Play Dead
Page 22A finger tapped her shoulder. She quickly spun. The man who had tapped her was very handsome and she recognized the face, if not the man, right away.
His voice was soft. “Excuse me for intruding. If you want to be alone . . .”
“No, that’s okay.”
“You must be Gloria.”
She nodded.
“My name is Stan Baskin. I’m David’s brother.”
“I’m so sorry about your brother. I loved him very much. He was a wonderful person.”
Stan lowered his head in a nod. “I loved him, too, Gloria.”
“It’s not fair.”
“I . . . I just can’t believe my brother is really dead. I keep asking why this happened, if I did something . . .”
“You?”
“The truth is we fought a lot the past few years. You can’t imagine how much I regret the past. I wonder if I had been a better brother . . .”
“You shouldn’t torture yourself.”
“I never had a chance to say I was sorry,” he continued, “to tell him how much I loved him.” Stan took her hand then, his wet eyes finding hers. As much as she did not want to think such a thing right now, Gloria couldn’t help but be attracted to him. He was very handsome with looks that were similar to David’s. And the way he had opened up to her, the way he had not been afraid to be emotional in front of her . . . just like David.
She could see now that he was on the verge of tears again. She reached out to hold him but he drew away. “I’m sorry to be troubling you, Gloria.”
“Don’t be silly.”
“I hope so, too.”
“I’m a stranger in Boston, and I feel comfortable with you and your sister. I . . . I hope you don’t mind if I call you once in a while.”
Why did her heart leap so when he spoke? “I’d like that, Stan. I’d like that very much.”
STAN turned away from Gloria and began to walk away.
Did you see that body? I thought ol’ Stan, my man, was going to pass out! A roller coaster doesn’t have that many curves. And Gloria digs me, no doubt about that. I can always tell—
Bam!
Somebody bumped into Stan with a significant amount of power. The blow knocked Stan out of his daydream. When he focused, he saw a face he had not seen in almost a decade.
T.C. glared at him. “What the fuck are you doing here?” he hissed.
Stan quickly recovered. “Why, it’s little Terry Conroy. Long time no see. You’ve put on a few pounds, old buddy.”
“I asked you a question.”
“Can’t a man mourn the death of his only brother?”
“A man, yes. A piece of shit like you, no.”
“Big talk from the city cop. You are a policeman now, aren’t you, T.C.?”
“What are you doing here?”
“Is this an official interrogation?”
“How about none of your business?”
“How about I smash your head through a window?”
“Good idea, T.C. Why don’t you make a big scene in front of everyone and disturb their mourning? How does that sound?”
“If you dare bother anyone—”
“Please, T.C., would I do something like that?”
“Get the hell out of here.”
“Oh, I’m sorry. I was under the impression this was the Ayarses’ house. I never realized it was yours. The Boston Police Department must pay very well.”
“What are you doing in Boston anyway?”
“Paying a condolence call to my lovely sister-in-law.”
“Let me warn you, shithead, that if you harm her in any way—”
“T.C., can’t you see I’ve changed? I’m a new man.”
“Shit doesn’t change its stink. It only breaks down into nothing.”
“Colorfully put. I must remember that. Anyway, as much as I’ve enjoyed this conversation, I really must be going now.”
“Back to Michigan?”
“Not yet. I thought I might hang around Boston for a while.”
“A threat? How nice. If you’ll excuse me . . .”
T.C. grabbed his arm. “I’m warning you, Stan. Don’t try to pull any of your shit. I remember what you did to David.”
For the first time, Stan’s eyes grew angry. “You know nothing about what happened between David and me.” He pulled away but T.C. hung on. He pulled harder. “Let go of me now, you tub of shit,” he half whispered, half yelled. “I happen to be his brother. I’m part of his family. You, on the other hand, are just another in a long line of people who sucked up to my brother for personal gain.”
T.C. let go. “Get out, Stan. Get out now.”
Stan pulled away, said his good-byes, and left. As he headed for the door, he wiped away a tear, curious as to why it was so easy for him to get into the role of grieving for a brother he had hated so.
THAT night, Judy Simmons went back to the hotel by herself. She felt drained, exhausted from the events of the day. She sat on the bed and took her wallet out of her pocketbook. Her fingers reached behind her license and plucked out a thirty-year-old photograph.
Judy lifted the picture into view, her eyes entranced by the black-and-white images from nineteen sixty. She lay back and held the wrinkled photograph in the air above her head. She stared at the picture of the pretty, hopeful college coed and the handsome older man.
Why torture yourself ?
But the truth was that her past did torture her. It had tortured them all, still tortured them, would continue to torture.
Not necessarily. I could tell the truth.
But what good would it do? Would it stop the torment? Release her guilt? Not really. Better to keep it a secret. Better to hope that all would be okay. Besides, she wasn’t sure what had really happened in Australia. It might have been just like they said. It might have been just an accident. A sad, tragic accident.
But it wasn’t.
She sat up and put the picture on the night table. And what if it wasn’t an accident? What if . . . ? She pushed the thought away. David was dead. Judy’s beautiful, wonderful niece was crushed. Nothing could change that. It was in the past. The truth could not work as a time machine, allowing her to go back and make everything work out okay. The truth could not bring David back to life.