Shattered Spirits

by L. L. Bartlett

  “Is he okay?”

  Richard shrugged. “I guess.” Then he thought better of it. “Oh, shit. He asked me to bring him his crutches, and I was so angry I forgot. They’re standing at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “As soon as I get dressed, I’ll go over there. He needs to have those road rash wounds tended to. Maybe while I’m there I can broker a peaceful compromise.”

  “I don’t see how. He says we’ve let him know he’s a burden.”

  Brenda frowned. “That was my fault—yesterday—trying to cover for you about the damn cat.”

  “What did you say?”

  “I let him know that I had a baby in diapers and didn’t need any more work.”

  “That was when you said something about him changed. An old hurt that had never really healed?”

  She nodded.

  And that crack Jeff made about the ketchup had been just the tip of the iceberg. As a teen, he’d lived in the Alpert home for more than three years. He hadn’t been wanted—he’d barely been tolerated. He’d been verbally abused not only by Richard’s grandmother, but some of the help, too. And Richard had been too wrapped up in his career to bother with the kid. Neglect, Jeff’s high school principal had hinted, and suggested a visit from a social worker might be in the offing. He’d managed to avoid that—but the solution to the problem had been anything but satisfying.

  “You’re thinking about the past,” Brenda said.

  Richard nodded and felt the heat of a blush rise up his neck.

  “How much do you want this little business enterprise you’ve proposed?”

  He swallowed. “I think it could be good for both of us.”

  “Then bend. You don’t have to bow to breaking—but you may have to compromise.”

  I can’t let this beat me. It’s just a stupid phobia. And yet, the negative feelings within him felt powerful and threatening—and yes, very, very stupid.

  “Maybe … maybe if he kept the thing in his room. But it can’t wander the house. I don’t want it anywhere near Betsy,” he said adamantly.

  “So, you’d like her to be afraid—and just as phobic—about the cat?” Brenda asked, her tone reasonable.

  “No. It’s just….” Richard looked over at his daughter whose chubby fingers attempted to stack the cereal—with little success. “That’s as far as I’m willing to go.”

  Brenda nodded. “It’s a start—and a good one.”

  Richard nodded, but he found it hard to meet her gaze.

  “If you don’t mind looking after Betsy, I’ll get dressed and go over there and see if I can straighten things out with Jeffy.”

  Richard nodded, feeling foolish.

  Brenda got up from her seat, stepped over to stand before him, and hugged him. “It’ll be okay. Not great, but it’ll be okay.”

  He wrapped his arms around her. Maybe okay was all he could expect—and tolerate.

  7

  Richard had been angry with me before, but never like what I’d experienced early that June morning. It was unreasonable to think someone that pissed off would bring me my crutches, so I was stuck on the floor until I could figure out my next move.

  My next move was to get to the bathroom, but I couldn’t get up, so there was only one thing to do; I had to pee in my shower. Only I couldn’t reach the faucet and turn on the water. Great. Now my place smelled like a cat box and the men’s room at the bus station.

  I couldn’t afford to dwell on either. I needed to contact my bank and find out what the hell I needed to do get my money back—if I could get it back.

  My computer was only sleeping, and I got online once again. By then it was just after nine, and I got someone on a live chat who walked me through the things I needed to do to report the loss—the biggie being to get to the local police station to file a complaint. Oh, yeah, I could just hop in the car and bop right over there.

  Somebody had my social security number. Were they opening accounts right, left, and center—scamming their way across the globe at my expense?

  I called the local cop shop, explained my situation, but was told I’d have to come in—they didn’t have the personnel to make house calls. I listened, kept swallowing to keep from choking, and wondered what the hell I was going to do, when I heard the sound of the door handle behind me rattle.

  “Thank you,” I said, and hung up the phone.

  The door opened and Brenda poked her head inside. “I’m sorry, hon. I should have knocked first.”

  “You’re always welcome,” I said, but I’m afraid my voice was anything but welcoming.

  She was weighed down with a big shopping bag in one hand and my crutches in the other. “I thought you might need these.”

  “Need; yeah. Want? Not a chance.”

  She wandered into the living room and set the bag down. “I haven’t had breakfast. How about you?”

  I shook my head.

  “I brought over some bread. Oh, rapture! Dry white toast.”

  “I’ve got peanut butter, ya know. It’s a life-sustaining necessity.”

  “That’ll do for me,” she said. “Want some coffee?”

  “Yes, thank you,” I said without enthusiasm.

  “Oh, buck up, will you? I’m not here to yell at you … unlike somebody we know.”

  “Yeah.”

  “Of course you know why he’s upset.”

  “Because he thought I’d get hurt climbing the steps and being here on my own. Yada, yada, yada.”

  Brenda nodded. “It really wasn’t a smart move. But you know what? If it was me, I’da done the same thing.” She sobered. “I’m so sorry I made you feel unwelcome in our home.”

  I shrugged. I didn’t really want to have this conversation.

  “Let’s get you on your feet, and then we can talk.”

  Unfortunately, that was inevitable.

  I had to scooch across the rug on my butt to the couch and between the two of us, I managed to stand on my good leg. Brenda handed me the crutches then shook her head, studying said leg. “What in God’s name did you do to yourself?”

  It was then I realized that just about every inch of the skin on the front of my good leg was covered in rug burns.

  “How bad does it hurt?”

  “A lot less than the other leg, so I guess I didn’t much notice it. But I could sure use a pain pill about now.”

  “How about half of one now, and half when we get you back across the driveway.”

  I shook my head. “I ain’t goin’.”

  “Of course you are,” Brenda said, and grabbed my arm, steering me toward one of the stools at my breakfast bar. She helped me get settled before she grabbed the bag and started emptying it on the counter. She did indeed have half a loaf of white bread, all the crap she needed to fix the sores on my face, and my bottle of pain pills. She’d already split one, so she must have been pretty confident she could change my mind about leaving my home sweet home to land back in a place where I’d inconvenienced the rest of my family.

  She took a couple of cups out of the cabinet, turned the cold tap on for a splash, and then handed one to me with half a pill. “Half means you won’t somersault down the steps when we leave. We can be out of here in about a half-hour and then you can have the other half.”

  “No,” I said and downed the pill.

  “Herschel can’t come on the first trip, but I can come back and get him. We can use that litter box that’s in the garage—the one you took to Maggie’s last fall,” she said and filled the coffeepot with water.

  After his raging bull act, Richard’s sudden change of heart was totally unexpected. “What kind of magic did you use to get Rich to change his mind about Herschel?”

  She found the filters. “I got him to admit his problem.”

  “Which is?” I asked testily.

  “It should have been obvious to both of us,” she said, searching for the coffee.

  “It’s in the cupboard down below.” She found it and started measuring. “Come o
n—spill it!” I implored.

  She looked at me with infinite patience. “My dear husband—and your big brother—has a phobia concerning cats.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re kidding.”

  She shook her head. “Nope.”

  “He’s, like, ninety-nine times bigger than Herschel—he can’t possibly be afraid of him.” As though he knew we were talking about him, my cat sauntered into the living room, sat down, and began to lick his stomach.

  “There’s no accounting for these things.” Brenda grabbed the bread, and turned toward the toaster.

  My cell phone’s familiar ringtone chimed and I looked around me. Brenda turned again, dug into the shopping bag once more, and handed me my phone

  I looked at the number and tapped the talk icon. “Hey, Dave. What’s up?”

  “I just wanted to see how you were doing.”

  My good leg was singed with rug burns; my broken leg throbbed with every beat of my heart, and the ribs along my left side still hadn’t forgiven me for falling the day before.

  “To be honest, not good. I’ve had a couple of bad days. I fell, and—”

  “Aw, man—I’m so sorry,” he said guiltily.

  “Don’t worry about it. I have it on good authority that I’ll be as good as new by August—or September.”

  “I was hoping to come by and see you to talk about….” He hesitated. “Stuff.”

  “I’d love to—but I’m really not up to it today. Do you mind?”

  “Oh. No. Sure.” The words were right, but he sounded like he’d been taken aback by my non-invitation. And since I knew he felt responsible for my predicament, he wasn’t likely to push it.

  “Okay,” he said. “I’ll call in a few days. And when I come, I’ll bring beer.”

  “Sounds good,” I agreed.

  “Okay. Sure. Yeah. Bye.”

  The call ended.

  “What’s with your friend?” Brenda grabbed the coffeepot and emptied what had already dripped into it into a cup. She dumped some milk in, stirred, and then handed it to me.

  “I think he wants to apologize again for me getting hurt. He doesn’t have to do that.”

  “You should let him visit…let him off the hook.”

  “But I don’t blame him for what happened.”

  “You said it yourself; he blames himself.” She placed two slices of bread into the toaster and, with some direction from me, found the peanut butter. Of course, Brenda was right. Old soul that she was, she was nearly always right.

  The toast popped up and she spread both slices with that wonderful golden goop, handing one to me and taking the other for herself.

  “I feel better about things,” I said, took a bite, chewed, and swallowed.

  “You do now—but we haven’t yet fixed your face, and you know it’s going to hurt.”

  Yeah, it would. But Brenda had a gentle touch. Already the road rash was beginning to heal. I still had a pizza face, but the scabs were growing smaller, leaving healthy pink skin around the edges.

  “Eat up,” she said. “I have a feeling this is going to be one long and painful day—and I’m not just talking about your injuries.”

  She had that right.

  * * *

  It was nearly noon by the time Brenda had shuttled me, my cat, and all Herschel’s supplies across the driveway. Herschel didn’t quite know what to make of his much smaller territory, but when I collapsed on the bed from sheer exhaustion, he was right there beside me, letting me know he had my back. Richard, on the other hand, was conspicuous by his absence.

  Hours later, a sound woke me—like something rattling around on the floor. I wasn’t sure what was going on until a black projectile came flying through the air and jumped on the bed, did a one-eighty, then flew back down to the floor.

  “Herschel,” I chided, feeling crappy. But when I looked at the clock, I saw the day had slipped away. It was four-thirty; time to get up. Time to face my brother.

  A roll of curly ribbon went flying by on the floor, with Herschel in hot pursuit. “You’re not supposed to touch Brenda’s stuff.” But as I looked around the room, it now looked like a curious cat’s paradise filled with boxes and baskets to get into, and half-finished projects to attempt to dismantle. I was going to have to have a conversation with Brenda about that PDQ.

  After following nature’s call, I realized keeping Herschel locked in Brenda’s craft room wasn’t going to be as easy as planned. No sooner had I headed for the door than he was at my heels, threatening to trip me. Maybe bringing him across the driveway wasn’t going to be as easy a transition as I thought. I had to back out of the room using one of my crutches to block his escape. As soon as I closed the door, I heard the sound of furious scratching. It kinda broke my heart to abandon the little guy once again.

  No one was in the kitchen and the crutches dug into my armpits once again as I hobbled toward the living room. Nobody there, either. That only left one more place to check: Richard’s study.

  I tried to be quiet, but the old parquet floor creaked and the thump of the crutches had to be heard by half the neighbors. Still, when I made it to the doorway of the study, my brother’s back was still turned as he consulted his computer. I waited for more than a minute, but still he didn’t acknowledge my presence.

  Finally I cleared my throat. “Hi.”

  He swiveled part way around. “Hi.”

  “Is Brenda upstairs changing CP?”

  “Probably. Do you need something?” His voice was devoid of emotion. Devoid of everything.

  I let out a breath. “Yeah. A shot of bourbon.”

  “I could probably help you with that.” He got up, heading for his dry bar across the way.

  I made a beeline for the couch so that I could put my bad leg up. Bad leg. It sounded like I blamed the poor battered appendage for what had happened to it. Screw that. I blamed the friggin’ SUV driver. It occurred to me that no one had mentioned if they’d ever tracked down the bastard responsible. Most likely it would never happen. Another fact to make me grumpy.

  I settled the crutches on the floor and Richard turned to hand me my drink, neat. He had poured a glass for himself as well. He took the wing chair adjacent to me. I raised my glass. “Na zdrowie!”

  “Cheers,” he replied, but his voice held no merriment. He also didn’t seem to want to look me in the eye. This wasn’t the time to talk about his problem with Herschel, so I decided to take the conversation in a different direction.

  “I never got to search the cemetery’s website to look up Alice Newcomb.”

  “I did.” He got up again, walked over to his desk, and picked up a manila file folder. He returned and handed it to me.

  Inside were several printed sheets. One for Alice; one for her mother, and one with a list of possible names for our proposed business. I bypassed that to concentrate on Alice’s information, which I quickly read through.

  Alice Elizabeth Newcomb had indeed been born on June 14, 1909 to parents Hiram and Cora Newcomb. She’d died on April 2, 1932. Included was an obituary that ran in Buffalo’s Courier Express.

  Miss Alice Newcomb, daughter of Mr. Hiram Newcomb and Mrs. Cora Newcomb, went to be with the Lord on April 2nd. A memorial service will be held at Blessed Trinity Catholic Church, April 5, at 10 am. Afterward, Miss Newcomb will be laid to rest at Forest Lawn Cemetery.

  I skimmed through the information on her parents, but nothing jumped out at me.

  Richard hadn’t found a news story explaining how Alice died. Was it because the cops never solved the crime, or had her well-to-do father suppressed the unsavory manner of his daughter’s death? Or was it just that the story was too old to warrant it being scanned for the Internet?

  Alice’s mother had died less than two years after her only child, and old Hiram had gone on to wed a second Mrs. Newcomb. He’d been buried in the Williamsville Cemetery along with said new wife some twenty-five years after Alice’s death, which accounted for the empty grave in Forest Lawn.
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  “This doesn’t tell us a lot,” I commented.

  “No, but we haven’t scratched the surface when it comes to researching her life. A trip to the library will definitely be in order to check their microfilmed or CD records.”

  “I’m surprised you haven’t already done that.”

  Richard hesitated before answering. “I wasn’t sure if I should bother.”

  “Are you giving up on this idea of yours so easily?”

  “I wasn’t sure you’d want to pursue it.”

  “I kind of made a commitment to Alice. I’d be a real piece of shit if I didn’t follow through with it. We’re talking about the fate of her eternal soul.”

  “I thought you didn’t believe that.”

  “I don’t. But she does.”

  Richard shook his head ruefully. “Far be it from me to try to stop you.”

  He said no more, but I got the feeling he was pleased I hadn’t shut down the whole concept of us working together.

  We sat in companionable silence, or at least that’s what it looked like. For several minutes, I sipped my bourbon and wrestled with telling him about my banking woes, but it was too late in the day to do anything about it anyway. I knew he had the computer skills to hack into data bases that had mega security, but I wasn’t yet sure I wanted to rope him into my petty problems. Last I’d heard, he had more than fifty million bucks behind him. My paltry two grand was chump change. I suspected he’d just offer to write me a check to replace the loss, but that wasn’t what I wanted. Yeah, I’d keep this little bump in my financial road to myself—at least for another day or so. We had other things to think about.

  Footsteps forewarned Brenda’s arrival. A smiling CP was attached to her left hip. “Oh, there you two are.” They entered the room. “Scooch over, Jeffy, so that Betsy and I have a spot to sit.”

  Oh yeah, that was so easy to do, but I managed it nonetheless.

  Brenda sat down, crossed her legs and settled Betsy—my little Cherry Pie—on her foot, bouncing her up and down, which delighted the baby no end.

  “I’ve got a surprise for you, Jeffy.”

  “Oh?”

  “Maggie’s coming for supper.”