Cheated By Death

by L. L. Bartlett

  With a couple of hours to kill, I decided to check out Reverend Linden’s church. I had no time for a stake-out, but drove around the lot and wrote down all the license plate numbers of cars parked there. An uneasy feeling settled in my gut when I noticed a pick-up truck with an empty gun rack in the back window.

  The mail hadn’t arrived by the time I got home, which meant I was looking out my window every five minutes for almost an hour. When I saw the carrier walk away, I headed for the mailbox, grabbed the mail and opened Richard’s door—letting the dog out as I went in.

  I sorted through the stack of letters and my heart sank when I saw that familiar envelope. Richard had left me a pair of latex gloves. Normally I don’t open other people’s mail. But then, normally Brenda didn’t receive prank—possibly threatening—letters. I sat at their kitchen table, carefully slit the envelope and unfolded the sheet of paper. It read: WILL. Putting both letters together read: YOU WILL

  You will what? Win a Rolls Royce? Not likely. I had a hunch I knew what the next envelope would contain. I didn’t want to think about it.

  I called the Williamsville Women’s Health Center and told Tim Davies about the second letter, then placed it and the envelope in a folder on Richard’s desk. Grabbing my coat, I headed out the door. I had to work that evening, so decided to make my duty visit to my father at the hospital beforehand. Since the clinic was nearby, it made sense to stop in and see Richard first.

  The waiting room was stuffed with coughing children, wheezing oldsters, and every make and model in between. The receptionist told me Richard was with a patient. I stood near the door and breathed shallowly for nearly fifteen minutes before he could see me.

  I almost didn’t recognize my own brother. Dressed in a white lab coat, with a stethoscope slung around his neck, he looked different from the every-day Richard I was used to. His eyes were weary. I hated to dump more bad news on him.

  “We got another letter,” I said.

  “Damn.” He snagged my arm, and pulled me into the doctor’s lounge—a misnomer for the cramped room containing a coffeemaker, a cot and a couple of tables and chairs.

  “Tell me everything,” he said.

  “It was the same type of envelope, the same paper and font. A decent lab might get a DNA signature from saliva from the seal, but until we have a suspect—”

  “I’ve got one: Willie!”

  “Okay, he’s a credible suspect. But we haven’t got anything concrete we can pin on him.”

  “How would we find it?”

  “If I had his Social Security number, I could make some inquiries. Your best bet is to hire a private detective in Philadelphia.”

  “Do you know anyone?”

  “A year ago I could’ve given you a couple of names. Since the mugging, my memory’s shot. Your attorney can probably arrange something.”

  “I’ll call him. Should we tell the police?”

  “There’s still no real threat. This whole thing could be an elaborate prank.”

  “But you don’t think so.”

  I shrugged and avoided his gaze. My gut instinct said no, but I had no impressions to rely on, either. “Are you going to tell Brenda?”

  “Not unless she asks.”

  I nodded, and felt bad for him. Next, I told him about my conversation with the phone company and gave him a quick rundown on the security system. He agreed with my decision to schedule implementation, said he’d think about hiring a guard. He kept looking at the clock.

  “I won’t keep you,” I said.

  “Are you going to visit your father?”

  “That’s where I’m headed now. Have you seen him today?”

  “Yes.” His solemn expression made the knot in my stomach tighten. “Your father did his legal homework. He requested—and I agreed to post—a do not resuscitate order. The paperwork’s already on file at the hospital.”

  Stunned, I stood there, blinking at him. “What did Patty say?”

  “She understands the situation. She’s been to hospice counseling. She wants to make this easy on your father.”

  “Then I guess it makes sense,” I heard myself saying, although I wasn’t sure I liked the idea. Richard kept looking at me, like he expected an argument. As a newcomer to the extended Resnick family, I had no right to voice an opinion either way.

  We stood there, not saying anything. I could tell he had something else on his mind, but he wasn’t willing to talk about it. At least, not yet.

  “I’d better go,” I said.

  “Thanks for everything, kid. I’ll talk to you later.” He clapped me on the shoulder, and started for the door.

  I followed, and watched as Richard headed down the hall to the treatment rooms. Hands thrust into his coat pockets, his stooped shoulders and hanging head made him look older than his forty-eight years.

  At that moment, I felt older.

  People sat clustered in knots in the hospital’s lobby. I sailed through without checking in. When my mother was dying, they wouldn’t let more than two people visit at a time. Did those rules still apply? If anyone was already with my father, I figured he would still want to see me no matter what the rules said.

  I found his private room—Richard’s doing?—with no trouble, and paused at the open doorway. Patty leaned against the wall, staring at the ceiling. Ruby occupied the room’s only chair, her coat slung over one arm, her pocketbook securely seated on her lap. The bed was cranked to a full, upright sitting position, and the TV was on.

  I knocked on the doorjamb. “Hello.”

  Chet fumbled with the TV control, and pressed the off button. “Jeffrey!” The timbre of his voice conveyed his pleasure, reinforcing my sense of guilt.

  Patty gave me a funny look—a cross between irritation and relief. I couldn’t guess what she was thinking. Ruby’s smile was welcoming, sympathetic.

  “Hey, Dad. How’re you feeling?” I said, feeling self-conscious, keeping my distance.

  “Good. Good,” Chet said, an obvious lie. He looked worse than he had the day before. His lips were a blue line, the ever-present nasal cannula hung from his nose, encircling his head like a fallen halo. But a spark of life still lit his brown eyes.

  Ruby gathered her purse and coat. “Let’s get some coffee, Patty, and give these men time to talk.”

  “Sure,” Patty said, her tone wary. “We’ll be back in a while, Dad.”

  Ruby bustled her out of the room.

  I took the chair my aunt had just vacated, and stuffed my hands into my jacket pockets. Left alone, my father and I looked at each other for an uncomfortable moment.

  “I’m glad you came, Jeffrey.”

  I gave him a wan smile. Duty alone had prompted the visit. Why? Why did I owe anything to this person?

  Maybe it was time to find out.

  “How’re you feeling?” I asked again. Talk about a dumb question.

  “Awful,” he answered truthfully this time. “Will you come to my funeral?”

  I blinked. “That’s a terrible question.”

  “Why? We both know I’m dying. Maybe today. Maybe next week.”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “I had a good life. Maybe it could’ve been better. Maybe I shoulda done things different.”

  The sentence hung between us.

  His mouth drooped, his eyes growing watery. “Patty says you don’t like her.”

  “She thought I’d be a different person.”

  “I tried to tell her. You’re more like me—you keep to yourself. She’s like Joan—outgoing.”

  “Joan was a lot different than my mother, wasn’t she?”

  My father looked away, took a breath and coughed. He moved his legs restlessly under the covers and gazed out the window.

  “What happened with you and my mother? Why did you leave?”

  “That was a long time ago. It doesn’t matter any more.”

  “It does to me.”

  “I’m an old man. I put that stuff out of my head years ago. I mad
e a new life with Joan. That’s the only life I remember.”

  My fists clenched in my jacket pockets. After all these years, what the hell did he have to hide?

  “I saw you early last summer,” Chet said.

  I looked up, had to work at keeping my voice steady. “Where?”

  “Your brother’s house. Elena drove me. You were planting begonias in the yard. Do you like to garden?”

  “Yeah.” It was a new hobby. It had been Brenda’s idea to transform the yard, but I found solace in the task. “How long were you there?”

  “Maybe ten minutes.”

  “Why didn’t you come over, introduce yourself?”

  He waved a hand. “What for? You’d have just been mad—like you are now.”

  “I’m not mad at you.” Okay that was a lie. “I’m disappointed. It’s too late now.”

  “Too late for what? You didn’t have to know me for me to love you, boy.”

  “Why are you telling me this? You’re making it so hard.”

  “It doesn’t have to be hard. I’ve been sick a long time. I’m ready to die. You don’t have to feel bad.”

  “But I do. We could’ve been friends.”

  “That wasn’t necessary.”

  Maybe not for you, I wanted to shout, but what was the use? Nothing I could say would change him. If I was going to get answers, they wouldn’t come from him.

  Our brief conversation had drained the old man. He leaned back against the pillows, his breathing a hoarse whistle. I didn’t know what to do, so I sat, staring at my shoes, wishing Patty and Ruby would return so I could leave.

  I hated the place, its smell, the lingering aura of suffering. Memories of the week I’d spent in the hospital in New York City after the mugging were still too fresh. My life had changed since then. Some things were worse—the frequent headaches and the damned annoying insight I sometimes got. Some things were better. I had a family—Richard and Brenda—and a woman who loved me.

  Family.

  What if this was the last time I saw my father? What if I never got answers to all my questions? Maybe what I really needed was to make peace with that.

  I turned my gaze to the old man sleeping in the bed and wished to God Richard had never told me about him. I could’ve been blissfully ignorant when it came time for him to die. Yet I couldn’t work up anger toward my brother. Richard longed for family and he wasn’t going to get his wish. Was keeping that truth to myself a blessing or a curse? Eventually I’d have to face that, too.

  The guilt just piled higher and higher.

  The featureless walls seemed to be converging. I got up, stared out the window at the ugly gray sky. Bleak—just how I felt.

  Voices at the door caused me to turn. Ruby’s and Patty’s conversation stopped abruptly when they saw Chet asleep.

  I met them in the hall. “I have to go to work,” I whispered. “Tell Dad I’ll . . . see him tomorrow.”

  Ruby’s eyes filled with tears. “God willing.” She drew me into a hug. There was nothing of her. A gust of wind could have blown her away.

  I pulled back, then nodded at Patty. “See you later.”

  “We should talk,” she said. “There’s things that need to be decided.”

  “Yeah.” What else could I say? I looked back at my father, frowned, then turned and headed for the exit.

  I’d lied to Patty. I didn’t have to be at work for a couple of hours. Instead, I took a drive, needing the distraction.

  Like old times in my job as an insurance investigator, I checked out the addresses the phone company had given me. Just as I’d thought: the crank calls to Richard’s phone had been made from taverns, bars, and strip joints. I needed a picture of Willie to flash to the bartenders—a description alone wouldn’t cut it. I was pretty sure Brenda hadn’t saved photographic souvenirs from her brief marriage. Too bad. It wasn’t likely anyone working the day shift would’ve been at the bars when the calls had been made, anyway. I’d have to come back at night.

  The afternoon evaporated. I headed back across town to go to work.

  The Whole Nine Yards was busy for a Tuesday night, usually the slowest night of the week. It had been a long day, and I was wiped by ten o’clock, with another two hours—minimum—before I could leave. I needed the money and was damned glad it had been days since I’d had one of those incapacitating headaches. That was about the only thing to keep me from being gainfully employed. And keeping busy kept me from thinking about other unpleasant situations—like my father dying.

  I was in back, getting a case of beer, when a coarse, familiar voice called out, “What’s it take to get some service around here?”

  It was the pony-tailed man from the protest line.

  He wasn’t the same social scale as the rest of the bar’s clientele. Still dressed in the same grubby, grease-stained jacket, he sat on a stool at the bar, resting his arms on the polished oak surface.

  I set the case of Labatts on the floor beside the fridge and straightened. “What can I get you,” I asked, reminding myself that the customer’s always right.

  “What you got on tap?”

  He didn’t recognize me. Good. “Molson Golden, Budweiser, and Coors Lite.”

  “Gimme a Bud.”

  I turned for the tap, poured the beer, and gave it a generous head. He tossed a five on the bar. His nails were bitten down to the quick, grime embedded in the skin. What was he, a mechanic? I rang up the sale, set the change in front of him and turned away, started putting the bottles in the fridge.

  “Hey, I know you,” Pony-tail said, lighting a cigarette —strictly illegal in public places in New York State.

  “I don’t think so. And please put out your smoke.”

  “Yeah. You’re that Ass-cort I see at the clinic couple times a week,” he said, ignoring my request. “The nigger lover.”

  The muscles in my arms tightened and I straightened. My aversion to the phrase must’ve been plastered on my face—which was just the reaction he’d hoped for.

  “Yeah, you’re a big man taking care of that baby-killing whore. Is she a good fuck?” he said, taking another drag and exhaling. Heads turned in his direction, eavesdropping.

  I leaned over the bar and kept my voice low. “Finish your beer and get your redneck ass out of here.”

  He exhaled smoke into my face. “You can’t tell me what to do, nigger-lover.”

  “Have we got a problem here?” Tom, my boss, asked. Though in his fifties, his years as a bouncer in other people’s taverns had served him well. He was still capable of beating the shit out a troublemaker. “Hey, pal, don’t’cha know it’s illegal to smoke in a public place.”

  “The gentleman was just getting ready to leave,” I said.

  “Am not. I haven’t drunk my beer yet.”

  “Sir, we’ve got ladies at the bar. Your language is not appreciated,” Tom grated.

  Pony-tail straightened his shoulders and stubbed out his cigarette on the oak bar. “Who’s gonna make me leave?”

  Tom grabbed his elbow and lifted him off the stool. “Me.”

  “Hey!” Pony-tail dug in his heels, but Tom had no trouble dragging him to the exit.

  “You asked for it!” he yelled at me over his shoulder. “You shouldn’t a messed with me, man! I’ll make you sorry!”

  I went back to work, cleaning up behind the bar, ignoring the other patrons’ stares and whispers. I studied the glass and the cigarette butt sitting before me, hesitant to touch them. But I couldn’t afford to lose the opportunity to gain some insight into one of the protesters’ souls.

  The glass had nothing. He hadn’t held it long enough to leave a psychic signature. I dumped the beer down the drain and left the glass to soak. I grabbed the cigarette filter between my thumb and forefinger. Anger. Stupid, petty, fury. But I couldn’t focus on the source. Maybe there was none.

  I tossed it in the trash.

  Tom came back in. “He got in his truck and left. He won’t be back.”

 
I nodded, hoping he couldn’t see how the jerk had shaken me. Of all the bars in Buffalo, why had Pony-tail chosen to quench his thirst here?

  When the basketball game ended after eleven, the bar cleared out. A few stragglers watched a rerun of a middleweight title fight while I washed glasses, then wiped down all the tables. Near the end of the fourth round, Tom told me I could leave.

  Huddled in my jacket against the cold, I headed for the bar’s tiny parking lot. It was twenty-three days until the official start of winter—but what did Mother Nature know about calendars?

  My car was in the farthest spot but even in the dim light I could make out the garish red lipstick against its white exterior. The message wasn’t inspired. Pony-tail’s vocabulary was extremely limited. The aura left behind was the same unfocused anger. I kicked aside the glass from the smashed headlight, grateful he’d taken his petty revenge out on the car and not me.

  I spent the next hour in a self-serve car wash, scrubbing away the evidence. I was supposed to drive Brenda to the Women’s Health Center in the morning. I didn’t want her to see how low some asshole would stoop to show the depths of his hatred.

  My phone never rang in the middle of the night with prank calls or bad news from Patty. I got up at the usual time, ready to take Brenda to the health center.

  I tossed the envelope of prints I’d made over the weekend onto the back seat of my car and started the engine. If Brenda noticed the broken headlight, she didn’t mention it. Instead, she chatted about the furniture she’d chosen for the nursery. The words were right, but there was a forced cheerfulness in her tone. Likewise, it was getting harder for me to fake a smile of encouragement.

  Emily Farrell was back on the protest line—Pony-tail wasn’t. I parked the car and walked Brenda into the clinic. On my way out I waved to Emily, received a shy smile from her and hateful glares from other protesters on line who shouted promises of fire and brimstone to the damned who entered the clinic.

  I hiked to the coffee shop down the street, got a couple of cups of hot chocolate to go, and headed back to the line.