by Robyn Carr
“That’s okay. You do what you have to do. Writing it down is important to everyone, even the ones who don’t know it. And you’re on the right track, I can feel it.”
“You read it?” Krista asked.
“The first sentence. It’s a very good first sentence.”
They had a moment of silent communication as they both thought about that first sentence.
My grandfather kicked my grandmother in the stomach when she was pregnant with her first child, so it’s a wonder any of us are here at all.
Chapter Six
Krista had adored her father but she knew at an early age he was trouble. Roy was ten years younger than his brother, Carl. He was about twelve times more handsome, too. And he could charm the socks off a centipede. He was funny and handsome, could sing beautifully, tell jokes all night, and just the sight of him dancing with Jo was enough to clear the dance floor—people backed away to watch.
While Hope was trying to fantasize another kind of life and Megan couldn’t remember a thing for a whole year, Krista was the observer. She noticed everything and seemed unable to close her eyes to her family’s problems. She had a couple of prominent memories. One was from when she was four or five and the family was getting ready for Christmas Eve with her grandparents and cousins. “Did you wash the dresses like I told you?” Roy asked Jo.
“I don’t see why...” Jo said.
“So they don’t look like we bought ’em for the Christmas inspection!” he shot back. “So the judge and your tight-assed sister don’t say anything about it! And if your sister asks where your ring is, you say you left it by the sink. You got that?”
“Don’t get all worked up, Roy,” Jo pleaded. “That’s usually your excuse to drink.”
“How the hell am I supposed to get through six hours of listening to the old bastard without a couple of drinks under my belt?” he asked. Jo began to weep. “Oh, come on, baby, come on. I forget it’s hard for you, too. I’ll fix you a little something to take the edge off.”
Krista remembered the tension before and after every holiday or weekend gathering at Grandma and the judge’s house. Her other prominent memory was of the secret meetings in her parents’ kitchen. This was something her cousins wouldn’t remember even if they’d been paying attention because Carl and Louise came to Jo and Roy’s house without the kids, after Krista and her sisters were in bed. They’d talk quietly in the kitchen. Krista had spied and eavesdropped a few times. She’d hear her father say things like, I had to get rid of that car because it was a lemon, falling apart on us all the time. I got screwed. But she knew the truth was the car had been repossessed. Or she’d hear her father say, If you can’t loan me the money, I’ll have to sell some stock and I’m trying to hang on to it for the girls’ education. There was no stock.
Carl Hempstead had owned an electronics firm that was prosperous and a couple of times Roy worked for him. It had not gone well and there had been more of those kitchen meetings. Louise would always say, “Family is the most important thing. We will forever and always put family first and we’ll never speak of this again.” What they were never speaking of remained a mystery but Krista had some guesses. She suspected that every time Roy was down on his luck and needed the help of his older brother to dig out of a debt or pay off a loan, there was a kitchen meeting.
Krista had fashioned some of these memories into short stories for a class she’d taken in prison. The writing teacher had praised her work and asked her if she’d ever considered putting it all down on paper, from her earliest memory on. “You have talent,” the teacher said. “Plus, it’s an amazing way to clear the cobwebs—writing about it. The truth about it.”
“People in my position are very flexible about the truth,” Krista said. Her position was one of convicted felon, serving two and four. Two counts of murder, four of armed robbery. Now that was a story in itself.
Krista had had lots of therapy in prison. Most inmates didn’t really take to it but Krista was fascinated and she liked drawing some conclusions about the turns her life had taken. She had some individual and group counseling. It had been suggested that if she wanted to figure out where her problems had come from, she might take a closer look at her family.
That seemed pretty obvious to Krista. In fact, she suspected she knew where it all started. She thought she might be somewhat biased since the judge wouldn’t help her when she was in deep shit, but she suspected he was the root of all their problems. In fact, she’d be disappointed if she learned he wasn’t. But she wanted to gather as much information, the secret kind of information, the kind no one was supposed to talk about, to write it down. She wasn’t sure she’d ever publish something that personal that touched so many lives, but the first step was writing it. And writing it accurately. She started by asking Jo a lot of questions.
“When your dad and I needed a loan or a little help, Lou and Carl would come over to the house after you kids were in bed to talk about the terms. We’d set up a payment schedule and a small amount of interest, but Lou and Carl never expected to get repaid. So as a backup, as collateral, I’d promise to forfeit a part of the inheritance I’d share with Lou. Maybe my half of the silver or my half of a piece of art, of which there was a lot. Like my half of the Matisse.”
Yeah, Krista thought. That’s what I’m talking about.
She was careful to space her questions carefully so as not to draw too much attention to the fact seeking she was doing. And she had a nice, steady communication with Megan right up to the last couple of years when to talk about anything other than Megan’s health was selfish and even cruel.
Her mother visited the prison a few times, but it was costly for Jo and she didn’t make a lot of money. She got by and seemed pretty content, but Krista was well aware there were no extras for her mother and for her to spend the money to travel to California to visit her was an extravagance. But those were the times Jo would tell her things about the family. In her letters, Krista could tell Jo was uncomfortable putting it to paper and their phone conversations had to be kept short because there were always people waiting. But when Jo visited, they could talk for a few hours.
“Your grandmother started saying bizarre things after the judge passed away. Things I never heard her say while he was alive. Like the fact that she brought the money to the marriage. He’d have had everyone, including his family, believe that his wealth came from his great success as a lawyer and a judge. But Grandma said that was bull. She said he was a threadbare young attorney and she was the only child of a successful Chicago businessman. Her father literally picked the judge out for her, threw them a big wedding—a huge wedding. There was a fantastic dowry and it was her parents who gave them that enormous house on Grand Avenue. No young lawyer could afford that kind of house unless he had family money and the judge was the only child of a widow who lived from hand to mouth. Grandma said the judge was bought and paid for. And she was angry about it.”
“What kind of business did your grandfather run in Chicago?” Krista asked.
“He was a mortician!” Jo said. “A very successful mortician! And, after they got married and were living in Saint Paul, Grandma said the judge got mean. He had a temper, she said. He slapped her around and threw things. Back in those days, one never talked about domestic abuse, never. But Grandma was too smart for the judge. She called her father. And her father had what she called connections. Grandma said a couple of men visited the judge and explained, very carefully, that her parents were worried about her and didn’t want to think for one second that she wasn’t being well cared for. After listening to her talk like this for a couple of years, I got the idea my grandfather, Grandma’s daddy, was connected to the mob in Chicago. But your aunt Lou thought Grandma was senile. That’s when Grandma said, ‘Senile, eh? You’re lucky to have been born. The judge hit me, knocked me down and kicked me in the stomach when I was pregnant wi
th you!’ We’d never seen the judge raise a hand to our mother. Though there was no mistaking he had a temper.”
And he had a mean streak a mile long, Krista knew from experience. He was known as a hanging judge. And when she had appealed to him for help, he refused. Not that she blamed him. Krista had been both defiant and incorrigible.
But that was then. Twenty-five to life had filed down all the jagged edges.
* * *
Charley called Meg to let her know that Krista was with her at the lake house. After a tearful conversation, Krista handed the phone back to Charley.
“Would you like to call your mom now?” Charley asked while they ate a light breakfast of fruit and toast.
“The first person I have to check in with is that parole officer,” Krista said.
“Will you have to see him or her right away?”
“It’s a woman. And I won’t know until I call,” Krista said.
“Well, if she wants to see you, I’ll take you. But I have an idea. I can drive you into the city and you can see your mother. Today. How does that sound to you?”
“I like that idea,” she said.
“Can I leave you with her for a couple of hours while I run a few errands?” Charley asked.
“She’ll be at work,” Krista said. “We’ll have to ask her if it’s all right if I hang around. She’s not expecting me.”
“Call her,” Charley said. “Do you have any money?”
“Seventy-five dollars,” Krista said. “The parole officer will help me with some paperwork to apply for some interim assistance while I look for work.”
Charley opened up her purse and gave Krista another fifty. “Take your mom to lunch so you can talk, if she can escape the shop for an hour.”
“Charley...”
“Don’t even think about it, Krista. I’ve been lucky. If I can help you make this transition, it’ll be good for my spirit.”
“As long as your spirit doesn’t go broke,” she said.
They headed for the city, chatting the whole way. They recalled how it had been such a long drive when they were children but now there were good freeways that cut the time by at least a third. They turned the oldies on the radio and sang along. They laughed about the games they played in the back of the station wagon, their mothers in the front seat. It was a wonder no one got hurt! Games like Who can we suffocate the fastest? And pushing on the stomach of whatever girl had to pee. And laughing until someone did pee!
They pulled up in front of a respectable-looking little flower shop in an older section of Oakdale. “Want me to come in with you?” Charley asked.
Krista looked up and down the street. There were a couple of fast-food restaurants, an Italian place, a park. “No, I’ll be fine. This is good. I should see her first before I do anything else. What are you going to do? If you don’t mind me asking...”
“I’m going to see my mother,” Charley said. “We need to figure out who owns the lake house. And we need to be sure your mom feels okay about coming if that’s where you’re going to be. If you decide to stay here with your mom, that’s not a problem, you know. Everyone would understand.”
“Everyone? As in you and Megan?”
“Or anyone else,” Charley said.
“Listen—for twenty-three years Megan has been my faithful best friend, correspondent, spy and sister of the heart. I don’t know how much time she has left. I want to be there.”
That made Charley tear up. “Thank you,” she whispered.
“Don’t thank me,” Krista said. “I haven’t earned the right. But I really want to be with her and both of you seem to want me to be at the lake. You have no idea how much I appreciate that.”
“I love you, Krista,” Charley said. “I’m so glad we have this second chance.”
* * *
Charley dropped Krista in the small park across the street from the flower shop and drove to her mother’s house. She’d seen Louise several times while she was staying with Meg but she hadn’t been back to the house she grew up in for years. Not since Eric was six years old. She always stayed with Meg.
Just walking up to the door, her gut churned. She thought, My God, I’m forty-four years old and still afraid of my mother! I don’t want to be alone with her!
Funny, Charley thought, I’ve been less nervous facing neo-Nazis on my talk show than I am dropping in on my mother. And as far as that went, she wasn’t merely dropping in—she had called ahead after leaving Krista at the flower shop. “Mother, it’s Charley,” she had said.
“Oh?” Louise replied.
“I’m going to be in Saint Paul this morning. I wonder if I might stop by?”
“Well, I suppose so. If you feel you have the time.”
“I’m pretty busy actually, but I’ll squeeze you in,” Charley said. Automatic sass. Instantly she knew she’d been had again. Louise’s tongue was like pistol fire at her feet. Dance, dance, dance. Louise would bait her and Charley always took the bait.
Louise had been old for over twenty years. In fact, when Charley’s father passed away Louise was forty-one and she’d already been old. Not wrinkled, tired or through too many hard times; it wasn’t that. She was already complaining about how hard the floors were on her knees and hips but she was neither arthritic nor crippled. Her hair was gray and she didn’t color it. It must be hard to find a beautician who could still create that twenty-or thirty-year-old weekly hairdo... Charley thought it was called “the wedge.” Lou wore no makeup, not even lipstick, as she had when she was young. Her brows were shapeless and she wouldn’t pluck them. Her clothes were expensive but dowdy and she didn’t update them. But more than anything it was the sourness on her face. It could scare children. She could be so fierce and mean looking it could make you wince and step back. It put thirty years on her.
Before that terrible summer she used to laugh. She was smart and funny, happy and attractive. She gave up so long ago.
The very first time Charley had taken Eric to meet his grandmother he was six years old. He was bright, funny, handsome and daring. But when he saw Louise, he had gasped. Right out loud. And the most complimentary thing Louise had said of him during their entire visit was, “Small for his age, isn’t he? And a bit of an attitude. I know where he gets that.”
Charley had a few pictures of her family members taken at her grandparents’ home at the time of her father’s funeral—when Louise was three years younger than Charley was now. Louise had looked at least sixty.
Cut her some slack, her conscience had said at the time. She’s been through hell with her kids and her husband just died. Louise couldn’t be blamed for what happened to Bunny, Charley said to herself, but the rest of us she drove away with her anger, her lack of empathy. Even Daddy. Louise behaved as though everything that had gone wrong happened only to her.
She knocked on her mother’s front door before she let herself think too much about her father. Her father, who was so inherently good, so loving and generous, yet in all their familial crises he never found a way to be the least bit useful.
Louise had lived in the same spacious split-level since Charley was about twelve. The house was in an upscale neighborhood. It sat at the end of a cul-de-sac on a half-acre lot with lush trees and shrubs. Charley could hear the sound of the lawn trimmer outside and the vacuum cleaner inside. A housekeeping service van was parked at the curb.
Charley was already angry. She was pursing her lips against rage. Her mother had a gardener and maid, but Aunt Jo could only afford a small apartment? They were both single women, had once been so close. You’d think Louise would want to take care of her sister. How could they allow this arrangement to continue?
“Charley, I didn’t expect you to get here so quickly.”
“I dropped Krista at Aunt Jo’s flower shop and came right over.” She shrugg
ed.
“Jo’s flower shop?” Louise asked. “She has a flower shop now?”
Louise knew better but Charley responded, anyway. “I believe she has worked in the same flower shop for years, Mother,” she managed to say without snarling. “Don’t you see her?”
“I see her every week,” Louise said. “As you know.”
Ah, so this had not changed since the last time Charley was home. Jo and Louise accompanied Grandma Berkey to church every Sunday. Jo took a bus to the nursing home and Louise drove herself there. They put Grandma in the front seat of the car, Jo got in the back seat and they went to the big Presbyterian church downtown. They sat on either side of Grandma and barely spoke to each other. They took Grandma to lunch, each paid for her own plus half of Grandma’s and talked mostly to Grandma. They took Grandma back to the nursing home; Jo left there by bus and Louise drove herself home. Charley wondered if Louise had ever offered her sister a ride. Jo never asked for one. The settings had changed over the years but the bottom line was the same: they were often together, at least once a week, and in twenty-seven years had not had any real conversations.
Charley took a breath. “Actually, I’m here to talk to you about Aunt Jo.”
“Would you like to talk in the doorway? Or would you like to come inside?”
“Why do you have to be so damn sarcastic, Mother? I’d like to come in! I’d like you to say you’re glad I stopped by! I’d like you to offer me a cup of coffee or tea or maybe a good belt of something stronger! My God, you’re no more welcoming than you were the last time I came to this house some twelve years ago!”
“Maybe I don’t show my feelings so much anymore because I’m a little tired of being hurt, Charley. As you said, it’s been twelve years since you came to my house. By all means, come in.” And with that Louise turned and strode into the house, leaving Charley to follow.
How the hell does she do that? Charley asked herself. Though Louise had not phoned or written one time to say she was missed or asked her to come for a visit, it was somehow Charley’s fault. It was all about Louise. This is the last time, Charley vowed. The very last time. She is an unredeemable narcissist.