Eight

Bostonians have a simple view of the world. Looking west from Boston Harbor there’s Downtown Crossing, Fenway Park, Route 128, some indiscriminate wasteland, then California. Pittsfield was part of the indiscriminate wasteland. I didn’t know anyone in Pittsfield.

Or maybe I did.

I touched the 413 number on my Droid. Across the state, a phone rang. One simulated ringing sound, two simulated ringing sounds, three simulated ringing sounds. A woman’s voice.

“Hello?” The voice was tentative, trailing up at the end, converting the greeting to a question.

I was stuck in that awkward moment when you blindly return a call. Mavens of etiquette frown upon “Who is this?” as a greeting.

I said, “Hi, this is Tucker. You called my cell, and I’m calling you back.”

“Oh,” said a quiet voice. “I’m sorry. That was a mistake.”

“A wrong number?”

“A bad idea.”

The pieces fell into place.

I said. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

Silence.

“Are you still there?” I asked, testing the connection.

“How did you know it was me?” she asked.

“Technically, I don’t know that it’s you because I don’t know your name.”

“I’m Cathy Byrd,” she said. “John Tucker’s mother. But you knew that part.”

“How did you get my number?”

“Lieutenant Lee gave it to me. He said we should talk.”

I had no idea what to say next. There are no guidelines for this kind of conversation, no appropriate questions. The only question worth asking hung between us like my father’s ghost.

It was Cathy’s turn to test the line. “Are you there?” she asked.

I asked the question. “Is he my brother?”

“He isn’t anyone’s brother. He’s dead.”

“Was he my brother?”

A second of silence, and then a sob. I felt like a jerk.

Cathy spoke through her tears. “Why did you call me?”

“I’m sorry. I just have to know.”

I heard the receiver clatter to the table. A landline. Then, faintly, the sound of Cathy blowing her nose, and a skittering sound as she returned to the call. “This is a terrible idea. You shouldn’t have called. I don’t want to talk to you.”

“Then why did you answer?”

“I thought you were the funeral parlor.”

I had forgotten her generation didn’t use caller ID.

“I’m sorry,” I repeated.

“I suppose I should invite you to the funeral.”

Talk about bad ideas.

“I don’t think that’s appropriate,” I said. “I didn’t know him.”

“Still, it’s only right, ironic even. He’d always wanted to meet you, ever since—”

“Ever since what?”

“I can’t do this over the phone. Please come to my house tomorrow. Noon, for lunch. I’ll explain then.”

What could I do? “Okay, I’ll be there,” I said.

Cathy gave me her address and hung up before I could back out.