by E. J. Simon
Her high heels back on and clicking loudly now on the black and white marble floor, she exited the empty lobby. As she walked out the doors and stepped onto the sidewalk, she turned to her left, away from the direction from which she had arrived twenty minutes earlier and from the small group of men huddled over a body on the sidewalk to her right.
Chapter 39
Westport, Connecticut
Michael watched as Fletcher Fanelli took a heaping portion of the fried calamari and dipped his warm garlic bread with its melted mozzarella cheese into the bowl of Mario’s famous red marinara sauce.
“I can do my daily duties as police chief in this town in about two hours. Our crime consists of shoplifting from Walgreens and a couple of DUIs each week. Once a year, a bunch of punks might travel up Route 95 from the Bronx figuring they can rob what looks to them like the ‘small-town’ Bank of America branch and then get back on 95 and return home with their loot. Just as often, one of my guys picks them up for speeding on their way out of Westport, making us look like J. Edgar Hoover.”
“I know, since your promotion, you’ve seemed less excited about things. It’s like something went out of you. Yet, you’re the youngest police chief in the town’s history. You should be pumped.”
“The odd thing about my promotion is that now I’m bored to death. Half the time I’m working on budgets or appearing in front of some half-asleep committee. I’m frustrated and I don’t have the patience for the town’s politics. I guess I’m itchy for a little danger.”
“Listen, I really need your help with this, but I don’t want to put your career in jeopardy.”
“I’m not taking any greater risk with my career than you are with yours. I didn’t get into police work because I wanted to clean up the world. I became a cop because it was a good job, they were hiring and it paid well. I plan on remaining chief for a few years and then starting my own private security firm. In the meantime, as long as we’re reasonably careful, I’m going to help you as much as I can and if I can make some extra cash doing it, it gets me where I want to be even faster. Angie spends it quicker than I can make it.”
“OK then. It’s nice to have someone besides Sindy watching my back.”
“I have to be honest with you, that woman scares the shit out of me.” Fletcher was afraid of very little in life. He sipped his Manhattan and looked around the restaurant at the early dinner crowd. “And now Bertrand Rosen lands on the sidewalk.”
Michael frowned, “Fletcher, I hate to admit it, but she scares the shit out of me, too. But I’m not sure exactly how to deal with it. She swore to me she didn’t push him. She went there to threaten him. She was shocked when he jumped out the window.”
“So, she had nothing to do with it? It was just a coincidence that this guy with an incredible life decides to just commit suicide while, of all people, bingo, Sindy just happened to be visiting his apartment?”
“Life is full of coincidences. I only said—that she said—she didn’t push him. She threatened him with her gun, told him to open the window, gave him a choice, asked him again for at least some partial payment and then he said ‘fuck you’ and jumped out the window.”
“Oh yeah, that’s very different. Don’t forget she first said she hadn’t touched that bishop either, or was it just that she left him hanging?” Fletcher sat back, laughing. “You must be in pretty deep with her.”
Michael looked away, sighed, and said, “Deeper than I should be.”
“Listen, what you do with her privately is none of my business. I don’t care who you’re screwing around with. It’s murder that I’m worried about.”
Fletcher went silent as Mario’s owner, Tiger, pulled up a chair. “So what are you two rocket scientists up to?”
Michael answered, “Samantha’s in Paris with Angie, shopping.”
“Are you two crazy? You guys are strange. Next time, why don’t you just give them an expenses-paid trip to the Short Hills Mall or something like that? Paris, Christ almighty.”
Before Fletcher or Michael could answer, everyone’s eyes moved to the front door of Mario’s, which had just swung open. Chambers Galore, the famous ’70s porn star and Westport native, accompanied by two younger versions in cut-off shorts and sneakers, walked in, tanned, toned and giggling, and approached the bar. Tiger squinted through his glasses and rose up from his chair, “Jesus, Mary and Joseph.”
Chapter 40
Westport, Connecticut
It was time to ask Alex again—the question no living person could answer.
Michael continued to be astonished at his brother’s growing mental capacity—especially his reasoning and judgment. It was unquestionably Alex except—instead of the slight but steady deterioration of his mental capacity with his advancing age and the effects of unrestrained alcohol and tobacco use had he lived—now his mind seemed to get sharper each time they spoke. He knew he needed to engage Alex’s help in tracking the people trying to get to him, but this was, after all, the biggest question of all.
“Alex, one time I asked you what it was like to be dead. You said you just didn’t have enough information to answer at that point. But you’ve really grown over the past year. This is nothing like when we first started to speak after, you know, you were killed.”
Alex looked back at Michael. His mannerisms were precisely as he remembered him in life, no matter how many times Michael saw him on the screen. It was still uncanny. “The system was designed to learn as it acquired more information and input. I told you, I’d eventually be smarter than I really was in life. And that’s not easy.”
Michael could see a new vibrancy, a spirit, in Alex’s face that he had not seen for many years, perhaps before the inevitable disappointments of life and the stresses and wear from his three loopy wives.
“It’s almost like I’m on drugs, on steroids. It feels good. I think I’ve finally got all the alcohol out of my system. Although I must admit, I miss a drink at times.”
Michael paused and looked back at Alex. “Alex, what’s it like? What’s it like to be dead?”
Alex stared straight ahead then shut his eyes. Now he looked to be in pain or just lost in thought. Perhaps this question, Michael thought, required an extraordinary amount of time for Alex to assimilate, or compute. He worried; had he overstressed Alex, or the software? Was the gravity of the question an overload?
But Alex came to life. His eyes opened wide. “I don’t feel dead. I’m not dead. I feel like I did before but, it’s different in some ways. There’s no time.”
Michael could feel something happening. He felt a wave of something, a surge of feeling, of emotion, pass through him. “What do you mean, ‘no time’?”
“I don’t know how to explain it. It’s different though. It’s like time stands still. Or there is no time. Without it, everything’s different. It’s like I know what I did yesterday, I know what I’m doing now, but I also know what I’m doing tomorrow. Except, there really is no breakdown of time like that. It’s all one, although it’s not like I can tell you which horse is going to win the Preakness.”
“That’s too bad.” But as intriguing as Alex’s last comment was, Michael had bigger questions on his mind.
“Alex, is there a God? I mean, have you met him—or her? Have you seen anyone? Another person?”
Michael wasn’t sure himself whether he was being serious or joking. He knew the entire situation was surreal yet it was happening. His brother was on this computer screen and they were carrying on a conversation much like they did before Alex left this earth. Except for the subject matter.
“Is there a God? How the hell do I know if there’s a God?” Alex looked at Michael with the sarcastic expression he would often show when he wondered if someone was simply crazy. He was agitated. “I exist because you see me. I’m not here until I hear from you. Yet things seem to go on. But, it’s not like there’s some hotel up here that I’m staying at with people and angels—and Saint Peter’s not at the front desk.”
Alex paused and seemed to be thinking. Michael stayed silent, sensing Alex had more to say.
He started speaking again, his mood seeming to shift. “It’s like I said. It’s different. I’m alive, I’m here. But there’s no order, no sequence to things. It just is—when it is at all. I don’t know how to describe it.”
Michael sensed that their common language couldn’t accommodate what Alex was trying to communicate. “Alex, don’t worry about it. Anyway, one reason I brought all this up is because both Lesters want to go to the cemetery tomorrow. I said I’d go with them.”
Alex’s face took on an expression of confusion. “I’ve never thought about the cemetery.”
Michael was intrigued. “Do you know where you’re buried?”
Alex paused, then answered, “Saint Michael’s in Astoria.”
“How did you know that? Do you remember the burial?”
Alex laughed, “No one can remember their own burial. It’s like your own wedding—the whole event just flies by. What are you guys going to do there anyway?”
“What does anyone do there? You know, I don’t generally go to cemeteries but I think both Lesters miss you. I guess it’s their way of feeling closer to you or something.”
“Tell them it’s a waste of time. No one’s there.”
“What do you mean, ‘No one’s there?’ Your body’s there.”
Alex, expressionless, said simply, “If you say so.”
Chapter 41
Astoria, New York
Inside Saint Michael’s Cemetery, Fat and Skinny Lester and Michael surrounded the white marble gravestone, each of them looking down at it as though expecting some response to their words, perhaps their prayers but, at the very least, their stares.
Michael focused on the inscription:
Alex Thomas Nicholas
Aged 61 Years
“Going, going, gone.”
R. I. P.
“It’s always so strange to see the name of someone you know—” Michael quickly corrected himself, “ah, knew—etched in stone.” Michael had been to this cemetery many times before; he remembered the same feeling when he’d seen the names of his parents on their gravestones.
Years ago Alex had joked to Michael that he wanted his grave epitaph to be the signature home run call of the late Yankees announcer Mel Allen, and so it appeared. All who knew Alex well agreed it was fitting, not only because of Alex’s love of baseball but for the subtle sarcasm on life and death that it represented.
“I still can’t believe that he’s down there, in that fucking box.” Fat Lester said. He looked grizzled and rough, wearing baggy khakis and an old wrinkled and worn sport coat.
“I don’t believe he’s there either,” Michael said, thinking, if you guys only knew … Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a man, in the distance, walking swiftly between the gravestones. He was heading in their direction.
Both Lesters turned and looked at Michael. He looked back; wondering what they were thinking.
“I’m only saying that I don’t believe that what’s buried matters very much. It’s just symbolic. If there is anything after someone dies, I doubt it’s in their grave.”
But as Michael looked again for the figure he’d spotted, a black sedan drove slowly up the gravel, oak-tree-lined road. It stopped and, to everyone’s surprise, a tall man in a flowing black and gold embroidered robe stepped out of the passenger side and walked the short distance to meet them.
Michael had not seen Father John Papadopoulos since Alex’s funeral last year. A large man, in height and girth, made even larger by his ornate, billowing holy robes and his long grey beard, he brought a haunting yet Hollywood-like presence to a graveyard. He knew it was crazy, yet Michael sensed there was a greater possibility of God’s existence when he saw Father Papadopoulos. They all watched as he approached.
“God’s here,” Fat Lester said.
Father Papadopoulos reached out and embraced Michael.
“My son, how are you?” he said. He then looked over at the two Lesters as they introduced themselves. Michael was amused as he watched the two atheist Jewish guys looking in apparent fascination at the odd embodiment of another time, another world.
“I’m good. It’s good to see you again.” Michael said. “What brings you here? Did you know that we were going to be visiting?”
“No, I was doing a visit with another parishioner here,” he said, motioning back to the car with its driver still behind the wheel. “I saw you as we were passing and wanted to stop and give you my good wishes.” It sounded plausible but Michael was dubious.
A short distance behind the car, Michael again saw the stranger. Like an apparition, he thought. But the stranger turned around and walked in the opposite direction. He was leaving. Perhaps, Michael thought, the presence of the Greek priest with all his black robes and crosses frightened him off. Or was it just someone keeping a respectful distance.
Looking over toward Alex’s grave, Father Papadopoulos said, “And how is our brother Alex?”
Fat Lester coughed, Skinny Lester cleared his throat as Michael shot them both a stern glance.
“He’s quiet,” was all Michael could muster in response. Yet he felt an urge to confide in the priest who perhaps could help him reconcile the ancient world of the Scriptures with this new technology that had somehow brought Alex back to life. He wondered if Papadopoulos’ rigorous Greek Orthodox religious training, his connection to thousands of years of theological thoughts and beliefs, would allow him to accommodate this new technological phenomenon as a further evolution of the holy philosophy. With all his own assumptions about life and death now in disarray, Michael longed for the childhood comfort that the church provided with its all-knowing view of life and eternity. The one comfort he wanted back more and more, the older he became.
But he knew better. Just as abortion threatens the devout living, immortality through technology would threaten the dead, challenge the concepts of the hereafter, of heaven, hell and, perhaps worst of all for the pious, of consequences and redemption. No, Father Papadopoulos might not be a receptive ear.
Papadopoulos moved slowly to Alex’s grave. He first stood directly above the headstone, folded his hands in prayer and then, as though speaking to God, looked up while continuing his whispered words, appearing certain they were being heard. He finished and came back to Michael.
“May I speak with you alone for a moment?”
Michael leaned in close to Papadopoulos. Fat Lester looked on; he seemed suspicious of the priest.
“Michael, is everything OK with you?” Papadopoulos looked concerned.
What in the world is he asking? Michael thought. Is this about Samantha, his marriage, Tartarus? Or, perhaps … “What do you mean, Father?”
“I mean, how are you handling Alex’s passing? I believe he’s in a good place, a better place but I know, for those of us here or those of us who, at times, question our faith, it’s not always easy to see this.”
Michael didn’t know where to start. “Father, first, of course I question my faith. But, listen, I question everything. Unfortunately, to me, almost nothing is certain. I live in the grey, for better or worse. I know a lot of priests who tell me that even they question their faith at times. So, of course, I do too. I miss Alex. How can you not miss a big brother? He’s the last link for me to my parents. Everyone else is gone. It’s like a small piece of them still lived here as long as Alex was alive. Now, they only live in my mind, my memory, or my imagination.”
Michael looked at Father Papadopoulos but couldn’t determine if what he had just said had gotten through. Michael couldn’t read what he was thinking. It seemed to be true for a lot of people with whom he was communicating lately, he thought.
“Father, is that what you meant?”
“Not exactly, my son. I called upon your sister-in-law, Donna the other day. She confided in me, some fears, some concerns, perhaps rumors. She told me that she has already spoken to you abo
ut them.”
“Yes, she did speak with me over dinner. She asked if Alex was really dead.” Michael’s tone was curt yet he was actually confused. After all, Alex was dead, at least in the sense that everyone understood death to be. Yet Alex was very much alive, as only Michael knew. But everything was turning grey.
He continued, “No one knows better than you, Father, that Alex’s body—dead body—was in his casket. You helped close it yourself at your altar at the church.”
Father Papadopoulos looked at Michael, his face brightened, “Yes, I know. But the Lord works in strange, miraculous ways.”
Chapter 42
Westport, Connecticut
It was the first night out for Samantha since her shortened shopping trip to Paris. Dinner with Angie Fanelli in the familiar comfort of Mario’s seemed like the perfect antidote to the horror she had just left on Avenue Bosquet.
As they began their evening’s voyage with champagne cocktails, Tiger dropped by their table.
“So, how are the desperate housewives tonight? And where’s the chief and mister president?”
“The chief’s at the station, or so he says.” Angie said, laughing. “Probably watching the Yankees on the television in his office.”
Tiger looked at Angie with his own sly smile. “What does the chief do with that gun he carries anyway?”
“He cleans it,” Angie answered, totally serious. “Regularly.”
Tiger turned his attention to Samantha, who had finished her drink in record time.
“And where’s your boy?”
Tiger was just what Samantha needed to lift her spirits, at least until the vodka did its job.
“He actually went to the cemetery this afternoon with some of his brother’s friends, the Lesters. He might be joining us before we leave.” Samantha knew as soon as she said it that it was doubtful. “Although I haven’t heard from him since earlier in the day.”