“I just wanted her to keep her life. She wanted a new, big fancy life. She didn’t have to stop speaking to me.” She turns and levels her gaze at me. “That’s my regret. We weren’t on speaking terms.”
“When she died, we didn’t know she was in the city. She died in Midtown. Midtown! Who goes to Midtown? What was she doing, seeing a show?” Bernie shakes his head. “And she was alone. Her husband didn’t even know she was here. No one knew why. It was the damnedest thing.”
“Out of character, too. We’ve never been able to figure it out. She was a little anxious, you know?” Patrice tilts her chin at me, like I should know this. Like maybe I was anxious, too. “She took medication but it was getting better. She was coming out of her shell. We thought marriage would be good for her, at first. Even in high school, she was a homebody.” She shakes her head. “It’s my one regret, in my whole life.”
“Patrice.” Bernie’s tone is pained.
Patrice stands up, the sofa cushion inflates with a sigh. She waves her hand behind her, in my general direction, a motion of apology, and sways out of the room. I hear her heavy footsteps on the carpeted stairs.
Bernie lets out a large belly sigh, mops his brow with a handkerchief from his pocket. “I’m sorry. We’re mostly okay. You’re just so . . .” He examines my face like the words are written there. “Unexpected.” He stands up and looks at me sadly. “We were old parents. I regret that. We tried for years to have babies, almost a decade. Had a lot of miscarriages, no one could tell us why. It wrecked Patrice. Wrecked her. Joanie was our saving grace, it seemed. We maybe protected her too much because of it.”
I thought of Evelyn and nodded.
“You should go, honey. Listen, leave your number. I’ll have Pat call you when she gets her strength back.” He stands up, the couch permanently molded into the shapes of their bodies. I pictured them there, night after night, in a darkened living room with nothing but a flickering television to cover the silence.
I scribble my cell phone number on the back of an old lottery ticket that he gives me. He takes it and sets it on the television stand, which is just an old wooden box television with a flat gray screen. He walks me to the door, pats me awkwardly on the back.
He holds up one wide, pink hand. Hold on a moment, and ambles down the hall. A moment later, he comes back.
“Here, you can keep this. We have tons of them.” He hands me a small, laminated card. The front has a picture of Joanie, in front of a library, a short floral dress, a smile filled with endless summers and infinite possibilities. It could have been me. The back of the card has a prayer.
“That’s her college graduation.” His hand shakes, a violent tremor, and he shoves it in his pocket. “She went to Queens College. Library science major. You know the trip was an hour and a half one way? Three transfers. Does that sound like someone with anxiety to you?”
I shake my head.
“You understand. It’s hard.” His eyes are watery gray, without any distinct color, and up close his neck wobbles.
“I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to spring this on you. I didn’t know about Joanie.”
He coughs, thick and mucousy from the back of his throat. Then he says something surprisingly empathetic. “You’ve lost someone, too. You just didn’t know it.”
I don’t tell him I’ve lost a lot of people I didn’t know about in the past few days. I reach up and kiss his cheek and leave him there, patting his jowl.
? ? ?
Once outside I call a car service. I stand on the corner, a half a block away from the Bascio residence. Someone keeps parting the curtains in the front window of the closest house. I half expect a police car to show up because I’m a suspicious person. I text Cash while I’m waiting. Joanie is dead. Joan Bascio. Find out all you can. She was married. Find out who.
Before I can think it through, I dial Lydia. She picks up on a half ring, her voice high and echoing, like in an airplane hangar. “Zoe?” There is a loud commotion behind her, a crash followed by a deep voice, almost in a yell.
“I’m here, are you okay? What’s wrong?” My heart picks up speed.
“We’ve been vandalized. Everything is ruined.” There’s a loud rustle, like she’s turned her face away from the speaker, the scrape of her chin against the mouthpiece.
“What?” I wait a beat but there’s silence, then talking. “Lyd. Where are you?”
“The shop. I have to go, we have to call the police. I’ll call you back.”
“Is everyone okay?” I ask, panicked, my brain sifting through everything that’s happened and settling, with a heavy, foggy dread, on the idea that I’m involved. This has everything to do with me. It’s all connected.
“I think so,” she replies.
“I’m in Brooklyn.” Apropos of nothing. “It’ll take me a few. I’ll be there as soon as I can.” My brain is white hot. My hands shake as I hang up and dial Cash. I tell him about the shop. “Come with me?” I hate to ask him another favor.
He doesn’t hesitate. “I’ll meet you there.”