* * *
The hospital looked different than it had the day before, busier, more structured, as if it had acquired a sense of purpose. Perhaps part of the difference was that I entered through the front doors instead of the emergency entrance and had to play twenty questions at the Information Desk before I was allowed upstairs.
The other reason, of course, was that it was Monday, and hospitals, like all other businesses, sprang to life after the silence of the weekend.
I took a clunky old elevator to the third floor where Epstein’s room was. I wanted to see him first because part of me wasn’t certain he was going to make it through the night. The cautious way the doctor and the surgeons had spoken about him made me worry that more was wrong than they were letting on.
His room was halfway down a long corridor. It was a quiet wing; even the overhead speaker, announcing doctors’ names and codes, seemed muted. No one appeared to stir in their rooms, although a number had televisions on. The hospital smell—sickness mixed with cleaning solvents and greasy, unappetizing food—was nearly enough to drive me out of the building.
But I finally found the door with the right number and wasn’t surprised to find Mrs. Weisman inside, her purse on the end table and an unopened bag of knitting beside her chair. Someone had pulled the privacy curtain closed behind her, and against that yellow backdrop, she looked even frailer than she had the day before.
I cleared my throat as I walked into the room. The medicinal smell was stronger here, along with a faint trace of urine.
“Mr. Grimshaw!” she said with real pleasure. Even though we had exchanged first names, we seemed loath to use them.
“Mrs. Weisman,” I said, grabbing a chair from the far wall and placing it beside hers. “How is he today?”
So far, I had managed to avoid the immobile figure on the bed, but as I asked the question, I looked down. Epstein’s face was wrapped in gauze, with extra bandages over his left eye. His right peeked out, closed, his long lashes resting on the white material. Part of his forehead remained unbandaged and his hair cascaded over the pillow, giving the impression that he was a young girl instead of an adult male.
Intravenous tubes were taped to the inside of his elbow, and a drip unit sat near the wall. The call button was within reach of his right hand, but looked like no one had even tried to touch it. His knuckles were scraped, a detail I hadn’t noticed the day before. He must have tried to defend himself.
“They’re keeping him sedated,” she said. “The longer he remains still, the better off he is.”
I nodded as I sat down beside her.
“They said they’d call me before they woke him up, but I couldn’t sit home and just wait.”
“I understand.” I took her hand and patted it.
“I don’t know what we would have done without you, Mr. Grimshaw,” she said.
“You’d have found a way.”
She shook her head. “There’s no phone upstairs. I keep going over and over this in my mind. What if I had come down and you hadn’t been there? What then?”
“Both men were busy. They wouldn’t have noticed you. You could have gotten out.”
“But would I? That’s what I keep wondering.”
I took her hand. It felt small beneath mine. “Focus forward. Saul’s going to need your help for a while.”
“For a long while.” She shook her head. “They’re still not sure about his eye. We have to wait until he wakes up, and even then we might not know for a while. I’m so afraid to tell him that he might lose it, Mr. Grimshaw. His photography is what he lives for.”
I wasn’t sure how much effect losing an eye would have on a photographer. Perhaps not a lot for a photojournalist, but some of those shots I had seen were artistic. The loss of an eye might make a difference there.
I looked at Epstein, so small beneath the covers. He hadn’t been a big man as it was. The fact that he survived such a beating was a testament to something, although I wasn’t sure what.
“What have the police found out?”
Mrs. Weisman’s lips thinned, an expression I was beginning to learn was one of disapproval. “They’re charging the boy who beat my Saul with aggravated assault and breaking and entering. They may add more charges later. But he won’t say who his friend was, and now he has a lawyer, so he’s not talking to anyone.”
The news didn’t surprise me. I had expected the lawyer almost immediately. Not that it mattered to me. The boy had become inaccessible to me the moment he went into police custody.
“Does he have a name?”
“Gilbert Mattiotti. Apparently they call him Bruiser.”
“Why doesn’t that surprise me,” I said.
“That was my first thought.” She plucked at the blanket with her free hand.
“No discussion of motivation?”
She shook her head once.
I wished I’d had the opportunity to talk with Bruiser Mattiotti. I had spent the night wondering if these two were the ones I’d been searching for—although the beatings didn’t seem to fit. Foster’s murder and the matching murders of the young boys had a cleanliness to them, a precision.
Still, I wanted to question him about it. I only hoped I got to the second perpetrator before the police did. If I didn’t, I might have to enlist Truman Johnson’s help sooner than I’d expected to.
“I tell you what,” I said, squeezing her hand and then letting go, “I want to see Elaine, but when I’m done, I’m coming back here and dragging you to lunch.”
“I don’t want to leave—”
“You won’t leave the hospital. I’ll suffer through cafeteria food for the honor of your company.”
She smiled. “You’re such a flatterer, Mr. Grimshaw.”
I smiled back and stood. “I’ll take that for a yes.”
A bit of the old twinkle returned to her eyes, and I was glad to see it. I left, promising to return shortly.
Elaine was on another floor. Her room wasn’t as nice, but she had a window and Epstein did not. Of course he wouldn’t have had any use for it yet, and I shuddered, thinking about his eye.
The bed closest to the door was empty and had been stripped of its sheets. The smell of bleach was strong in the room, and the window was open slightly to compensate. It was chilly inside, but someone had tucked two extra blankets around Elaine’s bed.
Her television set was on, blaring a soap opera, but she didn’t seem to be paying attention. Instead, she stared out the window at the gray Chicago skyline.
“Elaine?” I said as I took the seat beside her bed.
She blinked, then sighed, turning toward me. The right side of her face was covered with small stitched wounds. She looked like a doll that had been shredded, a doll that some well-meaning parent had tried to sew together in vain.
There was no smile or relief when she saw me. Just a bleakness that hadn’t been in her eyes two days before.
“I’m sorry for yesterday.” Her voice was raspy, and her words surprised me.
“Sorry? You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“I’m not usually clingy.”
“You’re not usually attacked by a complete stranger.”
She nodded, as if dismissing my words, and then said, “Mind turning down the sound?”
I grabbed the volume knob and twisted it all the way down.
“What were you doing there yesterday?” She was covered to her chin. Not even her hands were visible. I thought I had seen them as I walked in. I got the sense she had covered up while my back was turned.
“I had a meeting with Saul.”
“Oh,” she said with disinterest. “You were the meeting he wanted to come home for.”
“Is that why he drove you there?”
She shook her head slightly. “He was running. He just didn’t know where to go. He wasn’t thinking it through.”
“Had you ever seen those guys before?”
“You and the police.” Her dark eyes flashed. “That’s a
ll you care about. Had we seen them before? Did I know them? What did I do to provoke them?”
“I didn’t ask you that,” I said, returning to the chair. “And I actually hadn’t intended to ask any questions at all, just to see how you were doing.”
“I’m fine,” she snapped.
“You’re still here,” I said gently.
“Five hours of surgery. They insist that I stay.” She made it sound as if she would rather be doing anything else.
“Did they reach your family?”
For the first time, a slight smile touched her face. Every movement looked painful as it tugged at the swollen wounds. “They think you’re my father.”
“I know,” I said. “I tried to tell them—”
“It’s all right. I don’t have a father, and my mother’s dead. I called my sister. She lives in Detroit. She’ll be here tomorrow to take me home.”
“Home to Detroit?”
The smile faded. “I can’t take care of myself for a while. Too many stitches. The doctor’s afraid I’ll pop them. Besides, I’ve had enough of Chicago.”
After all this, I could understand why.
She slipped a hand out from under the covers. Her palm was bandaged, and more bandages covered her arm. With her fingers, she brushed away a strand of hair.
“How’s Saul?” she asked in a completely different voice. Needy, worried. The same voice she had used yesterday when she was in shock.
“They beat him up pretty badly. His ribs are broken and so are a lot of bones in his face. They did some reconstruction, but he’ll probably need more. He might lose an eye.”
She winced. “I thought the worst thing that happened to him was the loss of that camera.”
“What camera?”
“Both, actually. Those bastards ripped the cameras off his neck and smashed them. I had to hold him back. He wanted to stay and fight then.”
I didn’t move. She wanted to tell part of this, but she didn’t want anyone to ask questions. Somehow, I understood the contradiction.
“He was crying on the drive to the house. The old one had belonged to his father.”
Anger rose inside me and I had to struggle to suppress it. Part of me believed I should be used to it by now—that vicious, unreasoning hatred that seemed to come at us just because we walked the same earth as white people. But I wasn’t used to it. I would never be used to it. And while I knew it existed, I was still stunned by it.
“You know,” she was saying, “if I had been with anybody else, we’d’ve gotten out of there the minute the guys looked our way. But I didn’t see them at first, and Saul wasn’t used to the warning signs. In the car, he told me they’d been watching us for a half an hour. You wouldn’t have let guys like that stare at us for a half an hour.”
“No, I wouldn’t.” I’d learned the look, learned how to be wary of it, learned how to dodge it.
“He didn’t know. I should’ve known.” Her eyes were dry, but her voice shook. “I’d like to see him before I go. I want to apologize.”
I leaned forward, surprised at the depth of her guilt and wishing that I knew how to deal with it. If we were in Memphis, I’d ask Henry to see her, or one of the other ministers, someone trained in the art of listening, of consoling, of counseling. But I knew no one here, and I wondered if Elaine did either.
“You think this is your fault?” I asked.
“I’m the one who knows how people are. Saul’s naïve. He was protected. I liked that about him.…” Her voice trailed off.
“You didn’t see those men,” I said.
“Not until it was too late.” She brushed her face again, and I realized that she had no hair in the way. It was a nervous gesture, something for her to do. “But I used to check, you know.”
I did know. I was always more vigilant when I was around Laura than I was without her.
“I forgot this time.” She sighed. “It was his neighborhood and the people there were so nice. I stopped worrying.”
“We can’t always prevent these things from happening, even if you were paying attention.”
She shrugged, then winced. The movement must have hurt her stitches. “I should have seen them, felt them. The things they yelled…”
I didn’t say anything.
“Saul’s not going to understand why I have to go.” Her voice was quiet.
“Yes, he will. You’re going to need help healing, just like he will.”
She shook her head slightly. “He’s so—taken with me. So serious.”
“You’re not, are you?”
For the first time, her eyes teared. “He’s nice. He’s different. I like him.”
“But he’s not the only one, is he?”
“I’m not like that!” Her voice rose. “I’m not!”
I held out my hands, trying to calm her down. “I just meant—”
“You are like the police. They think it’s all my fault. If I hadn’t let him kiss me in the park—”
“Elaine.” I said her name firmly and that caught her attention. “I know this isn’t your fault. I know it. I saw what was happening. No one asks for that. No one invites it. I wasn’t suggesting that you were.”
She struggled to grab control of her emotions, but her lower lip still trembled. She had seemed so calm that the outburst surprised me. I wondered what other emotions were lurking beneath the surface.
“All I was asking was if you had fallen in love with Saul.”
The tears filled her eyes again. “I wish I had,” she whispered. “You don’t know how much I wish I had.”
ELEVEN
ELAINE AND I TALKED a little longer, mostly about inconsequential things. I managed to get her sister’s name, address, and phone number before I left, ostensibly for Saul, but for myself as well. I wanted to keep track of her, make certain she was all right. I also wanted to talk to her sister and let her know the severity of the attack. Elaine would need someone to talk to—and if she couldn’t find that person at home, she might have to see some kind of professional to help her through. I knew the doctor wouldn’t suggest it, so I would, especially given the way her emotions had fluctuated in the short time I had spent with her.
After I left Elaine, I stopped in the emergency room. I saw Marge Evenrud, the nurse I had spoken with the night before. She waved at me, held up a finger asking me to wait, and disappeared behind a door. After a few moments, she joined me.
“Nothing yet, Mr. Grimshaw,” she said quietly. “But I did some askin’ about you, found out you’re related to Franklin Grimshaw, and how you done work for people.”
“Yes,” I said.
“They still not sure they got all that glass outta that girl,” she said in a low voice. “They watching her tonight, hoping she don’t get infected. And the police, they just treated her like dirt, thinking she ask for the whole thing, kissing a white boy like that.”
“He nearly died for it,” I said.
“And what’d he do ’cept follow his—” She waved a hand in front of her hips, the gesture almost eloquent. “So I got myself thinking, we don’t know who her attacker is or where he lives or what he was doing in the park on a Sunday. He coulda been from anywhere.”
I hadn’t thought of that, and I should have. It showed how tired and preoccupied I had been the day before.
“Ain’t no guarantee he’s even coming here. There’s dozens of hospitals in this city, maybe more.”
“I’m sorry,” I said. “That hadn’t occurred to me.”
“Well,” she said, “I got it all solved. I got friends all over the city, nurses I used to work with, folks I went to school with, and we’re all keepin’ an eye out for you. He shows up anywhere in Chicago, we got him.”
“Bless you, Marge,” I said, feeling a relief that I hadn’t expected. “That’s more than I could have hoped for.”
“Got enough white boys like that in this world. Be good to take a few off the streets.” She smiled. “I gotta be getting back, but I thought you’
d want to know. Stay by the phone. I’m wagering if the burns is as bad as you say, we’ll be hearing from him any minute now.”
* * *
After that, my lunch with Mrs. Weisman was uneventful. We purposely discussed light topics—the football season, the upcoming Davis Cup, which I’d learned more about thanks to Arthur Ashe’s great year, and our worries about the country after the recent election. We never mentioned the attack or its consequences, and she seemed more relaxed when I said goodbye to her half an hour later.
The address Jane Sarton gave me turned out to be right across the street from Lincoln Park. The neighborhood was old and run-down, though it had clearly been upscale once upon a time. A handful of respectable business remained—a dress shop, a Nordstrom’s department store, a once-classy restaurant.
But not half a block away were head shops and adult bookstores, business offices that were now empty or had posters advertising rock concerts in their windows.
The last time I had seen this neighborhood, it had been overrun with hippies and college students, all protesting the war. Now the park seemed empty. No one walked its brown grass, and unraked fall leaves blew across the deserted streets. I wondered where Elaine and Saul Epstein had gone to neck, if the area was private as so many areas in the park were, or if it was as public as the curb across the street from me. Not that it mattered. What mattered was that someone saw them.
The address turned out to be a realty office. The sign above the store, manufactured in the 1920s at the latest, read S&S REALTY, promising me excellent service at excellent prices.
I pushed open the glass door and was hit by a wave of heat, followed by the scents of Emeraude and cigarettes. A beige carpet that had seen better days covered the floor of the waiting area, and an elderly white secretary guarded the big desk that stood in front of the doors leading to the realtor’s offices.
Somehow I’d had the sense that Jane Sarton was a woman who didn’t work, who had Friday afternoons free to meet her lover because she was a stay-at-home wife. The address prepared me to meet a white woman, but it hadn’t prepared me for this ancient business, the feeling as if I’d walked into someone else’s past.
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