Authors: C.E. Lawrence
Silent Kills (4 page)
CHAPTER SIX
The bed was so big and white, and his sister’s body was so small.
Davey approached on tiptoe, afraid any sound he made would wake her, or make her sicker. The voice of his mother behind him urged him on. He could smell her rose petal perfume.
Davey approached on tiptoe, afraid any sound he made would wake her, or make her sicker. The voice of his mother behind him urged him on. He could smell her rose petal perfume.
“Go ahead, Davey. It’s all right. Go up to her—you won’t hurt her.”
He wanted to turn and run from the room, but everyone was watching. The rest of the family had gathered in the bedroom, in chairs along the wall or standing around the heavy oak canopy bed. They were all in black, like great stooping crows—their long yellow faces didn’t even look human. They gazed down at his sister Edwina, her tiny body swallowed in a sea of pillows, swathed in blankets and bandages.
Davey turned to look at his mother, whose face was swollen from crying. Her lips were puffy and her nose was a mottled red color, reminding him of a boiled lobster he had seen once in a restaurant.
“Go on, Davey,” she said. “Go kiss your sister.”
He couldn’t understand why he had to kiss his sister. Edwina appeared to be asleep, and what if she woke up just as Davey got there? What if she started to cry, or worse, made the terrible moaning sound that she had been emitting for days—a weak, tormented groaning that Davey could hear in his own bedroom? It came right through the walls. He stacked pillows over his head to drown it out at night, but not even a pile of pillows could keep Davey from hearing the terrible bleating sound. Sometimes it made his heart hurt for his sister, and sometimes he hated his sister—hated her for making his mother cry, for keeping everyone up at night, and for making Davey feel so sorry for her.
Mostly, though, he hated how the family’s life had changed. Everything was different now. Everyone walked softly and spoke in low voices; it was all about Edwina’s illness, and Davey felt like a ghost, unseen and unheard. When he talked, his mother would pretend to listen, but he knew her mind was on Edwina and how she was feeling today. His father didn’t even pretend to listen. He had barely spoken to Davey these past weeks, when Edwina took a turn for the worse. That’s what his Aunt Sarah called it—“a turn for the worse”—though he had no idea what that meant.
He tiptoed around the house and heard snippets of conversation about his sister. He tried to make sense of the words and phrases: “blood disorder,” “clotting factor,” “faulty genes,” and so on. He memorized what he heard, even if he didn’t understand it; he was a bright boy, though no one seemed to know or care. Eventually, he came to understand that there was something wrong with his sister’s blood, that it ran in the family, and that this terrible affliction could skip a generation. If he had children, for example, they too could sicken and die young. Davey developed a fear that the rest of his family would also become ill—and that it was only a matter of time before he himself sickened and died.
And even though he was only a child, he knew Edwina was dying. Though Davey was only seven, he saw the unnatural paleness of his sister’s skin, all the roses gone from her cheeks, and the gradual weakening after one of her “attacks.” She wasn’t allowed to run, to play, to fall on the ground and roll in the grass like other children. After a while, she wasn’t allowed to do anything. And then she was too weak to want to.
Edwina was only five, but she was dying. And the thought filled Davey with mortal terror and unbearable sadness.
Just as he approached his sister’s bed, he had a warm, wet feeling in his pants, then a thin tickling sensation down the inside of his leg. He heard his Aunt Sarah gasp.
“Oh, lord, the boy’s wet himself!”
Overcome by shame and humiliation, Davey turned and fled the room.
CHAPTER SEVEN
“You want to get something to eat?” Kathy said. “I’m starving.”
They were wandering down Broadway after the concert, approaching the lights of Times Square, its wanton neon casually splashed against the canvas of sky, as if someone had tossed a can of paint heavenward. The air was warm and inviting, a perfect night for strolling about aimlessly.
“You’re always hungry,” Lee said as they passed a souvenir shop, its polished plate-glass windows stuffed with trinkets for tourists: tiny green replicas of the Statue of Liberty, baseball caps proclaiming
I LOVE NY
, postcards of the Chrysler and Empire State buildings. He wondered if they still sold postcards of the World Trade Center.
I LOVE NY
, postcards of the Chrysler and Empire State buildings. He wondered if they still sold postcards of the World Trade Center.
The concert at Carnegie Hall had been an emotional experience. There was audible sobbing in the audience during the quieter parts, and Lee himself had teared up during the haunting chorus “Wie Lieblich Sind Deine Wohnungen.” He was exhausted and drained and wanted to go home. He looked at Kathy, who had not cried during the concert, though at one point she had grabbed his hand and pressed hard, her strong fingers digging into his palm. He had never known a woman with such powerful hands.
“I am not
always
hungry,” she said. “It’s just that you’re hardly ever hungry.”
always
hungry,” she said. “It’s just that you’re hardly ever hungry.”
“I could use a drink,” he said.
“There’s McHale’s,” she said as they passed his old hangout on the corner of Forty-sixth Street. The sign’s red neon light cast a warm glow into the foggy night air.
“Not tonight,” he said.
They stood on the triangular island at the intersection of Broadway and Seventh Avenue, underneath the half-price-tickets booth. Under the Giuliani administration the porn shops and peep shows had been replaced by the far creepier presence of Walt Disney Co. and billboards with naked Calvin Klein children—but the tickets booth remained an enduring icon of Times Square. The enormous red letters were beginning to fade, but you could still read them from three blocks away: TKTS.
Lee had stood in line there more times than he could remember, shivering or sweating in all kinds of weather alongside tourists from Holland, Belgium, Portugal, and Singapore—people gathered at this great crossroads from just about anywhere you could think of. Sharing the wait with strangers was part of the experience, part of the fun—you never knew who you would meet, what street buskers would be working the crowd, or what flyer for some remote off-Broadway show would be pressed into your hand by an aspiring actor. This was the best of what it was to live in New York, and thinking about it brought new tears to Lee’s eyes.
Most of the shows were just getting out. People walked arm in arm on their way to after-theater drinks and dinner, cabs careened down the avenues in an impatient sea of yellow, but the usual festivity was missing. It felt different tonight—and yet there was a sense of camaraderie, as there had been at the concert, as there had been in the city ever since that terrible day. He looked at Kathy, her face shiny and eager in the glare of Times Square. He wondered if being from Philadelphia instead of New York made a difference—maybe she felt the sorrow less than he did. He banished the thought as ungenerous; perhaps she was just glad to be with him.
“I know,” she said. “Let’s go to Sardi’s.”
“Okay.”
The idea struck him as oddly fitting—if they had to be anywhere, they might as well spend the rest of the evening at Sardi’s. He liked the bartender on the second floor, a genial Croatian named Jan (pronounced “Yan”) who made a mean Manhattan. Lee hadn’t been to Sardi’s in a long time. He hoped Jan would be working tonight.
They made their way through the downstairs dining room with its wall-to-wall Hirschfeld caricatures of theatrical luminaries, turning toward the stairs at a toothy portrait of Carol Channing, grinning like the Big Bad Wolf, her eyes alight with the actor’s curse: the insatiable need for attention and adoration.
Luck was with them—Jan was on duty upstairs, and the place was hopping. Fortified with a few drinks, the upscale clientele gathered around the long bar was looking more relaxed than the people on the street, with their tight, worried-looking faces. Perhaps everyone feared another attack was imminent—but after a couple of Jan’s cocktails, Lee thought, you would forget to worry about it. At the far end of the bar, a plump woman with bleached hair in a pink Chanel suit and matching pillbox hat snuggled happily next to her date, a dignified gentleman in a tuxedo with a pencil mustache. Two theater programs lay on the bar next to them, with their characteristic yellow heading, PLAYBILL stenciled in bold black lettering. The couple fit in perfectly with the décor—a pair of extras out of a B movie from the 1940s.
When he saw Lee, the bartender’s sallow face broke into a broad grin.
“Where you been, my friend? Long time I don’t see you.”
While Lee was a student at John Jay College, he had gotten in the habit of stopping at Sardi’s after class on a fairly regular basis with his friend Jimmy Chen, who loved the place. They would order Manhattans and talk about class—Jimmy was already a cop, but was set on becoming a detective, so he was on night duty and taking classes during the day. He did end up making detective, and worked in Chinatown, where Lee sometimes met him for lunch.
“I’ve been working, Jan—sorry I haven’t been around.” That was only a partial truth; Lee wasn’t about to go into the story of his nervous breakdown and subsequent hospital stay.
The bartender turned and refilled a customer’s drink in one fluid motion, while presenting another with a credit card receipt. Jan was smooth, and Lee liked watching him at work, enjoying the pleasure he took in his job. Jan had a long sallow face with merry, droopy eyes, a swatch of sandy blond hair and no chin whatsoever. If he’d had a yen for acting, like everyone else within shouting distance of the restaurant, his face alone would have landed him comic lead roles.
“In Croatia, there is saying,” Jan declared as he plucked two Manhattan glasses from the glass shelf behind him. “Work is a poor man’s mistress.”
Lee laughed and nudged Kathy. “Jan is full of sayings from Croatia, but I think he makes them up himself.”
Jan wheeled around and placed a glass in front of each of them. “Your girlfriend?” He smiled, cocking his head to one side.
“Yes,” said Kathy. “I’m his girlfriend.”
Jan grinned at Lee. “Lucky man—too lucky, perhaps?”
“Sure,” Lee said, his mood already lifted. “Whatever you say, Jan.”
“She will drink Manhattan too?” Jan said, hesitating, a bottle of whiskey in one hand and vermouth in the other.
“She will,” Kathy replied.
“Good!” Jan beamed, pouring a generous amount of each into a silver cocktail shaker. He added a dash of Angostura bitters and ice, and shook exactly four times. Any more than that, he had told Lee many times, and you risk bruising the vermouth.
He poured them each a glass, lifting the shaker high in the air with a flourish—without spilling a drop. He placed the glasses in front of them and winked at Lee.
“Let me know when you want refill.”
“Thanks—I will,” Lee said, and lifted his glass to Kathy’s.
“Cheers,” she said. “To survival.”
“To survival,” he said, and drank deeply. It was good—very good. “You make a great Manhattan, Jan. Now what was that saying you were going to tell us about?”
Jan grinned. “Maybe you don’t believe me,” he said, bending down to wash out some glasses in the sink under the bar. The familiar sound of glass clanking against the metal sides of the sink was oddly comforting—come what may, it was business as usual here at Sardi’s.
“I believe you!” Lee said, laughing.
“Please tell us,” Kathy begged.
“Okay,” Jan agreed, winking at her. “I tell your friend because she so pretty. In Croatia there is a saying: No friend is really gone if they live on in your memory.”
The couple at the end of the bar raised their glasses in a toast.
“Here’s to absent friends,” said the man in the tux.
“May they live on in our memories,” Kathy said, raising her glass in response.
One by one, everyone at the bar picked up whatever they were drinking and lifted their glasses.
“To absent friends,” Lee murmured.
“May they rest in peace,” said the blond woman.
Everyone bowed their heads—and then, as reverently as if they were sipping a communion wine, they all drank.
“To absent friends,” said Jan quietly. “Gone, but never forgotten.”
Amen.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Joselin Rosario was surprised to see the lights already on when she arrived at the New York Blood Center on East Sixty-second Street Thursday morning at a little after eight. She was early, as usual. They wouldn’t open their doors to the public until nine o’clock, but Joselin liked time to herself to enjoy her coffee and read the paper—time she rarely had at home, with three kids, her mother, a dog, and a husband around. Leaving their Washington Heights apartment early for work was something she did for herself; that hour each day was her time. It was like Oprah said—you had to take care of yourself first before taking care of everyone else around you—and Joselin had lived her whole life taking care of other people. She had decided it was about time she did a few things for herself—starting with an hour alone every day.
Madre mia
, she thought, who could be here at this hour? No one was in the front office, so she put her coffee down on the desk and went through to the back room, with its rows of specially fitted hospital beds for the donors to give blood. That was empty too, the line of beds waiting to be filled by the steady stream of volunteers coming through each day. Ever since 9/11 they had been busier than usual, and had to hire two new employees.
, she thought, who could be here at this hour? No one was in the front office, so she put her coffee down on the desk and went through to the back room, with its rows of specially fitted hospital beds for the donors to give blood. That was empty too, the line of beds waiting to be filled by the steady stream of volunteers coming through each day. Ever since 9/11 they had been busier than usual, and had to hire two new employees.
Joselin walked through to the small laboratory in the very back of the facility where the blood was stored and tested for contamination. People were required to fill out a form, but sometimes they lied about key information, like whether or not they were HIV positive. Joselin liked to think the best of people, and she tried to convince herself that maybe some of them just forgot—but how could you possibly forget something like whether or not you had AIDS?
She heard sounds coming from the laboratory. It sounded like someone was running one of the machines that separated the red blood cells from their platelets.
“Hello?” she called out. “Who’s there?”
As she reached the door to the lab, she came face-to-face with a man—or rather, with his chin. Joselin was only five foot three, and he was well over six feet.
“Hello,” he said cheerfully, standing in the doorway and blocking her from entering the lab. “I’m your new assistant.”
“H-hello,” she replied, confused. He was lanky and very pale, with slicked-back dark hair and long, thin hands. He was conservatively dressed, in clothes that looked like they came from a vintage thrift store: pinstriped trousers, lace-up shoes, and a starched white shirt.
“They sent me down from White Plains,” he explained, holding up a piece of paper. “This is my transfer form.” His voice was odd, formal—sort of British sounding—but something about it struck her as fake.
She frowned. “I didn’t hear anything about that.”
“Isn’t that just like a bureaucracy?” he said, shaking his head. “Well, here I am, so I guess you’re stuck with me. You’re Joselin Rosario, right?”
She nodded. “How did you—”
“They told me at White Plains I’d be reporting to you. I’m the new phlebotomist.” He smiled, but only with his mouth. There was something lean and hungry in his green eyes.
“Okay,” she said. She had put in a request for a new lab technician, but was surprised it had been granted so quickly. She was used to weeks of wading through bureaucratic red tape. “You can—uh,” she said, looking over his shoulder, “were you using the platelet machine just now? I thought I heard it running.”
“No,” he replied, eyes wide, his whole body expressing his innocence. But Joselin had three children under the age of ten, and she was used to ferreting out liars. Her spine tingled; she had a peculiar sensation that something about this young man was not what it appeared to be. White Plains or not, she would have to watch him very carefully.
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