The Little Sleep (17 page)

“Of course, consider it done,” I say.

Janice smiles, but it’s sad; goddamn it, everything is sad. We both know she’s trying to regain something that has already been lost forever.

Aunt Margaret grabs the picture with both hands, and says, “Who’s that boy in the middle?”

I say, “That’s William Times. Currently he’s the Suffolk County district attorney.”

Patty clasps her hands together and says, “Oh, his daughter is the singer, right? She’s very cute.”

“Nah, she’s a loser,” Margaret says, waving her hand. Case dismissed.

Patty says, “She’s not a loser. She sang on national TV. I thought she sang beautifully too.”

“She stunk and she was a spoiled brat. That’s why they voted her off the show,” Margaret says.

Janice, who I assume has been acting as referee for the sisters for as long as they’ve been at her house, says, “She was a finalist on
American Star
. She’s hardly a loser.”

Margaret shrugs. “She lost, right? We’ll never hear from her again.”

The volley between family members is quick, ends quicker, and is more than a little disorienting. It also seems to be the end of the small talk. We’re back to staring at each other, looking for an answer that isn’t here.

I’m not leaving this house empty-handed, without knowing what the next step is, without having to grill Ellen about a tryst with Sullivan. Hopefully, the photo of the boys has bought me some familiarity chips that I can cash.

I say, “I’m sorry, there’s no good way to say this, so I’m just going to come out with it.”

Margaret says, “Come out with it already and be done then.”

“Good advice.” I pull out a business card and my PI ID and hand them to Janice, but Margaret takes them instead. “I’m a smalltime, very small-time, private detective in South Boston.”

Patty’s eyes go saucer-wide and she says, “How exciting!”

It’s not warm in here but my head sweats under my hat. I nod at Patty, acknowledging her enthusiasm. At least I’ll have one of the three on my side. I say, “Last week your husband, Brendan, came to my office in Southie and hired me.”

Janice sinks into her swing seat. Patty covers her mouth. Margaret still has her arms crossed. Janice says, “Hired you? Hired you for what?”

Christ, I probably could’ve come up with a better way to introduce the subject, but there’s no turning back now. As uncomfortable as this is, asking the questions that will haunt Janice for years to come, I owe it to Sullivan to see this through. I owe it to myself too.

I say, “Mind if I sit?” No one says anything. I grab a fold-up chair that’s leaning against a wall and wrestle with it for a bit; the wood clacks and bites my fingers. I’m sure I look clumsy, but I’m buying some time so I can figure out what I can and can’t tell her. It doesn’t work.

I say, “The hard part is that I don’t think I can tell you much until I figure it all out for myself.”

Margaret says, “He’s a crock. This guy is a phony. He’s trying to get something out of you, probably money. Let’s call the police.”

Patty says, “Stop it, he’s a real detective.”

“How do we know that? How do we know anything about this man? That picture doesn’t prove anything. Might not even be Brendan in the picture,” Margaret says, building up steam, and a convincing case against me.

Patty is horrified. She says, “Look at his card and ID. He’s going to tell us something important, right?” Patty leans out toward me. To her I have the answers to life somewhere inside my coat. I only keep questions in here.

Margaret ignores her sister, points a worn-tree-branch finger at me, and says, “Shame on you, whatever it is you’re up to. Janice is a good woman and doesn’t deserve to be put through anything by the likes of you. I’m calling.”

I say, “Whoa, take it easy, Auntie Margaret. I’m telling the truth and I’m not here to hide things from Janice, just the opposite. I don’t know how everything fits together yet, and I don’t have all the puzzle pieces either. What I’m hoping is that you”—I turn to Janice—“can help me.”

The sisters argue with each other. They have their considerable arms folded over their chests and they bump into each other like rams battling over territory. The swing seat complains and sways side to side, not in the direction the swing was intended to go. I yawn and hope nobody sees it.

Janice says, “Wait, wait. Stop!” Her aunts stop. “Are you really the son of Brendan’s friend?”

“Yes. And what I’m working on, what Brendan wanted me to figure out, is something from the past, the long past but not gone, and I think it involves both men in that picture, my father and the DA.”

Janice says, “I already told you, I don’t know anything about Brendan’s past, never mind anything about your father and the DA.”

I resist telling her that I know very little about my father’s past and less about my own mother’s present. I say, “That’s okay. I think you’ll still be able to help.”

Margaret is shaking her head, silently
tsk-tsk
ing the proceedings. Patty has wide eyes and nods her head, yes. Janice is stoic, unreadable as a tabloid.

I say, “Janice, may I ask you some questions? Then I promise to tell you and show you what I know.”

Janice nods. “Okay.”

“How did you meet Brendan?” I start off with an easy question, get her used to talking about her and him, get her used to being honest and thinking about Brendan as past, maybe as something that can’t hurt her, or can’t hurt her much.

Janice cooperates. She gives a summary of their too-brief history. Her voice is low and calm, soothing, as if I’m the one who needs cheering up. Brendan was a truck driver and they met at a diner in New Hampshire. They sat next to each other at the counter. Janice worked at a local park, part of an environmental conservation and preservation team. They were married two months later, moved to Provincetown shortly thereafter, spent the last bunch of years bouncing around the Cape in accordance with Janice’s varied environmental gigs. They loved the Cape and were going to stay forever, grow old, would you still need me, feed me, and the rest of the tune, happily ever after. . . .

Margaret is slapping me in the face, shouting. “What’s wrong with you? Are you asleep? Wake up.”

Patty hangs on her sister’s arm, the nonslapping arm. “Stop it, Margaret, you’ll hurt him!”

“I’m awake. I wasn’t asleep. Jesus! Stop hitting me!” The old and familiar embarrassments swell, filling me with anger and hate for everyone, myself included. Makes me want to lash out, lie, share my poison with anyone around me. God help the person who finds my continued degradations and humiliations funny.

The twin aunts retreat to the kitchen, arm in arm, their cranky-hipped limps fitted together like the gears in a dying perpetual motion machine. Janice crouches at my feet. She says, “Are you okay? You just slumped in your chair. It looked like you passed out.”

“I’m fine, I’m fine.” I stand up, stumble a bit, but get my legs under me. I rub my face with my hands. If I could take my face off, I would.

Janice stands next to me, her hand on my elbow. It’s a light touch, and comforting, but it’s all I can do not to flinch and pull myself away. The twins come back. Margaret sits on the swing and has the cordless phone in her hand. Patty has a glass of water, which I assume is for me, until she takes a sip.

I swallow some air, willing the oxygen to do its goddamn job and keep me working right. “Sorry, I’m narcoleptic.” I say it under my breath, the words cower and hide, and hope that only Janice hears my quick and unexpected confession.

Margaret says, “What?” Of course she heard me. She says it loud, like she’s responding to a lie. This is not a lie.

I say, “I have narcolepsy.” That’s it. No explanation.

Patty appears at my left side like a spirit. “You poor dear. Drink this.” There’s lipstick on the glass. My job is so glamorous.

I say, “Please, everyone sit back down. I’m fine. It happens all the time and I know how to deal with it. I know how to live with it.” I give back the community water. The women stare and investigate me. My status changing from potentially dangerous intruder to vulnerable afflicted person might just help my cause here.

I say, “Look. My narcolepsy is why I need to ask you questions, Janice. When Brendan came to my Southie office I fell asleep, like I did here, but not exactly like I did here because I probably looked awake to Brendan, did some sleep-talking and -walking like I do sometimes: automatic behavior, they call it.” I stop talking and wave my hands in front of my own face, cleaning up the mess of words. “Anyway, I was out when he was in and all I’ve been able to piece together is that Brendan wanted me to find something, something that relates to my father and the DA.” I pause and point at the picture again. It pays to have props. “I don’t know what it is I’m supposed to find because I was asleep, and Brendan died before I could find out.”

There. It’s out. The truth as I know it and I feel fine. Everyone blinks at me a few times and I hear their eyelids opening and closing.

Margaret talks first. She says, “He’s faking. Be careful, Janice.”

Patty slaps her sister’s hand.

Janice curls up her face and says, “Oh, be quiet, Margaret.”

Margaret looks at me and shrugs, like we’re commiserating, like I’m supposed to agree with her can-you-believe-these-knuckleheads-are-buying-what-you’re-selling look. Can’t say I’m all that fond of Aunt Margaret.

I say, “So, Janice, I assume you didn’t know Brendan came to South Boston and hired me.”

She says, “I knew he made a day trip to Boston, but I didn’t know anything about you.”

I nod. “I did talk with Brendan one other time. Is this a smoke-free house? Do you mind if I smoke?” My timing has always been impeccable.

Janice shakes her head and is now exasperated with me. “Yes. I mean, no, you can’t smoke in here. When did you talk to Brendan?”

I can’t tell her it was the day before he died. It won’t help anyone, especially me. I say, “A couple of days after his visit he called to check on my progress. Because I’m stubborn, I didn’t come right out and admit to him that I slept through our face-to-face. I didn’t ask him what I was supposed to find. I hoped during our phone conversation that those details of the case would just, you know, present themselves.”

Margaret says, “I take it back. He’s not faking. He’s just a buffoon.” She sets off another family brouhaha. Yeah, all this because of little old me. Janice clears the room of the battling aunts, banishing them to the kitchen.

When Janice returns to her seat on the swing, I say, “The important or odd part of our phone conversation was that Brendan seemed agitated, even paranoid. Does that mean anything to you?”

Janice turns on me quick and says, “No, that’s not the important part.” She leans closer to me and enunciates her words, sharpening them to a cutting point. “Brendan, my husband, killed himself, shot himself in the face with a gun. He was downstairs, in our basement just a few days ago when he pulled the trigger. Your saying he was agitated and paranoid on the phone is not a surprise and certainly not the important part to me.”

“I’m sorry. You’re right. I’m sorry.” I cannot say I’m sorry to her enough. I reach inside my coat and pull out the envelope. I’m careful to remove only one of the photos, the one with clothes. “While Brendan was there, the narcoleptic me managed to take some notes. Those are gone. Most of it was gibberish, but I’d written down South Shore Plaza. Do you know what that means? Brendan left me with this photograph, and I’m supposed to find something else, but obviously I haven’t found it yet.”

“South Shore Plaza means nothing to me. Brendan hated malls, wouldn’t go in them if he could help it.” Janice takes the picture, looks at it quick, and then looks away, like the photo might burn. “Who is she?”

“I don’t know.”

Janice looks at it again. “She looks a little like the
American Star
girl. The DA’s daughter, right?”

I smile, and it doesn’t feel right on my face. “It does look like her. But it’s not her.”

“No. I know. The photo is clearly older than she is.”

I say, “Yes. Of course. Clearly. There was never any doubt.”

“It does look a lot like her. Kind of spooky, in a way.”

“Uncanny.” I’m just going to agree with everything she says.

“Why did Brendan have this? Why did he give this to you?”

“I don’t know, Janice. Like I said, he came to me to find something else. Not a person. An
it.
”

She nods, even though I’m only answering her rhetorical questions, questions about her husband that will haunt her for the rest of her life because there might be no answers forthcoming. I don’t know if she realizes that yet. Or maybe she does, and she’s tolerating
my presence with a staggering amount of dignity. Maybe she can share some dignity with me.

I say, “I’m sorry, but I have to ask this, Janice. Did Brendan act strangely, do anything out of character, say anything odd in the days before he died?”

“You mean besides going to South Boston and hiring a private investigator?”

I don’t say anything or do anything. I know that much, at least.

Janice loses herself again in the photo, the piece of her husband’s past that has no place here, even though I’m trying to find it.