The Little Sleep (16 page)

Brill shrugs and says, “Maybe.”

Even more interesting. I take out a twenty and throw it into the front seat. Brill picks it up quick and stuffs the bill into his front shirt pocket. The shirt is pink. I say, “Talk to me.”

Brill says, “He was a quiet, normal guy. I gave him a ride a couple weeks ago to and from Lucky’s Auto when his car was on the fritz. He tipped well.” He stops. The silence is long enough to communicate some things.

“That’s it? That’s all you got?” I say it real slow for him, to let him try on the idea that I’m not amused.

He says, “Yeah, that’s all I know,” then laughs. “It’s not my fault if you’re playing Mickey Mouse detective.”

There’s no way this small-town pile of bones is pulling that on me. I may be amateur hour, but I’m not an easy mark. I reach over the bench seat and into his front pocket with my ham-sized fist. It
comes back to me with my twenty and interest. I toss the interest back over the seat.

“You motherfucker, stealing from an old man.” He still hasn’t turned around.

“You know the language, but you wouldn’t last a day driving a cab in Boston.” It’s mean, but it’s also true. I add, “You can have the twenty back if you earn it.”

He loses some air, deflates behind the wheel. He’s a small, shrinking old man, and I don’t care. He says, “The day before Sullivan killed himself, he had me pick him up and we just drove around town. I asked him about his car because it was sitting in his driveway, but he brushed me off, seemed agitated, spent most of the time looking out the windows and behind us.”

Brill stops again, and he’s staring at me. He needs another prompt. I’ll provide. “Yeah, and where’d you go?”

“He had me drive by your mother’s house. Twice. Second pass he told me to stop, so I did. He was talking low, mumbling stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“ ‘Gotta do it yourself, Sullivan,’ that kind of thing. He always talked to himself so I didn’t pay much attention. He never got out of the cab. I thought he was going to, though. Finally, he told me to take him home. He was all spooked and mumbling the whole way back.”

I say, “Did you tell the police any of this?”

“No.”

“How about Ellen?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“They didn’t ask.”

I say, “You mean they didn’t gild your lily for the info.”

He doesn’t say anything. Looking for more bang from my buck, I say, “Kind of strange that he’d be casing her house the day before he offs himself.”

Brill shrugs. “I figured Sullivan was cheating on his wife with Ellen. He was acting all paranoid, like a cheat. You know, the cheats are most of my off-season income. I cart them around to their secret lunches and goddamn by-the-hour motels.”

Brill paints an alternate scenario in my head, one where Ellen did know Sullivan was living in Osterville and knew him well; secret lunches and other rendezvous. No. That isn’t what happened. I dismiss it.

Ellen was genuine in her reaction this morning to the news of Sullivan’s Osterville residency and suicide. She has had no contact with him. She wouldn’t have shown me the picture of Tim, the DA, and Sullivan if she was playing the other woman with him. Right? I suppose her motivation behind showing me the photo could be a way to introduce me to her new fling, but that’s not how it happened, did it? No.

No. The picture was part of her tour, coincidence only. Sullivan came by the bungalow to do his own looking for the fabled
it
because I hadn’t come through yet. I have to go on that assumption. It’s the only one that fits my case. I don’t have the patience or time for curve balls and red herrings.

Still, Brill’s cheats spiel shakes me up enough that I’ll lie to him. I say, “Ellen doesn’t know who Sullivan was. I promise you.”

He says, “Maybe. Maybe not. It doesn’t matter to me. I don’t
care what people are up to. I give rides wherever they want to go, and that’s it, and everyone knows it. Now give me my twenty bucks, you motherfucker.”

I give it to him. Twenty dollars very well spent. I say, “Don’t go driving off too far, Brill. I might not be here all that long.” I slide across the bench seat and get out. The road is narrow and I’m in its middle, exposed and unprotected.

Brill says, “Are you paying me to wait?”

“No.” I pay the fare and add a tip. There’s an insistent breeze coming off the nearby water. The individual flowers point in differing directions; they can’t agree on anything.

Brill takes my money and doesn’t stop to count it. He says, “Then call me later, fuzz face. Maybe I’ll answer.” Brill spins his rear tires and the station wagon cab speeds away, weaving down Rambler Road. Maybe I didn’t tip him enough.

Sullivan’s neighborhood is quiet. No one is out. The sun is shining, but it’s cold and there are no signs of approaching spring. It’s still the long cold winter here. I walk the one hundred feet to Sullivan’s house. I have a plan, but I haven’t decided what I’m going to do if his wife isn’t home.

Looks like I don’t have to worry about that. There are three cars in the driveway. One of them is the blue SUV I saw last time. The other two cars are small and of some Japanese make. Neither of them is red.

Okay, Sullivan’s wife, Janice, is home but not alone. Alone would’ve been preferable, but I know such a state isn’t likely, given hubby just died. I’m guessing the cars belong to members of the grief squad who swooped in to support her, friends in need and all that.

I walk down the gravel driveway and my feet sound woolly-mammoth heavy. Stones crunch and earth moves under my rumbling weight. I’m the last of some primitive line of prehistoric creatures on his final migration, the one where he dies at the end of the journey, that circle-of-life bullshit that’s catchy as a Disney song but ultimately meaningless. Yeah, I’m in a mood.

The house is still white and needs a paint job. I’ll try not to bring that up in conversation. I make it to the front door, which is red, and ring the bell. Two chimes. I hold the flowers tight to my chest, playing them close to the vest. This needs to be done right if I’m to learn anything.

When she opens the door, though, I won’t take off my hat. No one wants to see that.

An old woman answers the door. She might be the same age as Brill the happy cabbie. She’s short and hunched, which maximizes her potential for shortness. Her hair is curly and white, so thick it could be a wig.

She says, “Can I help you?” After getting an eyeful of me, she closes the front door a bit, hiding behind the slab of wood. I don’t blame her. I don’t exactly have a face for the door-to-door gig.

I say, “Yes, hi—um, are you Mrs. Sullivan?”

“No, I’m her Aunt Patty.” She wears a light blue dress with white quarter-sized polka dots, and a faux-pearl necklace hangs around her neck. I know the pearls are fake because they’re almost as big as cue balls.

Aunt Patty. Doesn’t everyone have an Aunty Patty? I give her my best opening statement. “My late father was an old friend of Brendan’s. He grew up with Brendan in Southie. When I heard of his passing and the arrangements, saw I wouldn’t be able to attend the wake or the funeral, I felt compelled to come down and give my family’s condolences in person.”

I hope that’s enough to win over the jury. I look at her and see conflict. Aunt Patty doesn’t know what to do. Aunt Patty keeps looking behind her but there’s no one there to talk to, no one to make the decision for her. She’s here to cook and clean and help keep the grieving widow safe from interlopers and unwanted distractions. She’s here to make sure that grief happens correctly and according to schedule.

I know, because Ellen has been part of so many grief squads in Southie that she might as well register as a professional and rent herself out. Maybe Ellen does it to remember Tim and grieve for him all over again or she’s trying to add distance, going through a bunch of little grievings to get over the big one.

I say, “I’ve come a long way. I won’t stay too long, I promise.”

That cinches it. Aunt Patty gives me a warm milk smile and says, “Oh, all right, come in. Thank you for coming.” She opens the door wide behind her.

I’m in. I say, “You’re welcome. Thanks for letting me in. Means a lot. Is Janice doing okay?”

“About as well as can be imagined. She’s been very brave.” Aunt Patty shuffle-leads me through the dining room, our feet making an odd rhythm on the hardwood floor.

It’s dark in here. The shades are drawn over the bay windows.
The house is in mourning. It’s something I can feel. Sullivan died somewhere in this house. Maybe even the front room. Gun under his chin, bullet into his brain. Coerced or set up or neither, this is serious stuff. I can’t screw any of it up.

There are pictures and decorations on the walls, but it’s too dark to see them. There are also cardboard boxes on the dining room table. The boxes are brown and sad, both temporary and final.

Aunt Patty limps, favoring her left side, probably a hip. When her hip breaks, she won’t make it out of the hospital alive. Yeah, like I said, I’m in a mood.

She says, “What’s your name?”

“Mark. Mark Genevich. Nice to meet you, Aunt Patty.”

“What nationality?”

“Lithuanian.” Maybe I should tell her what I really am: narcoleptic. We narcoleptics have no country and we don’t participate in the Olympics. Our status supersedes all notion of nationality. We’re neutral, like the Swiss, but they don’t trust us with army knives.

She says, “That’s nice.” My cataloging is a comfort to her. I’m not a stranger anymore; I’m Lithuanian.

The kitchen is big and clean, and bright. The white wallpaper and tile trim has wattage. Flowers fill the island counter. I fight off a sneeze. There are voices, speaking softly to our right. Just off the kitchen is a four-season porch, modestly decorated with a table for four and a large swing seat. Two women sit on the swing seat. The hinges and springs creak faintly in time with the pendulum. One of the women looks just like Aunt Patty, same dress and pool-cue necklace. The other woman does not make three of a kind with the pair of queens.

Patty and I walk onto the porch. The swingers stop swinging; someone turns off the music. The vase of flowers is a dumbbell in my hand.

Aunt Patty says, “That’s my twin sister Margaret and, of course, the other beautiful woman is Janice. This is Mark Genevich?” I’m a name and a question. She doesn’t remember my opening statement or my purpose. I need to fill in the blanks and fast. I’ve never been good under pressure.

I open with, “I’m so very sorry for your loss.” And then I tell Janice and Aunt Margaret what I told Aunt Patty. Janice is attentive but has a faraway smile. Aunt Margaret seems a bit rougher around the edges than her sister. She sits with her thick arms folded across her chest, nostrils flared. She smells something.

Janice is of medium build and has long straight hair, worn down, parted in the middle, a path through a forest. She looks younger than her front-page husband but has dark, almost purple circles under her eyes. Her recent sleeping habits leaving their scarlet letters. Most people don’t like to think about how much damage sleep can do, evidence be damned.

Janice says, “Thank you for coming and for the flowers. It’s very thoughtful of you.” The dark circles shrink her nose and give it a point.

I give Janice the flowers and nod my head, going for the humble silent exchange of pleasantries. Immediately, I regret the choice. I want her to talk about Brendan but she’s not saying anything. Everyone has gone statue and we sit and stare, waiting for the birds to come land on our shoulders and shit all over us.

My heart ratchets its rate up a notch and things are getting
tingly, my not-so-subtle spider sense telling me that things aren’t good and could quickly become worse. Then I remember I brought the picture, the picture of Brendan and the boys. I focus my forever-dwindling energies on it.

I ask, “Did Brendan ever talk about my father?” For a moment, I panic and think I said something about Brendan and my mother instead. But I didn’t say that. I’m fine. I shake it off, rub dirt on it, stay in the game. I reach inside my coat and pull out the photo of Tim, the DA, and Sullivan on the stairs. It’s still in the frame. Its spot on Ellen’s windowsill is empty. “That’s Brendan on the left, my father on the right.”

Patty squeezes onto the swing seat, sitting on the outside of her sister. I’m the only one standing now. It’s noticeable.

Janice says, “I don’t remember your father’s name coming up. Brendan and I had only been married for ten years, and he never really talked much about growing up in Southie.”

It’s getting harder not to be thinking about Ellen and Sullivan sitting in a tree as a slight and gaining maybe. Goddamn Brill. I say, “I understand,” even if I don’t. It’s what I’m supposed to say; a nice-to-see-you after the hello.

Janice sighs heavily; it says,
What am I supposed to do now?
I feel terrible for her. I don’t know exactly what happened here with Sullivan, but it was my fault. And this case is far from over. She doesn’t know that things could get worse.

Janice fills herself up with air after the devastating sigh, which is admirable but just as sad, and says, “I wish Brendan kept more stuff like this around. Could I ask you for a copy of this picture?”