by P. B. Ryan
The answer seemed simple, but was I physically ready to work? The headaches weren’t as bad, but they still came daily and probably would for some time. I couldn’t even remember how much longer I needed the cast on my arm. I had no money and nowhere else to go. I’d paid taxes—I might be eligible for Social Security. But how long would it take to get it, and what was I supposed to do in the meantime?
I paused, looking around. Where the hell was I going, anyway? In the back of my mind I remembered a cozy little bar up ahead, next to the fire station.
The penetrating wind made me huddle deeper into my unzipped jacket. What was the name of that tavern? Oh, yeah, McMann’s. Richard had taken a few hours off from the hospital to take me there on my eighteenth birthday. My first legal drink. We’d stood at the bar, sipping our beers, surrounded by a bunch of old geezers, and shared a fleeting moment of camaraderie. Afterwards we’d returned home to find Richard’s grandmother waiting for us. Her shrill voice cut my soul as she ranted about our alcoholic mother.
I’d been a forgotten bystander as Richard argued that as my guardian he could take me where he wanted, do exactly as he saw fit. It hadn’t occurred to him that on that date I could legally make my own decisions. That same night I decided I’d enlist in the Army at the end of the school year.
Richard tried to talk me out of it—he wanted me to go to college. But I wouldn’t listen and traded one four-year sentence for another. I wanted to get away from that old woman the way I now wanted to get away from him.
The wind whipped around me and I stopped dead. Déjà vu dragged me back to the night of the attack. The circumstances were the same: a lonely street, a bitter cold night. Panicked, I looked ahead and behind me, expecting two shadowy figures.
There was no one.
I started off again, slower, my feet crunching on the crusted snow once more.
It was time to play devil’s advocate. What if Richard was right? Could some injured, twisted part of me be fooling me into thinking I knew things I couldn’t possibly know?
No.
I’d seen Sumner’s face in my mind before Brenda showed me his picture in the newspaper. I don’t know why I was blessed—or was it cursed?—with this knowledge, but I trusted it. If I didn’t believe there was a reason for this happening to me, it would drive me crazy.
A look around my surroundings helped me get my bearings. Up ahead the lights of my alma mater, Amherst Central High School, illuminated an entire city block. On really bad days, Curtis the chauffeur would drive me there ... unless Mrs. Alpert rose early. Then she insisted he be at her beck and call. She always picked the stormiest days.
I hated that old woman with a passion I’ve never felt since, and I’d wanted to get out of that house so badly....
Why did it always come back to her?
Forcing my thoughts back to the present, I continued walking.
A bakery sat at the crossroads. What had been there years ago? I’d already walked past the Snyder fire station before realizing something was wrong. Hadn’t McMann’s been right there? The fire station looked big and new and had obviously been expanded to sit where that quaint little tavern had been.
Confused, I glanced around me. The cold seeped through my thin-soled shoes. I was too far from home to start back without first stopping to warm up. All the little stores were dark and the night seemed to be closing in.
An elderly woman peered through the bakery’s plate glass window. She’d rubbed a hole in the condensation and motioned to me. I looked around. There was no one nearby. She was beckoning me.
I waited for a car to pass before crossing the street, not knowing why I felt drawn. She met me at the door.
“Come in—come in. It’s too cold to be out on a night like this.”
I entered and she threw the dead bolt behind me, sending a shiver up my back. She led me to the rear of the shop, the aroma of fresh-baked bread and cakes was still heavy in the warm moist air.
A storeroom acted as a buffer between the storefront and the actual bakery; a bare bones affair, not much more than stacked crates and boxes, a card table, and a couple of chairs. On a shelf over a sink sat an ancient hot plate—a dangerous arrangement, but the old woman seemed unconcerned. She filled a saucepan with water and turned the burner on high. Taking two cups from the shelf, she carefully measured cocoa from a canister.
“All I have is instant. Not very good, but it warms me.”
“Look, I don’t want to put you to any trouble—”
“It’s no trouble.”
In her late seventies and heavyset, she moved stiffly, as though with arthritis. Her accent was Polish, her wrinkled face careworn, but her eyes were bright and loving—an odd assessment coming from me. I don’t take to people right off. Yet her whole demeanor encouraged trust, like you could tell her all your troubles.
Why had she invited me here? I was a stranger—a man. She should be afraid of me—instead, I was leery of her.
I shoved my good hand into my jacket pocket, feeling self-conscious. “What am I doing here?”
“You look like you need to talk. I need to listen. Sit,” she said and ushered me to a folding metal chair, taking one on the opposite side of the wobbly table.
“You here all alone?”
“Yes.”
Why didn’t that question frighten her? I could be an ax murderer, for all she knew.
“My son—he’s a big shot with his own business downtown,” she said. “He wants me to move to Cheektowaga to live in one of those old folks’ homes. But I like living over the shop.”
“I lived over a bakery when I was a kid.”
“The bread smells so good in the mornings, yes?”
“That was the only good part about living there.”
“That’s not true. I’ll bet there were many good things. You just don’t want to remember.”
“Why do you say that?”
She shrugged theatrically, her smile enigmatic. “I’ve been waiting for you.”
“For me?”
“For a week. Maybe two.”
“But I’ve only been back in Buffalo a week.”
“But it’s good now that you’re here, eh?”
I shook my head. “I should have stayed in New York.”
“There’s nothing for you there. Here you have a girlfriend, your family.”
“I don’t have a girlfriend. My brother is my only family.”
“See,” she said, the creases around her eyes doubling, her smile warm.
I leaned back in my chair. This was too creepy.
“You need to talk,” she repeated. “I’m here to listen.”
“Why would I tell a stranger about myself?”
“Maybe I understand—maybe I’ll tell you something about yourself you don’t know. Maybe I’ll tell you something about yourself you already know.”
The hair on the back of my neck bristled. “Like what?”
“Give me your hand.”
She didn’t wait for me to offer it. She grabbed my right and her creased hands caressed mine; and more chilling, her clear brown eyes seemed to look into my soul. Finally she shook her head and gave me back my hand. “First I’ll tell you about me; then you can decide if you want to tell me about you. My name is Sophie Levin. Look.” She pulled back her sweater sleeve to reveal a tattoo of faded numbers.
“Buchenwald?” I guessed.
“See, you know.”
“A good guess.”
She shook her head. “No, this you know. Like lots of other things you know, eh?”
I wasn’t sure how to answer.
The water began to boil. She got up, poured it into the cups, and stirred. Then she disappeared into the shop and came back with a placek. I hadn’t tasted one of those sweet crumb loaves in years. She cut thick slices and put them on napkins from the shelf, and set one in front of me.
“Now, I’ll tell you how I survived the camp. I would volunteer for the work groups. I did anything they said. Dig holes,
bake bread—anything. And I knew when to be away from the barracks. To stay was to die.”
“How did you know?”
She tapped her temple. “I knew. Like you know. For me there are colors. Everyone has colors that surround them. I would watch certain guards and when their color was black, it meant death. I knew to stay away. Right now you are red. Very angry. Your brother—don’t be hard on him. He loves you, you know.”
Was she nuts? “How do you see these colors?”
“Not with my eyes, with my mind. It’s not wrong, it’s not bad. Just different. You see things a different way, too. But then you always have.”
“No.”
She shook her head, dismissing my protest. “Of course you did. I can tell you many times—but it’s better you remember yourself. Little things. Finding lost things. Waiting for a letter—a phone call.”
I hesitated, afraid to ask my next question.
“Are you ... psychic?”
She shrugged. “I just see colors ... and then I know. You feel things, deeply. Before this happened....” She reached across the table, traced a finger down my shorn temple, “... you never let yourself. Now you have to. The plug is pulled—the feelings leak out—other people’s feelings find you. It’s very hard for you, but good things will come of it. They will,” she insisted. “But sometimes things will seem worse because you can’t understand them. Sometimes it’s hard to understand.”
I wanted to believe her. Hadn’t I just been telling myself the very same things? Yet suddenly I was as skeptical as Richard.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
She thought for a moment. “You like to take photographs, eh?”
I nodded uncertainly. How could she know these things?
“You take a picture—it’s there, in your camera. Even when it’s not developed—it’s still there.”
“A latent image?”
“Yes. These things you know, it’s a latent talent. You always had it, but it wasn’t developed. Now you can develop the pictures in your head. You can see them when others can’t. You can know things when others don’t.” Did she even know about digital photography?
“My brother wants me to have tests—” I began.
“How will knowing the science of it help you? If they can even tell you.”
That was pretty much how I felt about it, too.
“Still, you must be careful,” she warned. “Believe what you know, and be watchful. Even innocent situations can hide great danger.”
She held out her hand. “Now, tell me about me.”
Reluctantly, I clasped her warm fingers, felt her pulse thrumming rhythmically through the skin and found her smile encouraging.
“Well?”
“You’re a nice lady. You want to help people.” I didn’t know what else to say.
She took back her hand and frowned. “You’ll get better at it.” She picked up her cup and took a sip. “Not bad for instant, but better with marshmallows. That’s what my granddaughter says.”
She launched into a monologue about her grandchildren, giving me a chance to digest what she’d said. I think she knew I wasn’t listening, but she seemed to like to hear the sound of her own voice.
She was right. I’d always been good at finding lost objects. I assumed it was a matter of remembering where you’d last seen the missing item. That and begging help from St. Anthony. Were emotions the psychic key for me? I remembered returning home from school and knowing, before I opened the apartment door, when my mother would be passed out drunk in front of the TV. And I’d learned early to keep the hurt, anger, and humiliation inside. It was the only survival mechanism I’d found to help me cope.
Most of what I knew about Sumner’s murder hinged on emotions. Those of the killer—and that of a witness. I’d felt anger and triumph and terror, all mixed up.
I looked down at my empty cup.
“It’s time for you to go,” Sophie said, rising. “My son would be upset if he knew I entertained a gentleman here.” She patted my shoulder. “It’s a long walk home. I’d let you call your brother to come get you, but my phone hasn’t worked all day. The bar down the street has a pay phone. You can call from there.”
I followed her back into the shop. Fat snowflakes fluttered and settled on the empty parking spaces outside.
“That’s okay. I think I’ll just head on home.”
“Oh no—it’s too far to walk in the snow. You’re not as strong as you think. You must promise me you’ll go to the bar.” Something about her tone made it seem like an imperative.
“Okay, I promise.”
“Good.”
She clasped my hand and I nearly staggered at the burst of unconditional love that suddenly enveloped me. I looked into her smiling, wrinkled face, and suddenly didn’t want to leave.
“Can I come back and visit you again?”
She shrugged. “Sometimes I’m here. Sometimes I’m not. It’s best you come at night. Alone.”
“Why?”
“It’s just best.” She winked at me. “Good-bye, Jeffrey.”
She locked the door behind me, and waved. As I headed down the sidewalk, I realized I’d never introduced myself. I looked back. The shop was dark, but a light blazed in the apartment overhead.
My anger toward Richard had waned, but the sour feelings it evoked lingered as depression settled in.
I had other things to think about. Like what had inspired Sophie to direct me down the road instead of going home?
Curiosity got the better of me.
I headed for the bar.
Chapter 10
The glow of a neon beer sign drew me half a block to a working-class sports bar called The Whole Nine Yards. Its dry warmth enveloped me as I pushed open the heavy glass door. A scattering of patrons watched a basketball game blaring on the tube. Football jerseys, hockey sticks, pennants, and signed photographs dotted the walls, but the budget for decor was a lot less than at The Extra Point downtown. It had the feel of a business on a downslide.
Sophie had been right. The bar actually did have a pay phone, but I avoided it. I had no intention of calling Richard.
The bartender interrupted his conversation with an older man at the other end of the bar when I took a seat. Weariness clung to him. I guessed him to be the owner, who looked like he’d been on his feet all day. “What can I get you?” he asked.
I considered my nearly empty wallet and my belly full of cocoa. “Club soda.”
His expression said “no tip,” but he poured me a glass from the well soda trigger. “That’s a buck.”
I put a five-dollar bill on the bar. He grabbed it, rang up the sale on the old cash register, gave me my change, and went back to kibitzing.
Four bucks—my total net worth. I’d have to nurse my drink for a while, but that was okay. I was willing to park here for a couple of hours.
I’d tended bar for a while after my stint in the Army; I could do it again. Sure, a part-time job at a place like this, within walking distance from Richard’s house could work out. But who’d hire a broken-armed jerk who couldn’t lift a case of beer or hold a lime to cut garnishes?
My mind wandered back to the ugly scene back home. Richard’s house was not my home. It was a place to stay until I got back on my feet; at least that’s what he’d said at the hospital.
The memory of that conversation came back to me.
He’d been gone all day, leaving me alone in that cell of a room. We hadn’t had many meaningful discussions since I’d awakened from the coma two days before. Still, I’d gotten used to him being in the background.
“So, where’ve you been all day?” I’d asked, when he finally showed up that evening.
Richard settled his coat over the back of the room’s only chair. “I had things to do.”
“Business? Sightseeing?”
He straightened, as though tensing for battle. “Getting estimates from movers to take your stuff to Buffalo.”
“
Look, I never said—!”
“I know what you said. I was only getting estimates, okay?” He hesitated before continuing. “I spoke with your apartment manager.”
My insides squirmed.
“Your back rent’s taken care of.”
“But I owed—”
“I said it’s taken care of.”
I was about to spew like Vesuvius when he interrupted me again. “The last few times I’ve seen you, you’ve been distant and pissy. Have I done something to offend you?”
“The cultured, refined Doctor Alpert never offends anyone.”
“Then stop acting like you’ve got a stick up your ass and tell me what’s eating you.”
“All right, you want an answer—the problem’s you. You being so goddamned rich makes me feel like I’m shit. You’re always shoving it down my throat and I’m sick of it!”
That wasn’t even remotely true, but it sounded good and fit my mental state at the time.
He stiffened. “I’m sorry my financial status offends you, but I’m still your brother. I care about what happens to you, you dumb shit. Why else would I be here?”
He’d never spoken to me in anger. I’d never known him to swear.
“Guilt,” I shot back. Richard blinked, taken aback. “Yeah, guilt—for the way your family treated our mother. Maybe you’re only here for me because you weren’t there for her!”
Richard looked away. My words had hit a nerve, all right, though I knew indifference hadn’t kept him from knowing my mother and me. The legal maneuvers his grandparents used to keep my mother from him had cut him off from us, too. Yet I couldn’t admit that to him in the heat of anger.
“Neither of us can change the past. But, in case you hadn’t noticed, we’re all the family we’ve got. When will it penetrate your thick skull that you’re important to me?” He paused. “You never told me about Shelley until it was all over. Christ, your landlord told me you’d lost your job. Why didn’t you call—why didn’t you come to me?”
“Rich, you can’t take care of me the rest of my life.”