The Apple of My Eye

by Mary Ellen Bramwell

  “Thank you. I appreciate your time.” Then I turned to go.

  “You know, Mrs. Cass, he was a nice man. I liked him.”

  I turned at that. “Why do you say that? Because he gave his life to save Mr. Walker?”

  A little flustered he responded, “Well, no, although I mean that was a good thing. But no, he came in a few nights before the uh ... , the robbery. Real nice man. He bought some beef jerky and a six pack of soda.”

  This new piece of information piqued my curiosity. What was that about? “Was that the first time you’d seen him?” I asked.

  “Yeah, that was the only other time. It was the middle of the night, too, just like, well, you know, just like that other night. He was real friendly like. He had such a nice smile, and he just visited with me for a little while. So many people are in a rush. It gets kinda lonely here in the wee hours. But he wasn’t in any hurry. Just asked me if I liked having a store and if I got lonely and stuff. He even asked about my family. Told me about you and your son. A real proud papa.”

  “Thank you,” was all I could think to say.

  “He showed me pictures of your little boy, and he looked at pictures of my grandkids. Would you like to see?”

  “Sure.”

  We spent the next little while looking at pictures of his grandchildren at various ages and stages of life. As I watched his eyes light up with each picture, I tried to imagine Paul’s eyes doing the same thing when it had been his turn.

  Eventually we said our good-byes and I returned to my car, after picking out a Dr. Pepper and a teething ring for Noah. Mr. Schulz wouldn’t let me pay for them, even offered me anything I wanted in the store, but I declined.

  Sitting in my car, sipping my drink, I took stock of what Mr. Schultz had told me about Paul. Other than Paul being “real” – real nice, real friendly, real proud – I wasn’t sure what I had learned. Maybe there wasn’t another woman, but when I catalogued the information in my mind, I had to accept I knew nothing for certain.

  After thinking about it, I mentally added to my growing list of questions: Why was he in this neighborhood? As if the answer would magically come to me, I looked around. Why was he here? It wasn’t the worst neighborhood, but it wasn’t a charmer either. A pawnshop was on the opposite corner, but all the other buildings I could see were homes, mostly single-family homes. Down the street, I could make out a line of duplexes. Nothing jumped out at me. I was as lost as before.

  “Okay, what’s next,” I mumbled, picking up my list. An internet search the previous evening had given me Frank Walker’s phone number and address. Should I call and tell him I was coming? That probably would be the nicer thing to do.

  Opening my phone and dialing, I put the phone to my ear. It was several rings before he answered with, “Yes?”

  “Hi, is this Frank Walker?” I asked.

  “Yeah, this is him. Who wants to know?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m Brea Cass, Paul’s wife.” I let that sink in before continuing. “Would you mind if I came by to visit you?”

  It was silent for some time, and then his voice, softer now, responded, “That would be fine. When would you like to come?”

  “Is it all right if I came now?”

  “That would be okay. Do you know where I live?”

  “Yes, I have the address. Is five minutes too soon?”

  “Oh, no, not at all. I’ll see you in five minutes.”

  Mr. Walker lived only a few blocks from Harper’s Mart. I could easily picture him restless and lonely at night, making his way there for some company.

  He opened the door before I had a chance to knock. “Come in, come in.”

  Stepping inside was like stepping back in time. I saw furniture that he and his wife might have picked out together when they were young, a rose colored love seat with a curved back and wood trim and an overstuffed chair with a floral print to match it. A small TV sat on a rickety TV table a short distance away. From a back bedroom, I heard the meow of a cat.

  Mr. Walker looked like he belonged back in the era of the furniture. He wore suspenders over a plaid shirt, with old dress pants. He wore no shoes, but his dark socks were worn with a toe or two poking out. His face was gaunt and reminded me of the cancer.

  Frank cleared newspapers off the loveseat and beckoned me to sit. He sat down in the easy chair, looking as if he wanted to speak but being torn between expressing his gratitude and his regrets.

  I had been fearful of this meeting, but I shouldn’t have been. Someone’s life had been spared, even if just for a short time. How could I not be grateful for that? I found that in my mind, I had separated the two events of Mr. Walker’s life being saved and my husband’s taken. I also had to admit the events of the last 48 hours had distanced me from the emotions surrounding Paul’s death.

  Breaking the silence, I asked, “Mr. Walker, I was wondering if you could tell me about my husband on the night he died, what he said, what he was doing, anything?”

  That clearly wasn’t what he had expected me to ask, so it took a moment for him to change gears in his mind. “I hadn’t really thought about it. The police asked me all about the two men who came in but not much about your husband. Let me think for a minute.”

  “The store owner said he might have been talking on a cell phone,” I prompted.

  “Oh, yeah, he was. He was in the back of the store. It’s pretty quiet that time of night, so I could hear him. I looked to see if someone was with him, and then I saw the phone in his hand. He was saying, ‘The truth is I left the light on.’ I remember it because it made me realize I always leave the lights on whenever I go someplace. Somehow the house doesn’t look quite so empty that way when I come home.” He paused to collect himself.

  Something about what Paul had said sounded vaguely familiar, but I couldn’t quite place why.

  Mr. Walker continued. “I walked close by your husband. I think my presence kind of startled him, because he turned suddenly to look at me. But after he stared at me for a moment, he went back to his phone and said, ‘No, turn the lights off.’ Then I picked up my cat food and went to the register. I think he might have said something more after that like, ‘Yes, that’s right’ or ‘I know’ or something like that, but I think that was it. After that, well, I suspect you know the rest, with your husband jumping in front of me and all.”

  My heart sank just a little bit deeper. I guess I had been hoping that he hadn’t been talking on the phone after all, because I knew he wasn’t talking to me. Who do you talk to on a cell phone at midnight? The only good answer for Paul would have been his wife, but that didn’t apply in this case, did it? So who exactly was it? Where had he been that he had left the lights on? That sounded more to me like a house than a place of business, but I guess it could have been either. The bottom line was that I didn’t know! I didn’t know anything about where he had left those lights on or who he was trusting to turn them off. I couldn’t decide whether to be angry or sad.

  I could see that Mr. Walker was reading some kind of distress on my face. It clearly was disturbing him that he might have said something to upset me. I didn’t want him to have time to change his story in an effort to somehow make me happier, so I quickly added, “Did he say anything else? The newspaper said he yelled or something.”

  “Yeah, he yelled all right. Mostly he was just making noise. He did say, ‘No! Wait! It’s not worth it!’ I remember the words so clearly. Man, it’s been a long time since I’ve seen such courage.” Not wanting to meet my gaze, he glanced down as he whispered, “I sure do appreciate it.”

  Whatever my husband was guilty of, I couldn’t ignore his heroism. The emotions that I had recently shut out began to sneak back in. All I c
ould do was sit there while tears coursed quietly down Mr. Walker’s cheeks and mine. We were united by a single act that forever altered both of our lives and both in opposite ways. Sometimes there just are no words.

  The cat spared us. She sauntered into the room, oblivious to our grief, and demanded an explanation for the stranger sitting on her furniture. Frank flashed an apologetic smile. “I don’t get much company. I guess Patches has gotten a little bossy,” and with a real grin, he added, “You know, so unusual for a cat.”

  I smiled back. He really was a nice old gentleman. I tried to think of anything else to ask, but there wasn’t too much to work with. Finally, searching for anything, I asked, “Do you remember what my husband was buying?”

  Surprised, he thought back for a moment. “I don’t think he had picked up anything yet.”

  Well, so much for trying to piece things together from that, I mused. I’d been hoping that what he was buying might tell me something. Was he talking to a woman or a co-worker or just an old buddy? Tampons or a beer would indicate entirely different things. I seemed to be getting nowhere fast.

  I was reluctant to leave Mr. Walker’s home so quickly, but I figured I had time for only one more stop before the end of normal business hours. So I made my excuses and let myself out, much to the cat’s delight.

  . . .

  I got in my car but didn’t turn on the ignition as I tried to understand what I was learning. All I could think about was Paul and how I had expected that he would grow old like Mr. Walker, that we would be together for a good long time, only mourning each other’s loss when time had wizened and softened us.

  Since Paul’s death, I had thought about all his good qualities and what I missed most. We were, I had to admit, still learning to compromise, to be patient with each other, to always be kind, things I assumed Mr. Walker and his wife had developed over the years.

  A memory came back in a trickle. It was our first fight as a married couple. I was struggling with a particularly difficult computer program for one of my classes. Paul came home from work to find me frustrated and no closer to a solution.

  “Just do a search on the internet,” Paul said.

  “What would I be searching for? I know how to create the code once I figure out how to approach it.”

  “No, just put in this classroom assignment. I’m sure someone has posted their code from previous semesters.”

  I looked at him with disbelief. “Paul, that’s cheating. It’s plagiarism, maybe not with words but with code. I wouldn’t do that.”

  “Why? Everybody does it. That’s how all the rest of your class is going to figure it out. You’ll still be using your brain to solve the problem, just in a different way.” He wasn’t even acting defensive. He seemed absolutely mystified by my reluctance.

  “Paul! I DO NOT CHEAT!” I was losing my temper, something that didn’t make me proud. I took a deep breath and quieted my tone. “I don’t know how you were raised, but I was raised to do what was right in all situations. A ‘D’ for my own work will always be better than an ‘A’ for someone else’s. I don’t mind getting help from someone, like going to a TA for some direction, but straight up copying of another person’s work is not right, and it never will be, regardless of how many people do it. Ask Haynesworth if you want another opinion on the matter.”

  He was fuming by now and had clearly caught my dig about asking a TA for help, seeing that he had been one. I regretted having thrown that in, but I wasn’t ready to apologize for anything small like that when he clearly had no intention of apologizing for the larger issue.

  However, I suppose it was the mention of Haynesworth that was the more cutting remark. I truly believed he would back me up on this, but since he was as close to being a father figure as Paul had, it was like a slap in the face to claim him for my side.

  We both stared at each other, wondering how to end the stalemate. I caved first. “Paul, I’m sorry to have brought the Professor into things; that wasn’t very nice of me. However, my position about the code stays the same. I will write it myself.”

  I expected Paul to apologize in return, but he just looked past me. Then without a word, he turned and went into the bedroom. I wasn’t sure where we now stood.

  I struggled a little longer with how to approach my assignment. I made a little headway, but not much. My thoughts were on Paul and our disagreement. I finally went into the bedroom to talk to him. He was busy working on his computer, but when he saw me his eyes lit up. He put his work aside, came to me, and took me in his arms. “I love you, Brea. You catch me off guard sometimes, but I love you with all my heart.”

  At the time, I took it as an apology, but now, as I contemplated Paul’s apparent deception, I wondered. Where had he stood on what was right and what was wrong? Had he ever been the one to back down and apologize? I felt compelled to pursue those answers.

  . . .

  I turned my key in the ignition. What was next on my list? My bank was on the opposite side of town, and banking hours being what they were, I figured it would have to wait until tomorrow. So I called the police station to see if one of the detectives assigned to my husband’s case was in.

  Detective Lentus was indeed in and happy to meet with me; so I drove directly to the station. Parking the car in the police station lot felt a lot safer than at Harper’s Mart, and I climbed out without even a glance around.

  I’m sure I had met Detective Lentus before, but I didn’t remember him. He belonged to the hazy days that defined the last two months. He met me at the front door, so I didn’t need to wait to be buzzed in. He didn’t look like a detective to me. I suppose I was expecting someone good-looking, having seen one too many detective shows with the leading role played by some Hollywood hunk. I think I would have even settled for a studious or professorial look. What I got was none of those.

  Lentus moved at his own pace, more like a sloth than the adrenalin-laden do-gooder I was expecting. Even his large belly didn’t appear to want to expend the effort to stay above his belt, instead choosing to flop down, hiding the buckle from view. It dawned on me that I was being unusually harsh on a man I hadn’t really met. Here was a man who was supposedly helping me and I was examining his wrinkled shirt and stained tie. I didn’t even want to consider what stained it.

  Focus on Paul. Focus on Paul. This is a nice man, I kept telling myself.

  He led me back to his office and pulled out a chair for me. “What can I do for you, Mrs. Cass? I’m assuming you would like information on what’s happening with our investigation?”

  I paused. I knew it was unusual, but I hadn’t given that investigation much thought. Paul was dead; finding out who did it wouldn’t change that. My questions circled around what Paul was doing, the other criminals in the picture being simply a waste of my thoughts.

  Knowing it was the right answer, and not wanting to expose my husband’s personal betrayal, I responded, “Yes, that would be lovely.” Lovely? I sounded like Audrey Hepburn responding to an offer of tea, but I figured correcting it would make matters worse, so I just looked expectantly at the detective as if that was how I always spoke.

  He hadn’t seemed to notice, and I barely listened as he told me they had no new leads. The camera in the store wasn’t working, and the vague descriptions given by Mr. Walker and the storeowner hadn’t produced any hits. Wearing ski masks had effectively hidden much of the intruders’ identities. “The suspects didn’t actually get away with much cash,” he added in an apologetic fashion.

  I wondered if much effort was being made to find them since they didn’t “get away with much cash?” But I knew that was just the cynical side of me weighing in. I had to remind myself why I had come.

  “Detective, I was just wondering if you c
ould answer a few questions for me.”

  “Sure, the best I can.”

  “Do you know if my husband had picked out any groceries?”

  His eyes opened wide in surprise. “No, he didn’t have any. Is there a problem, or something I should know about?”

  “No, I’m just trying to tie up some loose ends is all. Do you happen to have his cell phone?”

  He was still a little taken aback by my first question and didn’t respond to this second one. Instead, he asked, “You aren’t trying to solve your husband’s murder by yourself, are you? Because that is not a good idea. You never know who you’re dealing with. That’s a very dangerous situation to put yourself in.” He paused to look at me to see if the words were sinking in. “Please, just let us do our jobs. We’ll find whoever did this to your husband. It just takes time.”

  I realized in trying to cover my own embarrassment, I had unintentionally misled him. I wasn’t sure how to repair the damage, but my husband’s indiscretions weren’t any of his business.

  “No, no, I’m not interested in that at all,” I responded before realizing that didn’t sound believable either. Trying to salvage things, I added, “I’m just trying to piece together the last moments, the last memories of my husband. It’s how I’m dealing with this whole situation.”

  He seemed at least partially placated. I plunged forward by asking, “Did you say whether you had his cell phone?”

  “Um, yes, we do.”

  “Would you mind if I had it back? You don’t need it for anything do you?”

  “No, I don’t suppose we do. Let me go check with my lieutenant.”

  I’m not sure how long he was gone, but he eventually came back with Paul’s cell phone in hand. “Here you go, Mrs. Cass. Let us know if you need anything else,” and with that he turned back to his desk, effectively dismissing me. But I was done with him for the time being anyway.