by Rita Lakin
She reached out to Emily for a moment, and then dropped her arms.
Emily’s eyes widen. “Wait a minute, she did say something. But I could hardly hear her, her voice was so low.”
Jack is drawn in, intrigued. “What did she say?”
Emily shakes her head, agitated. “I don’t remember. Please, how can I?”
“Try. You’ve been so helpful already, making me see the scene clearly through your eyes. But Emily, I think when something so traumatic happens to a person, all the senses are sharpened at those moments. Stop a moment and put yourself back in that time when she ran past you. Concentrate. Think of what you were feeling. What was going on around you? Try to remember anything.”
She closes her eyes, unaware of a couple walking by. Jack holds his breath.
“My mother was shouting for a doctor. Patty was crying. I could feel my own tears and my nose dripping as I sobbed, too. I was aware of windows opening and lights going on Somebody’s dog started barking. Wait.”
With her eyes shut, Emily concentrates hard. Patty was speaking to her, but she couldn’t hear her for the blood rushing to her head. Emily said to her, “My father is dead... leave me alone ” Patty’s lips moved. Emily tried to listen. What was she saying? What? “My fault. ”
Emily’s eyes spring open. “ ‘My fault.’ That’s what she said to me. ‘My fault.’ ”
“Yes,” Jack says triumphantly.
“Why?” Emily asks in anguish. “Why did you make me go through this again?”
Jack holds her hands in his. “Emily, I want to tell you something. The reason I’ve come up here is to find your father’s killer.”
It takes a moment for what he is saying to register. “But... but that’s impossible. It’s so long ago...”
“I feel I have to try. For your mother’s sake. Maybe for yours.”
Gladdy’s daughter throws herself into Jack’s arms, her body shaking with sobs, and he holds her close.
JACK REPORTS TO MORRIE
“My fault?’ That’s all Patty Dennison said?” Morrie repeats what his father has just told him. “Funny how none of the police picked up on the fact she’d run downstairs after her mother and was actually at the crime scene.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised if Gladdy kept that information from them in order to protect her from being badgered. Or in the depth of their grief, she actually didn’t think about it. And nobody asked.”
Once again, Jack is in his hotel room, sitting in the one bilious green uncomfortable chair. He can picture Morrie cooking himself some dinner and listening with the phone tucked between his ear and shoulder as he moves about his kitchen.
“So, Wolfgang Puck, what am I missing tonight?” Jack asks.
“Nothing too fancy. Just some brook trout in lemon and clarified butter. With a soup of parsley and dill. Asparagus spears au gratin along with it.”
Jack moans. “Don’t rub it in. I ate a horrible hamburger in this dump’s so-called coffee shop. I’m having Tums for dessert.”
“Too lazy to find a healthier place? Dad, just because you live alone, you don’t have to eat poorly.”
Jack laughs. “Again with the lecture? I’m miles away from you and still you nag. Besides, I can’t eat at Lisa’s every night.”
“I’m putting my brook trout in the oven. Eat your heart out. So how are you interpreting what Patty Dennison said?”
“First the obvious.” Jack pulls his socks off and wiggles his toes. “She felt it was her fault Jack Gold was dead. He heard her cry out and ran to help her. If she hadn’t done that, he’d still be alive.”
“Or not. And if he hadn’t, she might be dead.”
“Perhaps it was a robbery—if she’d given the perp her purse, he would have run off.”
“Or it might have been worse. It might have been an attempted rape. Or some psychopath. And he did have the gun. Maybe he intended to kill her. Too bad she wasn’t able to talk about it afterward.”
The room is stifling. Jack walks over to the air-conditioning unit and presses the start button. He waits. Nothing happens. Why isn’t he surprised? “What keeps going through my mind is the shooting itself. Did he kill Gold because he was startled when Gold ran into the alley and he just reacted by pulling the trigger? Why not just run away? Why didn’t he shoot Patty, too? He had to assume she might be able to recognize him in a lineup.”
“Panic? Because Jack showed up? No time?”
“Could be. But a different idea runs around in my head. What if ‘my fault’ meant something entirely different? Her never being able to make a statement was a little too pat. What if she knew the guy?”
“There’s a thought. Odd. The file doesn’t mention any follow-ups on her later. Too many cases, too little time?”
“Well, this retired cop has plenty of time, and I think I’d like to interview Patty Dennison, wherever she is now.” Jack heard a ping. “What’s that?”
“My asparagus is ready for its au gratin sauce. Enjoy your Tums, Dad.”
“You owe me the identical dinner when I get home just because you took such pleasure in tormenting me.”
“Maybe I will and maybe I won’t.” He laughs. “I wonder if after all these years Patty’s memory has returned. Assuming she’s still alive somewhere.”
“Then why didn’t she come forward?”
“That is the question, isn’t it?”
After a few more trivialities, they hang up. Jack pauses, still holding his cell phone, debating whether to call Gladdy.
THE LIBRARY
Ida is with me at the library, which is unusual. None of the girls ever want to go. They always leave it up to me to return their finished books and pick up new ones. I think Ida feels sorry for me; what with Evvie not wanting to do much of anything these days, Ida’s trying to keep me company. This morning one of the neighbors asked Evvie when they’d see her next movie review. For that matter, our weekly newsletter, which Evvie puts out for all to read, has also stopped. She shrugged and said she was busy right now. What am I going to do with her?
We divide the book-picking job. With five lists in hand, one for each of us, naming all the books we’ve already read over the years—a huge list it is—we travel down the aisles. Before we started these lists, we ended up taking out the same books over and over, thanks to our failing senior memories. But we do read a lot and it is impossible to remember all the titles. Or authors. Sophie’s comment is apt when she says that our memories are so bad, we don’t remember a word about the books we’ve read. We might as well read the same books and enjoy them all over again.
Ida is tackling best-sellers for herself, and for Bella, romance novels in large print. I’m checking family-type sagas for Sophie and mysteries for me. Evvie, still in her funk, didn’t want any new books, but I’m going to pick out a good one for her anyway. Something’s got to bring her back to normal one of these days.
Ida and I pass one another. Her book bag is already full. “Goody, goody,” she says, “I’ve got the latest Jodi Picoult. I’ve read them all; I love her stuff.”
I smile. I’m pretty happy, too. “I’ve just grabbed the newest Charles Todd.” His mystery series about England during the First World War makes for great reading.
My librarian friend, Conchetta, greets us when she gets a break. I always love the way she dresses. She wears wonderful Cuban fabrics and styles. Even though she’s thirty-eight and chubby, her outfits make her look happy and friendly. Which she is. “Hello, happy campers. Good to see you again. Recovered from the wealthy life?”
Ida sniffs. “Too rich for my blood.”
“Quite a big deal. It made all the papers.”
“I’m just glad the police kept our names out of it. It’s bad enough everybody at our condo knows we were involved. They’re driving us crazy.”
Conchetta wants to know, “Is Evvie okay?” “Not yet,” I inform her.
Ida says, “I’m glad our new case is a small one and won’t involve murder.”
> I agree. “Come to think of it, ’Chetta, maybe you can help. We need to look someone up on the computer, if they’re even on it.”
Conchetta pretends to be miffed. “Why don’t you go back to those Gossip girls? They have all the sleek, lightweight, up-to-date equipment.” Naturally I have told Conchetta about the minimalist all-white office in the middle of a strip mall and the unusual cousins, Barbi and Casey, who run it.
“Nah, we’re talking small potatoes. I wouldn’t bother them for this.”
“Well,” she says, “at least I’m good for something, even if it’s low tech.”
We smile at one another. She’s such a good friend.
As she sits at the console, running the name of Linda Silverstone, she says, “When are you going to get your own computer? You can do all your own Internet searches at home.”
“No, thanks.”
Ida adds, “Besides, our apartments are so small, we have no room.”
“And further besides,” I add, “I’m too old to learn new tricks.”
“Nonsense,” says Conchetta. “Get a laptop; they don’t take up any room. And you’re not too old. You’ll have fun with it. You can even do your beloved crossword puzzles on it. Hey, you can even read up on people you know, even about yourselves.”
“You’re kidding,” I say.
Conchetta grins and types Gladys Gold into the Google box. Ida and I look over her shoulder as she scrolls down name after name. I’m amused. There are so many people with my same name. Suddenly I stare in shock. There’s my name. And facts about me. The award I won for New York Librarian of the Month way back in 1972. A conference I chaired at a librarian convention in ’78. And more.
As she continues down the screen, I gasp. There are actually newspaper articles about my husband Jack’s murder. I feel my cheeks redden, and my head immediately starts to ache. My heart pounds so loud in my chest I would swear Conchetta and Ida can hear it. Images rush through my brain, images I’ve purposely repressed all these years.
“How dare they? Who gives them permission to write about me?” I am enraged.
Conchetta looks at me with concern. “Welcome to the global network. And to the end of privacy as we know it. I’m sorry, Glad. I was being glib. I thought you knew about this.”
Ida gets defensive. “Well, don’t look me up. I don’t want to know what’s there. If anything.” She actually looks panic-stricken.
I try to pull myself back together. “I thought only celebrities and people of importance or wealth would be written up. I would never have guessed that anyone in the world could be listed. And that anyone in the world could read about me if they wanted. I actually thought Linda Silverstone would be listed only if she was well known.”
“You look pale. Do you want me to get you some water?” Conchetta asks.
“No. I’m all right.” I manage a weak smile. “Now I know I’ve lived too long.”
Ida gently swats me on the shoulder. “Pooh, pooh,” she says, waving her hands as if to ward off evil spirits. “You should never say things like that.”
That makes me smile. “I was kidding. I didn’t know you were superstitious.”
Ida huffs. “Well, now you know, so don’t tempt the devil.”
Conchetta is abashed. “Do you still want me to Google Linda Silverstone?”
I shrug, trying to play down how upset I really am. “Even though I’ve sprung three new gray hairs in the last five minutes, carry on. I do want to know about Linda.”
“She’s there. And it lists her website. I’ll take us to that.” Conchetta does something magical and we are looking at a page with Linda’s name on the top.
“I can’t believe it,” Ida says. “Not only is she on a list, she also has her own pages to talk about herself? On purpose?” She shakes her head in disbelief.
“Never mind,” I say, “let’s see what she says about herself. Her age is sixty. Is nothing sacred? Single. She’s a well-known author. Writes nonfiction. Her books are listed. So is her education. Linda has a Ph.D. from Stanford. Her field is Public Health. She’s a known dietitian. She has an office in Miami, The Health Wellness Mystical Connection. She is the daughter of Dr. Harvard Elmore Silverstone.”
Conchetta looks up. “I’ve heard of her father.” She scrolls down. “Yes, here it is, he became something of a health guru in the seventies. His book, The Joke’s on Death, was a runaway bestseller.”
I nod. The librarian in me remembers it. “Wasn’t his thesis that by positive thinking you can prevent and/or cure physical illness?”
“And his daughter Linda followed in his footsteps,” Conchetta added.
Ida says, “Wait a minute, wasn’t he considered some kind of crank?”
Conchetta nods. “Yes, there was a lot of controversy about his theories. I’ll bet we have both their books here.”
So when I leave, my book bag is even fuller.
I now have a collection of the works of Drs. Harvard and Linda Silverstone to research.
But seeing my own name in the computer has upset me dreadfully. Once again my mind has been forced to think about the sadness in my past. And I hate it. When will I ever be free?
NEW YEAR’S EVE 1961
SISTERS
For a moment Emily thought she was crying snow. The tiny snowflakes touched her face and they mingled with her tears. She no longer felt the cold of the cement beneath her. She no longer felt anything. But she was aware of everything. As if she were sitting on a stage and a play was unfolding. It must have been—it couldn’t be happening in her real life.
People exited and entered the stage. First were the neighbors, hurrying toward the alley. Peering in fearfully, then withdrawing, shocked and reaching for others for comfort. As if they were glad it wasn’t them?
Emily felt something tickling her bare leg. She glanced down and saw her father’s papers raised by the wind, drifting away. She shut the briefcase, thinking he’d be upset with her when he found out his notes were lost. From her vantage point she stared again at his feet pointed downward. Why doesn’t he get up?
One of their neighbors, Mrs. Brownstein from the ninth floor, was coming toward her. Emily shook her head frantically, her hands pushed out, demanding she keep away. The woman paused, then, teary-eyed, retreated.
The ambulance arrived, its red lights zigzagging across the near-darkened buildings. Grabbing their medical gear, the rescuers jumped out and ran into the alley. From out of nowhere a newspaper reporter appeared, carrying a huge Speed Graphic, snapping photos. The whites of the flash mingled with the reds of the ambulance.
Why doesn’t my mother get up? Emily asked herself, as she saw the men trying to lift her mother off her father’s body. She became aware that her mother wore only a sweater. She must be so cold. Like Daddy, so cold.
Her mother fought them, trying to shove the three young men away with what little strength she had. But they pulled her up easily and she lost her grip on Jack’s coat.
The reporter moved close to her side and spoke softly, but her mother covered her ears in order not to hear his words.
The medical team was trying to determine if her father was still alive. Her mother could tell them that, Emily thought. Her mother knew everything about him, even to the way his breath sounded. But Emily could see his breath was gone. Her father was gone.
Why didn’t her mother scream?
The reporter supported her mother and helped her out of the alley. It was then she saw Emily. She pulled away and ran to her daughter. Emily dragged herself up off the ground and fell into her arms. Both of them were shivering.
“He’s dead. Daddy’s dead.” Her mother repeated the words over and over again.
Emily kept crying “No,” as if trying to change what she knew she couldn’t.
“What is it?” They heard a woman shriek. “What happened?”
Then the three of them, Evvie, Joe, and their daughter, Martha, huddled in their winter coats, were at their side, trying to take in what was g
oing on. Seeing it all at once. Paramedics working over Jack. Gladdy and Emily clutching one another. Onlookers encircling them, but not too closely, as if death were something catching.
Joe looked down the alley, and then at Gladdy. “Oh, no, not Jack,” he said. In the distance the police sirens were heard.
The sisters stared into one another’s eyes.
It can’t be, Evvie’s eyes said.
It is, Gladdy said without a sound.
They never needed words with one another.
What was there to say? Gladdy’s life, as she had known it, had just ended.
Cousin Martha, twelve years old and the image of her redheaded mother, stared at Emily, hardly understanding. Emily ran to her and hugged her. It was hard to do; Martha’s arms were full of gaily wrapped birthday presents.
“Someone shot my father,” she told her. Martha dropped the birthday presents and started to bawl.
Gladdy turned to the girls. “Emmy, please take your cousin upstairs.”
Neither one could move.
Uncle Joe, a shock of thick black hair falling over his forehead, bent down. He was nose to nose with them, his voice gruff. “Did you hear your mother? Both of you—get out of here!”
They ran.
A MOTHER CALLS
A lovely time is being had by all. The Gold/ Levinson family and the Langford/Berman clan are just finishing dinner in the tasteful Amish-style dining room. Jack sits back, absorbing everything. They are in Emily and Alan’s apartment, only five blocks from where his own daughter Lisa’s family lives, on the west side of the city. The apartment is charming and cozy, filled with gentle clutter and comfortable, relaxing furnishings. He is not surprised. Emily has Gladdy’s warmth and liveliness about her. The family interests abound. They like art and the walls are filled with original works of New York artists they favor. The den contains the family archives. Photos of Emily and Alan Levinson and their three daughters and one son skiing and snorkeling and hiking. Lots of travel snapshots. And family occasions like birthday parties. And Grandma Gladdy grins down at her children and grandchildren in many of them.
