Blood Count

by Reggie Nadelson

  Lily put two mugs on the counter. “Do you want something to eat?”

  I shook my head and glanced at the old clock that hung on the kitchen wall.

  “What is it?” she said.

  “I was wondering if Dr. Bernard had stopped by. She said she’d come. I was stuck in the fucking storage room.” I rubbed my head.

  “Don’t touch it,” said Lily, handing me a dishcloth. “There’s blood on your head, Artie. You need to see someone. You need them to check for concussion. I mean it.” For a moment, Lily’s bossy, practical side took her over, and it made me smile. For a moment.

  “So what about Dr. Bernard?”

  “What? I think you should eat something.” Lily, fussing in the kitchen, opening the fridge, pulling out plates, slicing bread. She put it all on the counter and began to make sandwiches. As she unwrapped hard-boiled eggs, the smell got to me and I felt sick.

  “Dr. Bernard was coming to sign Simonova’s death certificate,” I said. “You remember?”

  “Oh, that. Right,” said Lily, placing salami on a slab of bread and spreading it with mustard. “Sure, but it’s done, Artie. I took care of it. It’s just fine. We don’t have to bother Dr. Bernard after all.”

  I went to the sink and ran the water, drank from the tap, washed my face, and dried it off with some paper towels. I turned around and leaned against the sink so I could see her.

  “Lily?”

  “What?”

  “What’s going on? Why were you getting meds for a woman you know is dead?” I looked at her. “You have to tell me. It doesn’t add up.”

  “Yes, yes, sure, Artie, I’m behaving like an idiot, I know we need to get this sorted, of course.” She picked up a plastic bottle, took out a pill, put it in her mouth, washed it down with some coffee.

  “What are you taking?”

  She didn’t answer.

  I went to the window and looked out. It was dark now. Still snowing.

  “Lily?”

  “Come and sit down. I can’t talk to your back,” she said. I went to the counter and sat down again on the stool.

  “What is it?” Lily said.

  “I went to see Dr. Bernard. She said you didn’t call her at all today.”

  “Maybe the messages didn’t get through. I tried her. I told you.”

  “She said she didn’t get any. I don’t think she’s the kind of woman who loses her messages,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t have done that without telling me.”

  Lily looked down at her feet again. “I’ll go get Lionel,” she said.

  “You didn’t call Dr. Bernard at all, did you?” I asked her. “What else is there you didn’t tell me?”

  “Her number was busy, OK?” Lily was angry now. She got up abruptly, left the apartment, and slammed the door.

  “Lily tells me you’ve had a bit of a rough time. May I look at that gash on your forehead?” Dr. Hutchison inspected my head. “Can I fix those bandages for you?”

  Lily hovered close by. She had slammed out of the apartment, then reappeared, Hutchison in tow.

  “Not now.” I looked at my watch. “Where the hell is she?”

  “Who?” Lily said.

  “Dr. Bernard. It’s getting late.”

  “No need to worry,” Hutchison said. “I just called Lucille, we talked earlier, as you know, detective, but I called again and I persuaded her that everything had been arranged properly. Lily, would you make me a cup of coffee, please?”

  I was surprised. Lucille Bernard didn’t seem like a woman who would change her mind easily. “You mean she’s not coming?”

  “I told her I had examined Marianna and I had signed the death certificate.”

  “Where did you get it?”

  “It’s not that difficult, please believe me. In any case, I told Lucille I had called Riverside Chapel, which is a Jewish funeral home. I knew, as I believe Lily explained to you, that Marianna was of the Jewish persuasion and wanted a Jewish funeral.”

  “She told you.”

  “Oh, yes, we discussed these things many times, as old people will.” He adjusted his lapel, as if to play for time while he considered his words. “You see, the good people from Riverside came over and took Marianna.”

  “What?”

  “The burial will be tomorrow,” Hutchison said.

  “I told you all this, Artie,” Lily said. “I’m sure Marianna even wrote it somewhere. Wasn’t that what you thought, Lionel, that she had specifically put it down that she wanted the Jewish thing?”

  “Did she have surviving family?” I said.

  “No,” said Hutchison. “Absolutely not.”

  I got out my phone.

  “Who are you calling?” Lily said.

  “Just checking for messages,” I said, hoping Bernard had called me. But there were none.

  “You really don’t have to call anyone,” Lily said. “Or don’t you trust Lionel? Or me?”

  “I know you’re concerned, detective, but it’s just fine,” Hutchison said. “I have my license; I’ve been a doctor a very long time, and I can certainly sign a death certificate. The law says that if the deceased was in the care of a particular doctor in the period preceding death, it’s acceptable.”

  “So she was in your care?”

  “In mine, in the sense that I saw her most days. In Lucille Bernard’s as well. I was often in touch with Lucille on the subject. I saw Marianna, I saw her frequently. Of course,” he said. “I warned her against drinking too much of that vodka she loved. I said to her, ‘Marianna, dear, you can’t drink like that in your condition.’ She didn’t listen. She was full of life.”

  “When he called Riverside, Lionel discovered that Marianna had arranged everything in advance—her funeral, her casket, all of it. She had even paid for it. Didn’t you?” said Lily to Hutchison.

  “How did you discover it?” I said.

  “I spoke with the director from Riverside Memorial. Marianna had also purchased a plot in a cemetery on Long Island,” Hutchison said. “They’ve arranged for her to be buried early tomorrow, first thing, to keep within twenty-four hours, which is what is preferred for people of the Jewish faith.”

  “I thought it had to be right away,” I said.

  “Unless it’s the Jewish Sabbath, and today is Saturday, of course,” said the doctor. “We’ve acceded to all of Marianna’s wishes. That makes me feel good. We were very close, you know.”

  “You signed the death certificate. What was the time of death?”

  “Three seventeen this morning.”

  “You know that?”

  Hutchison looked at me. “Yes.”

  “How?”

  “You’ll have to trust me,” he said.

  “Cause of death? According to you.”

  “Her heart gave out.”

  “And how did you manage to see her this morning? I gather your wife locks your door.”

  He laughed without humor. “It’s our little game. She likes to think I wander in my sleep and she protects me.” He grunted. “Naturally, I have my own keys.”

  “So you saw Mrs. Simonova earlier this morning? Before Lily found her? At say, three seventeen a.m.? I had the feeling when you asked me for matches out on the terrace, you already knew.”

  “Yes, detective. I knew that she had already passed as I just told you. In any case, I was meaning to raise it with you when my wife called me back into the apartment.”

  “She didn’t know?”

  “She didn’t know that I often dropped in on Marianna early in the morning.”

  “Lily told me she’s the only one who had Simonova’s keys.”

  “Things change.”

  “And anyway you can go from your terrace to Simonova’s, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes. I’m in quite good shape, as you see. I can climb over that foolish little wall that divides us.”

  “When were you planning to tell your wife?” I felt like I was being played.

  “Why are yo
u badgering Lionel?” Lily said.

  “Detective Cohen asks good questions,” said Hutchison. “It’s his habit. Deduction. A bit like Sherlock Holmes, perhaps, wouldn’t you say? Or would it be that doctor on TV, that Dr. House?” In his sharp eyes was a hint of almost joyful malice. He’d had enough of me, and he let it show.

  Hutchison had been used to his power in his own world, and he resented my questions. As a doctor, he was used to giving orders, used to people who obeyed them.

  “So you knew from early this morning.”

  “Yes.”

  “That she was dead.”

  “That is correct,” he said.

  “But you waited to mention it.”

  “It was very early. I often take my coffee out on the terrace, take my coffee, juice, the damn pills I have to take. That way I could see if there was a light on in Marianna’s.”

  “So you could visit. And was there a light?”

  “Candles,” he said. “I was going to talk to Lily as soon as I could manage it out of my wife’s hearing.”

  “What did you think when you saw Simonova?”

  “I am a doctor. I knew she was at the end. I waited until she passed. She was not alone.”

  I thought of the way the dead body had seemed posed.

  “You touched her, you arranged the body in any way?”

  “I don’t know what you mean,” said Hutchison.

  “But you didn’t tell your wife.”

  “Celestina is a silly old woman. She did not like Marianna.”

  “Anything between you?”

  “I am eighty-two years old, detective, but Madame Seminova had bad breath and, well, if you were asking, she was not my type.” He gave a small measured smile. “We were good friends. We had things in common. I loved her.”

  “What kind of things?”

  “Politics,” said Hutchison. “Poetry. We discussed literature. We’d laugh about how I had to sneak cigarettes past Celestina. We played cards. Marianna told me her bridge set had been given to her by Anatoly Dobrynin when he was Soviet ambassador. She called him Toli. We discussed international affairs. She played her wonderful old records for me. We both loved this building. That was a bond too.” He looked at his watch. “I must go. You’re satisfied now, detective?”

  “When you talked to Dr. Bernard, did she say anything else?”

  “She said you seemed rather decent, for a cop, which coming from Lucille Bernard is quite a compliment. In any case, I must get back,” he said.

  “You didn’t want her to suffer, of course. Simonova, that is?” I said to him.

  “Yes.”

  “Had she been in pain?”

  “Surely.”

  “What kind of pain?”

  “Stop it,” said Lily. “Please, Artie, this is hard enough without you playing detective.”

  “One more thing,” I said.

  “Of course.”

  “Amahl Washington.”

  Suddenly, it was as though everything slowed down; no one spoke. Dr. Hutchison, who had said he was in a hurry, took his time selecting a chocolate cookie from a plate Lily had placed on the kitchen counter. He picked it up and ate a small bite. He didn’t answer me about Amahl Washington, not then; I saw he was waiting for me to challenge him in some way; Lily was on his side. Then the doorbell rang. Lily hurried to answer it, shut the door, returned carrying a casserole dish covered with a yellow cloth.

  “Who was it?”

  “Regina McGee, lady who lives down the hall. To see if she could help out with the funeral arrangements.”

  “So everybody knows.”

  “Of course, they know,” said Lily. “People saw the funeral home take Marianna away. In a black bag, Artie. Like garbage. On a gurney. Garbage on a gurney, that’s what it was like.” Lily pushed her hair back. “They’ll all be ringing the doorbell, they’ll all be wanting to talk about it. Wanting a funeral, a memorial, something. I’m not sure I can do this.”

  “Why you?” I said to Lily.

  “They know we were friends.”

  Hutchison was on his feet. “I’ll talk to them.” He kissed Lily on the cheek. “I’m around if you need me,” he said and started for the door, then stopped suddenly and turned around.

  “I don’t know who I’ll be able to talk to ever again, you know,” he said. “Most everyone is dying off. You have a best friend like Marianna, you get that thing only once in a long while. She was different; she knew the world. Crazy as she was.” He smiled. “Oh, we laughed. We were an odd pair for certain, but she never talked foolishness. That was what I liked. You sure you don’t need me to stitch that up?” he asked, looking at my forehead.

  “I’m OK.”

  “You have something for it?”

  “Yes. Thank you.”

  “Let me know if there are any side effects. Rest if you can. You must be feeling pretty raggedy. Call me and we can talk.”

  “What kind of pain?” I said again.

  “What’s that?”

  “Mrs. Simonova. What kind of pain?”

  Hutchison’s voice was steady, but his eyes teared up. “The kind of pain that makes it not worth living, the kind that comes when you can’t breathe,” he said.

  CHAPTER 19

  It’s over now,” Lily said in a flat voice when Hutchison had gone. On the kitchen counter was her laptop. It was open. She began tapping at it.

  “Is there anything else you want to tell me?” I said. “What are you working on?”

  “Just checking e-mails,” she said. “It’s over. I told you.”

  “You’re sure?” I closed my eyes for a few seconds as the pain sliced against my eyeballs and reached for the pills I had in my pocket.

  “Don’t,” said Lily. “It’s too much. I’ll get you some aspirin.”

  “I’m OK.”

  “Who beat you up, Artie? Do you think somebody wanted you to stop asking questions about Marianna?”

  “Do you?”

  “Do I what?”

  “Want me to stop asking? Lily, did you ever know Amahl Washington?”

  “I met him,” she said. “I didn’t get to know him.”

  “He died. Six months ago.”

  “He was old,” she said. “Almost everybody here is old. They live in the past. They live in this building like a little village, as if it’s all that keeps them going, keeps them safe. It contains their history, you can see that? Artie,” she added, “I’m getting old. Maybe it’s the building. Or my feet.”

  “You’re not old.”

  “Older than you,” she said. “Years and years older.”

  “I never cared.”

  “I never really talked to Mr. Washington,” she said. “I remember Celestina Hutchison was pretty sniffy about him. A basketball player, she’d say. She’s such a snob.”

  “Lucille Bernard was his doctor, too.”

  “She was?” Lily stared at her computer. “Well, she’s a lung specialist, so why not?”

  “Was he friends with Lionel Hutchison?”

  “How would I know?” she said sharply. She got up, found a bottle of Scotch in one of the cupboards, got two glasses, and poured some for both of us. She gulped at hers. “Please, let it be, Artie,” she said. “Can’t we just trust Lionel? I want us to trust him, I want it to be over, I want to go to the funeral tomorrow morning and let it all end.”

  “I’ll go with you.”

  “No. My friend, my job.”

  “What about Hutchison? Won’t he want to go with you? To the funeral?”

  “I’ll talk to him. His wife will make a stink, though. So we can do that, right? We can let it be.”

  We sat and talked across the counter now like two polite acquaintances, people who had just met, who found themselves next to each other in a coffee shop or a theater. We sat for a while, and were nice to each other, and sipped our drinks, and I was OK with it, I was with her.

  I looked at the Obama poster taped to the fridge, other Obama stuff spread out on t
he kitchen counter, a stack of campaign leaflets. I picked one up.

  “Election night was really something wasn’t it, honey?” I said. “You worked hard on the campaign.”

  “I really loved it,” she said softly. “I worked with such good people, you know. And I love this man. I think he’s put his neck out in a way no politician I remember ever has. He tells the truth. He speaks brilliantly. We all wanted it so badly. It’s been such shit for so long with Bush, and suddenly this hope, and you could taste it. Remember election night? Funny that I ended up at the Sugar Hill Club. I was on my way down to 125th Street with the people I was working with, and somebody said, Let’s stop for a drink, and then, I don’t know. I was really happy I got to see you. Even cops like Obama, right?” She laughed a little.

  “Even cops. Or this cop, anyhow.”

  “Of course, it will change,” said Lily. “We think he’s some kind of superman who will fix everything the way we want, and in fact, he’s a good, American, middle-of-the-road guy who will probably have to toe the line plenty. I know that. I don’t care. Did you read his book, Artie? About his father?”

  I said I would read it.

  “That was how I got to know Marianna. At first I’d just go over and drink vodka with her, and I’d think, What the hell am I doing here, and then suddenly, one day, she gives me money for Obama. A lot, like five hundred bucks, and she says, in that ridiculous accent, ‘This is wonderful man, this Mr. Obama. If I am younger, I fall big-time for him.’ She was very, very gung ho. She held those debate-watching parties, she served up Russian stuff she bought at some Russian grocery. She was something.”

  “Go on.”

  “There was something epic about her, Artie,” Lily said, sipping her drink, wanting to talk now. I didn’t stop her.

  I still wanted to know why she had been buying medication for a dead woman, but it could wait a little while. I’d find out why she had gone to the drugstore, I’d find out why she had really called me in the first place, but only if I let her talk.