Page 61 of A Fabulously Unfabulous Summer for Henry Milch

“I asked you a question,” Nana Cole said. “Is it really so terrible here?”

Shrugging, I said, “It is what it is,” as I pulled up in front of the doctor’s office. Dr. Blinski’s office was in the front half of an ancient house built of river rock. I think he lived in the back half house.

I guided my grandmother out of the SUV, up three steps to the house, and into the waiting room. There was a window for Dr. Blinski’s nurse—a sour-looking woman in her forties. She looked up when we walked in, and said, “Good morning, Mrs. Cole.”

“How are you, Nancy?”

“Well, I’ve been better. What about you?”

“I’m doing well, thank you. What’s wrong?”

“My daughter’s getting married,” she said glumly.

“You don’t like her young man?”

“Actually, he’s a wonderful boy. But he’s Black. I’m just afraid of what their lives will be like.”

My first thought was how did she find a Black boy up here? Meanwhile, my grandmother said, “Mmmhmph,” probably in an attempt to swallow an opinion or two.

To be helpful, I said, “Things aren’t as bad as they used to be.”

“Don’t pay any attention to him. He’s from L.A.”

“You’re from L.A. and you think things are better? They beat Black men in the street out there.”

Crap. She was talking about Rodney King. When was that? I was a teenager. Fourteen? Fifteen? All I could think to say was, “Not recently,” followed by, “Excuse me.”

I sat down in one of the chairs, which made my grandmother turn around and give me a frosty look. “What are you doing?”

“Waiting. It’s a waiting room.”

“You can go.”

“What do you mean, I can go?”

“You don’t need to come in with me anymore. I’m just fine.” I’d been attending her doctor’s appointments for the last two months. At first there was a question about whether she understood and then, well, it had become habit.

“You can find something more useful to do,” she said.

I wondered what exactly she thought I’d do. But then I stood up and said, “Fine. I’ll be back in forty-five minutes.”

“Make it an hour,” Nancy said. “Dr. Blinski is running a bit behind.

Outside, sitting in the Escalade, I wondered exactly what useful thing I could do. The only useful things I’d been doing were taking care of my grandmother and investigating Reverend Hessel’s murder. Apparently, I didn’t need to do either of those things anymore. So what exactly should I do?

Fifteen minutes later, I was standing in the doorway to Detective Lehmann’s office. It took a bit, but I finally decided if I wasn’t going to investigate Reverend Hessel’s murder any longer I should probably share what I knew with Detective Lehmann.

“I’m done. I don’t want to know anything else about Reverend Hessel’s murder.”

“So, what are you doing here?”

“I came to tell you what I found out.”

“Okay. Shoot.”

“Reverend Richard Christopher Hessel has a record.”

“Richard Hessel? A record?” he asked, faking confusion. “Yes, I knew about Hessel’s record. I knew the day after he died. We have his fingerprints.”