“Hey,” Adam says, coming through the door.
“Hey.”
He picks her up, carries her to their bed. She thinks, as she often does, of the quilt, the iron bed, the kimono, back in the apartment she loved. I was happy then. She notices the tense, the wistfulness she feels toward the summer, particularly the day of the auction, when all was anticipation. Things are so complicated now. It wasn’t supposed to be this complicated. There wasn’t supposed to be an Adam. But he planted himself in her path and she can’t shake him, even though she knows she should. Eventually, he will trust her, come to see that he was wrong to doubt her.
But how can she trust him?
38
Irving seldom attends synagogue, even during the High Holidays. He doesn’t like the way people look at him. It has been twenty-plus years since he was in the news for being a slumlord, and although he knows he should be grateful that he wasn’t promoted to murderer, he still bridles at the unfairness of the term. He didn’t make his properties slums. That was on the tenants. He remembers the place where he and Birdy started out, thirty-five years ago, that terrible little apartment over near Pimlico. It was worse than anything he ever rented out, but Birdy somehow made it clean. Down on her hands and knees with Pine-Sol, every day, on those splintery floors, that curling linoleum. If they had had marble steps, she would have scrubbed those, too. The people he rented to, they didn’t have it in them to clean like that. And don’t get him started about lead paint. His first son, Eric, was born in that terrible apartment, probably licked the walls, and he went to Wharton.
But it is officially a year since Birdy’s death, so he goes to synagogue to light a yahrzeit candle, say kaddish. The rabbi smiles, hopeful.
“So maybe we’ll be seeing you here more often?” the rabbi asks. But it’s Irving’s wallet he likes, not Irving.
“Sure,” Irving says. What does it cost, a kind, assuring word? Almost nothing.
He doesn’t drive directly home after leaving shul, decides to take a trip down his own memory lane, starting with that wretched apartment near Pimlico, not far from that psychic, the neighborhood’s one constant. Then he heads north on Park Heights Avenue, as so many of his people did, first to Pikesville, then Owings Mills, then Reisterstown. Reisterstown Road—how changed it is. So many memories. He was a good husband to Birdy—an excellent provider who never loved another, although he enjoyed what he considered an essential release with the occasional woman. He and Birdy had three accomplished children, eight grandchildren. She was a firecracker, full of energy to the end. If one of the two of them was destined to have a heart attack in the middle of the night, there’s not a bookie in town who wouldn’t have said Irving was the odds-on favorite. But it was Birdy. A lot of people thought the nickname was Bertie because her name was Beatrice, but how did that make sense? She was “Birdy” because she had that aspect to her—a round, plump body, which was mostly breast, propped up on tiny stick legs. Her voice was like a bird’s, too, sweet and high.
How he loved Birdy. He cheated on her no more than three or four times, always one-offs, opportunities not to be disdained, sort of like having a slice of cake when you weren’t that hungry, but your mother-in-law kept pushing, pushing, pushing. Birdy never knew. At least, he doesn’t think she ever knew. Surely, she wouldn’t have stayed if she suspected an indiscretion on his part. She was a confident woman, sure of her worth, happy every day. The night she died, he swears he heard her giggling at her dreams.
Then—gone. And only fifty-five. Just one of those things, the doctor said.
It was about a week before she died that Irving ran into Barry Forshaw, flush with success, thanking him for the referral. How close he had come to saying, What referral? He hadn’t sent anyone to Forshaw, never would.
Was that the slip-and-fall?
No, the medical malpractice case. That’s where the dollars are. She’s an odd duck, your friend. An enigma. She could have—well, obviously, I can’t say more.
An enigma. Irving’s mind ran rapidly through the women he knew who might hire a personal injury attorney. He didn’t have many female friends, so that made it easy, and fewer still would have heard the name “Barry Forshaw” from his lips. He used to complain about him to Ditmars. Forshaw had been a genius at going after landlords with nuisance suits. Irving had sat in the Ditmars kitchen, grousing about Forshaw, thinking it was empty chatter, nothing more.
Pauline, he realized. That bitch. She must have sued over the daughter’s disability, and, given Forshaw’s glee, done quite well. But the state had custody of the daughter, so how could she be entitled to money? If she was entitled, he was, too. Even her evil lummox of a husband always gave Irving his share. She still owed him for that life insurance policy.
And in the numb shock that followed Birdy’s death, Irving’s rage sustained him, gave him purpose. He had to find out how Pauline Ditmars had gotten yet more money, and where that money was. Once he did, he would blackmail her, her with her new life. If she didn’t give him a cut, he would reveal her past to the new husband, tell the state she was double-dipping. He had her coming and going.
Until she went, stood up on a beach one day, walked away from that new family with barely a backward glance. He should have realized she’d make mincemeat out of Adam Bosk soon enough. It’s what she does. He remembers a song that his daughter played on her stereo maybe fifteen years ago, about a man-eater. Funny to think that Sheila is now the mother of three and God knows what those kids play on their stereos.
He pulls into his driveway. It’s a nice house, a brick Colonial. But it was already too big when it was just the two of them, and it’s way too big for a man living alone. He needs to unload the place. He’s been putting it off only because the kids are sentimental, but he’s ready to downsize. For their thirty-five years together, Irving and Birdy’s life had been a series of upgrades. That terrible first apartment, then their first house, then to a house that was big enough for each child to have a bedroom, and finally this place. He’s not old, not really, but he sees where he’s headed, a process of diminution. Everything will get smaller, except his belly and his bank account. And then one day, he will die, and his money will be split among the children and the grandchildren, so his money will end up smaller, too. He loves his kids, but they’re wasteful.
He notices a patrol car parked across the street, unusual for this neighborhood. Maybe a burglary? He waves at the police. Even when he was up to his neck in all sorts of shady business, he never had a moment of guilt when he walked by a police officer. In his heart, he never did anything wrong, not on purpose. He made a mistake, starting that trash fire, that was all, and he was forced to pay for it. Even then, all he did was paperwork. The victims were not his, he knew them not, he wished them no ill. He was a good man surrounded by bad people. Left to his own devices, he would have never broken the law.
Even now, as he sees two dark-suited men get out of another car on the street, calling his name as he stands on his doorstep, he feels nothing more than an idle curiosity.
“Irving Lowenstein?”
“Yes,” he says. Mormons? They look too old to be going door-to-door to convert people.
“We have a warrant for your arrest. For murder.”
“Whose?” he says, honestly baffled.
Then he hears Pauline’s voice, back in his office. The fire on Eutaw. Paca, he had corrected. He had been smart enough not to give her Coupay’s name when she fished for it, but the street would have been enough. Easy to pin down a fatal fire, once you had the address and general time it happened. Easy to find out who had owned the building, who had carried the insurance, who had brokered the policy. They will subpoena his records, if they haven’t already. Serve a warrant on Susie, start going through his files.
He is on the doorstep of his house. The house he has just disowned in his thoughts, replacing it, in his imagination, with a condo downtown. Or maybe even Florida. He has enough money, he could retire. And do what? Marry
again. He’s a catch, or would be in Florida. Naples, he thinks, somewhere on the Gulf side. That’s always been his preference. He doesn’t play golf, but maybe cards. His children would visit, on their way to or from Disney World. Five seconds ago, this was a reasonable dream for his future.
Now he doesn’t know if he will ever walk through his own front door again.
“When we get downtown,” he says to the detective, “I’d like to call my lawyer.”
“Oh, you don’t want to do that right away,” the detective says. “You know how it goes.” The game is afoot. They’re going to try to persuade him it’s better if he talks, just a little, that once lawyers get involved, they have no choice but to charge him.
It’s going to be a long night.
The cops take him to the car, not bothering with cuffs. They’re not worried about him trying to run or attack. But the detective, perhaps out of force of habit, still puts his hand on Irving’s head as he gets in the back seat of the patrol car. People are watching, although it’s no one Irving recognizes. He’s grateful for that. Grateful, too, that his children live far enough away that their newspapers will carry no photos of him. And maybe there will be no photos, no charges, no attention. If this is all the cops have—but, no, Pauline has talked to them, told them what she knows. Ditmars told her everything, over the years. He bragged about it, how scared she was to cross him because she knew the things he had done. And Paca is probably enough, on its own. That poor girl and her baby, the house was supposed to be empty. The trash can fire, the one he set, the one that brought Ditmars into his life—it was supposed to leave that family homeless, nothing more. He’s not a bad man, he’s a good man who made some bad decisions. It’s an important distinction.
“Amazing,” he mutters to himself. He threw a cigar into a trash can thirteen, fourteen years ago and now his life turns to ash.
39
Adam has decided to take a long weekend and go hunting, although he told Polly that he’s on a job in western Maryland. Why did he lie to her? Why does he feel obligated to justify taking a weekend for himself? He never promised to come to Belleville every weekend. Polly doesn’t hold him accountable in any way. She doesn’t even expect him to call on a regular schedule.
Yet he feels guilty the entire time he’s in the woods. Two days running, he takes his position in a tree just before sunrise, bow in hand. The old pleasures—the silence, the time alone, the stillness—no longer deliver. The forest is as silent as ever, but the loud thoughts echoing through his head ruin everything.
He doesn’t even get an opportunity to take aim. The only animal he sees is a bear, in the distance thankfully, lumbering past as if rushing to catch a bus. Adam had hoped to have venison to freeze for the winter, maybe make a stew. Two days, sitting in a tree, and nothing to show for it. He gives up on Saturday afternoon and heads home. He could make Belleville by evening, if he wanted to. But does he want to? Polly is not much for surprises.
All the more reason to surprise her now and then.
Of course, as soon as his journey becomes urgent to him, he finds himself in an inexplicable clog of traffic on I-70. He flips to WBAL, hoping to find out what’s going on, not that there’s an alternate route. He just misses the traffic report—of course—and hits the news on the top of the hour. He’ll have to wait another five, ten minutes to find out if it’s a notable backup.
“Police have arrested a sixty-three-year-old insurance broker from northwest Baltimore and charged him in a 1986 arson that killed a young woman and her child. Irving Lowenstein—”
No. He wants to talk back to the radio, argue with the dulcet-voiced reader. But he also needs to hear what she’s saying.
“Lowenstein is alleged to have secured a range of policies for a third party, from buildings to people, pocketing a share of the claims. His participation came to light when a fire similar to the 1986 blaze and explosion was set in Belleville, Delaware, targeting the ex-wife of one of his coconspirators. Police believe Lowenstein attempted to have Pauline Hansen killed because she was the only person who knew about his crimes.”
No, Adam repeats to himself. Irving Lowenstein is not a killer. Money is what motivates Irving. Blow up Polly and you never find the pot of gold you’re seeking. Irving’s never even been in Belleville.
Although he knew where Polly lived, of course.
He knew because it was in one of the weekly reports that Adam sent west this summer, when Polly was still nothing more than a job. “Subject has moved to an apartment on Main Street in Belleville.”
Get to know her, Irving had said. Ingratiate yourself with the husband. Find out everything about what she does, how she spends her days, if she’s spending money.
Maybe all Irving ever wanted was enough information to figure out a way to have her killed that would look like an accident, or a random crime. And killing her makes so much more sense, if she knows his role in these long-ago deaths. Hire one guy to watch her, then another guy to kill her. Irving, sitting a hundred miles away, didn’t even have to worry about an alibi.
So this is the strain Polly has been living with since Labor Day—this chronic fear and Adam’s impossible-to-conceal doubts about her. Someone tried to kill her and she was terrified to confide in him because she didn’t think she’d be believed. Her mysterious errands, those extra miles on the truck—she’s probably been talking to Baltimore police for weeks, helping them build this case.
He’d drive straight to Delaware right now if he didn’t have two days of hunting funk on him. As it is, he’s back in the car, showered and shaved, thirty minutes after stopping at his apartment. Hits the fancy market in Annapolis to buy steaks and wine only to find himself in another traffic jam on the Bay Bridge, but he doesn’t mind. He can’t imagine minding anything, ever again. He has come so close to losing her. Once, when Irving tried to kill her and now because of his own doubts and skepticism.
Years ago, in a clog of traffic just like this, Adam’s car was rear-ended. It wasn’t bad, one of the last links in a chain reaction of fender benders. His was the penultimate car hit, and he barely tapped the bumper of the car in front of him. Then Adam had gotten out of his car, a sporty little Nissan, and looked back, seen the eighteen-wheeler that had started it all, steaming on the median where it had finally stopped, car bodies strewn like corpses. A Corolla opened on one side like a can of tuna, a Volvo’s trunk accordioned, a Mercedes that seemed almost V-shaped after the impact. Yet, best Adam could tell, no one had been seriously injured. He started to shake from the knowledge of what might have been, how many people might be dead right now if the truck driver, coming over the ridge into a traffic jam, had applied his brakes even five seconds later. Nothing makes you feel more alive than almost dying.
* * *
The steaks aren’t as good as they should be—it’s hard, making a perfect steak in an electric broiler, not that Adam can blame Polly for wanting no part of a gas stove these days—but the wine is wonderful, worth the cost. They curl up on the couch, his arms so tight around her that she has to break the seal when she wants to reach for her glass, take a sip.
“Why did he want to—why did he—” It’s a hard question to ask.
“Let’s not talk about it,” she says. “I’m safe. We’re safe.”
“I’m going to move back here,” he says. “As soon as I can. I’ll figure out a way to make ends meet. I’ll—”
She shakes her head. When Polly says she doesn’t want to talk, she means it. Here, with her in his arms, Adam feels the peace that eluded him while deer hunting. He will move to Belleville. He will be the man she wants him to be, the man she believed him to be until his doubts caused her to lose faith in him. There will be time enough to travel, to coax her from this tiny town, this provincial life. If she wants something and he can give it to her, he will.
He thinks again about how close he came to getting her killed, the lies that Irving told him to throw him off the scent of his real aims. It makes sense now, that p
ostcard sent before Adam quit, Irving’s decision to terminate Adam’s employment. He wanted her dead because of what she knew about him. He hired someone to kill her and the guy—it had to be a guy—screwed up, plain and simple. Poor Cath. But Adam can’t lie. If someone had to die, better Cath than Polly. Cath didn’t deserve to die, no one really does, but no one deserves a shot at a normal life more than Polly.
She has fallen asleep in his arms, her cheek pressed against his chest, her hair tickling his chin. Her hair smells of the High-Ho—grease and beer and french fries. The roots are slightly darker than the rest of her hair. She thinks he doesn’t know that she uses a henna rinse to amp up the red, but of course he does. He knows everything about her.
The hard part has been keeping track of what he’s supposed to know and what she has yet to tell him. But those days are over. No more secrets.
40
Christmas is coming
The goose is getting fat
Please put a penny in the old man’s hat
If you haven’t got a penny,
A ha’penny will do
And if you haven’t got a ha’penny, then God bless you.
Polly doesn’t have much more than a ha’penny this Christmas season, but she feels blessed. Belleville does the holiday right. The shops and empty storefronts on Main Street are hung with white lights, which Polly’s mother always believed more tasteful than varicolored bulbs. There is a manger outside the Lutheran Church at the far end of Main Street. And there is one house—there is always one house—that goes over the top with its yard—a rocking sleigh with a Santa reciting in a mechanized voice: Ho-Ho-Ho. Ho-Ho-Ho. People drive twenty, thirty miles just to see this place.
Sunburn: A Novel Page 20
