Free Fall

31

We take turns shuffling in and out of my apartment to gather up our dirty clothes and head to the nearest 24-hour laundromat.

Christine, of course, needs to peel off her soaked blouse and change into something clean.

I wait in the parking lot until she comes out of unit 111 in a new outfit, toting a canvas sack like Mrs. Claus. Then I dash in to grab my stinky gym clothes, socks, and whatever else is tossed in the corner of the closet or tucked under the bed. I stuff it all into a brown grocery sack because I’m all about re-using and re-cycling.

Once again, we take my car. I’m a little worried about how Christine is going to scrape up gas money without a job.

It’s dark out. Moths are dive-bombing into the halogen streetlamps up and down the avenue. Christine is wearing what I think they still call a halter top. As in, “Halt! Don’t go there, Danny.”

If you were familiar with my romantic history, you’d know I don’t have the best long-term luck with the ladies. My girlfriends either end up as sniper targets or turn into psycho-freak bunny-boilers. It’s never a simple boy-meets-girl-and-they-hop-into-a-fast-car Springsteen song for me.

During the spin cycle, Christine tells me how scary things were at the late Arnold Rosen’s house this morning, right before Ceepak and I showed up.

“That Judith told me to get out of the house or she’d finish what her sister started.”

“You’re kidding?”

Christine shakes her curly head. “I know she comes off all sweet and nicey-nice but trust me, Danny, she can be a real witch.”

“Good to know,” I say, even though I’m not sure Christine is what they call a reliable source. I’m guessing that, whenever she sees Judith Rosen, she also sees Shona Oppenheimer. Coming at her, arms outstretched like a zombie, hands ready to crush her windpipe.

And of course, Judith keeps insisting that Christine is the evil one.

After we transfer our sopping wet clothes to the dryers, Christine tells me more.

“We were friendly at first,” she says. “Shona and me. So, when I lost my day job with Mrs. Crabtree, Shona suggested I take the job at her sister’s father-in-law’s house.”

“Who’s Mrs. Crabtree?”

“Mauna Faye Crabtree. Sweet little old lady. Eighty-eight years old. I was with her for three months before she passed away.”

I nod. I figure burying your clients is just part of the whole home health aide deal.

“I was so grateful to have more work,” Christine continues. “I really didn’t have any kind of problem when they asked me to keep an eye on Dr. Rosen’s medical condition. I thought Judith and David were just looking out for a stubborn old man who wouldn’t reveal anything about his health conditions to his family. But then, they started asking me to do weird stuff.”

“Like what.”

“Find his will. Keep tabs on anything Michael Rosen said or wrote to his dad. Smuggle out medical records.”

“Did you do any of this stuff?”

Thankfully, Christine shakes her head.

“No. Dr. Rosen was my patient, not Judith or David. My loyalty was to him, not them.”

“Which isn’t what David and Judith wanted to hear?”

“Not at all. So Judith nagged her sister. Told Shona to get on my case. Push me harder. Search my shoulder bag.”

“Which takes us to the night I caught the nine-one-one call.”

“Yeah.”

“So, what do you think David and Judith were really after?”

Christine shrugs.

“Do you think Harvey Nussbaum was right?” I say. “Did they want Dr. Rosen’s beach house?”

Another shrug. “Only one thing I know for sure about the Rosen family. Little Arnie was Dr. Rosen’s favorite. He called his grandson his ‘living legacy’-the heir to the ‘Rosen bloodline.’ He even hoped Little Arnie would grow up and become a dentist and restore ‘our family’s good name at U Penn.’”

“He certainly has the smile for it,” I say, remembering all those photographs hanging on the walls of Dr. Rosen’s home.

“No doubt about it. He’s a good-looking kid. Nice face.”

Christine doesn’t add any commentary.

Like how Little Arnie is lucky he didn’t end up with his father’s face, which sort of resembles the bongo-thumping chimpanzee with the beatnik beard from one of those monkey-of-the-month calendars.

“I guess now that Dr. Rosen is dead,” says Christine, “the two brothers will split everything. David will get his half of the house, Michael his.”

When our clothes come out of the dryers, Christine goes to this tall, flat table in the back of the laundromat and starts folding her things, even her undergarments. For me, this is a novel concept. Usually, I just stuff everything back into the brown paper bag I brought it in and go with the rumpled look.

Tonight, however, I pretend like I always fold my clothes and match up my socks. After watching Christine in action for a minute or two, I even figure out how to do it. Sort of.

And then I drive Christine home to my place, which is now, temporarily, her place.

“You want to come in?” she asks.

That vanilla scent from those candles in my apartment? It’s on her skin and in her hair, too. Her chocolate brown eyes are wide and eager. I can feel heat radiating off her body. As the windows start fogging up, I feel like I’m sitting in a cozy sauna with a warm batch of Nestle Toll House cookies.

“Ceepak’s probably waiting up for me,” I say. My voice cracks the way it did back in sixth grade on the word “me.”

“Well, maybe one day, Danny Boyle, you’ll let me show you how much I appreciate all that you’ve done for me.”

“Okay,” I say, making sure it comes out deep and low. “Some day.”

“Promise?”

“Cross my heart.”

Christine leans in and kisses me. On the cheek. The move jostles everything her halter-top was supposed to be halting.

But somehow, I keep my hands firmly gripped on the steering wheel.