Getting Old is to Die For

by Rita Lakin

  These are two fine families. Hopefully, Jack thinks, someday soon both will be related by the marriage of us two oldsters. And what a plus: They already like one another. All the kids seem to hit it off. Eleven-year-old Jeremy, especially, is in heaven, being at eleven-year-old Lindsay’s house. Lindsay, with her curly reddish brown hair and face full of freckles, looking sweet in pink, has obviously dressed up for him.

  Earlier fifteen-year-old Patrick showed thirteen-year-old Jeffrey the cartoons he’d drawn. He hopes to make it big in that field. Jeffrey is impressed with this boy, two years older than he is, who already has career plans. The missing Levinson children are Elizabeth and Erin, twenty-one and nineteen, respectively, both away at college. Jack already knows about them—Gladdy boasted like a good grandma should—but he listens again patiently as the proud parents report that Elizabeth is majoring in dance, with a focus on ballet, while Erin is studying to be a vet.

  The husbands immediately find they have much in common: Alan, a doctor; Dan, a lawyer. At one point they get into a spirited conversation about medical liability laws. The women have their careers to discuss, as well. Emily is a school counselor; Lisa is a clinical psychologist. They, too, have a lot to share with one another. There is much exchanging of war stories. Lots of good wine flowing. Laughter. A perfect evening.

  Only one thing is missing: Gladdy. Her name comes up over and over with “I wish Mom were here,” from Emily, and “I wish she were, too,” from everyone else. And on all the adults’ minds is the reason Jack is in New York.

  Jack knows he will get hell from Gladdy when she finds out. How could he have done this without her? He feels plenty guilty about it. Not only has he arranged this behind her back, he hasn’t even called to let her know. Even worse, he’s already asked her family to keep his presence here a secret, making them all feel uncomfortable. It’s left unsaid this evening, but all of them know how much is at stake.

  The lemon chicken with wild rice is a big success, but Emily’s homemade blueberry cheesecake is the topper. By the time they are having coffee, the kids are already immersed in the TV. Baby Molly sleeps sweetly in her carrier.

  The phone rings. Emily, still laughing, goes into the kitchen to answer. From the dining room, they hear her say, suddenly loudly, “Mom. What a pleasant surprise.”

  All talking stops. They can all see her from where they are sitting. “How are you?” Emily asks.

  “Just fine, that’s good.” Emily can tell she’s lying. “I’m so glad you called, Mom. I was thinking of you tonight.” Jack looks at her. Emily shrugs as if to say, well, aren’t we, as a matter of fact.

  “The kids? The kids are good.” Emily blanches. She closes her eyes and says carefully, “I know they’d love to talk to you, but they have play dates over. Should I disturb them?”

  Emily feels miserable. She knows the kids wouldn’t be able to keep their secret. She gives Jack a woeful look. Jack bows his head. He’s causing her family to lie for a man they hardly know.

  “No, I’m not busy,” Emily continues. “Just finishing dinner. I made my favorite one of

  your recipes, the lemon chicken Yes, lots of onions I’m glad you called, Mom I’ll talk to you again in a few days.”

  Emily hangs up.

  There’s a chilly silence. Jack stands when she returns to the dining room. “I’m so sorry.” Their discomfort is clear. “I think I’d better leave now.”

  Lisa and Dan get up, too.

  Jack tries to stop them. “Please, no, stay. I don’t want to spoil the party. Please.”

  Lisa insists, “Your grandchildren need their sleep.”

  A chorus of “No, not yet” comes from the happy, wide-awake kids in the living room.

  There’s an exchange of good nights.

  Emily walks Jack to the door. She kisses him on the cheek. “My father was a hero. I think you’re one, too.”

  Jack manages a weak smile and leaves.

  FINALLY A LEAD

  Jack waits in the back of the Carnegie Deli on Seventh Avenue. It has always been a favorite of his even though the seats are cramped together and diners are forced to sit, practically touching shoulders, with total strangers. The aisles behind the seats are so narrow the waiters have to hang over the customers to serve them their meals. Sometimes a hot plate of food comes dangerously close to causing a calamity, but even though they are always moving fast, those waiters never miss. At least as far as he knows, they haven’t.

  In the old days it was a big hangout for the famous stars of the New York theaters. Their black-and-white photos still crowd every inch of every wall. Many look old and faded. Now the restaurant exists mostly for tourists. And the prices reflect it. To give them a reason for the astronomical prices, the size of a typical sandwich could feed a family of seven. A human mouth couldn’t open wide enough to get a full bite. But it’s a trip down memory lane for Jack, so it’s worth it.

  Jack orders a diet tuna salad plate. In the old days that order would have prompted derision from one of the big burly waiters. “What are you—a wuss?” Now, no one cares. Everything changes, Jack thinks with a sigh.

  It’s ten-thirty A.M. Just after the breakfast crowd and slightly before lunch. Sitting in the very last row of adjoining tables, he figures he has a little time before it gets crowded. He takes out his file again with his notes on Patty Dennison. Hoping if he rereads, maybe he’ll find something he missed.

  There’s a contact number for Patty’s family, so old it still has two letters in front of the numbers. MU. He remembers; that was a Murray Hill exchange, but the letters are long gone.

  Detective Tim Reilly arrives. “Glad you could make it,” Jack says.

  “Yeah, but why here? I can’t afford this place.”

  “For old time’s sake. Eat light.”

  “Shucks, and I thought you were treating me.” They both laugh. “Anything useful in the files?”

  “Nothing much.”

  “That’s a really cold trail, buddy.”

  “I know. But I have to try.”

  “You might be in luck. I got a lead for you. There was a newspaper guy worked for the Daily News back then—Milt Paxton? Do you recall?”

  “Rings a bell. Wasn’t he a reporter who used to drive everybody crazy? Is he still around?”

  “Sort of.”

  Jack feels this could be something. But he doesn’t want to get his hopes up.

  The waiter comes over, pad in hand. Tim orders a pastrami, bacon, and turkey sandwich on rye with Thousand Island dressing, with fries and onion rings.

  “That’s your idea of light?”

  “You said light. I didn’t say I agreed. Besides, I get to eat the leftovers for three days.”

  “What about Paxton?”

  “I remembered he was hot on your lady friend’s case. The word was he kept trying to follow the Dennison girl around to get her story. In fact, he was such a pest, her family got a restraining order. He might have a notion where she went.” With that Tim takes out a scrap of paper with a phone number. “He’s living with a niece on Long Island. Hopefully he still has all his marbles.”

  “Behind,” warns a hoarse Brooklyn accent, and both men know this is the magic word telling them to duck. Waiter behind them, with hands and arms full of plates.

  Tim’s order has arrived, and he and Jack watch how expertly the waiter extricates his food from the five other orders adorning his arms.

  Jack shakes his head at the enormity of Tim’s portion, then goes back to eating his salad. “You’ll be sorry later.”

  “I know. I’m already sorry.” Tim chomps hard on the sandwich, the dressing spilling sloppily over the sides. He leans over fast so he won’t ruin his suit. Jack laughs again.

  Suddenly there’s a rush of people hurrying in, grabbing for seats. Through the window Jack can see that they’re exiting a huge tour bus.

  Tim starts wrapping his sandwich, at the same time signaling the waiter for the check. “There goes the neighborhood. Let
’s blow this joint and eat in the park.”

  So much for memory lane.

  A MAN LOST FOREVER

  Jack hops off the Long Island Railroad line and follows the directions Milt Paxton gave him over the phone. The station is within walking distance of an older neighborhood in Syosset, tree- lined, probably once a nice middle-class neighborhood, now gone downhill. The houses look old and neglected.

  It was evident that Paxton wanted company. He refused to talk on the phone. So here Jack is, heading for a guy who might know something. Probably a wild-goose chase. But once again, he’s going on instinct. For years, this reporter hadn’t given up trying to reach Patty for a story. Even though she was incapable of speech? Jack wants to know why he persisted for so many years.

  When he reaches the address, he sees a man sitting in a wheelchair on the porch—Milt, eagerly waiting for him. On a bench next to him are opened scrapbooks. Jack bets that Milt spent the time until the train came in gathering his old articles on the case.

  Milt Paxton is in his eighties. His thin, small body doesn’t seem to move much, but his gaunt face lights up when Jack climbs the rickety steps.

  “Guess how many years it’s been since somebody came to see me? Guess. Never, that’s the answer.” That’s Paxton’s greeting to him. Before Jack can speak, Paxton yells, “Maria!”

  A harried, stringy-haired, scrawny woman about twenty years younger than Paxton hurries out with a tray holding lemonade and cookies. “I was coming out. Hold your horses, you mean old man.”

  She introduces herself as Milt’s niece. “Thanks to this old codger, I have no life. Stay a long time and give me some peace!” With that she flounces back into the house, slamming the screen door after her.

  Milt Paxton chuckles. “Don’t mind her. She loves waiting on me hand and foot.”

  “I can see that,” Jack says wryly, sitting down on the rocker next to him.

  Paxton points to his scrapbooks. “It’s all there, the Jack Gold killing. I was on it from the beginning.” Jack glances at the articles. There are Milt’s bylines, accompanied by photos taken on the scene. There’s Gladdy, holding onto her husband, refusing to let go as the EMTs try to get her to stand up. It was one thing to read the files, another to see these vivid photos.

  He can’t take his eyes off the younger Gladdy, in her early thirties, on that dreadful day. For a moment, in his mind, he’s there with her, feeling her pain. He pulls himself back to now. “I was told you kept trying to talk to Patty Dennison.”

  “Oh, yeah, I was on her like a tick on a dog. But once they whisked her away to the hospital, it got tougher. The cops weren’t letting anybody near.”

  “The files say she went into shock, couldn’t speak, and when she could, didn’t remember anything.”

  “Yeah, sure. That was the story the family gave out. I thought different.”

  Jack sips at the lemonade and winces at how sour it is. “Why? What made you think that?”

  “You know, those days we’d do anything for a hot story. You smelled a story, you went after it. These no-talents today wait ’til it’s e-mailed to them.” He spits, missing Jack’s shoe by inches. “I snuck into the hospital after midnight, grabbed a janitor’s coat and mop out of the storeroom, and made my way upstairs. There was a cop by the door of Dennison’s room. I mopped in and out of all the rooms. Thank God none of the nurses came by. When I got to her door, the cop was snoozing. I mopped my way in. Patty’s mother was sitting by her side. They were talking real quiet. Yeah, my hunch was right; the girl who couldn’t talk was a liar. The mom said, ‘We’ll go up to Auntie Leona’s house, ’til it all blows over.’ Patty was crying. ‘It won’t be far enough,’ the girl said.

  “Then the mom noticed me. ‘Get out!’ she said. ‘Now!’ The cop ran in. I kept my head down low and backed out. That girl was as coherent as you or me.”

  Jack looks at him, excited. “Then what?”

  “Then I did everything I could to get to her. Even followed her up to Fair Lawn in New Jersey, where she had family. That’s when they threw the restraining order at me. I knew damn well she was hiding the truth. I even went after her family. I went to where they worked, where they shopped, but boy, their mouths were closed with glue.”

  “Did you ever get to talk to her?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?” Jack asks, disappointed.

  “I got hit by a truck.”

  Jack looks at Paxton as if he is pulling his leg.

  “A truck carrying toilet paper. Hit right in the middle of Fair Lawn’s main drag. A stupid accident because I wasn’t looking where I was going. Ain’t that a kick in the head? Paralyzed me; been in a chair since then. That was the end of my career. You think I’d ever forget Patty Dennison?”

  Jack doesn’t know what to say.

  Maria comes back out, hearing his last words. She puts her arms tenderly around her uncle’s shoulder, and he leans into her. She looks at Jack sadly. “That’s enough to make a man mean, wouldn’t ya say?”

  “I’m sorry,” Jack says to Paxton.

  “Yeah, life’s a bitch and then you die. Some famous depressed writer who lived with his mother wrote something like that. Just as bad as living with a miserable, ungrateful niece.”

  Maria leans over his shoulder and gives him a kiss.

  He smiles sheepishly at Jack. “Kinfolks. But I kept track of Miss Patty. I knew where she was— until suddenly I didn’t. She disappeared. By then I was so deep in a world of pain, I didn’t give a rat’s ass about her anymore.” Thirsty now, he sucks at the straw in his glass of lemonade on the table. His niece reaches over and holds the glass steady for him. When he finishes, she wipes his chin, smiles, and goes back inside.

  “Your turn, Langford. Why are you here?” Now appears the sharp-eyed glance of the reporter he once was. “Why so suddenly interested in a very cold case?”

  “I hope to solve it. I want to marry Jack Gold’s widow, and my wedding present to her will be the solution of this crime.”

  For a moment Milt looks at him, and then starts laughing so hard, he begins to cough. “Hot damn!” he says. “You’re nuttier than I am.”

  Jack is not amused.

  “You really mean it? You didn’t come out here ’cause some old buddy of mine sent you to pull my chain?”

  “Tell me everything you know. Who was Patty’s family in New Jersey? Who was hiding her? Who knew what she knew and wasn’t telling? I want to pick your brains until they’re dry.”

  For a moment, Milt says nothing, then he begins to cackle. “You really mean it, you dumb son of a bitch. Okay, I’ll give you everything I got. But you gotta promise me something.”

  “Name it.”

  “Whatever you find, you share with me.”

  “Done.”

  “Who knows, I might win that Pulitzer after all.” Fie manages to wheel his chair a little closer to the front door. He yells again through the screen. “Maria, put another plate on the table, we got company for dinner! And try for once to cook something better than pig slop!”

  Jack leans back in his rocker and waits to hear what Paxton has to offer.

  STAKEOUT

  I can’t believe I stayed up half the night reading the Silverstone books in bed. Or rather skimming. There were a lot of charts and graphs and testimonials, typical for that genre of book, but the gist of it was that Linda’s daddy, Harvard, originally from England, belonged to the stiff- upper-lip school of dealing with illness. Kind of like you’re ill only if you think you’re ill. He was into the power of suggestion and laughter as a cure-all, but mostly, it felt to me, it was denial. Refuse to accept your illness and make it go away. Something like that.

  I get up to my usual routine. Put the coffeepot on, get one slice of rye bread and toast it. Then lightly butter. I glance as always at my crossword puzzle, halfway done by now, but my mind isn’t into games. I’m into real puzzles. Like what’s up with Linda Silverstone and her folks.

  Daughter Linda, I
guess, followed in Daddy’s footsteps. They’ve been in the same business for years. They collaborate on books. They each run health clinics in different cities. Seems like the family is close. So why won’t their daughter attend their very important anniversary party? What’s wrong with this picture?

  I look up the address of her clinic and wait until ten a.m. to give them a call.

  A male voice answers. I ask for Dr. Linda Silverstone.

  “State your business.” The male voice is decidedly cool.

  This throws me. I am about to say it’s personal. But I have a different idea. “I’d like to set up an appointment with her. At her earliest convenience.”

  There’s a long pause. Then, “Dr. Silverstone no longer does consultations. Can I set you up with someone else in the office?”

  That’s a surprise. Another try. “Well, I did have my heart set on her. I read Dr. Silverstone’s books.”

  “I’m sure anyone else on our staff will do. We are all partners in the same medical care program.”

  I guess I’ll have to try another approach. “I really need to see her. It’s personal.”

  Now the silence is longer. This is getting weird.

  The stuffy voice is back. “I’m sorry. Perhaps you would send her a letter stating your reason for your request. Do you have our address?”

  This is getting me nowhere. I tell him I do and I hang up. Then I reason that maybe because of her books, she gets a lot of attention. She has someone screen her calls. I can understand that, but there’s something in his tone that makes me suspicious. Something seems off.

  First stop on our way to Linda’s house is a large upscale mall not far from where we are going. Sophie and Bella can’t wait to be dropped off. Since they did the original legwork, they feel they should be excused. They have visions of dress shops and delis dancing in their heads. They get out of the car, grab hands, and do a little jump up and down. Happily, in their second childhood. I can’t tell whether they’re behaving like teenagers or two-year-olds.