Final Stroke by Michael Beres

be coming and this made her sad. His name was Steve Babe, shortened from the Hun garian Baberos at the turn of the century by a great grandfather unaware of jokes the shortened version would generate in the new country. The original name translated as one who is crowned with a laurel wreath as a mark of honor. As Ilonka came from the restaurant kitchen to give a toast she recalled years earlier when Steve told her the details. An immigration official at Ellis Island had confused Baberos with Barab bas, the thief released from crucifixion instead of Jesus. The official had convinced Steve’s great grandfather that his descendants would not want to be known as heathens and thieves in their new country.
    “A cherished friend is absent tonight,” said Ilonka, holding up her glass. “Not long ago he suffered a stroke at the young age of fifty three. He’s at the Saint Mel in the Woods Rehabilitation Facility. He solves mysteries and is quite good at it. Although the stroke oc curred at home, he had been working on a case when it happened. A terrible time for a stroke to creep up like a thief in the night. Pray he solves the most important mystery of his life. Pray he recaptures his past and we’ll soon have him back with us and be able to share a meal with him.”
    It was unfair to be here. The warmth, the smells, the voices of din ers, the smile from Ilonka Szabo, the white tablecloth, the candles, an elegant place setting for two—everything here made it unfair. When the toast was given, Jan saw that Ilonka and several regular patrons glanced toward her table. Jan had the feeling they focused on the seat across from her, the seat where Steve should have been. He would have turned and smiled and said something in Hungarian. She could al most see him there as he joins in the toast with that crazy smile.
    Lydia Jacobson turned from Jan to join the toast, smiled. Because of the subdued lighting, Lydia’s face was shadowed. When Ilonka fin ished the toast, Lydia offered another toast. “Here’s to Steve.”
    As Jan sipped the red Hungarian wine, she wondered if a daily dose of red wine throughout Steve’s lifetime might have made a difference.
    “This place is great,” said Lydia.
    “It was Steve’s favorite,” said Jan. “Before they remodeled he used to pick up carryout from here. He probably ate Ilonka’s food more often than he should. Americans have the second highest incidence of heart disease and stroke. Can you guess which country is number one?”
    “Hungary?” asked Lydia.
    “Right,” said Jan. “The home of Steve’s ancestors is one of many what-ifs. Like, what if he hadn’t eaten so much high cholesterol food? Or, what if he’d exercised regularly? Or, what if we’d made love three times a day for the last ten years? I hope to hell he never has another stroke. When he had a seizure a couple weeks back I thought that was it.”
    Lydia reached across the table and touched Jan’s hand. She looked at Jan as if to say, “You can’t blame yourself.”
    Jan and Lydia were close enough so sometimes they did not have to speak. Lydia had been with Jan the night of Steve’s stroke. They had been out to dinner, as they were tonight, leaving Steve home doing phone work. Lydia had been with Jan when she found Steve slumped over on the sofa with the phone in his lap. Lydia drove them to the hos pital. Lydia was the one who’d heard of the clot-dissolving drug which, if given within three hours of an ischemic stroke, was supposed to lessen its effects. The only problem was they did not know exactly when the stroke had occurred. Jan had tried calling some of the phone numbers Steve had written down on a notepad to narrow down the time, but the latest call she could come up with was to a friend from the Chicago PD and that was nearly two hours before she and Lydia found him. Count ing the time to drive to the hospital in an unseasonable November snow storm, and the time it took to get a doctor to administer