“So what? It’s a crummy job. I’m better than that.”
“Then find a better job,” I said, “and dump the low-lifes you’ve been hanging with.”
Things didn’t get better. A month later, she was arrested—caught buying a gram of cocaine from an undercover officer.
“What happened?” I asked when I arrived at the jail to make her bail, hoping she’d tell me it was all a mistake.
“It was a trap. The guy tried to entice me and I played dumb. You know I’m not into that shit.”
I believed her because I wanted to. I found a lawyer who got her off, but it took a big hit to our bank account. We’d been saving for that little house in Jersey. That incident set us back a year.
The next time, Shelley OD’d. She’d been out late—way too late—with the girls when I got the call. I worked in the insurance business, and yet I had to fight to get her into rehab. If I thought I’d had a shitty life growing up, I soon learned that there are degrees of shit, and those last few months with Shelley were the lowest of the low. She’d gone from a pretty, fun-loving woman with an infectious grin to a grasping, hollow-eyed junkie, and nothing I did seemed to help pull her out of that god-awful pit.
And then she got arrested a second time. This time, our savings took an even bigger hit, and I got her off once again with her promising me it would never happen again. And it didn’t—because a month later she left me—stripping our savings account and taking everything we had of any value. I came home from work to find a note and our apartment looking like it had been vandalized. I stood there for a terrible few minutes surveying the devastation before I had the presence of mind to call a locksmith, and then paid through the nose to get the locks changed that very night. No way was I going to let that happen again.
But that wasn’t the end of it. I took a few days off from work, determined to find her. By then, she’d been fired from her job, but she’d convinced a former co-worker that I was an abusive husband. I had never hurt her—but at that moment I wanted to.
Our last conversation wasn’t pleasant. Shelley stood behind her friend’s apartment door, the chain intact, hurling abuse at me until the neighbors threatened to call the cops.
That was it. We were done.
And yet … I didn’t file for separation. Some part of me hoped Shelley would come to her senses, straighten up, and come back to me.
And then on a stormy evening in March, the cops arrived at my door.
“Jeffrey Resnick?”
“Yeah,” I answered warily.
“Married to Shelley Malone Resnick?”
“Oh, Christ, now what’s she gone and done?” I asked, fearing what I thought might be the worst, but it was even more terrible.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you, but your wife is dead.”
I don’t know how long I stood there in my open doorway, just staring at them with my mouth agape.
“Murdered?” I asked in disbelief.
“Execution style. Were you aware your wife was into drugs?”
“Yes,” I admitted, heartsick. Shelley—dead? At that moment, I could only think of her as she’d been when we’d first met: pretty and vivacious.
“She was killed in a bathroom in Grand Central about two in the morning two days ago.”
What the hell was she doing at Grand Central at that time?
Stupid. I knew perfectly well what she’d been doing. She’d sleep with anyone for a hit of cocaine. Had she stooped to prostitution before the end? Had a client or a pimp killed her?
“Sir, do you have a gun?”
My heart sank. They thought I might have killed her. I swallowed. “Yeah. A thirty-eight caliber Smith & Wesson.”
They nodded. “Can we see it?”
Thanks to the locked gun safe bolted to the floor, it was one of the few things Shelley hadn’t taken.
I nodded. “Sure.”
I led them to the bedroom closet, took out my key ring, and opened the safe. “I haven’t fired it in over a year.”
Again they nodded. I took the gun out and they checked it over before handing it back. “Your wife was killed with a Glock.”
I wasn’t off the suspect list, but I was one step closer to proving my innocence.
“Where is she? The morgue?”
They nodded. Couldn’t they just answer yes or no once in a while? “We identified her by fingerprints. We’d be glad to take you there for corroboration.”
Did I want to see the woman I’d once loved with the top of her skull missing?
“Okay,” I said. “I’ll get my jacket.”
***
In the old days, a friend or relative would have to actually walk into the morgue, watch as an attendant opened a stainless steel drawer and haul out the sheet-draped body for identification. I was glad, therefore, to be shown to a room where a TV monitor had been set up. The video showed my once-beloved Shelley lying supine, a sheet draped around her head to cover the damage. The camera panned her face from different angles. The lighting emphasized how gaunt she’d become, and there seemed to be bruises around her jaw. The view changed to show the little tattoo of an airplane on her left ankle, and then the video looped back to show her face.
The tattoo proved the body was really Shelley. She’d told me she’d gotten it in Mexico on a dare when she’d led a tour of Americans to Cancun and had a little too much to drink.
The video cycled back to the beginning for a third time and I watched the camera pan over her face once again. Profile from the left; full face; profile from the right. No blood. No brain matter. Her complexion was pale and waxy—not at all as I known her, loved her.
“That’s her,” I finally managed, tears welling in my eyes. I had to clear my throat before I could speak again. “What happens next?”
“The medical examiner’s office will let you know when the body has been released so you can claim it. If you want to,” the officer added.
What would a burial cost? Shelley had told me she didn’t want to be cremated, but with no assets, could I even afford to bury her?
“Thank you,” I said.
“Let us know when you’re ready to leave and we’ll have a patrol car take you home.”
I nodded. “Thank you.”
They left me alone.
I watched that video loop over and over again for more than an hour—hating the content, but reluctant to tear my eyes away. How I loved and then hated Shelley. How I was glad to be rid of her and yet would forever miss her and the life we’d planned that would never come to be. I studied the contours of the face that I already knew so well—had loved—and wondered if I’d ever love another woman so intensely.
At last, I left that dark sterile room and rode home in the back of a patrol car, feeling numb.
Shelley was dead, and a part of my life was over, too.
It was March and I’d lost yet another woman I’d loved with all my heart.
#
The priest had gone back with the hearse. I wasn’t exactly sure how I’d get back to the city. Take the train. Yeah. There was a station about a mile down the road. I could walk it in about fifteen minutes ... probably less. And then I’d go home. To that empty apartment. Back to my empty life.
I stared at the mound of dirt. After the brief ceremony, the cemetery’s workmen moved right in, filling in the hole, covering the casket’s shiny finish.
I hadn’t brought any flowers. Maybe I wouldn’t even spring for a monument. That way no one would know she was here. Hell, no one knew but me, the undertaker, the priest and the cemetery’s records office knew that Michelle Kathleen Malone Resnick lay beneath the ground.
I hadn’t bothered to go to her place to even pick out a dress. The undertaker had supplied something. I didn’t even bother to look. Didn’t want to see that face again. Or the damage that the bullet had done. The sight of her on the gurney in the morgue was enough to last me through eternity. Maybe one day I’d remember her as I’d first known her—pretty, smiling—but
the hurt was still too fresh for that now.
“You stupid bitch,” I said out loud. Who cared? There was no one around to hear me. And was it really so strange to see someone talking to the recently deceased?
“Shelley, you fucked up one time too many times.”
But at least I wouldn’t have to worry about her anymore, wonder where she was or how she was living. What trouble she could get into. Or if she’d surface, demanding my help. Now she was just another crime statistic. Let the drug dealers take each other out. How many times had I heard that gem? But even drug dealers had families. People who had at least once cared about them.
Yeah, I still cared. Tears welled in my eyes. I could give into them now. Now that there was no one to see them. Anger and sorrow vied for prominence. I’d never felt such intense hatred or love for anyone in my life. Anyone. And I’d thought she’d loved me. For a while, anyway.
I took a breath to steel myself. Maybe I’d go to that little Irish Pub around the corner from my—formerly our—apartment, spring for a few beers—maybe even some Irish whiskey. My own private wake for Shelley.
“Good-bye, Shelley.”
I turned and walked away. I didn’t look back. I would never go back to that place.
But Shelley had been a person—who’d lived, loved, and had been loved. That she’d been a jerk her last year on the planet shouldn’t condemn her to anonymity through the ages. Besides, it was the right thing to do. Doing the right thing ... did that make you a chump? Especially when that person had abused you; had taken advantage of you?
Still, I wondered how much a monument would cost....
***
REUNITED
Things were becoming very uncomfortable at work. Rumors spread through the office that changes were about to come and those who didn’t give their all would have their head on the chopping block. I was determined not to be one of the sacrificial lambs. With Shelley dead, I had a life to lead and lots of time to fill so I wouldn’t think of her. I spent far more than forty hours a week at work. I’d go home late, my brain numb, have a few drinks, and hit the sack. Get up early and start the process all over again.
Sitting at my desk, some three weeks after Shelley’s death, Marcia, the department secretary, poked her head into my office and said, “Jeff, there’s a Dr. Alpert on the phone. I asked what the call was in reference to, but he said it was personal. Do you want to take it?” she asked, sounding concerned. Did she think I was sick or something? Maybe. I’d been avoiding looking at myself in the mirror. Lack of decent sleep, too much coffee and bourbon, and not enough food, had left me looking like I sorely needed a vacation—or a healthy retreat.
My stomach knotted; an old familiar feeling. I’d dreaded this call, but it would be better to talk on the phone than explain things in a face-to-face encounter—not that they were that frequent. That would be even more uncomfortable. And better to get it over with now than deal with it later. That could be a lot worse.
“Yeah, I’ll take it,” I said, and leaned back in my office chair, mentally preparing myself. I picked up the phone. “Hello.”
“Jeff?”
“Hey, Rich. What’s up?”
There was a pause. “It’s been a while. I just called to see how things were with you.”
Terrible. Couldn’t get much worse. I didn’t comment.
“I tried calling you at home the last couple of evenings, but there was no answer. Is everything okay?” the worried, disembodied voice asked.
I stared at the colored graphs decorating the otherwise featureless walls of my coffin-like office. It wasn’t the voice that set off those feelings of inadequacy. There’d never been any hint of accusation or blame in my older brother’s voice. God forbid Richard should ever get angry. A paragon of virtue, that’s the way our mother had always seen him.
“I’ve been working late a lot.”
“Shelley didn’t answer, and—”
“Look, I don’t know how else to say this, but ... she’s dead.”
“What?” Richard asked, shock evident in his voice.
“She was killed three weeks ago.”
Shocked silence.
“Oh my God. What happened? Why didn’t you call?”
“There wasn’t anything you could do.”
Another long silence.
“An accident? How—?”
How could I explain it so it didn’t sound so ... sordid? But there really was no way to do that, because it was sordid.
“She was murdered.” That’s right; a simple explanation—keep the voice neutral. Don’t let any emotion enter it. I always had to be a brick in front of Richard. No way would I show weakness.
“My God, I’m so sorry.”
“Yeah, I’m sorry, too.”
“Are you okay?”
Not really. “Yeah.”
“What happened?” he asked again.
Of course he couldn’t just let it go. He had to know the details. Still, another part of my mind told me that was human nature. And as a caring, nurturing person, it was Richard’s way to express concern and offer comfort. That’s why he was a doctor, after all.
“She liked cocaine—a lot. I hadn’t seen her for almost six months when the cops called. They said it was a drug deal gone wrong.”
“Oh, God, Jeff, I don’t know what to say.”
“You don’t have to say anything. We were finished before she died, and now I’m getting on with my life.”
A long silence followed.
“Do you need anything?”
“I’m fine.”
Another lie. Shelley had bled me dry when she left. Getting back on my feet financially had been a struggle. And then there were the funeral expenses sitting on my Visa card waiting to be paid.
“Brenda and I will be in Hartford for a seminar next week. We’d love to see you.”
No way to get out of this. Not without being rude. Even Richard didn’t deserve that.
“How long’s it been? A year or two?”
“Almost three years,” Richard replied.
That long already? At least Richard would spring for a good dinner at one of Manhattan’s best restaurants. But then, he could afford it. And Brenda was good company. She’d fill the long interludes when there’d be no conversation between us.
“Name the day. How about Tavern on the Green?” I suggested, knowing it was Brenda’s favorite restaurant. That’s where we met last time. When they met Shelley for the first—only—time.
“That’ll be great.”
Another awkward silence followed.
“I’ve missed you, kid. I worry about you.”
“I’m a grownup now, Rich. I’ve been taking care of myself for a long time.” That was snotty, and I felt ashamed.
“Okay. Well, I’ll talk to you next week so we can firm up a date and time.”
“I’ll wait for your call,” I agreed. God, I sounded like a prick. “Hey, thanks for calling.”
“I’ve missed you,’ Richard said.
Man he’d changed. When we’d lived together he barely had time to acknowledge my existence. But the last few times we’d met he’d seemed somber. Not quite as introverted as I’d been in my teens, but not the same dynamic guy I’d lived with for three plus years.
“I’ll see you next week,” he said, sounding hopeful.
“Yeah. Bye.” I hung up the phone.
I stared unseeing at the pile of unfinished work on my desk. It was a long time before I could make myself go back to it.
#
Brenda Stanley loved the twinkling lights that lit the trees outside the restaurant. Sure, lots of places decorated in the same manner, and the food wasn’t as good as it should be for the prices, but Tavern on the Green held such warm, wonderful memories. But this time would be different. This time Jeff’s troubles were sure to overshadow the evening.
Geek? Possibly. Solemn? Humorless? And chronically depressed? That about summed it up. But she liked him anyway. There was something s
pecial about him. Those sad brown eyes—so unlike his older, more successful brother—deserved regard. And she couldn’t imagine the pain he’d endured this past year.
She wrapped her arm around Richard’s, proud to be with this tall, handsome specimen of a man. When he’d interviewed her for the assistant’s position some eight years before, she never dreamed one day she’d be living with him, loving him. A deeply caring man, he was intelligent, kind, and sexy as hell—something she’d never really thought about in a white man. And he was totally without prejudice, something she didn’t think possible.
“This way,” the hostess said, leading them to a table overlooking the park. Richard waited for her to be seated and took the seat opposite. He looked nervous.
“Your waiter is Sam. He’ll be along shortly,” the hostess said.
“Thank you,” Brenda said. The woman walked away and she studied Richard’s drawn face. “Interesting lecture.”
He stared at her, uncomprehending. “Sorry?”
“Dr. Martin’s lecture. I thought his ideas on Zydlicaine’s application for pain management were brilliant.”
Richard frowned. “You’re going to have to fill me in. I’m afraid the Foundation didn’t get its money’s worth sending me to this seminar.”
“You did seem preoccupied all day.”
“I’m worried about Jeff.”
Of course.
Brenda toyed with the fork at her place, and wished the waiter would get there. A sherry would warm her through and ease her into the evening. “He’s going to be the same as he always is. You’re going to be disappointed,” she said finally. “Why do you torture yourself?”
Richard let out a breath. “Because he has a shitty life. Always has—probably always will.”
“You don’t give him much credit, do you?”
“Every year he drifts farther and farther from me.”
“You’re doing it again,” she chided.
He smiled. “I can’t help it. One day he’ll come around.”
“You hope.”
His lips crinkled upward. “Yeah. I hope.”
Suddenly Richard looked up, his eyes going wide with pleasure, and Brenda knew Jeff was there. She turned her head, saw the slight man with dark eyes follow the hostess across the restaurant.
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