by Jane Heller
He deposited the bags in the kitchen and proceeded to tell me the story of how he came to be a volunteer at the museum.
“My beloved wife, Ellie, had Alzheimer’s and I had to put her in a nursing home,” he said. “I was lost without her. A mess. My neighbors at the condominium thought I needed a distraction, because I was sitting, day after day, in that nursing home with a wife who didn’t recognize me anymore. One of them made a few calls and found out they needed volunteers here. Well, I had always loved history—nautical history, especially—and what’s bad about working so close to the ocean, right? So I started volunteering, three hours every afternoon, and the next thing I knew I was feeling great. My Ellie passed away last year and I miss her, naturally, but this place brought me back to life, what with giving tours, telling the tourists about the shipwrecked sailors, and all that. Talking to them gives me a big kick, reminds me how important it is to connect with people. Now I work out at a gym twice a week. I catch the latest movies. I belong to a reading group at the library. Eighty-four years old and I’m a kid again.”
“No doubt about that,” I said, energized from listening to him. “I only hope the House of Refuge proves to be a tonic for me, too.”
“It will if you let it.” He turned to go.
“Fred?”
“Yes?”
“Are you seeing anyone? A woman, I mean?”
He laughed. “You’re not coming on to me, are you, Debbie?”
“No. But I’ve got a mother with the most extraordinary blue eyes. Want to meet her?”
“Sure. Give me her number,” said Fred. “I’m between girlfriends.”
After Fred left, I called my mother to make sure she was okay about sleeping alone for the first time since getting out of the hospital. She said she was fine. I told her she might be hearing from a a man named Fred Zimsky. “What about?” she asked.
“A blind date,” I said. “I thought it would be nice if one of us had a social life.”
As for my first night in the cottage, it was magical. No drunks. No hormonal teenagers. No midnight trespassers. Just waves lapping against the rocks, the occasional splish-splash of fish jumping in and out of the water, and the vast, cloudless sky, dotted with stars. The scene outside the cottage was so beautiful and the night air so mild that I pulled the down comforter off the bed, dragged it out to the chaise lounge on the porch, wrapped myself in it, and slept there.
On Wednesday, Sharon arrived in Stuart for her two-day stint. Around 2:30, she stopped by the cottage, to see “what you’ve gotten yourself into,” she said. After giving the place the once-over, she conceded that the view was divine but added that if the cottage had been in Boca, it would have been bulldozed years ago. “Yeah, to make way for more McMansions,” I said under my breath.
“I saw Jeffrey this morning,” she informed me as we were sitting on the porch. “I swung by his office to drop off a thank-you note. I wanted to show my appreciation for everything he’s done for Mom.”
“A thank-you note,” I said dryly. “How Emily Post.”
“Actually, it was a thank-you poem. A thank-you limerick. ‘There once was a doctor named Jeff—”
“I’m sure it was very clever,” I cut her off.
“Jeffrey thought so. He said that no one had ever written him a limerick before. Can you imagine?”
“Vividly.”
“Anyhow, we ended up talking and talking and talking. I hate to say this, knowing how you feel about him, but I think I’m the one he’s interested in, Deborah.”
I didn’t respond. How could I, after what Jeffrey had told me just the day before?
“For example,” Sharon went on, “I mentioned that I had a son and he insisted on hearing all about Norman, as busy as he was with patients. I said to myself, Would this man make a fabulous father for my child or what? I have to admit, Deborah, it’s getting more and more difficult to stick to our little bargain and keep myself from marching right over to his house and letting nature take its course.”
Tell me about it.
My mother called and asked me if I would join her and Sharon for dinner that night, but I begged off, saying I was still settling in at the cottage, still had a lot of unpacking ahead of me. The truth was, there was a sensational sunset building across the Intracoastal—the sky was an exquisite canvas of yellow and gold and pink—and all I wanted to do was sit on my porch, have a glass of wine, and stare at it. Besides, the thought of having to put up with Sharon for an entire evening, of having to pretend we were bosom buddies for my mother’s sake, was more than I could bear. I knew the subject of Jeffrey would come up—she was sure to bring it up—and I would be forced to act as if I didn’t care about him, as if he hadn’t told me flat out that he cared about me, as if I didn’t feel like I’d been strait-jacketed by my peace pact with my sister.
And so I sat with my wine on the porch. And when I drained the glass, I poured myself another. And another. I sat there drinking and looking out over the water; sat there watching the sun go down and the moon come up; sat there thinking about Jeffrey and his boat, about the cruise he’d offered to take me on.
Suddenly, I remembered what Aunt Harriet had said at my mother’s birthday party: how I’d been hiding my light under a bushel, so I wouldn’t outshine Sharon; how I’d been afraid to go after my Mr. Right for fear of offending my Dreaded Sibling.
And then I snapped.
Not that I’m blaming Aunt Harriet for what happened that night, any more than I’m blaming the wine I consumed. All I know is that one minute I was sitting there on the porch, in that intensely romantic setting, musing that Jeffrey was only a bridge ride away, and seconds later I was rushing into my bedroom, changing my clothes, and applying makeup, perfume, and a squirt of breath freshener. And then I was out the door.
A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do, I thought as I bounded into the Pontiac and prayed that it would start. Why should I deny myself a little pleasure, a little solace during this turbulent time in my life? How will it hurt? Who will it hurt? Sharon won’t find out, which means my mother won’t find out. Nobody will find out, because it’s only going to be one night, one intimate night between two mature, consenting adults. One night. What’s the harm?
My hands were trembling as I drove down MacArthur Boulevard to the bridge linking Hutchinson Island to Sewall’s Point. At the traffic light, I made a left turn onto South Sewall’s Point Road and stayed on that street instead of crossing over to South River Road, where my mother lived. (God forbid, she or Sharon should look out the window and spot my car.)
I continued on until I approached Jeffrey’s house, and then I slowed down, my palms so clammy they were practically sliding off the steering wheel. It had suddenly occurred to me that, after I’d declined Jeffrey’s invitation, he might have asked someone else to join him; it was entirely possible he was not alone.
I stopped in front of his house, poked my head out the Pontiac’s window, and peered at the place. It was dark on the street, in spite of the moon, but I could tell there wasn’t another car parked in the driveway. I figured the coast was clear and pulled in.
Jeffrey’s outside lights weren’t illuminated, I noticed with relief, so I assumed he wasn’t expecting company. But the darkness made it difficult to see up his front walk, and I hoped I’d make it to the door without slamming into a palm tree.
Maybe he’s not even home, I thought, as I drew closer to the house, my entire body tingling with excitement—and guilt. Yes, I was feeling guilty now, tremendously guilty that I was the one who wasn’t living up to my agreement with Sharon.
You should be ashamed, I said to myself. Bad girl.
And then I heard something near the front door. A rustling in the trees.
I jumped, still spooked by the memory of the crooks who’d cleaned out my apartment. After a few seconds I realized it was probably just a raccoon, a possum, or one of the other nocturnal creatures that bedevil the residents of Sewall’s Point by digging up the
ir landscaping and defecating in their swimming pools.
I stepped closer to the door, my hand poised to lift the brass knocker, when the rustling grew louder.
I gasped in earnest this time, particularly when I saw that the creature in the trees wasn’t a raccoon—it was Sharon.
“What the hell are you doing here?” she hissed as she emerged from the thicket, picking off the dead palm fronds that were clinging to her extremely clinging sweater. Judging by all the cleavage, she was not dressed for tree trimming.
“What the hell am I doing here?” I said, trying—and failing—to keep my voice down. “You’re the one who’s been skulking around in the bushes like some thief in the night.”
“I wasn’t skulking. I was walking,” she said defensively. “I was taking an after-dinner stroll in the neighborhood and happened by Jeffrey’s. When I heard someone drive up, I thought he might have company. So I, uh, got out of the way.”
“You hid,“ I said accusingly. “When you saw it was me, you hid. Because you knew you were breaking our agreement.”
“I was breaking our agreement?” She glowered. “What about you? You told Mom you couldn’t come over for dinner tonight because you had sooo much unpacking to do. Unpacking, my ass. You’ve been drinking. You smell like the inside of a wine bottle.”
So much for the breath freshener. “Look, Sharon, you may as well know the truth. I came here because Jeffrey asked me to. He invited me on his boat. For a moonlight cruise. I hate to break this to you, but I’m the one he’s interested in.”
She laughed. Cackled was more like it. “I hate to break this to you, Sis, but Jeffrey told me just this afternoon that I’m the one he wants. He said he was only being nice to you because of Mom. And because you seemed so—”
“What?”
“Eager. No. Willing was the word I think he used.”
I staggered back. It couldn’t be true. What Sharon was saying simply could not be true. Jeffrey would never hand us the same line of bullshit. Or would he?
“You’ve resented me for years,” I said, as we stood nose to nose at the front door. “You’d do anything, say anything to hurt me.”
“What about your resentment of me?” she said. “You’re the only one in the family who didn’t go to Norman’s graduation, let’s not forget.”
“I had the flu that day,” I shouted. We were both shouting now. “I had a one-hundred-two-degree fever.”
“Oh, really?” She smirked. “The last time you brought up your famous ‘fever,’ you claimed it was one-hundred-three.”
“Whatever. The point is, you’re always criticizing me, always on my back. I can’t do a fucking thing without taking a load of crap from you about it. If it isn’t Norman’s graduation, it’s my lifestyle or my job or your demented notion that you’re a better daughter than I am.”
“Now I’m demented. Isn’t that rich,” she said. “Obviously, you’re the one who constantly attacks me. Have you ever heard yourself on the subject of my ex-husbands? So I’ve had a couple of bad marriages. So what?”
“Not a couple. Three.”
“Whatever. You’re the one who’s always on my back about that. And now you’re on my back about Jeffrey. Dear, sweet Jeffrey. You’re wondering if I’ll marry him too, aren’t you?”
“No, Sharon. I’m wondering if you’re still stuck in a competition for Daddy.”
“Daddy? What’s he got to do with this?”
“You once told me that he died for you the day I was born. Do you remember saying that, Sharon?”
“No.”
“Well, you did. You said that the minute I came into the world, he stopped paying attention to you. And you’ve held it against me ever since. Now, first of all, it’s not my fault that I was born. Second of all, it’s not my fault that Daddy noticed. Third of all, the older I got, the less he was home, and after a while, he didn’t pay attention to me either.”
She was quiet for a minute. Then she shook her head. “What I remember is the cheerleading.”
“Cheerleading? How did we get from Daddy to cheerleading?”
“I remember that I tried out in high school and didn’t make the team. I also remember that you tried out and did make the team. And if that wasn’t enough of a slap in my face, you went around the house practicing back flips and cartwheels and splits, not to mention those dumb cheers. Rah rah rah! Sis boom bah! God, it made me sick.”
“And you’ve held that against me ever since?”
“I don’t know! I don’t know! I’m too cold for a psychodrama.” She wrapped her arms around herself and shivered.
“Of course you’re cold,” I said. “That skimpy sweater you’re wearing doesn’t cover much.”
“Jeffrey won’t mind.” She batted her eyelashes.
“Sharon, Jeffrey really did invite me over here tonight. He said he wanted to get to know me better.”
“He told me the same thing,” she maintained. “I wouldn’t be here otherwise.”
“Then he’s been dishonest with both of us,” I said, realizing we’d been had. And Jeffrey had seemed so nice, so different from the others.
“Dishonest? Jeffrey?”
“I think we were wrong about him, Sharon. I think we should go inside and confront him.”
“You mean, ask him point-blank if he’s been toying with our emotions?”
“Yes. Or are you afraid of the truth?”
Her nostrils flared. “I’m ready if you are,” she said, and reached for the brass knocker.
She knocked on the door. We waited. No answer.
“Let me try it,” I said, giving her a little shove out of the way before banging the knocker against the door. Again, we waited. Again, no answer.
“You didn’t bang it hard enough,” Sharon said, pushing me aside and pounding the knocker three times.
As the knocker struck the door the third time, the weight of the blow—and our leaning on it—caused the door to open, and before we could stop ourselves, we were tumbling inside the house.
“He must have gone out and forgotten to lock up,” I said as we peered into the foyer, which was not as grand as Sharon’s but was pretty grand nevertheless.
“No. He told me he would be home tonight,” she insisted. “Maybe he’s watching TV or listening to music, and can’t hear us.” She called out to him. “Jeffrey? Hello! It’s Sharon Peltz!”
“And Deborah Peltz!” I added, in case I really was the one he wanted.
There was silence, except for a series of very faint beeps.
“It could be his answering machine,” I said. “Maybe he’s got messages.”
Assuming Jeffrey had, indeed, gone out, we flipped on some lights and followed the beeping sound through the first floor of the house, through the living room, past the dining room, into the family room. We were on the threshold of what appeared to be a den or office, the room from which the beeping was emanating, when I spotted something.
“Sharon,” I said, nudging her. “What’s that on the floor? Next to the desk?”
She switched on a light—and then she screamed.
I would have screamed too, but nothing came out.
“Deborah! He’s been shot!” cried Sharon, motioning at the body splayed on the sisal carpet—the body of Jeffrey Hirshon, M.D.
He was lying in a pool of blood, face up, a bullet hole through his chest, through his heart, ironically, but there was no gun around, at least not that we could see. What we did observe was that he was ghostly pale—even his beard looked wilted—and he was utterly still.
Shaking off our shock and fear and nausea, Sharon and I rushed to his side and knelt on the floor next to him. Neither of us was proficient in CPR, so we improvised, Sharon breathing into his mouth, I pushing down on his chest. I had written many such scenes for From This Day Forward, yet never imagined I’d be starring in one.
When our efforts to revive Jeffrey failed, I picked up the phone in the office. I was poised to dial 911, but there was no need, i
t turned out. Miraculously, the police had already arrived.
“Oh, thank God. I was just about to call you,” I said with relief, as one of Sewall’s Point’s Finest stormed into the den.
“Freeze!” he yelled, pointing a gun at Sharon and me. “Drop that phone! Hands in the air! Nobody move!”
I stuck my hands in the air and looked obedient. Sharon put hers on her hips and pouted.
“What are you shouting at us for?” she scolded the officer. “We were trying to help the poor man.”
“I said ‘Freeze!’” he barked.
“I am,” she muttered through chattering teeth. “Somebody should turn down the air conditioning in this place.”
The barking cop was not amused. He kept his gun on us, even as another officer came thundering into the den with his gun drawn. I felt like some hardened criminal—until I reminded myself that the only crime I’d committed was falling for a man who had, apparently, thought nothing of two-timing me with my own sister.
“Check him for a pulse,” the first cop said to the second cop, referring, of course, to Jeffrey.
The second cop returned his gun to his holster and knelt beside the body. “Forget EMS,” he said when he found no pulse. “This guy’s ready for the body bag.”
From there, the situation really began to deteriorate. The first cop radioed for still more cops—a cast of thousands, it seemed to me. Before I knew it, there were deputies from the Martin County Sheriff’s Office, a couple of detectives, the chief of the Sewall’s Point Police, the county medical examiner, and a van load of evidence collectors. Also swarming the scene were members of the local media, who’d picked up the action on their police scanners, plus neighbors, lots of neighbors, several of them in their pajamas.
At some point during this nightmare, one of the cops was instructed to take Sharon and me outside, into a patrol car. When Sharon resisted, complaining that she had a terrible headache and wanted to go back to my mother’s, his superior said, “’Cuff her.”
Sharon didn’t care for that idea either. “Handcuffs!” she balked. “Are you aware that this diamond tennis bracelet I’m wearing could get scratched?” She held up her right wrist.