She asked me if I wanted anything to drink. I said I didn't. She dropped heavily onto a padded armchair, resting both feet on a low stool, and gestured for me to park myself on the sofa. Judging by the furniture, the new radio, the thick rug on the floor, and the size of the living room, the Davidsons were well-to-do. There was a tall vase filled with flowers on a table to my left and their pleasant scent filled the room.
"I was thinking about Esther earlier today," she said. She had a mellow voice, the sort that is hard to imagine ever being raised. I was again reminded of my mother, who had always exerted a quiet authority, and I had to swallow hard as a cold lump formed in the base of my throat.
"What brought that on?" I asked.
"Oh, nothing. I think of her often."
"I understand you two were close."
Her eyes were glistening. "We were. She was my best friend. We used to spend a lot of time together—us and the children—and I used to watch over Erich for her. He was a lovely boy, a truly beautiful boy." Her voice cracked on that last word, and so did whatever dam was holding back her tears. They streamed down her cheeks in rivulets. She started to heave herself up from her seat, but her weight was making it a challenge. She gestured toward the dining table. "Get me a napkin, please." There were a number of pink napkins standing upright in a metal holder, folded like fans. I handed her one and she pressed it to her eyes.
During my years as a policeman, I'd met people—men and women both—who could turn on the eye faucets at a moment's notice and
It took a minute for the tears to stop. Then, still watching her face closely, I asked her directly, "Did you know Esther wasn't Erich's real mother?"
There was surprise on her face, but not as much as I'd expected.
I leaned closer. "You did know."
She twisted the napkin between her fingers. Her nails were short. "No. No, I didn't. I knew that some of the things she told me about herself were not true, just not that. I never suspected that. If she wasn't his mother, what was she doing with him?"
I gave her a two-sentence-long version of the truth. It made her weepy again. Half of the napkin I'd handed her had darkened with her tears by the time her sobbing ceased.
"Have you a cigarette, by any chance?"
I lit one for her and another for myself. She puffed on hers greedily a number of times. Coughing, she waved the smoke away from her eyes, laughing a self-deprecating laugh. "I don't even like smoking all that much, but it does soothe the nerves, don't you agree?"
I shrugged. "I just smoke because I like it."
She took a long pull on her cigarette, then handed me the still-burning remnant. "There's an ashtray on the table there."
I crushed out her cigarette and tapped some ash off mine.
"So Esther's real surname was Grunewald? And Erich was actually Willie?"
"Yes."
"I never knew."
This, I believed, was the truth. I could see no upside for her in lying to me about that. Not if she was innocent. Not if she was guilty. Did the fact that Esther had kept her true identity a secret from Natalie say anything about their friendship? It might be an indication that they weren't as close as Natalie claimed. But, more likely, Esther had simply followed Mira's instruction not to tell a soul her real name.
"What did Esther tell you that wasn't true?" I said.
"She told me her husband was a sailor who'd died at sea. My husband is a fisherman. As a fisherman's wife, I know quite a bit about sailing and seafaring, and it quickly became clear to me that Esther didn't, that the story she told me was false."
"Ever call her out on it?"
"Never. I assumed that Erich's—I mean Willie's—father was alive and well, and that he and Esther had never been married. I understood full well why she would lie. Society frowns on women who have children out of wedlock. I didn't want her to feel as if I were judging her, so I never raised the issue."
"You never suspected that she wasn't Willie's mother?"
Natalie inclined her head an inch to the right, considering. "Well, I remember remarking on the fact that she never breastfed him, but Esther said she had no milk. Some mothers are like that; it's actually quite common. With the way she cared for him, with such love and devotion, I never would have guessed she wasn't his mother."
"What did the two of you do together?"
"Just what young mothers do—spend time with the children or talk about them." She gave a faint smile. "You men don't realize how consuming caring for a baby is. It swallows up practically all your time and energy."
