Lifeline

by Gerry Boyle

  “This went on a lot?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah. He was a drinker, this guy. I had a brother was a drinker. Nicest guy until he got the liquor in him. Then the fights. Eh, bucksaw, he’d come home all cut up. Jekyll and what’s his name there.”

  “Hyde.”

  “Right. This guy, her boyfriend there, he’d be drinking, oh, he had a temper. And you know the worst of it?”

  “What?”

  “That poor little girl, the baby. She’d have to listen to all that and then the sister would come and take her. Sister should’ve just kept her, I always said.”

  “Who did you say that to?” I asked.

  “To myself. I don’t get involved in other people’s problems. I worked in the cotton mill for thirty-eight years. Spinning room. Eh, those girls would talk and talk about everybody else’s problems. Give all this free advice. You tell him this. You tell him that. Just liked to keep things stirred up. Like a soap, huh? Better than TV, you know. I say, people’s joys are their own. Their problems are their own. Stay out of other people’s business.”

  “Good philosophy.”

  “Sure it is.”

  “So you’d call the police but you wouldn’t talk to Donna.”

  “No. What am I gonna do for her, you know? Say ‘Get rid of that bum’? She knows that. She had that sister there. She hated that boyfriend. She must’ve told her.”

  I thought for a moment.

  “So did you call the police that night?”

  “No, I did not. And you know why?”

  “Why?”

  “Because I was watching my program and I had it turned up, ’cause of the baby upstairs, he was crying and crying. Then I turn the program off and I can hear her crying, the girl, I mean, and I’m not calling because it wasn’t so bad. It was bad, but it wasn’t so bad yet, you know? When I turned up the television, I mean. Then I turned my program off and I could hear that it was getting bad, him drunk and not supposed to be there from what I understand. And then I’m sitting in the window and then I see him leaving out the side door and walking off through the alley, the rat. Good place for him, eh? So I can see Donna, I call her ‘missy,’ and she’s drinking and crying and the little girl is up and then the sister pulls up in that big truck thing she drives.”

  “So it was all set.”

  “I thought so,” she said.

  “What time was this?”

  “Well, my program was almost over, so it was before nine. I watch that National Geographic, you know? The places they go, it’s unbelievable.”

  “So Marcia came before nine?”

  “Marcia?”

  “The sister. Her name’s Marcia.”

  “Yeah, she came. So I said, everything’s all set. He’s gone. She’s there. The sister. She’s coming and going.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I guess she’s the one who found her. When she was dead, I mean.”

  “Now isn’t that a pity. ’Cause she took care of that little girl.”

  “Which one?”

  “The sister, I mean,” the woman said. “And, of course, the little girl, she was like another mother to that little one. So it was good she got her out of there.”

  “Out?”

  “Oh, yeah. She took her home. I saw them leaving. The little girl, she has this bunny thing. I think it’s a bunny. Maybe it’s a puppy, eh? But she came out with that, in her little nightie. Such a cute little thing. Awful thing for her to go through. But you know, maybe it’s better this way. She’s young enough, the little one, maybe she’ll come through it. Sometimes these little ones, they’re tougher than you think, eh?”

  “Yes, they are sometimes. What time did they go?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. They was coming and going. The sister came once and then she left, okay. And then she comes again and got the little girl and then she came back again.”

  “Without the girl?” I asked.

  “Oh, yeah. Well, it was after ten o’clock. That little one, she must’ve been asleep, don’t you think? Hey, but let me tell you. I see these kids running the streets all hours. When I was a little girl, you didn’t leave the house after supper. You had work to do, help Mama with the dishes. The washings. These kids got too much time on their hands. Devil’s workshop, eh?”

  “So Marcia left her home at her house. Marcia’s, I mean. The last time?”

  “The little girl? Yeah, I guess. Good thing, too. ’Cause two minutes after that the police come screaming down the street. I said to myself, ‘God almighty, you’d think somebody’d been murdered.’ Well, how was I to know? I felt bad, eh? ’Cause that’s what already happened.”

  “And how long before that did Marcia come and get the little girl?”

  “How long? Eh, I don’t sit here with a clock in front of me. I don’t know. Geographic was over. And then I watched the news for an hour. I don’t know why. People killing each other now. They’ll be killing each other long after I’m gone. So what do I care?”

  I smiled.

  “So I watched that news there, so that’s ten. It was a while after that, ’cause I made a cup of tea and I sat down again. You’re old, you don’t sleep, you know?”

  “So she came after ten and got her. And then she came back a little while after that and then the cops came.”

  “I guess so. Yeah.”

  “And she came one time before she got the girl. And she left alone.”

  “Right. So I thought everything was okay. I mean, she used to come a lot. They’d fight, I guess, and the little missy would get on the phone and call big sister to come over and help her. Take the baby. Thank the Lord that sister’s there now, eh? What’d happen to that little girl? Go to some state home probably. Poor little thing. She’ll be okay now, eh?”

  “I hope so,” I said.

  I stirred in my chair.

  “So you guess the boyfriend must’ve come back down the alley?”

  “Must’ve, but I didn’t see him. I wouldn’t, if he was sneaking around in the dark. I saw the sister coming and going. God, she loves that little girl like she’s her own. Good thing, too, now that this happened. Hey, I say prayers every night for that little one. Fifty Hail Marys.”

  “That’s nice of you.”

  “Rien. Nothing.”

  She shook her head. I reached for my notebook, took out a pen.

  “So, I’m sorry but I don’t think I caught your name.”

  “You didn’t, ’cause I didn’t give it.”

  I looked up. Her face had masked over.

  “Hey, I don’t want my name in the paper,” she said.

  “Well, what about everything we’ve been talking about?”

  “That’s just talking. It doesn’t count for the newspaper until you start writing it in your little pad there, right? My name in the paper, that’s all I need. It’s like I told the policeman there, the detective. I don’t want you dragging me into court. I told him, I said, ‘Young man, just stop right there if you think you’re going to get me into a courtroom.’ I mind my own business. I’ve got my pension and my Social Security. I get my cab over to the groceries. I get my hair done. I get to church, eh? I just want to be left alone.”

  “What did the detective say?”

  She looked indignant.

  “Well, he didn’t say much, eh? What could he say? He said, ‘Well, we may need you.’ I said, ‘Solve your own murder. You don’t need some old lady. You know who did it.’ He said, ‘Yeah, we know, but we still have to prove it in court.’ I said, ‘Well, go right ahead, but leave me out of it.’ ”

  “Did he tell you about subpoenas and all that?” I asked.

  “No, I hustled him right out of here.”

  “When was this?”

  “This was Sunday, right after I got back from Mass. He said he’d come back, but I haven’t seen him. I told him and I’ll tell you. I’ll tell you what I saw, but leave me out of it. My name in the paper. Eh, Christ, all I need, eh, stuck all over the front page.”

  I got
up and put my notebook back in my pocket.

  “I’m sorry I can’t help you with your story, but that’s the way I feel.”

  “That’s okay,” I said. “You’ve been a lot of help.”

  “When’s this story going to run in the paper?” she asked.

  “Couldn’t tell you.”

  “That’s up to the editor?”

  “Something like that,” I said.

  So Jeff had been there and then he’d left, on foot. When he’d left, Donna was still walking and talking, by the sounds of things. So what did he do? Go and drink some more. Stew some more. Cadge some money for some coke and let it fire up the furnace of his anger and resentment. Then walk back, through the alleys and side streets, letting himself in the side door, sneaking up the back stairs. Bullying Donna for the last time. Finding her alone.

  Walking down the dim stairway, I wondered why Marcia hadn’t taken Adrianna the first time. Did they argue? Did Donna resent this woman mothering her daughter? Did she refuse to lend out her prize possession this time? What did they talk about, that last time? Would Marcia tell me? Would she talk to me at all? Maybe I’d give her a try. What could she do? Call the cops?

  At the bottom of the stairs I looked at the mailboxes on the wall. One was O’Malley, scrawled in big letters with a red marker. Two had no names at all. One had four names, with two crossed out. Fathers to the crying babies? Another had neatly embossed plastic tape: Desrosiers.

  Miss Desrosiers, I thought. Merci beaucoup—à bientôt. And on I went on my appointed rounds.

  I couldn’t find anyone else in the old woman’s building, so I hit the two houses directly across the street. One was white and well kept, with a black spiked fence around it and alarm-company warnings on the windows. I opened the black-spiked gate, climbed the porch stairs, and rang the bell. The place was ordered and neat, with green indoor-outdoor carpeting on the porch floor. Its owners were off earning its keep. I took their name off the small plastic card by the door, writing it in my notebook.

  Next door was a dump: peeling aquamarine paint, a plastic bag of trash torn open on the porch, music blaring from someplace inside. I would have knocked, but the doors were slung open.

  On the first floor, two young guys and two young women were sitting around a table in the kitchen. There were bowls on the table, half full of cereal that had turned the milk pale pink. Little kids’ shoes and clothes were scattered on the floor, as if there had just been an abduction.

  Wherever the kids were, they weren’t watching public television.

  I tapped on the doorjamb and they all looked up. Two of the guys were working on morning beers. The women, barefoot in their dungaree shorts, were smoking and drinking coffee. They all listened impassively as I made my pitch, as if I were selling religion. Then one of the guys, small and thin, baseball cap on backward over long hair, pointed a dirty hand toward the door.

  “Out,” he said.

  “You didn’t know Donna?” I said.

  “Out,” he said again.

  “Not even by sight?”

  “Go.”

  “What, the paper spelled your name wrong in the police blotter?” I asked.

  “Hit the road,” the other guy said.

  “Don’t tell me. You have to get ready for work. But don’t you hate putting on a tie sometimes? Don’t you wish that just once, I mean just once, you could just say the hell with it and sit around all day drinking beer?”

  The two guys got up from the table. But in that telling, pivotal moment, I didn’t retreat. They didn’t advance.

  One for the good guys. I grinned.

  “Later, people,” I said. “Call me if you get a conscience.”

  I turned and went out the open door and down the steps. It was still raining, an earnest drizzle that turned the street black and oily. I paused on the sidewalk, then, as I started for the next house, heard a car roll up behind me and stop. A door popped.

  “Hey, Jack,” a voice called.

  I turned. Archambault came around the front of his Toyota.

  “Jack, we need to talk.”

  I looked at him. He stopped in front of me, his notebook in his hand, collar turned up on his dungaree jacket.

  “I need to explain. Apologize, I mean. You probably weren’t too happy being in that story.”

  I didn’t respond.

  “But Albert asked if I’d talked to you. I said, ‘Yeah, but it wasn’t really on the record.’ He said he didn’t care, he wasn’t going to have his reporters keeping secrets about a murder. He gave me, like, an ultimatum. I had no choice.”

  I didn’t believe him.

  “Fine,” I said. “But burning people’s a bad habit. Comes back to haunt you.”

  “You’re right,” Archambault said. “And I wouldn’t have, if I’d had a choice. Hey, what are you doing down here, anyway?”

  “Just walking.”

  “Yeah, well, I thought I’d talk to some of the neighbors. Do kind of a profile on Donna, what her life was like here. I tried calling the sister, but there wasn’t any answer. Have you seen her?”

  I shook my head.

  “Yeah, well, I guess I’ll get started,” Archambault said.

  He looked around dubiously.

  “Think anybody’s around?”

  “Oh, yeah,” I said.

  I looked back toward the house where the girls and boys had been so hospitable.

  “The people in there wanted to talk. Couldn’t shut ’em up. I told them I wasn’t doing the story but I’d be sure to tell the guy who was.”

  “Are they home now?” Archambault said eagerly.

  “Yup. Nice bunch, too,” I said. “Tell ’em Jack sent you.”

  When I reached the corner by the store, Archambault was bounding up the steps of the house, notebook held out in front of him like flowers for a date. I smiled to myself for the first time in a long time, and headed for the car.

  The sweet satisfaction that is vengeance.

  But other than that, what did I have? I mulled it over as I drove across town, the car’s wipers beating arrhythmically.

  A stoned guy said he heard Donna and somebody, presumably Jeff, fighting. Then there were normal noises from the apartment, like dishes clinking. Would Jeff kill Donna in a rage and then do the dishes? Maybe if he’d killed her with a glass or a dinner plate. Or if there were blood and guts all over the place and he had to clean them up. But Lenny said he thought there was no obvious cause of death, no wounds or massive trauma, as they say. So who was tidying up? Was Donna dead by then?

  The old woman said she hadn’t called the police because the fighting wasn’t that bad. Then Jeff went out the side door and, sometime not long after nine, Marcia pulled in. The old woman had seen Jeff leave, and Marcia come and go. What did Marcia see? What did Donna tell her in that last conversation? Had she taken Adrianna then? The woman said no. Not the first time. Then if the fighting was over, why did she come back? How was Marcia sleeping, with no arrest made, a murderer still trotting around town?

  Marcia’s house looked empty when I pulled up. I knocked on the aluminum screen door, then stepped down and walked over to the picture window. Cupping my hands over my eyes, I peered through the glass.

  The living room was empty and dark. The other rooms were dark too. I walked over by the garage. The camper and snowmobiles were still there, but the other trucks were gone. I tried the garage door and it was locked. The side door to the house was locked too. A spider had spun a web over the glass of the storm door.

  So they’d been gone for a while. But where had they gone in the middle of a murder investigation? And where was Adrianna?

  I stood for a moment, then walked back to the car. I was about to get back in when a car pulled into the driveway of the next house up the road. I walked over and up their driveway and knocked. A guy pushed the aluminum door open. Forties. Stocky. Square, clean face.

  “Hi, I’m a friend of Randy and Marcia’s. You know if they’re away or coming
back?”

  He looked at me closely.

  “Who are you?”

  “Jack McMorrow.”

  There was no recognition. So much for bylines.

  “You know what happened?” the guy said confidentially. “With Marcia’s sister?”

  “Yeah, I do. I knew Donna, too. It’s very sad.”

  “So they left for a while. You know. With the little kid and all.”

  “They go out of state or something?” I asked.

  “No, Randy’s still working. Took a couple days, I think, but he’s got to go back. Hey, they just needed to get away. They had TV cameras over there the other morning. Goddamn media vultures.”

  I looked away.

  “Goddamn scavengers, you know?”

  “Yup,” I said.

  “So they had to get away. If they stop by to check the house or something, I’ll tell them you were here. It’s Jack, right? What, do you know Randy from the mill or something?”

  “No, mostly I knew Marcia and Donna.”

  “You knew the sister? I didn’t—I mean, I saw her a few times, dropping the kid off or whatever. Hey, I know the girl had her problems. But let me tell you, if she was my sister, this scumbag would have touched her once. One time, and let me tell you something, me and my brothers would have had him on his knees in the woods, begging for goddamn mercy. We’d have made him wish he’d never laid a finger on that little girl. See how tough he feels looking up the barrel of a 30-30, the son of a bitch.”

  “Not very,” I said.

  I didn’t tell him I knew from experience.

  “That’s what’s wrong with this goddamn country. The family’s gone to hell. Used to be, you picked on one person, you had the whole clan climbing on your back. People looked out for each other. You got a sister?”

  “No, I don’t. No brothers, either.”