.”

  McGuire shook his head slowly. He was like a bear doing a trick. “Dads,” he said. “Sometimes they don’t know what they want.”

  Outside, people coming home from the bars. There was laughter. Something hit a garbage can. Steven felt bad for wanting to go to bed so much.

  “You’re sure that bracelet was hers?”

  “She had a lot of bracelets,” Steven said.

  McGuire nodded. “Did she drink?” he asked.

  “Sometimes,” Steven said.

  “What did she like to drink?” McGuire asked.

  “I don’t know,” Steven said. “Kahlua. Sometimes she let me make Kahlua milk shakes.”

  McGuire smiled and pulled out his notebook.

  Sometimes she gave herself B-12 shots for the hangovers. It was okay, she always told Steven. She was a nurse.

  It sounded like someone was walking around in the living room. He closed his eyes and tried to remember better the sounds the guy had made in her bedroom.

  “We were gonna move in with Phil,” Steven said.

  “Oh?” McGuire said. “So I guess I was wrong.” He smiled. “Sometimes I am. Not often, but sometimes.”

  “In a different town,” Steven said. Someone she knew, he thought. He thought of all the people they knew. He imagined someone doing that to her.


  “You okay?” Detective McGuire said. “Getting tired?”

  “We were gonna live in a town,” Steven said.

  “Sounds good,” McGuire said.

  Someone she knew had done that to her. The guy he’d seen was someone she knew.

  “We were all really happy about it,” Steven said.

  McGuire nodded. “You should be,” he said.

  Detective Adams came in. “You about all done?” he asked.

  McGuire stood up. He held the edge of the table like he was thinking about lifting it.

  “Where’s Phil?” Steven said.

  “I told him to go home; get some rest,” Adams said. “We all need some rest. He said he’d call you in the morning.”

  “Where do I go?” Steven asked.

  Adams checked his notebook. “Christine Mahoney?”

  Christine from the hospital. Another nurse. His mother always listed her under Person to Contact in the Case of an Emergency.

  “She’s on her way,” Adams said.

  “C’mon,” McGuire said, “we can wait out on the stoop. Get some air.”

  The lobby was empty. There was no one on the street. Steven had no idea what time it was. It was still warm, but cooler than in the apartment. Detective Adams said he’d see McGuire back at the precinct. He told Steven he had his condolences. He gave him his card.

  Steven and McGuire sat on the bottom step, their knees up high.

  When he walked with his mother, she would sometimes put her fingertips on the edge of his hood or the back of his collar. After a while, he knew to look ahead, knowing there’d be something she’d seen, something she was watching out for.

  “What next?” Steven said.

  McGuire rubbed his eyes with the heel of his hand. “You’ll have to go ID the body,” he said. “Someone can go with you.”

  Steven looked at the toes of his sneakers. The rubber was wearing away. He could see his socks.

  “How will you find out what you need to find out?” he asked.

  “There’ll be an autopsy; that’ll help,” McGuire said.

  Steven waited.

  “We’ll talk to her friends, to the neighbors.”

  Steven must’ve looked skeptical. McGuire said he’d rather canvas this kind of neighborhood than the East Side any day. “People hang out windows all day here,” he said.