Brooklyn Gothic, page 10
Inside was a card with “Thank you!” printed in bold colors with stars and bright dots springing up around it. Tucked inside of that was a fold of paper and on it was the looping, scrawly long hand of what appeared to be a young person, a couple of hearts drawn on the borders. Two pictures tipped out of the paper.
* * *
Dear Miss Matos,
Hi! This is Jennifer Nonez. You came and talked to me once about my parents. Mama (that’s my grandma) said that you don’t use email for thank you so I hope you like this card. I wanted to tell you my gratitude for everything you did for me and my brothers and sisters.
We got a bunch of money from that place. I didn’t believe you at first but now I see you weren’t lying.
We live with Violet and Davis from the church. They bought a big new house and we mostly all live here. Too many kids for Mama and Papa, but they don’t live far. We’re happy. I’m looking into colleges now. I want to be a lawyer or have my own business or maybe be a dentist.
Please tell the people who helped us that I think about them. They can come visit us. Or I can come to New York. I want to see the Statue of Liberty.
I wish my parents were here but I know they see us and they see the people who helped us. Tell them they are angles.
Love, Jennifer
* * *
Casey grinned at the misspelling of “angels.”
She remembered. Jennifer had emailed her a few weeks ago, asking for her address. She’d given it and promptly forgotten about it. She studied the pictures: one was of a crowd of children, a wide spectrum of ages and colors.
The other picture was of a couple with their arms slung around each other, their smiling faces radiating happiness. They had on similar outfits, with a Western motif. The woman’s long, glossy black hair was capped by a white cowgirl hat, and the man, with his hair covered, had on the male equivalent. They were wearing matching white studded shirts and jeans cinched by leather belts with gold buckles, and the man’s mouth was wide open as if he was laughing at someone beyond camera range.
Casey recognized Hector and Alvira Nonez. The photo had been in some news stories about their murders.
I know they see us and they see the people who helped us.
In a way, it was terrible to see them again, alive and happy. When Casey was done researching victims, she tried to put them out of her mind. If she didn’t, she could spiral into bitterness with the world.
“What is it, Case?” Astrid asked. “Who’s in the photos?”
“A family I researched.”
Returning the letter and photos to Jennifer’s card, she made up her mind what she was going to tell Mr. Foster.
20
At the end of the day, Casey knocked determinedly on the door of Mr. Foster’s study.
“Come in.”
He raised his head from his monitor, surprised. She had not been inside of his study since she’d come back to work, as the two of them had stuck to their determination to have minimal in-person contact.
In the morning, he’d sent her an email asking her to research groups that helped victims of September 11, thinking Ray Albanese would like a donation to one of them. Hundreds of charities had sprang up in the attack’s wake in 2001, but the majority of them were defunct. And as many of those original charities had been accused of mishandling funds, Casey wanted to determine which of the remaining organizations had a spotless track record.
After speaking with a consultant to the memorial museum, a man who’d lost his firefighter son in the North Tower, she was narrowing down her candidates.
Mr. Foster’s study was stacked with boxes. The contents of the mansion were being packed up, readying it for sale. She’d seen various hired hands around the house, taking out furniture and boxes, to where she didn’t know.
She marched up to Mr. Foster’s desk and thrust her arm out. She hadn’t wanted to show him Jennifer’s letter in the morning, because she had something else to discuss, something important.
“You should read this,” she said. “It’s from Jennifer Nonez, Hector and Alvira’s oldest. She’s been reunited with her siblings in a new house. She’s thanking you. In fact, she calls you an ‘angle.’”
She placed the envelope in front of him on the desk.
“A what?”
“An angel. She misspelled it.”
“We need to get her into a better school.”
“I thought you might like to see it. Also, can I sit?” She rolled into the chair without waiting for him to answer. “I’ve been thinking about what you said about leaving me money.”
“Yes?”
“I guess I’d be an idiot to turn that down. I’m not sure what I’m trying to prove. When I read that letter… I see now what money can do. Really see it. I believe I’d do a good job with it.”
He reclined in his chair and watched her carefully for a few moments. “I’m glad you’ve changed your mind. I know it makes no sense, but I think when I left a hundred dollar bill in the hallway—actually Miss Brock left it at my direction, she must have thought I was crazy—I was looking for someone like you, someone genuinely interested in others. It’s sad to say I didn’t know anyone like that already.”
“Well, it will be weird.” She rubbed the thin wooden arms of the chair and absently grasped the leopard heads at their ends. “I don’t like the idea of taking money from you for anything but the work you hired me for. And I definitely don’t like the idea of—of…”
She couldn’t say “inheriting it when you die.”
“I know,” he nodded. “That’s why I’m leaving it to you. Because you’ll do the right thing with it.” Lips almost curled, he picked up the envelope and handed it back to her. “I’d like you to have this.”
“You don’t want to read it?”
“You’ve told me all I need to know. I’m not doing this for a thank you.”
She reluctantly reclaimed the letter. Then she stood up, just as reluctantly. “By the way, I wanted to let you know I’m moving back home to Pennsylvania after I’m done here.”
“Why are you moving?”
“New York’s expensive and I want to save for grad school.”
“Casey.” He shook his head amusedly. “You can use the money for living expenses too. In fact, I can advance you—”
“Please!” She held up her hand. “I’m not taking any for myself. Don’t argue with me about this or I’ll change my mind.”
“Fine. I won’t argue.”
At the door, she grasped the knob, her breath scraping in her chest, and she half-turned, her eyes on the nicks and cuts of the wood floor. “Mr. Foster, tell me one thing. And be honest.”
“All right.”
“If you weren’t… sick… what…” She pushed down hard on the knob, hearing a small crack inside the wood. “How do you think things would be between us? I mean… would there be any…” Her throat screwed shut with mortification before she could get out the last word: chance.
He said nothing for an excruciating moment. When he spoke it was softly, casually. “If I wasn’t sick, nothing would keep me away from you. I hope you know that, though I suppose you wouldn’t. If things were different… what I wouldn’t give for things to be different.”
Happiness elevated her up on her toes, and she turned to him. “But they can be. Isn’t it better for us to have something than nothing?”
“No!” he rasped, and put his head into his hands. “You’re a young woman with your life ahead of you. It’s too late for me.” He shook his head vigorously, and when he looked up, she could see the skin around his eyes was reddened, but his face was hard. “Please respect my wishes.”
Casey’s throat was tense and burning. She could say nothing else, and was out the door without feeling her body.
On her way out of the mansion, she peeked at the pale violet room with the stripped wall, but the room was no longer pale violet. It was now a deep purple, with the heavy odor of fresh paint stinging the air.
The wall was completely sealed.
21
At a back table in The Hungry Hog, Casey sat with Astrid. It was the first time during the evening she’d had her friend’s direct attention, as it was Astrid’s spontaneous going-away party, with her fashion industry friends milling about. A dull sludge of noise swarmed around them, and Tyler was off getting more drinks.
“We’ll stay with Tyler’s brother in Santa Monica until we find our own place. Probably want to be in North Hollywood, near the studios, so we can get to auditions,” Astrid said, enunciating loudly into Casey’s ear.
“I’m really excited for you guys. But I’m going to miss you.”
“Me too.” Astrid leaned sideways, giving Casey’s shoulder a squeeze. “But you’ll come visit. Hang out at the beach.”
“Yeah, maybe before I move back home. He still hasn’t given me anyone else. Either way, I’ve earned enough that I can take time off before looking into grad schools.”
“How long will you stay in the apartment?”
“Two months until the lease runs out. Landlord was a jerk about breaking it. Then I move back into my old bedroom.”
Casey shuddered at the thought of moving back home at her age. But there were much worse things to fear in life, her research had showed her that. She didn’t tell Astrid or her parents about the money she was supposedly going to inherit, wondering if it would really happen. Even if it did, the money wasn’t hers. She wasn’t going to buy snazzy outfits and slurp out of coconuts on the white sands of some sun-caked isle thanks to Mr. Foster’s life being cut short.
She noted a cute man in jeans lazing near their table, one who looked to be the type that would have normally aroused her interest. But the idea of trying to grab his attention was exhausting—even distasteful.
The last scene with Mr. Foster sagged around her, and it was even worse as he’d admitted he wanted to be with her if “things were different.” She’d been brutally wrong that working inside of the mansion would break down his resistance. And he was right. She needed to respect his wishes.
But she also needed to begin to protect herself emotionally.
If he didn’t assign the other victim by the time the summaries on the September 11 charities were done, she’d give her notice. She couldn’t remain in this emotional limbo, and her plan to stay in the mansion until he died now seemed a horrifically misguided one.
Astrid squeezed her shoulder again. “You okay? You seem down.”
“Sorry.”
“The guy?”
She shrugged away and sipped at the dregs of her wine. “It’s so depressing, Astrid. There have been breakthroughs in treating brain aneurysms. I’ve been doing a lot of reading about it. I don’t know if he’s gotten second or third opinions. I don’t know when he’s last seen a doctor. He’s convinced it’s all going to end soon and closes up in that mansion refusing to have any kind of life.” She absently caressed the side of her almost-empty wine glass. “It’s like he’s punishing himself or something.”
“Case, I hate to say this, but… isn’t there only one reason he would be so sure it’s going to end soon?”
Casey widened her eyes at Astrid, the words’ implication piercing her subconscious but not surfacing into her rational brain. “What do you mean?”
“I don’t know but… just thinking… could he be planning to kill himself?”
Casey stared at Astrid for a few moments. The dull static of the bar receded and the people around them blurred darkly.
“Oh my God,” she whispered. “That’s it.” She remembered the time he’d told her there was a “path” he couldn’t deviate from, that he had to keep straight on it.
Tyler returned balancing three drinks and placed them around the table. Then he slid into the seat next to Astrid.
“What’s up? What’d I miss?” He looked intently from Astrid to Casey and back.
“We’re talking about how Casey’s boss, the guy she’s in love with, is planning to kill himself.”
“That wouldn’t be cool,” Tyler pronounced before tipping back his beer and scanning the crowd.
“I’m not in love with him. I care about him. Big difference!” Casey took a huge gulp of her wine, and then grimaced at the sourish taste. “I gave him the last report. Telling me there would be other people could have been a ruse to get me back to finish up. If he’s going to do it, it could be tonight.” She widened her eyes at Astrid again, feeling unable to blink.
“If so, that’s a really sick thing to do to you, Case. It was only a theory. I shouldn’t have said anything.”
“Hey,” Tyler said. “I’m going to hit the jukebox. Any requests?”
Astrid spoke into his ear while Casey imagined Mr. Foster in the mansion with a gun pointed at his head or a rope slipped around his neck. Maybe as she sat here drinking, rigor mortis was settling into his lifeless body.
“I have to go,” she burst out. She was standing and searching her wallet. “I have to go check on him.” She pushed a twenty in front of Astrid and was trying to maneuver around the table, but it hemmed her in, as if trying to obstruct her exit.
“Case, should I come?”
“No, no. This is your party. I’ll let you know what happens.”
She charged through the crowd as if a fire was at her back, shouting, “Excuse me! Excuse me!” A green cab fortuitously came down the street. As she hailed it, she realized she’d left her jacket inside of the bar, but dove into the backseat.
At the mansion, she charged up the steps and rang the bell a few times, then banged the devil knocker.
When no one came to the door, she pushed the handle, but it was locked. Casey was trying to see into the window nearest to the stoop when Miss Brock opened the door. She was wearing a burgundy robe that matched her hair, which was down for the first time Casey had ever seen, in a jumble around her arctic face.
“Is he here?” Casey asked.
“No, he’s not.”
Miss Brock sounded perturbed. Casey couldn’t blame her, but she didn’t care. She had to see him, make sure he was all right. “Well, where is he?” she demanded.
“I don’t keep track of his whereabouts,” Miss Brock said, coolly.
“How do you know he’s not here? When did you last see him?”
“Really, Casey, what is this all—”
Casey was about to force her way past Miss Brock when she heard, “Casey?”
Mr. Foster was on the stoop behind her. Relief poured through her. “I need to speak with you,” she said, and impulsively grabbed his hand.
He nodded and Miss Brock opened the door all of the way for them. When he began leading her to the sitting room, she said, “Upstairs, please.”
He raised his brows, but followed her. As they ascended, she noticed he carried a small, white plastic bag.
They got to his study and she closed the door, hoping to keep their talk from Miss Brock’s ears. “What is that?” She pointed at his bag in an accusatory fashion.
“Uh, went for a walk and to the pharmacy.” He held the bag up and grinned.
“Why?” she demanded.
“Did you come here to ask me about what I’ve bought at the pharmacy? What’s going on with you?”
“Just please open it.”
Seeming amused, he reached into the bag and took out a jar of Tums. “Stomach ache,” he said. “Am I in trouble?”
Having imagined the bag contained sleeping pills, she sighed audibly. He perched on the edge of the couch. “You want to tell me what’s the matter?”
“Mr. Foster, I don’t want you to be insulted. But I have to ask you something.” When he didn’t respond, she continued, “I began to think the reason you’re so convinced you’re not going to live is because you will make sure you don’t.” When he looked perplexed, she clarified, “That you’re planning to commit suicide. Since I’d done the last report, I worried it might be tonight.”
He placed the bag next to him, rubbed his knees, and then his face. “That’s what you thought?”
“Given everything you’ve told me, I wondered. Are you saying it’s not true?”
“Well, Casey…” He flattened back against the couch. “Is this your business?”
“Yes, it’s my business! I came back to work here because you guilted me into it. Because you said you had limited time. If you’re going to be the cause of your limited time, then it’s unfair I hurried that time up!”
“I see.” He scratched at his head and stared pensively in front of him. “I can’t say it’s something I haven’t considered. I’d rather not die on the sidewalk, flopping around while people step over me.”
Before she knew what was happening, she was kneeling on the floor, her hands on his knees. “Tell me you won’t do it.”
“What does it matter in what way I go? Why not go out with some dignity, on my own terms?”
“There are treatments. I’ve read about them. There’s been progress even in the past year. If you would only—”
“Casey, please.”
“No, listen. You are doing so much good. I understand what you’re saying, but— ”
“Is that why you want me around? To do good?”
“No, I want you around because I like you. Very much. I’m being selfish, okay?”
“You have no idea what I’ve been through.” He shook his head. “Next time, I might wake up and can never talk or walk again. Then it will be too late to get control of the situation. Other people might live full lives like that, but it’s not the life I want to live.”
She rested her head on his knees and felt his hand stroking her hair. Minutes seemed to go by and she choked out, “I understand if this is what you—but I wish—”
He put his hand under her chin and forced her to look up. His eyes were wet with tears, his long lashes stuck together in the corners. “I’m ashamed how much grief I’ve caused you since I’ve known you,” he said. “Getting close to anyone was the exact thing I’ve been holed up here trying to avoid. I wouldn’t even get a cell phone, wanting to be completely shut off from the world.”
