Cheated By Death (13 page)

I looked away, unable to bear the guilt. I
couldn’t tell him what I feared, couldn’t be the one to shatter his
dream.

“Maybe I’ll have just one more,” I said and
got up again, and steadied myself on the furniture as I walked. No
matter how much I drank, it wouldn’t obliterate what I knew.
There’d be no baby. Why the hell did I have to know this? Why
couldn’t I be blissfully ignorant like the rest of them?

I opened my beer and took a long pull.

Richard looked at his watch. “Christ, is that
the time?” He got up, and grabbed his jacket to leave.

“Send my woman home, will you?”

“Sure thing.”

The phone rang before he reached the door. I
grabbed the receiver. “Resnick’s Pizza.”

“Jeffy?” Brenda’s voice was small,
frightened. “It’s started again.”

My comfortable buzz-on evaporated. I didn’t
need to ask what she meant. “Sit tight, honey. Rich is on his way.
Bye.” I hung up the phone. “She just got another one of those
calls.”

Richard’s face twisted with anger.
“Dammit.”

“Look, see if the phone recorded the number
and write it down. Then forward the calls over here for the
night.”

“Then you and Maggie will be bothered.”

“It’s the least I can do for you guys.”

He stared at me for a long moment, his
expression an odd mix of gratitude and apprehension. Then he headed
out the door.

The phone
rang four more times during
the next two hours. By the third call, Maggie was in tears. I
methodically wrote down the time and duration of each call,
silently listening while my anger boiled.

After Maggie had gone to bed, I sat on the
couch nursing a bourbon and soda and stared at the phone, daring it
to ring again.

Tomorrow I’d hit the Internet to review New
York’s anti-stalking laws. I already knew it was a crime—with
mandatory jail time—to make threatening or abusive calls. One for
our side.

I took another sip of my drink. Had our visit
with Willie set him off? Was he the most likely suspect? It would
be a tidy solution, but what if he wasn’t? Bob Linden, the pro-life
group’s leader, wouldn’t stoop to petty harassment, but other
members in the organization might not be as savvy about the legal
ramifications of such acts. I’d promised Emily Farrell a copy of
her photo. It wouldn’t hurt to cultivate her friendship. To do
that, I needed to get in the darkroom and finish printing in the
morning. Then later I’d commandeer Richard’s computer for some
research.

The fear in Brenda’s voice came back to haunt
me. She didn’t deserve that kind of persecution. She was more than
my friend, she was my family.

There was that word again. I thought about
the bizarre evening at Aunt Ruby’s and realized with some surprise
that I’d wanted to belong. Was it the feeling of familiarity, of
kinship, that warmed me in those cramped rooms, or the unexpected
yearning to feel connected to a shared past?

My end of the family tree had certainly been
dysfunctional—my blue-eyed mother the odd one out. I never thought
about her eyes until I met Richard and saw his were blue, too. My
father and Patty had brown eyes. Me, too. Every time Mom looked at
me, did she see Chet? Had I been just a painful reminder of their
unhappy life together?

Although I didn’t actually meet my brother
until I was a teenager, I’d heard about him all my life. Finding
out about Patty had shaken me. The old man’s love for her was
strong—her presence gave him joy. His feelings for me were laced
with guilt.

I drained my glass and realized with some
irony that I was a snob. Though employed in white collar jobs most
of my adult life, I always thought of myself as a working stiff.
Probably because Mom waitressed and we lived in a cramped apartment
over a bakery. Patty seemed entrenched in the working class
stereotype of getting drunk to prove she was alive. Seeing my
mother’s downhill slide into alcoholism affected the way I look at
drinking. With all Shelley put me through, it would’ve been too
easy to find solace in a whiskey bottle. Instead I’d thrown myself
into my career, choosing one form of addiction over another.

The ice in my glass had nearly melted. I put
the glass in the sink.

It was after two when I crawled into bed
beside a sleeping Maggie—my island of peace in a chaotic world.
Putting my arm around her, I nestled my chin against the warmth of
her shoulder, and felt her steady breathing.

And somewhere out there, some asshole with
nothing better to do was stalking Brenda.

9

After Maggie left the next morning, I headed
straight for my darkroom and developed the roll of black-and-white
film I’d taken the night before. While the negatives dried, I made
several prints of Emily Farrell and her daughter outside the health
center, the best of which I enlarged and mounted. Emily had a
sweet, natural presence, and her engaging personality made me
wonder why such an attractive woman was alone.

I made contact prints from the new negs,
dried them with a hair dryer, then sat down with a ham sandwich,
trying to figure out if any were worth printing. One shot Maggie
had taken of me with my father and sister was pretty good. I didn’t
look half as uncomfortable as I’d felt. The question was, did I
want to bother enlarging any of them?

The answer was no. But my father and Patty
would probably like copies. There was a nice one of the three of us
with Chet’s sisters that Ruby and Vera would probably like, too,
but that was it. I’d make only those prints and file the negatives
away forever.

I studied the sheet, frowning. How had
Patty’s unsmiling friend, Ray, gotten in so many of the shots?

The phone’s jangle interrupted my musing.
“Hello.”

“Jeffrey? It’s Patty.”

My hand clenched the receiver. “What’s
up?”

“It’s Dad. He’s real sick. It wasn’t a good
idea to take him to Aunt Ruby’s last night. I know your brother’s
been his doctor for a while. Do you think he could come over and
see Dad?”

That’s right. Put me in the middle.

“Why don’t you just call an ambulance,” I
said.

Silence.

“He won’t let me,” she said finally. “Please,
Jeff?”

I let out a long breath. “I’ll see what I can
do. I’ll call you back in a few minutes.”

Grabbing my coat, I scooped up my notes on
the calls from the night before and headed out.

“Anybody home?” I called as I opened the back
door to Richard’s house. Holly, barked, jumping up to lick my
face.

Brenda was in the kitchen, emptying the
dishwasher. “Hey, there.”

“Is Rich around? I’ve got a big favor to
ask.”

“I think he’s in the study. What’s
wrong?”

“My father’s really sick.”

Brenda nodded, like she’d expected it. For an
awkward moment we just looked at one another. I figured if anyone
could understand my mixed emotions about my father, it was
Brenda.

“Well, I better find him.”

Richard looked up from his computer screen
when the parquet floor creaked under my sneakered feet. “What’s
up?”

“I got a call from Patty. She says Chet’s
pretty sick. She wondered if you could come over to see him.”

He frowned and clicked the print button. “I’m
not surprised. Especially after what you said last night.”

“What’re you up to?” I asked,

“Checking out local anti-abortion Web sites,
looking for Brenda’s name. Other health center staff are there—but
not her. You can’t believe the crap they post. Decomposed,
full-term fetuses passed off as abortions—more likely stillbirths.
Anybody with a computer and good software can manipulate images to
suit their twisted purposes. I tried to find what I could on the
protester’s names you gave me yesterday, too.”

The last of several pages rolled out the
printer. I picked up the top sheet, scanning it. “What the hell?” I
looked Richard in the eye. “This looks like Linden’s medical
records.”

He didn’t say anything, and just logged off
the Internet.

“You hacked into his medical records?” I
asked.

“I learned a thing or two about systems in my
job at the Foundation.” He didn’t look the least bit concerned.

“That’s illegal,” I sputtered. “And you’re
Mr. Straight-And-Narrow.”

“Linden harasses women entering family
planning centers, threatens clinic staff, and condones violence,
which is immoral.” He crossed his arms over his chest. “I’m willing
to stand before God’s judgment, just the same as him.”

I glanced at the type. “The Reverend suffers
from PTSS?”

“Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome. On some
pretty strong medication, too. And if he doesn’t take it—”

“Paranoia, subject to violent outbursts,” I
read. “Just the kind of guy you want preaching to pro-life
protesters.”

“Exactly.”

He switched off the computer and got up.
“I’ll get my bag.”

I nodded. “Oh, here’s the log of the calls
from last night. We can talk about it later, okay?”

“Sure.” He tucked it under the edge of his
blotter. “I’ll meet you by the back door.”

I threaded my way through the house, and used
the phone in the kitchen to call Patty. Brenda watched as I hung
up, her expression filled with compassion.

“Do you need a hug, Jeffy?”

“Sure.” I let her put her arms around me,
soaked in her genuine regret—her need to comfort. “He’s dying,
Brenda.”

“I know.”

Holly gave a pathetic whimper, tried to
insinuate herself between us, her wet nose nudging my hand. I
pulled back, crouched down to scratch behind the dog’s ears. “Have
you met Chet?”

Brenda shook her head. “No, but Richard
pointed him out to me at the clinic.”

I stared at the floor. “This pisses me off.
The old man’s not my responsibility.” I risked a look at Brenda.
Her intense gaze unnerved me, made me feel guilty. “And now I have
to get Rich involved, too. A week ago I didn’t know him or Patty,
and now they’re jerking me around.”

Brenda’s silence only enhanced my guilt.

Richard appeared wearing his oversized navy
pea coat, with his little black bag in hand. “I don’t know when
we’ll be back,” he told Brenda.

“I’ll be okay.”

“If you get lonely, call Maggie. If Willie
shows up, call nine-one-one.”

“I’ll be okay,” she repeated, and patted
Holly’s head.

“Lock the doors,” I said.

“I
will
.”

Richard kissed Brenda goodbye and we headed
out.

The deadbolt clicked behind us.

I drove
, my fingers clenching the
wheel, my knuckles white. As each minute ticked by my frustration
mounted.

“I’m sorry I dragged you into this, Rich,” I
said finally.

“I
am
his doctor,” he pointed out
reasonably.

“I know, but—” I didn’t know. My thoughts
were spinning. I wasn’t sure what I was saying or thinking or
feeling. And I didn’t like that sense of impotence one bit.

“This could be the beginning of the end,”
Richard said.

I refused to look at him.

“You should be prepared,” he said.

“For what? To lose him? What’s to lose? I
just met him.” I was lying. I was scared and I didn’t even want to
think about why.

“If nothing else, you might want to mourn the
lost years.”

“Fat chance,” I bluffed. He was probably
right, but I didn’t want to admit it to him—or even to myself.

I pulled up the driveway and we got out.
Richard took in the rundown little house with its peeling paint and
untrimmed shrubs. Embarrassment washed over me. This was all my
father had to show for seventy-plus years on the planet.

Patty opened the storm door, her face taut
with worry. “Dr. Alpert? Thanks for coming,” she said, ignoring
me.

“Hi. Patty, right?” he said.

She nodded, ushered us into the house. “Sorry
to call you over on a Sunday, but Dad’s so sick.”

“Where is he?”

“The bedroom.”

“I’ll wait here,” I said as they headed down
a darkened hallway.

I parked in a chair and looked around the
shabby living room. It was an old man’s house. The walls needed
painting; the faded, threadbare carpet was probably older than me.
Grocery-store prints of scenic landscapes hung over the couch. My
father’s lover—common-law wife?—had been dead for ten years. It
stood to reason there’d be nothing new in the way of furnishings.
But there didn’t seem to be any semblance of Patty in the house,
either. Her time between boyfriends was probably brief. Maybe the
house had become more a way station than her home.

Patty came out a few moments later and
flopped onto the chair opposite me.

“How is he?” I asked.

“Richard’s examining him now.”

They were on first-name terms already.

“He sure is good looking.”

“Who? Richard?”

She nodded, her expression far away, a slight
smile crossing her lips. “He seems real nice. Like he’s got a
gentle way.”

“He does have a good bedside manner,” I
agreed warily.

“How long has he been married?”

“Since the end of June.”

She counted the months off on her fingers.
“Five months—not long at all.”

“What exactly is wrong with—” I still had
trouble using the title. “—Dad?” I asked impatiently.

“He’s having trouble breathing. He said he
had pains in his chest. I tried to talk him out of going to Aunt
Ruby’s yesterday, but he was determined.”

“He’s pretty much house-bound?”

She nodded. “He’s hardly been out at all
lately, except to go to the clinic. Elena usually takes him.” She
changed the subject. “Richard looks different than he did the other
day. Kind of hunky.” That wistful smile was back.

“It’s the coat.” I hoped she caught the
meaning behind my deadpanned words.

Patty frowned, and looked away.

We ignored each other for several long
minutes until Richard came out—much sooner than I’d
anticipated.