Part 10 (1/2)

Aunt Patty. Doesn't everyone have an Aunty Patty? I give her my best opening statement. ”My late father was an old friend of Brendan's. He grew up with Brendan in Southie. When I heard of his pa.s.sing and the arrangements, saw I wouldn't be able to attend the wake or the funeral, I felt compelled to come down and give my family's condolences in person.”

I hope that's enough to win over the jury. I look at her and see conflict. Aunt Patty doesn't know what to do. Aunt Patty keeps looking behind her but there's no one there to talk to, no one to make the decision for her. She's here to cook and clean and help keep the grieving widow safe from interlopers and unwanted distractions. She's here to make sure that grief happens correctly and according to schedule.

I know, because Ellen has been part of so many grief squads in Southie that she might as well register as a professional and rent herself out. Maybe Ellen does it to remember Tim and grieve for him all over again or she's trying to add distance, going through a bunch of little grievings to get over the big one.

I say, ”I've come a long way. I won't stay too long, I promise.”

That cinches it. Aunt Patty gives me a warm milk smile and says, ”Oh, all right, come in. Thank you for coming.” She opens the door wide behind her.

I'm in. I say, ”You're welcome. Thanks for letting me in. Means a lot. Is Janice doing okay?”

”About as well as can be imagined. She's been very brave.” Aunt Patty shuffle-leads me through the dining room, our feet making an odd rhythm on the hardwood floor.

It's dark in here. The shades are drawn over the bay windows. The house is in mourning. It's something I can feel. Sullivan died somewhere in this house. Maybe even the front room. Gun under his chin, bullet into his brain. Coerced or set up or neither, this is serious stuff. I can't screw any of it up.

There are pictures and decorations on the walls, but it's too dark to see them. There are also cardboard boxes on the dining room table. The boxes are brown and sad, both temporary and final.

Aunt Patty limps, favoring her left side, probably a hip. When her hip breaks, she won't make it out of the hospital alive. Yeah, like I said, I'm in a mood.

She says, ”What's your name?”

”Mark. Mark Genevich. Nice to meet you, Aunt Patty.”

”What nationality?”

”Lithuanian.” Maybe I should tell her what I really am: narcoleptic. We narcoleptics have no country and we don't partic.i.p.ate in the Olympics. Our status supersedes all notion of nationality. We're neutral, like the Swiss, but they don't trust us with army knives.

She says, ”That's nice.” My cataloging is a comfort to her. I'm not a stranger anymore; I'm Lithuanian.

The kitchen is big and clean, and bright. The white wallpaper and tile trim has wattage. Flowers fill the island counter. I fight off a sneeze. There are voices, speaking softly to our right. Just off the kitchen is a four-season porch, modestly decorated with a table for four and a large swing seat. Two women sit on the swing seat. The hinges and springs creak faintly in time with the pendulum. One of the women looks just like Aunt Patty, same dress and pool-cue necklace. The other woman does not make three of a kind with the pair of queens.

Patty and I walk onto the porch. The swingers stop swinging; someone turns off the music. The vase of flowers is a dumbbell in my hand.

Aunt Patty says, ”That's my twin sister Margaret and, of course, the other beautiful woman is Janice. This is Mark Genevich?” I'm a name and a question. She doesn't remember my opening statement or my purpose. I need to fill in the blanks and fast. I've never been good under pressure.

I open with, ”I'm so very sorry for your loss.” And then I tell Janice and Aunt Margaret what I told Aunt Patty. Janice is attentive but has a faraway smile. Aunt Margaret seems a bit rougher around the edges than her sister. She sits with her thick arms folded across her chest, nostrils flared. She smells something.

Janice is of medium build and has long straight hair, worn down, parted in the middle, a path through a forest. She looks younger than her front-page husband but has dark, almost purple circles under her eyes. Her recent sleeping habits leaving their scarlet letters. Most people don't like to think about how much damage sleep can do, evidence be d.a.m.ned.

Janice says, ”Thank you for coming and for the flowers. It's very thoughtful of you.” The dark circles shrink her nose and give it a point.

I give Janice the flowers and nod my head, going for the humble silent exchange of pleasantries. Immediately, I regret the choice. I want her to talk about Brendan but she's not saying anything. Everyone has gone statue and we sit and stare, waiting for the birds to come land on our shoulders and s.h.i.+t all over us.

My heart ratchets its rate up a notch and things are getting tingly, my not-so-subtle spider sense telling me that things aren't good and could quickly become worse. Then I remember I brought the picture, the picture of Brendan and the boys. I focus my forever-dwindling energies on it.

I ask, ”Did Brendan ever talk about my father?” For a moment, I panic and think I said something about Brendan and my mother instead. But I didn't say that. I'm fine. I shake it off, rub dirt on it, stay in the game. I reach inside my coat and pull out the photo of Tim, the DA, and Sullivan on the stairs. It's still in the frame. Its spot on Ellen's windowsill is empty. ”That's Brendan on the left, my father on the right.”

Patty squeezes onto the swing seat, sitting on the outside of her sister. I'm the only one standing now. It's noticeable.

Janice says, ”I don't remember your father's name coming up. Brendan and I had only been married for ten years, and he never really talked much about growing up in Southie.”

It's getting harder not to be thinking about Ellen and Sullivan sitting in a tree as a slight and gaining maybe. G.o.dd.a.m.n Brill. I say, ”I understand,” even if I don't. It's what I'm supposed to say; a nice-to-see-you after the h.e.l.lo.

Janice sighs heavily; it says, What am I supposed to do now? I feel terrible for her. I don't know exactly what happened here with Sullivan, but it was my fault. And this case is far from over. She doesn't know that things could get worse.

Janice fills herself up with air after the devastating sigh, which is admirable but just as sad, and says, ”I wish Brendan kept more stuff like this around. Could I ask you for a copy of this picture?”

”Of course, consider it done,” I say.

Janice smiles, but it's sad; G.o.dd.a.m.n it, everything is sad. We both know she's trying to regain something that has already been lost forever.

Aunt Margaret grabs the picture with both hands, and says, ”Who's that boy in the middle?”

I say, ”That's William Times. Currently he's the Suffolk County district attorney.”

Patty clasps her hands together and says, ”Oh, his daughter is the singer, right? She's very cute.”

”Nah, she's a loser,” Margaret says, waving her hand. Case dismissed.

Patty says, ”She's not a loser. She sang on national TV. I thought she sang beautifully too.”

”She stunk and she was a spoiled brat. That's why they voted her off the show,” Margaret says.

Janice, who I a.s.sume has been acting as referee for the sisters for as long as they've been at her house, says, ”She was a finalist on American Star. She's hardly a loser.”

Margaret shrugs. ”She lost, right? We'll never hear from her again.”

The volley between family members is quick, ends quicker, and is more than a little disorienting. It also seems to be the end of the small talk. We're back to staring at each other, looking for an answer that isn't here.

I'm not leaving this house empty-handed, without knowing what the next step is, without having to grill Ellen about a tryst with Sullivan. Hopefully, the photo of the boys has bought me some familiarity chips that I can cash.

I say, ”I'm sorry, there's no good way to say this, so I'm just going to come out with it.”

Margaret says, ”Come out with it already and be done then.”

”Good advice.” I pull out a business card and my PI ID and hand them to Janice, but Margaret takes them instead. ”I'm a smalltime, very small-time, private detective in South Boston.”

Patty's eyes go saucer-wide and she says, ”How exciting!”

It's not warm in here but my head sweats under my hat. I nod at Patty, acknowledging her enthusiasm. At least I'll have one of the three on my side. I say, ”Last week your husband, Brendan, came to my office in Southie and hired me.”

Janice sinks into her swing seat. Patty covers her mouth. Margaret still has her arms crossed. Janice says, ”Hired you? Hired you for what?”

Christ, I probably could've come up with a better way to introduce the subject, but there's no turning back now. As uncomfortable as this is, asking the questions that will haunt Janice for years to come, I owe it to Sullivan to see this through. I owe it to myself too.

I say, ”Mind if I sit?” No one says anything. I grab a fold-up chair that's leaning against a wall and wrestle with it for a bit; the wood clacks and bites my fingers. I'm sure I look clumsy, but I'm buying some time so I can figure out what I can and can't tell her. It doesn't work.

I say, ”The hard part is that I don't think I can tell you much until I figure it all out for myself.”

Margaret says, ”He's a crock. This guy is a phony. He's trying to get something out of you, probably money. Let's call the police.”