Dog Bless You (11 page)

I was startled when the door opened again, and Brother
Macarius stuck his head out. “Brother Anselm can see you. But he’s not up to coming
downstairs.”

“No problem.” Rochester and I both stood up and followed
Macarius through the door.

The stairway was narrow and dark, and Rochester balked.
“Come on, boy, it’s just a staircase,” I said. “You climb stairs at home all
the time.”

Macarius waited halfway up the stairs.

“Don’t be stubborn.” I grabbed Rochester’s collar and
dragged him up the first couple of steps. Suddenly he took off, dashing ahead
of me and passing Macarius too.

“I’m sorry,” I said, hurrying up behind them. “He’s not
usually like this.”

We exited the staircase to a small living room with a couple
of torn armchairs and another lumpy, worn-out sofa like the one downstairs. The
walls were decorated with faded posters of Italy—St. Peter’s Square, the Spanish
Steps, the Coliseum. A wizened old man in a similar plain brown robe sat in one
of them. Rochester had already made a friend; he was sitting at attention next
to Brother Anselm, with the friar’s liver-spotted hand resting on Rochester’s
head.

“Brother Anselm, this is Steve, who’s come to ask
questions about DeAndre.”

“And you’ve already met Rochester, I see.” I walked
across the room and reached out for the old friar’s hand. That’s when I
realized he was blind.

I pulled my hand back awkwardly. “I’ll leave you to
chat,” Macarius said, and walked back out to the staircase.

“You have a beautiful dog,” Anselm said, as I sat in a
chair across from him.

It took me a moment to realize he was talking about
Rochester’s inner beauty. “Yes, he’s a sweetheart.”

“And you two have a very strong bond. I can feel that.”

“I think so, too.” I hesitated, then said, “Brother
Macarius said that you often spoke with DeAndre Dawson. “

“I expected his death,” Anselm said. “He was too
bull-headed to listen to reason, and he was too eager to make money without
working for it.”

“Brother Macarius had the same impression. Do you have
any idea what DeAndre was doing out at Friar Lake? He wasn’t interested in a
vocation, was he?”

Anselm shook his head. “No, not DeAndre. He was out
there searching for the reliquary that holds the thumb of Saint Roch.”

“I’m sorry. I’m not following you. He was looking for a
thumb?”

That was a creepy thought. Why were hands and fingers
popping up all over the place?

Brother Anselm settled back into his chair. “Let me
explain. You have heard of Joseph Bonaparte?”

I was starting to feel like I was in one of those
dreams I used to have in college, where I showed up for class and hadn’t done
the reading, and had no idea what the professor was talking about. That had
already happened to me once that week, when President Babson began discussing
Friar Lake with me before I knew what he intended.

Was this another of those situations? Or was Brother
Anselm crazy, as well as blind? The only way to find out was to follow along. I
said, “I remember when I was a kid, we used to drive up along the Jersey
Turnpike to visit cousins, and my father pointed out this old building up on a
hill. He said that Napoleon’s brother had lived there. Was that Joseph?”

As I said it, I realized that once again, my father had
popped into my thoughts, and I wondered why. Fathers and sons. Brothers—of
which I had none. And hands and thumbs. I shivered despite the heat in the
upstairs room.

“Joseph was Napoleon’s older brother, and I think
sometimes the Little Corporal must have despaired of him,” Anselm said. “He
made Joseph King of Naples, and when that didn’t work out, King of Spain. While
Joseph was on the throne he systematically looted the Spanish crown jewels. When
he abdicated from that position he came to the United States, specifically to
New Jersey, and he sold those items to support a lavish lifestyle.”

“That’s certainly interesting, but I don’t see—”

“Patience, my boy. When you get to be as old as I am,
you relish the opportunity to tell a good story.”

Rochester looked at me balefully, as if he was saddened
by my bad manners. “I’m sorry. Please, go on.”

“Joseph was not particularly religious, but for some
reason he took a liking to the Abbey of Our Lady of the Waters. You probably
didn’t know that was the formal name of the place, did you?”

I nodded, then remembered Anselm was blind. “Yes, a
friend who used to go there for CYO outings told me.”

“Joseph visited the abbey several times to pray with
the brothers. The legend says that on one visit, a shepherd dog that the abbot kept
to chase away predators became friendly with Joseph, and saved him from a fall
on a path through the woods. In gratitude, Joseph made a donation to the
Abbey.”

“This reliquary?” I asked.

“Exactly. The first time I went out to the abbey I was
a younger man, recuperating from a broken hip, and I still had my sight. I
became interested in the legend and researched it as best I could. “

Rochester sprawled on his side, resting his head on the
threadbare carpet.

“Do you know what a reliquary is?” Anselm asked.

“I can guess. Something that holds a relic?”

“Yes. In this case it was a small box made of hammered
silver, encrusted with precious gems. Most likely made by a Turkish craftsman
during the reign of the Byzantine emperors, then taken to Spain by looting
Crusaders.”

“It holds a saint’s thumb?”

“So it is believed-- Saint Roch, the patron saint of
dogs, as it were. Hence the reason why Joseph chose that particular object to
donate.”

“I’m afraid I don’t know much about saints,” I said.
“Was Saint Roch a particularly important one, to deserve such an object?”

“The history is unclear. But the legend surrounding him
says that he was a mendicant, like those of us here, and that he was a healer
in the time of the plague. When he became sick, he isolated himself in a forest
hut so that he would not infect others. A dog belonging to a local noble is
said to have brought bread to him, and licked his wounds, healing them. There
is a statue of St. Roch in Prague, with a dog by his side. That’s why he 
popularly became the patron saint of dogs.”

I sat back against the worn fabric of the sofa to sort
through everything Anselm had said. “So Joseph Bonaparte gave this jeweled box
to the Benedictines. Where is it now?”

“That is the question, my boy. At least a hundred years
ago, it disappeared from view. Some believe it was stolen, or sold to fund the
abbey’s good works. There is also speculation that the abbot hid it somewhere
on the abbey grounds.”

The pieces were coming together. “You told this story
to DeAndre, didn’t you?”

“We talked of many things. But yes, I did tell him. I’m
afraid I might have mentioned that there is a black market for such items.
Unscrupulous people and avaricious collectors.”

“Did he come out to Friar Lake when you were there?”

“This last time, yes. Perhaps six months ago, just
before the Benedictines closed the property and moved west. He joked with me
that he was going to find the reliquary, and then he would sell it to one of
those collectors, and use the money to help our outreach efforts here.”

“An unselfish gesture.”

Anselm nodded. “And quite uncharacteristic of DeAndre.
That’s why I referred to it as a joke.”

“Did anyone else know about this reliquary?”

“DeAndre was the only one who was willing to sit and
listen to the ramblings of an old man. But he may have told others. I don’t
know.”

“Friar Lake isn’t an easy place to get to,” I said.
“How did you get out there when you needed to recuperate?”

“The Jesuits. They have several vehicles, and Brother
Macarius borrows a car from them now and then—for trips to the Super Wal-Mart
and so on.”

I could imagine Macarius, in his long brown robe,
shopping the aisles and loading up his cart. Friars needed food, toilet paper
and household cleaners like the rest of us.

“And DeAndre? When he came out to visit you? Do you
know how he got there?”

“I don’t believe I ever asked him. I assumed that he
had come along with the Jesuits on one of their visits.”

I tried to arrange a chronology in my mind. “So about
six months ago, you were at Friar Lake, and DeAndre came to visit. Did you see
him after that?”

Anselm nodded. “I spoke with him here in New York after
I returned.”

“When was that?”

“I can’t say for certain. Perhaps Macarius can tell
you. I know we keep records of when our clients visit.”

Rochester pulled himself up on his haunches and nuzzled
Anselm’s hand. “You must be tired,” I said. I stood up myself. “Thank you very
much for your time.”

“It has been a pleasure. Do you think you will find the
person who killed DeAndre?”

“I’m not a police officer,” I said. “That’s not for me
to say. But I hope there will be some justice for him.”

“Justice,” Brother Anselm said, nodding. “He will have justice,
in the next world, even if not in this one.”

I wasn’t sure if that was a good thing for DeAndre, or
not.

Rochester charged past me going down the stairs. When I
followed him into the main part of the storefront I found Macarius talking with
Vivek, the young blond man who handled paperwork. The homeless woman he had
been helping was gone.

“Was Brother Anselm able to help you?” Macarius asked
me, as Rochester crossed the room and curled up next to Vivek’s desk.

“Yes, he was. He said DeAndre had been to see him after
he returned from his recuperation at Friar Lake. Do you have any idea when that
might have been?”

“I’ll check,” Macarius said. He walked over to his
desk, and I turned to Vivek.

“Did you know DeAndre?” I asked.

“Just in passing. Most of my work is with the homeless
and the poor, those who need help with government assistance.”

He had an interesting accent that I couldn’t quite
place. “May I ask where you’re from?”

“I was born in Poland, but came here when I was ten. I
know, I still have some Polish in my speech.”

“What brought you to work here?”

“Growing up under Communism, you gain an appreciation
for bureaucracy, and how to get around it,” he said. “I am studying for my
master’s in social work, and I was able to get an internship to work here.”

“Did DeAndre ever talk to you about Friar Lake, the
place where Brother Anselm went to recuperate?”

He nodded. “He asked once where it was. I didn’t know,
but we looked it up together. He was surprised that there was no bus or train
he could take to get there.”

Macarius rejoined us. “The last time DeAndre was here
was May 2.”

“And it’s July now,” I said. “Was he a regular
visitor?”

Macarius shrugged. “So many of our clients come and go,
whether they are hospitalized or incarcerated. It’s hard to say.”

“So you wouldn’t have noticed that he wasn’t coming
around.”

“No. Is there anything else we can help you with?”

I pursed my lips together and thought. I had a good guess
as to why DeAndre had gone to Friar Lake. But I believed he had to have gone
with someone else. The question was who?

“Can you tell me anyone else who knew DeAndre? Any
friends or family?”

“He brought his girlfriend in one day for help with Medicaid,”
Vivek said. “Let me look in my files and see if I still have her paperwork.”

He turned to his file cabinet and began sorting through
folders. A buff-looking guy in his mid-thirties arrived, wearing a sleeveless
muscle T that showed off the intricate tattoos along both arms. His cargo
shorts revealed an artificial right leg. “Hey, Jimmy,” Macarius said. “Steve
here was just asking about DeAndre. You knew him, didn’t you?”

“Just to say hello to,” Jimmy said. He walked over to
Macarius and the two of them sat down in a conversation.

Vivek wrote something on a piece of lined yellow paper.
“Her name is Shenetta Levy. Here’s her address. The little boy’s name is
Jamarcus.”

I took the paper from him. The address was nearby, on
Avenue D near the corner of Houston. I thanked him, and waved goodbye to
Brother Macarius.

As we passed where I had parked, I added more money to
the meter, and Rochester and I continued on foot, passing bodegas and loading
docks and low-rise tenements. Every so often there was a sign of gentrification—an
upscale coffee shop or a cell phone store. The sun was bright and reflected off
the cars lining the streets.

Shenetta Levy lived in a four-story brownstone
apartment building shaded by a couple of big plane trees. Four young women with
toddlers sat in the shade as their children played. When Rochester and I walked
up, a pair of the boys ran over to him. “Jawayne! Jamarcus! You let that dog
alone!” one woman called, in a lilting Jamaican accent. She wore a pair of
green scrub pants and a nurse’s blouse covered with pictures of small animals.

“It’s okay, he’s very friendly.” I looked down at the
two boys, who were both about four or five. “You can pet him if you want.”

One boy was much bolder than the other. He stuck his
hand out, palm down, and I was pleased to see that someone had trained him how
to approach a strange dog. Rochester licked his palm, and the boy giggled. Then
they both began petting his head and stroking his soft golden fur. Rochester
opened his mouth and yawned, and the bolder boy said, “He got big teeth.”

“He sure does.” I looked over at the cluster of young
women. “I’m looking for Shenetta Levy,” I said. “Do you know if she’s around?”

“What do you want with Shenetta?” the woman in the
nurse’s blouse said. Her hair had been knotted in precise cornrows, with tiny
blue beads at the end.

“I want to talk to her about DeAndre Dawson,” I said.

“That fool,” another woman said. “You turn and walk
away, Mister. Shenetta don’t need nothing to do with DeAndre no more.” She had
a New York accent, and a New York attitude to go with it.

“I’m Shenetta,” the woman in the blouse said. I had
gone to graduate school with a Jamaican woman named Sheryl Cohen, and she had
told me all about the Spanish and Portuguese Jewish entrepreneurs who’d fled
the Inquisition for the islands, which were then under Spanish rule. So that’s most
likely why Shenetta had a Jewish last name.

 “I haven’t seen DeAndre in months,” she continued. “And
he owes me money.”

“I’m sorry, but he’s—”

“Dead,” the other woman interrupted. “I knew it.”

“Be quiet, Laquisha,” Shenetta said. She turned to me.
“Is it true? DeAndre’s dead?”

I nodded.

“You’d better come inside then,” she said. She called
her son and when she saw Jamarcus still had hold of Rochester, she said, “That
dog isn’t going to tear up my house, is he?”

“He’s very well-behaved. I promise.”

Jamarcus, Rochester and I followed Shenetta into the
tiled foyer of the building, and then into a first-floor apartment. Jamarcus
tugged Rochester over to a corner of the floor, and he sat down. Rochester sat
with him and put his big shaggy head in the little boy’s lap.

“Who are you exactly?” Shenetta asked me. She sat at a
linoleum-topped table in front of the galley kitchen, and I sat across from
her.

“My name is Steve Levitan, and I work for Eastern
College, in Leighville, Pennsylvania. The college just bought this neighboring
property from the Benedictine monks who lived there.”

I took a deep breath. I could have gone into a long
explanation about Tony Rinaldi, and the way that Rochester and I had helped him
in the past. But instead I lowered my voice so that Jamarcus couldn’t hear and
said, “Rochester found him. DeAndre, I mean. Someone had buried him in a
shallow grave and with all the rain, the soil above him had started to wash away.”

Shenetta shook her head, and the beads in her hair made
a soft, musical sound. I saw her brush away a tear from her eye. “How did he
die?”

“I don’t know. The police were still waiting for the
autopsy results, the last I heard.”

“Why aren’t the police here, then?”

I didn’t have a good answer for that. “The detective is
a friend of mine,” I said. “He asked me to come up and talk to the people at
the Brotherhood Center, see what I could find out about DeAndre. They gave me
your name.”

I leaned forward. “I’m sorry. I should have called my
friend and given him your name so you could hear directly from him.”

“Was he at peace?” she asked me. “DeAndre?”

“I hope so,” I said. “It’s very pretty down there,
right by the lake.”

“Friar Lake?”

“You know about it?”

This time her beads clattered when she shook her head. “It’s
all that fool talked about. How there was some treasure there he was going to
find, and then he was going to buy me and Jamarcus a big house out in the
suburbs, have his half-brother’s hand fixed and send him to college, even send
some money to Merline, the little Haitian girl he got pregnant when he was
sixteen.”

“DeAndre had another child besides Jamarcus?”

“Not that lived. When he was sixteen he went out to the
Bronx to stay with his aunt for a while. He never would tell me how he met Merline—usually
he didn’t like Haitians at all. Used to say they had HBO.”

“Is that why he dated her—to watch cable TV?”

Shenetta looked at me like I was a fool. “HBO means
Haitian Body Odor. But DeAndre must have liked her well enough. She was a
skinny little thing, didn’t want anybody to know she was having a baby, so she
didn’t eat. By the time the baby was born he was all stunted and
underdeveloped. Something wrong with his heart, his lungs—you name it. Poor
little thing died in the hospital.”

I saw her glance tilt toward her own son, who was
giggling as Rochester sniffed his hands. Poor DeAndre, to have suffered so many
losses in his life – no father in place, then his mother leaving him. And to
lose a son as well. No wonder he seemed to have been a magnet for trouble.

I thought I ought to ask, for Tony’s sake. “What
happened to Merline?”

“DeAndre wouldn’t talk about her so I don’t know. But
as soon as I was pregnant with Jamarcus, he was after me to take my vitamins,
to eat right and all that. It’s because of him that I went into nursing school.
He made me learn so much so I could make Jamarcus healthy.”

That was nice, I thought. That DeAndre had learned from
what happened to Merline and his first child, and used that to help Shenetta. She
reached for a tissue and blew her nose. Jamarcus was sitting on the faded
carpet, tickling Rochester under his chin. The dog was loving the attention.

“This place, Friar Lake,” I said. “It’s pretty hard to
get to. Did DeAndre have a car?”

She laughed, though it was part sob as well. “DeAndre
drive a car? How would he learn to drive, here in the middle of the city?”

“Well, he got out there somehow,” I said. “He have a
friend with a car? Somebody who could have driven him out there?”

Shenetta dabbed the tissue at her eyes and then blew
her nose again. “He was a good man, DeAndre. I know he got himself into trouble
in the past, but he was trying to turn things around. You say somebody buried
him out there?”

I nodded.

“Well, that’s good. Around here, a lot of boys like
DeAndre end up dead, and they bodies get left by the side of the road.” She
blew her nose again. “At least someone cared enough to bury him.”

I thought that the person who buried DeAndre wasn’t
trying to be respectful, but I didn’t say anything. Jamarcus giggled as
Rochester began licking his face. He held out his little palm, and it reminded
me of DeAndre’s hand, sticking up out of the dirt. I reached for a tissue
myself.

“DeAndre went out there a couple of times,” Shenetta
said. “To that Friar Lake place. Once I know he got a ride from the Jesuits.
Then he tried to get out there himself, by train and then by bus. Ended up in
some little college town nearby.”

“Leighville?”

“That’s it. DeAndre loved that little town, those big
old school buildings up on top of the hill. He said it was so pretty there, so
clean and nice. He wanted to take me and Jamarcus out there. Said it would be a
good place for Ka’Tar to go to college.”

“Qatar, like the country?” I asked.

“Didn’t know there was a country named that.” She
spelled it for me – Ka’Tar, with an apostrophe in the middle. “DeAndre’s
half-brother. Same dad, different mom. Story of life around these parts. When Ka’Tar
was born with a deformed hand, his fingers fused together like a flipper, she
said she was gonna give him a Klingon name, so he could be strong.” She held up
her hand in that Vulcan salute, the second and third fingers together, then the
fourth and pinky.

“The police are going to want to talk to you about
DeAndre,” I said. “They’re going to have a lot of questions. Is there anything
I can do to help you with that?”

“I already told you everything I know. I’m going to
school nights, and I work most days. I don’t get much time with Jamarcus. I
can’t be running around to the police.”

I was sure that the police would find Shenetta once I
told Tony Rinaldi about her. But in case they didn’t, I thought I ought to ask
her as many questions as I could while I had her.

“Did DeAndre live here?”

She shook her head. “Only me and Jamarcus.”

“You have an address for him?”

“Yeah. But you don’t want to go over there. Bad
people.”

“Don’t worry, I’ll leave that to the police.”

She sighed and reached for a pen with the name of a
medical clinic on the side, and a piece of yellow lined paper that Jamarcus had
scribbled something on.

“Ka’Tar’s address, too, if you have it.”

She nodded. She wrote down both addresses and pushed
the paper over to me.

“When was the last time you saw DeAndre?” I asked.

“Mother’s Day. He brought me that big old teddy bear
over there.” She pointed to a pink and white stuffed bear that had to be at
least three feet tall, sitting on the floor in the corner of the room. “He said
he knew I was going to be the best mom ever.”