Cheated By Death Page 3

  “Escort,” the newcomer sneered as I walked her to the door, turning the word into a curse.

  Once Brenda was inside, I returned to my car. As promised, I devoted the rest of the day to a half-assed stake-out. The picketers chanted, prayed, sang, and took every opportunity to shove leaflets at anyone who dared make eye contact. They took turns for lunch, and I followed a couple of them to a nearby strip mall where their converted school bus was parked. Did they all gather at the First Gospel Church and ride in together, or did some of them drive to the clinic on their own?

  At three o’clock, I left my chilly car and walked over to the Niagara Realty Company, the clinic’s next-door neighbor, to warm up.

  “I wish the police would arrest every one of those bastards,” the manager, Kathy Burton, said. “They’re scaring my clients away. Lately, most of my agents have met prospective customers off-site to avoid the situation. Those protestors have been hanging around for almost a month now. I’ve still got two years left on a five-year lease. What am I supposed to do?”

  “Call the cops?” I suggested.

  “I have, but Bob Linden and his followers are always careful to act within the boundaries of the law.”

  Next, I spoke with Tim Davies, the heath center’s security chief. He knew about the cars being egged and the messages in lipstick, but no one had seen the perpetrators. The clinic had beefed up its manpower with rent-a-cops, and had scheduled the installation of more security cameras around the clinic and in the parking lot by year end, but in the meantime what could unarmed minimum-wage guys with uniforms and brass badges do to stop violence aimed at the staff or patrons?

  Right on time, I met Brenda in the health center’s lobby. “Ready to run the gauntlet?”

  She smiled, but seemed edgy.

  We barely got down the steps before Brenda stopped short, distracted by a fracas across the street. Close to tears, an elderly woman, with a halo of snowy hair framing her drawn face, stood huddled in her drab gray topcoat, surrounded by a crowd of protesters.

  “Don’t go into that den of death! The Lord Almighty will forgive you if you turn away—condemn the child killers!” Bob Linden thundered.

  “Leave me alone,” the woman cried, shying away from the Reverend, who moved to block her way once again. The other picketers clustered around her, their shrill voices rising.

  Brenda bolted across the street.

  “Brenda, wait!”

  “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” Brenda hollered at Linden. “Leave this poor woman alone.”

  Linden turned, vexed. “The first amendment gives me the right to counsel anyone entering that slaughterhouse.”

  “It’s a women’s health center,” Brenda bristled. “And the constitution does not give you the right to hassle this lady.”

  Linden straightened to his full height, and clutched his Bible to his chest. “I am here as God’s messenger.”

  “You’re no more God’s messenger than I am,” Brenda said.

  “Brenda,” I warned, grabbing her arm to haul her away. She shook me loose, her stance showing she was itching for a fight.

  “You make your living murdering helpless babies,” Linden accused.

  “Come on,” I grated, and tried to turn her away, but Brenda’s and Linden’s gazes were locked—brittle anger crackling around them like static electricity.

  “I only came here to get a new prescription,” the old woman said, looking at me with pleading blue eyes. Her words caused Brenda to look away. She took the woman’s left arm, while I grabbed her right, and we pushed through the circle of bodies surrounding us, leading the old lady away from Linden and his crowd of bullies.

  “May God forgive you,” Linden shouted as we guided the woman across the street and up the steps.

  “What took you so long, boys,” I said as two security guards opened the heavy glass doors to let us in. Behind us the picketers started singing a hymn.

  “Are you all right, hon?” Brenda asked the elderly woman. I felt the old woman trembling under my grasp.

  “Thank you for helping me. I’ve been coming here for over twenty years. I’m afraid to come back,” she said.

  “Who’s your appointment with?” Brenda asked.

  “Dr. Newcomb.”

  “Forget the waiting room. I’ll get you right in,” she said, and led the woman away.

  The ineffective guards looked at me, embarrassed. I turned aside, and took a chair to wait.

  Brenda stayed with the old lady until her son arrived to take her home. Linden and most of the protesters had disappeared by then.

  I approached my car with some trepidation, remembering how years ago clinics down south had been firebombed. But these protesters were a church group. Surely they wouldn’t condone that kind of violence.

  Paranoia crept closer as I gingerly opened the driver’s door, got in, and turned the key. The engine purred. I feigned a calm I didn’t feel as I circled back to pick up Brenda at the center’s entrance.

  “What’re you going to tell Richard?” she said, once we were on the road and heading home.

  “What do you want me to say?”

  “Nothing. Let me tell him. In my own way.”

  “You know him better than me,” I said, hoping I wouldn’t get the third degree later anyway.

  I dropped her off and was only an hour late for work, and I busted my ass trying to make up for it. Between drawing beers and mixing drinks, I spent the evening pondering the absurdity of Linden and his followers harassing elderly women who weren’t likely to get pregnant—let alone abort—any time soon.

  Long ago, I found keeping busy the perfect way to distract myself from life—like thinking about Linden and his followers. Or Richard’s next blood test.

  Like thinking about my father.

  I worked late on Friday, and got offered and took a last-minute job tending bar at a wedding reception on Saturday—even though it meant canceling a date with Maggie. I even managed to pick up an extra shift at the bar on Sunday. But by Monday evening I faced the silent telephone and decided to make the call I’d lost so much sleep over.

  It was after nine when I finally dialed the number.

  “Hello?” A young woman’s voice startled me.

  “I’m looking for Chet Resnick.”

  “Who’s calling?”

  “Uh . . . Jeff.” I cleared my throat. “Jeffrey Resnick.”

  “Dad,” she called, “it’s him!”

  Dad?

  Did old Chester have a second family?

  Did I have a sister?

  An older man came on the line. “Son?”

  Rattled, I almost hung up. “Chester Resnick? Married to Elizabeth Alpert?”

  “That’s right. What took you so long to call, boy?”

  What took me so long? The old man had balls, I’ll give him that. “I’m not even sure why I called.”

  “Things didn’t work out between your mother and me. I don’t know what she told you, but—”

  “She didn’t say much. Just that you were gone. I assumed you were dead.”

  “She wished I was,” he said with bitterness and coughed, a loud, rattling sound. “Did your brother tell you I’m sick?”

  “He mentioned it.”

  “I’m going to die pretty soon. But I’d like to know you first. When can you come see me?”

  I didn’t answer right away. “I dunno.” I still didn’t know if I wanted to.

  “Tomorrow morning?”

  Pushy bastard. Wary, I asked, “What time?”

  “Ten. Bring doughnuts. I like the ones with chocolate on top and custard inside.”

  “Okay. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

  He didn’t say goodbye, just hung up.

  I stared at the phone for a long time, wondering if I’d made a really big mistake.

  CHAPTER

  3

  I stopped at a Tim’s Dairy, not some franchise place, for the best doughnuts in town. Don’t ask me why. And don�
�t ask me why I kept this visit from Richard and Maggie. I don’t know that, either. Maybe because they’d been pushy about it. Pushy, like Chet. I was tired of being pushed into seeing this old man . . . even if curiosity drove me to do it anyway.

  My father’s house was on the outskirts of the city, only ten minutes from Richard’s place. In the week since I'd found out my father was alive, I'd driven by some eight or ten times. Sometimes a white Mustang sat in the driveway, other times there’d be a battered old Ford Focus. The Focus was in the drive when I pulled up.

  Doughnut bag in hand, I walked to the front door. I stood there, staring at the surname on the mailbox—my name. My stomach tightened in dread—like a kid called to the principal’s office. Maybe I should just turn around. Go home. But I couldn’t. Even if I didn’t like what I found out, it was better than not knowing.

  Maybe.

  I closed my eyes—opened my mind—and got the same flash of something I’d experienced days earlier when Richard first told me about Chet. Death. Still couldn’t understand what it meant, but it had to relate to my father.

  It had to.

  My knuckles rapped against the door’s flaking paint. Moments later an Hispanic woman in a white nurse’s uniform opened it.

  “I’m here to see Chet Resnick.”

  “You must be his son. Come in.”

  Son. It had been a long time since I’d been anyone’s son.

  The house smelled of fresh-brewed coffee and disinfectant. Though the furniture was shabby and dated, the place was clean. The woman ushered me through the tiny living room and kitchen to the back of the house, where a twenty-seven-inch TV blared. The cramped, paneled family room had been tacked on to the back of the little cracker box of a house.

  Chester Arthur Resnick sat in a worn, oversized recliner, tethered to a green oxygen tank by a tube trailing from his nose. Dressed in flannel pajamas and robe, he looked like an older, sick version of the few pictures I’d seen of him. His sparse white hair was scraped across his head in a vain effort to cover his baldness. The energy-saver fluorescent bulb in the lamp nearby gave his skin a pale, greenish tinge.

  I stood there, unsure of what to say, wondering if I’d be heard over the TV.

  “Can I take your coat?” the woman asked.

  “I’ll keep it,” I said, figuring it would be easier if I needed to make a fast escape.

  “I’ll get coffee. You like milk and sugar?”

  “Just milk.”

  She nodded and took off for the kitchen.

  Chet hit the mute button on the remote, the sudden quiet jarring me. “Sit down,” he said. “Did you bring my doughnuts, boy?”

  He took the bag from me, taking out one of the chocolate-covered ones. He bit into it and the custard oozed onto his fingers. “Elena, bring some napkins.”

  A black cat appeared from out of nowhere, leaping onto the old man’s lap. He let the cat lick the custard from his thumb, then wiped it on his robe.

  “This is Herschel, he keeps me company,” he said, stroking the cat fondly. It settled onto the old man’s lap, glaring at me with yellow eyes.

  “Richard says you know all about me,” I said.

  “Some. How come your wife got murdered?”

  “She was into drugs.”

  He nodded, non-judgmental. “Too bad. You got a girlfriend now?”

  “Yeah. She lives in Clarence.”

  His eyes wandered to the game show on the tube. “Is she nice?”

  “Very nice. How do you know so much about me?”

  He looked at me and shrugged. “I got friends.”

  I didn’t like that answer, but I couldn’t force him to give me a better one. I focused my attention on the cat, finding it easier than looking into my father’s eyes. Though stray cat hair clung to Chet’s hand, there was a noticeable lack of it on the furniture and rug. Elena kept the place spotless.

  “Doctor says you got hurt last winter. That’s why you come back to Buffalo,” Chet said.

  “I got mugged. They nearly killed me.” Why’d I say that? I didn’t need sympathy—or anything else—from him.

  I decided not to volunteer any more information. If he wanted to know anything else, he could ask.

  Dishes rattling in the kitchen caused Herschel to leap from Chet’s lap. The old man shook his hand free of cat hair. “I was gonna get you when your mother died, but then Doctor took you in. I figured those people owed your mother, so I didn’t bother.”

  “You could have let me know you were still around.”

  “What for? Your life’s been fine without me, hasn’t it? What could I offer you?”

  Yeah. What?

  “You got a sister,” he said, and reached for a framed photo on the table next to his chair. The color dyes had faded on the high school senior picture. “That’s Patty. She’s twenty-six now.”

  I studied the young, smiling face. She was pretty, with muddy brown eyes—like mine—and dishwater blonde hair. She looked familiar somehow, but not because we shared a parent. She had some other quality I couldn’t pin down.

  “You remarried?” I asked Chet.

  “Your mother was a good Catholic. She didn’t believe in divorce. After Betty died, Joan and me never bothered to make it legal. Patty don’t know that. Don’t you tell her, now.”

  “Have you got any other kids?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  Would he even care? He’d abandoned my mother and me and never bothered to marry Patty’s mother. Typical.

  “So, where’s Patty?”

  “Working.”

  “Does she drive the white Mustang?”

  He nodded. “She wants to meet you. She’s only seen pictures of you.”

  “Pictures?”

  He reached for a shoe box on the table in front of him. He dug through it and came up with a couple of old black-and-white photographs and some color Instamatic shots, handing them to me.

  I flipped through them. The black-and-white ones were me at two. My mother had had a duplicate set. I stared in disbelief at the faded color shots taken at my high school graduation. They weren’t very good; I wasn’t even the central figure in most of them, probably because they’d been taken from a distance. Though the focus was fuzzy, I recognized my sullen features, remembered feeling embarrassed in the black cap and gown. I thought Richard was my only family member to go to the ceremony. I thought Richard was my only family.

  “Where’d you get these?”

  “I took them.”

  “You were there?” I asked, my stomach tightening.

  “You’re my kid. It was your graduation day.”

  “Why didn’t you say something? Why didn’t you introduce yourself?”

  He shrugged. “By then I had Joan and Patty. You didn’t need me. Anyway, you done all right.”

  Yeah, right. Dumped on a brother I didn’t know, whose family despised my mother—and me. Oh, yeah, living in the Alpert house was real pleasant.

  I looked at that frail, sick old man, unable to let go of the anger. Yet this man was my father. Half of what I was came from him.

  “You got any questions?” he asked.

  Only one.

  “Why did you leave my mother and me?”

  The old man frowned. “All Betty ever thought about was getting her boy Richard back. That’s all she talked about. That’s all she cared about. After five years, I couldn’t take it no more.”

  Something about that didn’t quite ring true. I knew all about how Richard’s grandparents had gotten custody of him after his father died and our mother had a nervous breakdown. She never regained custody of him. But I couldn’t hold that against my brother, who’d been a pawn in the struggle between his rich old grandmother and my working-class mother.

  I looked Chet in the eye, felt him take a mental step back as I connected with him. Unnerved, he looked away, but I knew something he wouldn’t want me to know. My breathing quickened—anger rising as I registered a vague understanding of what he f
elt, and it sorted itself out in my brain.

  “You . . . wanted to kidnap Richard. To extort money from the Alperts.”

  “That’s a lie,” he said, his face flushing “Whoever told you that lied!”

  “I don’t think so . . . .”

  He leaned back against the chair, struggling for breath—his anger evaporating. “Believe what you want. I know the truth.”

  So did I. But after all those years, it wasn’t worth pursuing.

  He clutched the chair’s arms, forcing himself to breathe slower.

  “What happened to Patty’s mother?” I asked.

  “Joan died of cancer about ten years ago. That’s a bad time for a girl to lose her mother. Patty’s been a handful ever since.”

  “Tell me about her.”

  “She works at a medical supply house in Lockport. Makes good money, too.”

  “But she lives here?”

  “When she’s in-between boyfriends.” That didn’t set well with the old man.

  I noticed the previous day’s paper neatly folded at the side of his chair—reminding me of another question that needed to be asked.

  “You told Richard you didn’t know I was back in Buffalo.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What about the newspaper stories about us and that murder last winter?” It had been front page news, and my name—and picture, as well as Richard’s—had been prominently displayed in the paper, and on TV.

  Caught in a lie, the old man looked appropriately guilty. He shifted his gaze, annoyed. “Elena, where’s that coffee?” He called and dipped into the doughnut bag again.

  “Are you supposed to eat those?”

  He took a huge bite of a sugar-coated jelly doughnut, chewed, swallowed, and smiled. “No. But what the hell, I’m dying anyway.”

  Elena arrived with a tray of cups, napkins and assorted accouterments. “Don’t you eat another one of those doughnuts,” she ordered. “When your sugar goes sky high, I get in trouble.” She took the bag from him, setting it in front of me. I prefer muffins, and had bought two of them. I took out an apple raisin one, and put it on the plate she provided.

  Elena poured the coffee, then pointed a wagging finger at Chet. “No more,” she warned once more and took her leave.