by Rita Lakin
Jack tightens his grip on my hand.
Patty wordlessly pours us tea from a kettle that hangs from a slab of iron over a wood- burning fireplace. I don’t want to be rude and refuse, but I hate to think about what germs are in that cup. I glance around and I realize I needn’t worry. The kitchen, though decrepit, is absolutely spotless and scrubbed. I guess she washes everything with boiling water from the fireplace kettle.
She looks directly into my eyes. “I’m tired of running.” The voice sounds dusty from lack of use. She points to an old rickety kitchen chair. I sit gingerly. Jack perches behind me. Patty sits opposite, on the only other chair in the room, sipping her already poured tea.
“Hello, Patty,” I say softly. “This is my friend, Jack Langford.”
She ignores Jack. It’s as if her eyes have fastened themselves only on me. “I know who you are and why you’re here.” She sips again. “I’ve thought of you often. Are you well?”
“Yes, thank you, I’m fine.”
“Life has been good to you?”
“Yes,” I say softly. She’s like a fragile glass that might shatter at any moment.
“I’m relieved to hear it. I know you suffered because of me. I’m sorry.”
Jack’s hands tighten on my shoulders, trying to signal his compassion. I know he is there for me.
I feel I need to reassure her even though I choke on my words. “It wasn’t your fault. My husband wouldn’t regret that he gave his life to save yours.”
“Stop!” Her skinny hand jerks and the tea mug turns over, spilling liquid down onto her clothes and the floor. She pays no attention. She jumps up. “He died for nothing! The bastard who shot him was my boyfriend! Eddie Fitch. I was desperate to be rid of him. I had just told him I never wanted to see him again when he smacked me and knocked me down. I screamed. He warned me if I left him, he’d kill me. And he had the gun to prove it. When Professor Gold came to my rescue, Eddie showed he was serious by shooting him.”
So Milt Paxton was right, Jack thinks. All along the girl had known Jack Gold’s killer. It was a domestic disturbance, the kind of volatile situation that all cops fear walking into. And Jack Gold was in the wrong place at the wrong time. My poor Gladdy, to have to find this out.
I gasp. I never expected this. Never. Dear God, help me to deal with this.
“I believed his threats after that,” Patty continues. “Eddie said he’d kill my whole family if I ever talked. So I stopped talking altogether.”
Jack says softly, “And you ran away.”
She pulls her eyes away from me and looks at Jack now. “Yes, to this town where my family came from. Eddie followed me. We never married, but we lived together.” She takes a worn rag from the sink, stoops and mops up the spilled tea, and then sits wearily down again. “If you can call that living.”
Jack waits. “I’m so sorry.”
“He beat me. I worked at the factory to support us. He did nothing but drink and wait for me to come home so he could hit me some more. He terrorized my family. He destroyed all of us. All because I made a stupid error as a kid and picked the wrong guy.”
She nervously scrapes her hands back and forth across the bare wooden table. Now, she can no longer look at me, nor I, her.
“Why didn’t you call the police?” Jack asks.
“They couldn’t help us! I ruined all our lives. My whole family faded away because of him.”
She stops, head bowed, lost in her troubled thoughts.
“What happened to him? Where is he now?” Jack asks.
She lifts her head up tiredly. “Finally he got bored with just staying home. He found some gang to hang out with. They robbed a liquor store. I made a phone call and turned him in. He went to prison and within a month, somebody knifed him. He died. I was free at last.”
She paused, staring into nothingness. “That was fifteen years ago. It didn’t matter. It was too late. I died a long time before that.”
We hear a noise. Someone comes into the kitchen. A man of about forty, in old misshapen clothes, shuffles in. There is something wrong with him. He mumbles and is barely able to walk.
Patty gets up and helps him into her chair at the table. She put a bib around his neck and takes out a plate of some kind of soft food from the refrigerator. She stands next to him and patiently feeds him as he listlessly allows her.
“More,” he mumbles.
“Our child,” she says bitterly. She leans over and gently kisses the blank face. “We share this hell together.”
She doesn’t look at me or Jack again. I get up.
“I have to leave,” I say.
Patty doesn’t respond. I can hear her softly humming a nursery song to her son as she forces the food into his flaccid mouth.
Jack and I walk outside and breathe deeply. I watch a tear run down his face. He embraces me. So tightly. I am stiff in his arms.
“I’m so sorry,” he says.
I am too numb to cry.
PAXTON REVISITED
Jack manages to find his way out of the woods and through the dust-laden, weed-filled dirt roads. He stops the car before turning back onto the highway. We sit there silently. He wants to comfort me, but my rigid body holds him back.
“I don’t know what to say.”
I shake my head as if to tell him there are no words that will help.
We remain unmoving. I stare out at the desolation around me that fits the way I feel. Not a bird sings. Not a car drives by. It’s as if Patty Dennison had moved to the end of the earth to punish herself.
“Are you angry? You should be.”
How can I be angry after seeing that pathetic woman? I think ironically to myself. If only she hadn’t screamed. If only Jack had come home five minutes earlier. If... if... woulda, coulda, shoulda, as my mother used to say.
“Is there someplace you want to go, Gladdy, dear?”
Again I shake my head.
“Back to Emily’s? Get some sleep?”
No. Another head shake.
“Do you want me to drive you to Connecticut to be with Evvie?”
No.
He gives me a wry grin. “There’s always ‘Pago Pago’ at the Dartford. I can order up some mai tais.”
I manage a tiny smile. But, no.
I finally speak. I turn to him and look directly at his concerned face. “I feel like I’ve been on a roller coaster ever since I got here. Seeing you in New York so unexpectedly. Then to find out why you were here. I thought it was all over between us, and now we’re on again. Going out to breakfast with you, with all the rekindling of love. And, yes, our precious few minutes in ‘Pago Pago.’ Then my old neighborhood and this final revelation about my husband’s death. My mind is on overload.”
“How can you not be?” Jack says. “But I don’t know where to take you from here. Where will you feel better? Or find comfort?”
“I have to absorb everything. Now that I have all the pieces.”
“Maybe...” Jack starts to say, but stops.
“What?”
“No, you’ve been through enough. Forget about it.”
“Jack, tell me.”
“There’s another piece. There’s another victim in this terrible tragedy. A reporter named Milt Paxton, who was there at the scene when your husband died. I promised him I would tell him the outcome of the visit with Patty.”
I think for a few moments. “Take me to him.”
“Today? Haven’t you had enough? Maybe tomorrow or sometime next week when you’ve rested?”
“Now, Jack. You mentioned it because somehow you think it will help.”
“I could be wrong—maybe it will add more misery to what you already feel. No, I’ve changed my mind.”
“His name jogs my memory. He was there, at the scene, the one who took those photos. He said something to me, but I wasn’t able to listen. Maybe he’ll remember what he said.”
“Gladdy, no...”
“There’s no place else I want to go. We might as
well.”
Jack pulls up in front of Milt Paxton’s house in Long Island. The sun is about to make its descent and the air will cool. On the way, Jack fills me in a little about this feisty reporter, Milt Paxton, who lost the use of his legs covering this story.
“That’s him. He’s still sitting out there on his porch, as if he hasn’t moved since the last time I was here. He doesn’t look well. His face looks grayer.”
“But he seems excited,” I say. “I guess when you phoned and told him I was with you he perked up. He sees us.”
From his wheelchair, Milt Paxton waves frantically, as if he can’t wait another minute until we arrive. We get out of the car and climb the wobbly steps.
“So? So? Tell me?”
“Can’t we at least get up on the porch?” Jack leans over and gives him a bear hug.
“Sure, sure, anything.” His eyes go to me and he examines me as if with a microscope. “Gladys Gold, it’s really you?”
I smile. “Yes, it’s me.”
His face lights up. “You’re a fine-looking woman.”
“Thank you.”
“So, what do you see in that old guy?” He winks at me and points to the rocker next to him. “Sit. Sit. Here’s some lemonade. Don’t ask for anything else. My niece took the day off. She thinks she’s entitled to it.” He grins. “She’s a good girl, but I don’t ever tell her that.”
“How are you feeling?” Jack says.
Milt rattles the newspaper on his lap. “Who gives a rat’s ass about that? I’m still breathing. But not much longer. I’ll have a heart attack right now if you don’t start talking.”
“Listen, Milt...”
He slaps at Jack with the paper. “Don’t you listen? I have been counting the minutes ’til you got here.”
Jack teases him gently. “What if I told you there was nothing to tell? That the trip was a waste of our time.”
“Then I’d call you a liar. I know you found Dennison. I can see it in your eyes. Don’t try to fake a faker. I don’t want to hear a crock from you. Sit down, you’re making me crazy.”
Jack pulls over another chair.
Paxton turns to me. “What is she like, that Patty Dennison? Did she know anything? Was I right, was she lying about what she knew?”
“One thing at a time,” Jack says. “Go easy, Gladdy had a very hard day.”
“Horse manure. What’s with the pompous speech, Mr. Cop? Pardon my language, missus.”
“No offense taken.” I’m about to speak, but Jack stops me.
“I’m sorry,” Jack says, serious now. “I’m here to protect her. First some ground rules. She isn’t going to want this case opened again by anyone. And that includes reporters. Not even this reporter.”
We haven’t discussed it, but Jack is right.
There’s no way I’ll put myself through that agony again.
“What if I tell you it won’t go past me?” Paxton says quickly.
“Then it would be my turn to call you a liar. What about that Pulitzer you’ve always angled for?”
Milt Paxton half raises himself from his wheelchair. “I don’t need no stinkin’ Pulitzer,” he yelps, parodying the famous Treasure of the Sierra Madre line. “I gave my damn legs for this story. I need to know.”
“Why, Milt?” I ask. “Why is this so important to you?”
Paxton falls back down in his wheelchair. He takes a deep breath. “So I can finally die.”
That shocks me. “You really mean that?”
“Damn it, of course I mean it! I gave all that was left of me for this story. Mrs. Gold, you and your family weren’t the only victims. It destroyed me, too.”
Jack won’t let him off the hook. “Promise not to tell anyone.”
“I promise, I promise.” He grabs a paring knife from a tray of apples on the small table next to him. “When you’re done, I’ll slit my wrists. Then you won’t have to worry. Better yet, you kill me. It would be a blessing. This is all I’m living for— to know the ending.”
“Come on, you drama queen,” Jack says, trying to lighten things.
“Come on yourself. You call this a life? My legs are gone. So’s my liver from all that rotgut I drank; probably my lungs as well from all the cig butts. My doctor laughs when I come in. ‘You still here?’ he says.”
He laughs so hard, it makes him choke, and then he starts coughing. Jack leans over and slaps him on the back. Finally, the coughing subsides. Paxton takes a long drink of lemonade and then grins at Jack.
“Thanks, so tell me everything already from the very beginning, you sadist.”
Sunset is over and the sky is showing dark gray and cloudy. Very few stars are seen. Jack starts the narrative and I know I’ll probably add to it.
“I went to Fair Lawn last week,” he says. “I got a room at a motel and started asking around for Patty Dennison and all I got were hostile stares, so I took out my wallet, figuring a bribe might shake something up.”
Milt Paxton leans back and sighs, a happy man, waiting to hear the story of his lifetime.
By now Milt has us turn on the porch lights; all is black around us except for the lights from his neighbors’ houses. Moths dance around the lightbulbs. By now we have removed the lemonade pitcher and glasses, so as not to attract any more bugs. Our storytelling brings Milt up to the entrance of Patty’s sad man-child and then our leaving.
For a long while we just sit there, all of us lost in our thoughts. I am beginning to feel better; as if in the telling of the story I’ve exorcised ghosts. Maybe Milt has also.
I ask him if he remembers what he whispered to me on that terrible New Year’s Eve.
Milt Paxton sighs deeply. He nods.
I look at him, hold my breath. “Tell me.”
“ ‘Brave men sometimes have to die. Your husband was a brave man.’ That’s what I said.”
His words choke me up. “Thank you.”
Milt shrugs. “Life deals you a hand and you have to play it.” He shivers. Jack gets up and places an afghan around his shoulders.
I sigh also. “My husband once told me something when I asked him about what happened to him in the war and he didn’t want to talk about it. He said, ‘Life goes on with or without your participation. You have two choices: You can wallow in what you can’t change, or you can fall in love with the miracle of every day.’ ”
We sit there quietly. I take the hand of each of these good men and listen to the song of the crickets.
GOING HOME
PHONE CALLS:
Evvie to Gladdy: “I can’t believe it. Jack’s in New York, too? He met your family before you got there? You saw Patty Dennison? How is that possible? How could you not call me sooner? Wait, I can’t take this all in on a phone call. I’m coming to the city. I have to hear about everything.”
Gladdy to Evvie: “Pack your bag and plan to stay with us. We’ll leave for the airport from here.”
Ida to Gladdy: “You won’t believe what’s been going on with us. We’re in New York. Actually in Little Italy. Pick up today’s Daily News. You will be amazed at the adventure we had.”
Gladdy to Ida: “You’re in New York? How did that happen? Why are you in Little Italy? Never mind, pack all your bags and come up to Emily’s apartment. I have to hear all about it. We’ll stay here until we leave for home. Evvie’s coming, too.”
Gladdy to Emily (in person): “Dig up sleeping bags, air mattresses, extra blankets, whatever, from friends, neighbors. You’re having company for a few days. We better do some food shopping. We’ll need it for the four extra people I’ve invited.”
Emily to Gladdy (horrified): “You’ve what?”
Gladdy to Emily: “Hey, fair’s fair. When you were a kid you used to invite mobs of kids for sleepovers. Did I ever complain?”
Jack to Gladdy: “You’re what? All the girls are coming over? I thought...”
Gladdy to Jack: “Just for a few days. Then we can all head back home together.”
“I’ve been m
aking plans. Like moving out of the Dartford roach hotel...”
Gladdy to Jack (interrupting): “Good idea. You can stay with Lisa and her gang ’til we leave.”
“That’s not what I had in mind.”
“I know. I know. Well, you can always bring a sleeping bag over and join the nine of us. Ha-ha.” A very long silence.
Jack to Gladdy: “Not bloody likely.”
Gladdy to Jack: “Love you.”
Jack to Gladdy: “Love you, too.”
What fun. We’re like little kids again. And Bella and Sophie have the mouse pajamas to prove it. Let’s face it, when you get old (don’t you just hate that word) you enter your second childhood. And believe me, it’s more fun the second time around.
We’ve caught up with everyone’s stories. Even my Emily and Alan and Lindsay and Patrick are in stitches hearing the girls’ Little Italy adventures— how they saved a woman’s life and captured a thief. We read the news stories, show proper delight in their photos on page one, and admire the commendation from the Chamber of Commerce, written in Italian, so that none of us can read it. We are expected to admire Sophie’s green gown and watch the choked reactions from Ida and Bella.
However, the kids are purposely not around when I relate my journey with Jack to find out the truth of that faithful birthday, New Year’s Eve, so long ago. Everyone is affected by my visit with Patty and its horrendous meaning. Emily hugs me and we shed tears together.
Time to leave, with much promising of returning soon. Jack picks us up in a rented van. To “Jackie’s” amusement, he is hugged by all my girls, who now have given him a nickname. My hero.
On the plane, Jack and I manage to sit alone and away from the girls. Not that they don’t find excuses to visit.
I can’t let go of him. I’m afraid he’ll disappear again, even though I know he won’t. I clutch him throughout the ride. We cuddle and kiss and say wonderfully silly things to one another. And then I feel as if he hadn’t been gone from me at all. I don’t know if I can stand all this happiness.
