She says, “Can I help you?” After getting an eyeful of me, she closes the front door a bit, hiding behind the slab of wood. I don’t blame her. I don’t exactly have a face for the door-to-door gig.
I say, “Yes, hi—um, are you Mrs. Sullivan?”
“No, I’m her Aunt Patty.” She wears a light blue dress with white quarter-sized polka dots, and a faux-pearl necklace hangs around her neck. I know the pearls are fake because they’re almost as big as cue balls.
Aunt Patty. Doesn’t everyone have an Aunty Patty? I give her my best opening statement. “My late father was an old friend of Brendan’s. He grew up with Brendan in Southie. When I heard of his passing and the arrangements, saw I wouldn’t be able to attend the wake or the funeral, I felt compelled to come down and give my family’s condolences in person.”
I hope that’s enough to win over the jury. I look at her and see conflict. Aunt Patty doesn’t know what to do. Aunt Patty keeps looking behind her but there’s no one there to talk to, no one to make the decision for her. She’s here to cook and clean and help keep the grieving widow safe from interlopers and unwanted distractions. She’s here to make sure that grief happens correctly and according to schedule.
I know, because Ellen has been part of so many grief squads in Southie that she might as well register as a professional and rent herself out. Maybe Ellen does it to remember Tim and grieve for him all over again or she’s trying to add distance, going through a bunch of little grievings to get over the big one.
I say, “I’ve come a long way. I won’t stay too long, I promise.”
That cinches it. Aunt Patty gives me a warm milk smile and says, “Oh, all right, come in. Thank you for coming.” She opens the door wide behind her.
I’m in. I say, “You’re welcome. Thanks for letting me in. Means a lot. Is Janice doing okay?”
“About as well as can be imagined. She’s been very brave.” Aunt Patty shuffle-leads me through the dining room, our feet making an odd rhythm on the hardwood floor.
It’s dark in here. The shades are drawn over the bay windows. The house is in mourning. It’s something I can feel. Sullivan died somewhere in this house. Maybe even the front room. Gun under his chin, bullet into his brain. Coerced or set up or neither, this is serious stuff. I can’t screw any of it up.
There are pictures and decorations on the walls, but it’s too dark to see them. There are also cardboard boxes on the dining room table. The boxes are brown and sad, both temporary and final.
Aunt Patty limps, favoring her left side, probably a hip. When her hip breaks, she won’t make it out of the hospital alive. Yeah, like I said, I’m in a mood.
She says, “What’s your name?”
“Mark. Mark Genevich. Nice to meet you, Aunt Patty.”
“What nationality?”
“Lithuanian.” Maybe I should tell her what I really am: narcoleptic. We narcoleptics have no country and we don’t participate in the Olympics. Our status supersedes all notion of nationality. We’re neutral, like the Swiss, but they don’t trust us with army knives.
She says, “That’s nice.” My cataloging is a comfort to her. I’m not a stranger anymore; I’m Lithuanian.
The kitchen is big and clean, and bright. The white wallpaper and tile trim has wattage. Flowers fill the island counter. I fight off a sneeze. There are voices, speaking softly to our right. Just off the kitchen is a four-season porch, modestly decorated with a table for four and a large swing seat. Two women sit on the swing seat. The hinges and springs creak faintly in time with the pendulum. One of the women looks just like Aunt Patty, same dress and pool-cue necklace. The other woman does not make three of a kind with the pair of queens.
Patty and I walk onto the porch. The swingers stop swinging; someone turns off the music. The vase of flowers is a dumbbell in my hand.
Aunt Patty says, “That’s my twin sister Margaret and, of course, the other beautiful woman is Janice. This is Mark Genevich?” I’m a name and a question. She doesn’t remember my opening statement or my purpose. I need to fill in the blanks and fast. I’ve never been good under pressure.
I open with, “I’m so very sorry for your loss.” And then I tell Janice and Aunt Margaret what I told Aunt Patty. Janice is attentive but has a faraway smile. Aunt Margaret seems a bit rougher around the edges than her sister. She sits with her thick arms folded across her chest, nostrils flared. She smells something.
Janice is of medium build and has long straight hair, worn down, parted in the middle, a path through a forest. She looks younger than her front-page husband but has dark, almost purple circles under her eyes. Her recent sleeping habits leaving their scarlet letters. Most people don’t like to think about how much damage sleep can do, evidence be damned.
Janice says, “Thank you for coming and for the flowers. It’s very thoughtful of you.” The dark circles shrink her nose and give it a point.
I give Janice the flowers and nod my head, going for the humble silent exchange of pleasantries. Immediately, I regret the choice. I want her to talk about Brendan but she’s not saying anything. Everyone has gone statue and we sit and stare, waiting for the birds to come land on our shoulders and shit all over us.
My heart ratchets its rate up a notch and things are getting tingly, my not-so-subtle spider sense telling me that things aren’t good and could quickly become worse. Then I remember I brought the picture, the picture of Brendan and the boys. I focus my forever-dwindling energies on it.
I ask, “Did Brendan ever talk about my father?” For a moment, I panic and think I said something about Brendan and my mother instead. But I didn’t say that. I’m fine. I shake it off, rub dirt on it, stay in the game. I reach inside my coat and pull out the photo of Tim, the DA, and Sullivan on the stairs. It’s still in the frame. Its spot on Ellen’s windowsill is empty. “That’s Brendan on the left, my father on the right.”
Patty squeezes onto the swing seat, sitting on the outside of her sister. I’m the only one standing now. It’s noticeable.
Janice says, “I don’t remember your father’s name coming up. Brendan and I had only been married for ten years, and he never really talked much about growing up in Southie.”
It’s getting harder not to be thinking about Ellen and Sullivan sitting in a tree as a slight and gaining maybe. Goddamn Brill. I say, “I understand,” even if I don’t. It’s what I’m supposed to say; a nice-to-see-you after the hello.
Janice sighs heavily; it says, What am I supposed to do now? I feel terrible for her. I don’t know exactly what happened here with Sullivan, but it was my fault. And this case is far from over. She doesn’t know that things could get worse.
Janice fills herself up with air after the devastating sigh, which is admirable but just as sad, and says, “I wish Brendan kept more stuff like this around. Could I ask you for a copy of this picture?”
“Of course, consider it done,” I say.
Janice smiles, but it’s sad; goddamn it, everything is sad. We both know she’s trying to regain something that has already been lost forever.
Aunt Margaret grabs the picture with both hands, and says, “Who’s that boy in the middle?”
I say, “That’s William Times. Currently he’s the Suffolk County district attorney.”
Patty clasps her hands together and says, “Oh, his daughter is the singer, right? She’s very cute.”
“Nah, she’s a loser,” Margaret says, waving her hand. Case dismissed.
Patty says, “She’s not a loser. She sang on national TV. I thought she sang beautifully too.”
“She stunk and she was a spoiled brat. That’s why they voted her off the show,” Margaret says.
Janice, who I assume has been acting as referee for the sisters for as long as they’ve been at her house, says, “She was a finalist on American Star. She’s hardly a loser.”
Margaret shrugs. “She lost, right? We’ll never hear from her again.”
The volley between family members is quick, end
s quicker, and is more than a little disorienting. It also seems to be the end of the small talk. We’re back to staring at each other, looking for an answer that isn’t here.
I’m not leaving this house empty-handed, without knowing what the next step is, without having to grill Ellen about a tryst with Sullivan. Hopefully, the photo of the boys has bought me some familiarity chips that I can cash.
I say, “I’m sorry, there’s no good way to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it.”
Margaret says, “Come out with it already and be done then.”
“Good advice.” I pull out a business card and my PI ID and hand them to Janice, but Margaret takes them instead. “I’m a smalltime, very small-time, private detective in South Boston.”
Patty’s eyes go saucer-wide and she says, “How exciting!”
It’s not warm in here but my head sweats under my hat. I nod at Patty, acknowledging her enthusiasm. At least I’ll have one of the three on my side. I say, “Last week your husband, Brendan, came to my office in Southie and hired me.”
Janice sinks into her swing seat. Patty covers her mouth. Margaret still has her arms crossed. Janice says, “Hired you? Hired you for what?”
Christ, I probably could’ve come up with a better way to introduce the subject, but there’s no turning back now. As uncomfortable as this is, asking the questions that will haunt Janice for years to come, I owe it to Sullivan to see this through. I owe it to myself too.
I say, “Mind if I sit?” No one says anything. I grab a fold-up chair that’s leaning against a wall and wrestle with it for a bit; the wood clacks and bites my fingers. I’m sure I look clumsy, but I’m buying some time so I can figure out what I can and can’t tell her. It doesn’t work.
I say, “The hard part is that I don’t think I can tell you much until I figure it all out for myself.”
Margaret says, “He’s a crock. This guy is a phony. He’s trying to get something out of you, probably money. Let’s call the police.”
Patty says, “Stop it, he’s a real detective.”
“How do we know that? How do we know anything about this man? That picture doesn’t prove anything. Might not even be Brendan in the picture,” Margaret says, building up steam, and a convincing case against me.
Patty is horrified. She says, “Look at his card and ID. He’s going to tell us something important, right?” Patty leans out toward me. To her I have the answers to life somewhere inside my coat. I only keep questions in here.
Margaret ignores her sister, points a worn-tree-branch finger at me, and says, “Shame on you, whatever it is you’re up to. Janice is a good woman and doesn’t deserve to be put through anything by the likes of you. I’m calling.”
I say, “Whoa, take it easy, Auntie Margaret. I’m telling the truth and I’m not here to hide things from Janice, just the opposite. I don’t know how everything fits together yet, and I don’t have all the puzzle pieces either. What I’m hoping is that you”—I turn to Janice—“can help me.”
The sisters argue with each other. They have their considerable arms folded over their chests and they bump into each other like rams battling over territory. The swing seat complains and sways side to side, not in the direction the swing was intended to go. I yawn and hope nobody sees it.
Janice says, “Wait, wait. Stop!” Her aunts stop. “Are you really the son of Brendan’s friend?”
“Yes. And what I’m working on, what Brendan wanted me to figure out, is something from the past, the long past but not gone, and I think it involves both men in that picture, my father and the DA.”
Janice says, “I already told you, I don’t know anything about Brendan’s past, never mind anything about your father and the DA.”
I resist telling her that I know very little about my father’s past and less about my own mother’s present. I say, “That’s okay. I think you’ll still be able to help.”
Margaret is shaking her head, silently tsk-tsking the proceedings. Patty has wide eyes and nods her head, yes. Janice is stoic, unreadable as a tabloid.
I say, “Janice, may I ask you some questions? Then I promise to tell you and show you what I know.”
Janice nods. “Okay.”
“How did you meet Brendan?” I start off with an easy question, get her used to talking about her and him, get her used to being honest and thinking about Brendan as past, maybe as something that can’t hurt her, or can’t hurt her much.
Janice cooperates. She gives a summary of their too-brief history. Her voice is low and calm, soothing, as if I’m the one who needs cheering up. Brendan was a truck driver and they met at a diner in New Hampshire. They sat next to each other at the counter. Janice worked at a local park, part of an environmental conservation and preservation team. They were married two months later, moved to Provincetown shortly thereafter, spent the last bunch of years bouncing around the Cape in accordance with Janice’s varied environmental gigs. They loved the Cape and were going to stay forever, grow old, would you still need me, feed me, and the rest of the tune, happily ever after. . . .
Margaret is slapping me in the face, shouting. “What’s wrong with you? Are you asleep? Wake up.”
Patty hangs on her sister’s arm, the nonslapping arm. “Stop it, Margaret, you’ll hurt him!”
“I’m awake. I wasn’t asleep. Jesus! Stop hitting me!” The old and familiar embarrassments swell, filling me with anger and hate for everyone, myself included. Makes me want to lash out, lie, share my poison with anyone around me. God help the person who finds my continued degradations and humiliations funny.
The twin aunts retreat to the kitchen, arm in arm, their cranky-hipped limps fitted together like the gears in a dying perpetual motion machine. Janice crouches at my feet. She says, “Are you okay? You just slumped in your chair. It looked like you passed out.”
“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I stand up, stumble a bit, but get my legs under me. I rub my face with my hands. If I could take my face off, I would.
Janice stands next to me, her hand on my elbow. It’s a light touch, and comforting, but it’s all I can do not to flinch and pull myself away. The twins come back. Margaret sits on the swing and has the cordless phone in her hand. Patty has a glass of water, which I assume is for me, until she takes a sip.
I swallow some air, willing the oxygen to do its goddamn job and keep me working right. “Sorry, I’m narcoleptic.” I say it under my breath, the words cower and hide, and hope that only Janice hears my quick and unexpected confession.
Margaret says, “What?” Of course she heard me. She says it loud, like she’s responding to a lie. This is not a lie.
I say, “I have narcolepsy.” That’s it. No explanation.
Patty appears at my left side like a spirit. “You poor dear. Drink this.” There’s lipstick on the glass. My job is so glamorous.
I say, “Please, everyone sit back down. I’m fine. It happens all the time and I know how to deal with it. I know how to live with it.” I give back the community water. The women stare and investigate me. My status changing from potentially dangerous intruder to vulnerable afflicted person might just help my cause here.
I say, “Look. My narcolepsy is why I need to ask you questions, Janice. When Brendan came to my Southie office I fell asleep, like I did here, but not exactly like I did here because I probably looked awake to Brendan, did some sleep-talking and -walking like I do sometimes: automatic behavior, they call it.” I stop talking and wave my hands in front of my own face, cleaning up the mess of words. “Anyway, I was out when he was in and all I’ve been able to piece together is that Brendan wanted me to find something, something that relates to my father and the DA.” I pause and point at the picture again. It pays to have props. “I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to find because I was asleep, and Brendan died before I could find out.”
There. It’s out. The truth as I know it and I feel fine. Everyone blinks at me a few times and I hear their eyelids opening and closing.
Patty slaps her sister’s hand.
Janice curls up her face and says, “Oh, be quiet, Margaret.”
Margaret looks at me and shrugs, like we’re commiserating, like I’m supposed to agree with her can-you-believe-these-knuckleheads-are-buying-what-you’re-selling look. Can’t say I’m all that fond of Aunt Margaret.
I say, “So, Janice, I assume you didn’t know Brendan came to South Boston and hired me.”
She says, “I knew he made a day trip to Boston, but I didn’t know anything about you.”
I nod. “I did talk with Brendan one other time. Is this a smoke-free house? Do you mind if I smoke?” My timing has always been impeccable.
Janice shakes her head and is now exasperated with me. “Yes. I mean, no, you can’t smoke in here. When did you talk to Brendan?”
I can’t tell her it was the day before he died. It won’t help anyone, especially me. I say, “A couple of days after his visit he called to check on my progress. Because I’m stubborn, I didn’t come right out and admit to him that I slept through our face-to-face. I didn’t ask him what I was supposed to find. I hoped during our phone conversation that those details of the case would just, you know, present themselves.”
Margaret says, “I take it back. He’s not faking. He’s just a buffoon.” She sets off another family brouhaha. Yeah, all this because of little old me. Janice clears the room of the battling aunts, banishing them to the kitchen.
When Janice returns to her seat on the swing, I say, “The important or odd part of our phone conversation was that Brendan seemed agitated, even paranoid. Does that mean anything to you?”
Janice turns on me quick and says, “No, that’s not the important part.” She leans closer to me and enunciates her words, sharpening them to a cutting point. “Brendan, my husband, killed himself, shot himself in the face with a gun. He was downstairs, in our basement just a few days ago when he pulled the trigger. Your saying he was agitated and paranoid on the phone is not a surprise and certainly not the important part to me.”
The Little Sleep Page 12