Death Logs In (18 page)

Alex paused and seemed to be thinking. Michael stayed silent, sensing Alex had more to say.

He started speaking again, his mood seeming to shift. “It’s like I said. It’s different. I’m alive, I’m here. But there’s no order, no sequence to things. It just
is
—when it is at all. I don’t know how to describe it.”

Michael sensed that their common language couldn’t accommodate what Alex was trying to communicate. “Alex, don’t worry about it. Anyway, one reason I brought all this up is because both Lesters want to go to the cemetery tomorrow. I said I’d go with them.”

Alex’s face took on an expression of confusion. “I’ve never thought about the cemetery.”

Michael was intrigued. “Do you know where you’re buried?”

Alex paused, then answered, “Saint Michael’s in Astoria.”

“How did you know that? Do you remember the burial?”

Alex laughed, “No one can remember their own burial. It’s like your own wedding—the whole event just flies by. What are you guys going to do there anyway?”

“What does anyone do there? You know, I don’t generally go to cemeteries but I think both Lesters miss you. I guess it’s their way of feeling closer to you or something.”

“Tell them it’s a waste of time. No one’s there.”

“What do you mean, ‘No one’s there?’ Your body’s there.”

Alex, expressionless, said simply, “If you say so.”

Chapter 41

Astoria, New York

I
nside Saint Michael’s Cemetery, Fat and Skinny Lester and Michael surrounded the white marble gravestone, each of them looking down at it as though expecting some response to their words, perhaps their prayers but, at the very least, their stares.

Michael focused on the inscription:

Alex Thomas Nicholas

Aged 61 Years

“Going, going, gone.”

R. I. P.

“It’s always so strange to see the name of someone you know—” Michael quickly corrected himself, “ah, knew—etched in stone.” Michael had been to this cemetery many times before; he remembered the same feeling when he’d seen the names of his parents on their gravestones.

Years ago Alex had joked to Michael that he wanted his grave epitaph to be the signature home run call of the late Yankees announcer Mel Allen, and so it appeared. All who knew Alex well agreed it was fitting, not only because of Alex’s love of baseball but for the subtle sarcasm on life and death that it represented.

“I still can’t believe that he’s down there, in that fucking box.” Fat Lester said. He looked grizzled and rough, wearing baggy khakis and an old wrinkled and worn sport coat.

“I don’t believe he’s there either,” Michael said, thinking,
if you guys only knew
… Then, out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a man, in the distance, walking swiftly between the gravestones. He was heading in their direction.

Both Lesters turned and looked at Michael. He looked back; wondering what they were thinking.

“I’m only saying that I don’t believe that what’s buried matters very much. It’s just symbolic. If there is anything after someone dies, I doubt it’s in their grave.”

But as Michael looked again for the figure he’d spotted, a black sedan drove slowly up the gravel, oak-tree-lined road. It stopped and, to everyone’s surprise, a tall man in a flowing black and gold embroidered robe stepped out of the passenger side and walked the short distance to meet them.

Michael had not seen Father John Papadopoulos since Alex’s funeral last year. A large man, in height and girth, made even larger by his ornate, billowing holy robes and his long grey beard, he brought a haunting yet Hollywood-like presence to a graveyard. He knew it was crazy, yet Michael sensed there was a greater possibility of God’s existence when he saw Father Papadopoulos. They all watched as he approached.

“God’s here,” Fat Lester said.

Father Papadopoulos reached out and embraced Michael.

“My son, how are you?” he said. He then looked over at the two Lesters as they introduced themselves. Michael was amused as he watched the two atheist Jewish guys looking in apparent fascination at the odd embodiment of another time, another world.

“I’m good. It’s good to see you again.” Michael said. “What brings you here? Did you know that we were going to be visiting?”

“No, I was doing a visit with another parishioner here,” he said, motioning back to the car with its driver still behind the wheel. “I saw you as we were passing and wanted to stop and give you my good wishes.” It sounded plausible but Michael was dubious.

A short distance behind the car, Michael again saw the stranger. Like an apparition, he thought. But the stranger turned around and walked in the opposite direction. He was leaving. Perhaps, Michael thought, the presence of the Greek priest with all his black robes and crosses frightened him off. Or was it just someone keeping a respectful distance.

Looking over toward Alex’s grave, Father Papadopoulos said, “And how is our brother Alex?”

Fat Lester coughed, Skinny Lester cleared his throat as Michael shot them both a stern glance.

“He’s quiet,” was all Michael could muster in response. Yet he felt an urge to confide in the priest who perhaps could help him reconcile the ancient world of the Scriptures with this new technology that had somehow brought Alex back to life. He wondered if Papadopoulos’ rigorous Greek Orthodox religious training, his connection to thousands of years of theological thoughts and beliefs, would allow him to accommodate this new technological phenomenon as a further evolution of the holy philosophy. With all his own assumptions about life and death now in disarray, Michael longed for the childhood comfort that the church provided with its all-knowing view of life and eternity. The one comfort he wanted back more and more, the older he became.

But he knew better. Just as abortion threatens the devout living, immortality through technology would threaten the dead, challenge the concepts of the hereafter, of heaven, hell and, perhaps worst of all for the pious, of consequences and redemption. No, Father Papadopoulos might not be a receptive ear.

Papadopoulos moved slowly to Alex’s grave. He first stood directly above the headstone, folded his hands in prayer and then, as though speaking to God, looked up while continuing his whispered words, appearing certain they were being heard. He finished and came back to Michael.

“May I speak with you alone for a moment?”

Michael leaned in close to Papadopoulos. Fat Lester looked on; he seemed suspicious of the priest.

“Michael, is everything OK with you?” Papadopoulos looked concerned.

What in the world is he asking? Michael thought. Is this about Samantha, his marriage, Tartarus? Or, perhaps … “What do you mean, Father?”

“I mean, how are you handling Alex’s passing? I believe he’s in a good place, a better place but I know, for those of us here or those of us who, at times, question our faith, it’s not always easy to see this.”

Michael didn’t know where to start. “Father, first, of course I question my faith. But, listen, I question everything. Unfortunately, to me, almost nothing is certain. I live in the grey, for better or worse. I know a lot of priests who tell me that even
they
question their faith at times. So, of course, I do too. I miss Alex. How can you not miss a big brother? He’s the last link for me to my parents. Everyone else is gone. It’s like a small piece of them still lived here as long as Alex was alive. Now, they only live in my mind, my memory, or my imagination.”

Michael looked at Father Papadopoulos but couldn’t determine if what he had just said had gotten through. Michael couldn’t read what he was thinking. It seemed to be true for a lot of people with whom he was communicating lately, he thought.

“Father, is that what you meant?”

“Not exactly, my son. I called upon your sister-in-law, Donna the other day. She confided in me, some fears, some concerns, perhaps rumors. She told me that she has already spoken to you about them.”

“Yes, she did speak with me over dinner. She asked if Alex was really dead.” Michael’s tone was curt yet he was actually confused. After all, Alex was dead, at least in the sense that everyone understood death to be. Yet Alex was very much alive, as only Michael knew. But everything was turning grey.

He continued, “No one knows better than you, Father, that Alex’s body—dead body—was in his casket. You helped close it yourself at your altar at the church.”

Father Papadopoulos looked at Michael, his face brightened, “Yes, I know. But the Lord works in strange, miraculous ways.”

Chapter 42

Westport, Connecticut

I
t was the first night out for Samantha since her shortened shopping trip to Paris. Dinner with Angie Fanelli in the familiar comfort of Mario’s seemed like the perfect antidote to the horror she had just left on Avenue Bosquet.

As they began their evening’s voyage with champagne cocktails, Tiger dropped by their table.

“So, how are the desperate housewives tonight? And where’s the chief and mister president?”

“The chief’s at the station, or so he says.” Angie said, laughing. “Probably watching the Yankees on the television in his office.”

Tiger looked at Angie with his own sly smile. “What does the chief do with that gun he carries anyway?”

“He cleans it,” Angie answered, totally serious. “Regularly.”

Tiger turned his attention to Samantha, who had finished her drink in record time.

“And where’s your boy?”

Tiger was just what Samantha needed to lift her spirits, at least until the vodka did its job.

“He actually went to the cemetery this afternoon with some of his brother’s friends, the Lesters. He might be joining us before we leave.” Samantha knew as soon as she said it that it was doubtful. “Although I haven’t heard from him since earlier in the day.”

As Tiger moved on to another table, Samantha knew she had to tell someone. And there was no one better to tell than Angie. She watched the disbelief on her friend’s face as she told her the story. The way Samantha had unlocked the door of Bertrand Rosen’s apartment—with the key he had offered to her just the day before. The way she turned the lock and slowly opened the door …

“Samantha. Tell me more.”

She continued her story, seeing everything in her mind as though she was still in the apartment on Avenue Bosquet.

“It was so eerie. I walked in, into the living room. I called out his name. Nothing, no one answered. Then I saw it. One of the big windows in the living room was open. The curtains were gently rustling. The little breeze I had felt was coming from the window. I walked all the way in, still calling out, ‘Bertrand, it’s me.’ ”

Angie Fanelli sat, speechless, her hands covering her mouth.

“So I walked over to the window. But, I knew. I don’t know how I could have or why I would’ve assumed anything like that, but, I knew. I knew he’d jumped.”

“What did you do?” Angie asked.

“I went to the window and I, I didn’t want to look down but I knew I had to. So, I leaned on the windowsill and stuck my head out. I looked down. It was like ten stories. I looked and I could see something on the sidewalk. I couldn’t tell for sure, I was too far up but I could see it, him, on the sidewalk. Then I saw some people below. They were frozen. Everything seemed to stand still for a second. It was like a dream, a nightmare. The world just stood still for whatever period of time it was. Then, like ants, they started moving toward him, running.” And then Samantha just stopped speaking, her eyes gazing off, somewhere else.

Angie was on the edge of her seat. She reached across the table and took Samantha’s hand, rubbing it. “What happened then, what did you do?”

“I’m so ashamed. I turned around and walked out of the apartment. I was so paranoid, I could swear someone was watching me, but as I was walking toward the door, I looked around. There was no one there. So I left and took the elevator down and walked out of the building. There was a whole commotion not too far from the door. I knew it was him. I walked the other way. I didn’t want to look. I couldn’t be seen there. I just walked away and walked all the way back to my hotel. I threw the key in a trash can. I … was just trying to get back … at Michael.”

“Are you going to tell him?”

“No, not ever.”

Samantha finished her drink and watched as the patrons of Mario’s went about their business of eating, drinking, talking and dreaming. As her eyes scanned the dining room, she saw a man enter who appeared to know no one and whom no one appeared to know, which was rare inside Mario’s. Her eyes followed him as he took a seat at the bar. She wished she wasn’t driving home alone.

Chapter 43

New York City

D
onna Nicholas, formerly Donna Finkelstein, was, to Michael, the least objectionable of his brother’s three wives.

He arrived on time at Campanile, an old and aging restaurant on East Twenty-Ninth Street, and sat, alternately sipping and admiring his Blue Sapphire martini with its two green olives in the simple but elegant, classic martini glass.

Michael watched as the front door swung open and the eyes of the waiters, busboys and bartender turned toward the slender, tanned woman with perfect, uplifted breasts, a short skirt, inches above her perfectly proportioned knees and slender thighs. Making immediate eye contact, she strolled right over to his table and kissed him on both cheeks. He remembered the days following Alex’s death when Donna begged him to help her sort through Alex’s life and finances.

Donna sat down, ordered her Grey Goose cosmo, looked around her at the near empty dining room and, probably disappointed in the absence of potential admirers, exclaimed, “Well, Michael, we’ll certainly have a quiet dinner tonight, won’t we?”

As soon as they placed their dinner orders, he decided to get to the point.

“I just wanted to follow up on our discussion the other night at Cafe Cluny. You know, your question about Alex?”

“You mean the one about whether he was really dead?” Donna smiled and laughed lightly. “Michael, I know my crazy husband is dead. I’m not some nutcase. I know how you think.”