Fletch and the Widow Bradley (20 page)

“What? I’ve got to go back to rehearsal.”

“Have you ever been confronted with something you absolutely cannot understand?”

“Sure. My father.”

“I mean something which you just can’t put your mind around?”

“Sure. My father.”

“Where all the facts add up to something which simply isn’t possible?”

“Sure, My father.”

“I’m serious.”

“So am I.”

“I’m real serious, Moxie. When you prove out something which absolutely cannot be true?”

“No. I guess not.”

“If you were in such a situation, what would you do?” “Be very suspicious of my conclusion.”

“Yeah. I’ve tried that.”

“Doesn’t work?”

“No.”

“Well, I’ve got to go back to work.”

“I have another question.”

“What? When will you be home?”

“Maybe Friday night.”

“What’s your question?”

“How’s Rick?”

“Oh, he’s;—”

“I know. Bye, Moxie.”

B 
E F O R E   D A W N
   T 
H U R S D A Y
morning, Fletch was waiting across the street from Francine Bradley’s New York apartment house. It was a warm spring morning but he wore his raincoat, his hat. He also wore his clear glasses. He stood in the doorway of a dry cleaning store which had not yet opened. He was surprised to hear the sound of birds in New York City. As dawn broke, he could hear but still not see them. And, of course, he could hear the sirens. Standing anywhere in New York City, anytime, day or night, one can hear a siren from somewhere.

At a quarter to six a taxi cab pulled up in front of Francine’s apartment house. Briskly, dressed in a short raincoat and high boots, she left the building and got into the cab.

The taxi was several blocks away, on its way uptown, before Fletch was able to get his own cab. Traffic was light and it was easy to catch up. Fletch told the driver that in the other cab was his wife, who had forgotten her wallet.

They crossed Central Park at fairly high speed and again turned north.

Francine was let out at the corner of West 89th Street.

Fletch let his cab go and walked slowly to the corner. As he
arrived at the corner, he saw Francine enter an alley halfway down the block.

Strolling with his head down, he walked past the mouth of the alley, glancing in. What he saw was an oddity in New York—a cobblestoned stableyard, complete with box stalls, a horse’s head above each half-door but one, bales of hay stacked in the corners of the yard. Three grooms were moving around, doing their morning chores. One groom was helping Francine mount a dappled gray.

Fletch continued walking. By the time he reached the end of that block he heard the clatter of hooves on a hard surface, and looked back.

Francine rode out of the alley and turned toward the park. She had removed her short raincoat.

“H 
I,”   S H E   S A I D
, opening the door of apartment 21M to him.

Fletch looked at Francine’s breasts.

It was just after six in the evening and the doorman had said Fletch was expected. The doorman would call Ms. Bradley to say Fletch was on his way up.

“Hi.”

Francine Bradley’s face had been freshly made up. She wore a pearl necklace. Her cocktail dress was a soft gray, cut low in front. Francine Bradley’s breasts were not large but appeared firm for a woman of her age, and, from the cut of her dress, Fletch surmised Francine Bradley was proud of her breasts.

“You look a little tired,” she said, closing the door behind him. “New York City life too much for my orange-juice-and-cereal innocent?”

“I’ve been visiting the suburbs,” he said.

She led the way into the livingroom but stopped near the liquor cabinet. He continued on to the far side of the room, to the big window, and looked down. Then he looked out the window.

“Would you like a drink?” she asked.

“Not just yet.”

“I guess I’ll wait, too.”

Francine sat on the divan. “You do seem tired.” She resettled a throw-pillow. “A little stiff, too.”

“No,” Fletch said from the window. “I’m not stiff.”

“I daresay you’re eager to hear our decision.”

“What decision?”

“I’ve had two or three long talks with Enid. Of course, I never told her all your crazy notions. I told her you’d turned up here and seemed distraught. I took you to dinner and heard you out. It was my understanding you lost your job, really, only because she and I deliberately had delayed news of Tom’s death, until Enid had become more established at Wagnall-Phipps. You got caught up in the middle somehow, what with Charles Blaine’s craziness and all. In fact, I told Enid you are more or less ruined in your profession—for life. Is that more or less correct?”

“More or less.”

“She said you’d been round to the Southworth Prep School, annoying Roberta. She didn’t seem to know you’d seen Tom. I told her you’d gone to see both of them, just to apologize. That’s true, isn’t it?”

“More or less.”

“Enid finally came to understand that we’re at least partly to blame for what happened to you. She came to my way of thinking, and agreed we should help you out. I mean, financially.”

On a roof across the street Fletch could see an older man and woman sitting in garden chairs under a parasol. A martini shaker and a plate of crackers and cheese were on a small metal table between them. A newspaper lay at the man’s feet. As he watched, the woman said something that made the man laugh.

“Of course, we don’t know precisely what a reporter earns,” Francine continued. “But we figure it will take a good half-year for you to straighten out your life again, find a new interest, a new profession. To calm down and get over this obsession about us. Maybe travelling for a while would help. You could even use what we give you to go back to school.”

Fletch heard Francine take a deep breath.

“Of course, for my part, I’m grateful to you for telling me about Tom. We had no idea. Enid has gone to his rooms at college and discovered the sad truth about him. He was dozing in the bathtub—just as you said. Quite given up on life. Enid lost no time in putting him in the hands of experts. Of course it will take a while,” she said softly, “but he’ll be all right. If nothing else you’ve done or said makes any sense, Fletch, your making us realize the state Tom was in leaves us entirely in your debt. But that’s a human thing …”

Her voice trailed off.

On the roof across the street the man was pouring the woman
another martini.

“So.” Francine’s voice brightened. “Enid and I have decided to try to make things up to you by giving you half a year’s pay. We’ll arrange it through Wagnall-Phipps somehow, so it won’t cost us so much. To do with as you like, go where you like. Give you a chance to straighten out your own life.”

“No.”

“What?”

Fletch continued to look through the window. “No.”

“Really,” Francine said after a moment. “Isn’t that really why you went to see Enid, and came to see me, Fletch? You felt we owed you something? Be honest with yourself. Weren’t you really hoping we’d have some understanding of what you’re going through, and, shall we say, help you out?”

“No.”

“What’s wrong? Aren’t we offering you enough? You do want our financial help, don’t you?”

“No.”

There was a long silence in the darkening room.

Fletch watched the older couple across the street fold up their garden chairs, gather up their newspaper, martini pitcher, glasses, plate of crackers and cheese, and disappear through the roof hatch.

F 
L E T C H   S A I D
, “I’M sure Melanie is looking forward to your reincarnation.”

He turned from the window in time to see Francine’s hands flutter, her effort to keep surprise, alarm from her face. Her final expression was patronizing. “Now what are you talking about?”

“Melanie. Your horse. Your horse in California. No one ever sold your horse.”

“What do you mean,
my horse?”

“I don’t get this even slightly.” Standing in front of the window, Fletch shrugged. “You’re Tom Bradley.”

“My God!” Francine said. “Now the man has totally flipped!”

His face screwed in perplexion, again he looked at her breasts. “Maybe.”

“First you told me Enid murdered Tom, and now you’re telling me I am Tom!” Her laugh came entirely from her throat. “Maybe you do need more than half-a-year off!”

Fletch, with the light of the window behind him, peered at her on the divan. “I must say,” he said, “you’re marvelous.”

“Enid hasn’t sold Tom’s horse—Melanie, or whatever her name is—
ergo
I’m my brother? Enid’s been busy, you know—very busy. She’s been running a family, and a good-sized company. Selling a horse is the last thing she has to worry about.”

“You ride horseback,” Fletch said. “I watched you this morning, on West 89th Street.”

“Yes, I enjoy riding. My brother enjoyed riding. Does that make me my brother?”

“The night we had dinner,” Fletch said, “last Friday night, you spent almost the entire time telling me a long, convoluted, not-very-funny barnyard story.”

“So what? I’m sorry if you didn’t like my story. I’d had a drink. I thought it was funny.”

“Long, not-very-funny dirty jokes are characteristic of Thomas Bradley. As reported to me by Mabel Franscatti, Alex Corcoran, Mary Blaine and Charles Blaine.”

“Tom and I had certain characteristics in common. We’re brother and sister. Fletch, are you insane?”

“Brother … sister. You are your brother.”

“I’m also my own grandfather.”

“Could be.”

“What’s the point of this joke?”

“The point is I have only one piece of paper, when I should have, by this time, three pieces of paper.” He took from his inside jacket pocket Thomas Bradley’s birth certificate and placed it on the coffee table in front of her. “Thomas Bradley was born in Dallas, Texas.”

She nodded. “Thank you. I knew that.”

“I went to Dallas, Sunday,” he said. “By the way, your old neighborhood’s torn down.”

She shrugged. “There goes the neighborhood.”

“You were not born in Dallas, Texas.”

“I told you. I was born in Juneau, Alaska.”

“Tuesday I was in Juneau, Alaska. You were not born in Juneau, Alaska.”

Francine stared at him.

“And Thomas Bradley did not die in Switzerland.” Fletch had returned to stand by the window, but he was still watching her. “So, instead of having two birth certificates and one death certificate, I’ve got only one birth certificate. And that’s yours. The Bradleys
had only one child—a son named Thomas.”

“I was born well outside Juneau, about a hundred miles—”

“You weren’t born at all, Francine.”

She sighed and looked away. “My God.”

“And Tom Bradley didn’t die.”

“You do believe in pieces of paper, Fletcher. Bureaucracies, clerks, secretaries—”

“And Swiss undertakers. I believe in Swiss undertakers. You’ve been writing those memos to Accounting yourself, Francine, and initialing them ‘T.B.’, probably without even realizing you were doing it. We all have low-level habits that are just second-nature to us. We all do certain things in certain ways, and we continue doing them, under all circumstances, unconsciously.” Looking at her, he gave her a moment. “True?”

“No,” she said.

“Francine, would you come here, please?”

She looked a scared, unwilling child.

“Please come here,” he said.

She rose and came across the room to him unsteadily, leaving the low table between them.

“Look down,” he said.

She looked at the tile mosaic on the low table.

“Almost finished, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“When I first entered your apartment, a week ago, it was less than half finished.”

Looking down at the mosaic, her mouth opened slowly.

“I see.”

“Come on, Tom,” Fletch said. “I’m not trying to embarrass anybody. As you said, I’m just trying to save my own ass.”

Francine cupped a hand to her face, bridging cheekbone and forehead, turned, and started across the livingroom toward the foyer. She bumped into a free-standing chair.

Fletch heard her high heels click across the foyer’s hardwood floor. And then he heard her knock on a door.

“Enid?” she called. “Enid, would you please come help me, dear?”

“F 
L E T C H,   D O   Y O U
believe in the soul?”

“The soul is immaterial,” he said.

Francine asked, “Is that meant as a pun?”

“Of course.”

Enid Bradley had entered the livingroom from the foyer, putting one sensible shoe unsteadily ahead of the other as if unsure of where she was going. “Hello, Mrs. Bradley,” Fletch had said. She looked worried, confused, and said nothing.

Francine entered more briskly behind her, and took her by the arm. Together they sat on the divan.

Fletch loosened his tie and collar and sat on the freestanding chair. “Sorry,” he said. Again he looked at Francine’s breasts. “I just don’t understand.” Seeing the two of them together he realized Francine was the shorter. In the photograph behind him, Thomas Bradley was shorter than his wife. “And I need to understand. I have to save myself.”

Each woman had her hands in her own lap. Francine sat the straighter.
Enid always looks terrified of what the next moment will bring
—
you know, as if she’s afraid someone is going to say something dirty
, Mary Blaine had said that night in Puerto de Orlando.
Her husband usually does
, Charles Blaine had answered. I
mean, did
.

“Fletch,” Francine asked. “Do you know what a transsexual is?”

“I can’t say I understand. I’d like to be able to say I do.”

You can’t understand everything that happens
, Roberta, Ta-ta, had said jogging through the California woods …
You can try to understand, of course. You can even act like you understand, when you don’t yet. But some things
…

“A male can be born in a female body,” Francine said simply. “Or a female born in a male body.”

“What defines us as male or female, except our bodies?” Fletch asked.