Chapter 24

WESTFIELD, NJ SEPTEMBER 2000

 

 

JOE SHOVED SIX EMPTY BUDWEISER cans across the dinette table. The air hung heavy with the remains of a pack of Marlboros floating in his morning coffee. He closed the second installment of the Swedge diaries, giving the leather cover a tap with his knuckles. Under the table, Roxy placed her head in his lap. “The old guy was one calculating, cold-hearted bastard,” he said, scratching Roxy behind her ears. “I’m sure of one thing—Paul Rothstein was the main character in his nightmare.”

Roxy cocked her head to the side, yawned and rolled onto her back. Geopolitical Systems was long over. He’d push the decision back another day whether to stick it out or put his tail between his legs and slink away. Joe searched his wallet for Dr. Headcase’s card. A picture of his grandfather wagging his finger came up in the shuffle. “Screw you.” He turned the picture face down. “Every family has its designated fuck up.”

Washing the sewer taste out of his mouth with a swig from a bottle of mouth-wash kept in the cabinet housing the glasses, Joe spit into the sink. He didn’t know if a dead Preston Swedge was worse than the live one who had burned his ass for twenty years. Preston was a follower. Joe was convinced that if Herbert Swedge didn’t have a boatload of money, his son would have fallen in with hoods and other low-lifes of the Depression. Preston resisted the bile of his roommate Clark Johnson, but succumbed to the power and trappings of the office of John McCloy. Some men are born bad to the bone, others grow into the role. If Preston could participate in the imprisonment of American citizens based solely on their race and assist in keeping them segregated until the end of the war, what else was he involved with? He had questions on top of questions. And where did Jake Rothstein fit in?

Through the window over the sink, Joe watched Roxy romp in a light drizzle. Why should I give a damn about what Preston Swedge was up to? “You’re a cop, stupid! Act like one!” he screamed at the four walls. Donations to the Westfield temple combined with Rabbi Balaban chanting the mourner’s prayer for the dead over Preston’s grave led him to phone the temple and hit his first roadblock— Balaban was in Israel and wouldn’t be back for three months.

Joe pondered contacting Reverend James Miller. According to Ed Stoval, two days after officiating at Preston’s funeral, the reverend had a grapefruit size tumor removed from his colon. The septuagenarian was in re-hab trying to get back on his feet. “What the hell do I have to lose?” he said, punching in the number for the First Presbyterian Church. The secretary said Miller was up for company and would appreciate any respite from the boredom. She gave Joe an inside tip—the reverend had a sweet tooth.

Stopping at Bremmer’s Candy Emporium in the business district, Joe picked a box of mixed chocolates and headed for the other side of town where the OptimaCare Nursing and Rehabilitation Center abutted the southwest corner of Nomahegan Park. Joe was part of the police detail at the zoning board meetings when conservationists and left-wing liberal-weenies pulled a sit down demonstration in opposition to the “big business” construction application. Driving by the facility always brought a smile, remembering the astonished faces of the committee when one of the more amply endowed female members of Preserve Our Park decided to nurse her infant in the first row.

Shielded from the road by towering oaks and a phalanx of blue spruce, the large pane glass, rough timbers and a whitewashed stucco façade gave the impression of a mountain resort. Joe followed the arrows to visitors parking, yielding to an exiting hearse from Kerrigan’s Funeral Home. The road, barely two cars wide, forced the two drivers to slow to a crawl. Recognizing Joe, Bud Kerrigan stopped the Cadillac. “When are you coming back to the Downtown Association?” Kerrigan asked. “The meetings haven’t been the same.”

The Downtown Association was a collection of local merchants who met once a month. Joe, an unofficial member, served as the police representative. He and the mortician shared dirty jokes, beer, and general disdain for the association’s self-importance and parliamentary rules. “I’m working on it,” Joe said. “Who’s the guest speaker?”

Kerrigan scratched the stubble on his chin. “An attorney named…Hardon. No, Hargrove,” he said with a booming laugh. “All attorneys are hardons.”

Joe had to laugh. “Never heard of him, but I’d lay even money he’s a prick. Might just see you there tomorrow.” He watched the hearse pull away in the Volvo’s side mirror. The more he thought about the meeting, the more he was inclined to go. In addition to Preston’s attorney being present, there were a number of members who might be able to shed some light on Preston’s past.

Visitor’s parking was jammed. Joe parked fifty feet from the main entrance in a no parking-fire zone. Putting his Westfield P.D. credentials on the dash, he took the five-iron and candy from the front seat. The drizzle turned to a steady rain. Joe fished a hooded windbreaker nestled behind the spare tire he never bothered to return to its well beneath the carpet. The temperature had dropped into the low fifties. It felt like fall.

Joe hesitated at the main entrance. Hospitals caused him to sweat, nursing homes made him queasy. The sight of his grandfather, swathed in a diaper and tethered to multiple I.V. lines was burned into his brain. He unconsciously took a deep breath, preparing himself for the smell of urine and the creeping death that overwhelmed him in Brooklyn’s All Saints Nursing.

Limping into the reception area drew a concerned look from the matronly woman manning the desk. “Re-hab is down the hall,” she said, moving around the counter. “Have a seat. I’ll get you a wheelchair.”

Plush arm chairs were grouped among towering palms and thriving rubber plants. “A patient named James Miller. Where would I find him?” Joe said, wiping water off his head with a tissue retrieved from a box on the desk.

“I’m sorry I mistook…” she said, scurrying back to her station.

“Not a problem,” Joe said with a wave of the box of candy. “My good buddy is waiting for his fix.”

Checking her computer, she said, “He’s in the recreation center. End of the hall, take a left.” She handed Joe a visitor badge to hang around his neck.

Soft indirect lighting reflected off fuchsia walls and matching Italian marble floor in the main corridor. Joe sniffed the air—nothing but the hint of lilac. Only the sound of the club clacking with each step broke an eerie silence.

Turning left at the end of the corridor brought the glass domed rec center into view. A nurse’s aide pushed a wheelchair carting a young male Joe judged to be no more than twenty-five, his face contorted in a Halloween mask with a metal neck brace keeping a skull marked with a scar running ear to ear in a fixed position. Joe forced his back against the wall. The kid looked familiar.

Joe, itching for a cigarette, reached into his pocket for a stray piece of gum. For a second, he thought of back pedaling before hitting a metal button marked “Automatic Entry.”

Double-wide glass panel doors opened. Joe stood under the dome amazed at the theater size of the solarium, comparing it to the twenty by twenty dingy “family room” in the place his insurance company approved for re-habbing his leg. Tropical flowers in huge terracotta urns marked the periphery. Muted violins played through fist size speakers. Outside the walls of glass, a pond added to the idyllic feeling.

Four women in the midst of a spirited card game broke the tranquility with a series of whoops and slaps to the green felt covered table. A pair of pre-school girls skipped and squealed around an elderly gentleman as their mother pleaded for quiet. Joe scanned the twelve other occupants. James Miller was alone at a table for two.

An array of thank you cards was splayed before the scary thin reverend. Miller, wearing a blue sweat suit, peered over his half-frame glasses as Joe approached. “Good afternoon,” Miller said, trying to place Joe’s face. “Have we met?”

“Not directly,” Joe replied.

Miller snapped his fingers three times in quick succession. “The cemetery. I didn’t think anyone remembered Isabel Grabar. Nice of you to put flowers on her grave.”

Caught off guard, Joe stammered, “A fine woman. I don’t visit as often as I should.”

“Isabel Grabar was the first funeral I officiated. That was in 1949 in a little town outside of Memphis Tennessee,” Miller growled. The scowl on his face accentuated the gaunt lines. “What game are you playing?”

“I knew Preston for twenty years. With the arrangements being private, I decided to stay out of the way.” Joe stuck his detective badge under Miller’s nose. “Joe Henderson.”

Miller put down his pen. “Something amiss?” The look of concern replaced his scowl.

“This is a private matter,” Joe said, holding the box of candy in plain view.

“My boy, might there be some chocolate delights in that cardboard conveyance?” Miller asked. The wrapping paper was a dead give away. “You’re the…”

“Hero cop,” Joe interrupted with a forced smile. “I heard you’re addicted.”

Miller’s eyes twinkled as he opened the pound box, bringing the contents close to his nose. “Only my secretary knows.” He chose a cherry filled chocolate drop. “Have a seat. You look as though you could take a turn in this place.”

“Been there and done that,” Joe said, pulling out a chair. A demure blonde in hospital togs sashayed into the room. “This is a far cry from the dump I was incarcerated for my re-hab.”

“These nurses might look sweet, but under those smiles, live a collection of tyrants. They’re working me to death,” Miller said, savoring another piece.

Joe watched the nurse wheel one of the patients to the door. “I’ll only take a few minutes of your time.”

“They’ll be coming for me for my afternoon workout,” Miller said. “What’s on your mind?”

“Preston lived an interesting life.”

“Interesting but conflicted,” Miller said, checking through the box. “When Preston was a young man, he could be rough. There was an element in town that was against many things, and he fell in with them. People change. He re-discovered God.”

The rain intensified, pounding the glass roof. “He must’ve had one heck of a re-discovery to have Rabbi Balaban say Kaddish for him,” Joe said, staring at Miller who suddenly looked uncomfortable.

“You’ll have to take that up with Bernard,” Miller replied, pushing the box across the table. “Have a piece.”

“I’ll ask him when he returns from Israel,” Joe said, picking an orange truffle. “I understand you and the Swedges arrived in town around the same time and became pretty tight.”

“Lieutenant,” Miller said with a renewed irritation, “I’ve got to get these cards done. My relationship was personal.”

Joe reached into his jacket, removing the girl’s picture found among the scrum at the estate sale. “Do you recognize her?”

Miller paled, taking the battered photo, holding it like it was a hand grenade with the pin removed. “Where did you find this?” He turned the photo over, running his fingers around the edges before gently touching the girl’s face.

“In Preston’s basement,” Joe said, studying Miller’s face.

“Preston held it to his heart when he was ill, not letting go for days.” Miller said. “I’m surprised it survived.”

“Looks like the picture has been through a war,” Joe said.

“Preston’s recovery was long and painful. He was fighting his own private war.”

“I heard about his crackup. She have a name?”

“It’s been many years.” Miller stared at the face. “Rachel. No, No…Rebecca. Yes, Rebecca. Poor thing was so young.”

Joe leaned on the five-iron. “What happened to her?”

Without emotion, Miller said, “Hit by a car. Lingered for a couple of days before the good Lord took her home. She was just seven years old.”

“Queens beat Jacks!” roared from the card game.

“I look at the picture, and I say to myself, who does she look like?” Joe said, fighting the urge to stick a Marlboro into his mouth. “Rebecca doesn’t look like Millie or Preston.” He handed Miller the photo of the Swedges on vacation. “Wouldn’t ever have guessed she was their child.”

Miller glanced at both photos. “Rebecca was four when she was adopted.” He handed the photos back to Joe. “Her father was killed on one of the islands in the Pacific during the war. When Preston’s cousin died in a car accident, she was left an orphan.”

Joe sensed there was more to the story. “No other pictures, nothing of her ever being in their lives, nor did I see a grave marker with her name at Fairview. Like it was boom and she was gone.”

“Millie, may she rest in peace, couldn’t bear children. She opened her home and her heart to the girl. Some build shrines to the departed, others remove all traces. Rebecca’s body was interned with her biological mother.”

“I can’t imagine their pain.” Joe said. Stuff like that reminded him of his daughter Emily. “Where’s she buried?”

Miller looked suspiciously at Joe. “Michigan, that’s what I was told.”

“Told?”

“She passed in 1950, two years before I became pastor,” Miller explained. “I learned the sad story from Millie when Preston took ill.”

“Preston had his breakdown in 1960. For eight years the subject never came up. I find that strange.” Joe charged.

“Some people don’t wear their hearts on their sleeves. What are you driving at?” The weather changed. The rain ended with the sun breaking through. He shifted on the chair, removing a Phillie’s Cheroot cigar from a pocket in his warm-up.

“Call me cynical,” Joe replied, thinking of Preston’s romp with the gal at the Santa Anita relocation center.

“Call me stiff as a board, how about we take a walk?” Miller asked.

“Great idea,” Joe said, unable to fight the nicotine urge, and not sure how far he could push Miller before the old guy decided to call it quits.

Miller placed the thank you notes into a day planner, zipping the leather case closed. Using a metal cane, he struggled to raise himself from the chair. “Grab the candy.”

At a turtle’s pace, they headed for the exit closest to the pond, where Joe held the door. A practical joker, Miller flipped him a quarter. The temperature rebounded with the sunshine. “Let’s sit on the bench,” Miller suggested. “I can’t go another inch.” Joe put his arm under Miller’s elbow, helping him into a controlled collapse.

Joe retrieved a Marlboro from his jacket. Flipping the Zippo, he held it under Miller’s cheroot. “One of life’s pleasures,” Miller said, savoring the smoke. “The doctors insist I give it up.”

They sat a few minutes watching a pair of Mallards paddle around the pond.

“Preston’s…,” Miller hesitated, “illness put a strain on their marriage, a marriage that was already drowning in the booze he was consuming. I counseled Millie, and believe I made a difference.”

“I understand Millie was a terrific lady.”

“That’s an understatement.” Miller took several quick puffs on the cigar. “I came to town not knowing anyone. I suppose she took pity on this confirmed bachelor by offering an invitation for dinner. That invitation turned into a weekly event. I often wondered what had attracted her to Preston.”

“Did you ever meet this guy?” Joe handed Miller the photo of the airman Rothstein.

Miller held it at arms length. “Should I….”

“Turn it over,” Joe said.

“Rothstein!” Miller shrieked. “I can’t believe it. Is this the face that haunted Preston?”

“I think so,” Joe said, gesturing with the cigarette.

Leaning back on the bench, Miller drifted to another time. “I first heard the name Rothstein at a summer barbecue at the Swedges in the late Fifties. A college friend of Preston’s got pretty sloshed, making a diving fighter plane with his hand. He toasted Rothstein, even sang a round of Bless Them All. I thought Rothstein was a college chum who died in the war.”

“He died alright.” Falling under a coughing spell, Joe ground the cigarette into the grass. “A veteran’s website lists Paul Rothstein, United States Army Air Force, killed in action August 20, 1944.”

Joe’s words snapped Miller back to the present. “Where was he from?” Miller asked.

“At the library, I found his obituary on The New York Times microfilm. His hometown was Brooklyn, New York. His wife Sarah, his mother and father Rachel and Abraham, and a brother Jacob survived him.” Joe lit another cigarette between coughs.

Miller stared at the ducks. “Paul Rothstein wasn’t a Princeton chum, was he?”

“I strongly doubt a Jewish kid from Brooklyn would’ve been admitted to Princeton in the Thirties,” Joe said with a wry chuckle. “He graduated from N.Y.U.”

“The look on Preston’s friend’s face as his buddy demonstrated the angle of the fighter’s dive sort of fixed the date of the barbecue in my mind. Like when Pearl Harbor was attacked or John Kennedy was assassinated. It was the twentieth of August.”

“Are you sure? It’s almost a lifetime.”

“August twenty is my birthday,” Miller said flatly.

“That friend wouldn’t be Clark Johnson?” Joe asked.

Miller flicked the cigar against the bench arm, warily looking at Joe. “You must’ve been one good detective.”

“The Princeton roommates had a raucous past. Johnson dragged Preston into a few jams.” Joe explained. “Sounds like Clark was celebrating. What was Preston’s demeanor during Johnson’s demonstration?”

“Quiet. He sipped his standard Wild Turkey.” Miller puffed on the cigar, again lost in thought. “Johnson said something that struck me at the time as being the alcohol loosening his tongue. A crazed look overcame his face as he slapped Preston on the back. ‘We changed the world, we changed history.”

“And Preston?”

“He walked into the house without a word,” Miller said, sounding fatigued.

“Johnson learned to fly fighters,” Joe pointed out. “Did he make it overseas?”

“Wound up in Italy escorting bombers,” Miller said. Through the atrium glass, he saw the blonde nurse return with a wheelchair. “Oh, no! Nurse Ratchet is on her way. We only have a few minutes.” He took a final puff on the cigar before burying it in a sand filled bucket. “I came to know Clark Johnson and his wife fairly well. He was a braggart. I never knew when he was telling the truth. He complained mightily how he was robbed of being credited for two German planes that would have made him an ace.”

The nurse spotted Miller and Joe on the bench, and headed their way. “Reverend, did you think you could hide from me,” she said, pushing a wheelchair.

“Patricia, never,” Miller said, getting to his feet. He looked at Joe. “Preston and Clark were mixed up in something, and my gut tells me it haunted Preston to the day he died.” The nurse helped him into the wheelchair. “Talking to Gloria Johnson might help.” He opened his day planner. “She must have read about my hospitalization in the Synod bulletin and sent me a get-well card. I saved the address. We haven’t spoken since I officiated at Millie’s funeral thirty-five years ago. Call her and use my name.”

Joe placed the box of candy on Miller’s lap. “Clark is no longer alive?”

Patricia pushed the wheelchair toward the building. Miller held up his hand for her to stop. “Clark passed away suddenly in 1960. I thought losing his friend caused Preston’s mental collapse. After today, I’m not sure.”

“One last question, Reverend,” Joe said, taking Miller’s hand, “Why did Rabbi Balaban attend Preston’s funeral.”

Miller looked squarely at Joe. “I never asked.”

Joe watched Miller disappear into the building. He needed a beer and someplace soft to rest his aching head.

His cell rang. “Jozef,” Alenia said.

“How did you know I was thinking about you?” Joe answered, walking around the pond toward visitors parking.

“My grandmother wuz a gypsy. I’ll leave the side door open.”