Deceit

SEVENTEEN

Nate informed me that some lady had called.

He swirled his finger by his ear, the universal gesture for certifiably off the wall.

The reason Nate had answered the call from this crazy person was that I’d overslept and wasn’t there.

I’d woken up with what felt like a stupid grin on my face. It was confirmed when I stared in the shower-fogged mirror and didn’t see Mr. Dour staring back. Instead it was Mr. Stupid, back from enforced obscurity. I’d kind of missed him.

When I waltzed into the office, Norma took off her glasses and squinted.

“You look different,” she said.

“Who was it?” I asked Nate the Skate.

He was on his cell, probably conversing with his nudist girlfriend.

“I don’t know. Her number’s on your desk.”

I found the number-Mrs. Flaherty. Probably wondering what progress I’d made, which was zero. I felt a sudden pang of pity for the lonely downtrodden of this world, a social stratum I’d once called home.

I didn’t call her back immediately. No.

I savored my morning coffee, blessed the poor Colombians who’d toiled in the bean fields in order to bring it to me. I suppose if you get enough love and approval, you begin spreading the excess.

To Hinch, for example.

He came out of his office with a vacant look in his eyes. His gray stubble had reached near-beard level. His wrinkled shirt was partially untucked.

“How’s your wife, Hinch?”

Norma began shuffling some papers on her desk.

“What?” Hinch stared at me as if I were a Jehovah’s Witness who’d shown up at his front door on his day off.

“I was just curious how your wife is doing.”

Suddenly Hinch’s eyes became red-rimmed. Just like that. First bland and unfocused, then harbingers of a coming maelstrom. Call it the Aurora Dam Flood Two.

He clumsily wiped at one eye, looked down at his shoes, murmured something under his breath.

“What, Hinch? I’m sorry, I didn’t hear you.”

“How my wife is doing… how my wife is doing is none of your business,” he said. He didn’t say it meanly. More sadly.

“I’m sorry. I hope… well, that everything, you know…” I said, letting my stab at consolation stumble into incoherence.

Hinch went back to his office.

There was an embarrassing silence. Nate, who’d held his phone call in abeyance, resumed with a whispered got to get off, baby. Norma peeked at me sideways and sighed.

“She’s back in the hospital, Tom,” she said softly. “God knows, it doesn’t look good.”

“Sorry. I didn’t know.”

My expansive mood had pretty much dissipated. I thought I might as well call Mrs. Flaherty back.

“You want to talk to him?” Mrs. Flaherty asked me after I said hello.

“Talk to whom, Mrs. Flaherty?”

“Dennis.”

“Dennis? What are you talking about?”

I should’ve known what she was talking about. My son came back to say hey, 100-year-old Belinda had told me.

It was getting to be a trend.

WE HAD A NICE CONVERSATION.

Dennis and me.

It was a tad one-sided, since Dennis Flaherty wasn’t big on conversing, and seemed to be speaking underwater. I slapped the receiver against the desk in an effort to clear the foggy reception. It wasn’t the reception; it was Dennis.

“It’s the drugs,” Mrs. Flaherty told me after Dennis relinquished the phone to her and went to his childhood bedroom to nap. “They make him sleepy.”

What drugs were those?

The ones the VA psychiatric hospital used to keep Dennis docile and happy.

“Do you know you were in a fatal car crash?” I asked him after I’d introduced myself.

“Uh-huh,” he answered, in a lugubrious monotone that would never waver.

“How do you think that happened?”

“Dunno.”

“Someone had your wallet.”

“Yeah.”

“Dennis, you understand what I’m telling you? You were buried.”

“Right.”

“Where did you lose your wallet?”

“Dunno. On the street.”

“On the street? You mean, you were living on the street?”

“Yeah.”

“Well, when was the last time you saw it?”

“Dunno. Didn’t have it in the hospital.”

“What hospital?”

“VA.”

“You were in a veterans’ hospital?”

“Yeah.”

“What were you in the hospital for?”

“My head’s not right.”

“Your head’s not right. What’s that mean? You have… mental problems?”

“Yeah.”

“Were you ever in Littleton, California, Dennis?”

“Where?”

“You weren’t in California a week ago, right?”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. You understand someone died in the accident. It wasn’t you-it was somebody else who, for some strange reason, had your wallet.”

“Yeah.”

“But you don’t know how he got hold of it. How you lost it? Somewhere on the street, you think?”

Nate had strolled over to my desk as if following the tantalizing aroma of moo goo gai pan. Even half of the conversation must’ve been kind of irresistible. Someone dead was alive and kicking. How often did that happen?

Dennis hadn’t answered my last question. It sounded like he was snoring.

“Dennis? Dennis, are you there?”

“Huh?”

“I said, you think you lost your wallet on the street?”

“I’m tired. Oh man, I’m tired.”

“Just a minute, few more questions, okay?”

“What time is it? Is it nighttime?”

“It’s 1 in the afternoon, Dennis,” I said, allowing for the difference in time zones. “Just a couple more questions.” I didn’t have any more questions. Dennis was drugged up and stupid. He’d had his wallet and then he didn’t. It had eventually shown up in the pocket of an accident victim burned beyond recognition.

Dennis must’ve passed Mrs. Flaherty the phone; the next voice I heard was hers.

“You were right, Tom,” she whispered. “After we talked, I actually went to church. First time in forever. I lit a candle. I prayed Dennis was still alive and would come walking through the door. He did.”

“How long was he in the hospital?”

“Who cares? It’s a miracle, don’t you see? I have my son back.”

“Yeah, it’s a miracle.” I took a second to motion a hovering Nate away from my desk. “Can I call you back, Mrs. Flaherty? I may have some other questions.”

“Of course, Tom. You can call me anytime you’d like. Thank you.”

“For what? I didn’t do anything. Your son wasn’t dead. Someone stole his wallet or found it. Whoever was driving that car. Dennis would’ve come walking back into your house whether I’d called you or not.”

“Oh really?” she said. “I know better.”