Stranger Son

by Jim Nelson

  The hard twinges of true doubt only came sorting through Lea's closet. A full wardrobe of Lea's clothes remained. Dresses hung loosely but neatly on hangers, placed there with the womanly care she did not find with the clothes in Kyle's closet. Some of the dresses and blouses were in dry cleaning bags with receipts taped to the plastic dated over six years earlier. Boxes of creams and powders and beauty serums and hair product were stacked in the back floor of the closet. Opening the plastic boxes released a bouquet of pent-up rose oil and lavender and baby powder. Old hairbrushes and combs and hair clips and hair bands were loose in one box of cosmetics, old toothbrushes and whitening paste in another.

  Ruby discovered a stack of correspondence between Lea and her mother. Apparently, even in the age of email and instant messaging, Lea and her mother wrote paper-and-ink letters once a week or so. The letters went back decades. The earliest letters from Lea's mother spoke about Kyle as a boyfriend, not a husband. Later letters focused almost exclusively on Henry and the joys and responsibilities of motherhood. It made Ruby jealous, this documentation of dating, marriage, and baby. This second shade of green jealousy shamed her further. Ruby could not quite yet see the truth of her situation.

  Forty-eight

  Kyle took the phone call. He uh-huh'd through most of it. She could not make out much else. From the kitchen, Ruby thought he spoke more deferentially than usual. After hanging up, there was a protracted silence from the den. Ruby entered wearing an apron with a dishtowel thrown over her shoulder.

  "We're having dinner at the Griffins' tonight," he said softly. "I apologize for the late notice."

  She'd not started dinner and wasn't put out. "Who are the Griffins?"

  "Members of the church," he said, lost in thought. "Griff is head deacon. Suze teaches Sunday School."

  She recalled someone named Griffin on the church program. It was the first time she'd heard of anyone from the church reaching out to Kyle or Henry. Still, an instinctive wall of defensiveness rose within Ruby. "Does he want to talk to you about the church?"

  "How could he not?" Kyle said, thinking.

  "Or something to do with the shooting?"

  "I don't know," he said. "I just don't know."

  "Tell me something, Kyle," she said. "How long have you been a member of this church?"

  "Since I was born."

  "You told me when Lea died, the church was a big help to you."

  "A big help to both us," he said, meaning him and Henry.

  "So why aren't they here?"

  "What would they be doing for us?" he asked. "This family is not a charity case."

  "What did they do for you when Lea died?" she asked back.

  He shook his head dismissively. "They made some hot meals for me and Henry while we grieved. Purchased flowers for Lea's memorial service." His answers quieted as the list grew. "They prayed for us during the church services. One week, they put aside a portion of the tithe for Lea's funeral."

  "Not a single person from that church has visited this house since I started," she said. "I thought it was me. I thought I was driving them away, somehow." She spoke up over his objection. "No, you listen. I know how this situation looks to the outside world. Me living here under your roof. Word gets around. People start thinking we're an item."

  "I like to believe my reputation is still worth something in Angels Camp."

  "Where is everyone, then?" She marched to the foot of the stairs. She called up, "Go on, get down here."

  Henry descended the stairs a step at a time, eyes wide with guilt.

  "Your son likes to sneak out of his room and listen in on us," she said to Kyle.

  "Go on up and change," Kyle said to him. "We're eating at the Griffin's tonight." Henry scrambled back up the stairs.

  "Why haven't you got a lawyer?" she said to him.

  "It was an accident." His voice was raising. "Pastor Hargrove didn't want to shoot me."

  "If he did, he'd be up for attempted murder." Her voice was raising as well. "Just because it was an accident doesn't mean he's not liable."

  "I don't go running to lawyers every time I break a hangnail," he said. "That's how it's done in California. Not here in Jefferson."

  She went to the bed railing. She took Kyle's hand.

  "He stole your livelihood from you," she pleaded. "Your ability to provide for Henry."

  "What is it with you and Henry?" He peered into her eyes. "You sure took a shine to him right off." He studied her face. "Have I told you how much you look like him?"

  "I'm part Irish," she said, groping for an excuse.

  "What's that got to do with anything? Who told you he's part Irish?"

  "He's an Abney, right?"

  Eyes on her hand, he stroked his thumb across the back of her fingers. "You sure yell a lot for a nun," he said quietly.

  "I'm not a nun."

  "What are you, then?"

  "I'm just…part of an order." Dr. Benford's shoddy tale grew shoddier with each telling. "It's a new thing in the church. Vatican Two, you know." She'd heard a Hagar toss out that term one time. Ruby didn't know what it meant. It sounded like a movie sequel.

  They gazed down on their entwined hands. His thumb continued to swab the back of her fingers. A month of nursing and house duties had left the skin of her hands coarse and dry. She reminded herself to buy a tube of moisturizer on her next trip to the supermarket.

  "Are you sure about going to the Griffins tonight? " she asked.

  "A man doesn't turn down a dinner with Blake Griffin," he said. "His great-granddaddy built Angels Camp into what it is today."

  "That sounds like even more reason to steer clear of him."

  "Maybe he wants to help us out," he said. "Just like you said the church should."

  "He would come here if he wanted to help us. No—" She shook her head. "He wants to see us on his own turf. He wants home field advantage." She paused. "I wish you'd get yourself a lawyer."

  He pulled away his hand. He made a half-pout, half-sneer.

  "Go put on some makeup and a dress." He couldn't manage to look at her. "Then come down and help me get ready. We leave in an hour."

  It was no use. She ran up the stairs thinking one word and only one word: Men.

  Forty-nine

  Traveling down Highway 4, Ruby couldn't help but now see the Griffin name all over town. Griffin Street intersected with Highway 4 on the block where City Hall rose like a temple. Preserved wood signs hanging from the Griffin Building marked the old meeting halls for the Oddfellows and the Freemasons. Signs pointed the way to Griffin Park. The name had gone unnoticed since her arrival in Angels Camp five weeks earlier. Now she saw it everywhere.

  The Griffins' residence was situated on the other side of Angels Camp, a grand California-style ranch house surrounded by developed acreage and a white stable fence. Trellises of wine grapes were staggered up the foothills of the eastern side of the property. A horse ring and stable lay to the west. A young woman in a denim shirt and a long linen skirt opened the door as they approached.

  "Please come in." She motioned them inside with a disinterested demeanor.

  Kyle hobbled inside on the black oak walking stick, eyes alert. Ruby entered alongside him, ready to offer support. Kyle did not need it. He mustered all the fortitude he possessed to appear independent now. Henry meekly brought up the rear, hair still damp from the wet comb he'd pulled through it at home.

  "Welcome," came a warm voice. A woman swept in from a side hallway with arms out open. From her minimal, almost invisible, jewelry and cosmetics, Ruby knew she was of wealth. Being rich is about understated excess, so understated it's inferred rather than implied. The musky scent of too-much perfume swept in with the woman. This was it, Ruby thought, this was the clue she'd not been wealthy her entire life—Ms. Abney-Rance detested heavy fragrances on her, on her friends, and especially on Ruby. This woman was not Abney wealthy, but wealthy for Angels Camp, and perhaps for all of Jefferson.

  The woman gave Kyle a
tender, distant hug. Kyle accepted it but did not reciprocate. Ruby knew he would have preferred a handshake.

  "How are you?" she asked forthrightly, hands clamped on his upper arms. "Are you doing well?"

  "Recovering," he said. "Slowly." The walking stick quivered. He needed to sit down.

  "I've prayed for you every day," she said. "Every day, I hear the Lord's spirit in my heart, and He's telling me He's watching over you and your family."

  "He is indeed," Kyle said.

  She detached from Kyle and approached Ruby with a warm hand extended. "I'm Suze Griffin. You must be Cynthia?"

  "Thank you for having us over."

  "Cara, why don't you check on the roast." Suze spoke to the emotionless young woman who'd met them at the door. She'd been mute the entire time and vacantly watching from off to the side.

  "It should be ready soon." Cara left them.

  "Griff is fussing with his latest toy," Suze said with a theatrical sigh and roll of the eyes. "You know how men are," she said knowingly to Ruby.

  "Do you have a place for Kyle to sit?" Ruby said.

  "Of course." She put her hands on Kyle's forearms. "I'm so sorry, my manners are not where they need to be. Let's find you a chair."

  She led them to an entertainment room of oversized, overstuffed couches, a curved wood bar on one end, and the largest television Ruby had ever seen. It would have been a modest-sized electronic billboard. Beneath it was an array of electronic boxes and cords stacked one atop the other, with a similar mess of remote controls on the coffee table.

  A broad-chested man in a pink button-up shirt and dark slacks was hunched over the boxes beneath the television. From behind, male pattern baldness was beginning to make itself known beneath the crown of his slicked-back chestnut hair. He rose when Suze announced the guests had arrived.

  "Kyle," he said. "Thanks for making it over."

  The men shook. Blake Griffin towered over Ruby. He seemed twice as wide as her. His cheeks were flushed, not from exerting himself on the floor, but because he was the kind of Caucasian whose cheeks were always flushed. His hazel eyes gave him a friendly, warm aura, but Ruby still did not trust him. He wore too much aftershave.

  "I understand you're taking care of Kyle," he said to her. "What a blessing your presence brings to the Weymouth house."

  "Thank you," she said. "Can Kyle sit down?"

  There was some confusion in finding an appropriate chair for Kyle to use. The overstuffed couches were too soft, and Ruby worried if he sank into them, it would be near impossible to get him back on his feet. The hard-backed chairs around the dining room table had skimpy cushions, and Ruby did not want him sitting on his posterior without proper padding. They finally decided on one of the his-and-her reclining chairs before the television set. If Kyle grew sleepy, they could recline the chair and let him nap.

  Ruby hoped it did not come to that, though. She loathed the idea of being stuck in this house without Kyle as a social buffer between her and the Griffins.

  Once Kyle was settled, the couple took seats on the couches. Ruby dragged the rejected dining room chair beside the reclining chair to be close to Kyle. Henry moved to study the electronic box Griff had been fiddling with when they first entered.

  "Cannot get that device to work," he said to Kyle. "It's one of those Internet movie things. The power's on and it says it's connected, but the movies won't show up on the television."

  "Well, give Henry a chance with it," Kyle said. "Probably won't be able to tear him away for dinner."

  Cara entered bearing a tray of drinks in five tall glasses. She served everyone unsweetened iced tea with a lemon slice attached to the lip of the glass. She set out a service of sugar and packets of calorie-free sweeteners.

  "Dinner will be ready in about twenty minutes," she said.

  "Thank you," Suze said.

  Cara nodded and retreated for the kitchen.

  "Cara is my sister's daughter," Suze explained. "She lives up in Mendocino. Cara's staying down here with us for a while." She made a knowing scrunched face. "To get away for a little bit."

  Mendocino, Ruby recalled, was now part of Jefferson. She vaguely remembered her mother taking her and her twin sister to Fort Bragg for weekend trips. She and Cynthia would eat fish and chips all weekend because that was the only seafood they enjoyed. From the cliffs, they watched the seals frolic in the churning cream of the rough-and-tumble Pacific.

  Mendocino down the coast was the source of a painful memory for Ruby. Her mother had grown inebriated on Napa Valley wine at an Italian restaurant and started hitting on a strange man who was much too forward with Ruby. Thirteen-year-old Cynthia was heavy with Henry and growing more masculine with each passing day. She fumed through the episode. She looked ready to punch the man in the throat, take the keys from their mother, and drive them all back to the hotel in Fort Bragg.

  "Cara wanted to get away from the coast," Griff added. "She has lung trouble. The wet sea air is hard on her lungs." He made a brash grin. "She loves to cook. Couldn't keep her out of the kitchen if we put a lock on the door."

  "Why don't I check on her," Ruby said. "Maybe she could use some help with dinner."

  "Cara's fine," Suze said. "Please, don't get up."

  "It's no problem," Ruby said, and before they could protest again, she trotted off the same direction Cara had left them.

  The rich savory smells of a roast beef and potato dinner drew her to the kitchen. Pots over flame covered the stovetop. The twin ovens made the kitchen uncomfortably warm. Cara stood at a counter tossing a green salad. She halted when Ruby entered. They stared at each other for a long, tense moment.

  Ruby went to the other end of the counter. A large wood board for rolling dough was covered with flour and ring marks. Corners and wedges of dough remained behind while the biscuits baked. Cara set down the salad tongs and came beside her.

  Ruby used her index finger to draw in the biscuit flour. She finished one of the elephant-ear-shaped handles when Cara's hand joined hers. It drew the other jug handle.

  With a hoarse, accusatory voice, Cara said, "Do you know how lucky you are?"

  Fifty

  Ruby erased the mark in the flour with a single swipe of her hand. "It's not as easy as it looks," she said to Cara.

  "At least you chose it," Cara said accusingly. "I heard you came up here with a doctor."

  "Are you really related to the Griffins?"

  "No," Cara said, offended, as though the question was gauche. "That's the story they cooked up. Mrs. Griffin was going to say I was Mr. Griffin's sister's daughter, but he said if I was found out, it would look like he lied. So they agreed to say I'm related to Mrs. Griffin. That way, if I'm caught, he can say his wife made the mistake."

  "Mistake?"

  "She would say she doesn't speak with her sister and I'd lied to her," Cara said. "It really doesn't matter. Around here, they can get away with anything. No one's going to go up against them. Besides—" She began whispering. "She was the one who demanded a live-in. He's fine paying for a legit girl. She's the one who wanted a Hagar."

  Ruby knew the story. Hagars might run off from time to time, but they'd never ask for a raise or a better living situation.

  "How did you get into Jefferson?" Ruby asked, also whispering.

  "I grew up outside Placerville," an old gold rush town now in Jefferson. "After the separation, I couldn't get out. They test at the border both directions." She grew grim. "What I don't understand is why you came here. You're crazy. At least Mr. Griffin can protect me. He's important around here. But Mr. Weymouth?"

  "I thought people around here respected him."

  "No," she hissed. "He's white trash to these folks. Don't you know?"

  Ruby thought of the wolf pack in the truck, armed to the teeth, roaring past on the highway. "There's a lot of white trash around here, from what I've seen."

  Cara withdrew. "Just because I grew up in a trailer doesn't make my family garbage."

  Ruby
grew pale. Hagars bashing other Hagars was a hot topic in the community—it was debated endlessly on the Internet message boards she followed—but she always thought of it was something other Hagars engaged in.

  "I'm sorry," she said. "That was unfair."

  "It's more than unfair," Cara said.

  "But the people around here," Ruby said, pressing. "They'll throw you in prison if they found out."

  Cara did not back down. "I love my family," she said. "Even if some of them don't love me."

  Ruby didn't know where to go with that. She looked around the kitchen. She was being genuine when she said she wanted to lend a hand. Cara seemed to have everything under control, though. Ruby imagined Cara was raised in a traditional home, even if the home was a trailer, and so she would have spent her young life tending to the cooking and cleaning.

  Ruby—not exactly unfamiliar with a hot kitchen—moved to the salad bowl and began tossing it. She wanted to appear busy in case Suze Griffin were to make a sudden appearance.

  "Do you know why they invited Kyle over?" she asked.

  Sensing Ruby's instincts, Cara began removing plates and bowls from a hutch. "Mr. Griffin is the head deacon of the church," she told Ruby.

  "I don't know what that means."

  "There's the pastor of the church," Cara said. "Pastor Hargrove. He's like the president."

  "The president?" Ruby said. "Like a CEO?"

  "Yes, like a CEO," Cara said. "How were you raised?"

  "You mean religion?" Ruby shrugged. "We didn't go to church."

  "Don't think of churches like you see them in the movies," Cara said. "They're run like businesses. They're franchises, like Macdonald's. That's true for Protestant churches, at least. I can't speak for how the Catholics run things."

  "You're saying the pastor is like the owner of a Macdonald's?"

  "Yes. And there's an associate pastor. He's like the vice president. But he does the real work. He runs the Sunday School. He's in charge of the money. That kind of thing. Pastor Hargrove is only a symbol."