Cheated By Death Page 5

  Though several inches shorter than Linden, Sam met his intimidating gaze. He introduced us while I removed the camera’s lens cap and snapped a few shots.

  Linden listened to Sam, but scrutinized my face. “You walk the black nurse in a couple times a week.”

  I put the camera down. “So?”

  “Why are you taking pictures of us?” someone else challenged.

  “That’s his job, and I’m here to listen to your stories,” Sam chimed in.

  “Why? So you can brand us as fundamentalist Christian jerks,” another man said.

  “No—to understand why you’re so passionate about your cause,” Sam said.

  I let Sam take the brunt of their hostility. With notebook and pen in hand, I moved through the crowd to take down the names of people I’d already photographed. Picking the friendliest looking one, I approached the young woman dressed in a baggy green parka. Shoulder-length blonde hair framed her heart-shaped face under a white knit cap. She hefted a sign in one hand, clutched a little girl’s mittened-hand in the other.

  “I took your picture the other day, Miss. Can I have your name for the newspaper?”

  She studied me for a moment before answering. “Emily Farrell.” She spelled it for me.

  “How often do you come down here to protest?”

  “Twice a week.”

  “And who’s this?” I asked the little girl. She clung to her mother’s hand, and gazed at me through lowered lashes.

  “Hannah’s four. Why do you escort that nurse?”

  “Because she’s afraid of you.”

  “If she didn’t kill babies, she wouldn’t have to be afraid.”

  “She doesn’t kill babies. She helps women with health problems.”

  “Being pregnant isn’t a problem.”

  “For some women it is.”

  A frown crossed her features.

  I didn’t like being despised for helping my sister-in-law. “Look, I’m not here to debate the issue. Just to take pictures for the newspaper.” I noticed she wore no wedding band. Maybe I could use that.

  “I’m sorry,” I said, softening my voice. “Would you like a copy of the picture?”

  She brightened, suddenly looking all of seventeen. “Really?”

  “Sure. I’ll bring it next time I come.”

  I should’ve just gone on to the next person, instead I pushed my advantage. “My name’s Jeff Resnick.”

  “Hi,” she said, and smiled shyly. “You really think they’ll use my picture in the paper?”

  “Maybe—maybe not. They’ll probably use one, maybe a couple of shots for the article—if it makes it to the Sunday paper.”

  She kept looking at me, an innocent smile playing at her lips. She looked back to the health center. “Is that nurse your girlfriend or something?”

  “Just a friend.” Emily didn’t realize the opening she’d given me—one I took full advantage of. “How about you? Are you married?”

  She shook her head.

  “Dating?”

  “No.”

  I gave her my most charming smile. “Do you think we could go for coffee or something some time?”

  She drew back. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  “Well, think about it.”

  A looming presence—Linden—entered my peripheral vision. He gave Emily a stern, paternal look.

  “I have to get back in line. It was nice to meet you, Jeff.” She gave me another shy smile, before she took the little girl’s hand. “Come on, Hannah.”

  “Mommy, my feet hurt.”

  “Every step you take helps save a baby’s life,” she said, as she pulled the girl along.

  I stood back, watching as she marched along her circular track once more.

  Sam nudged my shoulder. “Don’t you have a girlfriend?”

  “Yeah. But it doesn’t hurt to make friends with the enemy.”

  He smiled. “You would’ve made a great reporter.” He thought better of it. “Then again maybe not. There’s no story here, Jeff.”

  “Of course there is. If you can’t come up with anything else, try a financial angle. The other businesses have called the cops a few times. That costs the taxpayers money.”

  “Get real.”

  “I’m telling you, Sam, something bad is gonna go down. Somebody’s going to get hurt—or worse.”

  “Can I quote you on that?”

  I eyed him warily. “Yes.”

  The morning wasn’t a complete loss. I got some shots that promised to be good, while Sam went through the motions of interviewing Linden and several other protesters, as well as the clinic’s PR Director. He as much as said he had no intention of writing a story, but it might be useful as background for a future piece.

  The clock read one by the time I got home. The entire, endless afternoon stretched before me. I didn’t want to get started in the darkroom, so I turned on the tube, tried to turn off my mind and watched Court TV for a couple of hours. But I kept thinking about those protesters, and Emily Farrell’s earnest face in particular. I wasn’t attracted to her, but her green eyes had a haunting quality. She warranted further investigation.

  Restless, I got up and emptied the dishwasher, opened some of the mail, and dusted one of the end tables, but couldn’t seem to accomplish anything of note.

  A car pulled up outside the garage just after four o’clock. Patty was early. It wasn’t the familiar white Mustang in the drive. A tawny-haired woman emerged from the passenger side of the blue sedan. I turned for the stairs and jogged down them to meet her.

  Patty’s hand was poised to knock as I opened the door. We studied each other for an uncomfortably long moment. It was the face from the high school graduation photo, but older, thinner. Who the hell did she remind me of?

  I spoke first. “Hi.”

  “Hi, yourself.” Patty’s tentative smile broke into a joyful grin and she lunged forward, hugged me enthusiastically. I stood there, awkwardly put an arm around her, waiting for a flood of emotion to overtake me, but got no insight into her soul. Just like Richard—but unlike our father—she was a blank to me. She pulled back to inspect my face as I scrutinized hers once again. Shorter than me by two or three inches, there was something about her that—

  “You look like pictures of Daddy when he was young,” she said.

  “I always thought I looked like my mother.”

  She let that comment slide.

  “What about your friend?” I said, indicating the man who sat behind the wheel of the rusting blue Ford. He raised a hand in a half-hearted wave.

  Patty didn’t even look over her shoulder. “That’s just Ray—a guy from work. My car’s in the shop for a new computer chip. He said he’d wait.” She looked beyond me at the staircase. “So this is it, huh?”

  “Not exactly. Come on up.”

  She followed me up the stairs and stepped into my living room, taking in the ten-foot ceiling, the newly sanded oak floors and refinished trim. Maggie and I had spent the better part of the summer renovating and redecorating the apartment. I closed the door and leaned against it, watching as she took in the place.

  “Not bad,” she said, admiration filling her voice. “How come you don’t live in the big house?”

  “I used to. When I was a teenager. And for a few months when I came back to Buffalo. I’d rather have my own space.”

  She nodded. “Nice little setup you’ve got.”

  “Sit down. Do you want some coffee?”

  “A beer if you’ve got it.”

  I grabbed a Molson Ice from the refrigerator and a glass from the cupboard.

  Her voice stopped me from pouring. “The bottle’s fine.”

  I brought it over to her, setting it on a coaster. She rummaged through her purse and took out a pack of cigarettes and a lighter. “Have you got an ashtray?”

  “No. My girlfriend has allergies. Even stale smoke makes her sick. I hope you don’t mind.”

  “Oh. Sure,” she said, but her expression reflec
ted her annoyance. I’d just fallen a peg. She replaced the items in her bag and set it on the floor.

  “I wasn’t expecting you for another half hour.”

  “I skipped out of work early. They won’t miss me.” She took a swallow of beer, set the bottle down on the cocktail table, ignoring the ceramic coaster. “Dad says your brother’s a millionaire.” Why did her tone sound cunning?

  “I wouldn’t say that,” I lied. “But he’s comfortable.”

  “A lot more comfortable than me. They’ve got to have servants and stuff in a big house like that, right?”

  I shook my head. “It’s just the two of them. A cleaning lady comes a few times a month.”

  She looked skeptical. “So what’s the story? Do you live here for free?”

  “Not exactly. I’m sort of the caretaker.”

  “Does it pay well?”

  “I work for my keep.”

  “I suppose that’s not too bad. What do you do?”

  “Yard work mostly. If something breaks, I try to fix it. If the cars need an oil change, I get it done.”

  “I wish I had such a cushy life.” Her tone was wistful, with a touch of resentment.

  “Did Dad tell you I got hurt earlier this year? I can’t work full time. At least not yet.”

  She looked me over again. “What happened?”

  “Fractured skull. I get bad headaches. I work when I can, but I can’t make it on just that money. I’m grateful for Richard’s generosity.” Why had I told her all that?

  Patty nodded, taking in the apartment once more. Dollar signs lit her eyes and I felt embarrassed for her. Maggie’s decorating flair was evident by the prints on the wall, and arrangement of the furniture. We’d refinished my old coffee and end tables and she’d slip covered my crummy couch and chairs.

  Patty picked up the bottle, took a long pull on her beer. “So when do I meet Richard?”

  “What’s the hurry?”

  “He’s sort of like family. Maybe I can work for him, too.”

  The hairs on the back of my neck bristled.

  The sound of a car engine broke the quiet as another car pulled up outside. Patty got up and moved to the window. I followed and we both gazed down on the driveway to see Richard’s silver Town Car.

  “Nice wheels,” she said.

  Richard and Brenda got out of the car and looked up. They saw us and waved. I braved a smile and returned the gesture.

  “Who’s the jig?” Patty asked

  I turned to glare at her. “I beg your pardon?”

  “The jigaboo he’s with? Is she the maid?”

  “That’s Richard’s wife, Brenda.”

  “Wife?” She laughed.

  “Don’t ever call Brenda that again.”

  She pulled a face. “Sorry.” Then she smiled. “Oh, I get it, you’d like a little brown sugar, too, huh?”

  “What the hell is wrong with you, Patty?”

  She laughed and punched my shoulder. “Can’t you take a joke?”

  “That wasn’t a joke.”

  She scowled at me. “Dad was right. You can be grim. Lighten up. Life’s too short to get upset over nothing.”

  Suddenly, I’d had enough.

  “Listen, Patty, I can feel one of my headaches coming on. Maybe you should—”

  “They get pretty bad, huh? Do you take drugs?”

  “Prescription stuff.”

  “Do you get high from it?” she asked, eagerly.

  “No. Usually I take them and go right to bed,” I said, hoping she’d take the hint and leave.

  “Too bad.”

  Was she sorry I got headaches, or sorry I didn’t get high from the drugs I took for them?

  She wandered through the living room again, pausing at the bulletin board over my desk. “Who took all these great pictures?”

  “I did.”

  She leaned closer to study them. They were an eclectic mix of stuff I’d taken over the summer: the historic ships down at the waterfront, the Frank Lloyd Wright houses—even the backyard garden.

  “You’re really good. Why don’t you get a job taking pictures?”

  “I’ve been trying to.”

  “I’ve got a friend at the Sears portrait studio. She could probably get you an interview.”

  “That’s not the kind of photography I’m interested in, but—thanks.”

  She shrugged.

  I could’ve told her about my current project. I could’ve said so much more. But I didn’t. Instead, I rubbed a hand over my temple. “I know you’ve only been here a short time, but I’m really not feeling well. Maybe we can get together another time.”

  “Oh. Sure.” She chugged the rest of her beer, then set the bottle down. “How about Saturday? We’re having kind of a family reunion. You can meet all the cousins. You can bring your camera and take pictures.” She smiled sweetly. It probably worked on other men. “I’ll call you Friday and let you know the details, okay?”

  Not on your life, I wanted to say, but I didn’t have the energy.

  She rummaged through her purse again, found paper and a pen. “So what’s your phone number?”

  It was in the book, but I gave it to her anyway.

  I walked her to the door, where she hugged me again. Her hair smelled of stale cigarette smoke.

  “I’m so glad we finally met, Jeff. I always knew I had a big brother somewhere, I just never knew how to find you. You’re everything I always pictured.”

  I forced a smile. “Thanks, Patty.”

  “I’ll call you soon!”

  She gave me a quick wave and started down the stairs.

  I closed the door behind her. Good riddance.

  As her footfalls faded on the stairs, I moved to the window overlooking the drive. Her friend stood outside the Ford, staring at Richard’s house. He looked up, then turned, tossed his cigarette on the drive and crushed it under his heel. Then the two of them got in the car. Soon after, it pulled away.

  For a long time I stared at the space where the car had been, trying to figure out what had passed between me and my . . . sister.

  That still sounded strange.

  I turned back to the coffee table. Grabbing her beer bottle, I placed it with the other empties under my sink. Good. Not a trace of her remained.

  Unsettled, I turned and paced the apartment. I caught a glimpse of Richard’s house out the window and suddenly craved company. Grabbing my jacket from the closet, I headed down the stairs.

  Brenda stood at the sink, rinsing a Boston lettuce for a salad. Richard sat at the kitchen table, hiding behind the morning’s sports section, the two of them looking like something out of a sixties sitcom when I burst into the kitchen.

  Brenda looked up. “How’d it go?”

  I took off my jacket, hooked it over the back of the closest chair. “Terrible. I hate her.”

  Richard folded the paper, and set it aside. “That’s kind of a hasty judgment.” He sounded just like Ward Cleaver.

  “I don’t think so.” I looked at the glass in front of Richard. “What’re you drinking, scotch?”

  “Want one?”

  I shook my head. “Got any beer?”

  “In the fridge,” Brenda said.

  Grabbing a bottle of ice beer, I popped the cap, paused, then took a pilsner glass from the cupboard, and took great delight pouring it. Civilized. Like my sister wasn’t.

  I took a seat at the table.

  “Well, what happened?” Richard asked.

  “I had to get rid of her.” I took a deep swallow. “Told her I had a headache.”

  “Then you know you shouldn’t be drinking that.”

  “I lied. I just couldn’t stand being with her another minute.”

  “What did she do that was so terrible?” Brenda asked.

  “Nothing. It’s just that she’s so much like—”

  I stopped dead as I realized just who Patty reminded me of. “Jesus,” I murmured, sat back in my chair and took another long swallow of beer, wi
shing I’d taken Richard up on his invitation of a scotch.

  “Who? Who?” Brenda asked.

  “Shelley.” My dead ex-wife. “Patty even looks a little like her—at least how she looked toward the end.” Memories of those awful days came flooding back. I’d never told them all the crap my wife had put me through those last few months.

  “Want to talk about it?” Richard asked, his voice gentle.

  I looked into his worried blue eyes. How many times had he asked me that question in the last eight months? How many times had I refused to answer?

  “Yeah,” I said, half surprised.

  “Why does Patty remind you of Shelley?” Brenda asked.

  I turned to Richard. “She wanted to know about your money. Chet told her you were a millionaire. I told her you weren’t. I don’t want her asking you for a handout. If she does—don’t give her anything.”

  “Jeff, first of all, she’s not Shelley. I’m sure she wouldn’t—”

  “You don’t know her. Hell, I don’t even know her!” I downed the rest of my beer in a gulp, got up and took another from the refrigerator. I cracked the cap. This time I drank from the bottle.

  “You’re getting all upset over nothing,” Richard said.

  I let out an exasperated breath, tempted to tell them just what Patty said about Brenda.

  No way. I wasn’t about to hurt Brenda’s feelings.

  “What about Shelley and money?” Richard reminded me.

  I took my chair at the table. “When Shelley left me, she cleaned out all our joint accounts. Three years we saved. Three goddamned years of brown-bag lunches, renting movies instead of going out. We planned to buy a house in Jersey—have a couple of kids. I really fell for the American dream. The quaint Cape Cod in the suburbs, white picket fence and all. I wanted it—probably because I never had it as a kid.”

  Anger always accompanied those memories. Or maybe it was betrayal—I was never sure.

  “I probably pushed Shelley too hard. I tried to make my dream into hers. Maybe that’s why cocaine appealed to her.”

  Richard looked uncomfortable. He hadn’t expected me to spill the whole story. Me either, but I was on a roll.