Page 12 of The Happy Month
We turned right at Hollywood Boulevard, heading west.She was tailgating a Buick LeSabre when she asked me, “Do you mind if I smoke?”
Given the way she drove, the thought of adding a cigarette to the mix was terrifying. I said, “Actually, I kind of have asthma.”
I didn’t.
“Oh, but the windows—” she said and then thought better of it. “It’s fine. We’re almost there.”
She seemed more emotional about having to postpone a cigarette than anything she’d talked about.
CHAPTER FOUR
July 23, 1996
Late Tuesday morning
“You’re too young to remember, but in the fifties there were a lot of really trashy newspapers and magazines. Far worse than what you see at the grocery store today. They’d run stories about Vera every so often. A lot in the fifties and then less and less. It was always a little frightening, worrying that they’d mention Patrick. That one of them might decide he was the one who’d killed her.”
“Your brother never married?”
“Oh no, there was no one but Vera. He was too heartbroken. I tried to fix him up with one of my girlfriends once, nice girl, divorced only one kid, but he was mortified. Couldn’t face the idea. It’s so romantic, don’t you think?”
I wasn’t sure I agreed but decided to say “Yes,” since disagreeing with her seemed a bad idea. I did wonder if it was possible hehadkilled Vera. If he regretted it that would explain why he never married. Ronnie’s theory aside.
And then we were in the small parking lot for Our Lady of Angels Care Home. It looked like a country club. The architecture was Spanish, in the same vein as the co-op Ronnie and I just bought. Except, well, it was a whole lot nicer. Perfectly maintained. Even before I walked inside, I was thinking the place must cost a fortune.
Sheila lit an unfiltered cigarette the minute we got out of the truck. We walked over to the steps and paused while she smoked. At one point she picked a piece of tobacco off her lip like an old-fashioned movie star.
“This place looks pretty pricey,” I said.
“Patrick had some investments, certainly. The boys set up a trust and we moved those over and then sold the house. Patrick can live to a hundred and ten if he wants. Of course, he won’t. Which I suppose is a blessing.”
Sheila stomped out her cigarette, and we walked up the steps and into the lobby. The lobby was large and had a half dozen empty sofas for patients and visitors to sit on—though it looked like no one ever sat there. We stopped at the reception desk and signed in. We walked across the lobby and into a hallway that seemed to have patient rooms on either side.
At the end of the hallway was a large dining room with tables covered in white tablecloths. It was about a quarter full of patients eating their lunches. We turned a corner and walked down another hallway with rooms on either side. Halfway down Sheila stopped and opened a door.
“Patrick, darling, it’s Sheila. I’ve brought a friend with me.”
We stepped into the room. It was quite large with a full-sized hospital bed. Something I wasn’t sure I’d ever seen before. There was a small table with a couple of chairs, a dresser big enough to hold a new nineteen-inch Sony Trinitronon top. The TV was on, playing a soap opera. There was a reclining chair in which a very old man sat. He had very little hair left, and his scalp was a shocking pink with a couple of scabs in the front. His eyes were rheumy and his lips slack.
In front of him was one of those hospital-style trays on wheels. It held his lunch tray; he hadn’t touched it. He seemed to be focusing all his attention on understanding the soap opera on the TV.
“Patrick, say hello to my friend Dominick Reilly.”
He looked up just a bit and asked, “Who are you?” It took me a moment to realize the question was directed at his sister.
“It’s me, Sheila, your sister.”
“No,” he said simply.
“Patrick don’t be like that. You know it’s me.”
“No.”
To me she said, “He gets like this. I’m never sure if he’s forgotten me completely or if he’s just being stubborn. Patrick, Mr. Reilly wants to ask you a few questions about Vera.”
“Vera. I killed Vera.”
“No, dear, you couldn’t poss?—”
