Mystery

he following morning at eleven I was pushing Gretchen Stengel’s call button. A female voice, too upholstered around the edges to be Gretchen’s, said, “One moment,” and buzzed me in.

The condo door was open by the time I got there. A chubby gray-haired woman in a loose floral dress smiled then held a finger to her lips.

When I got close enough, she whispered, “Sleeping. Finally.”

She motioned me to the edge of the landing, held out a hand. “I’m her sister, Bunny Rodriguez.”

“Alex Delaware. Bad night?”

“It was tough. Thanks for being here for Chad.”

“Is Chad here?”

“Napping also,” she said. “Snuggled up against Gretchen.” Her eyes watered. Blinking. “He’s a sweet boy.”

As if I needed to be convinced.

I said, “It’s good that he’s got you.”

“I’ve always loved Chad.” She breathed in and out and her body quivered like aspic beneath the thin, rayon dress. The print was hydrangeas and wisteria, green tendrils running amok. Her eyes were soft brown, bloodshot around the edges. Indentations on both sides of a thin straight nose said glasses were a regular thing. “My own kids are grown. Guess it’ll be an adventure. Hopefully not for a long time.”

Her smile fell well short of happiness. “Nothing like denial, right?”

“Whatever it takes.”

“Yes, that’s true.” Bunny Rodriguez leaned in closer. “Her oncologist told me he can’t believe she’s still alive. I think she’s running on love for Chad. He’s the first …” Head shake.

“The first?”

“I was going to say the first decent thing in Gretchen’s life but I’m horrible to judge.”

“Gretchen’s led a tough life.”

“Yes, she has. If she’d—let’s concentrate on Chad, that’s what you’re here for. He’s the sweetest thing on two feet, always has been. The funny thing is my own kids weren’t sweet. Good, yes. Morally sound, absolutely. But sweet and compliant? Not on your life. I was the obedient child and I produced two feisty rascals and Gretchen produces Chad.”

“That’s why it’s called a gene pool,” I said. “We dive in, never know what’s going to surface.”

She studied me. “I like your way with words. Words are my thing, I teach English. This is going to be a nightmare, but we’ll pull through, right? One way or the other.”

“We’ll do our best. Is there anything you want to tell me about Chad?”

“Actually …” She thumbed her lower lip. “This time he’s being a little standoffish. Almost like … I think I know the problem. Gretchen asked me to tell him she was going to die, she couldn’t bear dealing with it. So I did. After reading a couple of books. At his age, they said, he’d be concerned with separation from Gretchen. I didn’t have the heart to tell him he’d never see her again, so I just used the word. Death, I mean. He seemed to get it. Was that wrong?”

“How’d he react?”

“He didn’t react at all. Just stared at me as if I was talking in tongues.”

“You got through,” I said. “He told me.”

“Does he hate me? Killing the messenger?”

“Not at all.”

“He seems to be shutting me out.”

“Maybe he needs to concentrate on his mother.”

“Yes. Of course, I’m thinking like—I’m being self-centered. I guess I’m just concerned about laying a good foundation now, so when the time comes …”

“It’ll work itself out.”

“I suppose it will. In the end,” she said. Shuddering. “What a repulsively profound word.”

A harsh “Hey!” drew our attention to the condo door.

Gretchen, hooked up to her portable oxygen tank and bracing herself against the doorpost, flipped a flamboyant bird and shot a rotten-toothed grin.

“Hey, you two! Cut the chitchat, this is all about me!”

Bunny tried to support Gretchen but Gretchen shook her off. “I’m not a cripple, go stay with Chad, he’s waking up, you know how slow he does that. If he wants milk or juice give it to him, but no fucking soda.”

Bunny complied.

Gretchen laughed. “She’s older but I could always push her around.”

“How’s Chad doing?”

“What if I want to talk about that instead of him? Manipulating Bunny. What if that’s what’s floating my boat today?”

“Talk about whatever you want until Chad’s up.”

“Ooh,” she crooned. “Tough guy. So tell me, did Sturgis appreciate my ahem ahem anonymous tip?” A phony throat clear led to coughing, then to the real thing, then a series of nasty-sounding barks topped by a paroxysm that doubled her over.

When she finally was able to breathe smoothly, she wagged a finger. “Poor cancer patient nearly asphyxiates and you just stand there?”

“Last I heard you weren’t a cripple.”

“Oh, man, you are—you must be hell in a relationship. Got a wife?”

“How’s Chad doing?”

“Shine me on? Sure, why the hell not, I’ll be dead and you’ll be watching Jeopardy! or whatever you brainy types like.”

I waited.

She said, “Chad’s fine. Did you tell Sturgis the tip came from me?”

“Has Chad—”

“Blah-blah, blah-blah, blah-blah.” She placed a hand on my shoulder. Pressing down, but diminished strength made it feel like a butterfly alighting between nectar gulps. “First the website, then Stefan. So what do you think, should I give him even more?”

“Up to you.”

“Like you don’t give a shit.”

“Let’s talk about Chad.”

The hand on my shoulder clawed. Oversized, predatory moth digging in for takeoff. “Tell Sturgis little Ms. Mystery was no mystery back when she was turning tricks. Tell him she used to be just plain Tiara from the trailer park, had no clue how to dress, how to talk, how to walk. How to give a decent blow job. Tell him to feel free to call me for more and guess what? If he does, I’ll say fuck off, fatso. Because I’m not dancing to that rude fag’s beat. He could’ve treated me like a human being, instead he treated me like shit.”

The hand took flight. She stabbed air. “Lady G does not forget.”

I scoured my memory for something I’d missed about the meeting between her and Milo. Nothing.

People with personality disorders bruise easily.

For all the comic flaunting, it really was about her her her.

Tough way to live but I couldn’t help wondering if it might be a good way to die.

Defying the mortality odds because she was fueled by rage and high-octane egotism.

I said, “When you’re ready, we’ll talk about Chad.”

Her teeth drew back in a brown, fetid snarl. “You’re starting to really piss me off.”

She moved forward quickly. Kissed me hard, on the lips. Bruising me with the oxygen tube. Assaulting my nose with the reek of disease.

Pulling away, she took my arm and sang out, “Let’s have a nice civilized chat, God knows we could both use one.”

She sank into a chair with obvious pain, coughed some more, held out a protective palm when I approached her. “Leave me alone. Fine.” Gasp.

A few minutes later: “I should be nice to you. One session with Chad and he’s better.”

“Better …”

“Sleeping through the night.” Her chest heaved. She adjusted the oxygen. “Cuddly. I love when he’s cuddly. It’s like nothing’s wrong and we’re the way we used to be. Come here. Please.”

I sat down next to her.

“Closer. I promise I won’t bite.”

I shifted nearer. She took my hand. Kissed my knuckles. “Sorry for the other one. Kiss. That was gross.” Massaging my fingers. “This is a nice one. This is how I really feel: You’re a lovely man.”

She began to cry, reversed it abruptly when Chad bounced in announcing, “I’m thirsty, Aunt Bunny says I can have choco-milk if you say so.”

“Sure,” said Gretchen, grinning. “Look who came to visit.”

Chad’s eyes shifted to me.

“Say hello to Dr. Delaware, angel.”

“Kin I have choco-milk?”

“I said sure. Don’t you want to say hi to Dr. Delaware?”

Shrug.

Bunny Rodriguez came in. “I told him what you—”

“Chocolate milk’s milk so it’s healthy, go pour.”

Bunny trudged to the kitchen, filled a four-ounce glass. The boy drained it. “More.”

Bunny said, “Gretch?”

“Whatever.”

Glass number two disappeared just as quickly. So did three. Milo-in-training.

I walked over to Chad. “Feel like drawing again?”

“Guess.”

“Or we can do something else.”

“Draw.”

Gretchen said, “Have something healthy, too, on top of the chocolate milk. Everyone needs to be healthy.”

“No.”

“Whatever, angel.”

In his room, Chad said, “Mommy wakes up all the time. She’s wet.”

“Wet on her face?”

“All over. Her jammas.”

“She’s sweating.”

“I guess.”

“Know what sweat is?”

“It comes out of your body when you’re hot.”

“Exactly. Do you ever sweat?”

“When it’s hot.” Flicking the corner of a drawing pad. “She does it when it’s cold.”

“Even if it’s not cold, she may feel cold.”

“Why?”

“That happens sometimes when people are sick.”

“Her skin,” he said. “Then she coughs and I hug her. She like bounces.”

“From coughing.”

“I hug her.”

“You want to take care of her.”

He thought about that. “I don’t want her to fall.”

“Off the bed?”

“Anywhere.”

“That would be scary.”

“It would hurt.”

“Like falling on the floor.”

“I did it once,” he said. “It hurt. Mommy kept sleeping. I put myself back in the bed.”

“You’re good at taking care of yourself.”

“Let’s draw, I’m gonna win.”

Six bouts of frantic, page-ripping black circles later: “Mommy’s not gonna die.”

I said nothing.

He said, “That’s what I think.”