“May I help you?”
“I’m here to see Mr. Berghorn.”
“Here’s not here at the moment. Was he expecting you?”
“No. We just took a chance he’d be here.”
“May I take a message for him?”
“No. Well, yes. We live next door to him, and my parents sent me in here to tell him there was a...a thing that happened in his backyard today.”
“What sort of thing?”
“Uh, this mean old dog was loose, and he bit three kids, and Animal Control came out and shot it. In Mr. Berghorn’s backyard. Close to his back porch. And my parents didn’t want him to go ape or anything when he came home and saw a mess of blood.”
“How awful.” I had been curious about where Elmer lived but had never had an opportunity to ask him. “Where do you live?”
“In the Austin neighborhood. Across from Levin Park.”
That’s where I grew up. “Really? What street are you on?”
“Ferdinand. On the corner. I gotta go. My parents are waitin’ in the car. Thanks, lady.”
I pictured my old house, the second one from the corner of Ferdinand and Long Avenue, directly across the street from Levin Park. I wished I could have talked to that boy longer.
I went back to working on Shady Lane. An hour later, Elmer returned and poked his head in my office. I told him about the conversation I’d had with his neighbor. Then I mentioned that I used to live in his neighborhood. His demeanor puzzled me—the longer I talked, the paler he got.
“Are you all right?” I asked him. “That wasn’t your dog, was it?”
“No,” he said. He turned and headed for his office. I got up and followed him.
“The boy said you live across from Levin Park.”
“It’s not really across from the park. It’s down a ways.”
“Really? What’s your address? I grew up on that street.”
He was sitting in his chair now, reaching for the pack of Marlboros on his desk. “I’m in the...5600 block.”
“No kidding. I lived at 5405.”
“Small world. Anything else?” he asked.
“No, that was—”
“Good. Could you close my door on your way out?”
“Elmer?”
“What is it?” The edge to his tone rubbed me the wrong way. Don’t take it out on me, fella. I’m not the one who got blood on your house.
“May I ask you a question?”
“Later.”
I closed his door, maybe a little too hard, and went back to my desk.
When Elmer came out two hours later, he stopped by my office.
“Sorry about before. I have a lot on my mind.” His apology sounded indifferent. “What did you want to ask me?”
“I keep the door to my back room locked. Do the cleaning people have keys to it?”
“Uh...I’m not sure. No one has ever locked it before. Why do you ask?”
“Nothing much. I just found something out of place this morning, and—”
“I’ll talk to them. You don’t want them to clean in there or anything?”
“No. I’ll do it myself.”
“I’ll take care of it.”
A few minutes after Elmer left, Flora called to tell me she had looked everywhere there was to look and couldn’t find a death certificate for Anna Vargas. We agreed that was odd, because I knew she was dead—it had been in the paper—and she had died in Cook County. Why wouldn’t there have been a death certificate?
I spent the next couple of hours tagging the evidence in my back room like I should have done from the beginning.
* * *
With nothing better to do, I worked on Christmas Eve, but even so my spirits were high. The previous day, I had received a check for the Shady Lane case, one that would keep my head above water for the next month. Turned out Jeff Porter’s son-in-law wasn’t who he said he was. The name and Social Security number Jeff had given to me for him had belonged to a man who was killed in an automobile accident two days before his thirty-second birthday. His son-in-law was really a jobless drug addict with a criminal record that included three counts of wire fraud, burglary, and drug possession. Nice guy. Jeff had been able to help his daughter out of a situation that could have destroyed her life.
I had learned something from the Shady Lane case—you can charge more for cases that have the outcome your client desires. Not that I would ever have padded a bill, but you can bet I didn’t cheat myself out of anything on that case like I sometimes did.
Flora Walsh turned out to be a wonderful contact in the Cook County Clerk’s Office. While she hadn’t managed to locate Anna’s death certificate, she had been able to tell me where Anna was buried. I had decided Christmas Eve would be a good day to visit her grave.
It was a twenty-five-mile drive down Cicero Avenue to the cemetery in Oak Forest, a small city southwest of downtown Chicago. Flora had told me to look for Oak Forest Hospital, as Cook County Cemetery was adjacent to it.
The more I thought about Anna on the drive to her gravesite, the more connected I felt with her. Or maybe it was that deep down I wanted someone to feel connected with her, and I was all she had. Or maybe it was the other way around.
I found the cemetery and paused a moment at the small sign by the side of the gravel road leading to the public graves.
COOK COUNTY CEMETERY
FINAL RESTING PLACE
FOR THE
INDIGENT, UNCLAIMED, AND UNKNOWN
The harsh reality of that place was heartbreaking. Couldn’t they have come up with a more sympathetic sign?
The grounds were expansive and modestly landscaped. The light freezing drizzle caused my windshield to ice up, making it difficult to read the signs. My budget constraints had forced me to choose between repairing the heater and repairing the windshield defroster. I had opted for the heater.
I found Section K and parked the car. Lot number 131 was right in the middle of the section. I walked through rows of graves until I found Anna’s. The twelve-by-four-inch flat stone marking her grave was no different from the thousands of others surrounding it. With the side of my foot, I pushed back the sod that had crept onto the marker.
ANNA T. VARGAS
AUG. 1, 1904 – JAN. 23, 1943
“I wish I knew who you were, Anna,” I whispered. “What you were all about and how I fit in.” I let the tears run down my cheeks until the weight in my chest subsided. I took a photograph of the marker and quietly left.
I sat in my car for I didn’t know how long, and it was only when the depthless sorrow I felt over seeing her grave left my body that I felt the numbness of familial disconnect. Like I had been robbed of one of the most fundamental privileges in life—being raised by a loving mother. I told myself I shouldn’t feel that way—I had in fact been raised by a woman who loved me. But I felt deprived nonetheless.
Guilt overcame me on the drive home. My mother deserved better.
I had planned to go out that evening and eat in a decent restaurant—something I hadn’t done in ages—but after the visit to Anna’s grave, I didn’t feel much like it.
* * *
The holidays were behind me, and I had to admit I felt pretty good about my first year—well, partial year—in business. In addition to handling numerous subpoenas and background checks, I had managed thirty-one cases—six significant enough to be assigned a pet name—in addition to my own.
Lying in bed on New Year’s Eve thinking about everything that had happened during the past year and what was yet to come, I thought about making a new year’s resolution, but then decided against it when I realized the only promise I was going to make to myself in 1965 was to get a life.
SEVEN
“Arrest That Woman!”
On my way to visit Minnie, I drove to my old neighborhood because now I was really curious as to where Elmer lived. Once I was on Ferdinand Street and approaching my old address, I pulled over to the curb. To the right of my old house, on the
corner, was another small bungalow that could have been the house where the young boy lived. But according to Elmer, he and the boy’s family lived two blocks down.
I drove to where Elmer said he lived. The boy had said they were on the corner and Elmer lived next door. One corner had a gas station on it. Another one was an empty lot. Either house on the remaining two corners could have been the boy’s house, but neither was across from Levin Park, unless in the boy’s mind a block and a half away qualified as “across from.”
I drove to Minnie’s, thinking something wasn’t jiving with what the boy had told me and what Elmer had said, but then I had to take into account that the boy was only a child and it probably wasn’t a good idea to take what he’d said so literally.
I arrived at Minnie’s a little nervous about knocking on her door and wondering if it was too soon since our first visit. The last thing I wanted to do was come across as nosy or pushy—that could scare her away. But I was so excited to talk with her again, I couldn’t bear to wait any longer. And given the way we had left it the last time, I was sure she’d be fine with my stopping by.
On the way to her front door, I rehearsed the story of why I was in the neighborhood. I took in a deep breath and rang the doorbell.
A couple minutes later, Minnie opened the door. Her sour face left no room for doubt that she was not happy to see me.
“How dare you show your face here!”
“What, why? What’s the matter, Minnie?”
She shook a finger at me. “Don’t you ‘Minnie’ me, Miss Lindroth. I know who you are!”
It took me a few seconds to gather my thoughts. “Minnie, I can explain.”
She closed the door, but not before I could get my foot halfway inside.
“Please let me explain,” I told her through the gap. “I’ll tell you everything.”
“Get your foot out of the door, or I’ll call the police.”
“Minnie, please. I’m sorry I lied to you, but when I tell you why, I think you’ll understand.”
“You have no idea what I will or won’t understand, so don’t even go there. Now get out!”
She tightened the pressure on my foot until I had no choice but to pull it out. When I did, the door closed with a loud thud, followed by the sound of a lock engaging.
I looked down at my foot and the remnant of crumpled duct tape that was caught between the door and the jamb.
I had lost her—my only lifeline—and I had no one to blame but myself. I walked toward my car with the feeling of defeat pushing down on me so firmly it was hard to breathe. If only I hadn’t pretended to be someone else, right now I would be sitting in her living room learning more about the woman I thought was my mother. I wondered how many lies I had told her when we first met. Stupid PI work.
I drove home feeling like such a failure...in everything.
I appealed to the gods for dry weather for a while—that had been my last piece of duct tape.
* * *
One good thing came from all the sporadic thoughts I had throughout the next several nights—I figured out a possible way to get back into Minnie’s good graces. I knew it was a long shot but figured I had nothing to lose. Correction. I had $11.75 to lose if it didn’t work, money I had to withdraw from my meager savings account.
It took me a while, but I finally found a garden center in Wilmette willing to order a winterberry bush for me. A week later, they called to tell me it was in.
I drove to Chalet Garden Center where a friendly face greeted me inside, and when I told her my reason for coming, she chuckled.
“I have your special bush in the back, Miss Lindroth.”
I guess I might have gone on a bit on the phone with them about how important getting this particular bush had been to me, even after they’d explained that January in Illinois wasn’t the time to plant anything, let alone something as finicky as a winterberry bush. On top of that, I had told them it had to be a mature bush—not some puny little seedling. I didn’t care what they thought. I was determined. And desperate.
She came out with a cart that held a parcel wrapped in burlap about the size of a fifty-five-gallon drum. Apparently, they had listened.
I asked her if it could withstand being outdoors overnight if I left it wrapped like it was. She said it should be okay. It was too heavy and bulky for me to carry to my car, so she called for someone to help me.
I was excited and nervous at the same time about what I was about to do, and it took me until I was almost halfway home to ask myself how in the hell was I going to lift that thing out of the trunk and maneuver it down Minnie’s front walk and up the front steps to her porch. I laughed out loud. What else could I have done? Cry, I supposed. But then what good would that have done?
It was close to five o’clock when I arrived home, the last sign of the sun barely visible above the low neighborhood buildings. I parked the car and went up to my apartment, still chuckling as I imagined myself dragging this massive bush up to Minnie’s porch in the dead of night.
All I had in the apartment for dinner was a can of chili, which I heated up on the hotplate. I poured myself a glass of Mad Dog, and while the chili was heating sat down with a pad and paper and began writing. The words I chose had to be just the right ones. A rough draft was done by the time dinner was ready.
If I made the delivery too early or too late in the evening, I risked getting caught. Someone might even call the police. So I decided to do it early in the morning, before the sun came up.
By the time I’d finished eating, I had the final draft of what I wanted to say to Minnie. I read it for the umpteenth time and then sealed it in an envelope.
* * *
The alarm jolted me out of bed at four-thirty A.M., and I quickly put on some old clothes and headed out. Fortunately, the mild weather meant I didn’t need to wear a winter coat and risk getting it dirty—I couldn’t afford an expensive dry-cleaning bill.
At that hour of the morning, there was no traffic, so it took me little time to get to Minnie’s. When I pulled up in front of her house, there was no one in sight and the neighboring homes were dark.
I opened the trunk. The bush had conveniently rolled to the back, and I couldn’t reach it without bending over the edge of the trunk on my stomach and extending my arms as far as they could go. My feet were off the ground as I pulled on the beastly shrub with all my strength. It moved a few inches.
I let go and stood upright to catch my breath before I dove in for another try. That time I managed to pull the bush close to the edge of the trunk. Now to get it out.
I figured I could probably lift twenty-five pounds. This bush was a lot heavier than that, and it was an awkward shape. I grasped it at its trunk and pulled up. It moved, but not much. I tried again, and it moved a little more. I took in a deep breath, gave it all I had, and managed to raise the bush up onto the edge of the trunk.
I was now holding on to the damn thing for dear life so it didn’t either fall back into the trunk or onto the street, but I didn’t know if I had the strength to lower it to the ground without dropping it.
“What are you doing?” The raspy baritone voice startled me so that I lost the little control I had over the bush. Then I lost my balance and fell down onto the asphalt squarely on my butt with the bush in my lap and the burlap-wrapped upper half of it tight up against my face. I tilted my head back and looked up to meet the policeman’s gaze.
I expected him to say something else, but he didn’t, so I said the only thing that came to mind.
“Hi.”
“What are you doing?” he repeated.
Now, I could have responded to that question in a couple of different ways, and the first answer that came to me was pretty sarcastic, so I chose another one.
“I’m trying to deliver a bush. I don’t suppose you could help me get this thing off of me.”
He walked around me at a slow gait, shined a blinding light in my face, and said, “I’d hate to get my uniform dirty. It just
came back from the laundry.”
I counted to five. It was a good thing I did because what I almost blurted out would have definitely gotten me into more trouble than I was already in. I looked down at what little I could see of my lap and realized the burlap wrapping around the roots had broken, and there was dirt everywhere. I managed to push the bush off my lap just as a second police car arrived on the scene. This one had his red lights blaring.
“What seems to be the trouble?” he asked the first cop.
I pulled myself up off the pavement and brushed myself off the best I could.
“Her story is she’s delivering a bush.”
“A bush.”
“A winterberry bush,” I explained for no useful reason.
One by one, lights came on in the surrounding homes, and people were peeking out their windows and doors to see what the commotion was all about. A man wearing nothing but boxer shorts came out of the house I was parked in front of and stood on his porch staring at us. Only in his underwear and it was forty-something degrees out there.
Then my worst fear became reality. Minnie, wearing a plaid nightgown, fuzzy slippers, and a shawl around her shoulders, marched toward us like Sergeant Carter out to get Gomer Pyle after he’d done something incredibly stupid.
“Arrest that woman!” she shouted.
“Calm down, lady. She hasn’t done anything illegal...that we know of.”
“I know her! She’s an imposter!”
“What do you mean she’s an imposter?”
It was getting more absurd by the minute. Now all the neighbors were out on their porches watching us.
“Officer, I can ex—”
“I’ll get to you,” he said before I could finish my sentence.
He turned to Minnie. “Now what were you saying?”
“She lied to me...about who she was. Gave me a phony name and other lies too.”
The policeman turned toward me. “Is that true?”
“I was desperate to get to know her, and I shouldn’t have lied. That’s why I’m here with this winterberry bush. I wanted to make amends. Apologize to her. It’s a peace offering.” The longer I spoke, the more pathetic I sounded...even to me.
Regarding Anna Page 5
