All Things Lost

by Josh Aterovis

  “Oh, sorry. Whatever you want is fine with me.”

  “You're a big help. What planet are you on anyway? Are you mooning around over Asher?”

  “No, at least not at the moment. I just can't get this stupid case out of my head.”

  “Tell me about it. I really don't have any idea what you're doing, although maybe that's for the best.”

  “It's nothing dangerous. All we're doing is talking to people.” I gave her a quick overview of what had happened so far, white-washing the part about Zaranski to avoid worrying her unnecessarily. “I just feel like we're missing so many pieces,” I finished up.

  “Well, you are,' she said, “I mean, you've just started, right?”

  “Yeah, I guess. I just wish I knew what to do next. It seems like everybody is hiding something.”

  “Everybody has something to hide,” she said quietly. I looked over at her but her eyes were on the road. “Just be careful. You'll always be my baby even if you are all grown up.”

  “That doesn't make sense. How can I be grown up and a baby at the same time?”

  “That's life, kiddo. None of it makes sense.” We were quiet for a minute and then she said, “I feel like I hardly know you anymore.”

  “Where'd that come from?”

  “I've been watching you these last couple of days. You're not the little boy I left when I moved to Pennsylvania. I've missed so much.”

  “I'm still the same person, Mom. Nothing's changed, I just got older.”

  “I'm just being silly, huh?” She wiped a tear from her cheek and gave me a grin. “So what's going on with you and Asher?”

  “I wish I knew,” I sighed.

  “Humor me. Let me feel just a little like a real live mom. Tell me what happened.”

  “I don't really know what happened. Everything was fine, or so I thought. We were going along just like always. We were even planning on moving in together.”

  “You were what?”

  “That's not important now. It was just like all of a sudden things fell apart.”

  “We'll come back to that moving in together part. Fell apart how?”

  “We started fighting, all the time, about everything, about stupid stuff. The next thing I knew we were in Splitsville, population me, myself and I.”

  “Things don't just fall apart out of nowhere. What was the root of the problem?”

  “I don't know. I wasn't sure I was ready to move in with him. That seemed to cause a lot of tension.”

  “Well, I'm glad to hear that at least. Not the tension part, but that you weren't ready to move in with him. Was there something more beyond that, do you think?”

  “I honestly don't know.”

  “Have you thought about it, tried to figure it out at all?”

  “Not really.”

  “That's what I figured. It runs in the family, that tendency to avoid what is painful at all costs.”

  “I've just been so busy with other stuff, the case…”

  “Or maybe you're afraid of what you'll find out.”

  I looked away. “Maybe.”

  “What does Asher think the problem was?”

  “I don't know.”

  “Have you tried talking about it?”

  “Not unless you count last night and that was over before it even began.”

  “Well maybe that's part of the problem, you guys aren't talking.”

  “Asher did tell me once that I never told him anything.”

  “Sweetie, you can't imagine how important communication is in a relationship. You can't have one without it. How can you expect to make things right if you don't even know what you did wrong? Communication is the key. It either makes or breaks a relationship. If you guys can't talk to each other you don't stand a chance.”

  “Is that what happened with you and Dad?”

  “You know what happened with your father and me. I've told you about it before. There was never anything between us to go wrong, it was wrong when it started and it was wrong when it ended. I never loved him. Not like you loved Asher.”

  “I still love Asher.”

  “Then don't give up on this.”

  “I'm trying, but he won't give me a chance.”

  “Then try harder. Just don't give up. Don't give up.”

  * * *

  “Don't give up.”

  The short, fat woman at the sink echoed Mom's words from a few days before. She was talking to the woman she had leaning back into the sink under a stream of water. “I think we can fix it,” she told her.

  I was back in Curl Up And Dye. I had come to talk to Nadine again, but she was busy with a client and so far no one had even acknowledged my presence.

  “I told you not to try that other place,” Anita barked from behind her client, a wrinkled old prune of a woman who was nodding sagely, I guess in agreement with whatever Anita was announcing. “They might be cheaper, but you mark my words,” she went on, “you get what you pay for.”

  All the ladies nodded and mumbled agreement as if this had been a highly original statement. “Half those girls are just barely out of beauty school,” Nadine added.

  “You here for a perm?” Anita asked in a smart-ass tone. It took a second to register that she had finally deigned to speak to me.

  “What? Oh, no. I'm here to talk to Ms. Tingle, if that's ok.”

  “Lordy, Nadine. You get more visitors these days then the Lincoln Bedroom.”

  “He was here the other day with that detective guy,” Nadine said.

  Anita eyed me suspiciously and I felt like the last doughnut at a weight watchers convention. “I don't remember him.”

  “He was hiding behind the other guy,” the other lady, the fat one at the sink, added helpfully. I frowned. I wanted to yell that I wasn't hiding and while we were on the subject I was standing right here so they could stop discussing me like I wasn't present. Besides, a good detective blends in, right? We're not supposed to get noticed.

  “Have a seat over there, sugar,” Nadine told me, pointing towards a row of uncomfortable looking plastic chairs. “I just gotta finish rolling up Betty Jean

  here.”

  I took a seat and looked through the rack of magazines. It seemed my choices were Family Circle, Ladies Home Journal, Modern Maturity or Women's Day. Yeah! I was beginning to doubt the wisdom of my coming here alone. It had seemed like such a good idea back at the office when Novak had suggested I go out for a few more solo interviews. Of course, I hadn't planned on stopping to see Nadine. I had been on my way out to see if I could get to see Mrs. Fields yet when I had turned onto the road that led here on a sudden whim. I was starting to hate sudden whims. They seldom worked out for me, really. Now that I was here I was wracked with insecurity and my inexperience loomed large in front of me. I didn't even know what questions to ask. The woman just plain intimidated me. Novak was so much better with people, and especially Nadine, than I was.

  My spiral into panic was interrupted as Nadine breezed past me in a cloud of cheap perfume and stale cigarette smoke. “Come on,” She said holding the door open. “You've got until this cigarette is gone then I gotta get back to Betty Jean.”

  I obediently followed her out. She lit up the Marlboro in her lips, inhaled deeply and blew the smoke in my direction.

  “I don't suppose you want one,” she stated rather than asked.

  “One?”

  “A cigarette.”

  “Oh, no. I don't smoke.”

  “I didn't think so. Just as well; a pretty boy like you. I guess you're gay.”

  “What?” I choked.

  “When they're as cute as you they're always gay. Murphy's Law.”

  I decided to ignore that. This was not going the way I had hoped. I need to regain control of this conversation and quick. At the rate she was sucking on that cancer stick I didn't have too long.

  “We know you and Ira fought,” I blurted out. That at least seemed to catch her by surprise. She took a long drag and let the smoke out
slowly.

  “Far as I know that ain't a crime. Course, I may've missed something along the way. That happens to me sometimes. You got a point?”

  “Witnesses say the fights were pretty violent.”

  “Witnesses, eh? Like that old bat next door I guess. What's her name? Fields?”

  “Actually we haven't spoken to Mrs. Fields yet.”

  “Hmph.”

  “We also have witnesses who place you at the farm the night Ira was killed.” That of course was a complete and total lie, but she didn't have to know that.

  She almost swallowed the butt of her cigarette. “Look, little boy, you'd better be damn careful where you step. I've swallowed babies like you whole for breakfast and finished off with toast and marmalade.”

  “Are you denying you were there?”

  “You're the detective, you figure it out.”

  “That line won't work on me. I can always go to the police with what I know.” I was bluffing my way out onto a very fragile limb now. I just hoped like hell it would break under my weight.

  She took a threatening step closer to me and I fought the urge to step back. Her smoke-sour breath tickled my nostrils as her sharp eyes drilled into mine. I don't know what she saw there, I would have guessed abject terror but it must not have been, because whatever it was, it was enough.

  “I was there. We fought. I left. End of story. He was still in one piece when I left.”

  She spun around and charged back inside, slamming the door behind her. My knees buckled and I staggered back to my car, barely able to believe what I'd just pulled off. I was very glad I wasn't in Betty Jean's place just about now. She may not have any hair left after Nadine got through taking her frustrations out on her.

  Once in the Mustang, I almost just drove directly back to the office, I was so unnerved, but I finally came to the conclusion that since I was this close I might as well go all the way. It's not like she was going to answer her door anyway.

  I parked the car in the usual spot by the charred remains of the Cohen house and walked across the field to the old lady's home. The door swung open, seemingly by itself, before I was even to the steps. I froze in mid-step. I was just about ready to book it back to my car when a tiny figure materialized in the doorway. She was so pale that for a moment I thought she was a spirit. It almost seemed I could see right through her, but she was real and alive. Her hair was a snowy white cloud, so thin and wispy I could see her pink scalp. Her skin, which appeared almost translucent, was nearly the same color as the faded light blue of her thin cotton dress. Even her blue eyes looked washed out, clouded by cataracts.

  “You're the detective boy?” she asked in a voice that was as thin and brittle as she appeared.

  “Yes. Mrs. Fields?” I managed to squeak.

  “You'll have to speak up. I'm half-deaf these days.”

  “Are you Mrs. Fields?” I asked again, louder this time.

  “That's right. Are you looking into that horrible business what happened right here next to me?”

  “Yes, ma'am, I am.”

  “That was a horrible thing, a horrible thing. I've been here on this earth for nigh on eighty-five years, seventy of which I've spent in this very house, and I ain't never been so close to something so horrible.”

  “It was horrible,” I agreed, “Would it be ok if I asked you some questions?”

  “I don't know,” she said uncertainly. “Would I be safe?”

  My heart almost broke at the fear in her voice. It seemed obscene that a woman at her stage of life should have to be so afraid in her own home.

  “I believe you would be safe, Mrs. Fields, but maybe it would be better if we talked inside.” At the volume I had to speak I felt like I was broadcasting our conversation to the whole tri-state area.

  “I guess it would be ok,” she consented, “but I don't know what I'll be able to tell you that would be of any help.”

  She stepped back to allow me in and I followed her into her home. I stepped into the kitchen, first off. It looked as if it had been tacked on as an after thought, which it probably had been considering most old homes in the area had been built before kitchen's were a part of the house. It was cluttered and worn, but clean. She led me into a dark hallway and a musty, stale odor enveloped me. It smelled vaguely of decay underlying the household scents of bacon, lavender perfume and powder. It was stiflingly warm and damp, and I soon realized why as we came into her living room. All the windows were shut tight with the curtains pulled across them. She had barricaded herself inside the best she could.

  I got the impression that this was the only room she used anymore. Everything she could have needed except for her bed and clothes were crammed into the crowded room. An old yellow floral print sofa, vintage 1950's, sat against one wall under a water-stained faded dime store print. A large console TV was the room's focal point and she had pulled a broken down recliner up close to it. A kerosene heater sat off to one side, dusty with disuse in the summer heat.

  Mrs. Fields lowered herself carefully into the chair. It seemed to be a painful process for her. I stood by helplessly, wishing there was something I could do but knowing there wasn't.

  “I don't get many visitors these days,” she told me once she was settled, “Please, have a seat.”

  I sat gingerly on the edge of the sofa. It was rock hard.

  “I never had any children,” she continued. “We always wanted them but I guess the Good Lord didn't see fit to give them to us. Me and my husband I mean. His name was Edward. He was a good man, hard working, but he never raised his voice nor his fist to me, not the 50 some years we were married. He's passed on now, near 20 years ago I guess. I've been alone ever since. You get used to it after a while. Still, it's nice to have a visitor now and then.”

  I felt as if I would burst into tears at any moment. I couldn't speak for the lump in my throat. The best I could do was nod. Luckily that was all the encouragement she needed.

  “Now, I don't like to speak ill of the dead, but that Ira Cohen, he was nothing like my Edward. He was no good and I knew it from the day he moved in next to me. He didn't treat that girl right, yelling and cussing and carrying on. Makes no difference if she wasn't a good Christian woman, no one deserves to be treated like that. Worse than a dog it was.”

  “You saw them fight?” I asked, finding my voice at last.

  “Can't say I ever saw him hit her, if that's what you mean, but I heard them many a time, even with my hearing like it is.”

  `Arguing?”

  “You could call it that. Hollering and yelling, screaming the worst obscenities you ever heard. And with the boy right there.”

  “Caleb?”

  “Yes, I believe that was his name, from the Bible, you know. He was a quiet boy, kept to himself mostly, never caused no trouble. I hate to think he did that horrible thing, but they say he did so I guess he did it. I suppose he just snapped. People do that, you know? Just snap, the poor boy.”

  “Did you hear Ira and the woman fight the night he died?” Even though Nadine had already admitted it I wanted to see how accurate the old lady's memory was.

  She thought a moment. “I do believe they did, now that you mention it. Not one of their big fights, mind you, just some hollering and cussing. Then she left.”

  So far she was corroborating Nadine's story. “When did you notice the fire? Was it long after she left?”

  “Yes, quite a while. The fire woke me up so it was well after 11:30. I don't sleep too well these days so I stay up to watch the late news. She left hours before, when Wheel of Fortune was still on.”

  “Did you notice anyone else around the house that night?”

  “Not that I can recall, but then I wasn't exactly watching it?”

  “Did you ever seen anyone else at the house any of other time, except for Ira's lady friend?”

  She sat back in her chair and studied me with her filmy eyes. I wondered what she was seeing. Finally she spoke. “I don't see as well as I used to,�
� she began, “one more thing gone along with my hearing and about a dozen other things, but every once in a while I'd see the boy come sneaking out of his house and across the back yard. He'd go around the side of the barn and climb in through the window. Now I'm not a busy-body, but I thought was a bit odd, you understand?”

  That explained the unopened door, I thought. I nodded and she continued.

  “So I watched. It was never very long before another somebody would come creeping across the field and climb through the very same window.”

  I felt my pulse speed up. “This happened often?”

  “Fairly so.”

  “Could you see who it was?” It was too much to hope for but I asked anyway.

  “No, it was too far away and I could only tell it was a person.”

  “You couldn't describe them?”

  “I'm sorry.”

  “Can you tell me where they came from? Was it a boy or a girl? Big or small? Anything at all?”

  “They came from out back, I can't tell you much more than that. It was usually dark or close to it and they just kind of showed up. And I always thought it was a boy for some reason, something about the way he moved, but I can't say for sure. He was small though, that I know.”

  My pulse was racing now fast and furious. Maybe, just maybe, I had stumbled across our first big break.

  Chapter 15

  I left Mrs. Fields with mixed emotions. On the one hand I was excited at the thought that I may have discovered something important. My enthusiasm was somewhat curbed, however, by the overwhelming sense of sadness and loss I felt after my visit with the old lady. Not that she exuded these qualities; in fact, she seemed to have accepted her lot in life with the resigned grace of a true Southern lady. Never-the-less, I was left with an empty feeling that I couldn't quite understand. I resolved to go see her again whether it had any bearing on the case or not.

  My excitement finally won out over my sudden bout of depression and by the time I arrived back at the office I was fairly bursting with the contained news. I fairly exploded into Novak's office wearing a grin that spread from ear to ear. He looked up with mild surprise at my dramatic advent.