At Risk of Being a Fool (5 page)

She’d been lucky to find the two-bedroom house. The same property owner owned all the buildings down this side of the street, including three other houses and a few old apartment units. Given the contents of the back yards, it wasn’t worthwhile to rip them down and replace them with higher density complexes. Train tracks weren’t standard decorative items.

Geoff, her older son, had argued that she’d never sleep, with the trains coming through at night, blaring their horns through residential neighborhoods. She couldn’t explain without upsetting him. Insomnia lurked in the darkness. She cherished the companionship of the twice-nightly trains. The steady clacking vibration shook the house and her twin bed. The sudden glare of the headlights through the window shifted sideways to leave patterns on her wall. Usually after loading her worries onto the train, she managed to collapse for a few hours’ sleep.

Jeanie opened the freezer, groped for something of marginal nutrition, and threw it in the microwave. She got treats for the pets: a strip of rawhide for Corrigan, the longhaired dachshund, and a freeze-dried minnow for Rita, snoozing on the bed. Jeanie rescued her pillow, making a mental note: Never feed fish to a cat on the bed.

A memory shot to the surface, of a cat bounced off the bed with an affronted yowl, as she and Edward tangled arms and legs in snuggling tenderness. The suddenness of it, and the cat’s indignant commentary, reduced them both to helpless hysteria. They’d had the waterbed, and they’d had Tristan then. Eight years back?

The quicksand of despair sucked at her feet. Her life had diminished to treading water, and trying not to mire herself in memories. She taught for three hours a day, spent countless hours at Oriole’s Nest trying to drag Edward from his mental pit, and yearned for the lifeblood of e-mails and phone calls from family. Then she woke the next day, facing it all again.

The microwave binged. The half-warmed manicotti filled a hole in her stomach. It was food, of sorts.

The computer barely fit into the corner of the smaller bedroom. Corrigan’s ramp to the foot of the bed took up most of the remaining floor space. Geoff, her older son, a physicist with NASA, built the ramp so Corrigan could sleep on the bed. Dachshunds shouldn’t jump.

She downloaded her e-mail and her heart lifted. She had notes from Geoff, Julianne, and Andy, all from their respective addresses: father, mother, and son. Geoff’s daughter, Lillian, was only five, so her e-mails were hard-fought battles of love, with long silences between them. Keith hadn’t written, as usual. Keith preferred to phone, tossing off his rapid-fire jokes while pacing around his apartment. She didn’t have a note from Shelley, but time zones did screwy things to the transmissions between
Germany
and
Oregon
. Sometimes Jeanie heard nothing from her sister for three days, and then got several notes in a row, zip, zip, zip.

Her shoulders relaxed, and tension sloughed away as she wrote to her sister Shelley, in the habit of a lifetime. E-mail’s fast, cheap transmissions were a blissful addiction. Everything either sister saw, heard, thought, or felt flowed through her fingers into a stream of detail. It was like journal writing, with a kindred soul inhaling the words on the other end.

...
I’ve hired a nice boy, Cody, to help me chip away some of the rock in the front yard. I have to make room for Julianne’s flowers. She sent
another
box, irises this time
...

Remember Sorrel, who works at the courthouse? Somebody set a pipe bomb against the outside wall under a judge’s window. They found it while Sorrel was right there at work. They evacuated the entire building. Mackie told me all about it. She figures the police will pull Sorrel in for questioning. I said, that’s nuts, she’d never plant a bomb while she’s working there. And if she was after the judge, she’d never have put it under his window. Under his desk, maybe. Of course, she wouldn’t have access to his desk, would she? But she could figure out where he parked his car, and in that underground parking structure with everyone coming and going, that’d be a safe place. Why would anyone put it under a window? It doesn’t make sense.

I asked Mackie about Dillon. She placed him at Delancey Brothers last May. He stuck it out for about three weeks, and then had a massive blowup with Bryce Wogan. Mr. Wogan insisted that hand tools were missing. One of those big drills for going through masonry and metal, a hundred-foot extension cord, and some other stuff. She pulled Dillon, had a lot of trouble placing him again (you can imagine!), and finally got him onto a loading dock for a frozen foods plant. Not a lot of temptation for theft there, I guess. They’ve got a lot of equipment, but most of it’s not portable.

I said, what if Dillon didn’t steal the stuff. If it was cut and dried, Delancey Brothers would have pressed charges, wouldn’t they? And why would they be willing to take on Quinto? Mackie just gave me this look. If your Christmas tree fell over, she said, and ornaments were scattered through the house, wouldn’t you suspect your cat? The company gives Bryce Wogan a free hand, because he’s a great foreman but an ogre for everyone to work with—except for Danny Rivera. So if Danny said, Bryce, I’m taking another kid on, Bryce would roll his eyes, and let him do it. So, that’s how she got Quinto into the program. Apparently, Danny knew Quinto’s brother from years back, and he was happy to get Quinto.

Poor Quinto and poor Sorrel. I hate seeing them so stressed out. It’s hard, not being able to just fix everyone’s problems . . .

At last, the flood of words slowed to a trickle. She scanned the letter, and copied and pasted excerpts into a new message. A few whimsical comments and dozen more exclamation points wove the excerpts together into a light-hearted general newsletter. It was a third the length of the original, and certified “worry-free.” She sent it to Julianne and Geoff’s joint address. A similar concoction went to Keith.

She added a postscript to Shelley’s letter.

Just wanted to tell you, I know you sicced Geoff and Keith on me last May. I’d probably have done the same to you. So, quit pussyfooting around about it, sister mine.

Love you, Jeanie

She mouse-clicked the computer clock to check the time. Rita jumped in her lap. Rita was a ball of long fur wrapped around a sweet nature and a scatterbrained head. Rita could get lost in her own house. Corrigan plopped at her feet, hoping for a walk. The clock refused to change. She’d promised herself and Shelley that she’d take some personal time this morning. Well, she had, hadn’t she? She picked up the phone.

“Nadezda? Jeanie, here. Is he up yet? Oh, he is. Thank God, I’m going nuts here. I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

~*~

“Lift your foot, Edward. Your foot, for the curb.” Jeanie reached down and patted the back of his knee. “Lift your foot. That’s it, great, here we go.”

Parkinson’s was like that, as Michael J. Fox could attest. So could Billy Graham, Janet Reno, and countless people like Edward McCoy.

“Here we are, Edward. Look, the ducks are waiting for you.”

“That they are,” he said cheerfully. With the ease of long practice, Jeanie backed Edward to the bench. Edward half-sat and half-fell onto the bench, adjusting himself with a series of hitching moves. Five years before, Edward retired from Starfire Engineering. His joints stiffened, as though encased in layers of bubble wrap and packing tape. His world contracted. He couldn’t drive, work in his shop, manage a keyboard or mouse. She had remained afloat on his courage. They found solutions together: the electric toothbrush, clothes that fastened with Velcro, and handrails in the bathroom. Fifteen months ago, her retirement had come, to their unspoken relief.

The ducks clustered at the edge of the bridge, swimming in tight, eager circles. Edward fumbled a piece of the bread between his fingers. He drew back his arm in a series of jerks and threw the bread. It landed on the deck. Jeanie nudged it over the side with her foot. The ducks scrambled over each other.

“She’s
here again
,” said Edward, frowning.

A young woman with long unkempt brown hair herded two toddlers towards the slides and stood close by, her baby on her hip. Her eyes roamed the playground, catching every movement of squirrel, bike, or skateboard.

“It’s nice to see the little ones play,” Jeanie said.

“She’s here again,” he emphasized. “Notice how she watches everyone?”

“Now, Edward, she’s just being careful.” The young woman radiated fear. If they spoke to her, she scurried away with her children. Covertly, Jeanie had begun keeping watch for strangers on the young woman’s behalf. “She belongs here. She’s a neighbor.”

“A neighbor? What’s her name?”

Jeanie’s paused, and recovered quickly. “Miranda.”

Edward looked at her quizzically. He shook his finger at her, moving his whole hand with the effort. An engaging grin spread over his face. “You made that up.”

“You got me,” she confessed, laughing. She hugged his shoulders and helped him stand. With Parkinson’s, the brain forgot which muscles were which. The brain said,
move the foot
. The foot said,
who, me
? After a moment’s pause, Edward’s foot remembered and moved forward.

“Ah well, I’ll let it go, then. But you’re far too trusting, my dear. Like my wife.”

“I’m your wife, Edward. I’m Jeanie.”

Edward frowned. “I’m afraid not. My wife’s at work now. She’s a teacher. I don’t mean to hurt your feelings, but it’s best to keep these things clear.”

“But Edward—”

“McCoy,” he said gently. “Mr. McCoy, that’s best, isn’t it? I remember your husband. I believe we once worked together, didn’t we?”

“No, Edward.”

“Yes, indeed. Years ago, when we were tracing chemical seepage in the water supply. Your husband was the state inspector, wasn’t he? His name was Carl.”

The dementia had defeated her. Senior moments finally mutated into another state. “Miranda” was a terrorist spy; Nate, the night security guard at Oriole’s Nest, was trying to collect classified information on nuclear submarines. Edward’s Navy days were long gone, but his mind clung tenaciously to the word “classified,” and met the conversational gambits of nurses and doctors with polite suspicion.

“No,” Jeanie’s voice shook. “My husband’s name is Edward.”

“The same as mine? Oh no, it was Carl. Quite a man with a story, he was. Very fond of his wife.” Edward patted her hand. “What was his last name?”

Jeanie felt sick at heart. “I don’t know.” A small but significant number of Parkinson’s patients suffered from dementia. More suffered from depression. At least he’d escaped that.

Edward stopped and looked at her in surprise. “Your own husband, and you don’t know his name?”

“Edward, you—” Forty years, but he didn’t remember. In spite of herself, her eyes stung. So, she couldn’t remember her spouse’s name? She cleared her throat, and filed the bittersweet joke to tell Shelley. “Take a step, Edward. Let’s keep walking, shall we? You wanted to walk to the oak trees, you said. Lift your foot.”

The first step was always the hardest.

Edward studied a motorcycle crossing the street in front of them, turning his head to follow it to end of the street.

“I’ve seen that man before,” he mused. “Several times.”

“I’m amazed you can tell. To me, they all look alike in those helmets and billowing jackets.” She helped him off the curb. “There’s a young lawyer near my school who has a motorcycle a bit like that, but I can’t tell them apart. Oscar Kemmerich. He worries me, Edward. He seems to know things he shouldn’t know.”

“Lawyers often do,” said Edward dryly.

“But he knew where Quinto worked,” she said. “I told you about Quinto, one of my students? He’s doing construction. There was an accident at Quinto’s job site, and his boss got hurt. We saw the lawyer at school yesterday, and he knew Quinto on sight.”

“He knew the boy’s name, or his face?”

Jeanie frowned. “His face, I think. I don’t remember if he used Quinto’s name. Quinto’s never met him before.” If Quinto hadn’t lied.

“It’s not really a mystery, is it? He probably saw the boy at the courthouse some time. If he’s hungry for work, he probably gathers information by the ream. A young man?”

“Straight out of law school, I’d say. Frantically insecure.”

Edward grinned. “I’ve heard my wife say that exact thing. You must be a teacher.”

He seemed so rational, so easy to converse with; it was easy to forget his condition. “Yes, I am.” The walkway to Oriole’s Nest’s front door curved before them.

“You’re sure he wasn’t the lawyer for your student?”

“I doubt it. Quinto says his lawyer was a woman. She apparently spent Quinto’s appointments with a cell phone pasted to one ear, arguing with her boyfriend. I suppose there are lots of people who knew about Quinto. The work crew, the company’s administration, even the medical staff who took care of Mr. Wogan.”

“Bryce Wogan? Construction chief? Dear Lord, what a small world.”

Jeanie blinked. “You knew Bryce Wogan?”

“Well, hello,” caroled Nadezda, holding open the door. “Long time no see.”

“Right,” said Jeanie, “It’s been at least an hour.”