Jake felt a twinge of resentment.
Pete confides in his daughter but not in his best friend?
He put his hand on her back. He had a good life and a long one. He got to see you that Monday night you know how much he adored you and then he worked until the last second, until the last breath.
Actually, I dont know that he adored me, but I sure adored him. Elizabeth paused and jabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief. You know how your friends say, Let me know if theres anything I can do? Well, theres something
you
can do if you dont mind.
The request came as a relief. Name it.
I cant face the cottage now. But somebodys got to go there. Dads housekeeper, Mrs. Alessis, said vandals broke in over the weekend.
Rage made him light-headed.
What scum would do that?
Anything missing?
Some of the liquor and pipe tobacco. Kids, probably.
Still, what an awful thing to do. He was struck by his last image of Harrigan, glass in one hand, pipe in the other. Happy.
The furnitures going to charity. The housekeeper said shed stay on long enough to take care of it. But his study she shudderedhed want you to have everything in it. His books, the bones and skulls, all those autopsy photos, God knows what else. You could take what you want when you go up there and leave the rest for a university or museum. Will you do it?
He had no desire to see the place ever again. Sure, he said. Id be glad to.
* * *
Jake knew he couldnt handle the job alone, and he needed Wally in the office to cover for him, so he conscripted his brother. Sam, Jakes only sibling, was seven years younger, but psychologically he remained a hippie; he lived in Greenwich Village, went to gallery openings and performance pieces, drank latte in cafes. He managed to hold on to a rent-stabilized apartment and a gaggle of artistic friends, though he was no artist himself. Unlike his friends, he didnt drink, smoke, or take dope, and he exercised religiously. On Saturday nights, a woman with a body by Dow Chemical slept by his side; Jake had never met the same one twice.
Sam had long prematurely gray hair and a body kept slender by years of yoga and tai chi. For a while, hed returned to his Jewish roots, wearing a yarmulke and refusing to watch TV on the sabbath, but that had only lasted a matter of weeks. According to Jake, he never met a guru he didnt like. Whatever philosophy he had most recently latched on to was, he was convinced, the One True Way.
What does he do? people asked. This remained a mystery: Jake had no answer and Sam never told him. When Jake asked if they could drive upstate together, Sam was of course free. Itll be centering, he said enthusiastically.
* * *
They got to the cottage around ten in the morning. There was a FOR SALE sign out front, the front door was open, and the curtains and much of the furniture were gone. Mrs. Alessis, Jake called, its Jake Rosen. We spoke on the phone.
She came out of the bedroom, a woman in her sixties wearing a kerchief on her head and forty unnecessary pounds around the middle. Sam smiled at her as if she were a hot fudge sundae and he was the spoon. He looked at every female like that, Jake knew, whether she was nineteen or ninety-two.
Its nice to meet you in person, Jake said. Im Jake Rosen, and this is my brother, Sam.
Sam tossed his ponytail. Enchanted.
She smiled. Can I get you boys some coffee?
We should get right to work, Jake said.
Love some, said Sam. He was wearing a Diesel T-shirt and cargo pants.
Sam and Mrs. Alessis disappeared into the kitchen, and Jake retreated to the study. Melancholy overtook him as soon as he entered. Pete loved this room. Nothing seemed changed since the night he had found Petes body; there were no telltale signs of the break-in. He swore Petes spirit was
there.
Shaking off gloom, Jake decided to tackle the books first, separating them into piles for himself, a university, the medical examiners library, and the dump. His own pile grew rapidly. He had no idea where he was going to put everything.
Sam, he called after an hours work, what are you doing out there?
Helping Theresa clean out the kitchen.
Theresa?
Youre supposed to be helping me.
Sam stuck his head in the study door. Chivalry is good karma.
Jake squinted at him. The dust from the books was starting to bother his eyes. Do you ever listen to yourself talk?
All day long. What is it you want me to do?
You can start by getting me some boxes. As many as you can find.
Sam shrugged. Ill go down to the liquor store. They always have boxes, right? We can treat Theresa to a glass of wine.
You dont know where it is.
He looked hurt. Ill figure it out.
Jake went back to work, feeling increasingly depressed. It wasnt just that it was hard to be surrounded by Harrigans things, but he had barely made a dent in the books he had found texts stretching back to Petes high school science classes much less the rest of the study. There had to be a dozen boxes filled with autopsy Kodachrome slides alone and one, also containing jars and containers, had his name on it; he figured it dated back to the time the two had worked together and there were the bones, the antique lab glass, the biological specimens in jars of formaldehyde. Hed just have to pile everything into boxes and go through it at home.
His own study in New York wasnt as cluttered as Petes, but only because Jake had allowed it to spill over into the rest of the brownstone. Even his own bedroom was filled with books and files. If something happened to him, the job of clearing it would go to Sam. The thought terrified him.
Be careful you dont wake up in the morning, alone at the age of sixty, and regret the choices you made.
Harrigans words. Did he have regrets when he died? Jake wondered. Probably.
There was a knock on the front door. Mrs. Alessis? Can you get that? No answer. He heard her vacuuming in one of the bedrooms.
Grumpily, he went to the door and opened it. Facing him was a woman in her fifties wearing black stretch pants and an embroidered floral sweater. She was painfully thin. Her timid smile revealed yellowed teeth; her hand, when she extended it, reminded him of a cats claw. Fatigue lay deep in her sunken eyes, and her brunette hair was dyed and disheveled.
Dr. Harrigan?
Im sorry, Jake said. Im Dr. Rosen.
Is Dr. Harrigan in?
No.
I guess I should have called first. Ill wait. Its urgent.
Was Dr. Harrigan a friend of yours?
The question seemed to startle her. No. I never met him before in my life.
A mystery.
Im afraid he died recently.
She blinked at him. Jake thought she was going to cry. Oh, no! she wailed. I need to talk to him about my father!
Mystery no longer.
I see. Your father passed away. Dr. Harrigan did the postmortem?
I dont know what you call it, the woman said sullenly, as though blaming Jake for Harrigans absence.
Dr. Harrigan and I used to work together.
Her eyes lit up. Then maybe you know what happened to my father. All I know is Dr. Harrigan found him found his body.
Found him?
Buried, she said, in an unmarked grave.
* * *
Im Patrice Perez. My maiden name was Patrice Lyons. Daughter of James Albert Lyons.
With a shock, Jake remembered: Skeleton Three. Patient number 631217. Pete had located her. Yes, he said, I was with Dr. Harrigan when he found the remains. He led her to the kitchen and poured her a cup of coffee. You hadnt seen your father, then, for several decades.
I didnt know where he was. Dr. Harrigans call was a thunderbolt. He told me I could stop by anytime and talk . . . about my dad . . . here or at the hospital. I came here first. She fiddled with the handle of her coffee mug. I dont like hospitals.
There was steel underneath the frail facade, Jake realized. He was starting to like Patrice Perez. How did Dr. Harrigan find you?
Through the Veterans Administration.
Your father was in the military?
In Korea. He was an officer, a lieutenant, she said proudly. Married Mom just before he went overseas. Thats why he ended up in the looney bin.
Jake winced; he hated that term. He suffered from post-traumatic stress?
Back then they called it shell shock. He saw his two best friends blown apart in front of him. Happened at a place called Heartbreak Ridge. I always thought that was a good name for it.
Heartbreak Ridge, Jake knew, was one of the bloodiest battles of the Korean War. How long was he a patient?
Almost from the time he got back. He used to sleep with his helmet as a pillow. Had terrible headaches, sometimes violent seizures. I was about five. I remember him hitting his head against the wall and screaming.
Classic signs of epilepsy, Jake thought. She seems more composed now; its helping her to talk.
Mom had him hospitalized in December of sixty-three. He asked us not to come see him until he was better. We got letters from him from time to time. The last one was for me. He wrote that hed had some type of surgery and was feeling better. But he didnt sign it like he did the rest:
You are my very own Pipsqueak, Love, Daddy.
Instead it was
Your father, Lieutenant James A. Lyons.
The letters stopped coming. When Mom called the hospital, they said hed eloped. Her voice fell. Wandered off and disappeared.
He wanted to embrace her, let her cry out her pain. When was this?
Nine months later, in September of sixty-four. Mom thought maybe hed started a new life, put his past behind him, but I wouldnt hear of it. Hed never leave without saying goodbye, I told her. He loved me too much to do that.
Now the tears came, slowly at first, then in torrents. I dont know what to do. I need to find out what happened to him. Mom died; Im the only one left. Nobody cares about him except me. I tried to get his records, but the hospitals closed and the VA hardly has any medical files left. There was a fire, they told me, but maybe they were just saying that to get rid of me.
No, its true, Jake said. Ive come up against it before. It happened in St. Louis in 1973. A lot of VA records were lost.
He thought his answer would comfort her, but it seemed to deflate her further.
I dont know what to do, she said again. I have a daughter who deserves to know about her grandfather. But how am I to get a straight answer? Im just a middle-aged divorced waitress from Jersey. To the government, Im a big nobody.
Jake handed her a paper towel to dry her tears. You could hire a private investigator.
She shook her head. I dont have that kind of money. But I was wondering: what if it was the hospitals fault? Do you know a lawyer who might take my case?
You want to sue for damages?
I dont want
money,
she said, as though it were a four-letter word. I just want to find out what happened to my father.
You want an attorney willing to work for nothing whod take your case just for the satisfaction of finding out the truth?
She sighed. I know its impossible.
Actually, he said, I know the perfect person for the job.
WHEN SHED HEARD Jakes voice, Manny had hung up on him. When hed called again, she acted more grown-up, finally admitting to herself that, arrogant as he was, hed been right about Essie Carramia. She let him tell her about Patrice Perez. Then she called Patrice, whose story, like a familiar virus, infected her heart.
Now, somewhat to her surprise, Manny found herself in Poughkeepsie, New York, at the Psychoanalytic Academie for the Betterment of Life, a repository for the records of several now-defunct psychiatric hospitals, Turner among them. Shed surfed for Turner on the Internet and learned that New York State was paying the Academie to archive those of its records that were neither at the Turner Historical Society nor yet retrieved from the hospital itself. So, on a glorious fall day, she had put the top down on her convertible Porsche and driven up.
