“Tomorrow. The service will probably be Friday.”
I nodded, and stared ahead at nothing.
The silence lengthened.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asked finally.
I looked into his blue eyes and saw fear—as if he was wondering what the hell he had gotten himself into.
I shook my head. What else was there to say?
A group of stragglers exited the building. What was the point of finishing the school year there? I had no close friends. Why delay the inevitable?
Richard turned the key in the ignition and we drove away.
I never went back.
“Anyway,” Richard said, bringing me back to the present. “My lawyer drew up some papers. Betty signed them the day before she died.”
“You were twenty-six. Why would you take on that kind of responsibility?”
“Because you were my kid brother, and I had the enthusiasm and energy to take on my work, and you, and the whole world. And maybe I thought it would be a kick.”
“Was it?” I asked, although I already knew his answer.
“No.”
I took another sip of my beer. “Sorry to be so much trouble.”
“If it weren’t for my grandmother bitching, I would’ve hardly known you were there.”
Of course not. He’d been so busy building his career, sometimes weeks passed and we didn’t see each other.
“Taking care of you was the only thing my mother ever asked of me,” he continued. “I couldn’t turn her down.”
I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. ‘Not good’ came close.
“Why did you bring me to live with your grandparents? You must’ve had your own money by then.”
“I worked crazy hours at the hospital. You needed a stable home. Besides, I had an unspoken agreement with Curtis to watch out for you.”
Curtis had been Mrs. Alpert’s chauffeur—a neat old black dude with a soft spot in his heart for kids.
“Let’s face it, you liked him—and you didn’t like me.” Richard paused; he wouldn’t look at me.
What he said was true. Why did I feel bad hearing it now? Maybe because it was no longer true.
“I couldn’t get you to open up,” he continued. “One morning I came home from an all-nighter at the hospital and Curtis was polishing Grandmother’s car. He looked up at me and said, ‘The boy likes basketball.’ I was going to rush out and get you a backboard, but Curtis said you wouldn’t use it if I gave it to you outright. He said to wait for you to ask. So I bought it, and I’d go out and shoot baskets every night . . . rather badly, too, as I recall.”
“Yeah. Go on,” I urged.
“It took two weeks before you asked if you could play.”
“Twelve days.”
He smiled fondly. “Curtis was a wise man. The closest thing I had to a father.”
“Me, too.” I cleared my throat. I couldn’t talk about it anymore. I didn’t want to remember any more, especially since that incident was probably the only good memory I had of my nearly four-year stay with the Alpert family.
I changed the subject. “Speaking of fathers, I got some screwy impressions from old Chester the day I met him. Tonight I got more unpleasant images. I don’t know if they’re my own memories or his. One thing I’m sure of, Mom and Chet argued about you—a lot.”
“Me?”
“Chet said she was obsessed with getting you back from your grandparents. He keeps remembering a plan to kidnap you. What do you know about that?”
Richard frowned. “I never heard it.”
“The old man denied it, but it’s something he felt strongly about.”
Richard looked thoughtful, like the possibility bothered him. He raised the bottle to his mouth and drank.
“So, what do I do about old Chester?” I asked.
“Nothing. You don’t have to love him. You don’t even have to like him. But would it hurt you to just accept him?”
“He comes with years of baggage and he broadcasts it like a transmitter. It hurts, Rich. It really hurts to be near him.”
His expression softened. “I can’t imagine what you go through with this psychic stuff. I wish I could help you, kid. I honestly do.”
I looked away. Acknowledging his compassion would only foster another round of painful memories I wasn’t up to facing.
As though sensing my unease, Richard tipped his beer bottle upside down. “Got any more?”
I glanced at the empties on the table. I had a good buzz working. I usually do a better job of pacing myself. I got up, staggered to the refrigerator, and got him another cold one.
He cracked the screw cap and took a sip. “What do you think those women are talking about?”
I shrugged. “Baby stuff.”
He smiled, and leaned back in the chair. “Can you believe I’m going to be a daddy?”
“You like the idea.”
He nodded, but the smile faded. “Yeah, but unfortunately racism isn’t dead in this country. It’ll be tough on him . . . or her.”
“That was true a generation ago. Not now. Not when a kid of mixed race can grow up to become president of the country.”
“I hope you’re right. I’ll tell you this, no child was ever wanted more. My kid.” His expression could only be called sappy.
I looked away, unable to bear the guilt. I couldn’t tell him what I feared, couldn’t be the one to shatter his dream.
“Maybe I’ll have just one more,” I said and got up again, and steadied myself on the furniture as I walked. No matter how much I drank, it wouldn’t obliterate what I knew. There’d be no baby. Why the hell did I have to know this? Why couldn’t I be blissfully ignorant like the rest of them?
I opened my beer and took a long pull.
Richard looked at his watch. “Christ, is that the time?” He got up, and grabbed his jacket to leave.
“Send my woman home, will you?”
“Sure thing.”
The phone rang before he reached the door. I grabbed the receiver. “Resnick’s Pizza.”
“Jeffy?” Brenda’s voice was small, frightened. “It’s started again.”
My comfortable buzz-on evaporated. I didn’t need to ask what she meant. “Sit tight, honey. Rich is on his way. Bye.” I hung up the phone. “She just got another one of those calls.”
Richard’s face twisted with anger. “Dammit.”
“Look, see if the phone recorded the number and write it down. Then forward the calls over here for the night.”
“Then you and Maggie will be bothered.”
“It’s the least I can do for you guys.”
He stared at me for a long moment, his expression an odd mix of gratitude and apprehension. Then he headed out the door.
The phone rang four more times during the next two hours. By the third call, Maggie was in tears. I methodically wrote down the time and duration of each call, silently listening while my anger boiled.
After Maggie had gone to bed, I sat on the couch nursing a bourbon and soda and stared at the phone, daring it to ring again.
Tomorrow I’d hit the Internet to review New York’s anti-stalking laws. I already knew it was a crime—with mandatory jail time—to make threatening or abusive calls. One for our side.
I took another sip of my drink. Had our visit with Willie set him off? Was he the most likely suspect? It would be a tidy solution, but what if he wasn’t? Bob Linden, the pro-life group’s leader, wouldn’t stoop to petty harassment, but other members in the organization might not be as savvy about the legal ramifications of such acts. I’d promised Emily Farrell a copy of her photo. It wouldn’t hurt to cultivate her friendship. To do that, I needed to get in the darkroom and finish printing in the morning. Then later I’d commandeer Richard’s computer for some research.
The fear in Brenda’s voice came back to haunt me. She didn’t deserve that kind of persecution. She was more than my friend, she was my family.
There was that word aga
in. I thought about the bizarre evening at Aunt Ruby’s and realized with some surprise that I’d wanted to belong. Was it the feeling of familiarity, of kinship, that warmed me in those cramped rooms, or the unexpected yearning to feel connected to a shared past?
My end of the family tree had certainly been dysfunctional—my blue-eyed mother the odd one out. I never thought about her eyes until I met Richard and saw his were blue, too. My father and Patty had brown eyes. Me, too. Every time Mom looked at me, did she see Chet? Had I been just a painful reminder of their unhappy life together?
Although I didn’t actually meet my brother until I was a teenager, I’d heard about him all my life. Finding out about Patty had shaken me. The old man’s love for her was strong—her presence gave him joy. His feelings for me were laced with guilt.
I drained my glass and realized with some irony that I was a snob. Though employed in white collar jobs most of my adult life, I always thought of myself as a working stiff. Probably because Mom waitressed and we lived in a cramped apartment over a bakery. Patty seemed entrenched in the working class stereotype of getting drunk to prove she was alive. Seeing my mother’s downhill slide into alcoholism affected the way I look at drinking. With all Shelley put me through, it would’ve been too easy to find solace in a whiskey bottle. Instead I’d thrown myself into my career, choosing one form of addiction over another.
The ice in my glass had nearly melted. I put the glass in the sink.
It was after two when I crawled into bed beside a sleeping Maggie—my island of peace in a chaotic world. Putting my arm around her, I nestled my chin against the warmth of her shoulder, and felt her steady breathing.
And somewhere out there, some asshole with nothing better to do was stalking Brenda.
CHAPTER
9
After Maggie left the next morning, I headed straight for my darkroom and developed the roll of black-and-white film I’d taken the night before. While the negatives dried, I made several prints of Emily Farrell and her daughter outside the health center, the best of which I enlarged and mounted. Emily had a sweet, natural presence, and her engaging personality made me wonder why such an attractive woman was alone.
I made contact prints from the new negs, dried them with a hair dryer, then sat down with a ham sandwich, trying to figure out if any were worth printing. One shot Maggie had taken of me with my father and sister was pretty good. I didn’t look half as uncomfortable as I’d felt. The question was, did I want to bother enlarging any of them?
The answer was no. But my father and Patty would probably like copies. There was a nice one of the three of us with Chet’s sisters that Ruby and Vera would probably like, too, but that was it. I’d make only those prints and file the negatives away forever.
I studied the sheet, frowning. How had Patty’s unsmiling friend, Ray, gotten in so many of the shots?
The phone’s jangle interrupted my musing. “Hello.”
“Jeffrey? It’s Patty.”
My hand clenched the receiver. “What’s up?”
“It’s Dad. He’s real sick. It wasn’t a good idea to take him to Aunt Ruby’s last night. I know your brother’s been his doctor for a while. Do you think he could come over and see Dad?”
That’s right. Put me in the middle.
“Why don’t you just call an ambulance,” I said.
Silence.
“He won’t let me,” she said finally. “Please, Jeff?”
I let out a long breath. “I’ll see what I can do. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”
Grabbing my coat, I scooped up my notes on the calls from the night before and headed out.
“Anybody home?” I called as I opened the back door to Richard’s house. Holly, barked, jumping up to lick my face.
Brenda was in the kitchen, emptying the dishwasher. “Hey, there.”
“Is Rich around? I’ve got a big favor to ask.”
“I think he’s in the study. What’s wrong?”
“My father’s really sick.”
Brenda nodded, like she’d expected it. For an awkward moment we just looked at one another. I figured if anyone could understand my mixed emotions about my father, it was Brenda.
“Well, I better find him.”
Richard looked up from his computer screen when the parquet floor creaked under my sneakered feet. “What’s up?”
“I got a call from Patty. She says Chet’s pretty sick. She wondered if you could come over to see him.”
He frowned and clicked the print button. “I’m not surprised. Especially after what you said last night.”
“What’re you up to?” I asked,
“Checking out local anti-abortion Web sites, looking for Brenda’s name. Other health center staff are there—but not her. You can’t believe the crap they post. Decomposed, full-term fetuses passed off as abortions—more likely stillbirths. Anybody with a computer and good software can manipulate images to suit their twisted purposes. I tried to find what I could on the protester’s names you gave me yesterday, too.”
The last of several pages rolled out the printer. I picked up the top sheet, scanning it. “What the hell?” I looked Richard in the eye. “This looks like Linden’s medical records.”
He didn’t say anything, and just logged off the Internet.
“You hacked into his medical records?” I asked.
“I learned a thing or two about systems in my job at the Foundation.” He didn’t look the least bit concerned.
“That’s illegal,” I sputtered. “And you’re Mr. Straight-And-Narrow.”
“Linden harasses women entering family planning centers, threatens clinic staff, and condones violence, which is immoral.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m willing to stand before God’s judgment, just the same as him.”
I glanced at the type. “The Reverend suffers from PTSS?”
“Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. On some pretty strong medication, too. And if he doesn’t take it—”
“Paranoia, subject to violent outbursts,” I read. “Just the kind of guy you want preaching to pro-life protesters.”
“Exactly.”
He switched off the computer and got up. “I’ll get my bag.”
I nodded. “Oh, here’s the log of the calls from last night. We can talk about it later, okay?”
“Sure.” He tucked it under the edge of his blotter. “I’ll meet you by the back door.”
I threaded my way through the house, and used the phone in the kitchen to call Patty. Brenda watched as I hung up, her expression filled with compassion.
“Do you need a hug, Jeffy?”
“Sure.” I let her put her arms around me, soaked in her genuine regret—her need to comfort. “He’s dying, Brenda.”
“I know.”
Holly gave a pathetic whimper, tried to insinuate herself between us, her wet nose nudging my hand. I pulled back, crouched down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Have you met Chet?”
Brenda shook her head. “No, but Richard pointed him out to me at the clinic.”
I stared at the floor. “This pisses me off. The old man’s not my responsibility.” I risked a look at Brenda. Her intense gaze unnerved me, made me feel guilty. “And now I have to get Rich involved, too. A week ago I didn’t know him or Patty, and now they’re jerking me around.”
Brenda’s silence only enhanced my guilt.
Richard appeared wearing his oversized navy pea coat, with his little black bag in hand. “I don’t know when we’ll be back,” he told Brenda.
“I’ll be okay.”
“If you get lonely, call Maggie. If Willie shows up, call nine-one-one.”
“I’ll be okay,” she repeated, and patted Holly’s head.
“Lock the doors,” I said.
“I will.”
Richard kissed Brenda goodbye and we headed out.
The deadbolt clicked behind us.
I drove, my fingers clenching the wheel, my knuckles white. As each minute ti
cked by my frustration mounted.
“I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Rich,” I said finally.
“I am his doctor,” he pointed out reasonably.
“I know, but—” I didn’t know. My thoughts were spinning. I wasn’t sure what I was saying or thinking or feeling. And I didn’t like that sense of impotence one bit.
“This could be the beginning of the end,” Richard said.
I refused to look at him.
“You should be prepared,” he said.
“For what? To lose him? What’s to lose? I just met him.” I was lying. I was scared and I didn’t even want to think about why.
“If nothing else, you might want to mourn the lost years.”
“Fat chance,” I bluffed. He was probably right, but I didn’t want to admit it to him—or even to myself.
I pulled up the driveway and we got out. Richard took in the rundown little house with its peeling paint and untrimmed shrubs. Embarrassment washed over me. This was all my father had to show for seventy-plus years on the planet.
Patty opened the storm door, her face taut with worry. “Dr. Alpert? Thanks for coming,” she said, ignoring me.
“Hi. Patty, right?” he said.
She nodded, ushered us into the house. “Sorry to call you over on a Sunday, but Dad’s so sick.”
“Where is he?”
“The bedroom.”
“I’ll wait here,” I said as they headed down a darkened hallway.
I parked in a chair and looked around the shabby living room. It was an old man’s house. The walls needed painting; the faded, threadbare carpet was probably older than me. Grocery-store prints of scenic landscapes hung over the couch. My father’s lover—common-law wife?—had been dead for ten years. It stood to reason there’d be nothing new in the way of furnishings. But there didn’t seem to be any semblance of Patty in the house, either. Her time between boyfriends was probably brief. Maybe the house had become more a way station than her home.
Patty came out a few moments later and flopped onto the chair opposite me.
“How is he?” I asked.
“Richard’s examining him now.”
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