Willy didn't respond at first. He stayed rooted in place, his exterior rigidly placid. In all their years as brothers, Bob had maybe spoken to him like that three times-and that was probably an exaggeration. Willy had always lorded over Bob, using his powerful personality to cut him off even if he had no reason to.
The sad thing was that Willy admired his brother for keeping his life together, for not letting the factors that had derailed Willy affect him. Bob's wasn't an exciting life. He hadn't done anything that would merit comment on a plaque or stimulate a rousing memorial speech. But he'd been stalwart and honest and faithful and responsible and had created a life Willy could only envy.
Not that Willy would ever tell him even part of that.
He did sit beside him on the bench, though, and lightly punched his shoulder as he said, "Some speech, Bobby."
Bob swung his head around to glance at him and give him a sour smile. "You are such an asshole."
Willy laughed. "Don't I know it. How's Mom?"
Bob straightened and sat back, sighing deeply, his hands in his lap. " 'How's Mom?' he asks. You called her house to talk to me. You could have asked her yourself, you know? There's another woman you abuse and who still thinks you're the perfect son. I visit her every week, bring Junie and the kids by on a regular basis, have her up to the house for weekends during the summer. All she talks about is you. What the hell is it about you that makes people care so much?"
Willy had been staring straight ahead, waiting for Bob to finish, until he noticed his brother was looking right at him, actually expecting an answer.
"Give me a break, Bob," he said.
After a telling pause, Bob let out a small laugh of defeat. "Who am I kidding? You have no idea what I'm talking about. Even I love you, and you're probably the most unpleasant person I know."
"Thanks," Willy responded. "So, how's Mom?"
"She's got emphysema, a bad ticker, and her hip hurts so bad she can hardly walk, but she won't go for replacement surgery. Other than that, she's great. She's still as domineering, short-tempered, and impatient as ever, and still knows everything about everything, even when she's dead wrong. You ought to drop by and see her. The two of you might kill each other and let the rest of us get on with our lives."
Willy smiled. "Gee, Bob, you've become quite the sentimentalist in your old age."
"Yeah."
They sat side by side for several minutes in silence, staring at the enormous bridge and its steady burden of anonymous humanity, surrounded by the muted sounds of the city enveloping them.
Finally, Bob asked, "Why'd she do it? She talked like life was getting better."
Willy thought back to some of the things his brother had accused him of, and of how it had never occurred to him to deny them.
"I don't know, but I intend to find out. It may be too little, too late, but that much I can do."
Chapter 6
The Re-Coop didn't open until midafternoon, which, given most of its clientele, was still probably early. When Willy appeared across the street from its entrance, recognizing it not just from the sign but from the photograph he'd removed from Mary's apartment, it looked empty.
Of course, all the other buildings on the block looked empty, too. The Lower East Side was distinctive that way, one block being a bustling bazaar, merchandise spilling out onto crowded sidewalks already festooned with clothes and fabrics hanging from overhead signs, while the very next street was silent, closed up, and virtually lifeless.
Unlike Willy's old Washington Heights stomping grounds, though, the Lower East Side had been a catchment area for the poor and the dispossessed since its birth. And yet, perhaps for that very reason, it had also once thrived with life and creativity, with thousands of families jammed into single blocks, fomenting radical thinkers, social activists, and talents like the Gershwin and Marx brothers, Jimmy Durante, and Al Jolson.
But not lately. Nowadays, minus the spark of sheer numbers, that contradictory clash of creativity and despair had melted into something more numbing. While the occasional bustling street still flourished, especially on weekends, the overall neighborhood seemed locked in a permanent funk of poverty, drug abuse, and hopelessness.
The Re-Coop, in other words, was truly a product of its environment.
Willy crossed the street and walked through the door under the brightly painted sign-the only thing distinguishing this entrance from any of its equally dark and brooding neighbors.
That, thankfully, was where all comparisons stopped, however. Once inside, Willy was pleasantly surprised at the light and cheerful atmosphere that greeted him. The walls were colorfully painted and decorated, plants and flowers plentiful, and toys and children's books piled in the corners. It reminded him of an upbeat day-care center in some well-heeled suburb.
"How can I help?" a young woman asked from behind a reception counter. The only doors in the room, other than the one he'd just used, were located behind her on either side, and the front windows, so blank from the street, he saw now had been painted in, further ensuring privacy.
"Yeah. I'd like to talk to someone about Mary Kunkle." He did the routine with the quick flip of the badge.
"What was that supposed to be?" she asked, just as quickly.
He went to Plan B without a pause, pulling the badge back out of his pocket with a feigned sigh of exasperation and laying it on the counter before her. "It's a badge- Vermont Bureau of Investigation. No one's ever heard of us. I usually don't even bother showing it, but I thought you'd like to know who I was."
She peered at it carefully, patently unimpressed. "I bet. Looks real flashy. Why don't you wait over there?" She pointed to a chair near the front door. "I'll get somebody to talk with you."
She slid off her chair and disappeared through one of the back doors. Willy sat down and studied the room carefully, eventually finding the small surveillance camera he'd been expecting. Drug rehab centers came in all shapes and sizes, from the dreary dumps that made shooting up seem like a friendly alternative, to the cold, clinical, hospital look-alikes that reduced everyone in them to the status of a lab rat.
This place was the happy medium, had obviously been set up with serious cash, and would logically have a security system to protect itself. Willy waved at the camera.
Five minutes later, a black woman in her fifties with her hair pulled back in a bun appeared behind the counter. She was solidly built, dressed in no-nonsense, practical clothes, and didn't look as though she appreciated having her time wasted. Willy recognized her as one of the smiling people in the photograph-the one standing in the group's center.
"You were asking about Mary Kunkle?" she asked.
He stood up. "Yes. I used to be her husband."
She studied him silently for a few moments. Suddenly the front door opened and a pale, scrawny young man stepped in, stopped nervously in his tracks, and looked at them both. The older woman's face broke into a wide smile. "Hey, Tommy, good you could make it. Let me tell Dave you're here."
She then gave Willy a hard look, although she kept her voice artificially bright. "Why don't you come with me?"
Willy followed her through to a back hallway lined with closed doors and muted lighting. She stopped at one of the doors, stuck her head in, and said, "Tommy's here," before leading Willy to what was apparently her own office halfway down the corridor. Again, the environment was soothing, upbeat, pleasant, and well paid for.
"You guys must be pretty good fund-raisers," Willy commented.
The woman pointed at a comfortable armchair facing her desk. "Sit."
She circled the desk, settled behind it, and steepled her fingers just below her chin, so that she was looking at Willy as if he'd been pinned under glass.