Through the peephole, she lifted her hand in greeting.
“One minute.”
He unbolted the chain, opened the door, waited for her to enter, then locked the door. She was a pretty young woman, a good six inches shorter than his Deborah, who slumped because of her height.
“I’m here to help,” Annie said.
He nodded. “Good. I thought you would.”
He pointed toward the kitchen. “Help yourself to coffee. Sugar. Milk. It’s all there.”
She looked at him and smiled, not moving. “I’m all set. Have you been out today?”
“No. Why?”
“I wondered if you ever went out.”
She shifted her weight onto one leg.
“Sometimes. How was your trip to Vienna?”
“It was okay.”
“You don’t sound excited.”
She shrugged. “Seemed like a caricature of itself. Like everything had already happened there. Anyway, I’m glad to be here to help you. I had time to think about our conversation. If I were in your shoes, I’d want someone to help me. Not be afraid. Isn’t that the point of all this? Not to be afraid?” She put a hand on her hip. She looked almost girlish—not a wrinkle on her face or neck. “I tried to imagine if someone took my son.”
“You can’t.”
“Yes. Of course.” She crossed her arms. “You said this man lives near the river. Do you have a picture?”
“Just a minute.”
He went into the bedroom and took the ripped photo from the night table drawer. When he returned, she was looking at the framed photo of Deborah.
“Here.”
He sat on the couch and watched her. She had the smooth skin of youth—that time in his life, long vanished, as if he’d never lived it. A picture. Yes. He had a torn picture. It serrated his thoughts, but he forced himself to keep it in view, imprint the bastard’s plain face in his mind. Light hair, square forehead, greenish brown eyes. Small chin. He might see him somewhere. A sidewalk. A street.
“He’s tall. Tall as your husband.”
She kept staring at the torn picture, shaking her head, disbelieving. “I know him. I’ve met him.” She handed the photo to Edward but didn’t look him in the eye.
“What is it, Annie?”
“It can’t be.” She swept her hair back behind her ears and turned toward the kitchen. “Stephen Házy. He’s American. A translator. His hair is short with longish bangs. But his face is the same. The color of his hair. We have his phone number on a business card at home.” She shook her head. “How can this be?”
“He’s a liar. I told you that.” Edward felt his blood charging into his chest, a rise of anger. “Get that number for me, will you? How old are you, Annie?”
“Thirty-three. Why?” She took a seat in the chair across from him.
Always in those running shorts. Americans and their exercise regimes. Where did it get them?
“He’s about your age.”
She unclasped her hands. “Yes. That’s what it seemed. Is it possible? You said he was here? You really think it’s the same person with a different name?”
“I told you. He’s a liar!” he shouted. “You’re no different. You don’t believe me. No one believes the truth when it’s in their goddamn faces.”
“I’m trying,” she said.
“Please. Annie. Listen to me. He’s here. I’m telling you. He’s near the river. Near a statue on the river. He’ll show up again. My younger daughter, Nan, got another letter from him.”
She leaned toward him. “He was very nice to us. Helpful.” She sighed and rubbed her eyes.
“Polite. You see? Just what you said. You’ve met him. But you’re thinking he couldn’t possibly be . . . Sylvia, my wife, she thought that. Deborah obviously did. Nan, she’s not saying.”
“He was polite. He seemed genuine. I liked him.”
“Jesus. You see? Didn’t I tell you that?”
“I’m trying to understand. What about the letter? What did he say?”
His blood tide subsided. He gulped another half glass of water. “Said there were more sides to the story than mine.” Edward snorted. Huffed his hot breath. “Liar. Nothing worse than a liar. Listen. You may not think he did anything to my daughter. Drug overdose, my ass. That I know. You may decide that I’m crazy. That’s your prerogative.”
He looked at her, waiting. He was tiring of this, but he had to keep going—she could help him. He needed that phone number. He would get the number and, from there, the address.
“I’m confused. It’s confusing.” She put two fingers on her lips, thinking. “I don’t think you would have come this far if you didn’t believe it was true. But . . .”
She crossed her legs. She had beautifully toned legs. No veins or imperfections scarring her calves or thighs. Youth. Such a waste. The light from the window outlined her body and she seemed for a moment to be floating in front of him, hovering in his gray apartment on a saucer of air.
“I trust Rose,” she said.
A feeling of fatigue. Sudden. Like a wind dying down to nothing. Flat. Stillness. He needed that number, but he’d scared her again. The police back home didn’t want to investigate. Case closed. It was black and white. Simple. Why screw up their lives for an old, fart, an old Jewish fart?
“What about your husband? What’s he say about all this? Your coming here.”
She squirmed in the chair, uncrossed and crossed her legs.
“Oh, I get it. He thinks I’m a crazy old bastard, too.”
“It’s not that.”
“What, then? Come on. Spit it out.”
“Nothing. He’ll be fine. He worries, that’s all.”
“You’re not telling me everything. Come on, Annie. Be straight. Get it out. Say it.”
She turned her hands over, both palms lifting something invisible toward him, like a plate or gift.
“It’s mostly that he thinks I sometimes get overly involved in trying to help.”
“Like my Deborah. We talked about that, and about your sister.”
“Yes. My sister and my brother.”
He waited, but he needed to know more. Nan had a sick sister. Nan spent her days helping sick people. What made these helpers tick? What was the attraction? Annie had everything a person needed and yet she was here in this crippled city.
“You told me your sister’s name.”
“Tracy. Her brain injury happened when I was four. A long time ago.” She stopped and looked at the floor.
“Where is she now?”
“In a group home.”
“A life wasted,” Edward said.
“No, no—” She looked up at him, her mouth grim. “Please don’t think of it that way. Please. It’s not fair to her or my brother.”
“Point taken,” he said. “Tell me about them.”
“Tracy’s in a wheelchair. She needs round-the-clock care. She was normal before the accident. I don’t talk about this.” She paused to fidget with the bottom edge of her T-shirt. “I told you my brother died five years ago. Took his life. He jumped from the scaffolding of a building. He was thirty-one.”
He began to see that what she presented was not at all who she was.
“Was he married?”
“No. He never married. He was alone,” she said, glaring at him. “Like you, I don’t want pity from people. I don’t talk about these things because it scares people.”
“So you help others because it’s safer.”
“Maybe. Something like that. It depends.”
“Why don’t you help your sister? She’s alive. Your brother is dead. You can’t do anything about that.”
She flinched, let out a muffled yelp, her head in her hands.
Goddamn it. She was crying. Jesus.
“Annie. I told you I’m an old fool.”
“It’s okay, it’s okay,” she said into her hands. She lifted her face and wiped her eyes, sucking in an exaggerated breath to calm herself.
Would he ever learn? He looked at the worn floor, a pattern of wood zigzagging like the mind of this godforsaken place. He looked up. He’d pushed too far. What else was new? He expected she would take off.
“I’m sorry, Annie.”
Instead, she pressed her lips together, almost smiling. “It’s okay. It feels good to cry. I thought you hated that word, sorry,” she said, propping her elbows on her knees, placing her chin in her cupped hands.
He almost smiled back. “I do.”
“Well, I like it. Sorry is a good word. It travels far.”
“Tears make you live longer,” he said, remembering his grandmother’s words. She had lived to 102.
“How old are you?” Annie asked.
“Seventy-six.”
She used the back of her hand to dry her cheek. “And you? Do you cry?”
“Every day.”
She looked at him, her blue eyes pale and soft, the color reminding him of hydrangeas on Cape Cod when he and Sylvia and the kids used to go for a week every August. Those mild, salty days. Deborah flapping her arms, heading out into the ocean too far, too deep, and Nan, the sensible one, the younger one who kept close to the shoreline.
Annie’s voice brought him back to the living room.
“Mr. Weiss? Do you think he could harm me or you?”
“Or your son?” he said.
She nodded. “If he’s what you say he is, he probably knows where we live. I ran into him on your street a week or so ago. He was meeting a client.”
“He’s a liar.”
He looked down at his watch, the gift from his father that had survived everything. Her beautiful son. No. No. This was wrong of him. It was dangerous. He couldn’t let her help except in some remote way. He wouldn’t put her sweet boy in danger. Out of the question. No. Her husband was right. He had no business asking her for help. No. No. This was wrong of him.
“That’s it. We need to quit this.”
He pushed himself up from the couch.
“What are you doing?” She stood also.
“Annie, I was wrong.” He moved toward the door to let her out. “I thank you for coming, but I’ve changed my mind about this.” He reached the door, unbolted it, and gestured for her to leave.
“I don’t know what to say. I don’t understand.” She moved toward the door.
“It’s not you, Annie. It’s me. You need to understand this. You have to leave right now. Don’t come back here. Don’t come to my street. Your husband is right. You’ve done enough. I thank you for that. You’ve helped me. You’ve helped me see something I should have seen before. I’ll call you or you call me. Give me that number, but don’t come back here. Keep your son away, too. Understand? I’ve made a terrible mistake.”
As soon as Annie left, he went to the living-room window and looked out to watch her walking quickly down the sidewalk. He scanned the shadows of the buildings as she passed them on the way to the boulevard at the far end. His quiet road looked empty right now. He could only hope that Howard wasn’t hiding somewhere, watching her.