“You’re Greta’s son,” Dorothy said, surprised. “No wonder you looked familiar.”
Her face seemed to whiten, and she nearly stumbled as she sank abruptly into her favorite chair. After a few seconds, she said, “Yes, I can see her in you. The shape of the forehead, and your chin.”
“You knew my mother.” Bruce appeared nearly overcome. “She died when I was four. I hardly knew her. Please, tell me everything you remember about her,” he begged.
“It’s a long story, boy,” Dorothy said, sighing. “Pamela, where’s that iced tea?” Pam scurried off to the kitchen and poured three tall glasses, slammed them onto a tray with some cookies and napkins, and rushed back. It looked as if neither of the other two had said a word since she’d left the room. They were recovering from the shock.
“You must have known my mother well to have her photo displayed after all these years. Tell me everything you know about her. Please,” he added in a voice rough with emotion.
Yet there had been something off in Bruce’s air of surprise. He’d been shocked to see the photo, Pam was sure of that. Not the rest. Still, he seemed almost desperate and that came across as completely sincere.
“It’s a sad story, young man, are you sure you want to hear it?” Dorothy asked.
He nodded. “Yes. Yes, I do.”
Dorothy took a sip of her tea. She seemed to be looking back across the years. Finally, she began, “Greta was a good friend of mine during the war—World War II, you know. We both came from the same neighborhood on the West Side, went to the same high school, knew each other’s families. Most of us worked in the war effort. She and I worked in the same place.”
“Yes, we’ve all heard about Rosie the Riveter,” he said, impatience in his tone.
“Greta wasn’t a factory girl, nor was I. She worked in a nice clean office as a clerk, like many girls. Mostly typing.”
She took another sip of her tea. She grimaced. “It was boring work, but then most women’s work back then was. Office work didn’t even have the excitement of being different during wartime. It was more of the same drudgery. Greta had too much spunk to put in the long hours required during wartime and then do nothing else. So she volunteered at the USO dances.”
Bruce winced.
Dorothy saw it and said in a quelling tone of voice, “Get your mind out of the gutter. It was respectable. The girls danced with the boys and that’s all. They weren’t prostitutes.”
Bruce slowly nodded.
She continued. “Lots of boys convinced girls to marry them. Roger, your father, was one of those boys.”
Bruce spoke. “Aunt Nora never said much about either of them.”
“Nora, of course.” Dorothy nodded, as if that explained why Bruce was asking questions. “She was Greta’s much younger sister, too young to be part of Greta’s social circle. She would not know any of the details. Greta and Roger made a secret marriage, like many during wartime. Greta never told anyone except me until after the war was over.”
“Wouldn’t her family have known?” Pam asked. “Didn’t most young unmarried women still live with their parents back then?”
Dorothy nodded. “Greta did, indeed. They cooked up an elopement. Roger couldn’t get permission to marry from his CO, who was under orders to discourage impulsive weddings. Instead, Roger arranged a weekend pass. Meanwhile, Greta told her parents she was staying with my family for the weekend because she and I were going to a party. They eloped to Elkton, Maryland, and returned home two days later.”
“They didn’t get caught?”
“No, which was a miracle because Greta didn’t tip me off about the elopement until after they came back. She was determined to marry Roger, and she didn’t ask anyone’s advice or permission. He shipped out the very next week.”
“What happened after the war?”
“Roger came home, of course,” she replied. “They started wearing their wedding rings, told her family, and set up housekeeping. She was fired from her job because she was married. With the men back, women weren’t supposed to work anymore. She had you soon after.”
“What a tough world it was for women,” Pam commented, mostly to herself.
“Don’t waste any tears for Greta’s lost career as a clerical worker,” Dorothy said. “It was dull stuff. We women wanted to get back to home life, which at least had some variety every day and only one boss to please.”
She took a breath. “Now where was I? Oh, after the war. Greta and Roger got a tiny house in Ronkonkoma, a cottage, really. It had two small rooms on the main floor, plus a kitchen and bathroom, and two tiny bedrooms upstairs. The stairs were very steep.”
Dorothy stopped talking. At first, Bruce made no move. When Dorothy didn’t resume speaking, he reminded her of where she was in her story.
“They were living in the tiny house…”
“Oh. Yes.” Dorothy shook off her daydream state and resumed. “One day, I got a call from Nora. Greta had taken a bad fall down those stairs and died. Roger was overcome with grief. A couple of weeks later, he cracked up his car and was killed. Your aunt and uncle stepped in to raise you. A sad story, but a happy ending for you, I think,” she finished. “You were happy with your aunt and uncle’s family?”
“Sure. Of course.” It was clear Bruce’s attention was hardly on what he was saying. Bruce stared at Dorothy, searching her face. No one spoke.
Finally, he sighed and said in a sad tone, “Dorothy, please tell me the truth. Aunt Nora told me what little she knows.”
“What do you mean?” Pam asked.
Bruce didn’t spare her a glance. “Later,” he said, in a low tone. “Please, Dorothy,” he urged, fastening his insistent gaze on her. “I have to know. Please, tell me.”
His eyes were locked with Dorothy’s. She appeared to be struggling with some emotion. Dorothy sighed. A lone tear began to leak out of one eye. Pam couldn’t remember seeing her mother cry. Ever.
“He killed her, son.”
Pam gasped, but they both ignored her.
Bruce set his teeth. “Aunt Nora said that. How do you know for sure? How do you know?”
Dorothy had never been the type of woman who liked being pushed into a corner. Or verbally hounded. Predictably, she lashed out. “Because I made him admit it.”
Bruce released his breath.
Dorothy had more to say. “He pushed her around for five long years and got away with it. She claimed the bruises and black eyes were all because she was clumsy. Clumsy, hah. She was a graceful woman.”
She made an angry gesture with her hands. “He isolated her from her friends and family. He kept her a virtual prisoner in that house. When I gave you the dog for your fourth birthday, she begged me not to stay that afternoon. Not even to share the birthday cake I’d brought. The next day, I came back and she had a bruise on her face.”
Bruce’s face had an ashen cast. He nodded. “I always remembered that day. The slap he gave her. It’s one of my most vivid memories. I even remembered you, Dorothy.”
Dorothy smiled sadly. “You look like Greta. No wonder I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately.”
“What did he—what did my father tell you about my mother’s death?”
Dorothy had begun to look pale herself. The strain of talking about her old friend was showing on her face.
Pam intervened. It was too much for her mother. “Can’t you see she’s exhausted?”
“I need to know,” Bruce said.
“Come back tomorrow, then.”
“No,” Dorothy’s voice had regained its strength. “Tomorrow, I might not remember. Today I do.”
Pam cast her a stricken glance. Was Dorothy aware that she had mental deficits?
Dorothy nodded, “I’m not the only one who suspects I’m having trouble with my memory, I see. It must be now, today.”
She straightened in her chair. “Your aunt was hysterical at the funeral. After Joe pulled her off Roger, and we calmed her down, I promised her I would ge
t justice for Greta. I went to Roger’s home and confronted him. I took a gun with me.” Once more her voice seemed to be echoing far off days.
“He was already drunk. Cocky. I told him he was a murderer. He laughed at me, dared me to prove it. I claimed I had a letter from Greta in which she had confessed every horrible thing he had done to her. How she was in fear for her life.”
She smiled. It wasn’t a nice smile. “There was no such letter, of course. I convinced him that it was only a matter of time before I made the letter public.”
Dorothy fell silent. No one spoke.
She took up the tale again. “In those days, no one enforced laws against wife beaters. That’s what abusers were called. He would not have gone to jail, but wife beating was considered low-class behavior. Roger was trying to rise in his career as an engineer. If a credible story circulated about him as a wife beater and a possible murderer, the scandal would have finished him.
“I convinced Roger I would destroy him. He resisted me for a while, and then he crumpled. He started sobbing, saying that ever since the war, he’d had these dreadful headaches and flashbacks. When he had them, he wasn’t in control of himself. Maybe he’d knocked Greta around. He claimed he hadn’t meant to.”
Dorothy sneered. “I was supposed to find this confession sympathetic. Today he would have said he had post traumatic stress disorder. Nice excuse for hitting a woman.” Dorothy’s voice held trenchant disgust.
“What did you do?” Pam asked, apprehensive.
“I laughed at him. I said I knew he threw Greta down the stairs deliberately and I was going to ruin him. He kept denying it. He claimed she fell entirely on her own.”
Bruce let out a curse.
“I’d had enough. I told him I should shoot him dead but that would be too good for him. If he did not turn himself in to the authorities in two weeks, I would send the letter to the newspaper. He saw I meant it. Then I left.”
She smiled that tough smile again. “I called him every night for the next two weeks. He learned I would not back down or forget about it. Then one night, he told me to come over and take little Bruce. That was the night he crashed his car.”
“I ran over to the house and found you all alone with your puppy. His suicide note was on the kitchen table. In it, he said he was sorry he had accidentally killed Greta. He wished you a good life. Justice was finally served.
“The police called, with the news that Roger was dead. They asked who I was, and said an officer would arrive soon. I turned on the gas stove and burned the suicide note. You and I were playing dominoes when they arrived. They could smell the scent of the fire in the air, but I had quickly put a candle in a cupcake I’d brought you, and they couldn’t prove anything else had happened.
“I told them about Nora and Joe, who came right over and took you. Then I went home.”
“You never told Aunt Nora about the note?” Bruce sounded skeptical.
“No. It was better if she didn’t know your father was responsible for Greta’s death. Then you never would, either.”
“What an amazing story,” he said. The creases in his face were much more pronounced than usual. He looked suddenly older.
Dorothy inclined her head.
Bruce stood and paced the length of the sunroom. Then he turned around and sent Dorothy a penetrating look. “Did it happen that way? I doubt it. My father wasn’t a murderer.”
Dorothy’s head snapped up and her gaze pierced him. She frowned. “You don’t believe me?”
“I believe some of it.”
“How can you say that?” Pam asked, outraged. Dorothy Duncan always spoke the truth.
Bruce turned to her. “Your mother is a talented actress, that’s why. Aunt Nora told me Dorothy promised she would make sure my father died. He did die. But then why did she destroy the note? If a suicide note ever existed.”
Dorothy heaved herself up and then swayed. Pam rushed to support her.
“I’ve said all I’m going to, young man,” Dorothy said. “Be satisfied. Nothing I say will bring back either of your parents.”
She walked toward her bedroom suite, assisted by Pam, who could feel the trembling in her mother’s body. Pam cast an angry look over her shoulder at Bruce. How dare he contradict Dorothy? Her mother never lied.
She helped settle her mother in for a nap on the chaise in her large, airy bedroom.
“Poor Greta,” Dorothy said. Her voice shook with remembered emotion. “She was such a striking, wonderful girl, Pamela. So full of life. I still miss her.”
“What a shame,” Pam said, wanting to make Dorothy comfortable quickly. Pam intended to go back to the sunroom and confront Bruce. She mumbled soothing words as she tucked an afghan around her mother’s legs. “Can you rest now?”
Dorothy threw her a tart look. “Of course. I’m strong. Don’t worry about me.”
Despite her protests, the tragedy from nearly sixty years ago still had the power to pain Dorothy. If only Bruce had not forced open the door to the past.
Chapter 27
When Pam returned to the sunroom, she found Bruce waiting near the door to the patio. Traitor.
Her first words were cool. “I’m surprised you’re still here.”
Bruce’s expression changed. Evidently her tone had stung. Good. She continued, rising anger in her voice. “Did you think I would ignore that you hurt my mother? You rented the house next door to gain her confidence, didn’t you?”
“Yes.”
Her jaw dropped at his open admission. “You deliberately made up to a vulnerable old woman, reviving her memories of a painful time in her life. That’s low.”
Bruce winced, but he didn’t show any other sign of remorse.
“Was anything you told us about yourself true?” Pam asked, an edge of contempt in her tone.
He cursed under his breath. “Get off your high horse, Pam. I haven’t lied.”
He must have known she didn’t want him to touch her, for he didn’t try.
“You made love to me merely to get closer to Dorothy, didn’t you?” She tried to keep the pain out of her voice, tried to keep her spine straight under the blow of realizing she’d been used, too.
“No, Pam.” His expression softened. “I swear it.”
He moved closer to her but she backed away. “Don’t touch me.”
Bruce’s expression turned hurt, even righteous. “Whatever you believe about my intentions toward Dorothy, what you and I have together is real.”
His eyes searched her face hopefully, but Pam wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of seeing how fraught her emotions were. The revelation of his secret agenda had changed everything. She couldn’t trust him now.
“Please leave,” she said. “I suggest you cancel your rental and go home. I won’t allow you to harass my mother further.”
“I have no intention of harassing Dorothy,” Bruce replied, angry now. “I like her. I just want the truth.”
“She told you what happened. You’re in denial,” Pam said, her anger rising again. How dare he call her mother a liar?
“Her story has holes you could drive a truck through.” He looked frustrated. “Can’t you see?”
“Go away.” By this time, they were both standing on the patio.
“Fine. I’ll go now, but my lease runs several more months. I’m not leaving here without the truth.”
“I can call the police.”
Bruce’s look of condescension was galling. “Your dear mother probably won’t even remember telling me this fine story today.”
“That’s not true.” She was furious with him now.
“Now who’s in denial?” he asked, giving her a look that held pity. He whistled for Yappie, who had been sitting calmly on the patio the whole time, and the two sauntered off.
How dare he abuse her mother’s hospitality and trust? Pam had been a fool to think he might care for her. What a laugh. He’d courted her to get closer to Dorothy. The sex was a bonus. No wonder she hadn’t felt rig
ht with him. He was completely insincere. She’d thought she was the disaffected one, the one who was out of tune with him emotionally. He’d been lying to her the entire time.
Oh, lord. She’d had sex with him multiple times. Thank goodness they’d used condoms. At least she didn’t have to worry about getting a disease from that sneaky, lying seducer. He’d seduced her, and she’d let him, but all the time his real agenda was Dorothy. Pam’s emotions were merely collateral damage to Bruce.
Once he was safely gone, she burst into tears.
#
Dorothy was up and about a half hour later, showing no ill effects from the traumatic story she had told. Or from Bruce calling her a liar. He hadn’t used that word exactly, but he might as well have.
What derailed Dorothy from fretting over long-dead Greta and Roger—or Bruce, alive and annoying next door—was her discovery that Pam had the bills open on her bed. Dorothy must have come upstairs to find her.
“Pamela, what have you been doing?” she asked, standing in the doorway. Dorothy used the stentorian tone of voice familiar from when Pam was a guilty little girl who had done something wrong.
Pam had to fight off her automatic response of being cowed by her mother. “I started sorting the unopened mail.”
“Were these letters addressed to you? No? Then you shouldn’t have opened them.”
“Mother, please,” she protested. “They were about to turn off the electricity. I called barely in time to stop them.”
“What are you talking about?”
“I found this notice that the power would be turned off on Monday.” Pam explained, picking it up.
“Let me see that,” her mother demanded.
Pam handed it over.
Dorothy glanced at the notice. “Obviously, there’s been a misunderstanding. If you wouldn’t jump in the middle and confuse everything, I could easily get to the bottom of the situation.”
“I didn’t. Mother, I’m trying to help you.”
“I don’t need your help, Pamela. I’m perfectly able to handle my own affairs.”
“I’m sorry, but—”
“Pamela,” her mother said in that drawn-out, censorious way she had. “Don’t interfere. You’re ignorant about financial dealings.”
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