The Blue Hour

by Richard Teleky

  We were on our knees in my backyard, digging holes along the fence.

  “In a restaurant, for God’s sake? You’ve been to Aladdin’s, I couldn’t very well…”

  “I would have. Poor Guy. You’re sure no Nick Charles.”

  “Who?”

  “The Thin Man detective, you know. But then I’m not like his wife, either. We’re just a menopausal mess and a gay geezer.”

  “C’mon, Sheila, don’t talk like that. And maybe there’s nothing more, that’s always possible.”

  With a mock frown she tossed a trowelful of soil into the hole I was digging.

  Sheila had brought over three pots of plants, fall anemones, which I’d once admired in her garden. They weren’t gifts, she charged five bucks a pot, but she had to make a living.

  “These are a bitch to dig up, the root system really spreads. I think two are lavender and the other one’s white. And they grow pretty fast.”

  “My kind of plant.”

  “If you want more I’ll bring them next week. This afternoon I’m getting Mother, we’re gonna barbecue.”

  “Theo’s coming by later for drinks.”

  “I still can’t believe Daphne’s getting married.” Sheila used her trowel to point to the hole I was digging, and said, “That’s not deep enough.”

  “Well, she’s not married yet. A lot can happen before a wedding.”

  She laughed heartily. “This is no holiday for me. I have another yard to check on, and it’s gonna be a scorcher.”

  We sprinkled fresh topsoil into the holes, settled the plants in place, and then mounded more soil around them. “There,” Sheila said, patting the ground. “Remember to water these again tonight. But don’t drown them. Sometimes you drown things.”

  Sheila liked to have the last word.

  “They’ll drink this up now,” she said, reaching for a watering can and gently tipping its spout to control the water’s flow.

  “Looking good,” I said.

  She nodded agreement. “I can sit for a minute, it’s only ten o’clock.”

  We moved to the back steps and surveyed the garden.

  “Aren’t you smoking?” I asked.

  “I’m trying to give it up again.”

  “Good for you.”

  “Don’t be smug just because you’re not tempted.”

  “Are you still getting those phone calls?”

  “She missed a couple nights and it unnerved me.”

  “Maybe she got bored.” Now I was saying “she” too. “Have you tried to reach Brad?”

  Sheila looked away sheepishly, and then shook her head. “He spent the night. Last Saturday. I’m a fool, don’t say it. A goddam fool.”

  “You’re getting back together?”

  “Oh no, I don’t think so. He doesn’t want that. It was one of those fucks for old times’ sake. I can’t get him out of my system, that’s all.”

  “Is he still with Loretta?”

  “I didn’t ask. What’s the point? But he wanted his golf clubs. Maybe that’s what it was all about. A little sick exchange.”

  “And you gave them to him?”

  “Yeah, what the hell. I couldn’t bring up the money, I just couldn’t. Now I hate myself for it.”

  “Sometimes…”

  “Don’t make excuses for me. I’m a big girl. But I’m also a fool. You’re lucky you don’t want anyone. It’s terrible, wanting someone.”

  “We’ve all been there, once or twice.”

  “At least,” she corrected with a rueful snicker. “I’m so tired of my problems, I’d like to run away but I don’t know where, and anyway I can’t afford to.” She wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “Just don’t say anything, okay?”

  We sat looking at the yard, sun beating down on the lawn, a square of burning green.

  “Remember to water those plants,” Sheila said finally, moving on to her next job.

  After she’d gone I worked on my conference paper. When your family’s dead, and the people you’ve cared most for are also gone, there’s a heavy glum air to Memorial Day. I wasn’t much interested in conferences but the college liked them and picked up the tab. By the time Theo arrived I was satisfied with a few pages and ready for a break.

  “I thought you’d bring Neil along,” I said when he stood at my front door.

  “He’s away for the weekend. But Daphne’s in town, she’s staying with me.”

  She must have changed her plans.

  “There’s something I want to tell you. Daph already knows,” Theo said, settling in a corner of the sofa. “Neil’s moving out.”

  I sat at the opposite end. “Aren’t you getting along?”

  “We haven’t argued. He’s going back to his wife. He said maybe they could sort things out. And he misses his daughters.”

  Did Neil think he could sidestep the police by moving down Highway 58 to another small town? “I’m surprised his wife will have him back.”

  Theo had a sour expression on his face. “That’s where he is now. With his family. He called it a trial run, but it’s not going to work.”

  “Your Greek sixth sense,” I teased.

  “I’m serious,” he said. “It’s too late for them. His oldest daughter graduates from high school next year, and the youngest a year later. After that his wife won’t want him, you’ll see.”

  “He’s not an answer for you, Theo. You’ve got too much time on your hands. You don’t need Neil.”

  “What should I do with my time? Volunteer work?”

  “Forget Neil for a start.” There are days when it seems that my friends want to drive me crazy. “Are you up for the first gin and tonic of the summer?”

  “I’d rather have some wine.”

  “Okay, wine it is. Want to sit on the back porch? Sheila was here this morning and the garden looks great.”

  “It’s an oven out there. You know I can’t take hot weather.”

  Theo was going to hate Florida. But for someone who disliked heat, he made few concessions to it, and wore one of his starched Oxford-cloth shirts – always blue and white striped – with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Looking shell-shocked, he followed me into the kitchen while I made my drink and poured his wine, and we went back into the living room without saying a word.

  “How long has Neil been planning this move?”

  Theo took several swallows of wine. “He told me just before he left for the weekend.”

  “Being questioned about Guy must have scared him. The police would scare anyone.”

  He winced. “I never know when they’re going to show up.”

  “Well, they aren’t shadowing you.”

  “You certainly don’t think Neil had anything to do with that death? Just because you saw them together one night…”

  “I don’t understand why the police took him to the station. Wouldn’t anyone be more relaxed in their home, and open up?”

  “Neil was pretty uptight when the police came. I knew he hadn’t done anything wrong but he acted odd, and they picked up on it.”

  “How can you be so sure…”

  “I don’t follow him around, if that’s what you mean. You don’t think I follow him around?” He smiled awkwardly.

  “I didn’t say that.”

  “Neil wouldn’t hurt anyone. Last month a bird got into the basement and he was so gentle with it. I hate things flying near me, it would still be down there today but Neil took over, he’s like that. He has a kind heart.”

  Theo concealed his distress better than Sheila did, but he wasn’t convincing himself.

  “Did you know he came to see me at the library?” Given Theo’s news, I didn’t mind admitting it now.

  He looked straight at me, suspiciously. “No. Why?”

  “He wanted to know if the Antons had heard about him from Guy, but they hadn’t. They still believe Guy had a girlfriend.”

  “Did you tell Sheila about him and Guy?”

  “She already knew. Gu
y told her a while ago.”

  Theo shook his head. “He needs to watch out.”

  “What for? I saw Hedy and Nick the other day and when I brought up Neil’s name they looked blank. What are you protecting him from?”

  “I’m not protecting him,” he said with great effort.

  “Well, that’s what it sounds like. Don’t be angry, I’m on your side.” I nursed my G&T without much pleasure, the fizz gone flat.

  “Did he say anything about me?”

  “That you worry too much, that’s all. Probably I shouldn’t have told you, but his mind’s on other things.”

  “He hasn’t called all weekend and it’s a holiday.”

  “Give it a rest, Theo, okay?”

  “I know about your lunch with Daphne,” he said, a hint of accusation in his voice. “She doesn’t like him either.”

  “Then you should listen to her. You’ve got too much free time, you’re too smart to do nothing.”

  “Work is your answer for everything.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with caring about your work.”

  He hesitated for a moment. “Not if you’re hiding in it.”

  “Is that what you think I’m doing?”

  “Well, it’s not my answer. I never liked working. Most people don’t. And Daphne’s getting married, that changes…” He stopped, sighing.

  “But you don’t live together. Anyway, this isn’t the nineteenth century, when families shared a big house forever.”

  “I would’ve liked the nineteenth century.”

  “Maybe you’ll like Stavro. Don’t write him off yet.”

  The sun had come around to the front of the house and light filled the living room – it almost poured through the windows onto us – sharpening Theo’s every expression, each infinitesimal grimace.

  “You can’t possibly understand about twins,” he said. “I’ve read all the studies, every one of them,” he added emphatically. “There’s a connection between twins that other siblings don’t have. I can’t explain it. And it’s not that I’m jealous, but I feel like my life’s over. There’s no point in selling my house now, no point in moving. Maybe it was a bad idea from the start, but everyone doesn’t want to be alone. I’m a nervous type, Chief. Next thing, you’ll be telling me to get a dog.”

  I had to laugh. “There are worse options.”

  “Some awful little poodle I can carry around with me like one of those dowagers, is that your plan for me?”

  We were both laughing now.

  “But it has to have a rhinestone collar,” I said. “I’ll buy it for you.”

  “For little Fifi, you mean.”

  “As long as I’m her favorite uncle.”

  “Oh, you’ll be her uncle,” Theo said. “You can count on it.”

  17

  Friday, June 1 - Saturday, June 2

  My throat constricted as I opened the morning paper at my desk in the library. I began reading, but The Chronicle’s headline already told the story: “Antiques Dealer Shot.” My first instinct was to telephone Sheila. Trouble trips you up like that.

  After managing to crawl to her front porch, the wounded middle-aged woman had been found last night by neighbors, shortly before ten o’clock. Identified as Sheila Carney – “a well-known Oberlin antiques dealer, who had a booth at the mall” – she was in critical condition. With a full investigation underway, the police would welcome any leads, any reportings of suspicious people in the area. A dark grainy photograph of Sheila looked out at me, a photo from a happier moment, never intended for an article like this.

  Where was Sheila now? Anxious to speak with her, I stared down at a newspaper that offered little help. “A struggle had apparently taken place” – the bland words, so calm and contained, were an affront. Day after day we’re told that no home is safe, any moment we might be part of CNN’s “Breaking News.” Yet why would someone harm Sheila? What possible motive? The police certainly knew about Brad and Loretta, Sheila had reported them often enough, although nothing came of her complaints. After I’d re-recorded her phone message, she continued to receive the middle-of-the-night calls, so before bed she unplugged her phone from its wall jack.

  I’d met Brad only once, when he accompanied Sheila to help carry away an old chest of drawers of mine, and wasn’t sure if I would recognize him. Could he have been that violent? Or had Sheila interrupted a random break-in? The article reported no evidence of theft, but Hedy, of course, would bring up home invasions, and then illegal immigrants.

  I found Doris Carney’s telephone number in the Oberlin Home Pages and dialed it. An answering machine picked up so I left a short message, remembering Sheila’s plans for a cook-out only five days ago. Frantic was probably the mildest word for Doris Carney. Then I phoned Theo, who’d just read the news. He insisted I drop by for a drink after work. To my surprise, he even offered to go out for pizza.

  After forcing myself through the day, with Sheila on my mind, I arrived at Theo’s, too late for the six o’clock TV news. He greeted me with a tight face. “Come, meet Stavro,” he said, in a dispirited tone. “I called Daphne about the shooting. She liked Sheila, you know, so they dropped by. I’ve got some wine in the fridge, you must need a drink. I certainly do.”

  In the living room Daphne stood by a stocky man in his late sixties. She was adjusting her neck scarf, one of those fancy French numbers sporting a bold pattern of horseshoes.

  “We just got here,” she called, hurrying over to my side. The dark man stepped up next to her. “This is my fiancé,” she said.

  As we shook hands I felt sorry for Theo. Stavro had presence. He wasn’t fat, just substantial – a European man. He wouldn’t be boisterous or arrogant, but he knew his own worth, and patience might not be one of his virtues. He and Daphne settled on the sofa and I noticed her reach over to pat his thigh. “I’ve always liked Sheila,” she said.

  “I didn’t know her,” Stavro offered, as if we needed a reason for his silence. He had a stern face but alert amused eyes.

  Daphne was now leaning towards him, preoccupied, so I followed Theo into the kitchen and sat on one of the wrought-iron chairs at his glass-topped table, the morning’s Chronicle folded in half on a cloth placemat.

  “No updates about Sheila,” he said, taking wine glasses from a cupboard. “I wonder where the paper found her picture?”

  Not a word about his sister. Theo handed me a glass of wine and settled on an opposite chair.

  “Shouldn’t we join them?” I asked.

  “In a minute. I phoned my lawn guys this afternoon. They’ll look after the garden now. What are you going to do? I mean…”

  “I can’t think about that,” I interrupted.

  “Didn’t she hang around with some creepy guy?” Said without irony or self-awareness. “You get on with her better than I do.”

  I nursed my white wine, not up for pleasantries with Daphne and Stavro.

  “You know how she always has an eye out for free things,” Theo continued. “I have a dozen bricks in the garage and she wanted those for her garden, for some border, but I told her I might use them, too.”

  “C’mon, Theo, that’s just Sheila. And in spite of all her money worries, she’s been feeding her neighborhood’s stray cats.”

  We had an entire conversation without Theo mentioning Neil even once, while Daphne and Stavro cooled their heels. Then, after a round a drinks with them, and some genial but pointless talk, I headed home. Mrs. Carney had left a message on my answering machine, asking me to phone her the next morning; ominously, nothing more. There was also an invitation from Claire Warren to her annual June bash – the party I no longer attended. But she knew I wouldn’t show up, and that wasn’t the real reason for her call. “Everyone at the mall’s aghast about Sheila,” she went on in one of her interminable messages. Claire had said she’d seen her there the day before and they’d commiserated about poor sales; they’d even joked about checking out obituaries in anticipation of promising estate
sales. Finally, she got around to asking if I’d heard any news about Guy’s Beecher Stowe’s letters.

  That night I dreamed of the antique mall. Without consulting me, the college had purchased it as an annex to the archive, and somehow attached it. I could step through the walls the way dreamers do, drifting effortlessly from book-filled library stacks to the booths that lined the mall’s aisles. But to my surprise most of them had been emptied. Sheila’s booth, however, was just as I remembered, the blue-white oriental vase she’d turned into a lamp in its customary place on a kidney-shaped art deco dressing table. Someone had put yellow police tape around the booth yet I could enter at will. A large glass case held Sheila’s inventory of arts-and-crafts pottery – her Roseville, Weller, Rookwood and McCoy. As my right hand, transparent, reached for its door, I heard a commotion behind me. And then, waking, I was overwhelmed with a sense of desolation.

  The Saturday papers rehashed Sheila’s attack, along with irrelevant articles about antiquing in Ohio, and speculations about rivalries between dealers who were all after illusive treasures. They liked the idea that Sheila might have been shot by another dealer. When I finally reached Doris Carney, she sounded confused. Sheila was in our local hospital, and if her doctors could be trusted, the bullet hadn’t punctured an organ. Doris gave me her own cell phone number and said to visit Sheila “ASAP.”

  I set my conference paper aside. At some point during the weekend, Sheila would have appeared to fuss over the garden and we’d have continued our talks. Even if she snapped at me, I’d come to count on her presence; her gentleness was lavished only on plants.

  After a quick lunch I headed over to the Mercy Allen Hospital, a two-storied, seventies, tan brick pile on West Lorain Street that might have been attached to a shopping center. I peeked into the Gift Shop – no fresh flowers – and took the elevator across from it to the patients’ rooms on the second floor.

  Sheila looked almost comfortable in her hospital bed in a private room. Her left arm was connected to an IV at the wrist, but her hair had just been brushed or combed.

  “They were supposed to take this damn contraption off hours ago,” she said. “I sent Mother to get one of the nurses, I’ve had enough. She thinks there should be an armed guard outside my door but I keep telling her I’m not a celebrity.”