by Jo Barney
The walks I wanted to make with Kathleen I now make with Brody. For two mornings so far, we have made our ways to the dog park about a mile way, I with a pocket full of poo bags and an orange ball we found abandoned in a gutter. Even in the rain, the exercise feels good, and I have written dog raincoat on my shopping list as well as treats, whatever they are, which a fellow dog owner has told me are helpful training aids. He is probably referring to Brody’s exuberant greeting, two paws pressed into his crotch, which embarrasses me but makes the man chuckle. And I’m relieved to find out that Brody only snores a little at night, and he stops when I call out his name.
When Latisha phones on Friday, I try to come up with a reason not to meet her. My days have been going quite well. I’m getting some reading done, am spending too much time talking to the dog, but he’s a good listener with no problems of his own to lay on my unwilling shoulders. I also suspect that the girl needs money, now that Art is not around. But the mystery of Art’s connection to an eighteen-year-old black girl is too compelling to ignore. I will take another crack at coming up with some answers.
“Cuppa’s, this afternoon?” I finally agree.
I almost don’t recognize her as I look around the coffee shop. Latisha has become a sleek, young woman since that late-night visit. Her shining hair is shoulder-length, very straight, held back by a small barrette on one side and by an ear, dangling a gold trinket, on the other.
“Like it?” Latisha grins. “It’s my going-away present from Helen. I guess she was getting tired of me swishing my curls around while I ate my cereal in the morning.”
Now that it’s not overwhelmed by hair, her face emerges. Her eyes, soft brown, fringed in black, shine with good spirits. Latisha unzips her fleece coat. I have had the impression that she is heavyset, but as the jacket comes off, a slim, athletic body shows itself. I’m sitting across from a tall, budding beauty.
“Yes, I do like it. A lot.” Then I can’t help asking, though it’s none of my business. “How did you get your hair to go that way?”
“Madame Lucy’s wig shop.” Again Latisha grins. “Me and Oprah, you know?”
No, I don’t know. I suppose it’s like wearing a new hat or maybe terrific shoes, and you feel like a changed woman. Maybe you are a changed woman. I’ve tried it, haven’t I, to be changed? Going blond, new haircut. But a lot of other things have changed, too. Maybe it isn’t just the hair—in either of our cases.
“How is everything going, Latisha? With school and work?” Without Art, I want to add but don’t.
“Let’s get some coffee, and then I’ll tell you my good news.” When we sit back down at our table, Latisha hasn’t yet raised her cup when she says, “Guess what.” Without waiting for a guess, she goes on, “I inherited some money. From a stranger who I never met. At least that’s what the letter from the attorney says. College without having to work so much.”
“The same person Art told you about, the friend who helped out with room and board at Helen’s and tuition money for college?”
“I don’t know. The attorney said she couldn’t tell me who this person is, but that I’ll get a check soon for first and last month rent and after that, a check to help with expenses every month. He knew my mother, my birth mother, a long time ago. I’m saying he but I don’t really know if it is a man.” Latisha catches her breath. “Can you imagine?”
Yes, I can. I eye the girl over the edge of my cup as I try not to choke the hot liquid draining into my throat. Art. Why? And How? Then I see it: the familiar cheekbones, the broad forehead, the small ears, the long body. Latisha looks like a young, brown, female Art. Is Art’s child. That’s why. Their meetings. The envelopes filled with bills. Somehow he’d gotten the money, managed to pass it on to a child he could never own up to. I should feel relieved, I suppose, to discover this truth, lover was a bit of a stretch I realized the moment I came up with that idea, but for some reason I’m filled with sadness. I manage to put my cup down.
“Have you thought that this person might have been my husband?”
Latisha doesn’t answer right away. Her face is still, her eyes focus on her drink. “Yes, I thought maybe…” She raises her head, meets my eyes. “But I called, asked the lawyer. She said she couldn’t identify who this person is.
“Why not?”
“She couldn’t tell me anything more, she said. She’d probably said too much as it was. She told me to stop guessing and enjoy my good fortune.” Her face brightens. “So I’m going to. I’m meeting my new roommate today, and we’ll be fixing up a little apartment near school.”
“Do you remember the attorney’s name?”
“I think something like Jessica Stewart. She sounds nice over the phone. Said she specialized in estates and stuff like that.”
“Your foster mom is okay with all this?”
“It’s a relief for them. They need the income from having foster kids, and my official stipend stopped coming in on my eighteenth birthday. I’ll still see them. And you, I hope. And Brody, of course.”
I’m having trouble swallowing again, especially the assumption that the two of us will be friends, including my dog, even as Art’s money is paying for Latisha’s new life, despite what the lawyer claimed. A fund of some sort is handing out monthly allowances, maybe from our joint bank account, like paying the newspaper bill or my Visa charges. I probably would never have noticed. I’ve never been good about money, one of the reasons Art always managed ours. Art once again is in control of my purse.
I push back my chair. “I’m glad for you,” I force myself to say. “Have fun fixing up your new home.” Then I add, “I’ll call you soon.”
In four steps I am out of the door and out of that girl’s life.
Especially after I call Herbert Smith, Art’s attorney, and he denies knowing anything about Latisha, a monthly check, Jessica Stewart, or any sort of money arrangements except for the pension which he is assuming I am now receiving. He sounds annoyed, as if perhaps he should have known. I feel the same way. I choose to believe him.
Chapter Twenty
The next morning Brody’s tongue wakes me up from a strange dream that involves water running down the walls of what was once a lovely old home, mine perhaps, and I am crying and mopping up waterfalls cascading over a mantle and into the fireplace. I am glad Brody has saved me from whatever will happen next, even though the dream leaves me uneasy. “What was that all about, dog?” I ask as Brody makes his have-to-go pant at me. “A white wine funk, friend. Be glad you don’t drink chardonnay.”
I’ve just let him out when the phone rings and for a minute, still befogged by flowing water and remnants of last evening’s anxiety, I don’t want to answer it. I get to the phone by the fourth ring, and a voice I recognize greets me.
“Sergeant Durrell?”
“Yes.” Once again the man seems to be eating while he is talking to me. I wait for him to swallow. “We just got a call from California Mutual. They are about to close the file on Art Finlay, but they have a question about the coroner’s report.”
So do I, I almost say, but I want to hear what the policeman has on his mind.
“What’s the problem?”
“The coroner has ruled that the alcohol, Valium, barbiturate combination was not potent enough to cause death, and the insurance company is willing to accept that decision, but they are still questioning the atenolol prescription. The fact that it was never picked up at the pharmacy.”
“How do they even know about it?”
Sergeant Durrell chews. “I may have mentioned it in my report––the empty container in the bag of vials you gave us that day. The coroner is questioning why the drug did not show up in the blood draw.”
“Why?”
“From what I am told, stopping that drug abruptly can bring on a severe heart attack.” I hear him swallow again, not going on with that thought. “Sorry.”
“What does this mean?”
“The insurance company seems to be wondering i
f Mr. Finlay knowingly stopped taking the drug since suicide affects their pay out.” Sergeant Durrell breathes into his phone. “It’s kind of out of our hands, now. The coroner is not deciding on this one. You or the beneficiaries should be hearing from the insurance guy soon.”
“Have you called to warn me…or out of duty?”
“Nah, it’s my lunch hour. I just wanted you to know what’s up. Good luck, Mrs. Finlay.”
So maybe Art did choose pills to die, only too few, not too many. But what insurance policy is the policeman talking about? Sergeant Durrell has derailed my train of guilt thoughts, has sent me out on a familiar track of question marks. The first question follows last night’s middle-of -the-night sleepless whirl of doubts: Eighteen years ago. What I remember about eighteen years ago is a stressful wedding that I had shamed Art into helping pay for. After that event, he sank even further into his doldrums, coming home, wading through his regular drink, the newspaper, and whatever television show he wanted to see each evening. The RV dream, the trip to all the national parks, drowned in dark mutterings about going broke on his government salary. He’d squint at me over the pile of bills, his eyes accusing me of killing an Airstream. He’d become a dreamless man; I can’t imagine him opening up, caring for any another person. Unless she had six wheels, a pullout bed, and could take him far away from me. Perhaps he had found such a person, without the wheels, but with the power to take him away from his real life. I can’t imagine what she might have seen in him. Eighteen years ago. Maybe. Maybe a remnant of the same sort of sexiness I once fell for in that backseat. The Daughter theory has become credible, and the similar cheekbones, the years of silence, resentment seem to add up. Lover, as complicated as that theory is, still lurks in the shadow as a possibility.
I take out Art’s still-cluttered files. I’ve already received a settlement from Atlas, a company we insured with early on, on both of our lives, a term policy payable on death or, while we were still alive, at a smaller amount. Art refused to even consider using that money when we toyed with the dream of a beach cabin. California Mutual? I page through a handful of files looking for that logo, and have just about given up when I find it. A crisp folder, marked CM with a date, a date only four months ago.
Who can understand these things? I pour a glass of wine, early in the day but necessary, sit down, the file in my lap, and try. If I’m reading it correctly, Art took out an insurance policy for $400,000 on his own life last fall. Beneficiaries, plural, are Brian Finlay and Latisha Spencer. A handwritten note at the back of the folder says, “This is for all that you’ve done for me.”
Latisha, for God’s sake? Brian, his son, of course, but really, what had Brian ever done for his father except stay out of his way?
Brody has come to like the taste of my ankles, and I kick him away as I contemplate my dead husband. And the fact that one of the business cards in the manila folder is that of an insurance agent. Stephen Crandall.
A very insurance-y name. And an address and a telephone number. If the sergeant is correct, Stephen Crandall may be searching his files for a lost wife at this very moment. I go to the closet, take out my jacket. I’ll beat him to the draw, ask him questions first. Like, just how did Art explain his need for this new policy, if he ever did?
The office is hunkered inside a mall on the second floor. Through the glass door, I can see a young woman-girl, behind the desk, talking on the phone. When I go in, she, Julie Abramovich, the plaque in front of her reads, raises her eyebrows in a hello and points at the phone, signaling with a swirling index finger pointed at an ear, a long, boring conversation. I choose one of the two black leather chairs and listen to the ums and ahhs sliding at me until the receptionist finally says, “I’ll be sure to tell him, Mrs.…” Julie looks down at a note in front of her, “Gadsby. I’ve written everything down, and he’ll get back to you. Thanks for calling.” She hangs up and rubs her ear. “Third time she’s called this morning.” Then she turns up the corners of her red lips and asks what she can do for me.
I will not explain a thing to Julie, who is obviously suffering from communication exhaustion. “I want to talk to Mr. Crandall about the policy my husband, Art Finlay, bought a few months ago. If he’s busy, I’ll wait.”
Something I say has perked up the girl. She pushes a button, says, “Mr. Crandall, Mrs. Finlay is here to see you.” For some reason she winks at me. “If you have a moment.” When Mr. Crandall says yes, of course, Julie takes her finger off the intercom and explains, “We’ve been trying to get ahold of you. The phone number we have doesn’t seem to exist.” She waves a hand at a door in back of her. “Go right in.”
I’m sure my phone exists. Didn’t I just talk on it this morning? “What number?”
The girl flips through a couple of notes on her desk. “I have 289-4321. Not yours, I’m guessing.”
“Probably no one’s,” I answer as I enter the room. Stephen Crandall, a thirtyish, young man with a sculptured beard and silk tie, is standing behind his desk, holding out his hand to me. I give it a twitch and pull the guest chair closer, so that I can put my purse on the desktop, a habit I am working on after leaving purses on the back of chairs once too often. “I know you want to talk to me,” I say, hoping my voice is businesslike, whatever that is, “but first I need to get some information from you. I did not know until this morning that my husband bought a large insurance policy from you three months ago. I want to know the circumstances, how he explained his purchase to you, and how he paid for this policy. As you may know, he is dead.”
Mr. Crandall settles back in his chair, adjusts something crotch-wise, and scowls at me. “Since your husband did not tell you about the policy, some of what you are asking me is privileged information, Mrs. Finlay. I am uncomfortable answering several of your questions, about our private conversa—”
“Uncomfortable!” Am I yelling? I take a breath, lower my voice. “Well, just get uncomfortable then. I am so uncomfortable I am planning on going to my lawyer, Seth Benjamin, and asking him to get a court order to force you to talk about your connection with my husband. I am, or was, his wife, forty-some years of being privy to all of his doings, and you are telling me you have a right to keep secrets from me now that he’s dead?” I hope he won’t look up Seth in the yellow pages, and yes, I did lie a little about being privy, but I can’t stand the frown floating above those earnest, wide, insurance-man eyes.
He hesitates, rubs his ear. “Okay. But if I do tell you what you want to know, you will have to answer my questions.”
Since I’m sure that I don’t know much about Art, I agree.
A few hours later, I call and invite Lynne in for a glass of wine and a summary of my conversation with Stephen Crandall, a man who might be in trouble. She arrives carrying more wine and a sack of food. Brody is delighted to sample a new set of ankles. “Probably my new…lotion,” Lynne says, giving the dog a couple of nudges with her foot. “A dog with discriminating taste. Wednesday/Saturday man likes it too.”
We’re steaming the half dozen tamales she picked up at Miguel’s Mexican on her way to my house, and I wonder how one eats them. Certainly not the husks, I decide. Lynne will lead the way with the food; I’ll do the same with my own contribution to the meal.
I pull my story into an understandable rant. I tell her how Art appeared at Stephen Crandall’s office door a day after tucking the insurance man’s card in his pocket. They had met at a restaurant. They both had younger women at their sides, and when Art’s woman left, a black woman with big curly hair, he mentioned that he might need an insurance policy. The business talk sent Stephen’s girl out the door also. The men agreed to meet the next day.
Art told him that he needed to take care of several people who were not on his term policy. He didn’t want his wife to know, although she’d find out when the time came. He produced a medical report, dated a few days before, that stated he was in good health except the usual cholesterol problems of older men, for which he took medication. The
report satisfied Stephen, and he didn’t ask for a physical. They signed the policy, and Art made the first payment with a check. Next payments would be taken automatically out of his bank account monthly.
Lynne lifts her eyebrows and the lid to the steamer at the same time. “No physical?”
I go on with my story. “The agent hesitated, this time not looking at me as he explained that he had not called the doctor who had signed the report. Oversight. Probably because a policy that large doesn’t walk in the door every day.”
Lynne reaches for the wine bottle. “So he missed something important?”
“Yep. Like the beta blocker his doctor had put Art on months before. The doctor’s report was an old one. Its date, according to Mr. Crandall, must have been changed because when he checked with Dr. Blakely after Art’s autopsy report came in, atenolol was on the list of prescriptions.”
“Atenolol? For blood pressure? So Mr. Crandall is feeling a little guilty—or maybe his company is requiring an explanation? Like maybe the meds might be involved in Art’s death? Before it hands over $400,000? And he’s asking you to help get him off the hook?”
“He was vague. He answered my questions about Art’s reasons for getting a new policy by saying that Art told him he’d met someone he loved, and he needed to take care of her.”
“The girl with big, black hair?”
“Seems so. Latisha. Art included Brian in the policy so we wouldn’t protest, passive-aggressive to the end.” A twinge of pain passes through my throat as I say this. It’s hard to forgive when you’re not sure what you are forgiving.
I sip my wine and decide to tell the rest, how when I had asked about Art’s state of mind during all this, Mr. Crandall had twitched.
“Something else I missed,” he said. “Art seemed quiet, depressed maybe, anxious to get it taken care of. Like…”
