Conundrum (50 page)

“What time did you leave Ed’s house?” I asked, giving him a hug.

“About five. I dozed off on Ed’s couch for a couple of hours
,
and I think Julie was asleep in one of the bedrooms when I snuck out. I didn’t want to wake her. Hey, I want to show you these pictures she
found.”

We walked over to bench situated near the barn. The day was starting to warm
,
and I shed my coat. Birds sang in the trees
,
and the world seemed new, quiet, hushed in awakening. January first, just one other day like any other, only significant because we humans picked this day to mark a new year, the
beginning
of a new cycle of seasons. Even so, it felt like a turning point, a point on which my past and my future hinged. A point where I had walked through a door and
locked
it behind me.

Neal sat close to me, with our legs touching. He pulled out a manila
envelop
e
from his coat pocket.
“Some of these are from Shirley’s photo albums, and a few are from a box we found at Ed’s. Look at this.”

He withdrew a stack of black
-
and
-
white photos. They were the old kind of
glossy prints
, with the white wavy edges, some a little brown with age. I looked at each one. Pictures of Shirley holding baby Julie, of Julie as a toddler, taking first steps, swimming in a pool, dressed in cute bonnets
and
patterned sun dresses
. I studied
them
, making my way through the stack, then stopped when I saw a photo o
f
Ed and my father standing together, arms thrown over each other’s shoulders. My father looked happy; I guessed this was pre-Neal. Other photos of my father at work, at what looked like a company baseball game, and some with Dave Lerner and
men
I assumed worked at Penwell Corporation.

The last one startled me for a moment, until I realized it was Shirley who had her arms around my father, posing for the camera, the two of them smiling. I couldn’t tell where the photo had been taken, but my father’s countenance contrasted to the
ones
I had just looked at. His face was serious, strained, pained.
He looked sick.

Neal sat quietly, and when I got to the last photo and set the
stack
in my lap, he reached
deep
into the large envelop
e
and pulled out a smaller white one.

“Here.” He handed it to me. Ed’s writing scrawled in black ink.
To
Lisa
. My confession.
“I’m going to see what food I can scrounge up for breakfast.”

“We’ve got cereal, and eggs and bread. Help yourself.” I took Neal’s hand
and squeezed it
. “Thanks. I’ll be back in soon. I already ate, so just make something for yourself, okay?”

I watched Neal walk through the gate and then let out a breath. I thought about my search for truth, my search for my father, a man I never knew. When I started this journey, I
’d
had no memory of him at all, but as I uncovered details of my father’s life, I seemed to have shaken free bits and pieces of him that
clung
to my mind
in some secret
eddy of memory
. Now I had a clearer picture of Nathan Sitteroff, and a better understanding of my family and what forces had shaped and
maimed
us.

An ache grew in my heart. I missed him, this father I never knew. Yet, somehow my body remembered his arms around me
—
big, strong protective arms. My ears remembered his voice, his singing to me, telling me nursery rhymes and bedtime stories.

Maybe my hormones were acting up, but I started to cry. Sadness filled me to overflowing, thinking about my father and how unhappy he was. How he
’d
missed out on watching me grow up—my first day at school, learning to ride my bike, graduating high school. All the benchmarks of my life.
And Raff’s life.
I had no idea what it was like to grow up with a father. I felt deficient, deprived, and yes, a bit resentful.

Why?
I asked him.
Why couldn’t you have stood up to our mother, just divorced her
?
Even run away and started a new life somewhere else? Why did you have to die?

I swallowed hard, past the lump in my throat, and wiped my tears with the sleeves of my coat.
I ripped open the envelope and unfolded three sheets of paper. The writing was nearly illegible. Wild and emotional, the words splattered
the
pages in a sort of mad rant. Ed had been dying when he wrote this, and no doubt terrifically emotional. I strained to read his writing, but once I got through the first three lines, I found myself adjusting to his penmanship, and the recognition came faster.

Confused, I reread the first paragraph, making sure I read correctly. The choppy incomplete sentences forced me to fill in blank spaces and make assumptions. One passage on the second page was smeared, almost as if Ed had tried to wipe out the words with his hand. Some sentences were struck out, with heavy black lines that made dents in the paper.

I read slowly and carefully, and as I read I felt my face heat up, as if a furnace under my cheeks had been ignited. My breath hitched and I
held
it in, fearing to breathe, fearing to move. With effort, I held on. My hands trembled
,
and I nearly dropped the pages before I made it to the last word on the last
sheet
.

What I read shocked and terrified me.
I had no idea if any of what Ed wrote was true. Like my father on his deathbed, Ed’s words could
have
be
en
the ravings of a diseased mind, easily explained away.

For, I
knew I would
not
be able to
prove or disprove his claims.

As I put the pages down gently on the bench next to me, I closed my eyes and pictured the scene.
Perhaps everything he confessed to was
true
. Or maybe
only part
of it had happened, and
the rest
was the product of his guilt-ridden mind. Or maybe it was all a lie.

And, or, or not.

Ed Hutchinson lifts his eyes from the papers on his desk. He watches as his
coworker
, that wife-stealer, walks out the door of the adjacent office, his coat over his arm and his hat in his hand. Ed glances up at the clock above the window. A few minutes after five. Some of the engineers have already left; others are working late. Ed tries to look relaxed as he gathers his things and heads out to the parking lot
, but his hands are shaky
. He avoids meeting anyone’s eyes and
gives
a slight wave, mumbling good-by to those he passes as he
strides
straight down the hall to the large heavy double doors.

Brisk fall air greets him as he exits the three-story building and heads toward his car. He doesn’t lift his eyes, but he knows where Nathan Sitteroff parked. He hears the brown Buick start up as he gets into his
Cadillac
and turns the key. With a surreptitious glance, he checks the rearview mirror and follows the Buick with his eyes as it leaves the lot and turns right
, into
the street.

Ed feels his rage grow exponentially with each minute passing as he drives in traffic, following the Buick a few car lengths behind. The traffic is heavy
,
and Ed finds it easy to keep Nathan’s car in view, although his anger is urging him to
punch
his way through. He has no choice but to go with the flow of the cars around him, but eventually he sees Nathan’s right turn signal flicker and the Buick
going over the
off
-
ramp at North Gower
Street
heading south.

Ed hastily pulls over to a curb as Nathan parks the Buick in a street space. Ed watches as his
coworker
enters a light
-
blue stucco building. It’s in
a busy commercial part of town
,
and as he looks up, he notices
floors
of
run
-
down
apartments above all the small businesses.
A blue-collar part of town.

Ed seethes. This is what Shirley has given up her spacious, expensive south-of-the-
b
oulevard home for?
Trash litters the streets. Ed spots a wino sprawled against a lamppost. Hispanics and Asians everywhere; few whites in sight.
Bile rises to his throat in disgust. No way is he going to let his wife stay here. She should be home, with him. She’s his wife, dammit!

Ed storms out of his car and into the building. Once inside, he scans the names on the bank of mail
s
lots lining the wall. Sitteroff
—
2-D. He hurries to the back stairs and takes the steps three at a time, then makes his way down the hall until he gets to the apartment he is looking for. When he pounds on the door, Nathan answ
ers, throwing the door open. His face shows surprise.

“What are you doing here?” Nathan asks, his voice far from polite. “You followed me.” It’s an observation, not a question.

“Where’s Shirley? I’m taking her home.”

Nathan shakes his head and laughs, which makes Ed fume even more. How dare he laugh at him? “Home? You mean brothel, right? Where you bring all your female conquests to your bed. Now why in the world would Shirley want to go there?”

Ed doesn’t move a muscle, and Nathan blocks the doorway.
Nathan is a little taller, but Ed is stronger. He can beat the crap out of Nathan
;
he doesn’t doubt it.

“Who’s here?” Shirley calls from the back room. The bedroom, no doubt.
The thought flames Ed’s anger hotter.

“And where’s my daughter? Is she in this flea trap with you or at some spic’s day care?”

Shirley clearly hears Ed’s booming voice. She comes partway into the living room
,
and her eyes show shock at his presence. She instinctively backs up and nearly bumps into the wall. “Just go away, Ed. Don’t cause any trouble.”

“Trouble?” Ed raises a fist. “I’ll show you trouble. You’re coming home with me. Now! And where’s the kid?”

“She’s taking a nap. And you’re going to wake her—and get all the neighbors coming out their doors—if you don’t lower your voice
.
” Shirley speaks in hushed tones, as if hoping to get Ed to quiet
d
own. It has the opposite effect on him.

He yells, so the whole world can hear him.
“I don’t give a damn if anyone hears me! You belong home. You belong with me. How can you stand to live in this rat trap? This crap in the ass-end of Hollywood. What’s gotten into you?”

Ed starts to push his way past Nathan, but Nathan stops him with his hand. Ed feels strength and determination behind the action. He pauses.

“Listen,” Nathan says, “Shirley is staying with me. She’s not your property. And you wouldn’t have lost her if you’d treated her right. You’re a bully—and unfaithful to her. She deserves better.”

Ed slaps Nathan’s hand away and stares him down. “Yeah, like you’re any better
?
You walked out on your wife—and three kids!
Your wife’s at home with a new baby, but do you care?
How faithful is that?”

Nathan grabs Ed’s arm and tries to push him back, but Ed swings and his fist clips Nathan’s jaw. As Nathan reacts, letting go to cradle his chin, Ed storms past him and yanks on Shirley’s arm, pulling her
forcibly
toward the door.

“Stop it, Ed!” Shirley starts hitting him with her free hand, on the head, slapping his face, pounding his chest, but he won’t let go. “I can’t leave the baby!”

Ed’s focus is on the door. He doesn’t plan to stop his momentum. “Let your boyfriend here take care of her. He’s a father; he’ll know what to do.”

Shirley is shrieking by now, and neighbors are coming out into the hallway or peeking out partially open doors to see what all the commotion is about.
Shirley catches the eye of one neighbor and yells to her, “Call the police! Help!”

When Ed hears that, he lets go. Nathan has an arm raised in challenge, but Shirley is between the two men. She reaches over to Nathan and
pulls down
his arm. Ed hears Julie wailing from a back room. All the noise has woken her up
. Great. He hadn’t wanted to make this big a scene. All he wanted was to get his wife and
take
her home.