The Lost Years

11

Alvirah decided she would wait until the next morning to phone Mariah. “Willy, you know how it is after a funeral. There’s such a letdown. I’ll bet anything that when Mariah got home, all she wanted to do was be quiet. And God only knows what’s running through poor Kathleen’s mind.”

Six of Willy’s sisters had entered the convent. The seventh, the oldest and the only one who had married, had died fifteen years earlier. Willy still remembered how glad he had been to get back home to their apartment in Jackson Heights after the funeral in Nebraska and the long flight home. Alvirah had fixed him a sandwich and a cold beer and let him sit and think about Madeline, who had been his favorite sister. Madeline had been quiet and unassuming, so unlike the wonderful but bossy Sister Cordelia, his next-oldest sibling.

“When was the last time we were out to Jonathan’s house in Mahwah for dinner?” he asked Alvirah. “Am I right that it was about two months ago, in late June?”

Alvirah had finished unpacking and sorting clothes for the laundry and cleaners. Now happily comfortable in her favorite stretch slacks and a cotton T-shirt, she settled into a chair opposite Willy in their Central Park South apartment.

“Yes,” she agreed. “Jonathan invited us over, and Mariah and Richard and Greg were there. And so were those other two who always go on the trips. You know who. What were their names?” Alvirah frowned in concentration as she went through the tricks for memory retention that she had learned at the Dale Carnegie course she had taken after they won the money in the lottery. “One of them is a direction. North… no. South, no. West. That’s it. Albert West. He’s a little guy with a deep voice. The other one was Michaelson. He’s easy to remember. Michael is one of my favorite names. Just add the ‘-son’ and you have it.”

“His first name is Charles,” Willy volunteered. “And you can bet nobody ever called that guy ‘Charlie.’ Do you remember how he cut down West when West misidentified one of the ruins they had on the pictures they showed us?”

Alvirah nodded. “But I remember Kathleen was pretty good that night. She seemed to enjoy seeing the pictures, and she didn’t say a word about Lily.”

“I suppose Lily was on that trip too, even though they didn’t show any photos with her in them.”

“Sure she was.” Alvirah sighed. “And, Willy, if it turns out that Kathleen pulled that trigger, you can bet it was because of Lily. I just don’t know how Mariah will be able to handle it.”

“They certainly wouldn’t put Kathleen in prison,” Willy protested. “It’s obvious the woman has Alzheimer’s and isn’t responsible for what she does.”

“That’s up to the courts,” Alvirah said soberly. “But a psychiatric prison hospital wouldn’t be much better. Oh, Willy, pray God it doesn’t turn out that way.”

The thought of that possibility did not improve Alvirah’s chances of a good night’s rest, even though she was grateful that she would be back in her own bed, comfortably spooning against the sleeping Willy. The beds on those ships are so big, you can hardly see each other, she thought. Poor Kathleen. Mariah told me how happy her parents had been together before the dementia set in. But Kathleen never did go on the archaeological trips with him. From what Mariah said, that was his thing and her mother couldn’t take the summer heat in the places he went. Maybe that’s one of the reasons that Jonathan got involved with Lily. From what I could see, she sure shared his passion for digging through old ruins.

Reluctantly, Alvirah thought of that first trip two years ago from Venice to Istanbul where they had met her fellow lecturer Jonathan Lyons and his companion, Lily Stewart. No question they were in love, she thought. They were crazy about each other.

Alvirah remembered how after Jonathan had invited Willy and her to dinner that first time, and they had met Mariah and Kathleen, she and Mariah had lunch the next week. “You’re the right fit for some of my lottery winners,” she had told Mariah. “I can tell you’re the kind of conservative investment advisor they need to make sure they don’t squander their money or put it in high-risk stocks.”

A month or so after that, Jonathan had been lecturing at the 92nd Street Y and invited Alvirah and Willy to attend and have dinner with him afterward. What he did not tell them was that Lily would be there.

Lily had sensed Alvirah’s discomfort and addressed it. “Alvirah, I told Jonathan that you and Mariah have become very friendly and that she would resent it bitterly if she thought that you were seeing her father with me socially.”

“Yes, I think she would,” Alvirah had answered frankly.

Jonathan had tried to dismiss that possibility. “Mariah knows that Richard and Greg, to name just a few, see Lily and me together. What’s the difference?”

Alvirah remembered how Lily had smiled sadly. “Jonathan,” Lily said, “it’s different for Alvirah, and I do understand. She would feel two-faced about seeing us socially outside your home.”

I like Lily, Alvirah thought. I can only imagine what she’s feeling right now. And if it turns out that Kathleen killed Jonathan, I’ll bet Lily will be blaming herself for being the cause of the problem. I should at least call her and tell her how sorry I am.

But I won’t meet with her, she decided as she happily accepted Willy’s offer of a glass of wine.

“It’s the witching hour, honey,” he said. “Five P.M. on the dot.”

In the morning, she waited until eleven o’clock to call Mariah. “Alvirah, I can’t talk,” Mariah said quickly, her voice strained and tremulous. “The detectives are here to talk to Mom and me again. Are you home? I’ll call you back.”

Alvirah did not have time to say more than, “Yes, I’m home,” before the click in her ear told her that the connection was broken.

Less than five minutes later, her phone rang. It was Lily Stewart. It was obvious that she was crying. “Alvirah, you probably don’t want to hear from me, but I need your advice. I don’t know what to do. I just don’t know what to do. How soon can we get together?”