Identity Issues (21 page)

"I have a friend who’s a chemist, and he works in a lab. He checked samples of the water for me. There’s no mistake."

"Sam, their home is a fucking crime scene. You need to call the cops. It’s not safe for the boys or you. What the fuck? You didn’t even tell me, and we had a pact."

"Relax," I said.

"Relax? You may be an accessory to a crime. You could even be an accessory after the fact. Sam, what the hell is wrong with you? From now on, you’re calling me every morning. Checking in with me. Who’s gonna watch over you?"

"Shut up for a minute. Let me explain. I called the cops. In fact, the detective who first called me about Rosita Stitsill. He’s in the loop. In fact, he took me to the gun range yesterday."

"Are you crazy?"

"Covering all the bases."

"And this is all on the up and up? This guy didn’t try to put the moves on you?"

"Jack," I tried acting cool. "Where did that come from?"

"Just saying, Stitsill. This detective, whoever the hell he is, has the hots for you."

"You’re being ridiculous. I’m married."

"Don’t be stupid. Guys don’t just take women to the range, not unless they’re interested in them. Trust me. If this guy’s acting gallant, and you’re buying into it, then you’re just being dumb. Geez." He really sounded disgusted.

"Hey, relax. We went to the range, and he showed me how to shoot. I excelled at target practice. End of story."

"Yeah, right. And he didn’t try to help you hold the gun, show you where your arm needed to be in relation to your body. You are one naive woman, Stitsill."

Jack so enjoyed yanking my chain. "You’re starting to piss me off," I told him.

"Heh, heh, heh. That’s the Stitsill I know and love."

"Fine. See you at work tomorrow."

"Day after that, you’re checking in with me. Each and every morning. All summer. I mean it."

"Records days are my favorite," I said. "And fine, I’ll call you every day." Sarcasm dripped off me like a melting popsicle.

I clicked off and spent my first day without children doing yard work. The raking and mowing kept me focused on all things home. Sort of.

Jack appeared in the hallway as I entered school the following morning.

"Hey, Stitsill, what’s up? Enjoying your freedom?"

"Too bad Jon’s gone."

"Your husband is never home, Sam. You should be used to it by now."

"You’d think."

A voice over the loudspeaker interrupted. "Mrs. Stitsill, if you’re in the building, please report to the office for a phone call."

"Wonderful." I scowled. "Probably a parent wondering why their kid didn’t get credit for the assignment he turned in two weeks late. Last minute plea for a pass."

Jack slapped me on the back. "It’s that time of year. Just get through the next two days. I’m gonna focus on hitting some balls after work and then maybe play a round."

"Ah, the life of a single man. See you later."

I turned and strolled down the hall, thinking about how much I would not miss this place over the summer. Ten seconds later, I entered the office.

"Hey, Yolanda, you paged me for a phone call. What line is it on?"

"Hi, Sam. I took a message for you."

"No problem."

"It’s bad news, Sam."

I stopped breathing. "Rosie Stitsill?"

"Yeah, it’s Mrs. Stitsill." She rested her hand on my shoulder, the sadness in her eyes revealing all.

"Be right back," I choked out.

I reeled around the corner into the Ladies Room, locked the door, sat down on the toilet, and wept. I felt desolate. How could she be dead? A young mother. Joey’s mom. Gone. Before I’d told her the lab results on the water. I stood, lifted the toilet seat, and threw up. I couldn’t stop. It was as if I’d swallowed the tainted water, not Rosie.

I splashed cold water on my blotchy face, blew my nose, rinsed out my mouth, and finger–combed my hair back into place.

Yolanda sat at her desk as I returned to the office. She handed me a standard pink While You Were Out message slip.

"Sam, if you need anything, just let me know."

"Thanks."

Once I made it to my classroom, I looked again at the slip of paper Yolanda had given to me. The details were sketchy. Rosie had died during the night. Yolanda had noted the name of the funeral home, and its phone number. With my own kids away, I would be able to grieve without interruption. With Jon gone, I could avoid questions about my emotional state.

I recorded final grades in a fog, removed posters from the wall, stacked textbooks in bins, and left a message for McGrath. She’s dead. Once I arrived home, I dragged myself into the house for a shower, then dressed in sweats, poured myself a shot of bourbon, and joined the birds and squirrels out on the front porch. I had another good cry, unable to quell the responsibility I felt for Rosie’s death. Why hadn’t I figured out the water thing earlier?

Here I sat, thirty–eight years old, the same age as Rosie, and in the prime of my life. But my life was not my own. Ruled by schedules—career, kids, and, of course, Jon’s. He would never be the husband I wanted him to be. Not his fault, just the nature of his job. I would always be alone at times I didn’t want to be.

I weaved my way into the house, tripped over Rex, and added more bourbon to my glass. Food would be nice, but I couldn’t cook right now. The amber liquid would suffice.

Who could I tell about Rosie? Interesting question. Better yet, who would believe me? What would I say? I met a woman who believed I’d married her husband. I determined that her husband, who had probably stolen my husband’s identity, was responsible for her cancer, murdering her by tainting her personal water supply. Yeah, totally believable.

With the aid of the bourbon, I deteriorated further. I felt so fucking lonely, so fucking alone.

I refilled my glass yet again, realizing belatedly that I was too drunk to drive to the corner store for a pack of cigarettes. Damn it.

The next morning, I woke at 6:00 a.m. to blaring music from the clock radio. My head pounded. I slapped the off button, then staggered to the vanity drawer where I tossed back three painkillers with a stale sip of water. The image staring back at me from the mirror, vague but familiar, looked like hell. No amount of effort could repair the obvious damage. I did my best, filled my extra–large travel mug with hi–test, and headed out the door. It hit me again that I hadn’t checked the answering machine for a message from Jon. Yep, I was in bad shape. I retraced my steps inside and looked for the blinking light on the machine. I pressed play to listen to the single voicemail. It was my neighbor, Stuart James, telling me he’d arranged the trust and would contact Rosita Stitsill’s mother with the details. No message from my husband.

I called the funeral home mid–morning from work, asked about visitation and funeral details. It would hurt to see Joey and Emilio, as well as prove impossible to conceal my sadness. Tearing up, I wondered again if the other Jon Stitsill knew about Rosie’s death. Was he, even now, congratulating himself for his cleverness? This certainly put a damper on any possibility of an end of the year celebration. I simply drove home at the end of the day, avoiding my colleagues, and huddled inside my home like a hermit in a cave.

I slept fitfully that night, then rose early and readied myself for the visitation and funeral which immediately followed. As I drove into the mortuary lot, I noticed the police car outside. McGrath? He wouldn’t have driven a cruiser. Curiouser and curiouser. Joey had completed D.A.R.E. this year. Were officers there as a courtesy? I definitely needed to stay on my toes, alert to clues about Rosie’s dead husband or his friends. As I entered the visitation room for Rosie, Joey greeted me.

"Hi, Mrs. Stitsill." He walked into my open arms and held on tight.

"I’m so sorry about your mom, honey."

Joey nodded as he looked up at me, and then he handed me a prayer card. I scanned it. 

"Your mom died on her birthday." My shock caused the words to burst out of me.

"We had her cake after dinner, and she even ate some. Chocolate’s her favorite. Grandma made it for her. The next morning, Grandma told us she’d died in her sleep." He spoke in a monotone.

Joey and I approached Rosie’s casket. She looked sound asleep, not dead. I quelled the impulse to shake her and make sure she was really dead. She looked so peaceful, her dress a youthful selection that suited her. Her worry lines gone, the perpetual frown that had seemed a part of her face no longer evident. Joey and I observed a quiet stretch of time that allowed for reflection and prayer.

"I liked your mom a lot, Joey, and she loved you and Emilio more than anything."

"I know." He nodded. "She told us all the time. We’re going to miss her."

"Of course, you are, but your mom had a deep faith in God, and she’s happy to be in heaven with Him now."
Stupid shit thing to say. What’s wrong with me?

"I know ‘cuz my dad died and mom told us not to worry about him since he’s in heaven with God, too."

"Well, that’s right, isn’t it?" I looked at him and saw the hope in his eyes. I turned away to keep from crying. As I drew in a deep breath, I took his hand and led him over to the couch. We sat, and I wished I possessed some pearls of wisdom to offer this twelve year old boy.

Wisdom escaped me.

"Maybe we could go for a bike ride, or your Grandma might let me take you for ice cream. I’d like to spend time with you this summer."

"I’d really like that, Mrs. Stitsill." He smiled. "You’d do that?"

I laughed and patted his hand. "Absolutely. I’ll call you. I have your number, remember?"

He hugged me again, holding on tight as I stroked the back of his shiny black head. Our D.A.R.E. officer, Todd Thomas, approached and shared with Joey that a donation of tickets to an upcoming baseball game had been made to him and Emilio. I mouthed a ‘thank you’ to Todd.

People began to emerge from the building and climb into their vehicles for the procession to church. I slipped behind the wheel of my van. We formed a long line, the tiny funeral flags magnetized to our car roofs, for the five mile drive to the church. I pulled out of the parking lot with tears obstructing my vision, checking out the people who stood outside the entrance to the funeral home. Nothing suspicious. I headed to the church, using my cell to call the kids as I drove. I learned from my mother–in–law that they’d all gone fishing with Grandpa, and she promised to have them call me later. Good, I thought. Safe and sound. I still hadn’t spoken to Jon yet, but I tried not to worry. At least, not yet. Rosie’s death was enough to cope with right now. I fooled myself into thinking that, for now, I could relax.

I sat in the rear of St. Timothy’s, which provided a fairly complete view of the crowd. Nearly a hundred people. Studying the mourners, I spotted two thick–necked goons. They sat directly in front of me. Just as Rosie had described them, including their crooked noses and gold chains. They spoke in gruff voices.

At the Sign of Peace, both men turned around to shake my hand. They definitely did not belong in this crowd. They were better suited for a scene from the Godfather. I checked out their coats. Bulges in each jacket. One on the side, one in the back. My stomach flipped.

The priest concluded the Mass and nodded to the funeral director, who provided the schedule—the vehicle procession to the cemetery, the interment, and a luncheon reception.

Joey and Emilio led the procession. Grandma followed. The casket came next, then the priest. I pulled out a tissue and dabbed at the tears that spilled onto my cheeks. I hated this. Shit. What a waste of a life.

I followed the assembly, noticing McGrath near the rear of the church. I nodded in his direction. He passed me a faint grin.

I fastened my seatbelt and took a sip from the bottled water on my passenger seat. Horrified, I rolled down the window and spat. Water. The thing that had started this mess. I couldn’t drink another drop. What if this didn’t end with Rosie’s death?

N
UMB WITH GRIEF, I fell into bed early. I awoke in the middle of the night to the sound of the sump pump alarm shrieking and droning. I loathed that sound. Rain pounded against the rooftop and windows, competing with the blaring alarm. All I could envision was a flooded basement.

"Damn it." I swung my legs over the side of the bed, slid my feet into my slippers, and plodded downstairs. I gripped the rail, cursing the whole way. I didn’t go into the sump room. In fact, rule number one at our house is, ‘Mom doesn’t do the sump room’.

Pitch black darkness always cloaked the sump room. I shivered just thinking about it. Mice lived in there, too. Some dead and some alive. Spiders and their intricate cobwebs maintained permanent homes there, and it reeked of mustiness and mold. I don’t do sump rooms. I didn’t like any of this. Not at all. I hadn’t even had my coffee yet.

Digging in the back hall bench, I located a pair of earmuffs and pulled them down over my ears. The now muffled alarm helped me to think more clearly. Next, I grabbed a pair of jeans from the laundry room and tugged those on, tucking in my nightgown. Nice look, I thought. I went into the kitchen, fumbled around, and started the coffee–maker. This mission called for reinforcements and caffeine.

While the coffee brewed, I located Jon’s phone number in Japan. He could tell me which wire to remove in order to stop the dreadful wail of the alarm. I removed the earmuffs, stepped into the garage with my coffee, dialed an endless stream of numbers, and finally heard an Asian voice.

"Yes, hello," I said, feeling all hope drain out of me. I sipped my coffee, and continued slowly, "I’m trying to locate my husband. Jon Stitsill. S–t–i–t–s–i–l–l." No answer. "Hello?" I repeated.

"Mushi mushi," said the voice on the other side of the globe.

Now we’re getting somewhere. I knew that meant ‘hello’.

"Konbanwa. I would like to speak to Jon Stitsill. He is a guest staying at your hotel. Jon Stitsill," I said again.

"Hai," came the answer. Then, the disconnected buzz.

I felt the blood rise to my cheeks. I took another gulp of coffee and punched in the damn numbers yet again. New approach.