Cheated By Death (18 page)

I pulled back my hand—disappointment building
to anger.

“Can you hear me, old man?”

No reaction.

“You got pissed at my mother and left us. You
never
came back.
Never
saw me grow up. Never let me
know you were even alive. You came to my high school graduation,
but you never let me see you. Strangers in Manhattan spied on me
for you. You knew everything I did—every move I made.”

I paced back and forth, yelling at this
stranger—I couldn’t stop myself.

“How could you do that to me? How could you
cheat me like that? Then you had the nerve to tell me you always
loved me. You didn’t spend an hour of your time with me in
thirty-two years. God, I hate you for that.”

Chet’s eyes snapped opened.

I jumped back, and smacked into the wall.

His gaze wandered to the ceiling, his
forehead furrowing as his jaw fell as though in wonder.

I swallowed down terror, unable to look away.
He was half of this world and half gone.

“Dad?” I whispered.

His hand reached out, searching for mine, but
I was terrified--convinced he’d drag me with him on his final
journey. Pinned to the wall, I watched him, like a rubbernecker at
a car wreck, as his gaze traveled from left to right and back again
as though tracking something—someone?

“Dad?”

Chet’s expression grew vague and distant, his
eyes drifted shut. His chest rose and fell. The breath rattled
through him then abruptly stopped.

“Dad? Dad!” I stepped close, put my ear to
his chest, and listened.

Nothing.

Had he heard my tirade, or was he blissfully
ignorant of my anger?

Had he known I was there? Had he reached for
me
?

It didn’t matter.

My father was dead.

Holy Mary, Mother of God, pray for us
sinners—even the Jewish ones who don’t believe in you—now and at
the hour of our death. Amen.

My vision blurred. I brushed the tears
away.

I should’ve pressed the call button for a
nurse—but what for? Richard had signed the no resuscitation
order.

Richard.

The room had a phone. I didn’t use it. I had
to get away—I needed some space.

I cleared my throat and headed out, letting
the door whoosh shut behind me. The fluorescent lights in the
corridor seemed incredibly bright. I stumbled past the nurse’s
station and found a pay phone nearby. Dropping coins in the slot, I
punched the newly memorized number.

“Hello?”

Relief swept through me. “He’s dead.”

“What?” Richard asked.

“Chet just died.”

“I’m sorry, Jeff. What can I do?”

“Nothing. I just . . . I guess I should’ve
called Patty. But I—”

“Are you okay? You sound funny?”

“It hit me harder than I thought it
would.”

“Do you want me to come up there?”

“Do you mind?” It sounded like a plea.

“I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.”

“Thanks.” I hung up the phone. Other visitors
passed me. Dinner carts rattled down the hall. A voice over the
hospital P.A. system paged a doctor.

I took my time walking back to my father’s
room. A young nurse, no more than twenty-three and dressed in
scrubs, smiled at me as she taped garland around the doorway of the
meds station. The cheerful Christmas decorations seemed out of
place where people came to die.

Chet was just as I’d left him. I sat down to
wait in the straight-backed, uncomfortable chair. I knew I should
do something, so I picked up the phone, and dialed Patty’s number.
It rang eight times before I hung up.

A harried-looking nurse’s aide poked her
bleached-blonde head into the doorway. “I’m a little behind,” she
said breathlessly. “I’ll be back in a few minutes to take his
vitals.”

She didn’t look like she needed another
problem, so I nodded dumbly. She propped the door open and walked
away.

Numbness crept through me. No more
opportunities to get to know the old man. No chance to talk. No
more anything.

I hadn’t expected to feel such an acute sense
of loss.

I looked beyond my father’s body to the
window. Headlights cut through the gloom outside. People heading
home after work, going out to dinner, stopping at the corner store
for a quart of milk or a newspaper. Life went on pretty much as
usual, but for the first time in seventy-plus years Chet Resnick
wasn’t around to witness it.

“Jeff?” Richard stood silhouetted in the
doorway.

I looked away, feeling embarrassed. He
approached the bed, felt for a pulse, and listened for a heartbeat
before pulling the sheet over Chet’s face. My father was now
officially dead.

“Did you call Patty?”

“She wasn’t home.”

He studied me, making me feel even more
uncomfortable. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah.”

Was I?

He glanced back at the sheet-shrouded corpse.
“I’ll tell the nurses. They’ll get things started.”

“Okay.”

He grabbed my arm and pulled me to my feet.
“Come on. You can wait down the hall.”

Patty showed
up while Richard was signing the
death certificate. “I was just down at the cafeteria.” Her gaze
went from me to Richard. “Daddy—he’s gone, isn’t he?”

Richard reached for her hand. “I’m
sorry.”

Dressed in tight jeans, knee-high boots, and
a waist-hugging white rabbit jacket, her hair puffed and perfect,
she locked her watery gaze on Richard’s and held his hand longer
than absolutely necessary.

Why did she remind me of a cheap hooker?

“Let’s go somewhere more private,” Richard
said, and led us to an office down the hall. He switched on a
couple of lamps, obviously familiar with the room, although another
doctor’s name plaque was attached to the door.

Patty sat on a couch, dabbed her eyes with a
tissue as Richard explained what happened. I didn’t say anything,
and never felt more useless.

“At least he isn’t in pain any more,” Patty
said. “I just didn’t think it would happen this fast.” She cleared
her throat and straightened in her seat. “Can I use the phone? I
have to call Aunt Ruby.”

“We’ll give you some privacy,” Richard
said.

We retreated to the hall.

“I need to finish the paperwork.” Richard
nodded toward the office. “Why don’t you hang around in case she
needs you?”

“Why would she need me? We don’t even know
each other.”

“Then now’s a good time to remedy that.” He
turned and started down the hall.

I resented his tone—his inference—but I
nudged the door open wider, and quietly reentered the office.

Patty hung up the phone, took out a card from
her purse, and dialed another number. Perfectly composed, she
finalized the arrangements she’d started earlier that day. I
quickly learned the differences between Jewish and Catholic death
rituals. Chet would be buried the next day. I needed more time—two
or three days—to get used to the idea of losing someone. Time for a
wake, a funeral Mass—time to grieve.

Richard returned as she replaced the
receiver.

Patty wrote down the Temple’s address, tore
the page from a small spiral notebook, and held it out to me.
“You’ll be there, of course.”

I took the paper. “I’ll be there.”

She nodded and collected her purse. “I guess
I’d better get going. I have a lot to do tonight.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?” Richard
asked.

She shook her head, but reached for his hand
once more. “Thanks for taking care of Dad. He liked you. He said
your mother would’ve been proud of you.”

Richard looked thoughtful. Had it occurred to
him that Chet was the last link to the mother he never knew?

Patty stepped close, brushed her lips against
my cheek. “See you tomorrow.” Then she was gone, and I put her out
of my thoughts.

I stood there in that silent, dimly lit
office, feeling dazed.

Richard shrugged into his jacket. “We’d
better head home.”

“Yeah, I don’t like leaving Brenda
alone.”

“She’s downstairs in the lobby. I wasn’t
about to leave her alone—not after getting those flowers.”

I thought about what happened earlier in the
day. “Did she tell you about the letter?”

His eyes narrowed. “What letter?”

I told him as we headed for the exit.

“Why didn’t you call me?” he demanded.

“What could you do about it?”

“Be there for Brenda—for one.” The edge to
his voice intensified.

“Well don’t yell at her—or me, either. We
both had a shitty day.” My voice sounded harder than I’d
intended.

“I’m sorry. I just feel . . .
frustrated.”

I saw a pay phone and had one of my more
brilliant ideas. “Let’s call Maggie. Let’s all go out for dinner.
Somewhere noisy, with lots of people.”

We ended up at a quaint little Italian
restaurant near Maggie’s house. The checkered tablecloths and
dripping candles in Chianti bottles were about as clichéd as you
can get, but the food was good and the drinks were generous. Maggie
and Richard made polite conversation while Brenda’s distracted gaze
remained fixed on her untouched plate. I watched her, kept downing
doubles, and tried not to think about the absoluteness of death,
black roses, and threats in the mail.

The fresh air hit me like an icy brick as we
left the restaurant. The next thing I remembered was Richard
helping me up the stairs to my loft apartment. He was talking, but
I wasn’t listening.

I ended up in my bed, the lights winked out
and my queasy stomach shuddered, making me wish I’d stopped before
that last round. I closed my eyes in the silence, knowing that all
the bourbon in the world would never obliterate the memory of my
father’s sightless eyes or the groping hand that had reached for
mine.

The dead man had a face. Roman nose, thin lips
and a two-day growth of beard. Haunted eyes. Not an old man as I’d
first thought, but past mid-life. Not white, but salt-and pepper
hair hung below his collar.

He opened the screen door and came out of
the white frame house. A stiff breeze whipped the tails of his
untucked flannel shirt. Thumbs hooked on the empty belt loops of
his jeans, he sauntered down the drive. His lips moved as he
walked, but I couldn’t hear him.

Did he speak to me?

He paused, looked up sharply, and backed
away as fear captured his features. Hands raised in submission, he
mouthed the words, ‘Not my fault.’

Turning, he started to run. The air was
fractured by gunfire. His left leg buckled, shattered. He rolled
over, his face twisted in agony—terror.

Wordless ranting, then a final shot. Blood
spattered across the man’s face and onto the grass around him. The
wind played with his hair as his brown eyes dulled, staring
unseeing at the gray sky.

He was dead.

Again.

I awoke, heart—and head—pounding, knowing I
had witnessed a murder. The man who’d haunted my dreams was not my
father.

But who the hell was he?

Richard arrived
on my doorstep about
eight o’clock the next morning, forcing me from my bed. I’d
awakened with one of my skull-pounding headaches. On a scale of one
to ten, this one rated an eight. Not a good start to the day.

Richard made tea and toast, then sat me down
at the breakfast bar. I took a sip from my mug, swallowing my
migraine medication. The quiet was unnerving.

“You should be taking care of Brenda, not
nursemaiding me.”

“She understands.”

I looked away. Being an object of pity
sucked.

The memory of my father’s sheet-covered
corpse filled my mind. Dread welled up in my chest—making me feel
like an asthmatic. But wasn’t that a normal reaction to losing a
parent? Chet’s death was just another of life’s passages, a grim
reminder of my own mortality.

And what about the dream? The last time I’d
been plagued with dreams of death, I’d gotten involved in a murder
investigation. No way did I want to repeat that experience. But it
bothered me.

I cleared my throat. “Remember when I first
came back to Buffalo, I had that recurring dream about a
murder?”

“Yeah.” Richard’s tone said he didn’t want to
remember, either.

I told him about the most recent nightmares.
“At first I couldn’t see the man’s face. He was old, with white
hair. I thought it had something to do with my father. But the
dreams have gotten more detailed. It’s no one I recognize.”

“Go on.”

“It’s unsolved. The man was shot twice. First
in the leg, from a distance, then point blank in the gut.” I
couldn’t explain it better. I barely understood it myself.

“When did this happen?”

I shrugged. “I don’t know.”

He set his mug on the table. “Those other
dreams brought unpleasant emotions. What do you get now?”

He was beginning to sound like a shrink, but
I hadn’t really thought about it. “The creeps—like any other
nightmare. I’m starting to think I might have a personal stake in
this.”

There. I said it—making it real.

Richard looked thoughtful. “Dr. Marsh, on our
staff, has a good reputation. She might be able to help you figure
out what’s going on.”

I shook my head then wished I hadn’t. “No,
thanks.” I looked away to hide my disappointment at his willingness
to just pass me on to a colleague. Then again, the dreams related
to Matt Sumner’s murder had been the first link in a chain of
events that led to Richard being shot. No wonder he wasn’t eager to
repeat the exercise.

Besides, he had enough on his mind.

“I guess I’ll just wait and see what
happens.” I stared at the crumbs littering my plate. “Will you go
with me to the funeral?”

“Of course, we’ll be there. I’ve already got
someone to cover for us at the clinic.”

“Not Brenda.”

He frowned, his brows narrowing. “Why? Are
you ashamed of her?”