Cheated By Death (7 page)

“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, wishing 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.

“After Shelley got arrested, I found a lawyer
who specialized in drug cases. He got her off, but it took almost
five grand. I was stupid. I believed her when she said she quit
using the stuff.” God, how I’d wanted to believe her. “But one day
I came home from work and the apartment looked like a bomb hit it.
I thought we’d been robbed—until I found her note tacked on a
cupboard door. She’d taken what she wanted and left. And she warned
me not to go looking for her. I paid two hundred and fifty bucks to
get the locks changed that night. I didn’t know the check would
bounce.”

“What did you do?” Richard asked.

“I couldn’t afford to hire someone, so I took
a few days of vacation and found her myself. But I didn’t trust
myself to see her. I was afraid I’d beat the shit out of her. She
was staying with one of her friends from work—the job she’d gotten
fired from. I called. At first she hung up on me, but after a few
days she told me we were through—that she had a new life. It turned
out her new life was selling drugs.”

“What did you do?” Brenda asked.

My anger drained. “Nothing. You can’t make
someone love you. So, I worked. Sometimes eighteen-hour days. I put
my heart and soul into that job. That’s why I was lost when I got
laid off. It kept me from thinking about her and what she’d done.
It kept me sane.”

“Jeff, I had no idea,” Richard said.

“I almost believed I was over her when the
cops called me to identify her body.” I took a breath to steady
myself. The memories were still like acid eating at my soul—like it
had happened yesterday. The lump in my throat grew. “The place
smelled. Not of formaldehyde or anything, but like . . . death. You
could almost taste it.”

Brenda inched closer, frowning.

“The cop stood there, watching me as they
flashed her picture on the video screen. It was unreal, like
something out of a bad movie. There was my beautiful Shelley lying
on a gurney.” I took a breath, forced myself to continue. “Because
the top of her head was gone, they’d positioned her at an odd
angle. They’d cleaned her up, but I was familiar with crime-scene
pictures. I could tell it was bone and brains matted in her hair .
. . .”

I stared unseeing at the beer bottle’s label
in front of me, remembering that dreadful scene. “Cops always
suspect the husband first. I mean, I did own a gun. But she was
shot with a nine millimeter and I owned a thirty-eight. It didn’t
take them long to figure out what really happened. Technically, I
was still her husband—I’d never done anything about a legal
separation. I guess part of me hoped she’d come back.” I swallowed,
trying to quell the anguish mounting inside. “Guess who got to pay
for the funeral?” My voice cracked as I thought back to that awful
day. The empty chapel—my empty life.

“She had no family that I knew of. I was too
ashamed to tell my friends at work. Just me and a priest, and that
damned casket—”

I lost it then—hunched over, fighting the
tears that prickled my eyes. I couldn’t bear to look at them.

Suddenly Brenda was hugging me, bathing me in
the warmth of her concern. Richard stood behind me, his hand on my
shoulder.

“Why didn’t you call us?” he asked. “You
didn’t have to go through it all alone.”

Hindsight. I should’ve done a lot of things
different.

The ticking quartz clock on the wall was the
only sound in that silent kitchen. I straightened, cleared my
throat, and wiped my face with my sleeve. Brenda squeezed my hand.
I still couldn’t look at either of them.

“That’s why Patty got to me this afternoon.
She’s just about Shelley’s age. She does her hair the way Shelley
did. And when she asked me if my medication got me high—” I took a
breath, forced myself to continue. “I can’t deal with her.”

Richard sat down again, looked me straight in
the eye. “First of all, she’s
not
Shelley. Maybe she was
nervous. People say and do dumb things when they’re nervous. She’s
reaching out to you. Isn’t there the slightest possibility she
could feel something genuine for you? Look at the years
we
wasted.”

What he said was true.

Okay, Patty had made a bad first impression.
Suppose it was just a case of nerves.

“She invited me to some family thing on
Saturday.”

“Would it hurt to go for an hour or so?”
Richard said.

“I’ll bet Maggie would go with you. Or we
could go with you for moral support,” Brenda offered.

“No. I don’t want her to—”
Insult you
was the first thing I thought of. “I don’t want her to think she
can impose on your generosity.”

“Well, we’re here for you,” Richard said.

“Thanks.” That one small word seemed
incredibly inadequate for all I felt for them.

“Do you want to stay for dinner?” Richard
asked.

I hefted the nearly empty beer bottle. “Yeah,
I would.”

“It’s only chicken,” Brenda warned.

I met her warm, brown-eyed gaze. “I love
chicken.”

She patted my shoulder, got up, and went back
to the unfinished salad on the counter.

Richard punched my arm, and gave me an
encouraging smile. “You’re okay, kid.”

That simple gesture made me feel better. No
matter what Patty or Chet represented, Richard and Brenda were my
family, and I loved them. Even if I couldn’t say it out loud.

CHAPTER

5

Thanksgiving: just another raw gray day in
Buffalo. While the nation hunkered down for parades and college
football, I spent a good part of the day outside, winterizing the
three cars—filling the washer reservoir with blue stuff, and
checking the oil and the tire pressure. To thaw out, I took a
leisurely shower and found a pink-cheeked Maggie in my kitchen when
I emerged in my bathrobe, with a damp towel draped around my neck.
She greeted me with a warm kiss.

“What have you got there?” I asked, peering
around her at the grocery bags she’d dumped on my breakfast
bar.

“I didn’t want the dessert to slide apart in
the car so I’m putting it together now.”

She gave me another quick kiss, slipped out
of her coat, and went straight to work. A milk glass cake stand
came first. Then, as if by magic, she produced four layers of
chocolate cake.

“It’ll be Black Forest cake,” she
announced.

I settled onto one of the stools at the
breakfast bar, watching her fuss, trying to keep a grimace off my
face. “I don’t like gooey desserts.”

“But Brenda and I do. And stop pouting, will
you?”

I’m not big into holidays. They had never
been a part of my past. But since most of Maggie’s family had
scattered to various in-laws, she’d been grateful for Brenda’s
invitation to join them for dinner.

“Have you noticed anything odd with Richard
and Brenda?” she asked.

“What do you mean?”

“Something’s going on.”

“Such as?”

She rolled her eyes theatrically. “God, men
are so obtuse. They’ve been looking at each other and smiling a
lot. Doesn’t that give you a clue?”

My gut tightened. Why did I feel such
unease?

“To tell you the truth, I’ve been so
preoccupied about Chet and Patty I haven’t noticed a whole hell of
a lot.” I thought about it. “Brenda switched to decaf coffee.”