Mission Hill

by Pamela Wechsler

  Now the only appeal for me at the Advent, or at any church, is the passing of the peace. I enjoy looking at my neighbor, shaking hands, turning clockwise, and repeating the process. Peace be with you. And also with you.

  “Do you still need me to testify?” Adele says.

  “Yes, I’d like to call you as a witness. I know you’ve gone over everything with Tim. I’ll ask you to tell the jury about Denny. What he is … was … like. I mean before the shooting.”

  “Denny never gave me a minute of trouble when he was coming up.”

  “Does he have siblings?” I say, hoping that Adele has other children to care for and love, and vice versa.

  “No, it’s just the two of us.”

  “The trial will be graphic at times, painful to watch. It’s good to have support.”

  “My pastor is coming. And some people from my choir.”

  A young nurse wearing tie-dyed scrubs comes in. She has a long, thick braid that falls down the length of her back, reminding me of Rodney Quirk’s tattoo.

  “I see he ate some of his dinner.” The nurse picks up his tray and sets it on a side table.

  “He’s trying to get his strength back,” Adele says.

  The nurse changes his catheter bag and checks his vitals. “How are you doing today, Denny?” she says with a smile.

  I take out my iPhone. “If it’s okay, I’d like to film him.”

  “Tim took some pictures. He said he was going to show them on a screen in the courtroom.”

  “Yes, but I’d like to have a video too, if you don’t mind.”

  “Whatever you think is best,” Adele says.

  “Let’s make him look nice.” The nurse props up his pillows and starts to untie his bib.

  “I’d prefer that he not look posed.”

  The jury needs to get the full picture, oatmeal-spattered bib and all. I film Denny amid an assortment of machines and medical devices. He shifts in his bed and grunts. Vomit percolates up the back of my throat and my migraine throbs.

  Kevin sees me struggling. “How about you and I go over your statement, Ms. Mebane?” he says.

  “Excuse me,” I say on my way out the door.

  I creep down the hallway, willing myself forward until I find a bathroom. Staff Only. I step inside and lock myself in. The glare of the fluorescent overhead causes the pain behind my eyes to intensify. I search for the light switch, flick it off, stand in total darkness, and try to get my bearings.

  Once inside the bathroom stall, I break out in a heavy, cold sweat. I throw up, regretting the greasy onion rings I ate for lunch. I flush the toilet, flip down the lid, and sit for a minute, head in hands, waiting for the sweating to subside. My shirt is soaked through. I start to hyperventilate. Someone knocks on the door and tries to open it.

  I take a deep breath. “Just a minute,” I say.

  Turning on the light, I move to the sink and splash cold water on my clammy face. I unbutton my sweater and pull my blouse under the hand dryer. Watching the circles of sweat slowly begin to disappear, a blanket of loneliness envelops me.

  I take out my cell and dial the only person who would understand what I’m going through. After five rings, Tim’s voice mail picks up. I hold the phone tightly to my ear and listen to the sweet sound of his voice. You have reached Tim Mooney. Sorry I can’t take your call right now. If you leave your name and number, I’ll get right back to you. The message ends, the beep sounds. I hang up and call again.

  When I return to Denny’s room, Kevin is asking questions that he already knows the answers to, allowing Adele to share pleasant memories of her son.

  “Where did he go to high school?”

  “Concord-Carlisle. He was a METCO student.” Adele is referring to the state-funded program that gives Boston kids from low-income families the opportunity to go to public schools in more affluent suburbs.

  “That bus must’ve come pretty early.”

  “He got up at five every morning. Those teachers gave him hours of homework every night, and it never seemed to bother him. He wants to invent computer games.”

  “He sounds like a good son, a special man,” I say.

  “He is,” Adele says. “I hope he can still have his dreams.”

  I’m not sure if she means this literally or figuratively, but either way, I hope so too.

  “He also had a part-time job?” Kevin says.

  “Delivering Chinese food. I told him he should work inside the restaurant, waiting tables or filling orders. But he said he liked to meet new people. The lady, Jasmine, the one who got killed, she called for takeout. When she was out on her porch paying her bill, that man, Orlando Jones, started shooting at them. For no reason.”

  “I’m sorry this happened, Adele,” I say.

  “How is Jackie?” she says.

  “You know Jasmine’s mother?”

  “I met her in court last year, at the bail hearing. That’s who I feel for. I don’t have it half as bad as she does. She had to bury her daughter. I still can still visit my son—he’s here with me.”

  Yes, Adele can still visit Denny. But more than that, I’m not so sure.

  Chapter Twelve

  It’s sleeting when we leave the rehab, and there’s a coat of heavy slush on the pavement. With no choice, I slog through it. Icy water seeps into my shoes, causing a sharp pain to surge up my legs. Once inside the car, I leave the door open long enough to tip my shoes and pour the liquid out. My socks are drenched.

  “You look like you’ve been through the wringer.” Kevin turns on the headlights and cranks the heat. “Let’s call it a night.”

  “I should go back to the office. I have a ton of things to do.”

  The windshield wipers move slightly and then get stuck in a mound of wet snow. Kevin blasts the defrost.

  “Is your boyfriend gonna be at your place?”

  I shake my head. “He has a gig tonight at Wally’s.”

  “You shouldn’t spend so much time alone. Get yourself a guy with a regular job, like in a bank.”

  Ty is a brilliant tenor sax player. He performs mostly locally, but he travels every other month or so to New York or San Francisco and four or five times a year to Europe. He won me over last summer at the Newport Jazz Festival with his sublimely seductive rendition of “Body and Soul.” His hours are as unconventional as mine, which is one of the reasons we’re compatible. Tonight, however, I agree with Kevin. I don’t want to go home to an empty apartment.

  “I have to look through the motions in limine and jury instructions. How about you drop me off at Bulfinch.”

  “It’s after ten. I’m taking you home. If you want to make yourself sick, you’re on your own.”

  We veer onto the Jamaica Way, and Kevin takes a call from his wife. As they talk, we pass the Winsor School and the spot where Crystal’s body landed on the side of the road. The heat of my breath fogs the side window.

  By the time we reach the Back Bay, the wet snow turns into softer, fluffier flakes. A lone cross-country skier glides down the snow-covered mall in the center of Commonwealth Avenue. He moves his arms and legs rhythmically, forward and back, leaving a narrow trail in his wake.

  I remember being ten years old, bounding through knee-high snow with my brothers, Charlie and George. Wearing down parkas and L.L. Bean boots, we’d race each other up and down the mall. When we were fully exhausted, we’d fall onto our backs, moving our arms and legs in semicircles to form snow angels.

  What started out as a joyful frolic in the snow would inevitably evolve into a heated competition over who could run faster or form the most perfectly symmetrical figure. Our nanny, Magdalena, was the self-appointed judge. She awarded the winner our most coveted prize—selecting that night’s dessert. Charlie, her favorite, was almost always crowned the victor, whether the competition involved snow angels, swan dives, or sand castles. Even though the games were rigged, I always held out hope and gave it my all.

  Kevin pulls up to my front door. I get out and cl
imb over a pile of snow amassed between two cars. When I start to lose my footing, I lean on the hood of an Escalade, causing the alarm to blare. Gabe, a maintenance worker from my building, is nearby, holding a bucket full of green salt and sprinkling it onto the sidewalk. He hears the commotion, comes to my aid, and helps me inside.

  Manny is at the reception counter. He greets me and hands me an envelope.

  “Mr. Epps in 7-C asked me to be sure to get this to you. It’s from the homeowners’ association.”

  I open the envelope and unfold the letter. Second Notice of Delinquency. Your condominium fees are 60 days past due. Failure to pay will result in the issuance of a lien, and the commencement of foreclosure proceedings.

  “The condo board has had it out for me since the day I moved in.”

  “Maybe they just want their money,” Manny says.

  I stuff the papers in my tote and press the button for the elevator.

  “I’ve been kind of busy.”

  He purses his lips and blows out air. “Those condo fees pay my salary.”

  The elevator doors open and I step into the car. “Sorry, I’ll do it tomorrow.”

  Manny is the last person I want to offend. He’s the only one in the building I care about. It’s not that I don’t have the money—I have ample funds. The family trustee deposits $15,000 into my checking account every month, and if I need more, all I have to do is ask. But I’ve had more pressing matters. Plus, there’s an element of passive aggression aimed at the condo board that I enjoy. I guess I’ll have to find another way to express myself, like leaving a brick of Limburger cheese in the trash room or taking up tap dancing.

  The dead bolt on my front door is unlatched; my housekeeper must have forgotten to set the lock. Opening the door slowly, I hear the swaying sound of bossa nova music. Ty is in the kitchen doing something I’ve never seen him do before: cooking dinner.

  “I thought you were performing tonight.” I fling my coat over a chair.

  Ty puts down a bottle of olive oil and wipes his hands on a dish towel. “I heard about what happened.”

  “You canceled your gig?”

  “I’d never leave you alone at a time like this.” He looks me in the eye and gives me a gentle kiss. “I tried calling a bunch of times, but you didn’t pick up. I was worried.”

  I remove my waterlogged $475 Ferragamos and toss them in the trash. They might be salvageable, but it feels good to discard something, shed some part of this horrific day.

  “Are you okay?” he says.

  Sapped of energy and emotion, I look at Ty and start to speak but don’t know what to say. He wraps me in his arms, holds me close, and makes me feel safe. We share a moment of silent intimacy until I pull away.

  In the kitchen, Ty uses a fork to lift two steaks out of a marinade and throw them on the grill. Small flames shoot up as the meat starts to sizzle.

  “Smells good,” I say.

  “I figured all you’ve had to eat today is a bag of popcorn, like twelve hours ago. You need protein.”

  He whisks together a vinaigrette, tosses a salad, and finishes grilling the steaks. After he plates the food, we move to the dining room table. I remove my laptop and brush aside a stack of papers to make room for two place settings. He brings out a bottle of Malbec and two cloth napkins.

  I slump into a chair. “I really appreciate this.”

  “I got you,” he says.

  The meat is tender and juicy, but after my second bite, I start to feel queasy. I put the fork down and sip my wine. I check my cell: nineteen missed calls, one hundred and six e-mails on my office account. I don’t even want see what’s in my personal account.

  “Your father stopped by,” Ty says.

  I look up from my phone. “My father was here?”

  “He seemed pretty freaked out, said he’s been calling all over the place, trying to reach you.”

  “What time was he here?”

  “A few hours ago. Looked like he was on his way home from the gym.”

  “He doesn’t belong to one—he works out at the Harvard Club.”

  Ty and my father have never met. So far, it’s been easy to avoid introductions since my parents are never in Boston at times when most families gather—Thanksgiving and Christmas. As an only child of divorced narcissists, Ty is used to spending holidays on tour or with friends. If he finds it odd that I haven’t invited him home to meet my parents, he’s kept it to himself.

  I rarely talk to my family about anything personal, including boyfriends, and Ty is no exception. I don’t want to subject myself to the scrutiny. I wonder if my father is shocked that I’m dating a black man. My parents are elitists, not racists, but this is still Boston. We like to think we’re evolved when it comes to issues of race, but there’s a deep history of division that still hasn’t fully dissipated.

  I have a hard time imagining Ty and my father, standing across from each other in my living room. Ty clad in jeans and a T-shirt; my father, in a dark suit, holding a briefcase and a squash racket.

  “That must have been awkward,” I say. “He never comes here.”

  “It was fine. We were going to meet this weekend anyhow.”

  I look at him blankly and sip my wine.

  “Your brother’s wedding is on Saturday, right?” he says.

  “Oh, shit.”

  During a moment of weakness, I extended a wedding invitation to Ty and then promptly blocked it out of my consciousness.

  He takes a few bites of steak, has a sip of wine. “Your father didn’t seem to know anything about me. He’s probably got a few questions, like, ‘Why didn’t you tell me that you’re practically living with someone?’”

  Ty deserves an explanation, but fully unraveling the reasons for my neurotic secrecy will take insight and a good therapist, and at the moment, I don’t have either.

  “Did he try to enlist you in his campaign to get me to quit my job?”

  He refills our wineglasses and looks at me. “Everyone is worried, especially after what happened last night.”

  “You think I should quit too?”

  “I didn’t say that. I’ll text your father, let him know you’re okay.”

  “He gave you his number?”

  The thought of Ty and my father engaged in a conspiratorial relationship aimed at getting me to leave the DA’s office makes me feel a combination of comfort, frustration, and fear.

  Ty looks at my plate. “You barely touched your dinner,” he says.

  I drop my head into my hands. “I don’t know what I’m doing anymore.”

  “Baby, it’s going to be okay.”

  Suddenly the dam breaks. My body trembles, and tears fall, slowly at first and then a flood. My breathing turns into soft hiccups that evolve into deep, chest-heaving sobs. It goes on for several minutes. I don’t even try to make it stop. Ty hands me tissue, stays by my side, rubs my back.

  “I’m in over my head. It’s like I’m drowning.”

  “You’ve got to be exhausted.”

  He takes my hand, leads me into the bedroom, and helps me remove my clothes. He pulls down the covers, and I fall into bed.

  “Try to sleep.” He turns off the light.

  “Can you leave the door open a little?”

  After he’s gone, I close my eyes and listen: Ty’s footsteps as he walks across the living room floor. The clattering of plates as he clears the table. The clinking of silverware as he puts it in the dishwasher. The whoosh of the machine as he turns it on.

  The terrace door slides open—he’s gone outside to smoke a joint. I’d like to join him, escape my reality. Instead, I snuggle into the down comforter, sink my head deeper into the pillow, and recite my list. Tonight I add my newest killer: number twenty-seven, Orlando Jones, gunned down three people as they sat on a porch, enjoying a summer night.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Bulfinch Place is empty at six A.M.; the next person won’t arrive for hours. I run my security badge over the sensor and press the el
evator button for the eighth floor. The suite that houses the homicide unit is quiet, the only noise the hissing of heating vents.

  The corridors are lined with scores of banker’s boxes, swollen with files and stacked from floor to ceiling. About a dozen of the boxes have my name on them, my most recently closed cases. Number twenty-three, Mauricio Flores, stabbed his neighbor with a broken beer bottle. Number twenty-four, Riley Stimpson, shot a pharmacist during a stickup. Every month, a clerk inventories the contents of these boxes, transfers them into enormous plastic tubs, and transports them to our on-site storage facility in the basement.

  The automatic lights kick in when I enter the threshold to my office. I search my desk drawers for a K-Cup and find a gift-wrapped box of Dunkin’ Donuts coffee from last month’s Yankee Swap. My coffee mug is plain black. I have cups with identifying logos—the Ogunquit Playhouse, MoMA, or the Santa Fe Opera—but I leave them at home. The milk in my minifridge expired two weeks ago. I toss the carton in the trash and check my briefcase for a stray sugar packet. In the side pocket, I find last night’s steak, wrapped in tinfoil. I smile, thinking about Ty, how thoughtful it was for him to pack my lunch.

  I sip my coffee as I walk down the hallway and around the corner to the organized crime section. Bright-yellow tape is stretched across the doorway to Tim’s office, blocking entry. Crime Scene—Do Not Enter.

  Two days ago Tim was sitting in the chair behind his desk. We were laughing about Detective “Inch” Donovan and whether I should demand that he stop calling me “Toots.” Tim said he thought the term was demeaning, that I should be offended. I said I didn’t mind, that it’s endearing.

  Tim wasn’t the most organized lawyer and he had a tendency to hoard. His desk is buried under stacks of files. Piles of papers, exhibits, maps, diagrams line his floor. There’s a spent shell casing from an old investigation on a bookshelf. Reams of grand jury minutes are spread on a table. Soon investigators will review every item in this room, hoping to gain insight into his murder.