Mitchell Smith

by Daydreams

  “Mother didn’t talk about her clients. -Well, she did, sometimes. But she didn’t tell me their names or anything.”

  “Did she describe a man to you? -Maybe someone who was really close to her-maybe someone she really liked?”

  “She liked George Soseby.”

  “And she told you his name,”

  “I know George. George wasn’t a client. -He’s my mother’s lover.

  That’s a whole different kind of relationship. -You know how they met?

  He was a date-and then afterward, he asked for his money back. And my mother asked why, and he said he didn’t want money standing between them, and asked for his money back.

  She gave it to him, too. -He’s really nice.”

  Ellie felt a little short of breath. “Where does George live, honey?

  -Has he talked to you since your mother died?”

  “George lives in New York; he’s a factor. You know what that is?”

  “No-I don’t think so. .

  “I think it’s a trader who is kind of a middleman between other traders-importing things.”

  “Oh. -Where does George live? What’s his address?”

  “I don’t know-but he’s in Europe, now. He’s in Brussels, Belgium. I don’t think he knows what happened. . . .”

  “In Belgium … He hasn’t called you … written to you?”

  “He sent me some postcards.”

  “Did you keep them?”

  “No-the pictures weren’t that great. I guess he knew something was wrong. He said something in the last one about mother not answering her phone … just kind of joking. I threw all those cards away. I didn’t want to keep them.”

  “How does Mr. Soseby spell his name, Sonia?”

  “S-0-S-E-B-Y.”

  Ellie took her notebook from her purse, and wrote that down. Then, they sat together without saying anything for a while.

  “Is it true,” Ellie said, “-that the teachers can’t come here?”

  “Masters.”

  “But they can’t come here?”

  “They’re not supposed to,” Sonia said. “-But if kids started smoking pot and stuff here, they would.”

  “I guess this is the prettiest school I ever saw,” Ellie said. “Is it nice as it looks?”

  “It’s O.K. They don’t bug you too much.”

  “Hard classes?”

  “The classes are very hard.”

  “What do you do in the summer? -Stay with friends, or what?”

  “I stay with my mother. -We went to New Mexico this summer to see the pueblos and watch the Pueblo indians make sand paintings and katchinas.

  -It’s part of their religion.”

  “Did you stay with her in town, too? In her apartment?”

  “That place was for business. When I came to New York, we stayed at a hotel. Any hotel I wanted to . . .”

  Sonia bowed her head, looking down at her textbook, her book bag.

  “Well, I need to ask you one more thing. Then, I’ll leave you alone.”

  “That’s all right……

  A sparrow flew down onto the brick pavement in front of the bench, and began to hop and peck at things in the cracks of the bricks.

  “Did your mom-Aid your mother leave any notebook or diary with you? An appointment book, anything like that?”

  “No.”

  “You don’t have anything like that?”

  “No. She wrote me some letters when we came back from vacation. . .

  .”)

  “A lot of letters?”

  “My mother came up here all the time-she didn’t have to write me a lot of letters.”

  Another sparrow came and joined the first, and they fluttered into the air, then landed again in the same place, and pecked between the bricks.

  “O.K.,” Ellie said. “Listen, I know it’s a private thing.

  But it could be important. Could I just look at the letters-to see if there might be something important in them?”

  “No.

  “Even if there might be something important in them? -Something you wouldn’t know about?”

  “I know about what’s in my letters,” Sonia Gaither said, put her textbook in her book bag, zipped it shut, and stood up. She had narrow ankles, round, strong calves. “-I have to go and get some stuff for gym in my room. I have gym right after lunch.”

  Ellie stood up, too. “Can I walk with you?”

  “Sure. That’s all right.”

  They walked out of the garden, and down the path between the pines.

  Sonia was shorter than Ellie, 6y a good bit.

  “Are these marigolds?”

  “Mums.”

  They walked down to the building where Peschek had his office, then on across the turnaround and back down the drive Ellie had come up. Near the first faculty house, Sonia went to the left, and they walked down another flagstone path toward a long, two-story building-white clapboard, like the others.

  A Hispanic-looking girl came walking up the path toward them-the school uniform looking better on her than on the others—glanced at Ellie, and said, “Hi, Sonia.“Juana,” Sonia said.

  “You know,” Ellie said, after the girl had passed, -when I was nine, I came home from school one day, and my mom had left a note for me on the kitchen table.

  It said, ‘There’s a tuna-fish sandwich in the refrigerator, and pour yourself a glass of milk. —Good luck, honey.”

  She had left me and my dad-and I didn’t see her again for four years.”

  Sonia didn’t say anything.

  “When I did see her again, it was like she wasn’t my mother at all. I think, in a kind of way, my mother died that afternoon when I was nine.

  -You were lucky, Sonia.

  Your mom loved you. -That’s one thing I already found out. Your mom loved you more than anything.”

  Sonia said nothing until they got to the building steps, then she stopped, and held out her hand. “It was nice meeting you,” she said.

  “-I’m sorry I didn’t know any of that stuff you wanted to know.”

  “That’s O.K.,” Ellie said, shaking her hand. `-It was nice meeting you, Sonia.” She wanted to hug the girl, but Sonia didn’t seem to want anything like that. Ellie searched in her purse, found her wallet, and took out her card; then she found her pen and wrote her home phone number on the back. ‘-Here, it’s my home phone.” She handed the card to Sonia. “If you remember anything, or … or if you just want to talk to somebody, call me. I have an answering machine.”

  “O.K.,” Sonia said, “-bye-bye,” and turned and went up the building steps.

  Ellie closed her purse, stood and watched until Sonia went in through the entrance and was gone, then started back up the long walk to the turnaround. It was a big school. -Spread out, anyway. She thought the kids must get a lot of exercise, just getting around.

  She walked up to the turnaround, went to the Honda, and leaned on its roof to write “Factor” and “Belgium” in her notebook. If Soseby had really been in Belgiumthen that was likely that. Ellie supposed he didn’t even know Sally was dead. -Unless he’d had someone kill her.

  She unlocked the car, got in-it was warm inside, even though the day was cool-started it, backed out of her parking space (the brown-and-white van was gone), and drove around and down to the driveway, then past the faculty houses and out across the big lawn. The boys weren’t playing on it, now. Probably gone to lunch.

  As she pulled around the grove of trees at the end of the drive, Ellie saw a girl. -Sonia. She was standing beside the school sign at the side of the road, waiting.

  Ellie pulled up beside her.

  Sonia’s hair was tangled from running. Ellie thought her face was sweaty-then saw she was crying. Ellie turned the engine off, got out of the car, and went to the girl and hugged her.

  “I’m sorry,” Ellie said. “Oh, Sonia-it’s so terrible for you. I’m so sorry.”

  “Oh … oh, Mrs. Klein,” the girl said, and held on to Ellie hard.
>
  Ellie kissed her cheek, and tasted tears. “Poor, poor baby,” she said.

  “-There . . - there.”

  “Why did he hurt her so much?” The girl’s arms were locked around Ellie like chains. “-He could have just killed her. -He didn’t have to hurt her so much!”

  “Here,” Ellie said, reached down for her purse for Kleenex, then realized it was in the car. “Oh, my God … come on, now. There, there, sweetheart . . .”

  Sonia Gaither sagged against her, and wept the front of Ellie’s white blouse wet, her body convulsing as she cried.

  “Ah, darling,” Ellie said, and held the girl to her.

  “There, there . . .” Ellie thought that Sonia, a little younger, could have been her daughter. She held the girl, and rocked her in her arms.

  “Now, now … 11 she said. “Now, now . . .” And, after a while, Sonia wept less, and then not at all, but sniffled.

  “Come on,” Ellie said, “-that’s enough crying. Time to blow our noses.

  After tears—snot.” And Sonia almost laughed. Ellie patted the girl’s back and let her go. When Sonia let go, too, Ellie went back to the car, got her Kleenex, and both of them blew their noses. Then Sonia picked up two envelopes she’d dropped on the grass.

  “Here’s the letters my mother sent me. She just sent two of them, a couple of weeks ago. We used to talk on the phone, mostly.” She used a wadded Kleenex and blew her nose again. “-She called them Truth Letters.

  She said that was the most important thing of all. . . .”

  Sonia handed the envelopes to Ellie. “-They’re kind of dirty, I guess.

  People would think they’re dirty.”

  “I won’t,” Ellie said.

  “You promise nobody else will read them? -I haven’t even let Joanna read them.”

  “I won’t let anybody read them,” Ellie said, —except maybe my partner.

  He’s a very nice man, and he has a little girl of his own. I promise we won’t let anybody else read them, not unless we have to, to catch whoever killed your mom. -I promise you, Sonia.”

  “Well,” Sonia said, “-I guess that’s all right.”

  “Here . . .” Ellie gave her another Kleenex.

  “I ruined your blouse. . . .”

  “Oh, this thing’s polyester; it’ll dry.”

  “Well,” Sonia said, “-I’m sorry I was such a kid.”

  “I think your mom was worth a lot of tears,” Ellie said, “-and I didn’t even know her.”

  They hugged, and Ellie went back to the Honda, got in, and started the engine, while Sonia stood by the car, watching her.

  “I’ll come up and see you again, if that’s all right,” Ellie said.

  “O.K.” -and Sonia, my friend and I are going to find out who did that to your mother. We’re going to destroy the son-of-a-bitch.”

  “Good,” Sonia said, and blew her nose. “-Good.”

  CHAPTER 8

  “Mother of God, would you look at that line-up.

  Lieutenant Eastman-still and likely forever a lieutenant, still and likely forever the assistant to the Assistant DepUtY Commissioner for Community Affairs-was observing the civilian mourners at Woodlawn, gathered beneath a mild early autumn sun, but dressed in drab for deep winter. His new boss—a pleasant, but not particularly simpatico ex-reporter for The Washington Post-agreed.

  “The Dawn of the Dead,” he said.

  Old Mrs. Classman’s friends, veterans of the Ladies’ Garment Worker’s Union, were few and drearily aged in aspect, and they made a poor showing for the TV cameras-facing, across the two caskets (best bright bronze), ranks 5f uniformed young patrolmen-and, in a loose semicircle to the right of these ranks, standing beside Rabbi Solwitz, the brass.

  The Rabbi, a tall, handsome man with grizzled, curly hair-he’d grown up being told he looked like the late Jeff Chandler-was completing a soporific address on the indissoluble bonds linking mother and son, —4hat even death. - - .” This speech, or sermon, had reduced the press corps and other hangers-on to standing sleep, though the police officers present appeared genuinely affected, and some grimly veteran eyes were wet.

  “They are shooting nothing but those hags. . Lieutenant Eastman slid out of place in a sinuous effacing maneuver, drifted back … turned, trotted to the right, and arrived at the small aluminum platform from which ABC Local News was covering the affair.

  “For Christ’s sake,”-to an assistant cameraman standing near. “Get some shots of the Commissioner! Get the Mayor, for Christ’s sake!”

  “He’s getting’ everybody.”

  “Bullshit,” Lieutenant Eastman said, and reached up to tug 11 at the cameraman’s trouser leg. “Hey,” he said.

  “Hey!

  The cameraman glanced down.

  “Is your mother over there or something?” Lieutenant Eastman said.

  “You’ve been shooting over there for ten minutes! -The Commissioner’s here-if you haven’t noticed. The Mayor’s here!”

  “You got any complaints,” the cameraman said, and returned to his eyepiece, ‘-talk to the L.D.,” and gestured with his thumb at the location van parked fifty yards behind them.

  “I’m talking to you, motherfucker!” said Lieutenant Eastman, gay, but a policeman after all. “You turn that camera-you turn that fucking camera right now.”

  The cameraman held his position, and his view-but only for a few more seconds, for self-respect. Then he swung to the right, found and focused, and videod the Mayor, the Commissioner, the handsome Deputy Commissioner for Public Affairs (his lower lip still slightly swollen), and almost two dozen other persons of importance.

  “That’s better,” said Lieutenant Eastman. “This is a Departmental funeral. -You forget that, I’ll come back and remind you.”

  “Pretty fierce, Sammy.”

  The Lieutenant turned, and seized Ellie in a hug. “You sweetheart,” he said, ‘-have you been being good?”

  “I’ve been trying.”

  “You-are late.”

  “I know. I was out of town. I just got back.”

  “Sweetheart, have you ever heard of gray? -It is absolutely not necessary to wear banker blue to every formal event.”

  “It’s what I’ve got, Sammy. I’m not going out and buy a second funeral suit. -How are things going?”

  “Oh, it’s running along. Shomrin people set it up.-We can do these damn things in our sleep”-a glance up at the undoubtedly overhearing cameraman-“as long as we’get cooperation.”

  “How’s Fred?”

  “Ancient history. -Handsome wasn’t as handsome did.”

  “Maybe you need to try the ladies, Sammy.”

  Lieutenant Eastman almost said, “-That working for you . . . ?” but didn’t, for fear of hurting and frightening her. A friend of a friend was a friend of Clara Kersh’s in the Federal Task Force, and Eastman had been careful to see that that information went no further.

  He said, instead, “Oh, I have-but that’s just sex.”

  Ellie laughed, and tiptoed to kiss him on the cheek.

  Eastman had been very good to her the days after she’d been hurt in the fire. He’d stayed in her hospital room all one night, reading E. F.

  Benson to her, after-during an evening makeup session before an interview-she had begun to weep, and call for her ex-husband.

  “Where are ‘de boys’?” Ellie said, and flattened the end of her nose with her forefinger.

  “You’ll find them down there,” Eastman said, pointing to the far end of the uniformed police ranks. “—gehavini themselves, I hope.”

  Ellie, her medium heels sinking slightly into the grass and soft earth, walked along behind a line of blue-coated backs, hearing the Rabbi’s oice slow … deepen, under a thrumming mutter of traffic passing on the Parkway.

  “Together now-as they were in their very beginning.

  Together now, once and for all. Together now, in the arms of their God.

  - - . Amen.” A murmur of appreciation, almost app
lause. Rabbi Solwitz and the Department’s Catholic chaplain, Father Gruenwald, had a long-standing disagreement in the matter of religious rhetoric, the Priest preferring a manly, laconic style-suited, he felt, to a paramilitary organization, while the Rabbi favored, for that very circumstance, a romantic, even thrilling approach, to match the sacrifice and aspirations of soldiers in the Army of the Just.

  Sophisticates in the Department, and those in a hurry, preferred Father Gruenwald’s sermons-a considerable minority of romantics, this rabbinical music.

  The detectives and plainclothesmen, male and female her off duty-were gathered in bunches among the trees and tombstones, huddled in groups of a few to a hundred, representing squads, precincts, divisions, this or that side of town, but all-except for a few undercover oddities grown stuck to their tie-dyed Tshirts and leather goods, their Indian pajamas, their short shorts, sneakers, and snakeskin vests—wore Sunday suits, and, though they had been fairly silent during the Rabbi’s.number, now erupted in humming conversation concerning scandals, promotions, demotions, and Departmental politics.

  They did not, by and large, talk cases, since talking shop at funerals was considered no class.

  Ellie was greeted by some of these as she wandered through, glanced at by more, and identified as a cop at once, even by men and women who had not met her identifications that would have pleased her very much.

  She had gradually acquired-after years, and all unknowing-purposefulness in posture and directness in eye contact foreign to sidling civilians.

  She saw Keneally in a blue suit, talking to some Homicide people standing beside a thicket of tombstones. He saw her, and waved. -A few yards farther on, Samuelson’s massive head rose above a peninsula of people (past a white stone angel, mourning). Ellie cut through to there, and found the Squad up front in pride of place—the killed cop being one of theirs. Nardone, Serrano, and a sergeant named Seguin were still on their knees in the grass, completing prayers, slender strands of beads gripped in heavy hands. The other officers were quietly gossiping.

  Ellie could . just see one of the caskets past the end file in of uniformed people. She didn’t know if it was Classma or his mother in there. That gentle, quiet man … Dead meat. Pumped full of chemicals to keep it from rotting. -it was disgusting.