Scott Turow - Identical

Nothing was fair, when you got down to it. People tried to be fair and made up rules about what was fair, but those laws didn’t have much to do with what really happened, if you were willing to notice. Here he was, no more than eight years younger than Lidia, playing with her like a child. He was still mostly himself, and she was just a little fraction of the proud, regal soul he’d observed from a distance. You couldn’t help but pay attention to Lidia in those days. The power of life swelled through her-it was like the swirling red lines on an old barber pole, no start or end, but you had to stare.

“Are you my husband?” Lidia asked as he was putting the papers and the pad back into his coat.

“No, Lidia. Just a friend.”

“I don’t see my husband much. I think he may still be mad, you know.” Mickey had been dead twenty years. As Tim recalled the story, Mickey had been terrified of the initial open-heart surgery in 1959, when it was a recent innovation, but he came through like a champ. A little less than thirty years later, the pig valve had to be replaced, an act of routine maintenance, but Mickey stroked out on the operating table.

“And what would Mickey be angry about?”

“He never really said, but I knew he was always mad about Zeus.”

“What about Zeus exactly?”

The question stopped her cold.

“Some silliness,” she said. “I don’t really recall. You must forgive me. I had a stroke and my memory’s not so good.”

Tim nearly laughed out loud. She was all but gone but she remained crafty.

“But why would Mickey be mad about Zeus?”

“Mickey?” she asked.

Tim considered his options.

“Lidia, did Zeus ever know he was the father of Paul and Cass?”

“Oh no,” she answered, and clapped a hand straight to her chest. Some thoughts seemed to tumble through her head, then slide away like the rush over a waterfall. She looked again at her wrist. It was her right hand she kept gazing at, Tim realized.

“That’s a beautiful bracelet,” Tim said. “Mind if I see it?”

He took her hand. Doing the prints, he had noticed the Easton College class ring her boys had given her. It was quite loose now on her finger. The top of the ring, with the crest and the stone and the raised numerals of the year, hung down toward her palm. But forty pounds ago, it would have fit well and was substantial enough to have left that bruise on Dita’s left cheek.

Yet what he’d missed before was the scar. Beneath the bracelet, reaching from the back of her wrist upward a good six inches, there was a line of shiny, whitish flesh. The scar looked like a river running through a topical map, wiggling a bit within neat margins. It was the scar, he suddenly realized, not the bracelet, that preoccupied her.

“Where did you get that mark on you, sweetheart?” he asked.

Lidia slowly raised her arm to study it.

“Oh, that,” she said. “I cut myself.”

“How? You recall?”

She contemplated, then repeated her mantra about her stroke. But she never lowered her arm.

“And who sewed it up for you?” From the even look of the scar, and the faint little puckers on either side made by the sutures, it appeared that a surgeon had closed that wound. When Zeus brought Tim on to the investigation of Dita’s killing, the investigators, in the midst of their infighting, still hadn’t checked the ERs for cut cases the night of the murder. Tim spread the canvass to every hospital for thirty miles. Naturally they discovered several bad lacerations treated that Sunday night and the next morning, but none of those patients proved to be of any interest.

Tim touched the scar gently.

“Sure looks like you had a doctor for that.”

“I think it was that girl,” Lidia said, the limb still aloft. Tim took her hand and lowered it, before her arm started to hurt.

“Which girl is that, sweetie?”

“You know her.” She smiled at Tim, as if he were playing a game. “So smart. Such a nice girl. She became a doctor.”

Tim tried to recall when Sofia Michalis got back to town after med school. Then he remembered Georgia’s complaints about the attention Paul had paid Sofia at the picnic.

“It turned out OK for her,” Tim said. “Was that who did your stitches there? Sofia?”

Lidia tried to hold the thought, but shook her head.

“I don’t know anyone by that name,” Lidia said. She apologized again about her stroke.

“Sofia is the woman Paul married.”

“Oh yes. Paul is a big deal. Everyone loves him.”

“Any chance, Lidia, you got that cut at Zeus’s house?”

She looked again and this time touched the patch of smooth skin.

“Did I?” she asked. The idea seemed to make sense to her. From the dark contraction of her irises, he could see her struggling. “My memory is not very good.”

“Did that happen before or after you hit Dita?” he asked her.

In response to the question, a slim fragment of mental agility again returned to her, just long enough to set something off, some kind of alarm perhaps. She reared back, then began rotating her head and her thin floss of gray hair.

“Did you hit Dita?” he asked her.

“Who is that?” she asked.

“Zeus’s daughter. The girl Cass was seeing. Did you end up hitting her, Lidia?”

Her head went side to side for quite some time, more in sorrow, it seemed, than disagreement.

“I really can’t talk about that,” she said.

“And why not?”

“Oh, it’s such a long time ago. Do I know that man?” She was pointing at Sam Waterston on the TV.

“Did you hit Dita, Lidia.”

“I don’t know about that,” she said. “You should ask my sons. They know better than me.”

He was going to quarrel with the evident logic of that-how would her sons know better than she whom she’d walloped? — but there was a more focused manner in the way she was shaking her head around, determined, as it were, to let go of the bad thought. He’d promised himself he was going to treat Lidia with dignity and avoid upsetting her. He was nearing the end of what either one of them could tolerate.

“Lidia, did you kill Dita Kronon?”

She stared at Tim. “Do I know you?”

He reintroduced himself and she explained about her stroke.

“Who killed Dita Kronon, Lidia?”

“Oh, that was all so sad,” she said. For a moment, worry consumed her time-whittled face. “That girl was no good.”

“The daughter? Dita?”

“She had a terrible tongue in her mouth.”

“And did you kill her?”

“Oh no,” she answered, as if the idea were as laughable as if Tim had asked if she’d made a recent visit to Jupiter. She stopped for some time, turning her wrist as she sorted through the strange rush of ideas.

“You sure you didn’t kill her, Lidia?”

The question this time brought about a mercurial change. Her brow closed and her look became sharp, even fierce, as that lingering remnant of the darkly determined woman of decades ago once more asserted itself.

“They just never believe me,” she said. “They never believe me.”

“Who doesn’t, dear?”

“You can just go away. I’m tired of all of this. I don’t know who you are, and you’re just asking all these questions to embarrass me. You can go away. Who are you anyway?” She cast a look at the door. “What is that girl’s name?”

“Eloise?”

She shouted for Eloise. When the attendant didn’t appear promptly, Lidia, with no warning, grabbed the remote for the television and threw it at Tim. He got a hand up partially, but it clipped his scalp. In the meantime, Lidia leaned over her chair and swung at him with a closed fist. She didn’t come close. Shocked, he’d risen to his feet and was backing away. Lidia was screaming that she didn’t like him when Eloise finally came through the door.