Accidentally Yours

by Bettye Griffin

  He wondered how Mr. Ellis’s son would react to news of his father’s demise. He couldn’t imagine living so far away and, by all accounts never visiting, but of course not every father and son had the loving relationship he shared with his dad.

  Zack’s parents now lived in the Bronx. He wished he was in the financial position to buy a home for them. While he knew they were proud of him and they lived in relative comfort—they had declined a reduced-rent apartment in the building he and Austin owned—he wished he could have done more for them. He found it amusing that so many people seemed impressed when he told them his profession, but the fact was that ER medicine simply didn’t pay at the same scale as other specialties, like cardiology or surgery. He was still paying off his student loans. Sometimes women seemed downright disappointed to learn he drove an ordinary Ford Taurus instead of a Benz or a Jaguar. It was probably hard for some to believe, but he had gone into medicine because he truly liked the idea of aiding the sick and the injured, not because he expected to become wealthy. It hurt his heart to witness an incident like the one he’d seen earlier, where economic fear of a plastic surgeon meant a real cutie-pie would be marked for life.

  It had been a stressful day, and now there was the matter of a vacant apartment. He knew it would rent quickly, but there would be a delay in getting Mr. Ellis’s belongings out. Something told Zack the man’s son wasn’t going to be much help. At least his rent was paid up through the end of the month, and ideally he’d like to have the apartment rented by the time the one-month security deposit expired at the end of the following month.

  After the unit was empty it had to be painted, the parquet floors waxed, and a general clean-up done. He hoped the damages weren’t significant; Mr. Ellis’s unkempt appearance wasn’t one of someone concerned with keeping an orderly apartment. He chuckled. With all this on his mind he might not even have a chance to think about the lovely Vivian St. James, who kept coming into his life courtesy of the jokers she was dating. In his opinion, they were either clumsy or just plain unlucky. The funny thing that whenever he finally stopped thinking about her after one of their encounters she’d show up again, looking even better than he remembered. She’d seemed so caring about little Kelly Mosely, and, at that moment he knew he was going to have to put himself in the running for Vivian’s affections. He didn’t have the slightest idea of where to find her, and to rely on the pattern of her male acquaintances suffering mishaps or becoming ill was foolhardy, but he was sure he would run into her again before too long. When it came to black, single professionals, the New York metropolitan area really wasn’t all that big. He saw at least a few familiar faces at just about every event he attended, and with Vivian attending NBP events, the odds were even higher.

  He was practically whistling when he sought out Bernard’s parents and Vivian with an update. He didn’t see the senior Williamses, but Vivian’s friend Glenda had arrived. There was a man with them as well. He looked familiar….

  “Hi. Are Bernard’s parents still here?” he asked Vivian when he got closer to them.

  “They left. I told them I would call with Bernard’s room number once he’s admitted.”

  “I see. Hello, Glenda.”

  “Hiya, Doc. Oh, this is Terry Terrell. Terry, Dr. Zack Warner.”

  The men shook hands, and Zack realized Glenda’s companion was the dude who had been with Bernard at the Valentine’s dance. Apparently the two friends had become a pleasant foursome. That certainly was cozy, just like the Kramdens and the Nortons.

  “We’re going to be admitting Bernard to the ICU, but probably just until his results are back. There can be dozens of reasons for syncope.”

  “What’s syncope?” Glenda asked. “It sounds like a musical beat.”

  Zack smiled. “It’s when a person blacks out.”

  Vivian couldn’t remember the last time she had been so happy to see the building where she lived. For reasons she had never understood, on-street parking had always been relatively simple here, unlike other Westchester locations. Most of the buildings on her street were small apartment houses; others were duplexes, with a few private homes, most of which had no garages or driveways.

  The two young brothers from upstairs, Miles and Mason, were playing outside and ran to her as she approached. She could see excitement in their faces. What was going on?

  “Oh, Miss Vivian! Did you hear?”

  “Did I hear what?”

  Miles spoke first…or maybe it was Mason, the younger of the two by less than a year. They were practically the same size, and Vivian usually found it difficult to differentiate between the two. “They found Mr. Ellis dead in his apartment this afternoon.”

  “Dead! How did it happen, does anyone know?”

  “It was real exciting!” Mason said. “The cops were here, and the people who take away dead bodies.”

  “It’s called the coroner, silly.” Eleven-year-old Miles had obviously been listening to adults in the neighborhood talk.

  “Yes, that’s right,” Vivian agreed. “But does anyone know how he died?”

  “They don’t think anybody killed him or anything,” Miles said. “They think he just sat down and died.”

  “He was real old,” Mason added. “And my mother said he never took a bath.”

  “Yes, well, sometimes things like that happen to people who are very old. Thank you, boys, for telling me. I’ve been gone all day. I think I’ll stop in at Santos’s and see what he knows.” Santos—she didn’t know his first name and doubted anyone else did either other than his wife and daughter—was the building’s resident superintendent.

  Once inside the building, she hesitated. Mr. and Mrs. Paul Hughes, Austin’s parents, lived on the ground floor, next door to the Santos family. She wondered if she should ask Mrs. Hughes, who usually knew everything that went on in the building, but she decided that the super would be the most knowledgeable of anyone. Mr. Ellis lived directly upstairs from her, and she was less than enthused about there having been a dead body so close. She wondered how long he had been dead before anyone discovered him, since he lived alone and never seemed to have any visitors.

  She knocked on the door, using the metal knocker. It was answered almost immediately by the Santos’s pretty teenage daughter, whom Vivian noted with a twinge of envy was about a size five. The girl had a cordless phone to her ear, which she lowered to her side.

  “Hi! I just got home and heard about what happened. Is your dad here?”

  “Yes, just a minute, please.” The girl turned and called out, “Daddy! There’s somebody here to see you.”

  The girl resumed her conversation and stood there until her father appeared, then promptly disappeared.

  Santos was a small, wiry man of about fifty with olive skin and curly gray hair. He nodded knowingly upon seeing her. “I knocked on your door this afternoon. I guess you weren’t home. I wanted to let you know about Mr. Ellis. Mrs. Harris complained of a bad odor coming from his apartment.”

  Vivian’s upper lip curled in distaste. Apparently Mr. Ellis had been dead for days. Why did people use words like “bad,” “unpleasant,” or “foul-smelling” to describe an odor, she wondered. The very word itself suggested something offensive to the nostrils. Seriously, whoever heard of a ‘good’ odor?

  “I’ve got it airing out up there. It’s not bad, believe me. Lucky for us, Mrs. Harris has a sensitive nose…or else the situation could have gotten really ugly.”

  “Is there anything else I need to be aware of? The Harris boys told me outside that they think he died of natural causes.”

  “Yeah. That kind of thing happens all the time. I meant to check on him. I realized after the fact that I hadn’t seen him probably since Wednesday or Thursday. I’ve been real busy lately, painting the basement. One more day and the mailman probably would have mentioned it. That’s what happens most of the time when I’m too busy to notice; the mailman tells me. You don’t gotta do nothin’. His son is supposed to be comin’ in on Tues
day. You just go on up and don’t worry about nothin’. In another month or two you’ll have a nice new neighbor.”

  Chapter 7

  A Real Mother For Ya

  “Hi, Mom. Listen, you know I would never blow you off, but can I call you back? I was just on my way out the door.”

  “Where are you rushing off to on a Monday night?”

  “Well, I need to get to the hospital to visit a friend, and they only allow a few minutes in the ICU.”

  “Good heavens, who’s in the ICU?”

  Vivian glanced at her watch. Her mother was incredible. How had she even known she was home? She had ducked out of work a half-hour early so she could get down to Washington Heights and back home again before it got too late, and it looked like all her efforts were going to be for naught. Only her mother could proceed to carry on a conversation after being told the person she’d called didn’t have time to talk. Vivian loved her mother dearly, but she was already regretting having answered the phone.

  “His name is Bernard. You don’t know him,” she answered, hoping that would be it, but doubting it would be.

  “Is he the one you’ve been seeing the past few weeks?”

  For a split second Vivian considered fibbing—no, make that telling an outright lie—and saying he wasn’t. Surely her mother wouldn’t feel the matter worth pursuing if this was a one-time Joe. But then she realized that wouldn’t work. What if things became serious between her and Bernard? She would eventually have to bring him to Connecticut to meet her family, and her mother had a memory encased in cast iron.

  “Yes, we’ve been getting together on the weekends,” she replied as casually as she could.

  “Do you go to nice places?”

  Vivian was well acquainted with the special meanings behind her mother’s words. What Caroline St James was really asking was, Does he spend money on you, or is he tight?

  “Yes, Mom.”

  “Where is he from?” Is his family well-off?

  “Pelham. That’s a town between Mount Vernon and New Rochelle.”

  “Where does he live?” Is he well-off?

  “Riverdale.”

  “Oh, yes, that area where it’s supposed to be all leafy and green and can make you forget it’s part of the Bronx. What does he do?” How much does he make?

  “He’s a stockbroker.” Vivian could feel the good vibes travel through the wires. Her ears actually tingled from her mother’s approval.

  “And what’s his full name?” Is he a Muslim named Muhammad Something or other, or a radical who’s adopted some crazy-sounding African name but was born Smith?

  “Bernard Williams. I don’t know his middle name.”

  “Very ordinary, isn’t it? There must be millions of people named Williams.”

  “Mom, you were a Johnson before you married Daddy, remember? Trust me, there are more Johnsons than Williamses.” Vivian blew out an annoyed breath. “Listen, I really have to go. I’ll call you the minute I get back.” Without waiting for a reply she hung up. She was gone before her mother could press the redial button.

  *****

  Zack saw a car pulling out of a space as he approached the building. He pulled up alongside the car in front of the space and backed into it with ease.

  A look at the open blinds and neat, light colored curtains in the window on the front right reminded him he would have to stop in and say hello to Austin’s parents before he left. He and Austin had been buddies since second grade. His own parents regarded Austin as a third son, after his younger brother; and the Hugheses treated him like one of their family. He knew they missed Austin terribly since his move to Colorado, even though they were thrilled about his engagement to Desireé Mack. He felt pretty good about their impending marriage himself. Desireé had made Ozzie happier than he’d ever seen him.

  He let himself in the locked entry just beyond the foyer with his pass key. As he climbed the stairs he sniffed, almost expecting his nose to register something unpleasant, but it didn’t happen. Maybe Santos had really gotten it aired out after all.

  He had gotten a key to Mr. Ellis’s apartment from the management office. Laurie, who handled matters pertaining to their property, informed him that Mr. Ellis’s son was driving in from Ohio and would be arriving sometime the following day, and he had promised to contact her with a date when he would have his father’s apartment emptied, adding that he didn’t expect it to take very long.

  The apartment was sparsely furnished, with just two contemporary style—by Fifties standards—chairs flanking an end table in the living room and an old table and chairs in the dining area. The floors were bare. All the apartments had attractive parquet floors, but some tenants opted to put area rugs in strategic locations, which served the dual purpose of preventing them from stepping on cold floors in the wintertime and reducing the amount of work required to maintain the parquet. Mr. Ellis’ floors were dull and had numerous long, black marks, the kind that come from dragging furniture from one spot to another. The only window coverings were shades that had once been white but were now yellowed. The webbing in the upper corners of the windows suggested they hadn’t been dusted in ages.

  The bedroom was no better. The sheets had turned a dingy brown from lack of washing. At least there wasn’t much furniture to dispose of, and most of it would have to be literally disposed of. The heavy old-fashioned bedroom suite could probably be salvaged, but no one would want the filthy upholstered chairs and cheap wood tables in the living room that bore multiple rings from drinking glasses. Maybe someone could use the kitchen table, but the two vinyl upholstered chairs, which Zack was sure were older than he was, had multiple rips in them. A thorough cleaning and a paint job and the apartment would be ready for a new tenant. It wasn’t too bad at all.

  He went down to Santos’s apartment and knocked on the door. It was answered by Santos’s wife, who had an obviously worried look on her face.

  “Teresita, what’s wrong?”

  “It’s Fernando. He’s not feeling good. I think he’s getting worse. I asked him all day if he wanted to see the doctor.”

  “Well, I’m a doctor. I’ll be happy to look at him, if you’d like.”

  “Yes, please. Come in.” Teresita stepped back, and he followed her inside.

  Santos, clad in a crew neck T-shirt and jeans, lay on the couch in the living room, the coffee table in front of him littered with comfort items: a carelessly folded newspaper, an empty plate and drinking glass, ashtray, cigarette pack and lighter. Teresita quickly removed the dirty dishes and disappeared into the kitchen.

  “I understand you’re feeling under the weather,” Zack said. “Where does it hurt?”

  “My belly. I ain’t never had pain like this before. It’s been bothering me all day, and now it’s getting worse.”

  “Point to exactly where it hurts, will you?”

  Santos pointed to the right lower quadrant of his abdomen.

  “I’ll bet it’s a sharp pain that never lets up.”

  “How did you know?”

  Zack called for Teresita, who rushed in, wiping her hands on a dishtowel. “What is it?”

  “I want you to bring him to the emergency room right away.” He turned to Santos and asked, “Have you ever had your appendix removed?”

  “No.”

  “Well, I think you might have to have it taken out now.”

  “It’s just a bellyache. I don’t wanna go under no knife,” Santos protested.

  “It’s either that or let it burst, which will kill you.” Santos’s face lost color, and Zack almost regretted being so blunt, but he knew that sometimes it took shock value to get people to understand the seriousness of the situation, especially when the person didn’t like hospitals or doctors. “Of course, I can’t tell from simply asking you a few questions whether you actually have appendicitis, but I do believe it’s worth looking into.”

  “Thank you, Zack,” Teresita said. “We’ll leave right after I get Fernando a shirt.”


  “I’ll check with you tomorrow. I’ll let myself out”

  Vivian felt like she’d just been on a five-mile hike. Dealing with Bernard’s mother was exhausting. The Williamses were already at the hospital when she arrived. Mr. Williams was charming, but his wife seemed surprised to see her.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here, uh….”

  “Vivian.”

  “Yes, that’s right. I just can’t keep up with all Bernard’s girls.”

  Vivian doubted Bernard’s mother knew how much—or how little—her son dated, and she cheerfully let that remark pass. Mrs. Williams was like those annoying commercials featuring Cleo, the so-called psychic with the questionable Caribbean accent, that played every five minutes on local syndicates and cable networks. The woman simply was not going to miss an opportunity to make her feel ill at ease any more than Cleo would miss a chance to invite viewers to “Call me now for your free readin’.”

  The doors to the intensive care unit were being opened. “Why don’t you two go in first. I’m sure they only allow two visitors at a time.”

  “Actually, you’re supposed to be a family member in order to visit,” Mrs. Williams pointed out.

  Vivian looked her in the eye unflinchingly. “I lied.”

  It was nearly seven twenty-five when the Williamses emerged, Mr. Williams holding his wife’s upper arm like he was trying to get her to move a little faster. Vivian had a feeling he had wanted to leave a little sooner to allow her to spend a few minutes with Bernard, but that Mrs. Williams postponed departure until the last minute.

  “Your mother doesn’t like me,” she said to Bernard after ascertaining that he was feeling better and that hospital personnel anticipated transferring him to the medical floor.

  “I hope she’s not giving you too hard a time. I don’t understand her. One minute she’s saying how much she wants grandchildren and the next she says I’ve still got plenty of time to settle down.”