From the porch of the Sunnyview Nursing Home, a resident would have a good view of both Morning Glory Cemetery and the Springfield Recycling Center. I wondered if the old folks appreciated the constant reminders that we’re all future compost. Gerald Fraser saw me pull into the driveway, and he waved me over to where he sat, tapping his gimpy leg to keep the circulation going.
It was a far cry from the picture I’d gotten of him last night. On the passenger seat of my Jeep, stuck in between nursery receipts and old copies of Garden Design, were the attachments I’d finally printed out from Lucy’s e-mail of the week before: two articles from the New York Times and two from the Bulletin.
The first Times article had a cropped picture of Gerald Fraser’s graduating class at the police academy, with Fraser’s head circled. Wrestler’s body, thick brows, superhero jawline, and million- watt smile. Full of testosterone and good intentions. The headline read: CT COP SAVES JOGGER IN PARK.
On March 17, 1976, Fraser and some other local cops had been in New York for the St. Paddy’s Day Parade. After a busy day marching and partying, Fraser and a few of his buddies were watering some bushes in the north end of Central Park when they surprised two guys attacking a woman. Fraser zipped up the fastest and took off after the assailants. He managed to subdue them both but not before being stabbed in the leg so viciously the doctors thought he’d never walk again. And never be a cop again. They were only half- right. The second Times attachment was one line in the Metro Briefing section, HERO COP GOES HOME.
The Bulletin’s headlines were almost as intriguing:
FORMER COP REPRIMANDED and FORMER COP TAKES IST PRIZE AT BIG E ARTS FESTIVAL.
“Come on up,” he said, putting his paper down. “Hard to believe all this is coming back. And then some.”
I took the stairs two at a time and settled in next to him on one of Sunnyview’s green- and- white- striped gliders. “I appreciate your seeing me.” An attendant brought us a pitcher of iced tea and two glasses.
“Thanks, Genevieve. I love to watch her walk away,” he said to me, looking at her. “I don’t get many visitors. Except Tom Robbins, the kid from the recycling center. He brings me scrap metal for my sculptures and slips me the occasional Victoria’s Secret catalog for inspiration.”
“I’d like to see them one day,” I said politely. “The sculptures,” I clarified. “I was surprised when Babe told me you lived here. If it’s not too presumptuous, you don’t seem old enough.”
“I’m not. Some developer offered me a ton of dough for my property, and I couldn’t refuse. I like to think of this place as a bad hotel I’m temporarily booked into until I find the right piece of land to build on.”
“Did you say something, Officer Fraser?” a nearby worker chirped.
“I was a detective.” Under his breath, he added, “Half-wit.
“My wife had just passed away,” he said, returning to me, “and the kids had scattered. It was too much house for me and too many memories. The last few years were tough, especially with the kids so far away, but she didn’t suffer. At least, not according to that quack doctor. You know ‘Dumbo’ Parrish?”
I shook my head.
Robert “Dumbo” Parrish had been the class clown when he and Gerald were kids, but he gave up his plans for a career in stand- up comedy when a minor surgical procedure corrected his protruding ears and changed his life. Impressed by his doctor’s power, he decided to devote his life to medicine, but fifty years later-and with no evidence of his previous deformity-many still referred to him as “Dumbo.”
“Well, I see your memory’s still good,” I said positively.
“It’s my curse. Take me to lunch. You’ll be rescuing me from the week’s culinary atrocity, chipped beef on toast. That way I can tell you what I know away from Nurse Ratched here.” He motioned inside to a perfectly pleasant- looking woman whose name tag actually bore the unfortunate name Ratched. I agreed and we made our way haltingly to my Jeep.
“It just stiffens up a little if I sit too long,” he explained. “My leg, that is.”
“I feel like I know them already,” I said, holding the car door open for Gerald.
“Who?” he said.
Maybe he was older than I thought. This was going to be a long afternoon if he couldn’t remember who we were talking about. “The Peacock sisters,” I said gently.
“Sure, sure, kid. We’ll talk about them. But the person you really want to know about is Yoly Rivera. I wouldn’t be surprised if she’s the mother.”