The phone rang, but no one answered. Blast!
Ben banged his steering wheel, as if that might make the rerouted traffic move faster. Finally he exited onto Harvard and barreled south toward Christina’s apartment.
He parked his car on the street outside and ran to the front door, on which he pounded, but there was no answer. Shades were drawn over the front windows; he couldn’t see what, if anything, was going on inside.
Damn! The whole thing didn’t make sense. But if Christina was in there, and she had been beaten, she might be unable to come to the door. She could be unconscious, bleeding—even dying.
He had to try something. There was a fence that divided the front of the apartments, and Ben knew Christina’s place had a back screen door that faced out on the other side. He had told her a million times to keep that door locked, but she almost never did. If he could get over there …
Fortunately, the fence was not too high, only about six feet. He jumped up and grabbed the top with both hands, then hoisted himself over. He flopped down on the other side, landing on both feet. Not bad for an amateur, he thought. He ran around the corner and made it to the back sliding door.
Yes! It was unlocked. Good thing she never heeded his advice. He’d scold her later; today it was a godsend. He threw open the door and raced inside and saw—
Nothing.
No one was there. There were no signs of a struggle, no overturned chairs or tables. No blood on the white shag carpet. He checked the back bedroom and bath, the kitchen, even the closets. It was all the same.
There had been no brawl, no beating.
It had never made any sense. Christina might not speak all that kindly about Ray, but shed never suggested that he’d been violent to her. And Christina could handle herself pretty well, as he’d seen in any number of situations. All things considered, she was more likely to beat Ray to a pulp than the other way around.
Ben sat down on the sofa and stared into the gilt mirror hanging on the opposite wall just above Christina’s display of French memorabilia. Two possibilities shouted out to him. Either Mrs. Marmelstein was playing a cruel prank … or Mrs. Marmelstein was losing her mind.
Unfortunately, she had never been much of a prankster.
Ben rubbed his face. Even when the doctors had determined that she had Alzheimer’s, he’d thought they could cope with it without much adjustment. But this was different. Hallucinating violent events that never happened, never even came close to happening. He had to face facts.
Her mind was slipping. Fast.
He pushed himself off the sofa and exited through the back sliding door. Poor Mrs. Marmelstein. Through it all, she had always been sweet and good-hearted. She may have periodically feigned her disapproval of Ben, but he knew that in truth she was one of his greatest supporters, someone he could always count on for a kind and caring word. And she knew he had been there when she needed someone. She knew he had taken care of her.
But Ben couldn’t take care of this. He couldn’t be with her all the time, preventing her from hurting herself or making panicked phone calls in the middle of the night. He had a job, a career. The band was planning to go on the road. He couldn’t babysit his landlady all the time.
He jumped up, grabbed the top of the fence, and swung his legs over. He had flopped onto the other side and was just about to scramble down when he heard the staccato static of the police radio.
“Suspect is male, thin, about five foot five with brown hair, balding slightly in the back …”
Ben released his grip on the fence and dropped to the ground.
“Freeze! Hands in the air!”
Ben threw up his hands. He whirled around and saw three police cars, red sirens swirling. Officers flanked each car, their guns extended over the open car doors, ready to fire given the slightest provocation.
“I can explain,” Ben said meekly.
“Of course you can,” the officer in front growled as he reached for his cuffs.
Ben suspected he was not going to make it home in time for the John Prine concert.
It was almost midnight before he managed to convince the Tulsa Police Department, Central Division, that he was neither a cat burglar nor Ray, the ex-husband from hell. Mike had dropped by during the interrogation, mostly just to make fun, but he had at least put in a good word.
“Has your landlady made calls like this before?” they asked.
“No. Well, not that I know of.”
“This kind of behavior could be dangerous,” one of his interrogators said earnestly. “People could get hurt, including her. She needs someone watching her.”
“I know.”
They finally let him go with a stern warning about the dangers of breaking into apartments, even your friends’, and after extracting a promise that Ben would try to keep Mrs. Marmelstein out of trouble.
He staggered home. What was this, the third night in a week, home after midnight? It was getting old.
He stopped outside Mrs. Marmelstein’s door. Normally he wouldn’t knock at this hour, but he saw the light was on under the door. He tapped gently.
“Come in,” she said.
Ben pushed the door open and entered. She was sitting in her rocker recliner, an array of sepia-toned photographs in her lap.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m fine, thank you,” she said, sniffing.
“You’re up late.”
“What are you talking about? I just got up.”
He didn’t bother to correct her. “Can we talk about that phone call you made this evening?”
“What phone call?” She picked up another photo. She seemed to be arranging them into separate piles, although what the distinctions were Ben couldn’t tell.
“The one you made to me. At the club. About Christina and her ex-husband.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She continued her sorting.
“Mrs. Marmelstein, you did call me.”
“Have I ever shown you this photo?” She looked up for the first time, her face bright and sunny, but still a pale reflection of the Mrs. Marmelstein that Ben had known so well. “Daniel and I were at the beach on Long Island. That was before we moved to Tulsa. Before Daniel invested in the oil industry.”
Ben took the photograph from her. It was at least fifty years old. It showed the two of them, so much younger they were like different people, wearing old-fashioned bathing suits and sitting under a huge beach umbrella. Two people from another world.
“I should probably go to bed,” Ben said.
“Now? But we just got up.”
Ben sighed. “Mrs. Marmelstein, how would you feel if … well, if you went to live somewhere else?”
“Somewhere else? What do you mean?”
“You could live where people would help you, take care of things.”
Mrs. Marmelstein gave him a sharp, unhappy look.
“Well, we’ll talk about it in the—later.” He kissed her on the forehead, then left the room and closed the door behind him.
A gloom had settled over him that he couldn’t seem to shake. He thought about playing the piano a bit, or listening to a Christine Lavin CD, but somehow he wasn’t in the mood. He fed Giselle, guzzled half a quart of chocolate milk straight out of the carton, and climbed into bed.
He tried to clear his head of the events of the day, the unresolved issues. He tried to forget it all so he could relax and sleep. Tomorrow was another day, he reminded himself. I’ll solve everyone’s problems then.
Eventually his eyelids drooped shut.