New York Mysteries.com

One of my dearest friends, a psychologist, emailed me this article.

A professor was accused of antisemitism. The controversy has exploded into a bigger, messier debate about the future of psychology itself

by J Oliver Conroy
(Carlos Bernate/The Guardian)
Fri 16 Jun 2023 06.00 EDT

Is Lara Sheehi, a psychoanalytic therapist and psychology professor from Lebanon, a charismatic, caring and deeply ethical mental health professional, according to her friends and allies, or part of something “toxic, aggressive and narcissistically delusional”, in the words of an email sent not long ago to more than a thousand colleagues.

Sheehi has never made a secret of her political commitments. Her influences include Che Guevara and the psychiatrist and anti-colonialist Frantz Fanon, and she sometimes sports a black-and-white keffiyeh, the checkered scarf associated with Palestinian resistance. Yet neither Sheehi nor her most caustic critics probably could have predicted the chain of events that followed a graduate psychology class she taught in October at George Washington University, in Washington DC.

The course was normally held in person, but that day unusual, nearly gale-force winds were blowing near her home, so Sheehi decided to do class virtually. She was unaware that some Jewish students were distraught about a recent extracurricular event she had organized, where a Palestinian law professor had sharply chastised Israel, and had been waiting to raise their concerns. In a heated, tearful conversation, the students accused the law professor, and by implication Sheehi, of antisemitism; Sheehi rejected the accusation and suggested that the students were the ones suffering from unexamined racism.

The saga that began in that one-and-a-half-hour seminar has torn the insular world of psychoanalysis into bitter factions; sparked legal petitions, counter-petitions, investigations, ethics complaints, disinvitations, resignations, death threats and accusations of libel; and led the president of the United States’ preeminent psychoanalytic association to step down, in April, in what he calls a “human sacrifice”.

At every step, psychoanalysis – the intense school of clinical psychology, founded by Sigmund Freud, that studies our unconscious urges and conflicts – seems to have failed its practitioners. The two main camps accuse each other of bigotry, stifling free expression, condoning violence and betraying the creeds of their profession. Each side views itself as psychoanalysis’s moral conscience: a superego battling an ugly id.

“The lines have been drawn,” Sheehi said from her home, whose location she asked to keep private because of threats she says she has received since the controversy began. “I don’t think people really get what the fallout has been.”

From an argument about Israel and Palestine, the Sheehi case has become a larger debate about psychology itself. Are psychoanalysts neutral interlocutors, healing one mind at a time, or activists, diagnosing society’s pathologies and fighting injustice? Can someone be a nuanced and empathetic clinician, and also take to Twitter to issue thundering political judgments?

The trouble has rippled outward, in open letters and listserv skirmishes and furtive back-channel emails. There are murmurs of purges, schisms, vanguards, coups. Analysts and therapists from a number of countries have weighed in, weaponizing the vocabularies of Freud, Jung and Lacan against each other.

Some worried insiders get the sense that psychoanalysis is analyzing itself – and not very well. “There is nothing about this that feels like healing, or meets any of the ideals of our own work,” one practitioner told me; a “collective regression” has seized the profession, with respected mental health professionals “becoming babies”.

Psychoanalysis was popularized in the US by Jewish refugees from Nazi-era Europe, and its practitioners today are often older, white and Jewish – a demographic that tends to be liberal on most issues except Israel. If that is the archetype, then Sheehi breaks the mold: she is 38, Arab and queer; a professional biography says she “works on race and white supremacy, decolonial struggles [and] power configurations in class and gender”, and practices “from a trans-inclusive feminist and liberation theory model”.

In an interview last year, she put it more bluntly: “Join the motherfucking struggle.”

Sheehi doesn’t spend patient sessions “talking constantly about capitalism”, she told me. “What is pertinent is that it’s always a backdrop. It drives suffering.”

Sheehi, whose childhood and early adulthood in Lebanon was punctuated by destructive Israeli military operations, has described herself as both traumatized and resentful of the way her trauma might become fodder for “racist fantasies” that perceive her as a victim. Last year, she and her husband, Stephen Sheehi, a professor of Arabic and Middle East studies at the College of William & Mary, published Psychoanalysis Under Occupation: Practicing Resistance in Palestine, a study examining clinical psychology in the context of Israeli occupation.

Psychoanalysis, historically, was deeply influential on the fields of psychology and psychiatry, though its clout waned in the late 20th century as more accessible treatments, such as cognitive behavioral therapy, came into favor. In the last few years, however, there has been a revival of interest: the New York Times recently speculated that analysis is enjoying a “moment”, and a leftwing magazine of analytic ideas, Parapraxis, launched last year.

“There’s definitely a new wave in psychoanalysis, with more radical politics, including on Israel,” a practitioner told me – one of several, of the dozen I interviewed, who insisted on anonymity because of the acrimony aroused by the Sheehi controversy. “That shift has been in the air for a while, and there’s a feeling that the shift is happening faster than some people are comfortable with.”

The tidal change might be said to mirror similar revolutions in the media and progressive non-profit sectors in recent years: a sometimes rapid march through the institutions by younger professionals eager to diversify predominantly white industries and call into question what they view as hoary notions about objectivity.

A new model of psychoanalysis has arisen, another psychoanalyst said, focused less on sifting the individual unconscious and “more on the notion that because of the society we live in we’re constantly influenced by various forms of systemic racism, and that the goal of analysis is a calling-out of prejudices and almost a kind of re-education”. In 2020 the American Psychoanalytic Association (APsA) established the Holmes Commission, an investigation into racism in its field.

GW’s department of clinical psychology hired Sheehi in 2014 as an instructor for required courses intended to teach trainee psychologists greater sensitivity to racial, sexual, and other identities. Sheehi also became known as a vocal member of the American Psychological Association’s analysis division, Division 39 (which is distinct from APsA). She resigned from its listserv several years ago, following fighting with members she feels were bigoted, but was popular enough that in 2021 she was elected Division 39’s president for 2023.

“I have been collegial my whole life,” Sheehi told me. “That’s how I was able to be elected as president of a very large division. It’s not like I walk into a room and punch somebody in the face, which is how they make it seem.”

In September, at GW, Sheehi helped organize a “brown-bag lunch” with Nadera Shalhoub-Kevorkian, a Palestinian law professor at the Hebrew University of Jerusalem, on the topic “Global Mental Health ‘Expertise’, ‘Therapeutic’ Military Occupation and Its Deadly Exchange”. Shalhoub-Kevorkian’s talk argued that Israel uses global mental- health programs as a “cunning” way to prop up its military occupation, and called for psychologists to beware of co-optation by state projects.

George Washington University. Photograph: The Washington Post/Getty Images
The talk was held on a Friday. Thirty or 40 people attended, in Shalhoub-Kevorkian’s recollection, and others watched by livestream. She was surprised that the talk was recalled as controversial. The students “were very engaged”, she told me. “It was very pleasant. The questions were very good.” She noted that she has lectured on similar topics at the Hebrew University, often to students who are Israeli soldiers, and has rarely encountered the same blowback. “I think that American academia is becoming too neurotic.”

Yet some Jewish students felt unsettled, according to a legal complaint later filed by the pro-Israel group StandWithUs, and decided to raise the topic in Sheehi’s class the following Monday. According to the complaint, they said that Shalhoub-Kevorkian’s talk had been a “two-hour diatribe” against Israel that “felt like [an] excuse to bash Jews” and left students feeling “vulnerable and unsafe”. A student said that the talk “seemed to have little to do with being a stronger clinician”. (The complaint also alleged that Sheehi, earlier in the semester, had told a Jewish Israeli student: “It’s not your fault you were born in Israel,” implying her nationality to be shameful; Sheehi told me: “That is not something I would ever say,” and called the complaint a “farce”.)

The class was tense. According to both the legal complaint and Sheehi’s account, she responded by arguing that anti-Zionism is not synonymous with antisemitism, and framing the discussion as an opportunity to reconsider assumptions and learn from each other. The students argued that Sheehi was minimizing the threats faced by Jewish Israelis and denying Jews the right to define their identity in a way that other groups are granted.

“I go out of my way to never ‘shut down’ disruptive or uncomfortable topics,” Sheehi wrote in the leftwing magazine CounterPunch. In her account, the students “categorically refused to engage in genuine discussion”; they implied that Shalhoub-Kevorkian was a “terrorist” who “advocated violence against Jews” and argued that the brown-bag lunch was akin to GW hosting “a talk that would discuss how black men commit crimes”.

Shalhoub-Kevorkian, Sheehi recalled one student saying, “would readily dance on the grave of my seven-year-old niece”.

Sheehi disputes that she ever denied that antisemitism is a real phenomenon and says that she will be vindicated if a clandestine recording she believes one of the students took is made public. (She has also noted that the lunch event was optional, and held in a different building so that students wouldn’t feel obliged to attend.)

The situation deteriorated: the students complained to the psychology department; StandWithUs filed a complaint with the US Department of Education alleging that Jewish students at GW were being harassed; the university opened an administrative inquiry and hired a law firm to conduct an outside investigation; and the American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee (ADC) announced that it would represent Sheehi, accusing GW of enabling a “hostile environment” for Arabs and Muslims and “setting a chilling precedent regarding academic freedom”.

As news of Sheehi’s situation reverberated through the psychoanalysis world, quite a few colleagues, including many who are Jewish, leaped to defend her. The GW case, they believe, is a cynical attempt to clamp down on legitimate criticism of Zionism. As an organization, StandWithUs seems like an ideological “ambulance-chaser”, a Jewish psychologist told me; another person views the group as a “proto-fascist” surrogate for Israel’s increasingly far-right government.

(StandWithUs disputes these characterizations. StandWithUs “is a nonpartisan educational organization” that fights “misinformation and hate”, its co-founder and CEO, the former family therapist Roz Rothstein, said through a representative. “While we often partner with like-minded groups on educational initiatives, we operate entirely independently of any other entity, governmental or otherwise.”)

Lara Sheehi with her recent book Psychoanalysis Under Occupation. Photograph: Carlos Bernate/The Guardian
“The playbook is pretty consistent,” Dylan Saba, an attorney with the non-profit Palestine Legal, which recently filed a complaint alleging that GW discriminates against Palestinians, told me. (Sheehi is represented by the ADC, a different organization.) “Attacking critics of Israel on the substance doesn’t quite work in the way that it maybe once did, so the move from these organizations has been to try and silence that criticism altogether.” He added that accusations of antisemitism may be particularly damaging to untenured professors, such as Sheehi, or students entering the job market.

GW’s investigators later cleared the university, and Sheehi, of wrongdoing. (The complaint with the Department of Education is still pending.) But the psychoanalytic world was already roiling with scandal. People sympathetic to Sheehi, alarmed to hear that she’d been getting hate-mail and threats of violence, accused their colleagues of failing to stick up for her.

A listserv hurricane gathered. Soon a deluge of messages was pouring in. Roula Hajjar, a therapist in training in New York, believes the controversy proved so inflammatory because the psychoanalytic field is Zionist to an unusual extent. When discussing other issues, such as anti-black racism, “the window is widening”, she said. “When you say ‘Palestine,’ the appetite plummets right to zero.”

But others had reservations, particularly when old posts from Sheehi’s private Twitter page, BlackFlagHag, circulated. In her tweets – which Sheehi says were decontextualized expressions of anger about Palestinian and Lebanese suffering – she called Israeli soldiers “genocidal fucks”; urged Palestinians to “throw rocks”; retweeted a picture of a Molotov cocktail; wrote, “Israelis are so fucking racist” and “FUCK ZIONISM, ZIONISTS, AND SETTLER COLONIALISM”; and urged those who disagreed to “Fucking learn something”.

On the page, later deleted, Sheehi seemed to suggest that some humans are beyond redemption: “If you … STILL entertain for even a split second that Hamas is the terrorist entity, there is literally zero hope for you, your soul, or your general existence as an ethical human being in this world.”

People began taking sides.

Although the United States’ two most important psychoanalytic professional organizations, Division 39 and APsA, are hardly unaccustomed to debate – the question of how to treat children who identify as transgender has been particularly divisive – the Sheehi case punctured some final gossamer of collegiality. The resulting listserv correspondence, when printed, forms a heavy sheaf of paper; the messages, all trailed by professional signatures, depict an unhappy marriage collapsing into despair and rage.

“[O]ur division is being ripped apart, while its president-elect” – Sheehi – “watches passively to the bloodshed,” Michael Singer, a psychologist in New York, wrote. “This is turning out to be a pathetic end to a once-vibrant organization. Dr Sheehi, we owe you our final breath as the life drips out of Division 39.”

The debate has hinged on competing understandings of identity and victimhood, but also on something more amorphous than Israel and Palestine: that generational division between a new guard that sees resistance to reform as born of structural, and often unconscious, bigotry and an old guard fighting what it sees as a radical activist vanguard.

Sheehi disputes aspects of this framing. “There’s a way in which this generational argument is made as an escape hatch, and a rallying cry. If you say to people, in a profession that feels it’s dying, that new folks are trying to come in and dismantle everything, it activates … annihilation anxiety.”

Jon Mills, a Canadian psychoanalyst who has vehemently criticized Sheehi, told me by video call from rural Ontario that he sees himself as combating an unchecked leftward drift in psychology. “Paranoid and schizoid” mentalities have gripped his profession, he said, with a cadre of authoritarians exploiting the vacuum to “castrate” the leaderships of psychological organizations.

In February, a moderator banned Mills from the Division 39 listserv on the grounds that his posts defamed Sheehi. (Mills disputes that characterization, and shared with me a 1,500-word letter he wrote in protest, with an appendix of evidence organized in the style of court exhibits.) It did little to quell the conflict.

Thomas Greenspon, a retired therapist in Minneapolis, tried to play diplomat: “Div 39, as a gathering place for psychoanalytic thought, may be one of the few places where progress might be made on new approaches to this struggle. What threatens such progress is calling each other names and asserting diagnoses.”

“Clearly, this is a political battle,” Singer replied, “not a psychoanalytic battle.” One side attacks the other “as reactionary and elitist, while simultaneously claiming a kind of warped victimhood for themselves as the misunderstood vanguard of the enlightened future. […] One would think [Sheehi] would have had the decency to call off her attack dogs when she saw them devouring the Division.”

Carter J Carter, an outspoken supporter of Sheehi’s, wrote: “‘Dogs,’ dude?”

“Wow! Are you for real, dude?” Karim Dajani, a psychologist in San Francisco, wrote, also in reply to Singer. “This is a psychoanalytic forum not a forum for your racist diatribes.”

“How dare you call us attack dogs, Michael,” Kritika Dwivedi, a therapist in Denver, wrote. “Would you type the same vitriolic, disgusting and racist sentiments if you knew your patients could read this?”

Singer used the term again. Carter wrote: “So we’re doubling down on the ‘dogs’ thing huh?”

A therapist in New York, Alaa Hijazi, wrote: “I can say with confidence that the most hatred that I have ever personally or directly witnessed has been on this listserv.”

Alan Hack, also in New York, agreed that the term “attack dog” was inflammatory but asked why anti-Zionists were describing Israel as “settler-colonialist” when some Jews had objected. “Please do not invalidate my claim to how sad and triggering this is to me.”

Referring to a characterization of Mills as a “bomb-thrower”, Molly Merson, a Bay Area therapist, accused Mills, Singer and their allies of wreaking psychic violence, splattering the listserv with “fragments of blood and bone and body parts. The ‘bomb dropper’ can silently slip out the back, soaking in the pleasure of the blood they have spilled.”

Singer says he was irritated at the other side for lobbying accusations of racism that left “very little room for disagreement”. To “use that as your tactic doesn’t really promote the kind of conversation that psychoanalysis is known for, which is a self-aware, introspective, mulling-over”, he told me. Psychoanalysis has slipped into irrelevance, he said. “I’m very reluctant to have us make our re-entry to the world stage as this kind of virulent political action committee.”

But the old guard is also political, and has its own form of identity politics, Carter J Carter argued when I reached him at his farm in Massachusetts. A group “of us [have] been bringing a critique to our field that is more critical of white supremacy, of capitalism, of the ways in which our profession conducts itself”, he said. Their opponents think that “if they can just establish that we’re the ‘real bigots,’ we’re just gonna go back under the rock that we came from”.

Soon the controversy’s center of gravity began to shift from Division 39, where Sheehi had been elected president, to APsA. Unlike Division 39, which is functionally open to anyone with an interest in psychoanalysis, APsA has historically been more exclusionary: the organization only began admitting non-psychiatrists in 1988, after a legal battle, and gay analysts in 1991.

In recent years, the new guard had gained a significant foothold in APsA’s program committee, which organizes panels and conferences for the association. Observers were impressed by the committee’s programming and its commitment to diversity, though “there were issues with the way that they ran things,” someone familiar told me. “It was somewhat despotic.”

In February, APsA’s program committee decided to invite Sheehi, who was also a member of the committee, to speak at a panel on “Psychotherapy Under Wartime Conditions” this June. The invitation was overruled by Kerry Sulkowicz, APsA’s president, and the organization’s executive committee.

“We were told that we were prohibited from inviting her,” a former member of the program committee, Avgi Saketopoulou, told me, speaking crisply in a faint Greek accent. “Now, you have to understand that this is unprecedented … an extreme measure.”

In a letter to members, Sulkowicz argued that the invitation was “not in the best interests of APsA at this time”, and said some members “felt uncomfortable with having a presenter who has been on record as making what some believe are statements that may constitute hate speech”.

Kerry Sulkowicz at a Physicians For Human Rights gala, New York, 2016. Photograph: Thos Robinson/Getty Images
Sheehi resigned from APsA: it is “not hate speech to advocate for the rights of an oppressed and colonized people”, she wrote in a reply-all email, nor “to call an apartheid state what it is.” APsA is a “white supremacist institution” whose “false and defamatory categorization [stokes] actual hate speech against me, threats of forced deportation, rape and bodily harm to me and my family”.

She added, with the phrase bolded and underlined: “I will not be complicit in this violence.”

The executive committee, led by Sulkowicz and Dan Prezant, APsA’s president-elect, refused to bend. They also disbanded the program committee, which they characterized as secretive and nepotistic.

The former program committee responded with a letter casting its disbanding as a “sudden and reactionary” purge by forces “working, knowingly or not, to preserve the reign of whiteness within psychoanalysis”. Many of the committee’s members had already quit in protest, and people began calling for Sulkowicz’s resignation as president. The American-Arab Anti-Discrimination Committee also sent a letter demanding APsA preserve any records related to Sheehi’s disinvitation as “relevant to upcoming litigation”.

In late March, after GW’s investigation had exonerated Sheehi, APsA’s executive committee retreated: it contacted Sheehi to offer what she and her allies view as a “faux apology”, and said that she could do the panel after all. She pointedly declined.

In early April, Sulkowicz stepped down. His resignation letter argued that an “illiberal, extreme left” had seized control of APsA – putschists who chill debate “with reflexive accusations of unconscious or systemic bias at the first hint of questioning” and “seem to want to transform APsA from a professional organization into a primarily political” one.

He also suggested a patricidal impulse, with the new guard requiring “a scapegoat, ideally a white male representing authority and privilege”.

Sulkowicz struck a slightly different tone when I caught him by telephone in Vancouver, where he was attending a Ted Talk conference. An analytically-trained business consultant, Sulkowicz is one of psychoanalysis’s more visible personalities. (He is also the father of Emma Sulkowicz, the former activist and artist known as “mattress girl” for her public protest against Columbia University’s handling of a rape allegation she made against a fellow student.)

“It felt like resigning was the right thing to do, just to try to give them a sense that they had won and there’s a bit of human sacrifice involved,” he said. “But it really hasn’t helped that much. I mean, it’s helped me – I’m hugely relieved to be out of that role.”

During Division 39’s spring conference, in Manhattan in late April, a truck paid for by Alums for Campus Fairness, a pro-Israel group, circled the venue with an electronic billboard with giant portraits of Lara and Stephen Sheehi and the question: “WHY IS THE AMERICAN PSYCHOLOGICAL ASSOCIATION HOSTING ANTISEMITES?”

Inside, the conference proceeded unperturbed. Sheehi gave a well-received presidential address; her husband was a keynote speaker. People there described the conference as energetic, diverse, and, because Sheehi’s supporters came and critics stayed home, wholly dominated by the new guard.

Sheehi is by most accounts a commendable teacher and clinician, though “an activist, first and foremost”, a psychoanalyst told me. And “while I’m sure this has been horrible for Lara, I think that there’s a way that the scandal and the form that it has taken has served some purpose aligned with her politics. It feels both like she’s the victim of something, and that she’s playing out a narrative that she has some agency in.”

Lara Sheehi at home earlier this month. Photograph: Carlos Bernate/The Guardian
Sheehi rejects the activist-clinician distinction. Psychologists must move past the idea “that the material world doesn’t exist in intimate relationship with psyches and with people suffering”, she insists. “And I think that there are a lot more people unwilling to bend that reality any more.”

No one seems sure what will happen next. There is talk of forming a new, social-justice-oriented psychoanalytic organization – to be built from a clean slate and unapologetic in its activist stance. There are also rumors that the old guard might start its own. Michael Singer suspects the controversy will “die away at this point, because I think Dr Sheehi and her supporters have sort of won the day”.

Sheehi, already president of Division 39, was recently nominated to be president of its parent organization, the APA, which has 146,000 members and is America’s most important and powerful psychology organization. She withdrew from consideration, she told me, for fear of further harassment. She has been teaching her latest course remotely, due to security concerns, and says that pro-Israel protesters have been tracking her location.

Almost everyone I interviewed despaired at their profession’s inability to cope with the kind of conflict that mental health professionals are charged with alleviating. The saga feels like a surrender “to the kind of rhetoric and brokenness that’s represented all around us, in the world, that we’re supposedly trying to help people fix,” an analyst I spoke to said.

Another analyst argued that clinicians are entitled to opinions – “It’s not fair for someone to have to be a clinical psychologist 24/7, in all contexts” – but added, “Personally, I would die before any of my patients had direct access to my political views.”

I asked the analyst to diagnose their industry. Laughter that sounded like sobbing came from the telephone. “Instinctively, I want to say psychotic?”

New York Mysteries. Com

Celebrating Proud June

My short story, Family Matters, centers around the gay marriage of Minister Tom Reed and Attorney Malcolm Babian. Tom Reed’s father-in-law, Hank Simpson, hates Gays. Tom’s mother is divorcing Hank but not before she is murdered.

Family Matters is published in Level Best Books anthology, Justice for All, and in Kings River Life Magazine.

Family Matters – Mary Jo Robertiello

Young and old, gay and straight, black, brown and white streamed through Smith Memorial’s doors. It was a perfect fall day.

Standing at the church door, Tom Reed, Smith Memorial’s senior minister, held Malcolm, his new husband, with one arm and shook hands with the other. Tom had a shaved head and an open and welcoming facial expression. Malcolm was about 5’8”, trim, black hair with a part on the left as straight as U.S. Route 20.

 As part of the wedding celebration, blue and yellow balloons were tied along the fence surrounding the Greenwich Village church. A yellow one came loose and floated upwards. 

Across Washington Square South a man crouched behind a plane tree. He watched the ascending balloon and raised his right arm, cocked an imaginary shotgun, and shot. Underneath his Mets cap his face was lit up with fury. Hank Simpson, husband of Wendy Reed, turned back to the lively scene at the church entrance. He watched his wife kiss her gay son before she joined another group. She wants AIDS? Divorce? No can do, he said under his breath. 

A neighborhood dachshund woofed up at Hank. Hank tore his eyes away from the happy mother, son, and his husband, glared at the dog, put his navy running shoe on the dog’s right front paw and rammed it into the sidewalk. The dachshund yelped and sunk his sharp little teeth into Hank’s slightly soiled khakis until he reached hairy skin. Hank’s yelp was much louder than the dog’s, drawing attention from across the street.

Malcolm glanced over Tom’s shoulder. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

Tom laughed. “Fed up already?”

Malcolm jerked his head toward the street. Tom looked across at the angry man bouncing on one leg and holding on to the tree trunk. “Holy shit is right.”

The newly married couple’s youth and good looks added to the charm of their well-cut, flashy suits. Even so, they both realized that their approaching guest’s outfit cost more than the two of theirs together. The extremely tall man and his extremely short wife mirrored the general happiness.

“That guy across the street?” Lorenzo smothered them with his sexy Italian-English accent. 

 Tom: “The one who’s attacking a dog?”

 Lorenzo: “I know him.” 

Tom: “You know him?” 

“He saw me at a fundraiser. He stalked us, waited outside our place. Remember, darling?” 

Monique, his wife, laughed knowingly. “Brrr.” Her sculpted shoulders shuddered theatrically. “He hustled us down 70th Street.” 

They all laughed, keeping an eye on the scene across the street.

 Hank hid behind the tree and shook his baseball cap at the yapping dog. A woman in pajama bottoms and a Disney Princess T-shirt yelled in chorus with her dog.

“He’s my father-in-law.” One of Tom’s unusual traits was revealing what most people would keep secret.

Malcolm blurted, “He hates gays. Wouldn’t come to the wedding.”

The laughter stopped. Embarrassed, Lorenzo and Monique gave Tom and Malcolm a quick hug and melted into a nearby group.

“Be right back,” Tom said. Malcolm gave him a look. Tom held up his hands in surrender before heading through the loving crowd and down the stairs to the all-gender restrooms. He was following his mother. They had to talk. 

All-gender in theory. In practice, the older members followed childhood rules: boys in one, girls in another. Tom wondered for the millionth time why women took so long. 

The minute she came out of one of the restrooms, Tom said, “Mom, Hank’s across the street.”

Wendy Reed was in her early sixties. She was plump with reddish-brown and white hair, giving her the look of a pretty fox. She said quietly, “I saw him.”

Tom: “Why did you marry him, Mom?”

“The usual: Lonely. Alone.”

A few days ago was the first time her son had seen her in months. He and Malcolm had driven out to Benson Avenue to introduce Malcolm to Mom. But today, under the happy, hopeful atmosphere of Tom’s wedding, Wendy’s lips drooped when they weren’t propped up in a smile.

 “Tom, you’ve got a life. I do too. I’m divorcing him.”

“He knows?”

“But isn’t accepting it. It’s our elephant in the bedroom.”

“Mom, we have to talk.”

The restroom door opened. Hank Simpson stepped out.

The three of them stood and stared for a few seconds that seemed like hours.

Wendy said in a feeble, cordial attempt, “You’re joining us?”

“I’m using the men’s room. Not against the law, right?” Hank growled and headed up the back stairs to an open door. 

Son and mother kept their mouths shut until Hank was out of sight. Even then, they whispered. Tom pulled his mom into a deserted corner. He studied her wounded face, in contrast to her meticulous appearance. She adjusted his shirt collar. 

“Just so,” he teased her as he placed his hands on hers.

She blurted, “I was a fool. I fell for his line. He had a good one, especially if you’re lonely.”

You’ve been married two years?”

“Two hundred years, it seems like.”

“He’s giving you a hard time?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“We’re discussing this tomorrow.” Very much the minister in charge, Tom tapped on his cell and checked his busy schedule. He read on his iPhone calendar: 10/31: Halloween – Stonewall.” 

“Make that the day after tomorrow, November 1. Okay, Mom?”

Wendy stared at her son’s phone. She saw the ubiquitous sexy girl image on Tom’s cell, the logo of an Atlantic City gambling casino. “Tom?” 

Tom caught her glance. “Just checking, Mom. They’re always advertising.”

“Promise me you’re over that.”

“I promise,” he said gently if not truthfully. “So, dear Mom, I’ll see you the day after Halloween.”

“I made a batch of pumpernickel. I’ll wrap some up for you and Malcolm.”

Tom raised his mom’s hand and kissed it.

#

November First, 4 p.m. Tom pulled up to the curb at Benson Avenue, relieved his eight-year-old clunker made it. I’ll get it fixed as soon as I’m paid off…right now, I’ve got to find out what’s going on with Mom.

 Tom swept bagel crumbs off Mom’s birthday present, a black and tan plaid shirt. He was back in the Brooklyn neighborhood, light years from his Manhattan life. He inhaled deeply the ocean breezes from nearby Coney Island. The neighborhood looked sleepy, worn out from Halloween. He studied his childhood home, a single-family house built in the 1930s. Mom and Dad bought it for peanuts about thirty years ago. He thought it looked good with its fresh coat of white paint and royal blue trimmed shutters. There was the large Halloween bowl still near the front door at the top of the steps. Mom forgot about it, he figured. 

He gripped the steering wheel. He had to ask her point blank; did she tell Hank before they married that she had a gay son?

 “Mom?” Tom called as he lugged the bowl through the living room and parked it in the eat-in kitchen. On the sill of the east window, he saw the purple African violets they’d brought Mom a few days before. Her kitchen was so spacious. So tidy compared to their West Village nest. 

Tom’s inner nine-year-old pawed through the bowl’s remaining candy on a Snickers search. Out of habit, he opened the refrigerator. He smiled at his mom’s meticulousness: clean jam jars, Ketchup containers, salad dressing bottles lined up according to brand. On the top shelf was a loaf of homemade pumpernickel wrapped in Saran Wrap. His name and Malcolm’s were written across it. 

When he had passed through the living room, he’d noticed a drawer in the TV bureau was pulled out. Concerned, he circled back and poked around in the drawer. He assumed Mom had found his old gambling receipts. That was in the past, for the most part. He looked around the darkened, familiar room. The silk drapes were closed. The room was a study in books, cozy armchairs, and oriental rugs. A fireplace, once welcoming with a warming glow, was swept clean. Where was the MacBook Air? Four days ago, it was on a desk near the fifty-inch TV. 

Tom was flooded with memories. Ten years ago, Dad had a heart attack and died in his favorite armchair. This is where he told Mom he was gay. 

“Please be careful. I love you,” were the first words out of her mouth. 

Tom shook himself out of his thoughts. “Mom?”

No sound. He headed for the backyard recalling she often took an afternoon nap. Where’s Hank, he wondered. 

Tom saw his mom’s curly ginger hair peeking over the top of an Adirondack chair. He walked around to the front of the chair, not wanting to startle her. Her eyes were closed. Her face was red as if lit from within. She was still. Too still. Tom noticed her wedding band was missing. He touched her left hand. It was cold. He grabbed the chair for support.

 “Mom,” he said softly, then louder. The tears rolled down his cheeks. He yanked out a handkerchief and wiped his face. He lightly touched her bruised neck. The first call was to 911. The second call was to Malcolm. Tom folded himself into the cell, sobbing. “She’s dead. She’s dead.” 

Malcolm said he’d be with Tom within the hour. “I love you,” were his last words.

Within thirty minutes, the Emergency Medical Services, cops—including an inspector—and lastly, the coroner arrived. Officers had Tom sit in the living room. They wandered in and out asking him questions. When was the last time you saw your mother? What time did you get here today? Have you talked to anyone in the neighborhood this afternoon? She lived alone? Was she married? Was she in good health? 

Tom had often faced death. Many a midnight call from a parishioner begging him for help. Why were they keeping him away from his mom’s body? She’d had a minor stroke a few years ago but the bruises told another story. The EMS crew treated him like a kid or a moron. 

“Where’s Hank?” he said to an officer.

“On his way,” was the noncommittal answer. After a half hour, Tom stood up and walked briskly into the backyard. A young cop stopped him. Tom wished he’d worn his collar. He curled his fingers, noticing the cop staring at his purple nail polish. 

An older official joined them. “I’ll take care of this.” 

Tom glanced at the woman’s ID on her lapel. “You’re a detective?” 

“Detective Judy Yelvington and the inspector assigned to this…” The detective gestured to the Adirondack chair, surrounded by her team. “You’re the Smith Memorial minister, Reverend Reed?” 

“That’s right. What’s going on?” He eyed the older woman whose face had spent too much time on the beach but whose hazel eyes were large and clear.

“Your mother didn’t die a natural death,” Detective Yelvington said. 

Tom put one foot behind him, steadying himself, waiting for the next words. Things were about to get worse.

 “There is evidence she was strangled.” 

Tom covered his face with his hands.

 Detective Yelvington led him to a picnic table and some chairs. After questioning him about his relationship with his mother, she said, “Do you have access to your mother’s legal documents?” 

Tom nodded.

 “I’m gay. She was completely supportive.” He sensed the detective was ill at ease, so the words spilled out of his mouth. “Loves, loved my husband.” The detective flinched but remained steady. “We were married two days ago. She was there.” 

Was he a suspect? Suspected of killing Mom? Tom’s innards did push-ups. He slouched over from the thought. First person to find the victim. 

“What’s your husband’s name?”

“Malcolm Babian. He should be here by now. …” He looked across the lawn at the young man running toward him. 

 “At last,” Tom cried. After a tight embrace, he introduced Malcolm to the detective. “Mom made us pumpernickel,” Tom whispered. “Strangled.”

“What?” Malcolm yelled and jumped back from Tom. A look of confusion spread across his face.

Tom looked down at his empty, outstretched hands. He glared at his husband. Does he suspect me too?

Malcolm grabbed Tom’s hands. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

The detective studied the two men. “Reverend Reed, I’m requesting you not to leave the neighborhood.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I want to be close to mom.” Tom still glared at Malcolm. “I have to call the church.” He opened the kitchen door. 

“Those legal papers, Reverend,” Yelvington called after Tom.

Tom ducked into the house.

When Malcolm started to follow him, Detective Yelvington blocked his way. “Take a seat, Mr. Babian.” She pointed at the nearby chairs.

Malcolm followed her.

“Tom’s a wonderful man. He’s loved, admired at the church.” Malcolm put his head in his hands.

“Take your time. I need your assistance.,” Yelvington’s rambling talk calmed people, usually. “Tell me about Reverend Reed. Where did you and Tom meet?

Malcolm’s lawyerly instincts snapped to attention. He figured he’d tell the truth but not the whole truth.

“Atlantic City. We were both into weekend gambling. Not seriously,” he added. 

“What’s your profession?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“You were married a few days ago?”

Malcolm nodded.

“Was Mrs. Reed at the wedding?’

“Of course. She and Tom were close. She knew he was gay.”

“What about Tom’s father?” 

“He died about ten years ago.”

“She’s remarried?”

“Yeah. A guy who hates gays.”

“Was he at the wedding?”

“Hank Simpson stood across the street and gawked at us. You know the Village? The church is on Thompson & Washington Square.”

Detective Yelvington nodded. “Beautiful.”

Is this lady playing sensitive or being truthful, Malcolm wondered.

 “Tom and I were here a few days ago before the wedding.”

“Why?”

“Tom hadn’t seen his mother very much. Combination of guilt trip and introducing me to Wendy.” 

“Here’s the hard part.” Yelvington studied Malcolm who was clamping his shaking hands together. “Any reason why Tom would kill his mom?”

Malcolm held on to his outrage. She was doing her job. “He loved and respected her. I wish I had a mom like Wendy.”

Yelvington looked up from tapping on her cell. “Financial problems?”

“No, of course not.”

“You met in Atlantic City?”

“So?”

The detective stood up. “Show me the house.”

“Okay. I’ve been in it once four days ago,” Malcolm said.

They walked up the back steps and into the kitchen.

Sitting at the round table, Tom had his ear to his cell and papers in front of him. He pointed to some documents. “I dug these out.”

Yelvington sat down and examined the power of attorney, health care proxy, and a two-year-old will. Malcolm peered over the detective’s shoulder.

“She told me about the will, but this is the first time I’ve seen it,” Tom said.

“What about you?” Yelvington turned her head toward Malcolm.

“Same goes for me,” Malcolm said as he noticed that Wendy Reed had left her estate equally divided to her husband and her son. 

“She married him on August 10th two years ago and the will was drawn up August 15th,” Tom said.

Yelvington read a name from the will. “Her lawyer?”

Tom sent the lawyer’s cell number to Yelvington. “She told me that she was divorcing him.”

“Did she say his reaction?” 

Tom thought a minute. “She said it was the elephant in the bedroom.”

“Meaning?”

“Hank is usually on the verge of a temper tantrum,” Tom said. “Where is he?”

“He’s talking to my team downtown.” Tom figured she meant the police station. “Tom, let’s walk through your home.”

He figured being called by his first name was a plus. He shoved papers into his briefcase and locked it in the pantry. 

Yelvington watched but didn’t say anything.

“How many floors?” she said.

“Two and there’s an attic.”

“We’ll start at the top.” At the second floor, Yelvington pulled in air. 

Tom and Malcolm looked out the window, giving Yelvington time to breathe easy. Tom texted Malcolm: Tell everything? Malcolm: Wait.

Yelvington’s eyes roamed over the clean, quiet space. Three doors were open. “What have we got?” 

“My mom and her husband’s room,” Tom pointed to the room closest to the backyard. “That second door leads to my dad’s office. Now, it’s a junk room.” Tom pointed to the door nearest the stairs. “That’s my old room. Now, our room.” He smiled at Malcolm. 

“Let’s hit the attic.” The detective pulled the hatch in the ceiling. 

“We didn’t go there the other day,” Malcolm said.

Yelvington had already started a slow climb up the steep stairs.

 She yanked on the light. It cast a dull glow to the dark attic. 

Shades were pulled down on the four windows.

 “Welcome to my childhood.” Tom’s hearty tone didn’t hide his anxiety. He stared at the shady heap of bikes, trikes, wagons, and scooters. Puzzled, he walked closer and ran his hand over a cut bike tire. He eyed the mangled mass of wheels. 

“How does your attic usually look?” Detective Yelvington said, thinking of her own jumble heap. “I never assume a neat attic.”

“Mom was a neat freak.” Tom fingered the bikes’ tires. “They’ve been slashed.” 

Yelvington tripped over a cloth. She yanked away the shredded remnants of a Boy Scout uniform. “When was the last time you were up here?” 

 “A few years ago.”

The detective pulled out a compact flashlight, then got on her phone, telling the team to send some guys to the attic. She ran the strongest lighting mode over the labels adorning the jumbled boxes, many ripped open. Boy Scout uniforms, Camping stuff, Hot Wheels. 

“Your stuff?” she asked.

“Yeah. I was a spoiled kid.”

“Hot Wheels?” Malcolm said in a tone of wonder.

 Yelvington directed her light at the guys’ feet so she didn’t blind them. “Where’s the stuff?”

In double shock, Tom shook his head, his mom’s murder and now this, his childhood destroyed and missing.

They heard stomping up the stairs. “My team’s going over this.” Yelvington yanked open the attic’s stuck door. “We’re looking at your room now.”

Down on the second floor, Tom swung open the door. Dated posters of David Bowie and Brad Pitt faced the single bed. On the wooden floor was smashed glass and a man’s portrait ripped in two. 

Tom banged his fist on the nearby bureau. He bent over to pick up the torn pieces. 

Yelvington blocked him. “Don’t touch it.” 

Tom gave her a dirty look but stepped back while Malcolm videoed the ripped photo, using his phone. 

“Who’s he?” Yelvington looked down at the destroyed photo.

“Dag Hammarskjöld. A gay social rights activist.” Tom propped his arms on the bureau and hid his face. 

Malcolm slid behind him and put one arm around his waist. With his right hand he showed Yelvington a recent selfie. “Taken four days ago.” 

The guys, smiling deliriously, were holding Hammarskjöld’s photo between them. 

“Send me that photo.” She contacted her attic team. “Second floor, Tom’s bedroom.”

“We’re out of here.” She pointed her thumb toward the corridor. “Your mom’s bedroom.”

 Tom remembered his parents’ bedroom as being comfy and lavish. His mom had splurged on cashmere spreads, linen sheets and creamy pillowcases piled on an ivory canopied bed. His dad had teased her about their royal suite, but Tom had figured Dad liked it too. 

The bed now resembled a neglected orphan. Rough white sheets and pillows squirming out of too-tight covers. Tom hadn’t been in the room in a few years, ever since Hank and Wendy married. He and Malcolm looked out the window down at the backyard.

Yelvington circled the room, yanking open bureau drawers, examining a desk’s contents, exploring the bedside tables. At the back of a drawer in Wendy’s bedside table, she found a container labeled Xanax. She looked up to see Tom staring at her. 

“Your mom took tranquilizers?” 

Tom shook his head. “I can’t say. She was anxious at our wedding.”

Yelvington slipped the Xanax into an evidence bag. She opened the mahogany closet. One side had dresses, slacks, nightgowns. The other side had only a dirty T-shirt on the floor. 

The bathroom medicine cabinet was empty except for a toothbrush. After calling the team, she joined the guys at the window, staring down at Hank being escorted by an officer into the backyard. At that moment, Hank saw them. He clenched his fists. 

“We’re going downstairs.”

When they reached the kitchen, Yelvington gestured at the large table. “Sit here.”

The backdoor opened and a young officer came in. He nodded at Detective Yelvington, Tom and Malcolm.

“Reverend Reed, Mr. Babian, this is Detective Brinkly,” said Yelvington. “Reverend Reed, you are not to leave the premises. We need a few days to collect information. Mr. Babian, you’re free to go.”

“I’m staying,” Malcolm said.

“Today is the first of the month. We’ll meet on the third.”

“What about Hank?” Tom said.

“Mr. Simpson is not staying on the premises.”

“So, where’s he staying?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. I’ll see you in two days.” Detective Yelvington opened the back door and was gone.

“You’re a lawyer, Mr. Babian?” Detective Brinkly said.

 “Yes. Call me Malcolm.”

 “Here’s my cell number and email address,” the detective added.

Malcolm reached into his hip pocket for his.

“Already got it.” Detective Brinkly said. “We’ve sealed off the second floor, the attic, the cellar and the backyard. The rest of your house is yours. We’ll be coming in and out. Ignore us.” Detective Brinkly looked at Tom. “Reverend Reed, someone needs to identify your mother.”

Tom knew this was coming but it was still nerve wracking.

“Of course, I’ll do it.”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow around three.”

“I’m coming,” Malcolm said.

“Mr. Babian, that won’t be necessary,” Brinkly said with finality.

Tom clutched his cell. “I need my laptop and iPad.”

Malcolm held up his hand like the teacher’s pet. “They’re in the car.”

“Thank God,” Tom said quietly. 

Two hours later, most of the take-out pepperoni pizza eaten and a few beers drunk, Tom said, “One hell of a honeymoon.” The brave tone slipped away, and tears started rolling down his cheeks. Malcolm got up and folded Tom in his arms. They pulled out the living room’s sofa bed. 

The next morning, they toasted Wendy’s pumpernickel and heated up coffee. Neither guy had slept well. 

Tom turned the kitchen into his makeshift workspace while Malcolm chose a living room corner. Unlike Tom who was used to lots of parish activity and wouldn’t be bothered by the law enforcement walkthroughs, he liked working in privacy. 

 Around nine, the backdoor opened. Detective Brinkly escorted an older woman into the kitchen. She glanced at Tom and Malcolm before following the detective. 

Tom addressed his church’s daily meditation group on Zoom. Malcolm heard the congregants offering their condolences. Detective Brinkly had told Tom not to go into details about Wendy’s death.

For lunch they had their choice of Kraft cheese, more pumpernickel and leftover pizza. Malcolm ate his sandwich with one hand and held his cell with the other as he argued about licensing. Tom had no appetite. 

Working on his laptop, Tom heard the law’s footsteps on the second floor. He checked his cell: 2:50. “Porch?” he texted Malcolm.

On the porch steps they whispered about the house being wired. Had Tom’s car been wiretapped? Or Malcolm’s rental car?

“I didn’t recognize that woman,” Tom said. 

“Then she probably didn’t recognize you,” Malcolm said with more love than logic.

Detective Brinkly poked his head out the front door. “Hi, you ready to head downtown?” 

“Sure.” Tom stood up, all business.

Brinkly drove into town. He stopped at the one traffic light. “Tom, you want to talk about anything?”

Everything. “I’m okay,” he said. “Who was that woman you brought through the house?”

“A neighbor.” Brinkly kept his eyes on the traffic light.

“You wanted her to identify me? I didn’t recognize her.”

“We’re here.” Brinkly opened the main door of a nondescript three-story building. He showed the desk officer his ID and led Tom down a corridor, stopping outside a metal door. 

Once inside, the smell reminded Tom of other morgues where he had accompanied parishioners. He stared at the rows of drawers. An attendant pulled out a refrigerated drawer with a covered body on it.

Tom and Brinkly stood on one side and the attendant on the other. Brinkly nodded and the attendant lifted the gray-green covering, Only the head showed.

Tom looked at his mom’s still face. “That’s my mom, Wendy Reed.”

“I’ll wait outside,” the detective said.

Pulling into the Reed driveway, Brinkly said, “Detective Yelvington will call to set up our Wednesday appointment.”

 “Thanks, Detective. These tasks must be hard on you too.”

“You said it.” Brinkly drove away.

#

November 3rd, 8 a.m. Tom’s cell phone rang. He held it so Malcolm could hear. “We’ll be at your place in an hour. Meet us at the kitchen table. Any questions?”

Aside from asking if you’ll be arresting me for murdering my mom? he thought. “I’ll save my questions for later.”

Yelvington clicked off.

At nine, Detective Yelvington opened the back door. She was accompanied by two younger associates. Their biceps and hands clasped behind their backs beamed ex-military. 

 “Tom and Malcolm, let’s sit down.” Yelvington pulled out a folder. Ignoring Tom’s and Malcolm’s stares, she sorted the contents like solitaire cards. Her two associates stood behind her.

 Tom’s and Malcolm’s eyes were glued to the stacks of gambling debts.

“Tell me about the gambling.”

Tom took a deep breath. “I had a problem but that’s almost in the past.” 

Tom recalled the open drawer in the living room. “Hank have anything to do with this?”

“He’s claiming you killed your mom for her money.”

Tom gritted his teeth. “My poor mom.” His voice broke.

Lawyer Malcolm countered, “Hank gets half her money.”

Yelvington placed a document in front of Tom and Malcolm. “This is a copy of a new will signed and sealed a week ago.”

 Everything was left to Tom. Nothing to Hank. 

“Your church knows about the gambling?”

“Not yet.” Tom took a deep breath.

“My call. My fault.” Malcolm held up his right hand to stop Tom objecting.

“No, God damn it. I was wrong.” Tom sat very straight. “I was out to get hired. A man of God who hid his faults and lied to get the job.”

Yelvington studied Malcolm’s expression of protectiveness, surprised by her own reaction to the normalcy of their closeness.

“Stop. Your problem with your church is your problem. Whether or not you killed your mother is my problem.”

“Do I need a lawyer?” Tom said.

“You’ve got one,” Malcolm answered.

“We’re taking Hank Simpson on a walk through the house.” Yelvington put a recorder and the new will on the table, the latter placed so it could be easily spotted by anyone who might pass by.

 Someone knocked on the back door before swinging it open and a moment later, Hank shuffled in. To each side, was an officer. They were replaced by the two officers behind Yelvington. A sickening scent, a mixture of booze and unwashed body parts, filled the kitchen. Scratches lined Hank’s face. He stumbled and placed his large right hand flat on the table for balance. 

Tom’s insides turned to water as he studied his dead mother’s husband. To redeem any past failings, he asked, “Can I help you, Hank? Maybe we got off to a bad start.”

Malcolm itched to text Tom: Are you fucking crazy? 

Hank held on to the table. He ran his eyes over the new will. “They forced her. She told me.” 

“What did Wendy Reed tell you?”

“He hates me. Lots of times,” Hank mumbled and glared at Tom.

“Recently?”

“Yeah, the afternoon they killed her. She told me her faggot son wanted everything.” He shook his head, agreeing with himself.

“Did anyone overhear you?” Detective Yelvington said. She expected a demand for a lawyer. 

Instead, she got “Bullshit.”

She tapped on the recorder. The first sound was Hank screaming, “You bitch!”

“Get out. I’m divorcing…” Wendy Reed cried. No more words. Grunting sounds. Silence.

            “That’s a neighbor’s recording,” Yelvington said.

“The woman Detective Brinkly escorted through the kitchen the other day?” Tom interrupted. 

Yelvington nodded and continued, “Mr. Simpson ran into the house at 2:58. The neighbor remembered because she checked her watch. Then she approached Mrs. Reed, who was shaking and crying. She told the neighbor she was expecting her son.” 

The detective looked at Hank. “Where were you, Hank?”

His blood-shot eyes focused on Tom. “He’s a minister who gambles with the church’s money,” he ranted. “Question him. Ask him why he scavenged though his old belongings so he could hawk the contents for cash. When that didn’t cover the debts, he killed her.”

“Were you in the house that day?”

“So, it’s still my house.”

“On the landline, there’s a 3:05 call to the family lawyer. Why?”

No answer. 

“Checking on the will!” Tom yelled. His voice rose an octave as he stood up and moved toward a sweating and cringing Hank, who was shielded by the officers.

“Sit down, Tom,” Yelvington ordered.

Tom sat down.

 Yelvington gave a signal to the officers. One of them showed a photo of Hank in a Thompson Street pawn shop.

The cop swiped to the next photos. In each one Hank was selling attic toys and using an old Tom Reed license for ID. 

“What’s the date on that photo, Officer?” Yelvington said.

“October 30.”

“Our wedding,” Malcolm said. “Using a false ID and pawning stolen stuff to frame us for a murder we never committed.”

 Tom jumped out of his seat. 

“You strangled my mom?” He grabbed Hank’s arm as the officers moved in.

“Don’t touch me,” Hank screamed. 

 “Mrs. Reed recorded her own death on her cell,” Yelvington switched on the recorder.

Tom froze, hearing mom’s voice.

Wendy Reed panted. Hank cursed. For five long minutes, Wendy fought to live, gasping slower and slower.

“Take your final breath, Mom.” Tears and sweat poured down Tom’s face.

The End

Young and old, gay and straight, black, brown and white streamed through Smith Memorial’s doors. It was a perfect fall day.

Standing at the church door, Tom Reed, Smith Memorial’s senior minister, held Malcolm, his new husband, with one arm and shook hands with the other. Tom had a shaved head and an open and welcoming facial expression. Malcolm was about 5’8”, trim, black hair with a part on the left as straight as U.S. Route 20.

 As part of the wedding celebration, blue and yellow balloons were tied along the fence surrounding the Greenwich Village church. A yellow one came loose and floated upwards. 

Across Washington Square South a man crouched behind a plane tree. He watched the ascending balloon and raised his right arm, cocked an imaginary shotgun, and shot. Underneath his Mets cap his face was lit up with fury. Hank Simpson, husband of Wendy Reed, turned back to the lively scene at the church entrance. He watched his wife kiss her gay son before she joined another group. She wants AIDS? Divorce? No can do, he said under his breath. 

A neighborhood dachshund woofed up at Hank. Hank tore his eyes away from the happy mother, son, and his husband, glared at the dog, put his navy running shoe on the dog’s right front paw and rammed it into the sidewalk. The dachshund yelped and sunk his sharp little teeth into Hank’s slightly soiled khakis until he reached hairy skin. Hank’s yelp was much louder than the dog’s, drawing attention from across the street.

Malcolm glanced over Tom’s shoulder. “Holy shit,” he muttered. “Sorry.”

Tom laughed. “Fed up already?”

Malcolm jerked his head toward the street. Tom looked across at the angry man bouncing on one leg and holding on to the tree trunk. “Holy shit is right.”

The newly married couple’s youth and good looks added to the charm of their well-cut, flashy suits. Even so, they both realized that their approaching guest’s outfit cost more than the two of theirs together. The extremely tall man and his extremely short wife mirrored the general happiness.

“That guy across the street?” Lorenzo smothered them with his sexy Italian-English accent. 

 Tom: “The one who’s attacking a dog?”

 Lorenzo: “I know him.” 

Tom: “You know him?” 

“He saw me at a fundraiser. He stalked us, waited outside our place. Remember, darling?” 

Monique, his wife, laughed knowingly. “Brrr.” Her sculpted shoulders shuddered theatrically. “He hustled us down 70th Street.” 

They all laughed, keeping an eye on the scene across the street.

 Hank hid behind the tree and shook his baseball cap at the yapping dog. A woman in pajama bottoms and a Disney Princess T-shirt yelled in chorus with her dog.

“He’s my father-in-law.” One of Tom’s unusual traits was revealing what most people would keep secret.

Malcolm blurted, “He hates gays. Wouldn’t come to the wedding.”

The laughter stopped. Embarrassed, Lorenzo and Monique gave Tom and Malcolm a quick hug and melted into a nearby group.

“Be right back,” Tom said. Malcolm gave him a look. Tom held up his hands in surrender before heading through the loving crowd and down the stairs to the all-gender restrooms. He was following his mother. They had to talk. 

All-gender in theory. In practice, the older members followed childhood rules: boys in one, girls in another. Tom wondered for the millionth time why women took so long. 

The minute she came out of one of the restrooms, Tom said, “Mom, Hank’s across the street.”

Wendy Reed was in her early sixties. She was plump with reddish-brown and white hair, giving her the look of a pretty fox. She said quietly, “I saw him.”

Tom: “Why did you marry him, Mom?”

“The usual: Lonely. Alone.”

A few days ago was the first time her son had seen her in months. He and Malcolm had driven out to Benson Avenue to introduce Malcolm to Mom. But today, under the happy, hopeful atmosphere of Tom’s wedding, Wendy’s lips drooped when they weren’t propped up in a smile.

 “Tom, you’ve got a life. I do too. I’m divorcing him.”

“He knows?”

“But isn’t accepting it. It’s our elephant in the bedroom.”

“Mom, we have to talk.”

The restroom door opened. Hank Simpson stepped out.

The three of them stood and stared for a few seconds that seemed like hours.

Wendy said in a feeble, cordial attempt, “You’re joining us?”

“I’m using the men’s room. Not against the law, right?” Hank growled and headed up the back stairs to an open door. 

Son and mother kept their mouths shut until Hank was out of sight. Even then, they whispered. Tom pulled his mom into a deserted corner. He studied her wounded face, in contrast to her meticulous appearance. She adjusted his shirt collar. 

“Just so,” he teased her as he placed his hands on hers.

She blurted, “I was a fool. I fell for his line. He had a good one, especially if you’re lonely.”

You’ve been married two years?”

“Two hundred years, it seems like.”

“He’s giving you a hard time?”

“That’s putting it mildly.”

“We’re discussing this tomorrow.” Very much the minister in charge, Tom tapped on his cell and checked his busy schedule. He read on his iPhone calendar: 10/31: Halloween – Stonewall.” 

“Make that the day after tomorrow, November 1. Okay, Mom?”

Wendy stared at her son’s phone. She saw the ubiquitous sexy girl image on Tom’s cell, the logo of an Atlantic City gambling casino. “Tom?” 

Tom caught her glance. “Just checking, Mom. They’re always advertising.”

“Promise me you’re over that.”

“I promise,” he said gently if not truthfully. “So, dear Mom, I’ll see you the day after Halloween.”

“I made a batch of pumpernickel. I’ll wrap some up for you and Malcolm.”

Tom raised his mom’s hand and kissed it.

#

November First, 4 p.m. Tom pulled up to the curb at Benson Avenue, relieved his eight-year-old clunker made it. I’ll get it fixed as soon as I’m paid off…right now, I’ve got to find out what’s going on with Mom.

 Tom swept bagel crumbs off Mom’s birthday present, a black and tan plaid shirt. He was back in the Brooklyn neighborhood, light years from his Manhattan life. He inhaled deeply the ocean breezes from nearby Coney Island. The neighborhood looked sleepy, worn out from Halloween. He studied his childhood home, a single-family house built in the 1930s. Mom and Dad bought it for peanuts about thirty years ago. He thought it looked good with its fresh coat of white paint and royal blue trimmed shutters. There was the large Halloween bowl still near the front door at the top of the steps. Mom forgot about it, he figured. 

He gripped the steering wheel. He had to ask her point blank; did she tell Hank before they married that she had a gay son?

 “Mom?” Tom called as he lugged the bowl through the living room and parked it in the eat-in kitchen. On the sill of the east window, he saw the purple African violets they’d brought Mom a few days before. Her kitchen was so spacious. So tidy compared to their West Village nest. 

Tom’s inner nine-year-old pawed through the bowl’s remaining candy on a Snickers search. Out of habit, he opened the refrigerator. He smiled at his mom’s meticulousness: clean jam jars, Ketchup containers, salad dressing bottles lined up according to brand. On the top shelf was a loaf of homemade pumpernickel wrapped in Saran Wrap. His name and Malcolm’s were written across it. 

When he had passed through the living room, he’d noticed a drawer in the TV bureau was pulled out. Concerned, he circled back and poked around in the drawer. He assumed Mom had found his old gambling receipts. That was in the past, for the most part. He looked around the darkened, familiar room. The silk drapes were closed. The room was a study in books, cozy armchairs, and oriental rugs. A fireplace, once welcoming with a warming glow, was swept clean. Where was the MacBook Air? Four days ago, it was on a desk near the fifty-inch TV. 

Tom was flooded with memories. Ten years ago, Dad had a heart attack and died in his favorite armchair. This is where he told Mom he was gay. 

“Please be careful. I love you,” were the first words out of her mouth. 

Tom shook himself out of his thoughts. “Mom?”

No sound. He headed for the backyard recalling she often took an afternoon nap. Where’s Hank, he wondered. 

Tom saw his mom’s curly ginger hair peeking over the top of an Adirondack chair. He walked around to the front of the chair, not wanting to startle her. Her eyes were closed. Her face was red as if lit from within. She was still. Too still. Tom noticed her wedding band was missing. He touched her left hand. It was cold. He grabbed the chair for support.

 “Mom,” he said softly, then louder. The tears rolled down his cheeks. He yanked out a handkerchief and wiped his face. He lightly touched her bruised neck. The first call was to 911. The second call was to Malcolm. Tom folded himself into the cell, sobbing. “She’s dead. She’s dead.” 

Malcolm said he’d be with Tom within the hour. “I love you,” were his last words.

Within thirty minutes, the Emergency Medical Services, cops—including an inspector—and lastly, the coroner arrived. Officers had Tom sit in the living room. They wandered in and out asking him questions. When was the last time you saw your mother? What time did you get here today? Have you talked to anyone in the neighborhood this afternoon? She lived alone? Was she married? Was she in good health? 

Tom had often faced death. Many a midnight call from a parishioner begging him for help. Why were they keeping him away from his mom’s body? She’d had a minor stroke a few years ago but the bruises told another story. The EMS crew treated him like a kid or a moron. 

“Where’s Hank?” he said to an officer.

“On his way,” was the noncommittal answer. After a half hour, Tom stood up and walked briskly into the backyard. A young cop stopped him. Tom wished he’d worn his collar. He curled his fingers, noticing the cop staring at his purple nail polish. 

An older official joined them. “I’ll take care of this.” 

Tom glanced at the woman’s ID on her lapel. “You’re a detective?” 

“Detective Judy Yelvington and the inspector assigned to this…” The detective gestured to the Adirondack chair, surrounded by her team. “You’re the Smith Memorial minister, Reverend Reed?” 

“That’s right. What’s going on?” He eyed the older woman whose face had spent too much time on the beach but whose hazel eyes were large and clear.

“Your mother didn’t die a natural death,” Detective Yelvington said. 

Tom put one foot behind him, steadying himself, waiting for the next words. Things were about to get worse.

 “There is evidence she was strangled.” 

Tom covered his face with his hands.

 Detective Yelvington led him to a picnic table and some chairs. After questioning him about his relationship with his mother, she said, “Do you have access to your mother’s legal documents?” 

Tom nodded.

 “I’m gay. She was completely supportive.” He sensed the detective was ill at ease, so the words spilled out of his mouth. “Loves, loved my husband.” The detective flinched but remained steady. “We were married two days ago. She was there.” 

Was he a suspect? Suspected of killing Mom? Tom’s innards did push-ups. He slouched over from the thought. First person to find the victim. 

“What’s your husband’s name?”

“Malcolm Babian. He should be here by now. …” He looked across the lawn at the young man running toward him. 

 “At last,” Tom cried. After a tight embrace, he introduced Malcolm to the detective. “Mom made us pumpernickel,” Tom whispered. “Strangled.”

“What?” Malcolm yelled and jumped back from Tom. A look of confusion spread across his face.

Tom looked down at his empty, outstretched hands. He glared at his husband. Does he suspect me too?

Malcolm grabbed Tom’s hands. “Sorry, sorry, sorry.”

The detective studied the two men. “Reverend Reed, I’m requesting you not to leave the neighborhood.”

“I’m not going anywhere. I want to be close to mom.” Tom still glared at Malcolm. “I have to call the church.” He opened the kitchen door. 

“Those legal papers, Reverend,” Yelvington called after Tom.

Tom ducked into the house.

When Malcolm started to follow him, Detective Yelvington blocked his way. “Take a seat, Mr. Babian.” She pointed at the nearby chairs.

Malcolm followed her.

“Tom’s a wonderful man. He’s loved, admired at the church.” Malcolm put his head in his hands.

“Take your time. I need your assistance.,” Yelvington’s rambling talk calmed people, usually. “Tell me about Reverend Reed. Where did you and Tom meet?

Malcolm’s lawyerly instincts snapped to attention. He figured he’d tell the truth but not the whole truth.

“Atlantic City. We were both into weekend gambling. Not seriously,” he added. 

“What’s your profession?”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“You were married a few days ago?”

Malcolm nodded.

“Was Mrs. Reed at the wedding?’

“Of course. She and Tom were close. She knew he was gay.”

“What about Tom’s father?” 

“He died about ten years ago.”

“She’s remarried?”

“Yeah. A guy who hates gays.”

“Was he at the wedding?”

“Hank Simpson stood across the street and gawked at us. You know the Village? The church is on Thompson & Washington Square.”

Detective Yelvington nodded. “Beautiful.”

Is this lady playing sensitive or being truthful, Malcolm wondered.

 “Tom and I were here a few days ago before the wedding.”

“Why?”

“Tom hadn’t seen his mother very much. Combination of guilt trip and introducing me to Wendy.” 

“Here’s the hard part.” Yelvington studied Malcolm who was clamping his shaking hands together. “Any reason why Tom would kill his mom?”

Malcolm held on to his outrage. She was doing her job. “He loved and respected her. I wish I had a mom like Wendy.”

Yelvington looked up from tapping on her cell. “Financial problems?”

“No, of course not.”

“You met in Atlantic City?”

“So?”

The detective stood up. “Show me the house.”

“Okay. I’ve been in it once four days ago,” Malcolm said.

They walked up the back steps and into the kitchen.

Sitting at the round table, Tom had his ear to his cell and papers in front of him. He pointed to some documents. “I dug these out.”

Yelvington sat down and examined the power of attorney, health care proxy, and a two-year-old will. Malcolm peered over the detective’s shoulder.

“She told me about the will, but this is the first time I’ve seen it,” Tom said.

“What about you?” Yelvington turned her head toward Malcolm.

“Same goes for me,” Malcolm said as he noticed that Wendy Reed had left her estate equally divided to her husband and her son. 

“She married him on August 10th two years ago and the will was drawn up August 15th,” Tom said.

Yelvington read a name from the will. “Her lawyer?”

Tom sent the lawyer’s cell number to Yelvington. “She told me that she was divorcing him.”

“Did she say his reaction?” 

Tom thought a minute. “She said it was the elephant in the bedroom.”

“Meaning?”

“Hank is usually on the verge of a temper tantrum,” Tom said. “Where is he?”

“He’s talking to my team downtown.” Tom figured she meant the police station. “Tom, let’s walk through your home.”

He figured being called by his first name was a plus. He shoved papers into his briefcase and locked it in the pantry. 

Yelvington watched but didn’t say anything.

“How many floors?” she said.

“Two and there’s an attic.”

“We’ll start at the top.” At the second floor, Yelvington pulled in air. 

Tom and Malcolm looked out the window, giving Yelvington time to breathe easy. Tom texted Malcolm: Tell everything? Malcolm: Wait.

Yelvington’s eyes roamed over the clean, quiet space. Three doors were open. “What have we got?” 

“My mom and her husband’s room,” Tom pointed to the room closest to the backyard. “That second door leads to my dad’s office. Now, it’s a junk room.” Tom pointed to the door nearest the stairs. “That’s my old room. Now, our room.” He smiled at Malcolm. 

“Let’s hit the attic.” The detective pulled the hatch in the ceiling. 

“We didn’t go there the other day,” Malcolm said.

Yelvington had already started a slow climb up the steep stairs.

 She yanked on the light. It cast a dull glow to the dark attic. 

Shades were pulled down on the four windows.

 “Welcome to my childhood.” Tom’s hearty tone didn’t hide his anxiety. He stared at the shady heap of bikes, trikes, wagons, and scooters. Puzzled, he walked closer and ran his hand over a cut bike tire. He eyed the mangled mass of wheels. 

“How does your attic usually look?” Detective Yelvington said, thinking of her own jumble heap. “I never assume a neat attic.”

“Mom was a neat freak.” Tom fingered the bikes’ tires. “They’ve been slashed.” 

Yelvington tripped over a cloth. She yanked away the shredded remnants of a Boy Scout uniform. “When was the last time you were up here?” 

 “A few years ago.”

The detective pulled out a compact flashlight, then got on her phone, telling the team to send some guys to the attic. She ran the strongest lighting mode over the labels adorning the jumbled boxes, many ripped open. Boy Scout uniforms, Camping stuff, Hot Wheels. 

“Your stuff?” she asked.

“Yeah. I was a spoiled kid.”

“Hot Wheels?” Malcolm said in a tone of wonder.

 Yelvington directed her light at the guys’ feet so she didn’t blind them. “Where’s the stuff?”

In double shock, Tom shook his head, his mom’s murder and now this, his childhood destroyed and missing.

They heard stomping up the stairs. “My team’s going over this.” Yelvington yanked open the attic’s stuck door. “We’re looking at your room now.”

Down on the second floor, Tom swung open the door. Dated posters of David Bowie and Brad Pitt faced the single bed. On the wooden floor was smashed glass and a man’s portrait ripped in two. 

Tom banged his fist on the nearby bureau. He bent over to pick up the torn pieces. 

Yelvington blocked him. “Don’t touch it.” 

Tom gave her a dirty look but stepped back while Malcolm videoed the ripped photo, using his phone. 

“Who’s he?” Yelvington looked down at the destroyed photo.

“Dag Hammarskjöld. A gay social rights activist.” Tom propped his arms on the bureau and hid his face. 

Malcolm slid behind him and put one arm around his waist. With his right hand he showed Yelvington a recent selfie. “Taken four days ago.” 

The guys, smiling deliriously, were holding Hammarskjöld’s photo between them. 

“Send me that photo.” She contacted her attic team. “Second floor, Tom’s bedroom.”

“We’re out of here.” She pointed her thumb toward the corridor. “Your mom’s bedroom.”

 Tom remembered his parents’ bedroom as being comfy and lavish. His mom had splurged on cashmere spreads, linen sheets and creamy pillowcases piled on an ivory canopied bed. His dad had teased her about their royal suite, but Tom had figured Dad liked it too. 

The bed now resembled a neglected orphan. Rough white sheets and pillows squirming out of too-tight covers. Tom hadn’t been in the room in a few years, ever since Hank and Wendy married. He and Malcolm looked out the window down at the backyard.

Yelvington circled the room, yanking open bureau drawers, examining a desk’s contents, exploring the bedside tables. At the back of a drawer in Wendy’s bedside table, she found a container labeled Xanax. She looked up to see Tom staring at her. 

“Your mom took tranquilizers?” 

Tom shook his head. “I can’t say. She was anxious at our wedding.”

Yelvington slipped the Xanax into an evidence bag. She opened the mahogany closet. One side had dresses, slacks, nightgowns. The other side had only a dirty T-shirt on the floor. 

The bathroom medicine cabinet was empty except for a toothbrush. After calling the team, she joined the guys at the window, staring down at Hank being escorted by an officer into the backyard. At that moment, Hank saw them. He clenched his fists. 

“We’re going downstairs.”

When they reached the kitchen, Yelvington gestured at the large table. “Sit here.”

The backdoor opened and a young officer came in. He nodded at Detective Yelvington, Tom and Malcolm.

“Reverend Reed, Mr. Babian, this is Detective Brinkly,” said Yelvington. “Reverend Reed, you are not to leave the premises. We need a few days to collect information. Mr. Babian, you’re free to go.”

“I’m staying,” Malcolm said.

“Today is the first of the month. We’ll meet on the third.”

“What about Hank?” Tom said.

“Mr. Simpson is not staying on the premises.”

“So, where’s he staying?”

“I’m not at liberty to say. I’ll see you in two days.” Detective Yelvington opened the back door and was gone.

“You’re a lawyer, Mr. Babian?” Detective Brinkly said.

 “Yes. Call me Malcolm.”

 “Here’s my cell number and email address,” the detective added.

Malcolm reached into his hip pocket for his.

“Already got it.” Detective Brinkly said. “We’ve sealed off the second floor, the attic, the cellar and the backyard. The rest of your house is yours. We’ll be coming in and out. Ignore us.” Detective Brinkly looked at Tom. “Reverend Reed, someone needs to identify your mother.”

Tom knew this was coming but it was still nerve wracking.

“Of course, I’ll do it.”

“I’ll pick you up tomorrow around three.”

“I’m coming,” Malcolm said.

“Mr. Babian, that won’t be necessary,” Brinkly said with finality.

Tom clutched his cell. “I need my laptop and iPad.”

Malcolm held up his hand like the teacher’s pet. “They’re in the car.”

“Thank God,” Tom said quietly. 

Two hours later, most of the take-out pepperoni pizza eaten and a few beers drunk, Tom said, “One hell of a honeymoon.” The brave tone slipped away, and tears started rolling down his cheeks. Malcolm got up and folded Tom in his arms. They pulled out the living room’s sofa bed. 

The next morning, they toasted Wendy’s pumpernickel and heated up coffee. Neither guy had slept well. 

Tom turned the kitchen into his makeshift workspace while Malcolm chose a living room corner. Unlike Tom who was used to lots of parish activity and wouldn’t be bothered by the law enforcement walkthroughs, he liked working in privacy. 

 Around nine, the backdoor opened. Detective Brinkly escorted an older woman into the kitchen. She glanced at Tom and Malcolm before following the detective. 

Tom addressed his church’s daily meditation group on Zoom. Malcolm heard the congregants offering their condolences. Detective Brinkly had told Tom not to go into details about Wendy’s death.

For lunch they had their choice of Kraft cheese, more pumpernickel and leftover pizza. Malcolm ate his sandwich with one hand and held his cell with the other as he argued about licensing. Tom had no appetite. 

Working on his laptop, Tom heard the law’s footsteps on the second floor. He checked his cell: 2:50. “Porch?” he texted Malcolm.

On the porch steps they whispered about the house being wired. Had Tom’s car been wiretapped? Or Malcolm’s rental car?

“I didn’t recognize that woman,” Tom said. 

“Then she probably didn’t recognize you,” Malcolm said with more love than logic.

Detective Brinkly poked his head out the front door. “Hi, you ready to head downtown?” 

“Sure.” Tom stood up, all business.

Brinkly drove into town. He stopped at the one traffic light. “Tom, you want to talk about anything?”

Everything. “I’m okay,” he said. “Who was that woman you brought through the house?”

“A neighbor.” Brinkly kept his eyes on the traffic light.

“You wanted her to identify me? I didn’t recognize her.”

“We’re here.” Brinkly opened the main door of a nondescript three-story building. He showed the desk officer his ID and led Tom down a corridor, stopping outside a metal door. 

Once inside, the smell reminded Tom of other morgues where he had accompanied parishioners. He stared at the rows of drawers. An attendant pulled out a refrigerated drawer with a covered body on it.

Tom and Brinkly stood on one side and the attendant on the other. Brinkly nodded and the attendant lifted the gray-green covering, Only the head showed.

Tom looked at his mom’s still face. “That’s my mom, Wendy Reed.”

“I’ll wait outside,” the detective said.

Pulling into the Reed driveway, Brinkly said, “Detective Yelvington will call to set up our Wednesday appointment.”

 “Thanks, Detective. These tasks must be hard on you too.”

“You said it.” Brinkly drove away.

#

November 3rd, 8 a.m. Tom’s cell phone rang. He held it so Malcolm could hear. “We’ll be at your place in an hour. Meet us at the kitchen table. Any questions?”

Aside from asking if you’ll be arresting me for murdering my mom? he thought. “I’ll save my questions for later.”

Yelvington clicked off.

At nine, Detective Yelvington opened the back door. She was accompanied by two younger associates. Their biceps and hands clasped behind their backs beamed ex-military. 

 “Tom and Malcolm, let’s sit down.” Yelvington pulled out a folder. Ignoring Tom’s and Malcolm’s stares, she sorted the contents like solitaire cards. Her two associates stood behind her.

 Tom’s and Malcolm’s eyes were glued to the stacks of gambling debts.

“Tell me about the gambling.”

Tom took a deep breath. “I had a problem but that’s almost in the past.” 

Tom recalled the open drawer in the living room. “Hank have anything to do with this?”

“He’s claiming you killed your mom for her money.”

Tom gritted his teeth. “My poor mom.” His voice broke.

Lawyer Malcolm countered, “Hank gets half her money.”

Yelvington placed a document in front of Tom and Malcolm. “This is a copy of a new will signed and sealed a week ago.”

 Everything was left to Tom. Nothing to Hank. 

“Your church knows about the gambling?”

“Not yet.” Tom took a deep breath.

“My call. My fault.” Malcolm held up his right hand to stop Tom objecting.

“No, God damn it. I was wrong.” Tom sat very straight. “I was out to get hired. A man of God who hid his faults and lied to get the job.”

Yelvington studied Malcolm’s expression of protectiveness, surprised by her own reaction to the normalcy of their closeness.

“Stop. Your problem with your church is your problem. Whether or not you killed your mother is my problem.”

“Do I need a lawyer?” Tom said.

“You’ve got one,” Malcolm answered.

“We’re taking Hank Simpson on a walk through the house.” Yelvington put a recorder and the new will on the table, the latter placed so it could be easily spotted by anyone who might pass by.

 Someone knocked on the back door before swinging it open and a moment later, Hank shuffled in. To each side, was an officer. They were replaced by the two officers behind Yelvington. A sickening scent, a mixture of booze and unwashed body parts, filled the kitchen. Scratches lined Hank’s face. He stumbled and placed his large right hand flat on the table for balance. 

Tom’s insides turned to water as he studied his dead mother’s husband. To redeem any past failings, he asked, “Can I help you, Hank? Maybe we got off to a bad start.”

Malcolm itched to text Tom: Are you fucking crazy? 

Hank held on to the table. He ran his eyes over the new will. “They forced her. She told me.” 

“What did Wendy Reed tell you?”

“He hates me. Lots of times,” Hank mumbled and glared at Tom.

“Recently?”

“Yeah, the afternoon they killed her. She told me her faggot son wanted everything.” He shook his head, agreeing with himself.

“Did anyone overhear you?” Detective Yelvington said. She expected a demand for a lawyer. 

Instead, she got “Bullshit.”

She tapped on the recorder. The first sound was Hank screaming, “You bitch!”

“Get out. I’m divorcing…” Wendy Reed cried. No more words. Grunting sounds. Silence.

            “That’s a neighbor’s recording,” Yelvington said.

“The woman Detective Brinkly escorted through the kitchen the other day?” Tom interrupted. 

Yelvington nodded and continued, “Mr. Simpson ran into the house at 2:58. The neighbor remembered because she checked her watch. Then she approached Mrs. Reed, who was shaking and crying. She told the neighbor she was expecting her son.” 

The detective looked at Hank. “Where were you, Hank?”

His blood-shot eyes focused on Tom. “He’s a minister who gambles with the church’s money,” he ranted. “Question him. Ask him why he scavenged though his old belongings so he could hawk the contents for cash. When that didn’t cover the debts, he killed her.”

“Were you in the house that day?”

“So, it’s still my house.”

“On the landline, there’s a 3:05 call to the family lawyer. Why?”

No answer. 

“Checking on the will!” Tom yelled. His voice rose an octave as he stood up and moved toward a sweating and cringing Hank, who was shielded by the officers.

“Sit down, Tom,” Yelvington ordered.

Tom sat down.

 Yelvington gave a signal to the officers. One of them showed a photo of Hank in a Thompson Street pawn shop.

The cop swiped to the next photos. In each one Hank was selling attic toys and using an old Tom Reed license for ID. 

“What’s the date on that photo, Officer?” Yelvington said.

“October 30.”

“Our wedding,” Malcolm said. “Using a false ID and pawning stolen stuff to frame us for a murder we never committed.”

 Tom jumped out of his seat. 

“You strangled my mom?” He grabbed Hank’s arm as the officers moved in.

“Don’t touch me,” Hank screamed. 

 “Mrs. Reed recorded her own death on her cell,” Yelvington switched on the recorder.

Tom froze, hearing mom’s voice.

Wendy Reed panted. Hank cursed. For five long minutes, Wendy fought to live, gasping slower and slower.

“Take your final breath, Mom.” Tears and sweat poured down Tom’s face.

The End

NEW YORK MYSTERIES.COM

NYMYSTERIES: 

ONE BRAVE WOMAN AND MANY COWARDLY BOARD OF TRUSTEES MEMBERS

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Fatima Mohammed, a Yemeni-American student, is being unfairly attacked for her graduation speech at CUNY Law School. 

On May 12, 2023, Students for Justice in Palestine (SJP) activist Fatima Mousa Mohammed delivered a commencement speech at CUNY School of Law. In her speech, she said that American law is a “manifestation of white supremacy” and that she chose CUNY School of Law because it equips its students with the tools to protect “organizers” that are working to “confront the systems of oppression that wreak violence on them, systems of oppression, created to feed an empire with a ravenous appetite for destruction and violence.” She celebrated the fact that the school endorsed BDS and enabled its students to fight “Israeli settler colonialism.” She also said that Israel “continues to indiscriminately rain bullets and bombs on worshippers, murdering the old, the young, attacking even funerals and graveyards, as it encourages lynch mobs to target Palestinian homes and businesses.” In addition, Mohammed also referred to the Holyland Five, five U.S. citizens affiliated with the Holyland Foundation who are imprisoned for having funneled millions of dollars to Hamas, as “political prisoners.” She wished that the joy and rage that fills the auditorium will be “the fuel for the fight against capitalism, racism, imperialism, and Zionism around the world.” Mohammed concluded: “No longer are we going to capitulate to the oppressors, no longer are we going to put our hope in their depraved consciousness… Greater empires of destruction have fallen before, and so will these.”

From MEMRI June 2, 2023

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Here comes a mixture of phony liberalism, fear of the truth, and genteel bias against a Yemeni-
American student’s nerve and courage. 

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NYMYSTERIES.COM

The Stuyvesant Flea Market

Look forward to seeing you on June 3. If you’ve never been to Stuyvesant Town, you’re in for a treat. It’s beautifully green with lovely walks. It begins at Ave. A and !4 Street. At the center of the complex is the Oval which encircles a charming fountain and comfortable benches. It will be lots of fun that Saturday with 500 of us residents selling everything we want to get rid of. Plus spending your money at the neighboring bakeries and restaurants food stands.

COMMUNITY EVENTS Postponed: Flea Market, Taste of StuyTown, & Recycling Day Now Saturday, June 3rd | 10am-4pm | Around the Oval
Due to expected inclement weather tomorrow, the Flea Market and Taste of StuyTown have been rescheduled to Saturday, June 3rd. 
Over 500 residents will be selling items new and old. Walk around the Oval to find tables with knick-knacks, toys, books, vinyl records, and much more.
The Taste of StuyTown returns again, featuring local eateries Brooklyn Dumpling, Bread Story, Baked by Luigi, Brindle Room, Hane, Haile Bistro, Rosemary’s, Lenz’s, Pure Grit, Matto Espresso, Veeray de Dhaba, Tortazo, and The Royal Sifting Company. A portion of proceeds will go to The Good Neighbor Collective & Henry Street Settlement.
It will also be Community Recycling Day: • The Shred-It Truck returns on the 1st Ave Loop from 11am-3pm (or until the truck is full), for residents only. • Visit the Textile Recycling table near Playground 12. • Bring your unwanted electronics to Playground 12 for E-recycling.
While it’s disappointing to postpone this highly anticipated event, we are excited to hold it on a day that will hopefully bring better weather. We look forward to seeing you there!

Nakba = Catastrophe

The 75th anniversary of the Palestinian Nakba, which means “catastrophe,” is on May 15th. These two organizations believe that recognizing the Nakba is recognizing each other’s humanity.

If America Knew Team:

The 1948 founding of Israel was preceded and accompanied by a massive ethnic cleansing operation to remove as many of the Muslim and Christian inhabitants as possible. 

During Israel’s “war of independence,” over 750,000 Palestinians were driven from their homes, never to be allowed to return. Hundreds of towns were razed; villagers were massacred. Their very existence on the land was nearly wiped from history as Israel built new towns over the ruins.

This devastating humanitarian disaster is given almost no attention in American history books or by the mainstream news media even though it is essential in understanding the ongoing violence in Israel-Palestine and the Middle East in general.

Palestinian refugees and their descendants living in the West Bank and Gaza continue to live under an Israeli military occupation funded by American taxpayers at over $10 million a day.

Israeli forces continue to violate human rights on a regular basis, with multiple cases of assaultabduction (in some cases, of children), andinvasion taking place in the past two months.

It is essential that we educate our communities and demand an end to the use of our tax dollars for killing and destruction. 

Here are some things you can do:

         •       Share our short summary “How Palestine Became Israel” article with people who are new to the issue.

     Watch and share Occupation 101, an award-winning documentary film on the root causes of the Israeli-Palestinian conflict.

         •       Post about the Nakba on Facebook and Twitter.

         •       Check to see what your local newspaper wrote about this tragedy, and write a letter to the editor with the facts they omitted.

         •       Learn about the Boycott, Divestment, and Sanctions movement and get involved with a local chapter.

         •       Call your Congressperson and give them your opinion about this issue.

     

American Friend of Combatants for Peace:

As Combatants for Peace has been planning the upcoming Joint Nakba Ceremony, division is being stirred in the U.S. regarding the commemoration of this important day.

This week, Speaker of the House Kevin McCarthy attempted to block a Nakba commemoration event sponsored by Rep. Rashida Tlaib. He claimed that it was “wrong for members of Congress to traffic in antisemitic tropes about Israel.” Citing concerns about the Nakba event led by Rep. Tlaib, Jonathan Greenblatt, the national director of the ADL, wrote to McCarthyand asked him to ensure that spaces controlled by Congress “are not being used to espouse discriminatory and hateful rhetoric.”

The Nakba commemoration event did take place in the Capitol building on Wednesday and Congresswoman Tlaib shared that true peace can only be built on truth and justice.

Recently, some AFCFP supporters have reached out to better understand the significance of CfP’s Joint Nakba Ceremony. As a community of Palestinian, Israeli, and international activists, our solidarity and unequivocal commitment to one another invites us to let go of our defenses and to draw near to one another’s stories. Solidarity invites us to bravely safeguard the dignity of all. The Combatants for Peace movement helps us to resist the urge of false dichotomies. As we build a future collectively, we are showing the world that there is a third path, rooted in justice and peace, that we can all walk together. 

Dogs! Dogs! Dogs!

A friend adopted two delightful dogs three years go. I journeyed to the Bronx to see her wonderful new apartment and to meet Pepper and her sister dog whose name might be Chloe. My friend lives in a beautiful, gigantic, grand apartment building probably built in the early twentieth century (Just guessing!)

Molly being admired by Pepper and Chloe

I was raised with collies. Old Lyme, Ct. was a combination of village and country. Your animals wandered around the countryside. Other neighbors’ animals wandered into your yard. There was a casual freedom the way dogs and cats were treated. They ate left overs and came and went through a small opening built in the screen door. By the way, I know where Lyme disease gets its name.

The oldest tree in Manhattan

New York Mysteries  April 29, 2023

A friend has a 1950s copy of a Russian film, War and Peace. It’s wonderful. When I was young I sort of read War and Peace, concentrating on the lavish parties and skipping the battles. In the film, the battles are amazing. Russian and French soldiers in natty uniforms on well trained horses raced over green fields and lakes in pursuit of each other.

The Russian spring’s birch, cherry and oak trees reminded me of the oldest living tree in Manhattan, planted in New York/  New Amsterdam in 1679.

It’s referred to as “the hanging tree” because of executions that supposedly took place. Although there are no public records confirming this, there was a nearby prison. Perhaps some of the inmates met their fate at the hanging tree.

The tree was on private land that was bought by the city and added to Washington Square in 1827. You can visit it at Washington Square Park’s northwest corner.

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Alone

Years ago there was a motion to stop the MTA 8 Bus. Its route is east to west on eighth and ninth streets. The reasons given were fewer passengers. The east and west neighborhoods spoke up. Many were parents who used the bus to transport their kids back and forth from schools. It worked.

Several days ago I was on the MTA 8 Bus going west.It was about 4:30 pm, the time extra curricular activities wind down. Seated at the front of the bus across from me was a good looking man, slightly disheveled after a day’s work: rolled up white sleeves, loosened tie. Maybe 38ish? He sat with his head in his hands. On either side of him were two young boys. To the right was a six year old. To the left was a nine year old. Of course, I’m assuming these ages. The older child banged an empty plastic bottle relentlessly against the seat, keeping time by screaming. The younger child fluttered a green object and kept grabbing his father who unwound the boy from his embraces. The child made loud, guttural sounds incessantly. The father made futile attempts to calm the kids. Mostly, he sat with his head buried in his hands.

For me their anguish and suffering fenced them in. Like me, the other passengers said nothing. What was there to say? The kids were driving us nuts but we all held on to our annoyance. When they got off the bus I was relieved. What about them? Where was their relief? What’s the mother like? What’s home life like?

What would you have done?

Something Mysterious

NEW YORK Mysteries.com

A few weeks ago a package was delivered to my address. It was wrapped in old-fashioned khaki colored paper. I did notice that there was no return address. Hummmm…. I tore off the wrapping paper. There was a pink paper slip that was blank . More Hummmm…I found a black and white paperback, 5″ by 7″, entitled Haun Tings. The writer was Andre Le Mont Wilson, described on the back cover as a Black, queer writer. HAUNTINGS as it’s identified on the inside cover is dedicated to MOM “who told me lynching stories”.

I have asked friends, acquaintances and everybody else if he/she sent it to me. The universal answer was NO.

Mary Jo Robertiello's mysteries and life