Part 17 (2/2)
”Hey, Dad.”
”What's wrong?”
”How are you?”
”Peachy. How's Veronica?”
”She left.”
”Jesus.”
”And I'm sick, Dad. Real sick.” There was a pause. The laughing stopped, the birds silenced, the breeze quieted: His father had moved inside. Robert had never seen their home, had never visited Puerto Rico. He'd always meant to.
”Tell me,” Jimmy said.
”Like mother was.”
”When did you find out?” Jimmy's voice was weak now.
”Not long ago.”
”I'll be there tomorrow.”
”Not yet, Dad. I'm going to pull through, I promise.”
”Don't f.u.c.k around. You have a little girl, and apparently no wife. I'm coming up.”
Robert paused. ”What about Juanita?”
”Just me.”
”Are you two-”
”We're fine. You need me. She'll be fine without me for a while.”
”Okay.”
”Anything else?”
”Oh,” said Robert, more dazed than ever. ”I got something strange in the mail today.”
”What?”
”It's postmarked October of 1970.”
”Mail never was any d.a.m.n good.”
”It's from Mom.”
”Someone's jiggling your meat.”
”I haven't opened it.”
”Christ, but you were always dramatic. Open it.”
Robert slid the knife into the top of the envelope, tore it end to end. His heart throbbed at the root of his throat. It was one piece of paper. He took it out, held it to the window's light, unfolded it, but there was nothing. No ink, no impressions, only a blank sheet of paper. ”She didn't write anything.”
”Son?”
”Yeah,” said Robert, oblivious, staring at the blankness.
”I'll see you tomorrow.”
Robert hung up, glanced around his office, took out one of his mother's diaries, thumbed through it, comparing the writing to that on the front of the envelope. It was a perfect match. Dumbfounded, he stuck the paper into the diary, and put the volume back into place.
Later, the doorbell rang twice, and he exited his office. ”Just a minute!”
”Company!” cried Jennifer, racing down the stairs. She reached the door first, and her enthusiasm suddenly waned. She backed up.
”What's up, baby?”
”It's the law and order,” she said. Robert let her stay up too often, watching cop shows.
”Alright,” he said, joining her at the door. He opened it on two uniformed men. ”May I help you guys?”
”Robert Lieber?” the cop on the right asked. He had greased hair, a uniform devoid of jewelry, and his right hand shook by his hip.
”Yes,” said Robert.
”May we come in?” asked the other man. This officer, though no older than the other, was obviously walking the rookie through this.
”Sure,” he answered, motioning them into the foyer, where a couple of couches sat facing each other, a coffee table between them. ”What's going on, fellas?”
<script>