"I'll go to the store."

"Listen to me very carefully: I'm not eating tofu!"

"Calm down, Isabel."

See, beginnings suck. But as the night progressed, matters improved. Henry keeps a hide-a-key in a slot in his doormat.2 Once I got a neighbor to let me into his building, I was able to get into his apartment, where I promptly ordered Chinese food before he could protest.

After dinner, there was a knock at the door. Henry quickly muted the television set and dimmed the lights. We sat in silence for ten minutes until we were certain that the person behind the door (Rae) had vanished. Then Henry cleaned up, because he likes cleaning up and I don't, although he did mention that if I was thinking this relationship was going to involve permanent maid service, I was very wrong. I didn't mention that I had a feeling he was very wrong.

Of course, other things happened during the evening and I did stay the night, but most of that stuff is none of your business. Henry claims I'm a blanket stealer, and he snores (on occasion), but in my experience they all snore at least a little bit. In the morning, he made the bed with me still in it.

"What are you doing?" I asked as he straightened out the blanket on top of me.

"Now all you have to do is slip out of your side and tuck in the covers."

"You're insane," I replied as he tucked in the covers on my side of the bed. He kissed my forehead while I was freeing my arms from the bedding trap.

"I'll make coffee," he said, leaving the room.

I slid out of bed when the mug was ready for me. I made toast and watched Henry eyeing the crumbs that sprinkled onto the kitchen table. When I was done eating, he wiped the table clean with a sponge.

"I was going to clean that up," I said.

"No, you weren't," he replied.

He was right. I wasn't. I had a feeling fights would come frequently and would last indefinitely, but that morning I got a glimpse of something very different than the list entries that preceded Henry.

FREE MERRIWEATHER--.

CHAPTER 7.

Lieutenant Fishman phoned me a few days later. He wanted to meet me again at that out-of-the-way diner. He'd had a chance to look over the Merriweather case and had a few insights. Especially since I didn't have any, I welcomed the meeting.

The case was beginning to weigh on me. Not only because an innocent man was doing time, but more because an innocent man was doing time and I had given him hope for freedom. That hope was beginning to feel more and more tenuous.

Fishman kept the pleasantries brief. He ordered coffee and oatmeal and explained that he had a cholesterol problem. I made a sympathetic order of oatmeal myself, even though I can't stand the stuff. Mostly I drank coffee.

Fishman slid the file back to me.

"Don't you think it's an interesting coincidence that the physical evidence went missing right around the time DNA evidence became a common tool in the legal system? Twenty years ago, when the murder took place, it was still in its early stages, but it wasn't regularly used and was still considered somewhat unreliable. For instance, people didn't even trust it in the O. J. case. But by then, it was solid and it could have freed Merriweather, if it was available and someone took the time to look into it."

"But it's missing," I said. "What can we do?"

"It's conveniently missing," Fishman replied.

"What are you getting at?"

"He might have been protecting himself," Fishman said without too much conviction. He said it as if he was hoping it wasn't true.

"You think Harkey might have taken the evidence?"

"He might have misplaced it. It's easy to misplace. It's just stuff with a label on it. We're human. It's not a file you can stick on a computer. Certainly evidence nowadays is easier to track down, but if you misplaced a box in the evidence room, it would be like finding a needle in a haystack to locate it again."

"Let me get this straight," I said. "You're suggesting that, years later, Harkey might have made the evidence disappear in the event someone revisited the case."

"All conjecture," Lieutenant Fishman replied.

"Why hasn't anyone ever done anything about him? How many other cases has he manipulated?"

"I don't think you understand the mess of trouble that could happen if we try to open an investigation into Harkey's old cases. He wasn't only involved in improper convictions. In fact, most of his cases were legit and the right person went to jail. All those convictions would be revisited if we could get the DA to reopen this one case, which is unlikely. What is more likely is that we could get shut down immediately because so far in these files there's nothing that can be easily proven--besides what I know."

"Isn't what you know enough?"

"Except that it happened fifteen years ago. And it could destroy my career."

"You can't tell me there's nothing we can do."

"Maybe there's something. But I should warn you now, it's a long shot."

That was my morning; I'm afraid to report that the afternoon only got worse.

DIVINE INTERVENTION.

When I arrived at Morty's house to pick him up for lunch, Ruth was there, whispering something to him. He whispered something back in an agitated tone.

"Are you ready?" I asked.

"Not yet. Have a seat, Izzele."

I sat down on this impeccably white couch that came with the furnished condo. I hated that couch.

"What's up?" I asked.

"I got good news and I got bad news; what do you want first?" Morty said.

"The good news."

"Today, you can pick the restaurant."

"Okay. Thank you," I replied.

"You want the bad news now?" he asked.

"Next week you get restaurant choice?" I suggested.

"That's true, but that's not the bad news."

"Okay, give me the bad news."

Long pause.

"I'm sort of dying."

"What?"

"I'm sick. I don't have much time left."

"Like a normal eighty-five-year-old?"

"Sure. Like a normal eighty-five-year-old who has four to six months to live at the most."

"This is not how you tell someone that you're dying," I said, feeling my face flush red.

"How do you know? Have you done it before?"

"What's wrong with you?"

"I've got the cancer."

This was not the time to criticize Morty's excessive use of an article. I let it slide, sort of.

"What kind of the cancer do you have?"

Morty slowly got up from his chair, walked over to me, and pinched my cheek. "Now that, Izzele, is why I got to keep you around."

I took a deep breath.

"Where are we going for lunch?" Morty asked, trying to keep things casual.

"I don't know," I replied. I wasn't even sure I could drive, let alone eat.

"Izz, no crying. I need you to step up right now. I'm swimming in long faces. I got to have one person who can pretend this isn't happening. And that person is going to be you. If you think about it, you owe me. All that free legal work, when you got yourself in trouble? Did you get a single bill? Because I don't remember sending one. This is how you repay me. Pull yourself together right now. If you don't, I will refuse to see you."

"Seriously?" I said, fighting, and I mean fighting, back tears.

"Yes," Morty replied. "You can just forget about lunch."

"Excuse me," I said.

I rushed to the bathroom and splashed cold water on my face. And then I did exactly as I was told. I pulled it together. Well, just for lunch I did.

When I exited the bathroom Morty had his coat and scarf on.

"What are we eating?" he asked.

"Sushi," I said.

"What, are you trying to kill me?"

"You can order the teriyaki chicken," I calmly replied.

During lunch we talked about the weather, Gabe's upcoming wedding to "the shiksa," and then the Merriweather case, which seemed to be the subject that felt the least awkward, the least like we were doing everything in our power to not talk about what was going on. When I dropped Morty off at his house, he made one final serious comment to me.

"I'm old, Izzele. It's okay to be sad, but it's not a tragedy. This is part of life. Now next week we go to Moishe's as usual, we'll chat about the Merriweather case and your ridiculous romantic life, and you'll help with some of my funeral arrangements."

"Isn't that a bit premature?" I said.

"I want to go out with a bang," Morty replied. "So we'll have to plan ahead."

I didn't return to work after lunch. I went home and slept and maybe did that crying that Morty had forbidden. Then I had a couple (maybe more than a couple) drinks and fell asleep on the couch.

SABOTAGE.

There was a knock at my door a few hours after my bourbon nap. I peered through the peephole and saw it was Henry. I tiptoed away from the door and into my bedroom. I immediately turned off my cell phone and ignored all calls to the main line. After about a half hour, he went away. I drank more bourbon and watched bad television and tried to think about nothing at all, which is really hard, if you've ever tried to do it.

Much later in the evening, somewhere in the vicinity of eleven P.M., there was another knock at the door. This person kept knocking; then she started yelling. It was my mother. Through the door, she claimed she would call the cops if I didn't open up. So, I opened up.

Mom pushed her way inside, looked me up and down, and then said, "You smell like a distillery."

"It was only a matter of time."

"What are you doing?"

"What does it look like I'm doing?"

"Drinking yourself into a stupor."

"Now that we've got that cleared up, you can be on your way."

"Pour me a drink," my mother said.

After my nap, I couldn't remember where I last left the bottle, so I roamed my hardly roamable apartment, scanning for the booze. My mother found it first and served herself.

"I talked to Ruth Schilling," my mom said. "I'm sorry, Izzy."

I stopped roaming once the bottle was located and sat back down on the couch. Mom parked herself right next to me. The sympathy stuck in her voice, but there was something else there as well. I was drunk so I couldn't put my finger on it. It could have been disappointment or fear or guardedness. She wasn't sure who she was dealing with at that moment--old Isabel, new Isabel, or another mutation.

"I know this is hard, Isabel. If you need anything, I'm here for you. But try to hold yourself together, honey. Morty needs a friend now. You can shut down later."

"Don't worry; I'll manage," I said unconvincingly.