About four o’clock, Brigitta had called him back but only to say she hoped to hear from her friend at Patelson’s office before the end of the day, and she’d be happy to share the information with him over a glass of wine and a good dinner at her place.
Her voice had sounded so hopeful he couldn’t say no. He’d told her he could stop by for a short visit and then he had to get on the road to the boys.
He’d set things straight, make a clean break, and hang his head in shame as he drove home. He’d be offering up novenas for this mess for a long time to come before any priest would grant absolution.
***
Brigitta looked at herself in the mirror and patted perfume behind her ears. Her head hurt, once again from too much wine consumed the evening before as panic had overcome her. That’s why she’d been dozing when Sean had called her the first time. Something else hurt, too, something that whimpered deep inside, sorry for herself for again being stupid. Sleeping with a man on the second date. And the first one had been a set-up by her brother. Really, Briggie. What were you thinking?
Sighing, she leaned into her vanity, propping her head up with her hands. She’d not even bothered to look for a job today. She’d felt weighted to her bed, overcome with paralyzing grief, just as she’d felt when the telegram had come about Ernie. This time, though, she was mourning the death of her dreams. She felt foolish for believing they’d come true. Independence, a home of her own, her future in her hands alone—they were gone. Diane Rivers had called her that morning, shortly after Sean’s call, in fact. Her voice had been shaky, and she’d sounded as if she’d been crying. Something to do with the baby and having to stay completely off her feet or risk losing it. So she couldn’t help Brigitta out anymore, couldn’t promise to come through because she was home for good now. She was awfully sorry….
Yes, that’s okay, take care of yourself now, I’ll be fine.
“Maybe I will be fine,” she said to her reflection. “I liked him. Really liked him. He’s kind, a gentleman, dependable.” And how he’d wanted her. It made her shiver remembering his eagerness, almost like a boy doing it for the first time, and his solicitude after the act was over. Did I hurt you… I’m really sorry for being so forward. I shouldn’t have…here, let me help you get your blouse on….
He might have regretted how it made him look to be so eager. But she was damned sure he didn’t regret how it had made him feel overall.
“I love you, Sean,” she practiced in the mirror. Yes, it was easy to say. No pricks of unease or revulsion. What were his children’s names? Danny and Bobbie? I love you, Sean. Just thinking it made her begin to feel it. She could love him. Women did it all the time. Why had Brigitta thought she could be different? It was better to just accept the way things were supposed to happen, instead of swimming against the tide. Part of her was relieved to lay down that struggle.
***
“She looked at Mr. Patelson’s files,” she told Sean hours later, uncorking some Chianti. “And couldn’t find a Lowenstein or a Lowe.”
“But I know he was a client.”
Brigitta shrugged and poured him a glass of wine, setting it on the table in front of the sofa. The room was in shadows already even though evening wasn’t yet upon them. This side of the building faced north and lost the day’s light early.
“She said that there was a big will recently. A client of Patelson’s, that is.” She poured her own glass of wine and sat next to him. “But it was a man by the name of Hill. Richard Hill, she said. Left everything he had, down to the last penny, to the March of Dimes.”
He sat up straight and patted her knee. He’d looked downcast and bedraggled when he’d arrived, as if he was afraid. She hadn’t liked that look. It meant he was uncomfortable with her, with their intimacy. Some men were like that. They wanted a woman but didn’t want to settle with the one they wanted. Gavin certainly had been that way, and she wouldn’t make that mistake again. When she’d seen that look on Sean’s face, she’d determined their talk would include a modest plea not to think poorly of her for the other night, complete with promises for a more chaste future. If that’s what he expected…
His hand stayed on her knee. Perhaps it wasn’t what he expected after all….
***
“I love you, Sean.”
Sean sat on Brigitta’s small, hard Victorian sofa, his arm around her shoulders, her head on his chest. He might have come to her apartment to break off their relationship, honorably telling her he didn’t want to lead her on, but he’d ended up doing just the opposite. Oh, he hadn’t said anything that would lead her to believe he was interested in a commitment. No, instead, he’d done it.
After she’d given him the info on Lowenstein’s real name, he’d felt lit with excitement. This was it, the first good break in the case. He now knew who the victim really was. Sure, it was a common name, but it was a name, a real one, when all they’d had before was the phony-baloney Myron Lowenstein or Mike Lowe to go with. So how had his gratitude and excitement over this piece of news shift into other forms of excitement?
He’d kissed her. She’d been so close, dammit, and she’d leaned into him and he’d said “thanks so much for this, Brigitta,” and then…
And then she’d been in his arms, and it was a whole different story. She’d started crying—for Christ’s sake, what do you do about a crying woman—telling him she’d lied about work, that she’d lost her job because of some son of a bitch boss thinking she was too smart for her own good, and then…
And then he’d kissed her to wipe away the tears. And then he’d—Christ, he couldn’t believe how little self-control he had—he’d made love to her again. Right there on the couch like a couple of nervous youngsters. It must have been his missing Mary. That had to be it. Because this second time had just proven what he’d learned after the first. He didn’t love Brigitta. When the sex was over, he just wanted to go home but fast. But now…
She twisted her finger around a button on his shirt. He really had to go. He’d told Mrs. Buchanan he’d only be a half hour late. It was past that time now. Dammit, he’d even left work a little early so he wouldn’t be late going home, risking O’Brien’s wrath by loudly proclaiming he was “chasing down a lead” as he’d headed for the stationhouse door.
Heaving a sigh, he pulled away, first kissing Brigitta on the top of her head.
“I have to get going or I’ll lose my sitter,” he said with fake cheerfulness.
“Oh…”
He stood, straightened his shirt, buckled his belt, grabbed his jacket and hat. “I know I said it before but I don’t usually…”
Brigitta stood, too, and placed a finger on his lips before kissing him. “I know. I don’t usually either. Maybe it’s best if we try not to…in the future.”
Good idea, he thought. And then he paused, searching for the right words, wanting to say they shouldn’t do anything, even see each other, in the future. But when he mentally heard himself saying those things, the words sounded like something from a person he didn’t know. He was a weak man. He’d changed this past year, he’d given up on being strong.
She saw him to the door and he promised to call her—what else could he say—before putting on his hat and leaving.
“If your sitter gives you a hard time, don’t forget, I’m available now!” she called to him as he hurried down the steps.
***
His sitter, it turned out, gave him more than a hard time. She handed in her notice. When Sean showed up nearly an hour later, delayed even further by a flat tire on Pulaski Highway, Mrs. Buchanan was weepy with rage. She’d been in her hat and coat for over an hour, she told him, fury barely contained in her clipped voice. Her Albert was going to take her to the movies that night. But now they’d missed the opening for sure. And Albert wasn’t one to reschedule things like this, so Mr. Reilly could just consider this her last day watching those beautiful, sweet motherless children. He’d taken advantage of her good nature long enough. She’
d warned him to speak with the Sisters about finding someone else. She’d told him on more than one occasion. But he hadn’t listened, and now it was too late. She would stop by to see the boys from time to time, but she was going to live her own life now, thank you very much.
Sean had the impression this was a speech she’d rehearsed in her mind many times before.
After she left, Sean sank into his living room chair with his coat still on. Danny crawled up on his lap, his thumb in his mouth, while Robby turned on the television and asked if they could have hot dogs for dinner.
“Hot dogs sounds terrific, boys.” Sean put Danny on the floor next to his brother and went into the kitchen. After he draped his coat over a chair and placed his hat on the table, he closed his eyes for a moment, wishing he had prayers left to offer up, prayers for forgiveness. And then he dialed Brigitta’s number.
“Look, I know you probably didn’t expect me to take you up on that offer…” he began with a false laugh.
Yes, she’d watch them. She’d be happy to.
—It was good they’d already met her. They wouldn’t be on edge. And they’d go to kindergarten tomorrow morning which would mean she’d only have half a day watching them.
—Don’t be silly, Sean. A half day or full day makes no difference. They’re beautiful boys. Danny and Bobbie.
—No, Robby. He thinks Bobbie sounds like a girl’s name. Don’t know why.
After arranging a time to pick her up in the morning, he told her he had to go fix dinner for them. When he hung up the phone, something akin to relief washed over him. But it was the same kind of relief he’d felt after a battle in the war. He was glad to have survived, but he knew there was more ahead.
He pulled out a pot and a package of hot dogs from the icebox. Then he popped his head around the corner of the kitchen door to ask the boys what they’d had for lunch.
They were on their bellies, elbows on the floor, heads in their hands, transfixed by the flashing black and white images on the set. Robby didn’t have any socks on and the soles of his feet were black with dirt. Danny’s trouser hems were frayed, and both boys needed haircuts.
What a selfish lout he was, thinking of what he wanted and nothing else. The boys needed a woman in their lives. He and Brigitta got along okay in one important way. What the hell else did he expect? Another Mary?
Chapter Eighteen
HE CAME IN JULIA’S OFFICE looking like the cat that had swallowed the canary, a broad grin on his face, his hands behind his back. Her immediate reaction was fear of embarrassment. Will was quite a joker, and often his idea of humor wasn’t sophisticated or even polite. What was he up to now? Linda said hello, asked him how things were going, and he just nodded to them, not saying a word.
He walked to her chair. He knelt in front of her. He held out a small velvet box, the kind that only contains one kind of jewelry. He said the words he’d already uttered, this time with an audience. Will you marry me, Julia Dell?
Linda cooed. He opened the box. Inside was a gaudy diamond surrounded by lesser stones that Julia suspected were paste. She even had doubts about the diamond, she thought with a pang of guilt.
In front of an audience, she couldn’t begin to articulate what had escaped her in the privacy of her room with her sister Helen. She blushed. She even cried, but not for the reasons Will and Linda were thinking. She wished she could run from the room.
“It’s…it’s too big.” This was true. Her finger was swimming in the large ring. “I’ll lose it if I wear it like this.”
“Aw, honey,” Linda chimed in, standing over her shoulder. “It’s easy as pie to get these resized.” She looked at Will. “You just take Julia to the shop with you and they’ll fit it to her finger.”
Will beamed. “How about tonight, Jules?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I have to visit my father….”
“You can show him the ring!” He was grinning from ear to ear, like a child proud of an accomplishment. She couldn’t crush him now, not in front of Linda.
“Yes, and Mutti, too…”
Linda congratulated her, asking when they were setting a date, and before Julia could answer, Mrs. Wilcox saved her by appearing in the doorway. Her stern look sent Will scurrying back to his office and Linda back to her desk.
“I have some good news,” Mrs. Wilcox said. “The vaccine trials are moving forward. Dr. Bodian found the problem.”
***
Sean rubbed his head and flipped listlessly through pages of the NYU yearbook. So many things were wrong about this morning that he couldn’t bear to dwell on one over another.
First, there was the physical pain of a hangover. After fixing his boys’ dinner last night, he’d cracked open the bottle of bourbon and drank a few stiff ones to forget his troubles. The booze had accomplished only one thing. It had made him so drowsy he’d fallen asleep on the couch, wrinkling his clean pants and making his neck ache.
Now his head throbbed at the temples, and his mouth felt like sandpaper even after two cups of coffee. He usually held his liquor well. But when Mary had taken sick, he couldn’t afford to be woozy or sleepy. He’d cut back to the occasional shot or the beer after work. His body was no longer used to a lot of alcohol, and it was rebelling at his drinking the night before, first the wine with Brigitta, then the whiskey on his own.
Worse was his feeling of guilt about Brigitta. She’d taken a cab to his house that morning—he’d insisted on paying the fare when she’d insisted he not pick her up. And she’d looked so eager and cheerful that it had pierced him to realize he didn’t feel the same way. He was happy, sure, that a decent woman was helping him out. But seeing her in the cool morning light had just made it all stand out in stark contrast—that is, his lack of feeling for her.
Well, that wasn’t true. He had some feelings. She’d worn blue trousers that had hugged her ample hips, and a white sweater that had embraced other curves. Those things stirred feelings. But good lord, those were feelings he was trying to quell as far as she was concerned. Sal’s sister. Shit. If it were anyone else, maybe…
No, not maybe. Who was he trying to kid? He wasn’t that kind of guy, the ones who ran off after women like dogs in heat. Unbeknownst to anyone but himself, Mary had been the only woman Sean’d ever lain with. During the war, when buddies had gone off to brothels or started “seeing” French or German broads, he’d stayed true. He and a bunch of other married saps had formed something like an unnamed club, playing cards, reading, writing letters home when other guys were out carousing.
Brigitta was a nice woman, more attractive than most, smart, talented, sexy as hell, but there was something about her, an edge, that didn’t call out to him. That, in fact, repelled him a little when he wasn’t being tempted by her other charms. That made his loneliness without Mary ache even more. That was it—seeing Brigitta this morning had made him miss his Mary in new ways, had pricked open still-raw wounds. He couldn’t stay with a woman who did that to him, no matter what he told himself.
“Big news,” Sal said as he wandered in. He hung up his hat as their boss O’Brien stood at the corner of his door, looking pointedly at his watch. Sal glanced over to him. “Interviewing witnesses!” he yelled, loud enough for the whole floor to hear. Sean cringed. O’Brien frowned and went back to his desk.
“What big news?” Shit—had Brigitta told her brother the two of them had gone at it?
“I stopped by Jansen’s house.”
“Talked to him again?”
Sal chuckled. “Hell, no. But his door was ajar….”
Sean smiled.
“…so I let myself in.” He took off his jacket and draped it over the back of his chair. “Did a quick search and discovered that our fine doctor was married and divorced.”
Sean sat up, reached for the file on Jansen and gave it a quick once-over. “That’s not in his personnel file. They usually list those things.”
Sal continued. “He has a couple photos of his ex-wife. Didn’t see any pic
tures of kids, though. And I came across the divorce decree in a case in his closet.”
“That just happened to be open?”
“Yeah, imagine that!” Sal handed Sean a slip of paper on which he’d written the particulars. Irene Brodie Jansen. Married June 1934. Divorced January 1936. New York.
“That didn’t last long,” Sean said, pointing to the dates. “Wonder if we can reach her.”
“I was going to try the New York operators, check for her under her maiden and married name.”
“Hope she didn’t remarry.”
“Yeah, well.” Sal reached for the phone.
“We’ve got something else big, too. Richard Hill is our victim’s real name. Not Lowenstein.”
Sal’s eyes widened and he grinned. “Brigitta helped you get through to Patelson.”
“Yeah. There’s no record of a Lowenstein’s will in Patelson’s office. There is one for our Richard Hill. He left everything to the March of Dimes.”
Sal pointed to the yearbook. “You find anything in that?”
“Nothing but the wrong Dr. Lowenstein.” He flipped back to the beginning. He forced himself to focus on the black-and-white photographs before him, formal pictures of serious-looking doctors all aligned as mug shots across the page. Sal glanced over at it.
“What about the students? You look at their photos?”
“There are hundreds of ’em,” Sean groused. And they all looked alike, too, staring at the camera the same way as their professors….
And because of their similarities he hadn’t noticed the very ordinary name under the very ordinary man the first time through. But this ordinary man had a familiar face. And now a familiar name. Richard Hill, smiling benevolently at the camera, a man who looked untroubled and optimistic. Sean jabbed at the picture.
“Here’s our victim,” he said excitedly, looking up at Sal. “Richard Hill, M.D. Specialty: virology.” He slid the book over to Sal.
LOST TO THE WORLD Page 20