Getting Old Is to Die for (8 page)

"Well," she says brightly, "bring the family and come on over after this and we'll all have some coffee and cake."

"By all means," adds Alan, taking out his card. "I'll write down the address. We're close by."

Jack lowers his voice. "Let's plan to do that very soon, but first, I'd like a private talk at Emily's convenience."

Emily pales. "Is something wrong?" Expecting the worst. "With my mother?"

Alan protectively puts his arm around his wife.

"I'm sorry," Jack says. "I'm handling this clumsily. I didn't mean to alarm you. Gladdy is fine. Busy with a new case."

Emily smiles, relieved. "That sounds like my mom."

"I need to talk to you about the past. When your father died. If you'd be willing to do that."

Her face shows her puzzlement. She hesitates, then says, "Of course. When would you like to meet?"

"Tonight, if that's all right with you."

Alan and Emily exchange startled looks. "Tonight?"

"I can take the kids home," Alan volunteers.

She nods. "Jack, there's a deli right on Amsterdam, stays open pretty late."

"Too bad Zabar's isn't open."

Everybody's favorite deli. They all smile, the tension broken.

"Twenty minutes?" Emily asks. "After I pay my respects to the devoted teacher who's stuck with all these rambunctious kids."

"I'll be there. Thank you." As he starts to walk away he turns and sees Emily and Alan look at one another. He hears Alan say, "You'll be all right?"

Emily nods. "I'm nervous. But I'm curious, too."

12

JACK AND EMILY

T
he deli is open, but getting ready to close. The two rather hefty brothers who own the shop--and obviously indulge greatly in their own products--are busily putting perishables away, chatting as they do. This deli features black-and-white photos on the walls, mostly daytime soap stars and the like. The tables have red-and-white checkered tablecloths and there is a jukebox playing the oldies-but-goodies of the sixties. Frank Sinatra is singing "My Way."

Emily and Jack sit in an old-fashioned wooden booth made of very dark oak that's been stained over and over again to maintain the gloss. They have coffee and pie in front of them. They barely touch their food. The greenish aura of the fluorescent lights make the room seem bleak. They are the only customers.

"Don't rush," one of the brothers assures them. "We got plenty left to do." With that he heads back to the storeroom, carrying a tray loaded with pastries.

"I apologize again for having scared you," Jack says. "I just didn't know how to go about this. I wasn't sure whether a phone call out of the blue would have been better or worse."

Emily looks skittish. And rightly so. Go slow, he tells himself. He's a stranger to her, after all.

"So you tracked me down at the school. Mom did tell me that you'd been a policeman in New York. Old techniques for catching people off their guard?"

She's smart, he thinks, just like her mother. "That's it. Not very nice of me. Would you believe me if I admitted feeling nervous about meeting you?"

"But this is very important to you or you wouldn't have done it. May I ask the obvious question?"

"You mean why didn't I tell Gladdy that I intended to see you?" He pauses. "She doesn't even know I'm in New York."

He can sense she's struggling to understand what that actually means.

She keeps it light. "Cloak-and-dagger stuff?"

"Something like that. You know I care very much for your mother."

"She hinted at such." Emily smiles.

He smiles, too. She's looking him up and down, assessing what her mother sees in him. "But I can't get her to commit to a relationship with me." He grins. "I hate that word."

Emily plays with her teaspoon, stirring the coffee that she isn't drinking. "Over the years Mom met some nice men, but she refused to even consider the idea of replacing my dad. Psychology one-oh-one. A matter of misplaced loyalty."

"Or fear of getting left again."

"But you're different. I can tell from her phone calls. She really feels the same about you. Maybe the problem is her life is too comfortable and change is hard."

"That, too."

"Something else?"

"More Psychology one-oh-one. I think your mother never had closure after your father died. Another word I hate. It keeps her from moving forward."

Emily tenses. "And that's why you wanted me to talk about my father?"

Easy, go easy. He doesn't want to scare her into silence. Jack takes a moment to sip the now cold coffee, then pushes it away. "Yes," he says carefully.

"You mean what he was like? What kind of man he was? Surely Mom told you about him."

"That's not what I had in mind. I want to question you about the terrible night your father died."

Abruptly, she sits up straighter in her chair. Her face tightens. For a moment she doesn't speak. "I didn't expect that. I mean, I was only eleven. What could I possibly know? What do you need to know for? It was a long time ago and what's the point?" She stops, seemingly surprised at her passionate outbreak.

"I'm sorry. I'm upsetting you. You don't have to do this."

She gropes in her purse for a tissue. "Funny, I haven't let myself think about it in years. I thought I buried the memories with him. I mean, when I first met Alan I told him everything and cried a lot, but dear God, life goes on. There are so many times that I think, in a Kodak kind of family moment, why isn't he here to see his wonderful grandchildren? He never saw me grow up. Or saw me married. Or saw that I had a career he'd be so proud of." Emily buries her face in the tissue and cries. Jack reaches over and gently touches her shoulder.

Finally she blows her nose and looks back at him. "Wow! Where did that come from?"

"Not all buried after all," he says tenderly.

"I guess not."

Emily takes a deep breath. "I'm all right now. Ask me what you want to know."

"Just talk. About that night."

She shivers, but after a few moments, she begins. "It was New Year's Eve. My birthday. Even so, Dad was late getting home from the university. Mom and I had been baking my cake. She told me Dad would be home any minute, knowing how eagerly I was waiting for my presents.

"From our window we could see him heading down the street toward our apartment house. He saw us and was about to wave."

Emily twirls a length of her hair nervously. She takes a deep breath. "He never did wave. Suddenly, there was a woman's scream. Dad stopped and looked toward the corner. He dropped his briefcase and ran around that corner down the alley. We heard my father's voice yell, 'Run, Patty.' Then we heard it. It was a gunshot. My mother ran out of our apartment."

She watched her mother from the window, running into the alley. There was a dreadful silence. She couldn't stand it anymore. She had to go downstairs and find out what happened. She was terrified. Why didn't her mother come out again and call out to her? "Nothing to worry about. False alarm."

"My mother disappeared around the corner and that's when I grabbed my coat and ran downstairs, too."

Emily stops to sip at her water. Her hands are shaking. The brothers are looking at them, as if trying to decide whether to interrupt and tell them it's closing time. They approach, pause, and then walk away, shrugging, leaving them alone again.

"You actually saw your father lying on the ground?"

"Yes."

"Mommy, what happened. Mommy?" A girl ran past her. She looked about seventeen. She was tall and very skinny. She looked panic-stricken, as if she didn't know where to run.

"Get back, Emmy, don't come in here," Gladdy shouted.

"I only saw his legs. His motionless legs on the ground. I moved a little closer and saw my mother down on her knees, covering him with her body."

For a moment she thought her daddy was still alive; his body was shaking. But, no, it was her mother's body, racked with tears. Moaning hopelessly.

The girl who must have been Patty ran out of the alley toward some bushes near a wall and threw up. She pounded her fists against the brick, as if trying to hurt herself.

Emily's voice lowers as if it takes too much energy to speak. "I saw the girl, Patty, leaning against the brick wall, shrieking. Then I saw my father's briefcase where he'd dropped it."

She found herself walking over to it. She sat down on the cement and clutched it in her arms, rocking. Then she realized its contents had fallen out. She saw her father's notepapers. And her birthday present. He hadn't had a chance to wrap it yet. Of course it was a book. She always got books on her birthday. It was always a book her parents loved when they were growing up. This year it was
Captain Horatio Hornblower.
The story of a very brave man.

Emily pauses. She's choked up and having trouble speaking. "That was it. The end of my childhood, the end of ever enjoying a birthday again, and the end of my mother's life as she had known it."

Jack feels awful, but he has to make her go on. He's already learned something new--that she was a witness to much of this. His instincts are telling him she knows something more. Something she has never told before. His voice is quiet. "Emily, what happened next?"

"People heard the commotion. A crowd gathered, staring at the tragedy before them. By then my mother was screaming for a doctor. The police came."

"You never saw the killer? Nor did your mom?"

"No, the killer must have run down the other end of the alley. Later I was told that poor girl went crazy right after it happened."

"So the records say. She couldn't remember any of it. Her mind had blocked it out."

"And that was that. The police never caught whoever murdered my father."

The brothers are making it obvious that they are ready to close for the night. They start turning off lights and looking at their customers, shrugging.

Jack tosses some money on the table and leads Emily out the door.

It's still sticky and humid. By now the streets are dark and empty. Most lights are off in the apartment buildings. There's an occasional shout from some older kids prowling the neighborhood. A cat meows loudly at some nocturnal happening.

Jack walks Emily home. "Thank you for putting yourself through it again. I know how difficult it has to be for you."

She nods, still caught up in the emotion. Jack takes her arm and stops her. "You know, there's nothing in the files about you having been on the scene. Did the police ever question you?"

That catches her by surprise. "No, they never did. I guess because I was only a kid, and what could I possibly contribute?"

They stand in front of a darkened doorway. "Then I have a question for you. You said Patty ran past you. Did she say anything?"

"No, she was only crying...."

Patty leaned against the building as if she needed it to hold her up. Emily thought the girl was going to faint. Patty seemed to become aware of someone watching her. She gasped, as if guessing who Emily was. Patty stared at her, then looked away, looking stricken. Moments later she turned back again. Her mouth opened to speak. She reached out to Emily for a moment, and then dropped her arms.

Emily's eyes widen. "Wait a minute, she did say something. But I could hardly hear her, her voice was so low."

Jack is drawn in, intrigued. "What did she say?"

Emily shakes her head, agitated. "I don't remember. Please, how can I?"

"Try. You've been so helpful already, making me see the scene clearly through your eyes. But Emily, I think when something so traumatic happens to a person, all the senses are sharpened at those moments. Stop a moment and put yourself back in that time when she ran past you. Concentrate. Think of what you were feeling. What was going on around you? Try to remember anything."

She closes her eyes, unaware of a couple walking by. Jack holds his breath.

"My mother was shouting for a doctor. Patty was crying. I could feel my own tears and my nose dripping as I sobbed, too. I was aware of windows opening and lights going on.... Somebody's dog started barking. Wait."