I resisted the temptation to enlighten anyone.
I kept the inquisitive-looking Nate the Skate out of the loop.
I walked outside after borrowing a smoke from Norma, who chided me for revisiting a forsworn habit. Just one, I told her, for old times’ sake.
I lit up under the overhang that sheltered Foo Yang Chinese takeout from the broiling sun as Mr. Yang’s 13-year-old daughter stared at me listlessly through the dust-coated window.
The jolt of nicotine gave me an immediate buzz.
The accident.
Two people had collided on that road.
Dennis Flaherty and Ed Crannell.
Only they weren’t Dennis Flaherty and Ed Crannell.
There was no record of an Ed Crannell. Dennis Flaherty was demonstrably alive.
Let’s play editor.
Pretend the story-the story so far-has been placed on this editor’s desk. You know which editor too, the one wearing bifocals and a world-weary expression he’s justifiably earned. This particular story’s been offered up for approval by a journalist who’s seen better days, okay, whose reputation is less than crap, who’s literally disgraced his profession.
Let’s watch the editor wearily pull out his tooth-marked pencil as I tell him that Dennis Flaherty was never in that car.
Okay, he says, so that doctor was right. The dead man was black. He stole Dennis’s wallet, found it, bought it from some street hustler. Anyhow, he ended up with it. So what?
You’re forgetting about the other car. Nobody’s heard of Ed Crannell.
So the man lied about his identity. Ed Crannell lied about who he was. People lie about their identity all the time. Maybe he was driving with a suspended license. Maybe he had a record. Maybe he owes back alimony in the state of California. Or maybe he is Ed Crannell, just not a pharmaceutical salesman. And he doesn’t live in Cleveland. Maybe all he did was lie about that. It happens.
There were no skid marks.
Haven’t you been listening? Ed Crannell lied. You’re familiar with lying, aren’t you, Tom? The accident was his fault. He was changing radio stations, chatting on his cell. He was admiring the scenery, daydreaming, glazing over. Next thing he knew, he’d caused an accident. He was the only survivor, so he concocted a story-the other car drifted into his lane, the other driver noticed him too late, jammed on the brakes. No one jammed on the brakes. He made it up.
The editor is clearly smirking at me. Worse. He has that tired, defeated look you offer in the face of a habitual liar. Don’t insult my intelligence, the look says. Enough.
It’s not just the accident, I offer tentatively.
He sighs, shakes his weary head.
It’s not just the accident, I repeat myself. It’s Belinda.
Belinda, the editor says. Oh boy.
She said her dead son came back to say hello. I know, she was 100 years old. She was maybe dotty. Only there was that note from Benjy. Happy hundred birthday. Mr. Birdwell said no one had visited Belinda, but Benjy had. What other Benjamin would’ve come and written her that note?
Her son died, the editor says. You understand what died means, right, Tom?
Mrs. Flaherty’s son died, too. Only he’s alive.
Have you even checked to see if there’s another Benjy in the home? It’s New York all over again, isn’t it? The editor has clearly had it with me. He’s pointing to the door; he wants me gone. There’s no connection. You’re offering me two things with no connection to each other.
And then I say it. I don’t know why I didn’t say it before. I do now. I take my worn pencil and place it against the place mat in the Acropolis Diner. I draw a shaky line from Belinda’s dead son to the incinerated driver-to him.
My father smiles, reaches across the table to tousle my hair.
Good boy.
I know what you’re thinking, Dr. Payne.
My dad. My editor.
I’m not listening.