The Lost Years

21

Willy was comfortably settled in his overstuffed chair, his feet on a hassock, watching the Yankees–Red Sox game. It was the bottom of the ninth inning. The score was tied. Willy, a lifelong Yankees fan, was holding his breath.

He heard the turn of the key in the lock and knew that Alvirah was returning from her lunch with Lillian Stewart.

“Willy, I can’t wait to tell you.”

Alvirah sat down on the couch, forcing Willy to mute the television and swivel in his chair to talk to her.

“Willy,” Alvirah said emphatically. “I got the impression on the phone that Lillian wanted to get my advice on something, but when I met her she was downright evasive. I asked her when the last time she saw Jonathan was, and she said last Wednesday evening. He was shot five nights later on Monday, so that sounded really strange to me.”

“So you turned on your pin.” Willy knew that whenever Alvirah got even a sniff of something being wrong, she automatically turned on the recording device in her gold sunburst pin.

“Yes, because Mariah has said in the past that she knew for sure that Lily and her father got together at least two or three times a week, and they always saw each other at least one evening on the weekend. Jonathan would stay at home during the day. The weekend caregiver is really trustworthy, and if he and Lily went out for dinner, he’d stay at her apartment overnight.”

“Uh-huh.”

“But the point is, why didn’t Lily see him that last weekend before he was shot? There’s something fishy there. I mean, had they quarreled?” Alvirah continued. “Anyhow, Lily talked, of course, about how much she already missed Jonathan and how sad she was that he hadn’t put Kathleen in a nursing home, if only to protect her from herself, that kind of thing.

“Then she got teary and said that Jonathan would tell her how much he and Kathleen had been in love and what a wonderful life they’d had together before the Alzheimer’s set in. Jonathan told her that if Kathleen had a choice, which of course she didn’t, she’d rather have died than be in this condition.”

“I would too, honey,” Willy said, “but if you catch me putting the key in the refrigerator, just pack me off to a good nursing home.”

He permitted himself a brief glance at the television, in time to see the first Yankee up hit a pop fly ball for an out.

Alvirah, who missed nothing, had caught the side glance. “Oh, Willy, it’s all right. You go ahead and watch the rest of the game.”

“No, honey, keep thinking. I can tell you’re onto something.”

“You see what I mean, Willy?” Alvirah’s voice became faster with every word. “Suppose Jonathan and Lily had quarreled?”

“Alvirah, you’re not suggesting that Lillian Stewart shot Jonathan, are you?”

“I don’t know what I’m suggesting. But I do know this. I’m going to call Mariah right now and ask if we can drop in for a visit tomorrow afternoon. I need to know more about what’s been going on.” As she finished speaking Alvirah stood up. “I’m going to change into something comfortable. Why don’t you just finish watching your game?”

As Willy swiveled in his chair, he pushed the mute button on the remote control, this time to turn the volume back on. He looked at the screen. The Yankees were on the field jumping up and down and hugging each other.

The announcer was shouting breathlessly, “The Yankees win! The Yankees win! Two outs, bottom of the ninth, two strikes, and Derek Jeter hits a home run!”

I can’t believe it, Willy thought sadly. I’ve been watching this game for three hours, and the minute I turn my back Jeter puts one in the seats.