Silence.
“Did you institutionalize her?” Myron asked.
Arthur took a swig of his Snapple. His fingers started playing with the bottle’s label, pulling up the corners. “No,” he said at last. “My family urged me to have her committed. But I couldn’t do it. Elizabeth was no longer the woman I loved. I knew that. And maybe I could go on without her. But I could not abandon her. I still owed her that much, no matter what she’d become.”
Myron nodded, said nothing. The TV was off now, but a radio up front blasted an all-news station: You give them twenty-two minutes, they’ll give you the world. Sam read his People. Chance kept glancing over his shoulder, his eyes thin slits.
“I hired full-time nurses and kept Elizabeth at home. I continued to live my life while she continued to slide toward oblivion. In hindsight, of course, my family was right. I should have had her committed.”
The bus lurched to a stop. Myron and Arthur lurched a bit too.
“You can probably guess what happened next. Elizabeth grew worse. She was nearly catatonic by the end. Whatever evil had entered her brain now moved in and laid total claim. You were right, of course. Her fall was not accidental. Elizabeth jumped. It was not bad luck that she landed on her head. It was intentional on her part. My wife committed suicide.”
He put his hand to his face and leaned back. Myron watched him. It might be an acting job—politicians make awfully good thespians—but Myron thought that he spotted genuine guilt here, that something had indeed fled from this man’s eyes and left nothing in their wake. But you never know for sure. Those who claim they can spot a lie are usually just fooled with greater conviction.
“Anita Slaughter found her body?” Myron asked.
He nodded. “And the rest is classic Bradford. The cover-up began immediately. Bribes were made. You see, a suicide—a wife so crazy that a Bradford man had driven her to kill herself—would simply not do. We would have kept Anita’s name out of it too, but her name went over the radio dispatch. The media picked it up.”
That part certainly made sense. “You mentioned bribes.”
“Yes.”
“How much did Anita get?”
He closed his eyes. “Anita wouldn’t take any money.”
“What did she want?”
“Nothing. She wasn’t like that.”
“And you trusted her to keep quiet.”
Arthur nodded. “Yes,” he said. “I trusted her.”
“You never threatened her or—”
“Never.”
“I find that hard to believe.”
Arthur shrugged. “She stayed on for nine more months. That should tell you something.”
That same point again. Myron mulled it over a bit. He heard a noise at the front of the bus. Chance had stood up. He stormed to the back and stood over them. Both men ignored him.
After several moments Chance said, “You told him?”
“Yes,” Arthur said.
Chance spun toward Myron. “If you breathe a word of this to anyone, I’ll kill—”
“Shhh.”
Then Myron saw it.
Hanging there. Just out of sight. The story was partially true—the best lies always are—but something was missing. He looked at Arthur. “You forgot one thing,” Myron said.
Arthur’s brow lines deepened. “What’s that?”
Myron pointed to Chance, then back at Arthur. “Which one of you beat up Anita Slaughter?”
Stone silence.
Myron kept going. “Just a few weeks before Elizabeth’s suicide, someone assaulted Anita Slaughter. She was taken to St. Barnabas Hospital and still had abrasions when your wife jumped. You want to tell me about it?”
Lots of things started happening seemingly all at once. Arthur Bradford gave a small head nod. Sam put down his copy of People and stood. Chance turned apoplectic.
“He knows too much!” Chance shouted.
Arthur paused, considering.
“We have to take him out!”
Arthur was still thinking. Sam started moving toward them.
Myron kept his voice low. “Chance?”
“What?”
“Your fly’s undone.”
Chance looked down. Myron already had the thirty-eight out. Now he pressed it firmly against Chance’s groin. Chance jumped back a bit, but Myron kept the muzzle in place. Sam took out his gun and pointed it at Myron.
“Tell Sam to sit down,” Myron said, “or you’ll never have trouble fitting a catheter again.”
Everybody froze. Sam kept the gun on Myron. Myron kept his gun against Chance’s groin. Arthur still seemed lost in thought. Chance started shaking.
“Don’t pee on my gun, Chance.” Tough guy talk. But Myron did not like this. He knew Sam’s type. And he knew Sam might very well take the risk and shoot.
“There’s no need for the gun,” Arthur said. “No one is going to harm you.”
“I feel better already.”
“To put it simply, you are worth more to me alive than dead. Otherwise Sam would have blown your head off by now. Do you understand?”
Myron said nothing.
“Our deal remains unchanged: You find Anita, Myron, I’ll keep Brenda out of jail. And both of us will leave my wife out of this. Do I make myself clear?”
Sam kept the gun at eye level and smiled a little.
Myron gestured with his head. “How about a show of good faith?”
Arthur nodded. “Sam.”
Sam put away the gun. He walked back to his seat and picked up his People.
Myron pressed the gun a little harder. Chance yelped. Then Myron pocketed his weapon.
The bus dropped him off back by his car. Sam gave Myron a little salute as he stepped off. Myron nodded in return. The bus continued down the street and disappeared around the corner. Myron realized that he had been holding his breath. He tried to relax and think straight.
“Fitting a catheter,” he said out loud. “Awful.”
Dad’s office was still a warehouse in Newark. Years ago they had actually made undergarments here. Not anymore. Now they shipped in finished products from Indonesia or Malaysia or someplace else that employed child labor. Everybody knew that abuses occurred and everybody still used them and every customer still bought the goods because it saved a couple of bucks, and to be fair, the whole issue was morally hazy. Easy to be against children working in factories; easy to be against paying a twelve-year-old twelve cents an hour or whatever; easy to condemn the parents and be against such exploitation. Harder when the choice is twelve cents or starvation, exploitation or death.