Jane’s hands shook, caught in the fabric of her robe, became sharp-knuckled, paralyzed talons. Her cries degraded to gasps, then snuffles, then tortured squeaks that caused her to twist and jerk.
Milo watched her without seeming to. Relaxed but not blase. How many times had he done this? Suddenly she became still, and silence captured the house—a cold, rotten inertia.
Where was the husband?
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” said Milo.
“My God, my God—when did it happen?”
“Lauren was found a few hours ago.”
She nodded, as if that made sense, and Milo began giving her the basics, speaking slowly, clearly, in low, even tones. She kept nodding, began rocking in sync with his phrasing. Shifted her body away from me and toward him. The logical realignment. I welcomed it.
He finished, waited for her to respond, and, when she didn’t, said, “I know this is a hard time to be answering questions, but—”
“Ask anything.” She clutched her head again, and her face crumpled. “My baby—my precious baby\”
More tears. A beeper went off. Milo reached for his and Jane Abbot pulled one out of her robe.
“My other baby,” she said wearily. She rose unsteadily, one foot still bare. I was holding the slipper, handed it to her. She took it, smiled terribly, shuffled to the next room, and turned on the light. The dining room. Mock Chippendale furniture, more pretty paintings.
She touched something near a side door, and the walls hummed and the door slid open. Home elevator. “I’ll be right back.” She stepped in, disappeared.
Milo exhaled, got up and walked around, stopped at the bookshelves, pointed to one of the trophies. “Hmm.”
“What?”
“Couple of Emmys . . . from the fifties . . . early sixties. Writers Guild awards—and this one’s from the Producers Guild. . . . Melville Abbot. All for comedy. Here’s a picture of Eddie Cantor . . . Sid Caesar. . . . ‘Dear Mel.’ Ever hear of the guy?”
“No,” I said.
“Me neither. TV writer. You never hear of them. …”
He pulled out one of the black-spined volumes, muttered, “Script,”just as the elevator door slid open and Jane Abbot came out pushing a man in a wheelchair. Her pink robe had been replaced by a long black-and-silver silk kimono. She still wore the fuzzy slippers.
The man wore perfectly ironed, pale blue pajamas with white-piped lapels. He looked to be eighty or more. A brown cashmere blanket draped a lap so shrunken it barely tented the fabric. His small, gray egg of a head was hairless but for puffs of white at the temples. His nose was a droopy, salmon-colored balloon, his mouth, pursed and lipless above an eroded chin. Small brown eyes—merry eyes—took us in, and he chuckled. Jane Abbot heard it and flinched. She stood behind him, hands squeezing the bar of the chair, her grimness a reproach.
He gave a thumb-up wave, called out in a jarringly hearty voice: “Evening! Les gendarmes? Bon soir! Mel Abbot!” Decibels above the tentative phone voice of a few hours ago.
Jane moaned softly. Abbot grinned.
“Pleased to meet you, sir,” said Milo, approaching the wheelchair.
“Les gendarmes,” Abbot singsonged. “Les gendarmes du Marseilles, the constabulary, de stiff awm o’ de law.” He craned, tried to look back at his wife. “Alarm go off again, dearest?”
“No,” said Jane. “It’s not that. . . . It’s different, Mel. Something— Mel, something terrible has happened.”
“Now, now,” said Mel Abbot, winking at us. “How terrible can it be? We’re all alive.”
“Please, Mel—”
“Now, now, now,” Abbot insisted. “Now, now, now, now, cutie pie.” Raising a palsying hand, he reached back, groped without success. Finally, Jane took hold of his fingers, closed her eyes.
He winked at us again. “Like when they asked Chevalier, How does it feel to turn eighty? And Chevalier says, How does it feel?” Studied pause. “I’ll tell you how it feels. Considering the alternative, it feels terrific!”
“Mel—”
“Now, now, dearest. What’s another false alarm citation? Asi es la vida, you plays, you pays, we can afford it, denks Gott.” Melville Abbot freed his hand and waved floppy fingers. His head lolled, but he managed another wink. “The main thing is everyone’s alive, like Chevalier said, when they asked him how does it feel to turn eighty.” Wink. “And Chevalier says—”