“We didn’t have much choice. If we’d buried him in the yard, someone might have seen us. If we’d dumped him in the channel, come spring, the cops would have found themselves a floater.” Walter drained his cup. “I was a bricklayer, Dee. I did what I knew. Tucked him in that second floor fireplace, emptied a sack of lime on him, bricked it up.”
She remembered it all. Walter plastering over the brick, so no one would guess what was behind the wall, opening windows and sealing the bedroom door shut real good, which didn’t stop the smell coming through. She’d packed up the babies and moved to her parents’s place for a few months, telling everyone that George had run off with another woman. Her family said she was better off. They never could stand him. His family didn’t say much, though his father was good about the money, sending a check every month. For his grandkids, he’d said. He’d kept it up until the kids were in school, and she could get a job.
“How about another coffee?” Walter got to his feet. “No Irish this time, or we’ll both nod off.” Without waiting for an answer, he went out to the kitchen.
The first night she was back home, she’d called Walter, and the two of them went straight to bed. He’d made it plain before he even kicked off his shoes that he’d never leave his wife, which was fine with her. Four years of George was enough marriage for a lifetime. She’d have turned down the King of England, Clark Gable, and Frank Sinatra rolled into one.
Walter returned with their coffees, set hers down, and gave her a sleepy smile, fighting a yawn.
“You need a nap?” She shot him a knowing look, and he laughed. That’s how they used to say it, “Time for a nap.”
He took his seat and rubbed his face. “What happened to us, Delilah? Why did it end?”
“We had our time. Close to ten years, wasn’t it? And then it was over. Better that way than having some priest tell us we had to stay together until we hated each other’s guts.” Like you and that whining little pussycat you married, she thought, irritation cutting through her whiskey haze. She had to figure out what to do about the house, and he was no damn help at all.
Walter, the mind reader. As usual, he knew what she was thinking.
“There’s nothing to worry about,” he said. “First off, they pull down the house, they find some old bones behind that brick wall. Those bones could have been there since before you and George bought the place.”
“You don’t know what you’re talking about. Don’t you watch that show on TV? They got forensics now. They can test those bones and tell you who they belong to, when he died, and what he had for breakfast.”
Walter made a face.
“It’s the truth.” Talking to this man was getting her nowhere.
“Okay. Let’s say they figure out it’s George behind that wall. The cops come and ask you questions. And you— you’re eighty-five years old?”
“Eighty-four,” she snapped.
“Same as. They ask you about George and you say, ‘Who’s George?’ They say, ‘He was your husband,’ and you say, ‘Husband? Did I have a husband? What did you say his name was?’”
Delilah stared at him. “You’re telling me I’m supposed to pretend I’m a senile old fool?”
He leaned forward, arms resting on his knees. “There’s nothing to it. Don’t you get it, Dee? They expect you to be a senile old fool. They think we’re all old fools. You think they’re going to prosecute an eighty-five—” he held up his hands “—eighty-four year old woman who doesn’t know back from front? You’re home free, Delilah.”
“That’s your big solution? Play like I’m mental?”
He didn’t answer. In the long silence, Delilah felt her heart bumping the way it wasn’t supposed to. She needed to lie down and she wanted Walter, just about nodding off in the chair, out of her house.
“Speaking of cops . . .” she waited for him to open his eyes “. . . your keeper’s going to call in a missing-persons if you don’t get home soon.”
“I guess you’re right about that.” He yawned and shook his head. Then, with that sideways look of his, “You know what I was thinking? Maybe I could stop by every once in a while. I’ve been missing those ginger snaps of yours, Dee.” He winked, as she knew he would.
Just what she needed. An old man drinking her whiskey and falling asleep in her living room. “We’ll see about that,” she said.
Walter stood, then helped her up. She leaned on his arm as they walked to the door. He smiled down at her and patted her hand. “As far as the police go, there’s nothing to worry about. I promise you, Dee. Just do what I said.” Before he left, he stooped and kissed her cheek, the feel of his lips reminding her how long it had been since anyone had done that.
Delilah limped to the grey chair, pain shooting through her knee, and sank back against the cushion. She’d rest a minute, then take a pain pill. She’d told herself that Walter would know what to do, and what had he come up with? Pretend you’re gaga, Delilah, the way your mother was at the end. Her mother, looking at the family as if they were strangers, trying to read the newspaper upside-down, taking off after everyone was asleep. And where had they found her? Squatting in the middle of Allen Avenue, in her nightgown, taking a pee.
It wasn’t going to happen to her. Playing the fool for a bunch of cops was not the way she was going to leave this world. Neither was prison. Delilah’s chest tightened at the thought of a cell door clanging shut, with her locked inside.
There was only one way out, as far as she could see— and why not? Living in this place was like being buried alive. The problem was Walter. She let out a long sigh, thinking about him, not the old man yawning in her living room, but the young buck who’d come to her back door, sixty years before. In the time they were together, there’d been plenty of talk on the street, with his truck parked for hours in front of her house. The police would put it together in a minute, if they got hold of a neighbor with a big mouth and a long memory. Who else would have helped her get rid of George, but his partner, the bricklayer?
Well, she’d make sure Walter was left out of it. She shut her eyes, trying to remember. The man who’d worked with George before Walter. Underwood? No. It took a minute, but then it came. Phil Untermyer.
Delilah found paper and pencil in the kitchen and wrote her note, spelling it out, all true except for giving credit for the brickwork to Phil Untermyer, dead a good twenty years, now. He was sweet on me, she wrote by way of explanation. Then a P.S. If you get here and I’m not dead, do us all a favor and don’t even think about pumping my stomach.
She propped the note on her nightstand. Then, sitting on the edge of the bed, she counted out the pain pills, her hand trembling. Only eight left, but that should do it.
Scraps of memory were coming at her, like litter blowing down a windy street. Her father, piling the kids into his small boat, heading down Shell Bank Creek with the wind in their faces and a sack of hard-boiled eggs for lunch. Her wedding day, knowing she was making a mistake, then her mother asking, minutes before they left for the church, “Are you sure about this, Delilah?” Her kids, both gone. Her son, nineteen years old, in Vietnam, and her daughter to cancer.
Then, she thought about Shadow, the dog they’d had when she was a kid, a big black mutt. You gave that dog a bone, and even after the last scrap of meat was gone, he kept chewing. She remembered the wild look in the animal’s eyes the night a sliver of bone got stuck in his throat. He died right in front of them on the kitchen floor, her father in tears, saying, “Smartest dog I ever had, and he didn’t know when to drop the damn bone.”
Delilah sipped the Jameson from the glass on her nightstand, watching the branches of a tree dip and sway outside the bedroom window, the silence broken by a distant car horn. What the hell.
“Drop the bone, Delilah,” she whispered, surprised at how husky her voice came out. Then she tossed the pills down, two at a time, with the whiskey for a chaser.
THE DOORMAN BUILDING
Anne-Marie Sutton
“HERE, Mrs. A., let me grab that before you drop it.”
Sarah Armstrong extended her right arm, where the plastic bag from the wine shop was cutting into her wrist.
“Thanks, Carlos,” she said, as the always-eager young doorman slid the two bottles of wine from her hand and waited patiently while she readjusted the bags of groceries in her arms. It didn’t escape her notice that he checked out its contents before handing the bag back to her. She didn’t care. There were millions of people living in New York City, and she supposed half of them would soon be settling down to a drink to start their evening.
Upstairs, she unpacked her groceries and put the white wine in the fridge and the bottle of red on the counter. The apartment was sterile, a boxy set of small rooms in a sixties high rise. Her son, Will, a freshman at New York University, lived here, and she was only using the apartment while he was in Florida on Spring Break. Buying the Greenwich Village apartment— convenient to NYU’s Washington Square campus— rather than paying for a dorm room, had been her husband’s idea. Tom made a ton of money as a venture capitalist, and last fall, when Will had started classes, the Manhattan real estate market was in the toilet because of the recession.
“Buying an apartment in the Village will be a good investment,” Tom had explained. “In four years, we can sell it. Or, if Will wants to work in the city, he’ll be all set.” That was the kind of life they led. Enough money for everything.
She herself had grown up in an affluent environment in San Fernando Valley, a Val Gal to the roots of her dyed-blonde hair. Now, she lived in their family’s rambling restored farmhouse in equally-affluent Westport, Connecticut. But Sarah had found herself drawn to Greenwich Village from her first visit. Secretly, she had wanted Will to live in a basement apartment like the ones in Hollywood movies, where the neighbors were all lovable eccentrics, and an Italian restaurant with red-checkered tablecloths and straw baskets of Chianti stood on the corner.
Of course, Tom would have none of it. “It’s got to be a doorman building. That’s a safety feature, Sarah. You don’t want to be awake at night, worrying.”
Now, Will’s apartment was her temporary home for a whole delicious week of going native in the Village. Tom was in Asia until the end of the month, and her time was all her own. She was free to spend her days exploring the zig-zag West Village streets with their nineteenth-century houses, trendy clothing boutiques, and contemporary art galleries.
“Wait a minute,” she said out loud, surveying the groceries lined up on the counter. “Where are the mushrooms? I was sure I put them in my basket.” But there were no mushrooms.
Sarah briefly considered doing without. But what was mushroom risotto without mushrooms? Then she began to laugh. She didn’t have to drive ten miles to her suburban supermarket. There was a greengrocer on the corner. RETURNING to the building, Sarah pushed open the lobby door, surprised not to meet the ever-vigilant Carlos. It had already occurred to her that he was expecting a generous tip at the end of her stay.
He was at the reception desk, talking to a tall, young woman dressed in faded jeans and a worn black leather jacket. On her back was a bulging purple knapsack. Seeing Sarah, the doorman stopped the conversation. Alerted, the young woman whirled around, her long red hair brushing her shoulders.
“Is that her?” she demanded. Sarah stared at the woman, examining her flashing dark green eyes. “Mrs. Armstrong?”
Sarah almost said no, so much did the woman make her feel ill at ease. But politeness was inbred, and Sarah said, “Hello, how can I help you?”
“I’m a friend of Will’s. I need to see him.”
“I’ve just been telling her— Carlos began, but was cut off.
“Is he lying? He’s lying, isn’t he? He said Will’s gone away.”
“Yes, he has,” Sarah said evenly. “He’ll be back next week.” She turned to go and felt the woman clutching her arm.
“Wait.”
“What do you want?” Sarah asked, alarmed, as the girl began to stagger. Sarah held her up, surprised at the heaviness of the backpack. “Are you all right? Are you sick?”
“I haven’t eaten all day,” the other woman whispered.
Without hesitation, Sarah guided her toward the elevator. You couldn’t make just a little mushroom risotto. There would be plenty for two.
“WHY is it so important that you see Will, Tessa?” Sarah asked after she put the dinner dishes in the dishwasher. Half a bottle of the Chardonnay had made it easier to question her unexpected guest. She’d learned that Tessa Noonan was a scholarship student, whose only close relative was an elderly grandmother in Patchogue, Long Island. Going without regular meals appeared the norm in her life.
“I got thrown out of my apartment.” The words came out in a rush. “Four of us share a walk-up, over on Second Avenue, but I didn’t pay my part of the rent this month. It’s happened before, so they asked me to leave.” She bit at her lip. “It’s only four hundred dollars, but my work has been slow.”
“What kind of work do you do?”
“I temp. February was a short month, and I . . . well, I just don’t have the money.”
Sarah thought of Will and his generous allowance. In the past, he’d no doubt helped her out with her rent. She wondered where Tessa planned to sleep tonight, but that was a stupid question. She’d obviously expected Will to give her money and a bed.
The next morning, Sarah was up early. She started the coffee maker in the small kitchen. Tessa, hearing the noise, came sleepily into the room. She was wearing a faded blue T-shirt and bikini underpants.
“I’m meeting a friend from Westport at the Guggenheim at ten,” Sarah said. It was a lie, but she wanted some urgency attached to Tessa’s leaving. She reached in the pocket of her robe and took out several folded bills. “I can lend you some money,” she said hurriedly, suddenly uncomfortable doing what had seemed so reasonable a decision last night. “Pay it back to Will when you can.”
There was no look of surprise on Tessa’s face at the offer of another handout from the Armstrong family. She took the money from Sarah’s outstretched hand.
“Thanks.”
“Do you want some coffee?” Sarah asked. She heard the irritated tone in her voice, but the young woman didn’t seem to notice it.
“Don’t have time. I need to see one of my professors and get an extension on a paper I was supposed to hand in last week.”
After she was gone, Sarah straightened up the living room. Tessa’s pillow and blankets were in a heap on the sofa. When she shook out the blanket, an iPod fell to the floor. She hadn’t noticed Tessa using one, but guessed it had helped her to fall asleep last night. It was pink, and Sarah read the engraving on the back. To my girl, Your Chaz. Well, she thought, Will should know how to get this back to her. She opened the drawer of the sofa table and put it inside. As she turned to go toward the bathroom to take her shower, her foot caught on something under the table. Peering down, she saw the purple backpack.
WHEN Sarah returned, the evening doorman was on duty.
“Martin,” she said, “I left a backpack with Carlos this morning. Can you tell me if the owner picked it up?”
Martin looked under the desk. “Was it purple?” Sarah nodded. “It’s here, ma’am.” And, without asking, he handed it back to Sarah.
“Thanks,” she said, disappointedly. “If the owner comes for it, buzz me.”
Upstairs, Sarah kicked off her shoes, and while she was pouring herself a glass of wine, she was startled to hear a key in the lock. The extra security lock and chain were on, so the handle continued to rattle. “Damn,” she said, “I wish she had told me that Will gave her a key.”
But when she opened the door, it was not Tessa who was standing there. “Who are you?” she asked a slightly built young man she had never seen before.
“Oliver Castello,” her visitor said, with an engaging smile. “I’m a friend of Will’s.”
“I’m Will’s mother. Sarah Armstrong.” Oliver extend
ed his hand, and Sarah shook it. “Will’s not here,” she said, staring pointedly at the key in the lock.
Oliver looked sheepish. “I didn’t know anyone was home. I was going to crash for the night.”
“Here?”
“Look, I’m sorry, really I am. I didn’t know you were here. Will always lets me use the place when he’s away. I live in a dorm. Three of us in a room. My bed is a bunk bed. Can you believe it? For the money it costs my parents? They give me half a bed!”
“Come in for a minute,” Sarah said, holding the door open. “You may be able to help me.”
“Anything,” he said, his eyes resting on the wine glass. “I wouldn’t say no to a beer. Will usually has some.”
Sarah nodded. “I can see you know your way around the place.”
“Will’s my best friend,” Oliver called from the kitchen.
Funny, he’s never mentioned you, thought Sarah. Nor Tessa, for that matter. But she smiled sweetly at Oliver when he returned, beer in hand. He was an attractive boy, with an unruly shock of black hair, and large, twinkling, brown eyes. Without an invitation, he sat down on the sofa and took a contented swig from the bottle. “Do you know Tessa Noonan?” Sarah came right to the point.
Oliver frowned. “Tessa? What about Tessa?”
“How can I get in touch with her? Do you have her cell phone number?” Oliver shook his head. “But she’s a friend of yours . . . and Will’s, I gather.”
“I wouldn’t exactly call her my friend, and I don’t think Will does anymore.”
“Oh? Why is that?”
“She’s nuts. An A-Number-One nut job.”
“In what way?”
“She’s a psych major. They’re all nuts. You don’t want to know her.”
“I’ve already met her. I want to return something that she left here.”
Oliver started forward. “She was here? When?”
“Last night. This apartment is like Grand Central Station.” Oliver laughed. “Tessa came to see Will and then managed to leave without her backpack.”
Oliver’s eyes circled the room. When he saw the purple backpack on Will’s desk chair, he was off the sofa and opening it in an instant.
Fresh Slices Page 2
