ASHER BLUM

Asher ran his index finger across the shiny wood of the round table. Iris used teak oil to polish the surfaces. “You should be able to see yourself smile in the shine,” she liked to say.

“Dr. Blum?” The detective’s tone suggested this wasn’t the first time she had asked the question. “When was the last time you saw your wife?”

“Last night,” he said. Hadn’t he already answered this question a hundred times? “I went to bed at ten, as usual. She was sitting right here in this chair, reading her book.” He patted the arm of the chair. “I didn’t hear her come to bed.”

“Was her bed slept in?”

He hesitated, then admitted, “I’m not sure. I take a sleeping pill and sleep very soundly.”

“And when you woke up?”

“At six she was gone. There was no coffee brewed, no oatmeal on the stove.”

“Were you worried about her?” the detective asked.

Asher shook his head. “Not really. She likes to walk, so I thought she decided to go out before breakfast.”

“Where does she like to walk?”

“She’s eighty-eight years old,” he said. “And needs a cane, so she mostly walks on the sidewalks of the Hospital Hill neighborhood.” Why did he say that? Iris preferred the paths near the river, even though he tried to convince her it was safer walking on the sidewalks.

“We’ll start looking there. What happened this morning when your neighbor came over?” McPhee looked down at her notes. “Evelyn Turner?”

“She demanded to see Iris and I told her Iris wasn’t home. She didn’t believe me and strong-armed her way into my house. Like the Gestapo! When she saw that Iris wasn’t here, she started yelling at me, accusing me of something. Heaven knows what.”

“Evelyn called the police department. She said she was worried about Iris.”

“She’s a busybody, always sticking her nose in other people’s business.”

“Are you worried about your wife now, Dr. Blum?” The detective glanced down at her watch. “She’s been away for at least six hours.”

Asher looked down at his lap. He was worried, of course he was. But he couldn’t begin to explain it all to these people. They were young. They wouldn’t understand the history involved, the complexities.

“Tell me about Mrs. Blum.” The detective’s voice was gentler now. “Has she been worried about anything? Has she been upset or ill?”

He looked from the lady detective—clearly the one in charge—to the man and back to the lady. “My wife has dementia,” he said. “It’s a fulminant type, that leads to mental deterioration in months rather than years. She has been very confused in the past few weeks. So, yes. That has been very upsetting to her, to both of us.”

“I’m so sorry to hear that,” the detective said. “Who’s her physician?”

“I am. I take care of her medical needs.”

The two detectives exchanged glances. Then the lady asked, “She hasn’t seen anyone else? For medications or examinations?”

Asher took a deep breath. “No need. I can write prescriptions. I take excellent care of her.”

McPhee nodded. “Has anything else been bothering her recently, anything you’re aware of?”

“No, not really. Just with the confusion, she sometimes gets years mixed up and thinks she’s still in college, living in Brooklyn.” He tried to laugh. “It’s not unusual with dementia.”

McPhee nodded again. “No, not unusual, but our job is to look at all the possibilities to help us find Mrs. Blum as soon as possible. Can you think of anyone who might have a reason to want to hurt your wife?”

Hurt Iris? Of course not. Asher shook his head. “She is kind to everyone. Everyone likes my Iris.”

“What about you?” McPhee asked. “Can you think of anyone who might have a beef with you, want to hurt you through your wife?”

“Why would anyone want to hurt a harmless old man?”

McPhee smiled. “All those years you were treating patients at the state hospital, were there patients or families who felt unhappy with the care, or unsatisfied with the outcome?”

Asher responded with a wry smile. “Very few people are satisfied about the treatment of mental illness. There’s so much we don’t know about what causes these diseases and how to treat them. We do our best, and we do have some excellent outcomes, but many families are disappointed with the results.”

The front door opened, and a uniformed officer motioned to the male detective, who got up to confer with him, and then turned to Asher.

“The canine unit is here, sir. We need an item that your wife wore recently. A blouse or nightgown would be perfect.”

Asher walked into the bedroom and took Iris’s lavender flowered nightgown from the hook behind the door. He buried his face in it for a few seconds before returning to the living room and handing it to the policeman.

“I’m feeling very tired,” he told the detectives. “Might I be left alone to rest?”

Both detectives stood. “Of course. We’ll have to bring you down to the station for a formal interview, but that can wait until later. For the time being the officer will be stationed on your porch in case there are any developments in the case. We’ll be back with any news or updates.”

She shook Asher’s hand. “We’ll do everything we can to find your wife.”

When they were gone, finally gone, he pushed the recliner way back. He picked up Iris’s knitting basket and cradled it in his lap. Outside, a mockingbird in the bare magnolia tree cycled through his repertoire. Asher closed his eyes and let his mind drift.

When he met Iris in December 1949, she and Harriet were sharing a Bunsen Burner. Their chemistry lab assistant was Asher’s med school buddy, bedridden with the fever and deep cough that had swept Brooklyn College that semester, so Asher was filling in. It was late afternoon, and the university had removed every other light bulb to save money. Shadows danced along the long tile tables, shrinking and elongating between the burner flames.

He had walked up and down the rows of freshmen students, wondering if any of them had a clue about the correct laboratory procedures. He wasn’t concentrating entirely on the experiment because of that girl in the front row, her coal black hair hanging dangerously close to the burner. That’s what he told himself. That he was touching her hair to get it away from the flame.

“Dad?” Lexi stood in front of him. “You okay?”

Why was his daughter in the chem lab? He looked at her blank-faced. Eric was standing next to her.

“Eric called me,” she said. “What happened to Mom?”

Of course, he thought, Eric would have called her. Everyone sticking their noses into his business. Still, it was good that Lexi was there. He nodded to Eric.

“Daddy?” Lexi kneeled on the floor next to his chair, like she used to as a little girl. She rested her head on the knitting basket. “They wouldn’t let me in before, while the detectives were here. I was at Eric’s house and we were waiting until we saw the cops leave.” She paused. “We snuck in the back way. Did you know there’s an officer stationed on the porch?”

“A big mess, Lexi.” Her nickname still stuck on his tongue. Alexandra was such a pretty name and it had power and meaning in their family. So many Alexanders and Alexandras who never made it out of Europe. But Iris wanted to call their daughter something up to date. “Something modern,” she said, so he gave in to the nickname.

“It’s okay. We’ll figure it out. Talk to me.”

He wanted to, but he couldn’t think of what to say.

“Don’t you think I’m old enough to know what’s going on?”

Asher tugged her graying braid and half-smiled. “Almost.”

Lexi took his hand. “Dad, did Mom leave you? Why would she do that?”

“Enough.” Asher stood up awkwardly, spilling the yarn onto the floor and pushing Lexi away. “Please. I need to lie down.”