Dead Floating Lovers (6 page)

The Wakowski address on the second block of Filer Street, right off Seven Mile Road, was for a narrow empty lot between two burned-out houses. Grass and broken beer bottles were all that was left of whatever had once stood there, and a faint indentation in the weeds where a foundation might have been.

“Wonder what happened? That’s where I sent his mother’s Christmas card.” Dolly stared out the car window.

It didn’t look as if we were going to get any help in this place. The next neighbor was halfway down the block, in a house behind a tall wire fence. We parked in front of the empty lot, got out, and walked down there. A few black kids played on the sagging porch. Their mother came out fast when we opened the gate and started up the steep stairs.

“Can I help you?” the thin woman with blond highlights in her hair demanded, standing at the top of the peeling steps, hands on her angular hips.

Dolly squinted up at her. “My husband, Chet Wakowski, used to live right down there.” She turned and pointed toward the empty space between houses. “I was wondering if you’d have any idea where the family went.”

“Been like that since we moved in. Couple of years now,” the woman said, and relaxed first her wary face, and then her taut arms. One of the children, a little boy in a blue Detroit Tigers tee shirt, ran over and hid behind his mother, peeking out and smiling at us.

“Anybody along the street been here a long time?” Dolly asked.

The woman nodded, then came down the steps and pointed. “See that green house across there? Mrs. Gleason. Old lady. Been here forever. Everybody around here taking care of her now. Can’t get out to shop or nothing. Neighbors all do turns carryin’ her to the doctor. If anybody knows anything it’ll be Mrs. Gleason. Go on down. She loves company. Tell her Vera sent you and tell her I’ll be over with soup about five o’clock.”

The pretty woman smiled and waved us off.

It took Mrs. Gleason a long, long time to get to her front door. She was a thin, elderly lady with short white hair curling around her soft and welcoming face. Dolly introduced us and delivered Vera’s message. Mrs. Gleason smiled and shook her head. “My neighbors,” the small woman said, pushing her front door wide for us to come in. “They take such good care of me.”

We walked into a living room overfilled with “stuff.” There were walls of family pictures and small altars to Mary, the Blessed Mother. A Russian icon hung just inside the door. A small votive candle burned in front of it. Every table had a stiffly starched doily under a Swiss chalet thermometer or a painted Chinese statuette or a frame with another yellowed photograph. A green sofa and chair shone under stiff plastic slipcovers. Mrs. Gleason, walking slow and bent forward, pointed to the sofa. Dolly and I sat with much crinkling and crunching.

“What can I do for you?” The old woman sat across from us, hands precisely folded in the lap of her white-collared, blue-flowered dress.

“Well,” Dolly said, moving to get comfortable on the stiff plastic, “my husband’s people came from here. House right across the street. Used-to-be-house, I guess you’d have to say. I was wondering if you could tell us anything about the people. The Wakowskis?”

The woman smiled, lifted her hands, then thumped them in her lap. “Yes, of course I knew the Wakowskis. Mildred. I never knew the husband. I think he was gone when Mildred moved here. Oh, that was so long ago. She had two boys. And a girl.”

“One of the boys Chester?”

Mrs. Gleason smiled. “Yes. Certainly was. Chet. I remember him. Used to walk around in just a diaper, one hand stuck down in and planted on his back cheek. Nose always running. Not what you’d call a … well … an attractive little boy.”

“And he had a brother, Tony, right?”

Mrs. Gleason lifted one hand and waved it hard at Dolly. “That one. Always bad. Used to beat up poor little Chet. Mildred couldn’t do a thing about it. I told her to get that boy help. He was going to turn out bad. And he certainly did. He’s locked up in Jackson Prison. Murdered someone. Don’t remember who, just the shock of hearing … well … that a person I knew could do a thing like that.”

“Do you know what happened to Mildred?”

“Mildred went to live with a sister of hers. Indiana. I think it was Bloomington.”

“And Chet?” Dolly asked.

Mrs. Gleason took her time. She shook her head. “I thought he was moving to Indiana with Mildred, but I heard he didn’t. Elaine said Chet went up north somewhere. Elaine was never too friendly but that doesn’t mean I can’t send her a Christmas card once a year.”

“Are you talking about Chet’s sister?” Dolly asked.

“Well, yes. She lives out in Warren. I’ll get the address, if you want to go see her. If you’re a friend of Mildred’s, or of Chet’s—not Tony’s though, she won’t like that.”

“I was married to Chet,” Dolly said.

Mrs. Gleason’s mouth dropped open. “You don’t say. Think of that! Well … but then why are you asking me where he is?”

“Left thirteen years ago and I haven’t seen him since.”

“I’m so sorry.” Mrs. Gleason waved a shaky hand then put it back in the safety of her flowered lap. “And now you are hunting for him?”

Dolly nodded.

“Let me get you Elaine’s address. If anybody knows where Chet is, she should. And once she finds out you’re his wife, she’ll surely tell you where to find him.”

The address, written in wobbly handwriting, was one of the addresses Dolly’d found in Chet’s papers. We might not have been finding out much about Chet, but at least we were moving in a straight line.

___

The Warren neighborhood was upscale, big brick houses set back in the middle of wide green lawns. A far cry from Filer Street in Detroit. Elaine Wakowski was doing well for herself—or had married well.

I followed Dolly to the door and stood behind her as she rang the bell.

The woman who answered wasn’t pretty but she was striking, with medium-length dark hair pulled back behind her ears, bright blue eyes, a tanning salon tan, and long silver and turquoise earrings hanging to her shoulders.

“Yes?” she said, looking from Dolly to me. She looked warily, from behind her screen door, as if we could be Jehovah’s Witnesses or somebody there to sell her magazines. We weren’t dressed well enough for the former, and the latter were usually kids.

“I was married … well, still am, I guess … to Chet,” Dolly said, talking through the screen.

Elaine frowned at her. “Really?”

“He left me and I’m looking for him.”

“He left you? You mean recently? I haven’t heard from him …” Elaine Wakowski shook her head as if flustered. She pushed the door open. “Come on in. I … I’m sorry. You surprised me …”

We followed her back through a living room of neat modern sofas and thick Berber carpeting. She led us through a dining room done in blond modern, to a kitchen with high, narrow windows, stainless steel appliances, and pots of African violets in lush bloom set on every surface.

Elaine waved us to the oak table and reluctantly offered to make coffee. She got cups and saucers and spoons and set the table, nervously arranging then rearranging everything.

“I’m Dolly.” Dolly held her hand out, shook Elaine’s hand, and then sat down. I was introduced and we all stared at each other.

“Well,” Elaine said as the sunny kitchen filled with the scent of coffee brewing.

“You mean you didn’t know about me and Chet? I sent your mom a Christmas card every year … well, for a few years after he took off.”

“You’re
that
Dolly?” Elaine’s blue eyes grew big. “We wondered who the heck … from someplace up north. She got a card for a few years there and then you stopped.”

Dolly shrugged. She looked uncomfortable. “I figured, since I didn’t know you and I never got a card back …”

Elaine nodded. “If we’d known we would of … well … It wasn’t like Chet kept in touch or anything.”

She got up and poured the coffee, set cream and sugar on the table, and sat back down.

“I haven’t heard from him in … oh my goodness … it must be twelve, thirteen years now. Me and Mom, we just figured he’d wandered off somewhere. Not always reliable, Chet. Last we heard he was going up north. I
thought
maybe he got married up there. Could have had kids by now, for all we knew.”

Dolly shook her head. “No kids.” She looked unhappy. “So you haven’t seen him, nothing, in that long. Was that right after he got out of the army? I mean, that he left for up north?”

Elaine frowned at her. “What army? Chet never was in the army, or any other branch of the service.”

Now it was Dolly’s turn to frown. “Sure he was. I got his dog tags …”

Elaine made a noise and sat back in her chair. “Good Lord! Him and his dog tags. Sorry to tell you, Dolly, but my brother dropped out of high school in the eleventh grade. He kind of drifted after that. But he was never in the army. Loved those dog tags though.”

Dolly’s eyes opened wide. Something going on in her head. I could see big red placards floating. It wasn’t anger. More confusion, and maybe putting old information together.

“How long ago did Chet leave you?” Elaine went on as if she hadn’t dropped a bombshell. “I would have thought he’d come back here. That he’d at least call. If I hear from him I’ll certainly tell him you’re down here looking …”

Dolly shook her head. “Thirteen years,” she mumbled and looked over to me, as if I could save her.

“Goodness! Why are you hunting for him now?”

“I just have to … eh … find him. Something’s happened up north and he could be in trouble.”

“Oh no, not another one.” Elaine sank back in her chair. “I’m so sick of this. Got one in prison, as it is.”

I sipped my coffee. I figured we weren’t going to be there much longer and I needed a jolt of caffeine. The coffee was like dirty, warm water. Elaine hadn’t wasted much on us.

Dolly showed Elaine the other addresses we had but she didn’t recognize any of them. Dolly promised to call her if and when she found Chet.

“I’ll pass on the word to my mother. But I don’t want her upset with any of this. You have anything to say to her, you go through me first.” Elaine wrote her phone number on a piece of paper and handed it to Dolly. It was an uneasy, not friendly, parting. Neither woman seemed to know if she should be happy or sad that they’d finally met.

Back in the car all Dolly said was, “There. More family. Now I got a sister-in-law.”

I drove off, saying nothing.

“Never in the army. If that isn’t something. The whole thing a big lie.” She shook her head. “Guess I should’ve figured. No photos from army days. No army buddies.

“What do you think happened to Chet?” she finally asked, settling herself in her seat. “Where the heck did he go? And never calling his mother or his sister? Seems kind of odd, even for Chet.”

“If Chet killed that woman he’s long gone, hiding out someplace,” I said. “Could be anywhere. If he didn’t kill her—and you’re right—that is the woman he was with at the bar, well, maybe he knew about the murder and took off anyway.”

“Or …” She tucked her chin far down into her neck. “He’s dead.”

I drove back out to Twelve Mile Road and turned into a Big Boy. With a bowl of hot vegetable soup and a stainless steel pot of tea in front of me, I was better able to cope with a depressed Dolly and a dead-end trip.

“I’ll tell you,” Dolly mumbled over her order of pancakes, sausage, and eggs. “We gotta check out the last of the addresses I’ve got.”

“His sister didn’t recognize them.”

“Don’t mean anything.”

I gave in because we were there and it didn’t seem smart to leave dead ends unexplored.

“Then I’d like to go see Phyllis Dually,” she said on the way out of the restaurant. “Utica’s right on our way home. Won’t take any time at all.”

I think I made a noise; a kind of scoffing sound. “Haven’t you had enough of this family tree stuff for one day?”

I wasn’t being mean. I was just tired of seeing her hurt. To the outside world it might not look like hurt, but I knew that a surly Dolly was a Dolly in pain, and as far as I was concerned, she’d had enough pain for one trip.

We were on our way back into Detroit to follow another trail of gobbled-up bread crumbs. And then off to see this Phyllis Dually, one more of Dolly Wakowski’s sorry connections.