Beyond the Shadow of Night(89)

“I’m not like that with you. I love you, Diane.”

“You love me still living at home. It’s not the same thing. It’s like Mother all over again.”

“Do I open your mail?”

“No, but—”

“Have I ever stopped you having friends?”

“You know what I’m talking about. I tried to move out, get a place of my own, have a measure of independence. It took me until I was thirty. You said I was being ripped off for rent, that it was so cramped you wouldn’t let a rabbit live there.”

“And I was right.”

“And I gave in to you. So the next time, when money wasn’t so tight, when I’d spent weeks toughening myself up to tell you I was moving out, all you could do was ask me why I hated you so much.”

“Well, why do you? We have a good time, don’t we? Do you honestly regret staying with me all these years?”

“I regret not trying harder.”

“And have I ever stopped you seeing men?”

“No, but only so long as it never works out, only so long as I end up staying here.”

“Take Brad, for instance. Have I ever put you off seeing him? Or any other man?”

“You don’t get it, do you? I’m a middle-aged woman who still lives with her father. You don’t need to put men off me.”

“Well, I’m sorry.”

“Not as sorry as I am.”

By the time Brad had come on the scene, the threat Diane’s father had made—that ultimate one—was long in the past. And whatever the arguments, however harsh the words between them became, Diane would never, ever mention the threat he’d made. She always promised herself that one day she would call his bluff, but she knew she could never live with the consequences if she lost that particular standoff.

Perhaps one day, now that threat had reached its natural expiration date, Diane would be able to tell Brad the complete truth about it.

Or perhaps, even better, one day the memories would slide, and she wouldn’t have to.





Chapter 29

Detroit, June 2001

After meeting again in the nineties, Asher and Mykhail got on like the true long-lost brothers they thought of themselves as. No charges were ever brought against Mykhail; the authorities concluded there was insufficient evidence for that. It was something both men were relieved about but didn’t like to dwell on. It simply wasn’t mentioned. So they called each other every week, and once a month Asher came down to Pittsburgh, staying in the spare room, for a weekend of reminiscing and discussions about the politics of the day.

That had now gone on for four years.

And then, one morning while Asher was busying himself getting ready to go to the library, he had a coughing fit. He’d had a persistent cough for weeks, despite various treatments, but this morning it seemed to take on a life of its own and made him double up in convulsions. He recovered enough to leave the house, but only managed a few steps before falling, clutching his chest.

A neighbor, working on a car in his front yard, was over in seconds. “You okay, bud?” the man inquired.

Asher, his face red and fit to burst, his lungs feeling like they already had, and the pressure squeezing tears from his eyes, just looked up.

The man wiped his hands on a rag as he looked closer. “You got chest pains?”

Asher managed a couple of nods, which sprang the man into action, and two hours later Asher was in hospital, wires and beeping machines his only company. But he managed to get his neighbor to pass the news on to his old friend over in Pittsburgh, who couldn’t get up quickly enough, complete with Diane in tow.



Asher was sitting up in bed as they entered. After the exertions of his brisk walk across the large parking lot and through the labyrinth of hospital corridors, Mykhail had to take a seat and rest for a moment before talking. Diane took the opportunity to wish Asher a speedy recovery and show him a few small gifts they’d brought along, then left her father to it.

By now, Mykhail had just about finished coughing to clear his throat. “Jeez, look at us both,” he said. “We both have heads as bald as bowling balls, both have chest problems. We might as well be real brothers.”

“That’s right, mock the afflicted, why don’t you?”

“That would be both of us. Anyhow, what’s the latest?”

Asher hesitated, then said, “I might have brought you here under false pretenses.”

“You’re not ill?” Mykhail made a point of looking at the monitoring equipment attached to Asher’s body.

“They’ve checked my heart and it’s fine for my age.”

“So, what is it? Did they tell you?”

“Oh, sure,” Asher said. “But I couldn’t even pronounce the words, never mind remember them. It’s an infection, but it’s not tuberculosis, which is a huge relief.”

“Tuberculosis?” Mykhail screwed his face up. “What the hell made you think it could be tuberculosis?” Then his face straightened to a grave expression. “Oh, I’m sorry. Treblinka, right?”

Asher started laughing gently.

“What? What’s funny?”

“That would be a convenient excuse. But I have no excuse at all.” The furrows in his brow became deeper in an instant. “My friend, when we met up again four years ago there was something I didn’t tell you.”