I replaced the receiver.
“Shit.”
“Bad news?” Brenda asked.
“Yeah.”
I tried reaching Richard at the clinic, but he’d already left and had apparently hadn’t turned on his cell phone.
“Will you be all right on your own?” I asked Brenda, pulling my jacket on again.
“I’ve got Holly to protect me,” she said, and smoothed the silky hair on the dog’s head, setting Holly’s tail thumping against the floor. “And Richard will be home any minute now. Go,” she said.
“I feel rotten leaving you alone right now.”
“Willie sent roses, not a bomb.”
“This time,” I said.
She frowned. “Go.”
The late afternoon traffic was heavy. I kept thinking of Brenda all alone in that big house, yet I found myself welcoming every red light or other delay that would keep me from the hospital.
Why did this have to happen now?
I didn’t know who’d be with my father or what I’d say to them. I had a premonition of what I’d experience upon entering that room: being sucked into some dark miasma of misery. My hands clenched the steering wheel.
In the lobby, I pressed the elevator button and the doors obediently surged open. Upstairs, the nurses’ station was empty. No geezers with walkers blocked the oddly quiet corridors. I headed for my father’s room.
Patty wasn’t around. The old man was alone. Why wasn’t anyone keeping a death vigil? Had they all stepped out for an early dinner?
Propped up in bed, Chet looked asleep. His waxy complexion had a grayish tone. Without his dentures, his face seemed thin—caved in. Each breath was a struggle.
“Dad?” I called, still uncomfortable with the title—not expecting an answer. “Dad, it’s Jeff.”
I stood over him, feeling self-conscious. Incredibly, I thought about Star Trek’s Mr. Spock and Vulcan mind melds. After being clunked on the head with a baseball bat, I could sometimes absorb others’ emotions like a sponge. I found myself suddenly envious of those fictional, unemotional aliens who’d learned to turn off all feelings.
I clenched my hands to keep them from trembling. If I touched the old man, would I gain a whole new understanding of him? Would I learn something to make up for all the years I hadn’t known my father? Would it give both of us peace of mind? So far I’d only gotten sadness and regret from him—and an inkling of the depths of his ravaging illness.
I went back to the door, shut it, craving privacy, somehow knowing this would be my only chance to say good-bye. As I neared the bed, I reached out—stopped, afraid. I had to force myself to rest my fingers on the gnarled knuckles of his puffy hand.
The skin was cool, but I got nothing. No sense of him remained. The body lived, but his mind, his life essence, was ebbing, already inaccessible to me.
I pulled back my hand—disappointment building to anger.
“Can you hear me, old man?”
No reaction.
“You got pissed at my mother and left us. You never came back. Never saw me grow up. Never let me know you were even alive. You came to my high school graduation, but you never let me see you. Strangers in Manhattan spied on me for you. You knew everything I did—every move I made.”
I paced back and forth, yelling at this stranger—I couldn’t stop myself.
“How could you do that to me? How could you cheat me like that? Then you had the nerve to tell me you always loved me. You didn’t spend an hour of your time with me in thirty-two years. God, I hate you for that.”
Chet’s eyes snapped opened.
I jumped back, and smacked into the wall.
His gaze wandered to the ceiling, his forehead furrowing as his jaw fell as though in wonder.
I swallowed down terror, unable to look away. He was half of this world and half gone.
“Dad?” I whispered.
His hand reached out, searching for mine, but I was terrified--convinced he’d drag me with him on his final journey. Pinned to the wall, I watched him, like a rubbernecker at a car wreck, as his gaze traveled from left to right and back again as though tracking something—someone?
“Dad?”
Chet’s expression grew vague and distant, his eyes drifted shut. His chest rose and fell. The breath rattled through him then abruptly stopped.
“Dad? Dad!” I stepped close, put my ear to his chest, and listened.
Nothing.
Had he heard my tirade, or was he blissfully ignorant of my anger?
Had he known I was there? Had he reached for me?
It didn’t matter.
My father was dead.
Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us sinners—even the Jewish ones who don’t believe in you—now and at the hour of our death. Amen.
My vision blurred. I brushed the tears away.
I should’ve pressed the call button for a nurse—but what for? Richard had signed the no resuscitation order.
Richard.
The room had a phone. I didn’t use it. I had to get away—I needed some space.
I cleared my throat and headed out, letting the door whoosh shut behind me. The fluorescent lights in the corridor seemed incredibly bright. I stumbled past the nurse’s station and found a pay phone nearby. Dropping coins in the slot, I punched the newly memorized number.
“Hello?”
Relief swept through me. “He’s dead.”
“What?” Richard asked.
“Chet just died.”
“I’m sorry, Jeff. What can I do?”
“Nothing. I just . . . I guess I should’ve called Patty. But I—”
“Are you okay? You sound funny?”
“It hit me harder than I thought it would.”
“Do you want me to come up there?”
“Do you mind?” It sounded like a plea.
“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”
“Thanks.” I hung up the phone. Other visitors passed me. Dinner carts rattled down the hall. A voice over the hospital P.A. system paged a doctor.
I took my time walking back to my father’s room. A young nurse, no more than twenty-three and dressed in scrubs, smiled at me as she taped garland around the doorway of the meds station. The cheerful Christmas decorations seemed out of place where people came to die.
Chet was just as I’d left him. I sat down to wait in the straight-backed, uncomfortable chair. I knew I should do something, so I picked up the phone, and dialed Patty’s number. It rang eight times before I hung up.
A harried-looking nurse’s aide poked her bleached-blonde head into the doorway. “I’m a little behind,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to take his vitals.”
She didn’t look like she needed another problem, so I nodded dumbly. She propped the door open and walked away.
Numbness crept through me. No more opportunities to get to know the old man. No chance to talk. No more anything.
I hadn’t expected to feel such an acute sense of loss.
I looked beyond my father’s body to the window. Headlights cut through the gloom outside. People heading home after work, going out to dinner, stopping at the corner store for a quart of milk or a newspaper. Life went on pretty much as usual, but for the first time in seventy-plus years Chet Resnick wasn’t around to witness it.
“Jeff?” Richard stood silhouetted in the doorway.
I looked away, feeling embarrassed. He approached the bed, felt for a pulse, and listened for a heartbeat before pulling the sheet over Chet’s face. My father was now officially dead.
“Did you call Patty?”
“She wasn’t home.”
He studied me, making me feel even more uncomfortable. “Are you okay?”
“Yeah.”
Was I?
He glanced back at the sheet-shrouded corpse. “I’ll tell the nurses. They’ll get things started.”
“Okay.”
He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet. “Come on. Y
ou can wait down the hall.”
Patty showed up while Richard was signing the death certificate. “I was just down at the cafeteria.” Her gaze went from me to Richard. “Daddy—he’s gone, isn’t he?”
Richard reached for her hand. “I’m sorry.”
Dressed in tight jeans, knee-high boots, and a waist-hugging white rabbit jacket, her hair puffed and perfect, she locked her watery gaze on Richard’s and held his hand longer than absolutely necessary.
Why did she remind me of a cheap hooker?
“Let’s go somewhere more private,” Richard said, and led us to an office down the hall. He switched on a couple of lamps, obviously familiar with the room, although another doctor’s name plaque was attached to the door.
Patty sat on a couch, dabbed her eyes with a tissue as Richard explained what happened. I didn’t say anything, and never felt more useless.
“At least he isn’t in pain any more,” Patty said. “I just didn’t think it would happen this fast.” She cleared her throat and straightened in her seat. “Can I use the phone? I have to call Aunt Ruby.”
“We’ll give you some privacy,” Richard said.
We retreated to the hall.
“I need to finish the paperwork.” Richard nodded toward the office. “Why don’t you hang around in case she needs you?”
“Why would she need me? We don’t even know each other.”
“Then now’s a good time to remedy that.” He turned and started down the hall.
I resented his tone—his inference—but I nudged the door open wider, and quietly reentered the office.
Patty hung up the phone, took out a card from her purse, and dialed another number. Perfectly composed, she finalized the arrangements she’d started earlier that day. I quickly learned the differences between Jewish and Catholic death rituals. Chet would be buried the next day. I needed more time—two or three days—to get used to the idea of losing someone. Time for a wake, a funeral Mass—time to grieve.
Richard returned as she replaced the receiver.
Patty wrote down the Temple’s address, tore the page from a small spiral notebook, and held it out to me. “You’ll be there, of course.”
I took the paper. “I’ll be there.”
She nodded and collected her purse. “I guess I’d better get going. I have a lot to do tonight.”
“Is there anything I can do to help?” Richard asked.
She shook her head, but reached for his hand once more. “Thanks for taking care of Dad. He liked you. He said your mother would’ve been proud of you.”
Richard looked thoughtful. Had it occurred to him that Chet was the last link to the mother he never knew?
Patty stepped close, brushed her lips against my cheek. “See you tomorrow.” Then she was gone, and I put her out of my thoughts.
I stood there in that silent, dimly lit office, feeling dazed.
Richard shrugged into his jacket. “We’d better head home.”
“Yeah, I don’t like leaving Brenda alone.”
“She’s downstairs in the lobby. I wasn’t about to leave her alone—not after getting those flowers.”
I thought about what happened earlier in the day. “Did she tell you about the letter?”
His eyes narrowed. “What letter?”
I told him as we headed for the exit.
“Why didn’t you call me?” he demanded.
“What could you do about it?”
“Be there for Brenda—for one.” The edge to his voice intensified.
“Well don’t yell at her—or me, either. We both had a shitty day.” My voice sounded harder than I’d intended.
“I’m sorry. I just feel . . . frustrated.”
I saw a pay phone and had one of my more brilliant ideas. “Let’s call Maggie. Let’s all go out for dinner. Somewhere noisy, with lots of people.”
We ended up at a quaint little Italian restaurant near Maggie’s house. The checkered tablecloths and dripping candles in Chianti bottles were about as clichéd as you can get, but the food was good and the drinks were generous. Maggie and Richard made polite conversation while Brenda’s distracted gaze remained fixed on her untouched plate. I watched her, kept downing doubles, and tried not to think about the absoluteness of death, black roses, and threats in the mail.
The fresh air hit me like an icy brick as we left the restaurant. The next thing I remembered was Richard helping me up the stairs to my loft apartment. He was talking, but I wasn’t listening.
I ended up in my bed, the lights winked out and my queasy stomach shuddered, making me wish I’d stopped before that last round. I closed my eyes in the silence, knowing that all the bourbon in the world would never obliterate the memory of my father’s sightless eyes or the groping hand that had reached for mine.
CHAPTER
12
The dead man had a face. Roman nose, thin lips and a two-day growth of beard. Haunted eyes. Not an old man as I’d first thought, but past mid-life. Not white, but salt-and pepper hair hung below his collar.
He opened the screen door and came out of the white frame house. A stiff breeze whipped the tails of his untucked flannel shirt. Thumbs hooked on the empty belt loops of his jeans, he sauntered down the drive. His lips moved as he walked, but I couldn’t hear him.
Did he speak to me?
He paused, looked up sharply, and backed away as fear captured his features. Hands raised in submission, he mouthed the words, ‘Not my fault.’
Turning, he started to run. The air was fractured by gunfire. His left leg buckled, shattered. He rolled over, his face twisted in agony—terror.
Wordless ranting, then a final shot. Blood spattered across the man’s face and onto the grass around him. The wind played with his hair as his brown eyes dulled, staring unseeing at the gray sky.
He was dead.
Again.
I awoke, heart—and head—pounding, knowing I had witnessed a murder. The man who’d haunted my dreams was not my father.
But who the hell was he?
Richard arrived on my doorstep about eight o’clock the next morning, forcing me from my bed. I’d awakened with one of my skull-pounding headaches. On a scale of one to ten, this one rated an eight. Not a good start to the day.
Richard made tea and toast, then sat me down at the breakfast bar. I took a sip from my mug, swallowing my migraine medication. The quiet was unnerving.
“You should be taking care of Brenda, not nursemaiding me.”
“She understands.”
I looked away. Being an object of pity sucked.
The memory of my father’s sheet-covered corpse filled my mind. Dread welled up in my chest—making me feel like an asthmatic. But wasn’t that a normal reaction to losing a parent? Chet’s death was just another of life’s passages, a grim reminder of my own mortality.
And what about the dream? The last time I’d been plagued with dreams of death, I’d gotten involved in a murder investigation. No way did I want to repeat that experience. But it bothered me.
I cleared my throat. “Remember when I first came back to Buffalo, I had that recurring dream about a murder?”
“Yeah.” Richard’s tone said he didn’t want to remember, either.
I told him about the most recent nightmares. “At first I couldn’t see the man’s face. He was old, with white hair. I thought it had something to do with my father. But the dreams have gotten more detailed. It’s no one I recognize.”
“Go on.”
“It’s unsolved. The man was shot twice. First in the leg, from a distance, then point blank in the gut.” I couldn’t explain it better. I barely understood it myself.
“When did this happen?”
I shrugged. “I don’t know.”
He set his mug on the table. “Those other dreams brought unpleasant emotions. What do you get now?”
He was beginning to sound like a shrink, but I hadn’t really thought about it. “The creeps—like any other nightmare. I’m starting to
think I might have a personal stake in this.”
There. I said it—making it real.
Richard looked thoughtful. “Dr. Marsh, on our staff, has a good reputation. She might be able to help you figure out what’s going on.”
I shook my head then wished I hadn’t. “No, thanks.” I looked away to hide my disappointment at his willingness to just pass me on to a colleague. Then again, the dreams related to Matt Sumner’s murder had been the first link in a chain of events that led to Richard being shot. No wonder he wasn’t eager to repeat the exercise.
Besides, he had enough on his mind.
“I guess I’ll just wait and see what happens.” I stared at the crumbs littering my plate. “Will you go with me to the funeral?”
“Of course, we’ll be there. I’ve already got someone to cover for us at the clinic.”
“Not Brenda.”
He frowned, his brows narrowing. “Why? Are you ashamed of her?”
“How can you even ask?” I took a shaky breath. How could I convince him? There was no easy way to say it. “I don’t want people I don’t really know or care about to say something that could hurt her.”
His eyes bored through me. “Do you have reason to believe someone might say something?”
“Maybe.”
He looked away, stared into his own mug for a moment, then exhaled. “Okay. I’d better get changed.” He pushed back his chair, and grabbed his jacket. “I’ll be back in twenty minutes.”
“Thanks, Rich. Thanks for everything.”
He managed a smile. “Don’t mention it.”
I took my time getting dressed. I even gave my shoes a fresh coat of polish. I wanted to look good—a useless gesture. My father was dead. My appearance wouldn’t make a damned bit of difference to him.
By the time Richard returned, I stood in front of the mirror in my bedroom and finished tying my tie.
“Have you ever been to a Jewish funeral?” he asked from the doorway.
I shook my head and winced at the stab of pain it brought.
“At the grave site, Orthodox Jews rip their clothes to show sorrow. Especially for a parent.”
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