Cheated By Death by L.L. Bartlett Page A

I followed and we both gazed down on the driveway to see
Richard’s silver Town Car.
    “Nice wheels,” she said.
    Richard and Brenda got out of the car and
looked up. They saw us and waved. I braved a smile and returned the
gesture.
    “Who’s the jig?” Patty asked
    I turned to glare at her. “I beg your
pardon?”
    “The jigaboo he’s with? Is she the maid?”
    “That’s Richard’s wife, Brenda.”
    “Wife?” She laughed.
    “Don’t ever call Brenda that again.”
    She pulled a face. “Sorry.” Then she smiled.
“Oh, I get it, you’d like a little brown sugar, too, huh?”
    “What the hell is wrong with you, Patty?”
    She laughed and punched my shoulder. “Can’t
you take a joke?”
    “That wasn’t a joke.”
    She scowled at me. “Dad was right. You can be grim. Lighten up. Life’s too short to get upset over
nothing.”
    Suddenly, I’d had enough.
    “Listen, Patty, I can feel one of my
headaches coming on. Maybe you should—”
    “They get pretty bad, huh? Do you take
drugs?”
    “Prescription stuff.”
    “Do you get high from it?” she asked,
eagerly.
    “No. Usually I take them and go right to
bed,” I said, hoping she’d take the hint and leave.
    “Too bad.”
    Was she sorry I got headaches, or sorry I
didn’t get high from the drugs I took for them?
    She wandered through the living room again,
pausing at the bulletin board over my desk. “Who took all these
great pictures?”
    “I did.”
    She leaned closer to study them. They were an
eclectic mix of stuff I’d taken over the summer: the historic ships
down at the waterfront, the Frank Lloyd Wright houses—even the
backyard garden.
    “You’re really good. Why don’t you get a job
taking pictures?”
    “I’ve been trying to.”
    “I’ve got a friend at the Sears portrait
studio. She could probably get you an interview.”
    “That’s not the kind of photography I’m
interested in, but—thanks.”
    She shrugged.
    I could’ve told her about my current project.
I could’ve said so much more. But I didn’t. Instead, I rubbed a
hand over my temple. “I know you’ve only been here a short time,
but I’m really not feeling well. Maybe we can get together another
time.”
    “Oh. Sure.” She chugged the rest of her beer,
then set the bottle down. “How about Saturday? We’re having kind of
a family reunion. You can meet all the cousins. You can bring your
camera and take pictures.” She smiled sweetly. It probably worked
on other men. “I’ll call you Friday and let you know the details,
okay?”
    Not on your life, I wanted to say, but I
didn’t have the energy.
    She rummaged through her purse again, found
paper and a pen. “So what’s your phone number?”
    It was in the book, but I gave it to her
anyway.
    I walked her to the door, where she hugged me
again. Her hair smelled of stale cigarette smoke.
    “I’m so glad we finally met, Jeff. I always
knew I had a big brother somewhere, I just never knew how to find
you. You’re everything I always pictured.”
    I forced a smile. “Thanks, Patty.”
    “I’ll call you soon!”
    She gave me a quick wave and started down the
stairs.
    I closed the door behind her. Good
riddance.
    As her footfalls faded on the stairs, I moved
to the window overlooking the drive. Her friend stood outside the
Ford, staring at Richard’s house. He looked up, then turned, tossed
his cigarette on the drive and crushed it under his heel. Then the
two of them got in the car. Soon after, it pulled away.
    For a long time I stared at the space where
the car had been, trying to figure out what had passed between me
and my . . . sister.
    That still sounded strange.
    I turned back to the coffee table. Grabbing
her beer bottle, I placed it with the other empties under my sink.
Good. Not a trace of her remained.
    Unsettled, I turned and paced the apartment.
I caught a glimpse of Richard’s house out the window and suddenly
craved company. Grabbing my jacket from the closet, I headed down
the