Thanks for the Memories (32 page)

Justin falls to his knees and shuffles over to her.

“Please, Doris, I’m begging you. I am so, so sorry for what I said. I had no idea how much time and effort you were putting into this place. I underestimated you. Without you, I’d still be drinking from a toothbrush holder and eating from a cat bowl.”

“Yeah, I meant to ask you about that,” Al interrupts his brother’s groveling. “You don’t even have a cat.”

“So I’m a good interior designer?” Doris lifts her chin.
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“A great designer.”

“How great?”

“Greater than . . .” He stalls. “Andrea Palladio.”

Her eyes look to the left, then look to the right. “Is she better than Ty Pennington?”

“
He
was an Italian architect in the sixteenth century, widely considered the most influential person in the history of Western architecture.”

“Oh. Okay. Then you’re forgiven.” She holds out her hand.

“Give me your phone, and I’ll call Bea right now.”

Moments later they are all seated around the new kitchen table, listening to Doris’s half of the phone conversation.

“Okay, Bea told Petey, and the costume supervisor for
Swan
Lake
. And her father.”

“The costume supervisor? Do you guys still have the program from the performance?”

Doris disappears to her bedroom and returns with her program. She flicks through it and finds the bio pages.

“No.” Justin shakes his head upon reading her biography. “I met this woman that night, and it can’t be her. But her father was there? I didn’t see her father.”

Al shrugs.

“Well, this costume supervisor isn’t involved in this, I certainly didn’t save her life or her father’s. The person must be Irish, or at least received medical attention in an Irish hospital.”

“Maybe her dad’s Irish, or was in Ireland.”

“Give me that program, I’m calling the theater.”

“Justin, you can’t just call her up.” Doris dives for the program in his hand, but he dodges her. “What are you going to say?”

“All I need to know is if her father is Irish or was in Ireland during the past month. I’ll make the rest up as I go along.”

Al and Doris look at each other worriedly while Justin leaves the kitchen to make the call.

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“Did you do this?” Doris asks Al quietly.

“No way.” Al shakes his head, his chins wobbling. Five minutes later Justin returns.

“She remembered me from last night, and no, it’s not her or her father. So either Bea told somebody else or . . . it must be Peter fooling around. I’m gonna get that little kid and—”

“Grow up, Justin. It’s not him,” Doris says sternly. “Start looking elsewhere. Call the dry cleaners, call the guy who delivered the muffins.”

“I have already. They were charged to a credit card, and they can’t release the owner’s details.”

“Your life is just one big mystery. Between the Joyce woman and these mysterious deliveries, you should hire a private investigator,” Doris responds. “Oh! I just remembered.” She reaches into her pocket and hands him a piece of paper. “Speaking of investigators . . . I got this for you. I’ve had it for a few days but didn’t say anything because I didn’t want you going on a wild goose chase and making a fool of yourself. But seeing as you’re choosing to do that anyway, here.”

She hands him a piece of paper with Joyce’s details.

“I called international directory inquiries and gave them the number of the Joyce person that showed up on Bea’s phone last week. They gave me the address that goes with it. I think it’d be a better idea to find this woman, Justin. Forget this good-deeds person. It seems like very odd behavior to me. Who knows who’s sending you these notes? Concentrate on the woman; a nice healthy relationship is what you need.”

He barely reads the paper before putting it in his jacket pocket, totally uninterested, his mind elsewhere. Ever since the near-miss at the ballet, he’s made an effort not to think about Joyce. He doesn’t have time for wild goose chases.

“You just jump from one woman to another, don’t you?”

Doris studies him.

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“Hey, it could be the Joyce woman that’s sending the messages,” Al pipes up. Doris and Justin both look at him and roll their eyes.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Al,” Justin dismisses him. “I met her in a hair salon. Anyway, who says it’s a woman that’s doing this?”

“Well, it’s obvious,” Al replies. “Because you were given a muffin basket.” He scrunches up his nose. “Only a woman would think of sending baked goods. Or a gay man. And whoever it is, he or she—maybe it’s a heshe—knows how to do calligraphy, which further backs up my theory. Woman, gay guy, or tranny,” he sums up.

“I was the one who thought of the muffin basket idea!” Justin puffs. “And I do calligraphy.”

“Yeah, like I said. Woman, gay guy, or tranny.” He grins. Justin throws his hands up in exasperation and falls back in his chair. “You two are no help.”

“Hey, I know who could help you.” Al sits up.

“Who?” Justin rests his chin on his fist, bored.

“Vampira,” Al says spookily.

“I’ve already asked her for help. All she could tell me were my blood details in the database. Nothing about who received my donation. She won’t tell me where my blood went, and in any case, she won’t speak to me.”

“On account of you leaving her to run after a Viking bus?”

“That had something to do with it.”

“Gee, Justin, you really have a beautiful way with women.”

“Well, at least somebody thinks I’m doing something right.”

He stares at the two cards he’s placed in the center of the table. But are you?

“You don’t have to ask Sarah straight out. Maybe you could snoop around in her office.” Al gets excited.

“No, that would be wrong,” Justin says unconvincingly. “I could get into trouble. I could get her into trouble, and besides, I’ve treated her so badly.”

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“So a really lovely thing to do,” Doris says slyly, “would be to drop by her office and tell her you’re sorry. As a friend.”

A smile slowly creeps onto each of their faces.

“But can you take a day off work next week to go to Dublin?”

Doris asks, breaking their evil moment.

“I’ve already accepted an invitation from the National Gallery in Dublin to give a talk on Terborch’s
Woman Writing a Letter
,” Justin says excitedly.

“What’s the painting of ?” Al asks.

“A woman writing a letter, Sherlock,” Doris snorts.

“What a boring story.” Al scrunches up his nose, then watches as Justin reads the notes over and over, hoping to decipher a hidden code.

“
Man Reading a Note
,” Al says rather grandly. “Discuss.”

He and Doris crack up again as Justin takes that moment to exit the room.

“Hey, where are you going?”

“Man booking a flight.” He winks.

C h a p t e r 3 1

t s e v e n f i f t e e n t h e n e x t morning, just before Justin A leaves for work, he stands poised at the front door, hand on the door handle.

“Justin, where’s Al? He wasn’t in bed when I woke up.” Doris shuffles out in her slippers and robe. “What on earth are you doing now, you funny little man?”

Justin holds a finger to his lips, hushing her, and jerks his head in the direction of the closed door.

“Is the blood person out there?” she whispers excitedly, kicking off her slippers and tiptoeing like a cartoon character to join him at the door.

He nods excitedly.

They press their ears up against the door, and Doris’s eyes widen. “I can hear!” she mouths.

“Okay, on three,” he whispers, and they mouth together, One, two— He pulls the door open with full force. “Ha! Gotcha!” he shouts, striking an attacker’s pose and pointing his finger with more aggression than intended.

“Aaaah!” the postman screams with fright, dropping enve-t h a n k s f o r t h e m e m o r i e s
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lopes by Justin’s feet. He fires a package at Justin and holds another parcel by his head in defense.

“Aaaah!” Doris shouts.

Justin doubles over as the package hits between his legs. He falls to his knees, his face turning red as he gasps for air. They all hold their chests, panting.

The postman remains cowered, his knees bent, his head covered by the package.

“Justin”—Doris picks up an envelope and hits Justin across the arm—“you idiot! It’s the postman.”

“Yes,” Justin rasps, making choking sounds. “I can see that now.” He takes a moment to compose himself. “It’s okay, sir, you can lower your package now. I’m sorry to have frightened you.”

The postman slowly lowers the parcel, fear and confusion in his eyes. “What was that about?”

“I thought you were someone else. I’m sorry, I was expecting

. . . something else.” He looks to the envelopes on the floor. All bills. “Is there nothing else for me?”

His left arm starts to niggle at him. Tingling as though a mosquito has bitten him. He starts to scratch. Lightly at first, and then he pats his inner elbow, smacking the itch away. The tingling becomes more intense, and he digs his nail into his skin, scratching over and over. Beads of sweat break out on his forehead. The postman shakes his head and starts to back away.

“Did nobody give you anything to deliver to me?” Justin climbs back to his feet and moves closer, unintentionally appearing threatening.

“No, I said no.” The postman rushes up the steps to get away. Justin watches him flee, confused.

“Leave the man alone. You almost gave him a heart attack.”

Doris continues picking up the envelopes. “If you have that reaction to the real person, you’ll scare them off too. If you ever do meet this person, I advise you to rethink the ‘Ha! Gotcha!’ routine.”

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Justin pulls up the sleeve of his shirt and examines his arm, expecting to find red lumps or a rash, but there are no marks on his skin apart from the scratch marks he has made himself.

“Are you on something?” Doris narrows her eyes.

“No!”

She shuffles back into the kitchen with a harrumphing sound.

“Al?” her voice echoes around the kitchen. “Where are you?”

“Help! Help me! Someone!”

In the distance they hear Al’s voice, muffled as though his mouth is stuffed with socks.

Doris gasps, “Baby?” Justin hears the fridge door opening.

“Al?” A few seconds later she returns to the living room, shaking her head, alerting Justin to the fact that her husband was not in the fridge after all.

Justin rolls his eyes. “He’s outside, Doris.”

“Then for goodness’ sake, stop just standing there looking at me and help him!”

He opens the front door again, and Al sits slumped on the ground at the base of the steps. Wrapped around his sweaty head, Rambo style, is one of Doris’s tangerine headbands. His T-shirt is soaked with sweat, beads of perspiration run down his face, and his legs are spandex-clad and crumpled underneath him, still in the same position as when he’d fallen.

Doris pushes by Justin aggressively and charges toward Al. She falls to her knees. “Baby? Are you okay? Did you fall down the stairs?”

“No,” he says weakly, his chins resting on his chest.

“No, you’re not okay, or no, you didn’t fall down the stairs?”

she asks.

“The first one,” he says with exhaustion. “No, the second. Hold on, what was the first?”

She shouts at him now as though he is deaf. “The first was, Are you okay? And the second was, Did you fall down the stairs?”

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“No,” he responds, rolling his head back to rest it against the wall.

“To which one? Shall I call an ambulance? Do you need a doctor?”

“No.”

“No what, baby? Come on, don’t go to sleep on me, don’t you dare go anywhere.” She slaps his face. “You have to stay conscious.”

Justin leans against the door frame and folds his arms, watching the two of them. He knows his brother is fine, lack of fitness being his only problem. He goes to the kitchen for some water for him.

“My heart . . .” Al is panicking when Justin returns. His hands are scraping at his chest, and he’s gasping for air, stretching his head upward and taking in gulps like a goldfish reaching to the surface of the fish bowl for food.

“Are you having a heart attack?” Doris shrieks. Justin sighs, “He’s not having a—”

“Stop it, Al!” Justin is interrupted by a screeching Doris.

“Don’t you dare have a heart attack, do you hear me?” She picks up a newspaper from the ground and starts hitting Al with it with each word. “Don’t. You. Dare. Even. Think. Of. Dying. Before. Me. Al. Hitchcock.”

“Ow.” He rubs his arm. “That hurts.”

“Hey, hey, hey!” Justin breaks it up. “Give me that paper, Do ris.”

“No!”

“Where did you get it?” He tries to grab it out of her hands.

“It was just there, beside Al,” she shrugs. “Paperboy delivered it.”

“They don’t have paperboys around here,” he explains.

“Then I guess it’s Al’s.”

“There’s a coffee-to-go too,” Al manages to say, finally getting his breath back.

2 8 4 / C e c e l i a A h e r n

“A coffee-to-
what
?” Doris screeches so loudly, a window from the neighbor’s flat upstairs is banged closed loudly. This does not deter her. “You bought a coffee?” She begins spanking him again with the newspaper. “No wonder you’re dying!”

“Hey”—he crosses his arms over his body protectively—“it’s not mine. It was outside the door with the newspaper when I got here.”

“It’s mine.” Justin finally succeeds in snatching the paper from Doris’s hands and the coffee cup that is on the ground beside Al.

“There’s no note attached.” Doris narrows her eyes and looks from one brother to the other. “Trying to defend your brother is only going to kill him in the long run, you know.”

“I might do it more often, then,” Justin grumbles, shaking the newspaper and hoping for a note to fall out. He checks the coffee cup for a message. Nothing. Yet he’s sure it’s for him, and whoever left it there can’t be long gone. He focuses then on the front page. Above the headline, in the corner of the page, he notices the instruction “Go to p. 42.”