Things Hoped For (11 page)

And my story, that simple story of a girl trying to get into music school, my story feels like it’s been swallowed up whole, the way an owl eats a mouse.

Then it’s like this huge gust of wind pushes through my mind and all the fog is gone. Everything snaps sharp and clear.

It’s my voice again, closer now. “You have to leave, Robert. Right now. Before I call the police. You need to get back to your hotel. You were never here. This is a mess. A huge mess. And it’s got nothing to do with you. Unless you stay. So you’ve got to go. Right now, okay? And I’ll go around and wipe off all your fingerprints. No one will know you were here. So go, okay?”

“I can’t do that.”

The look on Robert’s face. Very sweet. And protective.

I say, “But you
have
to go. This is going to ruin everything for me, but it’s not your problem. It’s my grampa, and it’s my problem. So go. But first help me go through the house and clean up.”

He shakes his head. “I really can’t leave—I mean, think about it. I’m a witness here. Because you’re a suspect too. I can’t leave. They’d find out I was here anyway. Think how many people on this block have seen me go in and out with you. And if you wiped my fingerprints off the freezer, you might wipe away something the police will need. We have to tell them everything, tell it exactly the way it happened. Even the part about me faking the voice to your uncle Hank. I might get in some trouble for that, but if I walk away,
that’s
a real crime. This is serious. And I’m probably a suspect too.”

I’m hearing what Robert is saying, but I’m stuck back near the beginning. That one thing he said:
Because you’re a suspect too.

Me, a suspect. In the mysterious death of my own grandfather. A suspect.

So I go into the study, and I pick up the phone. But then I hang up.

Robert’s watching me. “What’re you doing?”

I don’t want to explain myself. I pull my cell phone from the pocket of my jeans, and I punch the menu button until I find the call log, and then I scroll until I see a number I don’t recognize. I push Dial, and after five rings it goes to voice mail: “This is Kenneth Grant. Please leave a message.”

After the beep I say, “Mr. Grant? This is Gwendolyn Page, Lawrence Page’s granddaughter. I just found my grampa. He’s . . . dead. He’s in the freezer, here at his house. In the utility room. And I have to call 911. And I wanted to ask you what else I should do. Because you said I should call if I needed any help. And I . . . I need help.”

Then I push the End button, because that’s all there is to say.

Robert’s nodding. “That was a good idea.”

I sit in the big desk chair. It’s so still, so quiet in this house. I love that silence. I wish it could stay like this, so calm. I need to think. I want to run down to my practice room and shut myself in. I need to play my violin, right now. I need to play Bach, to feel his calm and the perfect order of his ideas.

“Gwen?”

It’s Robert. I shut my eyes and shake my head. “Shhh.”

“Gwen—you have to call the police. Now.”

I open my eyes. I pick up the handset from the desk phone and the sharp dial tone fills the study. I push 9, and then 1, and then I stop. Still holding the phone, I swivel to face Robert.

“Who says we have to call the police right away? Why not wait, wait until Mr. Grant calls back? Or even wait until tomorrow? Or Tuesday? I mean, it’s horrible and everything, about Grampa, but the second we call the police, then everything goes completely out of control. And Grampa wanted me to keep working, to follow through on my auditions. He wanted me to.”

But even as those words come out, I know I’m being irrational. And disgustingly selfish. And I already wish I hadn’t said it.

Robert’s shaking his head. “Gwen—no. You have to call now. Someone is
dead
. Downstairs. You have to call the police right now. Do it.”

I have to call now. Of course I do. If I try to delay the chaos, it’ll be that much worse when it hits.

So I punch in the number.

“911—what is your location?”

A woman’s voice, and I tell her.

“Tell me your emergency.”

“I . . . I just found my grandfather. He’s dead.”

“Your name?”

“Gwendolyn Page.”

“Did this just happen? Does he need a paramedic?”

“No. He’s . . . he’s in a freezer.”

“Please repeat that.”

“He’s in a big freezer. He’s . . . dead.”

“Are you in danger?”

“No. There’s no danger.”

“All right. You stay where you are. And don’t touch anything. Officers are on the way.”

That was the end of call number two.

By the time I’m done with the 911 operator, I’m sobbing. It’s because I keep having to say “he’s dead.” And it’s hitting me again, harder. My grampa is gone. And I’m not going to get to talk to him again. No more bedtime snacks, no more orders, no more salutes. The only picture I can see of Grampa right now is what I just saw, downstairs. It’s not fair.

And now the tears, hot and angry. Our little terrier, who got run over by the mail truck, and my cat Gracie, who died right in my arms. And Aunt Irene, who passed on that Christmas—I’m crying for all of them, for everyone and everything I have ever loved. And I’m crying like I did that night I was ten, sitting alone out on the front porch, when I knew for the first time that Daddy and Mama wouldn’t live forever. And now my grampa.

After a few minutes Robert leans over and puts an arm around me. I feel my shoulders shaking. I’m glad he didn’t leave.

I force myself to stop crying, force myself to be quiet. Because I am the brave one. I am the brave one.

And that’s good, because I have to make another call.

I click to the speed-dial list in my cell phone and punch the top number.

“Hello?”

That voice sounds so good to me. “Mama?”

“Well, hi, Gwennie. I knew it would be you calling. How are you, sweetheart? Have you been havin’ a nice Sunday?”

“Mama, I have to talk to Daddy.” My voice sounds funny, and my mom knows it.

“Are you all right, dear? Is something wrong?”

“I’m fine, Mama, but . . . Grampa died. And I need to tell Daddy.”

“Oh, my! . . . All right, dear. Here’s your father.”

My dad’s a big man, built like Uncle Hank. I love hearing his deep voice.

“Hey, it’s my big city girl. How’re you doing up there?”

“Daddy? It’s Grampa. He’s . . . passed on. I’m sorry to be the one who has to tell you.”

My dad is quiet, and I can picture him as he gets all still and serious. And I remember all the stories Daddy told me about him and Grampa, about hunting and fishing together. And how Grampa almost cried the day Daddy left for Vietnam.

But my dad is also the brave one. He clears his throat and says, “Was it . . . there at home? It wasn’t an accident or anything, was it?”

“No, not an accident, I don’t think. But it’s . . . unusual, Daddy. Because Grampa’s in the big freezer, the one in the utility room. And I don’t know . . . how it happened. So it’s . . . unusual. I had to call the police. I’m sorry to have to tell you this.”

A second of silence, then, “Did you say in the freezer? You sure about that?”

“You can’t make a mistake about something like this, Daddy.”

I hear the intercom buzzer at the front door.

My dad says, “Well, I’m coming up there tonight if I can—tomorrow, for sure. Are you all right until then? Do you want me to call Uncle Hank for you?”

“No, don’t do that, Daddy. I have a friend here who’s helping me. And I called Grampa’s lawyer, too. So I’m okay. I’ve got to go now, Daddy. The police are here. I love you.”

“I love you, too, Gwennie. And I’ll be there right away. And I’ll call. Here’s your mama again.”

“Gwennie? Now don’t you be afraid. Everything’ll work out. You just tell everybody the truth, and then trust it all to God, you hear? You’re bein’ watched over, same as always.”

“I know, Mama. Thank you. I have to go now. I’ll call back in a bit. I love you.”

“I love you too, sweetheart.”

I put the cell phone in my pocket, and the intercom buzzes again. And Robert and I walk out to open the door for the police.

Except when I open the door, it’s not the police.

Before I can react, Uncle Hank pushes past me into the front hall, brushes Robert aside and walks through the open parlor door.

“Lawrence?”

I’m inside now, and Uncle Hank’s in the study.

“Robert! In here!” He follows me at a dead run into Grampa’s bedroom, and I slam the door and lock it.

“Lawrence!” His big fist shakes the door in its frame. “Are you in there? Tell Gwennie to open the door. I need to talk to you, right now.”

Robert and I have our shoulders against the door. And I can see Robert beginning to make his old man face, and he takes a breath: He’s about to start talking like Grampa again.

So I poke him in the side, and I shout through the door. “Just go away. This isn’t a good time. So just leave.” Because in the back of my mind I guess I think I can keep Uncle Hank out of all this for another day or so. There’s already too much to deal with.

Uncle Hank bangs the door again. “I want to see him. And who’s that kid in there with you? That your boyfriend or something? What’s going on around here, Gwennie? Open this door, or I’m going to give it a good kick and come in anyway.”

“Hold it, mister! Police! Hands on the wall, and don’t turn around!”

“What the—? Oh, great! Nice going, Gwennie. You had to go and be stupid and call the police.”

I open the bedroom door, and there are two officers, both men, one with a hand on his pistol. The second officer has his left hand against Uncle Hank’s back, and he’s patting around with the other to check for weapons.

It takes all my courage to speak. “I’m Gwendolyn Page. I’m the one who called 911.”

The officer finishes with Uncle Hank and says, “What’s the yelling about?” And to me he says, “You know this man?”

I nod. “He’s my uncle.”

Still talking to me, he says, “And you live here?”

I nod. “With my grampa. It’s his house.”

Uncle Hank snarls, “And it’s my house too.”

The second officer says to Hank, “Just keep it quiet unless someone asks you a question, okay?” Then to me he says, “And you’re the one reported the dead body, right? You want to show me now?”

I nod at the officer, but I’m watching my uncle’s face. The anger drains away. Seconds later I’m looking at a different man, more like a boy. Somebody’s little brother. “Body?” he says. “What body?”

Hank turns from the officer and locks eyes with me. “Gwennie? Is it . . . it’s Lawrence?”

My eyes fill with tears, and I nod.

The crumpled face, the pain in his eyes. And I cross Uncle Hank off the list of suspects. Because I believe his sadness and shock, believe it completely.

The officer nods at Robert and asks me, “Who’s he?”

“A friend of mine. He found it first . . . the body.”

Uncle Hank moves to the couch and slumps into the cushions, face in his hands.

“Okay, then,” the officer says. “Why don’t you two lead the way.”

 

 

 

The next ninety minutes feel like a dream. After Robert and I show the policeman the freezer, he calls for an evidence team. Fingerprint dusting, dozens of photographs, a medical examiner from the coroner’s office, a body bag, an ambulance.

Robert and Uncle Hank each spend about fifteen minutes in the study giving their statements to the man in charge, Detective Keenan. Jason the tenant shows up, and he gets questioned too. And a technician takes fingerprint samples from all of us, “for the process of suspect elimination,” he says.

By the time it’s my turn to give a statement, Kenneth Grant arrives, and he comes into the study with me. I start with how I came home from my violin lesson on Thursday. I play Grampa’s message, and after it rewinds, the detective takes the whole answering machine and puts it into a plastic evidence bag. I tell the entire story, right up to calling Mr. Grant and the police and my parents, and then Uncle Hank pushing his way into the parlor.

When I’m done, Mr. Grant says, “Detective Keenan, I’ve got some information that may or may not be important. Thursday was the last day my client was seen alive, and it was also the day he left a message on my office voice mail. He told me that an envelope was on its way to me, and he asked me not to open this envelope except in the event of his death. He also asked me to call on Friday and check to see if his granddaughter was all right, which I did.”

“Where is it, this envelope?” It’s clear the detective doesn’t care much for lawyers.

“In a safe at my office. I haven’t opened it. It’s registered mail.”

“I’ll send an officer to get it.”

The lawyer pauses. “Actually, since I am the addressee, the contents are privileged client information. And there’s nothing that automatically links this envelope to your case.” The detective stiffens, and Mr. Grant quickly adds, “But I want to cooperate in every way, so I’ll be happy to bring the envelope wherever you’d like me to, and I’ll open it in your presence. Then we can determine together if any of the contents are relevant.”

The detective’s not completely happy, but he says, “Three P.M. tomorrow at the Twenty-fourth Precinct house—100th Street between Amsterdam and Columbus. We’ll have a probable cause of death by then.” Turning to me, the officer says, “I want you to be there, and your boyfriend too. And neither of you leaves the city until this is settled.”

“Oh . . . he’s not my boyfriend.”

“Just tell him not to go anywhere, okay?”

As quickly as the craziness began, it ends. The patrolmen, the technicians, the detective, Mr. Grant, Jason from the third floor—everyone just leaves. Uncle Hank too. He trudges away to find a cab, looking ten years older. In a matter of five minutes they’re gone, and it’s Robert and me sitting by ourselves in the parlor.