I 've Heard That Song Before

70

I spoke to Maggie a couple of times in the next few days, and I knew she was concentrating on trying to remember the name of the man my father had heard whistling the tune that was so nostalgic to him. Then something occurred to me. “Maggie, you said that Daddy was down in the dumps when he told you about it. His car was found so soon afterward, and you thought he had committed suicide, do you think you might have talked about that incident to your friends?”

“We certainly talked about how much he missed your mother. I probably did tell them about it. It was an example of how much he missed her.”

“Then there’s always a chance that you mentioned the man’s name, because you said Daddy mentioned it to you.”

“I may have, but, Kay, that was over twenty-two years ago. If I can’t remember, how do you expect anyone else would?”

“I really don’t. But it’s just one of those things that are easy for you to do, and may be so helpful to us. I want you to talk about Daddy to your friends. Tell them that, in a way, it’s been good for me to know that he didn’t willingly leave me. Then you can remind them of that story, and say that it’s been annoying you that you can’t come up with the name of the man who was whistling that song the day of the party. But talk about it only to your friends, please.”

“Kay, it’s really unlikely that someone will come up with a name after all these years, but I’d do anything to help. It’s a visiting day at the jail, isn’t it?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Will you congratulate your husband-I mean Peter-about the baby?”

“Thank you, Maggie. He’ll appreciate that.”

Two hours later, I was in the visiting room of the Bergen County Jail, looking at Peter through the Plexiglas. I wanted so much to touch him, to link my fingers with his. I wanted to bring him home and close the door on the rest of the world. I wanted our life back.

But, of course, to say any of that now would only make it harder for him. There were so many things I couldn’t say. I couldn’t talk about the shirt that I thought Gary Barr had stolen from Elaine, only to have it stolen again by Vincent Slater. Vince had continued to deny he found it when he searched the gatehouse and the SUV, but I didn’t believe him.

I couldn’t talk to him about the money I’d paid Elaine, and I certainly couldn’t tell Peter that I’d hired Nicholas Greco.

Instead I told Peter about finding the antique cradle, and how I was going to look up Eli Fallow, the craftsman, and see if I could learn anything about him. “The third floor is like a treasure hunt, Peter.”

Small talk. Unsatisfactory. The kind you make with a patient in the hospital when you know you really can’t talk about important things because it would be too upsetting. Peter’s face lit up at any reference to the baby, but that was followed by worry about me. He noticed my weight loss, and I assured him that the obstetrician said that in the first trimester it was not unusual.

He asked if I saw much of Elaine and Richard. I hedged by saying how shocked I had been when Elaine told me that Richard was pulling up stakes and moving to London. “I gather he’s facing his gambling problems, and also the fact that his own gallery is always losing money,” I said.

“I think that’s a solid direction for him to take,” Peter said. “As far back as when Elaine and my father were dating, Richard was into the horses, which, if you knew my father, was absolutely unforgivable. I think one of the reasons my father demanded to see every bill that came into the house during the big decorating siege was because he wanted to make sure Elaine wasn’t supporting her son’s gambling habit, at least with his money. I think it would be nice if you had Elaine and Richard and Vince for dinner before Richard leaves, Kay.”

I couldn’t say that was the last thing I wanted to do. Instead I ignored the suggestion and asked, “What kind of allowance did you have as a kid? Was your father generous with you?”

Peter could look so boyish when he smiled. “Actually, he was okay. Fortunately for our relationship, I never went the route of the rich man’s spoiled son. I liked to go into the office during the summer and on school holidays. I’m fascinated with the financial world. I’m good at it. That pleased my father. And he honestly had a soft heart for anyone in genuine need, which is why the check he gave Maria Valdez was exactly the sort of gesture he would make, and did make to many people.”

Then Peter’s expression darkened. “And try to convince anyone of that,” he added softly.

I knew I only had a few minutes left. I was holding the phone. “Guessing game,” I said, and hummed the melody of the song I had heard in the chapel. “Do you recognize this tune?” I asked.

“I don’t think so. In fact, I’d say that I don’t.”

“I had a friend who was a good whistler. Nobody does that anymore. Did you ever know anyone who whistles, I mean, someone, maybe like Vince?”

Peter actually laughed. I realized it was the first time I’d heard him laugh since we came back from our honeymoon.

“Kay, I can as easily imagine Vince whistling as I can see him being a circus barker. Buttoned-up Vincent Slater, whistling a tune for anyone to hear? Come on!”

The guard was approaching me. Our visiting time was up. Peter and I pressed our lips against the glass that separated us, and, as usual, I tried not to cry. “How do I love thee?” I asked him.

“Let me count the ways,” he whispered. It had become our way of saying good-bye after a visit.

But then he added, “Kay, have a dinner for Richard before he leaves for London. I’d like that. He’s always had his problems, but he is my stepbrother, and Elaine has always been kind to me.”