Regarding Anna (30 page)

The Connecting Puzzle Pieces

If someone had told me a few days earlier that I’d be living with four men, three of whom I had never met before, I would have called that person crazy. But during the first night of their stay, I slept better than I had slept since Minnie had died three and a half weeks earlier.

First thing the next morning, I quickly got dressed and grabbed some juice and a bagel for breakfast before my roommates began to stir. Tymon’s cohorts were younger than he was—somewhere in their forties. They were all bachelors, I was told—I wasn’t sure if any of them had ever married. Jack was an electrician, Otto a toolmaker, and Carl a chef. Based on the way they interacted with each other—the way they bantered, slapped each other on the back, and joked around—I could tell they’d known each other for a while. Their camaraderie was enviable.

I spent the day arranging my things in Minnie’s bedroom, careful not to disturb her things too much or change the way she had the room organized. It was hard to be in her room—where she had slept, kept her personal things, and died. The dirty laundry in the hamper, her toothbrush in the bathroom, the half-read book on her nightstand were all painful reminders. I couldn’t imagine throwing any of her things out like they were trash.

I finished in Minnie’s bedroom a few minutes before Fern arrived with a pizza—I’d almost forgotten she was coming over. I didn’t have the heart to tell her I was sick of pizza, having had it twice in the last twenty-four hours. At least the one she brought wasn’t “loaded,” like the one that was still lying in a heap at the bottom of my stomach. We agreed to talk before we ate.

The first thing I did was explain the activity in the backyard, where Tymon and the gang were rebuilding Carl’s transmission.

“They look harmless enough. How long are they going to be here?”

“As long as Tymon thinks I’m not safe here alone, I guess.”

“You don’t sound too happy about it.”

“I’m sleeping better, and that’s a good thing, but... Anyway, let’s talk about Essie. I’ve been doing a lot of thinking about her. When you last met with her, she was on the brink of telling you something important and then changed her mind.”

“Right.”

“What if we could do or say something to make her change it back?”

“Like what?”

“If
I
knew something that would change a person’s life, I would be more compelled to tell them if I knew they were going down the wrong path by not knowing. Does that make any sense?”

“I’m with you,” Fern said. “So let’s say, for example, that Anna is really your mother, and your mother Rosa kidnapped you after Anna died.”

“What made you say that? Because bizarre as that sounds, I think that could be possible.”

“I don’t know. Anyway, so let’s think about what path you could be taking that would cause her to spill her guts. It has to be something with big consequences.”

“I agree.”

We sat in silence for several minutes.

“So what’s the worst thing that could happen to someone—that they die!”

“That’s a little extreme, don’t you think?” I said.

“We have to get her attention.”

“I know, but—”

“I’ve got it!”

“Tell me.”

We spent the next hour hatching an outrageous story about how I was despondent over not knowing who my parents were and had threatened to kill myself if I couldn’t get to the bottom of it. Who could ignore that?

Afterward, over a sausage-and-black-olive pizza and a couple of beers, we sat in the living room and talked about all sorts of things unrelated to our stories. It felt good to be with her...like a friend.

Fern left, and the more I thought about our plan to deceive Essie, the more it pulled me back to my first encounter with Minnie—when I’d told lie after lie in order to get information from her—and the less I liked it.

* * *

It took me a while to get back into PI mode as I prepared to search for Essie Noe, and when I did, I realized just how much I didn’t like doing that kind of work. Being away from it helped me to fully appreciate that fact.

I wanted to see if anyone was living in the house Essie used to rent, and if so, what they were doing with her mail. When I told Tymon my plan to surveil the house, he insisted on coming with me. To avoid an argument, I agreed. So far, his manning the house with his poker buddies had created few problems and relieved me of most of my anxiety, so I couldn’t very well question his judgment on this.

On the way to Essie’s old neighborhood, Tymon told me a couple of stories about Anna. I could tell by the inflection in his voice that he still carried a torch for her after all these years. I asked him why he had never married.

“Before or after Anna?”

“Both.”

“I was forty when we met, and I had just lost my mother. Up until then, I was taking care of her. My mother had polio and was restricted in most everything she did. There wasn’t any time for girlfriends. I had to work to support us.”

“And your father?”

“He died shortly after I was born. Pneumonia.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Must have been tough back then.”

“It was, but we managed.”

We parked a few houses from Essie’s old house, which was in one of Cicero’s many blue-collar neighborhoods, and patiently waited for something to happen.

“And after Anna?” I asked, continuing with our conversation.

“After Anna died, I spent the next several years kicking myself for not pursuing her, not being there to save her. She’d be alive today if—”

“You can’t think that way, Tymon. You’re—” At that moment, I saw a woman slip out the side door. “Look!” I said, pointing to her. We waited in silence as she walked to the mailbox and sorted through the mail. She put some of mail back into the box, flipped up the red flag, and then turned and walked back into the house.

“Bingo. That tells me the post office doesn’t have a forwarding address for her.”

“How do you know that?”

“If they did, they wouldn’t be delivering mail to her here.”

“You’re good.”

“Not really. Anyway, so I can’t use my post office ruse.”

“What’s that?”

“I can’t tell you. It’s not...well, let’s just leave it at that.”

“What now?”

I started the car and headed for home. “Essie sold houses for a living, and I know they don’t get their commissions until the house closes, so there’s a good chance she has earned commissions she hasn’t collected yet, which means she still has ties to Baird & Warner.”

“You
are
good.”

“Not really.”

“So now what?”

“I don’t know. I wish I knew someone who was connected in the real estate field.”

* * *

A week after the boys moved in, I told Tymon over breakfast that I believed the coast was clear and they could go home now.

“How do you know the coast isn’t clear because of us being here?”

I didn’t have an answer for that.

“But you guys must be anxious to go back to your homes, your normal routines.”

“Do you hear any of us complaining?”

“No, but—”

“We’re here for the long haul, if needed, and if you keep feeding us Sunday dinner, you may never get rid of us.”

You would have thought the pot roast dinner I had made for them over the weekend was the first decent meal they had eaten in months. Well, not Carl, the chef, but the others. I had resolved to make that a weekly tradition for as long as they were there. It was the least I could do.

Later that morning, a woman from the Irish American Heritage Center called me to say she had some information. Tymon offered to drive me there. I didn’t argue.

It was a short drive to the Center, and once we got there Tymon asked if I wanted him to wait in the car. He knew more about what I was doing than anyone else at that point, so I figured what was the difference. I told him to come in with me.

We were greeted at the entrance by a docent who showed us to the management office. The office manager who had called me earlier motioned for us to come in and sit down.

“I was able to find a list of sweepstakes winners for three of the years you requested,” she said. She slid a piece of paper toward me. First, second, and third prizes had been awarded four times per year. I quickly ran down the list with my finger. Halfway down was the name Marcus O’Gowan. He had won it in May 1941.

“Thanks. I found the name I was looking for,” I explained. I started to slide the list back to her when I noticed his name listed again—this time in November of the same year. I asked her if that could be a mistake.

“No. Until recently, he was the only single person to win first prize twice. Imagine that.”

“That must have been some amount.”

“And I wish I could give you the amount, but they keep that confidential.”

I thanked her, and we left.

“So how does that help you?” Tymon asked me on the way to the car.

“First of all, it explains the second box of money—the one you found.”

“There’s more?”

“Minnie and I found a slightly smaller amount in the attic.”

“Where is that then?”

“I don’t know. She hid it. I thought you’d found it until I counted it and it contained more bills than the first one.”

“Holy—”

“I’m now sure the money was O’Gowan’s, and my guess is that he moved here to get away from people who were after it—relatives maybe, friends, who knows. He changed his name, found the room in Anna’s boardinghouse, and lived there like a hermit.”

“A rich hermit.”

“A very rich hermit.”

* * *

I awoke at three-thirty A.M. and couldn’t get back to sleep, so I got up and curled up in Minnie’s favorite chair with a novel. After reading for a bit, it occurred to me how I could get Elmer off the trail of the O’Gowan money once and for all.

Feeling quite pleased with myself for hatching such a clever plan, I dressed, made myself a pot of tea, fetched the paper, and stirred up a batch of blueberry muffins. It didn’t take long for the fragrance of the muffins to start wafting through the house, reminding me of Minnie, who always had something baking in the oven.

From my vantage point at the kitchen table, I saw Jack leave for work. Otto soon followed. I’d seen Carl leave mid-morning a few times. Tymon never left unless it was with me.

I had to admit, there were still times that I was uncertain about Tymon. I wanted to believe he was this very nice person who had been in love with Anna, felt a connection with me, and expected nothing in return. But I didn’t know any of this for sure.

I worried that I trusted him more than I should. Here he was, living upstairs with open access to my living space. He had installed a lock on the door at the top of the stairs that connected our bedrooms, and we kept it locked. But it was a double-sided lock, so if either of us wanted to gain access to the other’s space, we could. He had assured me he kept the door to the hallway on the other side of his room locked at all times, so at least the other three didn’t have access to the first floor.

Tymon knew almost everything about me—my past, my present, my dilemmas, and my vulnerabilities. I supposed if he was going to pull anything on me, he would have done it by now.

I went back and forth about his intentions—most of the time leaning toward positive. Still, it nagged at me.

My thoughts drifted to Essie Noe as I sipped my tea. I wished I knew if she had moved far away or just far enough to drop out of sight for a while. I considered going to the library and perusing the most recent Sunday
Tribune
real estate sections to see which houses she had listed. But Tymon would want to accompany me, and I hesitated asking him to watch me scour through newspapers for hours.

I heard Tymon’s signature knock at the back door. He could have let himself in via the staircase in my bedroom or by using his back-door key, but he didn’t. In that respect, he behaved more like a neighbor than a roommate, and for that I was grateful.

I let him in and told him to help himself to a muffin or two. Like every other morning, he had made a pot of coffee up in his room and brought down a cup of it in a large Snoopy coffee mug.

“So what’s on your agenda today?” he asked.

I told him about what I thought I might be able to find by poring over old newspapers.

“Let’s go. When do they open?”

“Are you sure you want to sit with me while I do this? It could take hours.”

“I am capable of reading, you know. If we split it up, it will take half the time.”

“Are you sure?”

“I wouldn’t have offered if I wasn’t.”

“They open at ten.”

Tymon told me he wanted to check under my hood for something or other that he said sounded off the other day. While he did that, I called Naomi to ask her if she’d help me turn the tables on a certain someone she had previously referred to as a “no-good low-down rat-fink skuzzball.” She said she was in and could stop by over the weekend if it was okay to bring her daughter. We agreed to meet on Saturday morning.

Tymon told me I had a couple of belts that needed replacing, so we planned to take his car to the library and then stop by the neighborhood mechanic’s place to get the belts. He asked me on the way what I thought would happen when I found out once and for all who my parents were.

“I’m hoping it will give me enough peace of mind to allow me to move on with my life. I don’t have anything if I don’t have my identity.”

“This is really important to you, isn’t it?”

“I feel stuck not knowing, if that makes any sense. It’s like doing a jigsaw puzzle—there are puzzle pieces you can put together and you see parts of the picture, but until you find the pieces that connect them, there’s no whole picture.”

“But what if you never find those connecting pieces, Gracie? What then?”

I didn’t have an answer for that.

Once we arrived at the library, we went to the reference section where they had the past issues of the
Tribune
. We made ourselves comfortable at a table in the corner of the room and got to work.

There was no one near us, so we talked while we flipped through the newspapers. At one point, I asked Tymon if he had ever worked in any capacity other than home maintenance.