No Good Deed Goes Unpunished

 

It was a bottle of Dom Perignon in a gift box, with a thank-you note attached. As soon as George Frazier saw it on his doorstep, he knew who had left it. Katherine McGill, the elderly woman in the condo unit next door.

Yesterday morning he’d happened to look out the window, and he saw her standing in the driveway next to her Toyota. She was distraught and wringing her hands, looking at the right front tire, which was as flat as a proverbial pancake.

He’d opened his window and called out to her. “Do you need any help? Do you want me to call AAA for you?”

“I don’t have AAA,” she said, practically in tears. “And I’m late for a doctor’s appointment.”

Well, he certainly didn’t have anything better to do, did he? So he went out there and changed the tire for her. And now, this.

Of course, she didn’t realize what she’d done. In the six months he’d been living there, they’d exchanged only neighborly pleasantries. She knew nothing about him.

He carefully lifted the bottle out of its box, aware of the quality of the champagne, imagining its smoothness as it glided down, warming his insides. He could almost feel the glow that would envelop him, devour him.

He knew he had to pour it down the sink right now. Or call Frank, his sponsor. Or both. But he could do neither.

He put it in the refrigerator, then stared at the closed door. If he was going to ruin two years of sobriety, it sure wouldn’t be with warm champagne.

Is that what he was about to do?

It would take around twenty minutes before the bottle was chilled. He hadn’t drunk it yet, had he? Damn right, he hadn’t!

Then why couldn’t he stop staring at the refrigerator?

He tore his eyes away, stumbled into the bedroom and threw himself onto the bed. “Sylvia,” he moaned, clutching the pillow, “I miss you so much. What am I going to do?”

It had been three years (three years, two months and five days, to be exact) since she died. He hardly remembered the first year. Too many blackouts. He did remember his son and daughter, telling him that if he didn’t get help they were through with him.

Then one day, he woke up in an alley, badly beaten, his wallet gone, and that’s what did it.

After a year of Alcoholics Anonymous, several meetings a day, he’d found a sponsor in Frank Cutler, a fellow middle-aged widower. He’d never relapsed, not a single time.

Again, he considered calling Frank. He also remembered the noon meeting at St. Mary’s, just a block away. But he couldn’t move. All he could think of was that bottle in the refrigerator. How long had it been since he put it in there? Maybe he should lower the temperature so it would chill faster.

A sob burst from his throat. He pushed himself off the bed and staggered back into the kitchen. Screw it! Screw it! Screw it! his mind screamed, like a mantra.

He tore open the refrigerator, pulled out the bottle, and popped the cork. The bubbly liquid spewed out, running down his arm onto the floor as, with a final sob, he raised the bottle to his lips.

Then the doorbell rang.

 

***

 

Frank Cutler settled into the chair, mindful of the cast on his left arm, and looked sheepishly at his therapist.

“Don’t ask,” he said to her.

“Well, you know I have to,” said Dr. Clara Weinstock.

“It was such a stupid accident.”

“They always are. Why don’t you tell me about it?”

Frank sighed. “This morning I was on my way to an A.A. meeting, and I decided to check in on the guy I sponsor to see if he wanted to come with me. I’m not going to tell you his name.”

“That’s all right, you don’t have to.”

“He’d been sober for two years, but something made me think he was in trouble; I get feelings like that sometimes. So I rang his doorbell.”

Frank adjusted the position of his arm and winced.

“As soon as he opened the door I knew something wasn’t right. He looked like he’d been crying, and I thought I smelled champagne, just a whiff. I asked him what was going on and he said, ‘Nothing.’ He told me he was just about to leave for the meeting.

“I said that was bullshit and went into the kitchen. The champagne smell was stronger in there. In fact, there was a puddle of it on the floor.

“So I opened the refrigerator, and there’s the bottle. And that’s when he really lost it. ‘Get out!’ he started yelling at me. ‘Get the hell out of here! Leave me alone!’

“Well, there’s no way that was going to happen. I pulled the bottle out of the refrigerator and started emptying it in the sink.

“Then everything seemed to go out of him. He sat down at the table and buried his head in his hands. He said, ‘We used to drink Dom Perignon every New Year’s Eve.’

“I asked him if he’d had any yet and he said no, because the doorbell rang. But he would’ve drained the bottle for sure if I hadn’t shown up just at that moment. ‘God, Frank,’ he said, ‘you saved my life!’ Then he jumped up and gave me a huge bear hug.

“I wasn’t ready for it. It knocked me backwards, and we both went lurching across the kitchen. I almost regained my balance, but my foot slipped in that stupid puddle of champagne on the floor and I went down hard, with him on top of me. He was okay, but I landed smack on my elbow.”

He gave Dr. Weinstock another sheepish look. “All part of being a sponsor, I suppose.”

She nodded sympathetically.

At the end of the session, he gave her a check for $800, payment for the past month. “Would you do me a favor?” he asked. “I’m right on the edge of my checking balance and this could bounce, unless you wait three days to deposit it. Would you do that? I know I shouldn’t ask, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, don’t worry about it,” Clara Weinstock said. “It’s no problem at all.”

 

***

 

The next morning, as she combined the checks and filled out a deposit slip, Clara’s mind was elsewhere. One of her patients had made specific threats against his ex-wife during a session yesterday, and it bothered her. She had to decide if the situation was serious enough to violate confidentiality and call the police.

Andy Weinstock, her husband of twenty-three years, came into the room and gave her a peck on the cheek. “Do you want me to deposit those for you?” he offered. “I’m going right past the bank.”

“Yes, would you?” she said distractedly, still agonizing over her patient’s ex-wife and whether or not she was in danger.

It wasn’t until he was out the door that she remembered Frank Cutler’s check. “Shit!” she exclaimed, picking up her cell phone to call Andy and tell him not to make the deposit.

But he’d, once again, forgotten his phone. She could hear it ringing in the next room.

“Shit!” she exclaimed again, getting up from her desk and bolting from the apartment. He’d just left. Maybe she could catch him.

One of the two elevators was right there, fortunately, and in less than a minute, she was hustling through the lobby, past the doorman, and out onto Central Park West. The subway entrance was across the street. She caught a glimpse of her husband, just as he was about to go down the steps.

“Andy, wait!” she cried as she stepped off the curb, not hearing the squeal of tires until it was too late.

 

***

 

Rodrigo Gonzalez, the building’s doorman, was at his concierge station. He had his wallet open and was checking to see if he could change a twenty for Mr. Avadon from 4F, when Dr. Weinstock from 7C rushed by him and out onto the street. Immediately, he heard the squealing sound followed by a sickening thud.

“Dios mio!” he cried out, dropping his wallet on the concierge stand and rushing outside, closely followed by Mr. Avadon.

Clara lay on her back just a few feet from the taxi that hit her. Rodrigo had his cell phone out even before he got to her.

“Stay still, Dr. Weinstock,” he told her as she looked up at him dazedly. “I’m calling 911 right now.”

“My leg,” she moaned.

“It’s okay, it’s okay,” he said as he took off his doorman’s cap and placed it beneath her head like a pillow. He gave the 911 operator the address and details as Andy, who’d seen the whole thing from across the street, was anxiously arriving.

“Clara,” he said as he bent down and took her hand, “what happened?”

“Don’t worry, the ambulance is on its way,” Rodrigo told them.

“I think my leg is broken.”

“I’m here,” Andy said. “Just stay calm,”

“This is so ridiculous.”

“Shh. Try not to move.”

A small crowd was gathering on the sidewalk. From a block away, a siren could be heard.

“There’s the ambulance now,” said Mr. Avadon, over Andy’s shoulder.

A few minutes later, as the EMS workers loaded Clara inside with Andy about to ride along, he wanted to thank Rodrigo.

“You were great,” he told him. “We owe you so much.”

“Not at all. The important thing is for Dr. Weinstock to be okay.”

“Well, we thank you,” Andy said, climbing into the ambulance.

“No need to,” Rodrigo called after him as he turned back to the lobby.

At his concierge stand he discovered that the wallet he’d dropped there had been stolen.

 

***

 

Twelve-year-old Judy Terwilliger and her fifteen-year-old brother Chris lived in Apartment 1B, just off the lobby. Both their parents routinely left early for work, so the kids were on their own as far as making breakfast and getting off to school. Chris usually left about ten minutes before his sister.

He’d just gone, and Judy was busily getting her books together, when the door opened and Chris burst back into the apartment.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

“I just need to put something in my room.”

“What are you talking about?”

She noticed he was carrying what looked like a wallet.

“Where did you get that? Whose is it?” She followed him down the hallway.

“I think it’s Rodrigo’s. I saw it lying on his stand. There was some sort of accident in front of the building and everyone was outside. He must have left it there.”

“So you just stole it?”

“No, I just borrowed it. If we wait a couple of days, I’ll bet there’ll be a reward. Especially if we return it with the cash still inside.” He opened the wallet and took a look, letting out a low whistle. “Boy, there must be a couple hundred bucks in here. Maybe we should just keep it.”

“Are you nuts?”

“I’ve gotta get to school.” He slipped the wallet under his mattress. “You’d better not tell anyone, Judy, or I swear I’ll kill you.”

With that, he left the apartment.

All day in class, she couldn’t get it out of her mind. This wasn’t just a stupid prank, this was robbery. Chris could go to jail! Well, maybe juvenile prison because he was fifteen, but still, jail! He’d have a criminal record!

She had to do something. Luckily, her school was letting out early today because of a teachers’ conference, so this was one of the rare times when she’d get home before he did. She was going to return that wallet. She didn’t care how pissed off Chris would be. Sometimes she felt like she was the older sibling, certainly the more mature one.

As she rode home on the subway Judy thought about the story she’d have to concoct. She’d say she found it on the street someplace. She was such a poor liar, she didn’t know if she could carry it off.

Her mind in a whirl, she arrived at the building. Rodrigo was no longer on duty, replaced by Dominic, the afternoon doorman. This didn’t make it any easier for her. Rodrigo had always been friendly, Dominic was more formal and reserved. He was at his concierge station, talking to Peter McGill, their next-door neighbor from 1A.

This also didn’t make it any easier. Peter McGill was a grouch. He was always complaining about how he could hear their TV through the wall, how Chris’s music was too loud, how he’d once almost tripped over Judy’s skates when she’d left them in the hall for a minute.

She hustled past them into the apartment. In Chris’s room she pulled out the wallet from beneath the mattress. Then she took several deep breaths and stepped back out into the lobby.

“I hope my mother’s okay,” Peter McGill was saying to Dominic. “She’s ten minutes late.”

“She’s probably stuck in traffic,” Dominic offered.

“Well, she’s getting on in years, so I worry.”

“Excuse me,” said Judy, holding out the wallet to Dominic. “I found this on the street. I think it belongs to Rodrigo.”

Peter McGill looked at her like she was a specimen on a slide.

“Really,” he said, glowering through his rimless glasses. “We were just wondering what kind of person would steal a man’s wallet while he was helping someone, and now here you are.”

“No, no!” It was so unexpected, it made her gasp. “I didn’t steal it. I found it in the street, just now.” Her voice was trembling. She realized how lame she sounded.

“Where did you find it?” asked Dominic as he took it from her.

“It was under a car,” she said, trying to remember what she’d decided to say. “I was on my way home from school, and I was just around the corner, when a car pulled out of a parking spot and I saw it in the gutter next to the curb.”

“Is that so?” Peter McGill’s eyes narrowed. “Then why didn’t you give it to Dominic as soon as you came in? Why did you rush past us and go inside your apartment?”

“I…uh…had to go to the bathroom,” she stammered.

He gave one of the cruelest chuckles she’d ever heard. “Yeah, I’ll bet. You’re a little thief, that’s what I think you are. You lost your nerve after you stole it, and now you’re trying to lie your way out of it.”

“No, no!” She was starting to cry now. “I found it in the street. That’s the truth!”

“I don’t think so, missy. I think you’re in big trouble.”

“What’s going on here?”

An elderly woman had appeared in the doorway. Peter McGill pulled his death-ray stare from Judy and went over to her, taking her by the hands.

“Mother,” he said, “you’re late. I was worried about you.”

“Why is that girl crying?” Mrs. McGill asked, looking past him.

“They said I stole a wallet!” Judy sobbed. “But I didn’t! I found it! Look inside, the money is still there!”

“Is it?” said Mrs. McGill.

Dominic opened the wallet and checked. “Seems to be.”

“Well, even if she had a guilty conscience and returned the money,” Peter McGill said, “she still could’ve stolen it.”

“Peter!” his mother admonished him. She bent down and looked Judy in the eye. “Did you steal this wallet?”

Judy’s gaze never wavered because, now, she was telling the truth.

“No, I didn’t,” she said firmly.

Mrs. McGill looked at her for another moment, then straightened up. “Well, I believe you,” she said. She gave her son a stern look.

“This girl should be thanked for her honesty, not accused of being a criminal. One thing about you, Peter, you’ve always doubted the goodness in human nature. I don’t know who you got it from, but certainly not me.”

“Okay, Mother, that’s fine,” he said, trying to lead her away toward his apartment.

“Why, just the other day,” she said, pausing, “I had a flat tire on my car and I was late for a doctor’s appointment. I was frantic. My next door neighbor, who hardly knew me at all, saw that I was in trouble and interrupted his breakfast, just to come downstairs and help me. If he hadn’t changed that tire, I don’t know what would have happened.”

“See, Mother?” Peter said, again trying to move her in the direction of the apartment, “I always told you to get AAA.”

“No, Peter, that’s not the point.”

She stopped again, as Judy stared at this woman, her guardian angel, with almost reverence.

“The point is that people are naturally good inside, if you give them the chance. And one good turn deserves another. I left an expensive bottle of champagne on his doorstep to show my gratitude.”

“Oh, Mother, you didn’t! You know you can’t afford…”

“It doesn’t matter. It makes me feel good to know he’s enjoying that bottle of champagne.” She turned, on her own this time, toward her son’s apartment.

“So let that be the end of it.”