Authors: Lisa Lutz
T
he attendance at family meals began to expand exponentially after Fred started showing up, though I got the feeling he always ate a slice of pizza before coming. I got that feeling because I noticed tomato sauce stains on his shirt and he made a big show of only eating the vegetables for my mom. This night, Henry made his first appearance.
My mother was always extra nice to Henry, as if she had to compensate for whatever trouble I inflicted in our private life. I think Henry enjoyed the deference. Truth be told, there was definitely some inflicting being done.
Also making an appearance that night were Morty and Ruth. When Morty saw Henry, he pulled me aside and said, “Finally, you gave the cop your number.”
“Yes, Morty. He definitely has my number.”
Morty pinched my nose. “Good girl,” he said. “Don’t blow it with your crazy shenanigans.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I tried not to notice how little my old friend ate these days and averted my gaze from the way his clothes hung loose off his bones. The glasses made him Morty. If he removed those, I don’t think I could have borne to look at him.
Fortunately the evening’s primary distraction was David and Maggie’s announcement that they would be getting married in two months’ time. I am happy to report that not a single person used the phrase “shotgun wedding.” My mother insisted that Rae and I throw a combination baby/bridal shower. Rae and I exchanged a glance that mixed both terror and incomprehension, having only been to such things on rare and cruel occasions. However, my sister and I reverted to our poker faces and offered helpful suggestions.
“I can make Magic Punch,” I said.
“How do you feel about pizza rolls?” Rae asked.
My mom interrupted us and said, “Don’t worry, Maggie. We’ll make sure it’s tasteful.”
I heard David mutter, “Because tasteful is Isabel’s middle name.” Then I heard him say, “Ouch,” which meant that Maggie had kicked him under the table.
After the minor assault, Maggie turned to me and said, “If I see anything pink or powder blue, or there’s a pacifier or a baby bottle in sight, I will take you down right then and there. Do you hear me?”
“Loud and clear,” I replied.
Maggie was going to make an excellent sister-in-law.
T
he next time Morty and I met for lunch, he wasn’t up for an outside excursion, so I brought the deli to him. Still, he was only eating soup.
“Have you ever done any party planning before?” Morty asked, as if I were at a job interview.
“Well, I’m working on a baby/bridal shower right now,” I replied.
“Good. Good,” Morty said. “Take out a pen and paper.”
I followed his instructions.
“First things first. I want you to do my eulogy.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me,” he said.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” I replied. “I’m not really good with words that way.”
“Who cares? I’m writing it.”
“Oh,” I replied. “So you’re going to write your own eulogy?”
“And you’re going to deliver it.”
“Can I say no?”
“You’d deny a dying man his last wish?”
Sigh.
“Good,” Morty replied. “You’re not a Jew, but the guilt still works. Now take out a pen and paper and let me dictate.”
Morty ate a few more spoonfuls of chicken soup and contemplated the words he wanted to leave the world with.
“How should I begin?” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I replied.
“‘Friends and family’—no, that’s too serious.”
“It is a funeral, Morty.”
“So? It doesn’t mean we can’t have a little fun.”
“What’s your goal with this speech?”
“I’d like you to impart some of my wisdom to my friends and family.”
“Okay, let’s start with the wisdom part,” I said.
“Good thinking,” Morty replied. Then he started thinking.
My pen was poised over the pad of paper for about five minutes until Morty broke the silence.
“Breakfast is the most important meal of the day.”
“You don’t say?” I replied.
“Why aren’t you writing?” Morty asked.
“I’m not going to talk about breakfast in your eulogy.”
“Let’s not think of it as a eulogy. You’ll be delivering my sage advice.”
“Is that the kind of wisdom you want to leave people with? Breakfast? Really?”
“We’re brainstorming, Izzele. Are you going to argue with me the entire time?”
“I hope not.”
“I’d also like you to wear a dress. Something in a bright color that’s festive.”
“I can’t wear a festive dress to a funeral.”
“It’s always ‘no’ with you.”
“Let’s get back to the speech,” I suggested, mostly to detract from the subject of my wardrobe.
“Let’s start at the beginning,” Morty said. “We’re losing focus.”
“Okay,” I replied.
“I just need a good opening line,” Morty said.
“How about ‘Ladies and germs,’” I said.
“That’s good. I like it.”
Unfortunately, that wasn’t the only speech Morty and I had to prepare. Gabe and Petra’s wedding was nearing and I was part of the modest bridal party. Petra has tattoos and wore a silver 1920s flapper dress. As you can imagine, we were given free rein with our wardrobe, as I think it should be. It was an evening wedding, so I got away with wearing black. Henry told me I looked lovely. Morty told me I looked like I was going to a funeral.
“Don’t even think of wearing that to mine,” he said when he saw me.
“We’ll talk about this later,” I replied. “Do you have your toast prepared?”
Morty patted his breast pocket. Once the festivities were under way and the revelers were appropriately booze soaked, Morty got up to the microphone and delivered verbatim another speech we had tangled over for the last few days. It was remarkably brief but met the requirements I’d insisted upon—it included the phrase “l’chaim” and excluded the words “shiksa,” “body piercings,” “tattoos,” and “let’s see how long this lasts.”
Morty lied at the end and said, “I couldn’t be happier for the two of you,” then he raised his glass, a toast was made, and Henry made me dance with him, until I stepped on his toe and told him that if he felt particularly attached to his feet, we should probably keep this activity to a minimum.
Even with Morty’s reservations about the couple in question, he looked happy that night. He worked the room at a snail’s pace, but he said hello to each and every guest, which ultimately was good-bye.
A few weeks later, Morty entered the hospital for the last time. I was still allowed to bring him deli food. But he’d eat only a bite here and there.
The cancer Morty had was a brain tumor, a glioblastoma multiforme, they call it. One day, when I was visiting him, he showed me the brain scan.
“There it is, Izzele. The thing that’s killing me. What does it look like to you?”
“A butterfly,” I replied.
“Funny, isn’t it?”
“Not so much.”
“Let’s work on my speech.”
“I want to be clear on something, Morty. Just because you’re writing it, don’t forget that I have to deliver it.”
“Remember when I went away the last time?”
“To Miami?”
“Remember that list I gave you?”
“Yes.”
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“Maybe we should go with that list. Can you find it? We’ll make some adjustments here and there.”
“I’m not going to tell people to stay out of prison at a funeral.”
“See? It’s always ‘no’ with you.”
Other good-byes had to be said, as well. Len and Christopher had packed up all of their belongings and their move to New York was only a week away.
I brought Henry to the good-bye party. Len, even after all these years, still had trouble with cops, so he didn’t warm to him right away. However, he did manage to say that Henry was the most well-groomed man he’d ever seen me with.
“You have no idea,” I replied.
Then we talked about his plans for New York. I suggested
Benson! The Musical.
Christopher suggested I pour myself another drink and stop talking about it. When we left, Len promised me orchestra seats for every theater production he was in. It was a promise he wouldn’t keep. Thank god.
I
would like to report that after the physical evidence in the Merriweather case miraculously reappeared, his release was imminent. I would like to report that, but I cannot. The steps in the legal process continue to keep Merriweather behind bars. First Maggie had to convince the DA to retest the evidence. Since it had been missing for eight years, the chain of evidence was in question. We needed the evidence tested to rule out Merriweather, but because it had been missing for so long, the prosecution could argue that it was in some way contaminated. Eventually, a judge agreed to have the clothing from the crime scene and Demetrius’s jacket tested. Those tests took three months to complete. The result was that there was no DNA evidence connecting Merriweather to Elsie Collins.
However, in the court system, that doesn’t mean he’s innocent. Maggie filed a motion to vacate the original verdict and Merriweather was released. But two weeks later, he was arrested again and new charges were filed, based on the same circumstantial and eyewitness testimony of the previous trial. The DA stood by his original conviction, which means that Merriweather will face yet another jury trial, in part because we never could come up with another viable suspect. The white male who was seen exiting Elsie’s house was as useful to us as a ghost.
The trial is months away as I write this. One day I expect Demetrius to be free. But now he isn’t. I continue to visit him, mostly to help kill the time. Sometimes I bring a quiz, but he always passes. I’m certain there are things about the real world that will shock him once he’s out, but we’ll worry about that when the time comes.
Here’s another detail in my story that you might find interesting: A few months after the Merriweather verdict was vacated, Rick Harkey retired and moved to Florida. We noted a marked increase in business after that.
The goal of my job is to solve cases, uncover secrets, and get to the truth. Sometimes the truth unfolds perfectly, liked a quartered piece of paper. Sometimes, even, a mystery is solved. But mostly, the universe doesn’t fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Pieces will always be missing. In my work we look around and ask questions and find that, in the end, there are just more questions. If you’re looking for a standard mystery, with a surprise ending and a villain, a punishment, and a wrap-up of events, I can’t give it to you. That’s not how the real world works. Most mysteries I’ve encountered remain unsolved. Most questions I ask are left unanswered.
What I can give you is this: a moment in time when questions hung in the air and lives felt whole and life-altering decisions were made. I can give you that. But that’s all.
R
ae and I somehow managed to pull off the bridal/baby shower. I wouldn’t call it a brilliant success; “adequate” would be a more appropriate word. Having no knowledge of these sorts of things, and with my mother being curious about how we would manage without her, Rae and I were left to our own devices, which meant we were slaves to the Internet and relied heavily on our previous party-planning experiences.
I made Magic Punch. We couldn’t find pink and light-blue Lifesavers, so we opted for Jelly Bellies. Only, instead of buying the candies in those specific colors, Rae purchased twenty variety boxes and made us pick through each and every box for the pinks and blues. Eventually, I refused to continue the painstaking task when I realized the point of it all was so Rae would have the remaining colors for her sugar stash. I drove directly to the Candy Store off Polk Street and bought the appropriate supplies.
Jelly beans dissolve faster than hard candy, we soon discovered. Dropped in a vat of vodka, limeade, and sparkling water, they reduced quickly and bled in such a fashion that the punch bowl looked more like a science experiment than a beverage. Still, it was the only booze we offered, so guests partook. After three almost-choking incidents, we decided to sift out the partially dissolved Jelly Bellies and rename the concoction “Lime Surprise.”
We played bizarre games. One involved making wedding dresses out of toilet paper. Rae thought the idea was amusing but couldn’t stand behind the waste, so she purchased the most earth-friendly recycled bathroom paper she could find. The result was a tragic mess of shredded light-brown squares, precariously connected by weakening serrated edges. The draping bore no resemblance to anything like formal wedding wear. In fact, it didn’t even resemble a mummy or a shipwrecked person at the end of a long journey. It barely even resembled toilet paper wrapped around a person, to be honest.
Then we played a game Rae had found online in which we asked Maggie trivia about David and she had to put a piece of bubblegum in her mouth whenever she got an answer wrong. Being siblings of the groom, we had no problem in arriving at twenty difficult questions. We also saw this as an opportunity to semi-publicly humiliate our brother. After five questions and four giant gumballs down, my mother called a halt to the game, which was probably wise since Maggie appeared to have reached her gum capacity. In case you’re curious about the questions, the ones we managed to get out before Mom put the kibosh on the game are as follows:
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1) What was David’s first girlie magazine?
2) How many times has David had his teeth professionally whitened?
3) Given the choice between losing his hair or his little toe, what would David choose?
4) Why was David sent to the principal’s office in the eighth grade?
5) What hair band did David worship in the midnineties?
Trust me, you don’t want to know questions six through twenty.
Maggie seemed to have had a pretty good time, even though she couldn’t partake of the Lime Surprise. She thanked us profusely and promised that there would be no bridesmaid-dress nightmares in our future. She kept her word.