Chapter Six

’Tis not that Dying hurts us so,
’Tis Living hurts us more
But Dying is a different way,
A Kind behind the Door

Simple work. Sorting clothing, restoring order. It seemed as though she had been sitting there for hours, surrounded by dust and clothes, working. At least the palpable sense of fear that had tormented her these past few weeks was receding.

An Emily Dickinson summer. She smiled to herself. Emily Dickinson, the pale poetess in white, who spoke of death and God beneath every other phrase—it had seemed a good idea to read her verses to a dying man.

At first, she had felt herself so remote from death. After all, it was summer, and although she was not completely happy, she was alive.

* * *

Not being sure of what she was going to do with her life had left her drifting. “I can’t just wait around for my prince to come,” she had lectured herself. But she knew it was no good. She was waiting. For Bear.

Day after day, she wrote to him. It was almost a mechanical process—taking an envelope, writing “Arthur Denniston” on it, then searching for his last letter to find out his current mailing address in Europe—then writing, “Dear Bear” at the top of a sheet of paper. Then trying to figure out what to say.

She was not the sort of person who told about every detail of her day. Writing about work seemed dull compared to Bear’s letters about his adventures hiking through Italy. Writing about her visits to Mr. Fairston and the people in the nursing home made her feel as though she were trying to broadcast her good deeds. So she restricted her topics to the weather and her reading. Necessarily, her letters to Bear were short. She wished she was like her sister Rose, who always seemed to find something to write about, whose letters were pages and pages long.

At first, it was a pleasant distraction to visit Mr. Fairston. She could talk to him—or at any rate, she could listen to him talk. Unfortunately, his health became worse and worse, and she felt sad as she watched his decline. At first he was only tired, but his coordination was becoming steadily worse. Soon he was confined to a wheelchair, and then to bed as he gradually lost control of the muscles on the right side of his body. A slow paralysis seemed to be coming over him. Fortunately he was an articulate person, and he found ways to talk even though one side of his face was inanimate. From time to time, things would confuse him, but mostly he still had clarity. She could tell he was appreciative of her visits.

When he still had the energy for long conversations, she listened to him talk about current events, about starting his company, about his wife. After a while, she sensed she was listening to an edited history, one that skipped over years of significant material. She guessed those missing years probably concerned people with whom he had broken off all contact. That was depressing.

It bothered her that Mr. Fairston, who, from the look of his house, was incredibly wealthy, couldn’t afford to get a decent home nurse. Of course, there was a nursing shortage, but it didn’t really explain why his nurses seemed even less competent than the ones in the crumbling nursing homes she visited.

His wife, whom Mr. Fairston constantly referred to, was seldom there. According to Mr. Fairston, she was very busy, with a company to run.

“My wife’s quite a smart woman. Oh, she’s a blond, and you know what they always say about blondes, but she’s a smart one, I tell you. She got a hankering to buy this one corporation. I loaned her the money and said, go for it. And she did. Brought it into the Fortune 500 ranks, runs the whole thing herself. Brought me on to be vice-president, but it was more an honorary position than anything else. I told her to fly with it, so she wouldn’t have to be indebted to me. She’s doing quite well, quite well. Doesn’t need me and my money any more. Which I have to say I don’t mind.” He chuckled, and coughed again.

That day, he had sounded particularly bad. The girl almost offered to get him some cold medication, but kept silent. After all, she didn’t want to interfere.

The one or two times the girl and the wife met, the wife was friendly, coolly polite, or distracted, depending on her mood. One time she came in with a huge bouquet of red roses for her husband. Another time she marched in, woke him out of a doze, and demanded to know what was going on with the credit cards. She seemed to regard Blanche as part of the scenery, or, Blanche thought, like a maid who needed to be kept in her place.

But mostly, she was gone, and Blanche came and went from the Fairstons’ richly-appointed house unmolested. She read Emily Dickinson, Caryll Houselander, and other poetry to Mr. Fairston. They talked about life, death, religion, and the possibility of his living until Christmas. Mr. Fairston was skeptical as to whether or not he would see it, and the girl tried to keep his spirits up.

“Things might happen before then,” he said in an explanation the last time she had mentioned it, at the end of June.

“But if you look forward to it, you might just live to see it,” the girl pointed out.

“I just don’t look forward to Christmas,” Mr. Fairston said. His right eye was half-lowered permanently now, and with his gloomy expression, the other eye matched it. “I haven’t for years. After all, what is it except some kind of Winter Solstice celebration crossed with Madison Avenue Materialism?” He looked at her. “Of course you believe it’s more than that, don’t you?”

“You know that,” she said. He often remarked on her Catholicism, and she had a feeling he wanted to talk about religion without really talking about religion.

“Almost all holidays are disappointing for me. Father’s Day this Sunday,” he murmured.

“Will you be hearing from your children?”

“Not unless some catastrophe befalls them and they’re in trouble and need some of my money.” He attempted a smile, but it was weak, and not just because of his poor motor skills. “I suppose it’s better for me if they stay away. Talking to them only gets me upset. My wife’s said it’s not good for me. She’s taken over relating with them since I’ve gotten sick, so I don’t have the stress. I’m grateful to her for that.”

The girl made a mental note to send Mr. Fairston a card for Father’s Day, or perhaps to come by herself. After all, since her own dad was dead, her only plans for the day were to say some prayers for his soul, as she had promised him that she would. Checking her watch, she realized that she had to go.

“I’ll be back soon,” she promised, getting up and searching around. “I wonder where I left my purse.”

“I don’t think you brought it in,” he said, looking around his messy bedroom. “Did you leave it in the hall downstairs?”

“I think I must have. Well, I’ll see you next week.” She pressed his hand and left.

As she walked down the steps, she couldn’t help looking again at the huge smoky gray mirror trimmed with stained glass in the entranceway. She looked at her reflection with a trace of fascination. For some reason, her hair was looking unusually nice today. She ran her hand down her long black hair, which reached down almost to her waist now.

Why is it that I’m looking good even though I’m not feeling happy? she wondered. Turning away, she saw her purse and backpack lying in the corner. She remembered now that she had put them there to help the nurse, who was bringing up a tea tray to Mr. Fairston.

Her purse seemed slightly disordered, and she wondered for a moment if someone had been going through it. But who would? The nurse might not be competent, but surely she was not so underpaid that she would be tempted to go through stray purses.

Caught by a strange sensation, she looked quickly through her purse. Her wallet, with five dollars in it, her makeup compact, her letter to Bear that needed airmail postage, and the usual odds and ends were all there. Puzzled, she closed the zipper of the purse and looked through her backpack, which had her work clothes inside, and closed that.

I’m being fearful, she thought to herself. She glanced at the mirror, and had the oddest sensation that it was laughing at her paranoia. Berating herself, she gathered her belongings and hurried out of the house.

II

Following his novice meeting with Father Bernard after lunch, Leon poked his head in the vestibule, curious as to what Nora had been up to. Already, the change was significant: she had piled up all the bags against the walls so that there was a clear path through the room. There were stacks and stacks of folded shirts, pants, and sweaters in neat rows along one wall.

“Awesome!” Brother Leon exclaimed. “Nora, you’re a winner! I can’t believe how fast you’re sorting through this stuff!”

Nora, who looked hot and tired from her exertions, flushed rosy at the compliment. “Thanks,” she said. “It looks like most of the clothes will be usable for your homeless men, but there were a few women’s things. Like this dress,” Nora made a face, holding up a huge shiny pink satin dress, which looked like it could fit an elephant.

“Could you use it?” Leon asked.

She chuckled. “No occasions where I could wear it comes to mind.”

“Oh, almost forgot. Father Bernard said to tell you that he and Brother Herman are going out to do some work for the nearby parish, but they’ll be back in about an hour. I guess the rest of us are clearing out too. We usually do some kind of missionary work in the afternoons.”

“Should I answer the door or anything?”

“No. Actually, don’t answer the door when we’re away.”

“I suppose it might look bad,” Nora said, coloring again slightly.

“No, it’s not that. It’s just that we get all sorts of weird characters showing up here, and it’s probably better, all things considered, that you don’t answer the door when you’re alone. Some of the people around here can be a little unstable. You probably shouldn’t be alone with any of them either.”

“Oh. Okay.” She wiped her forehead.

“Anything wrong?” He could have sworn he saw her shaking.

“I’m just a bit hot and tired. I’ll be fine.” She spoke convincingly.

“Okay,” Leon decided to take her word for it. “See you later, Nora.”

The friars had decided to make their particular neighborhood their immediate concern. Every afternoon a pair of friars would go out and walk the streets, following a routine that was so ordinary it could be called “ministry” only loosely. They visited any of the elderly or ill that were shut up in their homes. They talked to whomever they passed, sitting on doorsteps or hanging out on street corners. They played with the kids. They listened to people, and found out what was going on. Who had gotten arrested, who had lost a job, who was in danger of being deported, who was having a hard time. It was too easy as a religious to get “spread thin”—doing very little for many people whom you barely knew. By grounding themselves in their particular neighborhood they hoped to guard against that kind of thing.

That afternoon, Charley and Leon had quite a few conversations on their walk. It was a hot, hot summer, and the only people not inside were those without air conditioners, and they were willing to talk to distract themselves from the heat.

As the friars turned back towards the friary for Evening Prayer, three kids shouting in Spanish waylaid them on their homeward walk.

Brother Leon answered them in Jamaican, which made them laugh, and Brother Charley, who was learning Spanish in seminary training, said with studied casualness, “Hola, amigos. Comme’sta?”

They horsed around with the kids for a few minutes, and then just as Brother Leon said, “Okay, chicos, we got to scoot,” one girl held out a charm to them. “Hermano Leon, you need this.”

Leon looked at it. He recognized it as a Santeria charm—the token of a superstitious religion widespread among parts of the New York ghettos. “Where’d you get that from, hermana?”

The little girl, who had dozens of black beaded braids sprouting over a blue headband, said solemnly in Spanish, “From my grandmother, to protect me. But you need it, because there’s a scary witch in the neighborhood.”

The kids all looked solemn, nodding. Brother Leon exchanged a brief glance with Brother Charley. The big friar looked quizzical. He wasn’t following the conversation in Spanish.

Brother Leon squatted down in front of the little girl. “Hey, pequeña hermana, thank you for wanting me to be safe. But I don’t need this. I belong to Jesus and Mary, and they keep me safe. But I will take it, just the same.” He pocketed it.

“But the witch is driving around here.”

“Who was the witch, hermana?”

“I didn’t know her. But she looked like a witch.”

“Ugly!” chimed in one of the boys.

“What, did you see her too?” Brother Leon asked the pudgy little boy in the oversized t-shirt, who nodded. “When did you see her?”

“Last night, on the streets, in a white car.”

“That’s why you need a charm, in case you meet her. We’re all wearing them. She was scary. She might put curses on you.” The little girl was worried.

Brother Leon patted her hand. “I’m not afraid of curses. Do you know a lady who is stronger than any witch?”

“Who?” the kids chorused.

“Mary. Because she is Jesus’ mother. And Jesus is God.” He crossed himself, and kissed his crossed thumb and finger. The kids all did the same, “Can I give you something special to protect you?” he asked, and they nodded eagerly.

He pulled out a silver medal with an image of the Virgin Mary on it. “This medal has a blessing on it. And the blessing will protect you, but what will protect you more is if you learn to love God with all your heart and soul, and love each other. Would you each like one of these medals?”

He distributed them to eager hands and the two friars said goodbye to the children, who scattered to their various homes.

“What were they talking about—a broohaha?” Brother Charley asked him.

“Una bruja. A witch. They said they saw a witch driving a white car on the streets last night. Angelita wanted to protect me—she gave me her charm.”

He pulled it out and looked at it, murmuring a brief prayer as he did so. Having grown up in a Hispanic-Caribbean culture, he disliked Santeria, which often confused the ignorant by melding Catholic tradition with pagan and occult superstition. “It’s a protection charm. She was pretty worried about me. You see, the protection charm is made for one particular person, and if you allow anyone else to touch the charm, the spell is supposedly broken. But it says a lot that she wanted me to have it. As they say, it’s the thought that counts.”

Brother Charley shook his head. “That stuff gives me the creeps.”

“Likewise,” Brother Leon put the charm back inside his pocket to dispose of later. “You heard of any brujas feas—ugly witches—in this neighborhood before?”

“No. Did she mean one of the Santeria people?”

“I doubt it. The kids know who the Santeria people are, but they didn’t recognize this woman.”

“Maybe they were making things up,” Brother Charley suggested. “An ugly witch in a white car?”

“No, I saw a white car driving around this place too a few days ago. Something tells me they saw something strange—and described it the only way they knew how.” Brother Leon mused. He didn’t like the feeling he was getting.

III

“Mr. Denniston, and Mr. Denniston,” the lawyer began, setting his briefcase on the table in the conference room of the jail.

Bear stared at Charles Russell, outlined against a barred window in a jail meeting room. The lawyer was a tall, aging man, whose smoothed-back hair remained remarkably red. The first time Bear had had substantial contact with him was at the age of seventeen, when the lawyer had been hired by his father to defend the brothers in court against the drug charges—unsuccessfully. They had been sentenced to juvenile prison for the maximum first-time offenders’ sentence.

Bear suspected that Mr. Russell resented them for that fact—it was possibly the first case the high-paid lawyer had lost in years. He had been chewed out in front of the judge, too.

But he had been helping them through the reversal, once the drug charges were found, three years later, to be false. Now once again, he was here, at the prison, arranging for them to be bailed out of jail, a bit more grimly than last time.

“I am, of course, prepared to assist you in any way I can,” the lawyer began, and paused, averting his eyes to his papers, “but there’s a certain circumstance my firm and I need to be clear on. Up until now, I have been working for you because your father retained me. However, your father has made it clear to me on several occasions, and no doubt to you as well, that he would pay no legal fees for a second drug charge against you. In fact, he said he would cut off all monetary help or any posthumous share of his assets to you if there were a second charge. I wanted to make certain you were apprised of that.”

Bear stared at him. “In other words, Dad’s just been sitting around waiting for us to get charged again?” he said in disgust. “Guess he wasn’t even convinced by Father Raymond’s murderer admitting to framing us? That’s just too—”

         Fish shot a look at his brother that clearly said, Calm down. “Of course, Mr. Russell, we understand that,” he said cordially. “If this is a matter of who’s going to pay your fees, you can be assured that my brother and I will pay for this ourselves. Tell me what we’re facing, Mr. Russell,” he said.

Mr. Russell picked up his brief. “The US Attorney General is prosecuting you with criminal possession of a controlled substance according to tier one on the federal trafficking schedule,” he said. “If they can prove trafficking, there’s a mandatory five-year prison sentence in most cases.”

Fish gave a low whistle, but his face was grim. “How soon until bail is determined?” he asked.

“Probably tomorrow,” the lawyer said stiffly. “However, I should warn you that they might not let you out on bail.”

“Why not?” Bear asked.

“Apparently, the DEA thinks you are a flight risk.”

Bear absorbed this. “You mean, they think that if we’re released before our trial, we’ll just pick up and leave the country?”

“It’s not unreasonable for them to think that,” Mr. Russell said. “After all, you, Mr. Arthur Denniston, have been overseas for the past few months. From the financial information you provided them, they have easily deduced that both of you have the resources to leave and to live abroad if you so desired.”

“Great,” Fish breathed. “So what do we have to do to convince them that we’re not going to try to escape our trial?”

“You have to demonstrate strong community ties,” the attorney said. “Such as a job, attending school, family—”

“Well, I’m a student at NYU. Actually, I’m enrolled in several summer courses,” Fish glanced at his watch. “I’ve actually missed two classes so far by sitting in jail. I had to get special permission to go on vacation in the midst of the course. I’d be happy to provide you with the letter from my instructor and the assignments I finished while I was on vacation.”

“That will certainly help,” Mr. Russell said. He turned to Bear. “And you?”

“I’m not enrolled in school,” Bear murmured.

“Are you employed?”

“No.”

“Any other family connections? Have you been visiting your father, for example? Could he vouch for you?”

“Haven’t seen him in over a year,” Bear said, resentful of his circumstances. “And no, he wouldn’t vouch for me. I am close to my girlfriend and her family, though. And the Fosters.”

“I see,” the lawyer pursed his lips. “Well, we’ll have to see if this judge will accept that. I have to say that the timing of these charges is fairly bad, since you just came back from overseas. MDMA is notoriously easy to obtain in Europe.”

The lawyer picked up another case file. The two brothers watched him as he read over it. At last he spoke. “This girlfriend…she is the person mentioned here, as a suspect in the embezzlement at the restaurant?”

“Blanche Brier, yes,” Bear said.

“And she was seen by security coming into your apartment, carrying a knapsack?”

“She was taking care of our plants. I gave her the keys.”

Mr. Russell pointed to a copy of the photograph from the security camera. “And in this picture, she’s carrying the same knapsack that her employers found drugs in?”

“Yes, so far as I can tell,” Bear said.

“You have no idea where she is?”

“We don’t. We were trying to find her when we got arrested.”

Mr. Russell leaned back. “I could argue to the judge that it’s clearly this Ms. Brier who is responsible for the drugs that were found in your apartment. After all, she had access to the apartment, you have both been out of the country, and since your juvenile record has been cleared, there’s no reason for them to think that you would be the owners of the drugs. After all, there were no drugs found in your luggage.”

More than slightly irritated, Bear shook his head. “I’m sorry, Mr. Russell, but that’s not an acceptable defense.”

“I agree,” Fish said.

The lawyer leveled his gaze at Bear. “I realize that she’s your girlfriend, but look at this objectively for a moment. Does she have financial need? Is it possible she might have been tempted to sell the drugs as a way of making money? Say, for college?”

For just a moment, Bear wavered, the image of Blanche’s haunted face in his mind. Just suppose…? But suddenly, clearly, he heard his father’s voice, touched with sarcasm. And I’m supposed to believe that you wouldn’t be doing drugs? You, a teenager who spends all his time doing who knows what?

He knew what it was like to be falsely accused. He knew what it was like to be doubted, because you were lonely, and an outsider. He remembered standing by the dry fountain in the Cloister garden holding Blanche’s hand, and saying, “I’ll believe in you if you believe in me.”

“That’s not an acceptable defense,” Bear said again. “I don’t care if I can’t get out of jail: she’s not the one behind this. In fact,” he looked at the lawyer, “she’s been set up. By the same person who set us up.”

The lawyer shook his head. “I hate to say this, but a jury might think otherwise if the case comes to trial.” He tapped the photograph. “You may think she’s innocent, but you could have a tough time convincing others. That’s not the face of a girl who has nothing to hide.”

 “Innocent until proven guilty,” Bear said quietly, and knitted his fingers together in prayer. I’m not going to turn against her. But God, if you can get me out of jail somehow, I would appreciate it. I need to find her.