Bad For Each Other

by Kate Hathaway

  "You keep that hat on when you go outside, Tobie?" Morrissey asked.

  "Yep, I do," the boy answered and Molly had to smile. He didn't sleep with the hat on, but that was about it.

  "Where'd you get those sharp-looking boots?"

  "My dad," Tobie responded with obvious pride. "He's bringin' me a buckle with my initials stamped on it next time he comes."

  "Is that so?"

  "Yep." He eyed the doctor hopefully. "I've been taking my medicine without complaining and eating lots of green stuff."

  Morrissey favored Tobie with one of his rare smiles and looked to Molly for confirmation. She nodded her assurance. "Well, Miss Colleen will have a reward for you. Why don't you go see her? She'll give you the July calendar with the dates marked for your checkups, too."

  Tobie scrabbled from the examining table and scooted out the door before Molly could even offer any assistance.

  "His energy level appears to have picked up," the doctor commented dryly.

  "Yes," Molly agreed with a laugh. "I'm glad he's able to be outdoors more."

  Morrissey indicated for Molly to take a seat. She did so and sat tensely, watching as the physician scratched some notes in Tobie's record in his crabbed handwriting. After a few minutes he looked up, as if just remembering her presence.

  "The hat's good," he said, picking up on a previous thought. "With the medication he's on, it's important that he avoid exposure to the sun. He'll need to wear long sleeves outside, even with the weather getting hot."

  "I understand," Molly replied. "He doesn't object." She shrugged and looked away. "Too much."

  Morrissey ruffled the papers he held, referring back to some lab reports. "His blood picture is showing considerable improvement. No sign of rejection." He lifted his head and looked at Molly. "His color's good, too. And he's gaining weight." He cleared his throat. "I think we can allow him some playmates now. Selectively. Not in groups, certainly, but one at a time."

  Molly let out a long breath and clasped her hands in her lap. "He's really missed a couple of his friends. That's been the hardest part for him."

  "Try to screen the children. I know that's hard. But there's less going around that we need to worry about this time of year." He made another note in the chart, speaking as he did so. "Tobie seemed to enjoy his father's visit."

  "Oh, yes." Charlie had come with them for Tobie's checkups while he'd been in town. The rapport between the two had been obvious to everyone.

  Morrissey put the chart aside and fiddled with his pen. Molly sensed he was uncertain about broaching a subject, but she couldn't imagine what. The man was nothing, if not direct.

  "I was happy to see the two of you getting along so well."

  She glanced at him sharply. That was a strange comment, even from Morrissey. "How do you mean?" she questioned.

  "I'm afraid I might have been a little...rude to him...when we met. Naturally, I was surprised to find out who he was. Anyway, I told him how important it was for Tobie's well-being that you two...be agreeable." He gave her a curious look. "He never mentioned that?"

  She shook her head, uncertain that she could utter even a single word. The muscles in her face seemed to have gone numb.

  "Well." He made a dismissive gesture. "It's clear you get along fine." He gave her an abashed smile. "He's not what I expected."

  "Yes," Molly said, finding her voice. She couldn't have been more stunned if he'd kicked the chair out from under her. "He surprises a lot of people."

  She and Tobie left a short time later, after filling a prescription at the in-house pharmacy. Later, she remembered little of the ride home or Tobie's chatter. Dr. Morrissey's words and their implications crowded her mind as she gripped the steering wheel and maneuvered the familiar streets.

  Charlie'd been told to get along with her.

  Could so much of the past weeks have been an act? He'd undergone an operation for his son. He'd shaved his head for his son. She didn't doubt for a moment that he would die for his son if the situation demanded.

  And Charlie was used to performing. Time and again she'd seen him assume the facade his audience expected. How difficult would it be to pretend some degree of affection for the mother of his son? To convince a woman who was so pathetically eager to be convinced?

  She remembered his behavior when she first confronted him with the knowledge of Tobie's existence. His anger, his antagonism, his insistence on marriage despite that.

  When had she noticed the change in his attitude? Sometime before the transplant, surely. Even before they'd married. He'd been considerate, tender—with no trace of the anger he'd shown earlier—on their wedding night.

  She pressed her lips tightly together and focused on the road, trying to force her disquieting thoughts from her mind. What useful purpose would it serve, nurturing such doubt? But, like a splinter imbedded under a fingernail too deeply to be removed, her suspicion nagged. And it hurt.

  Molly cut a slice of apple pie and handed it to Lisa. Outside the bay window of the breakfast area, Tobie romped with Lisa's son, Ryan, on the jungle gym Charlie had erected under the pin oak. One of the advantages of Tobie's being able to have visitors was that Molly could have them, too.

  Ryan had been playing with Tobie most of the morning and she'd invited Lisa to stay for lunch and chat. They'd worked together at the law office for several years and their boys had been in day care together before they'd started school. Now they all had some catching up to do.

  Up to this point conversation had centered on the mundane—talk of people and events familiar to them both—but Molly sensed Lisa's understandable curiosity, simmering for so long, was about to reach full boil. She refreshed their coffee cups and took a seat next to her friend, where they could keep an eye on the boys.

  "You really are a deep one, Molly," Lisa remarked, her gaze on the children. ' T mean, the resemblance is so obvious, but Kick Cochrane! Who would ever have guessed?"

  Molly sipped her coffee and remained silent, not knowing how to respond. She hadn't expected anyone to guess.

  "Why didn't you ever say?" Lisa turned her head toward Molly sharply, concern written on her face. "Did he leave you in the lurch when he found out you were pregnant? Is that what he's like?"

  "No!" she answered quickly, coming to his defense. "He didn't know." I thought he did, she finished to herself. But she was unwilling to reveal to an acquaintance something she had never told Charlie. "His success was so sudden."

  "I suppose," Lisa agreed, shrugging offhandedly. "And then there were the women." She took another bite of pie while Molly held her breath, hoping she would drop that line of inquiry. No such luck.

  "Although, as I recall, the paternity suits never amounted to anything, did they? He doesn't have any other children?"

  "No." She doubted whether Lisa would have had the nerve to ask such a question if Charlie had been an engineer or a plumber. He'd warned her that some folks always considered it open season on those in the spotlight. There had been two suits, both of them without foundation. One of them was lodged by a woman he couldn't even remember meeting, bizarre as that seemed. Some people became fixated on celebrities and imagined all kinds of things, Charlie told her. She had no reason to doubt him. Whatever else he might do, he would never deny a child. She knew that now.

  "Still," Lisa continued, oblivious to Molly's lack of enthusiasm for the conversation or choosing to ignore it. "He's so-o-o attractive. And those eyes...I've always thought he looked a little... wild... dangerous.'' Lisa glanced at Molly expectantly, as if seeking confirmation.

  Molly had to laugh. "Well, I've known him since he was nine years old. I don't think of him that way." Probably it was difficult to see a person in that light when you'd engaged in cherry-pit spitting contests with him.

  "He must be very different from what he was at nine," Lisa maintained. "Or even at twenty. All that money. The glamour, the fame."

  "No. Not really." That's what had struck her most about Charlie. He didn't c
are about the trappings of success. They hadn't changed him. His needs were simple. Well-worn jeans, a decent guitar, some quiet time to write, an occasional beer. And his family.

  All the rest was a job. More high-profile, better paying than most. But a job.

  "He's the same," Molly said. "Just the same."

  ***

  "Where're we headed?" Charlie reached overhead to dim the reading lamp, swiveled his chair and propped his bare feet on the bed.

  "Morgantown." Harlan had stopped in the bus to discuss the next week's itinerary and stayed to talk. Charlie was reluctant to see him leave. He had the feeling it was going to

  be a long night.

  "Would that be West Virginia or Tennessee?" Sad to say, one was the same as the other for all he got to see of the towns. He'd do radio-station promotions, interviews, squeeze in a visit to a hospital or a residential facility if he could, catch a nap, sound-check, do the show, try to unwind, then it was back on the bus and on to the next venue to do it all again.

  "That would be Kentucky, Kick. Kentucky." Harlan yawned around a chuckle.

  "Am I keeping you up?" He figured he was, but Harlan was too good a friend to say so.

  "Nah, that's all right."

  They both heard the rumble of the bus engine as it roared to life, the groan of the gears, the wheeze of the brake when it was released. Harlan made to rise.

  "I'd better get back to the band bus—"

  "Nah. Stay. You can bunk on the sleeper in the forward room. Unless you'd rather..." But Harlan was already easing his long frame back into his chair. Charlie flicked the intercom to alert the driver. He turned again to Harlan when he finished. "Shooter make it back?"

  "Yeah." The older man rubbed a hand over his face. "He was wasted. Didn't try to smuggle any women on the bus anyway."

  Charlie answered with a grunt. "It's not the women I'm concerned about. It's the girls...."

  "I know. He doesn't show much judgment when he's hit-tin' the bottle—"

  "Which, here lately, is all the time." Charlie drummed his fingers on the arm of the chair. "Did you talk to that fella— the studio musician—while we were in Nashville?"

  Harlan raised his eyebrows and sighed heavily. "Yeah. I thought we had a chance with him. He'd love to play with us, Kick, but he doesn't want to go on the road. Hell, he records with half the big names. He's making real money. He's got a couple little kids and he doesn't want to live like a nomad."

  Charlie closed his eyes and leaned his head back into the chair. He could relate to that. The road had stopped being fun a long time ago. He wanted to settle down. He wanted to wake up in the morning next to Molly's red head and know what town he was in. He'd like to know what was going on in Molly's red head right now. She'd been just a little bit distant the last couple of times he'd talked to her. Three weeks apart, and he could feel her slipping away.

  He clasped his hands over his chest and spoke without opening his eyes. "I've been thinkin'...when we knock off for the holidays this year...around Thanksgiving." He opened one eye and peered at Harlan. "I've been thinkin* maybe we'd stretch it out. Not tour next year, I mean. How would you feel about that?"

  Harlan puffed his cheeks and blew out a long breath. "You've been on the road pretty steady for the last eight years. I've only been with you for six, and I'm tuckered. You won't get any argument from me."

  "What about the others?"

  "Hell, they'll miss the gravy train." He shrugged his shoulders. "But they won't be hurting. Tell you the truth, I think we all could use the break." He gazed out the window as the bus merged onto the highway. "Maddie and I could use some extra time together," he said more quietly, almost to himself.

  Charlie came alert, rolled his head on the chair back to look at his friend. "Are you and Maddie having problems?"

  Harlan propped an elbow on his knee and rubbed a finger over his mustache. "Ah, you know how it is. Females get these ideas in their heads...."

  "Even Maddie?"

  "Even Maddie." He laughed humorlessly. "I don't know who she thinks would be interested in this old bag of bones."

  Charlie relaxed again, closing his eyes. "Well, tell you what, Harlan. If it comes to that, I'll vouch for you."

  "Thanks." His laughter was more genuine. "I'd do the same for you, Kick."

  "Yeah."If it comes to that.

  "Mom."

  Molly came awake by slow degrees, not sure if she dreamed the voice that seemed to come from a distance.

  "Mom," it came again, insistently. She wasn't dreaming the hand tugging on her arm, nor its heat. Raising her head from the pillow, she strained to see the small form next to the bed, silhouetted in the faint light from her open bedroom door.

  "I don't feel so good, Mom."

  She was up like a shot, her hands going to cradle Tobie's cheeks. Hot and dry. She put the inside of her wrist to his forehead. He was burning up.

  "What hurts, Tobie?"

  She switched on the bedside lamp, and he squinted and turned his head, but not before she caught the glassy look to his eyes. His face was flushed.

  "My head. That light hurts my eyes, Mom."

  His voice sounded weak and a little stuffy. She thought she'd caught him wiping his nose on his sleeve a couple of times during the day, but she figured it might be an allergy, with him being outdoors so much.

  God. She'd figured wrong.

  Mentally, she kicked herself. Charlie'd been gone a month. Had she been distracted? Inattentive?

  Already she was reaching for the phone and punching in the number Dr. Morrissey gave to his patients where they could reach him, day or night

  She knew what he would tell her. His words only confirmed it. Meet him at the hospital without delay.

  * * *

  Charlie said a few final words to his agent and dropped the phone receiver into its cradle. With a look of satisfaction, he crossed his feet on the standard-issue hotel coffee table and turned to Harlan. "The new album and the first single from it both finished number one on the country charts this week."

  "Hot damn. You've still got it, Kick," the older man responded, helping himself to another slice of pizza. "I swear that tune's a real weeper. You could wring tears out of a sumo wrestler."

  Charlie laughed, but basked in the honest compliment nonetheless. Harlan was no bootlicker. He'd be the first to let him know if he was losing his touch. "That's got me a little worried, to tell the truth. I think we ought to release the fourth cut next. It's more upbeat. We don't want folks thinkin' we're only good with the hankie set."

  "Tell you what," Harlan countered. "We're gonna have to do a better job with that cut than we did tonight. It sounded a little flat."

  "Yeah," Charlie agreed, picking the olives off his pizza. "Needs more of a backbeat. We can work it up." At a knock on the door he turned his head and checked the clock. Almost one. He threw a questioning look at Harlan, who only shrugged and rose to answer.

  Charlie lifted his feet from the table and pushed himself up from the couch when his brother walked in with a girl who very obviously needed the supporting hand Beau had clamped on her elbow.

  "Lookee what I found on the bus," Beau said by way of an introduction.

  Harlan and Charlie exchanged glances before Charlie directed his attention to his brother. "Shooter?"

  Beau nodded. "He promised this young lady he'd bring her to meet you. It appears he passed out before he got the opportunity."

  Looking at the girl, trying to judge her age, Charlie could only hope the guy had passed out before he'd had an opportunity to do anything else. With Beau's help, she made her way on wobbly legs to the couch where she plopped down, caught a glimpse of the pizza and put a hand over her mouth. Harlan quickly closed the box and shoved it out of sight.

  "Were you at the show tonight?" Charlie asked the girl.

  She nodded and gazed at him with that moony, calf-eyed look. What the hell, he was just a man. If he lived to be a hundred, he'd never understand that reaction.
>
  "Did you drive?" God help us all. She wasn't driving home, that was for damn sure.

  She shook her head in response, but that seemed to upset her touchy tummy. She put one hand to her midriff, and the other grasped the arm of the sofa as if trying to make it stand still.

  "She came with friends," Beau offered helpfully. "Monica and..." He looked to the girl for assistance.

  "Celeste." She had a lot of trouble with the "s" sounds in that name, Charlie noticed.

  His brother folded his arms across his chest and went on. "It appears Shooter promised her a ride home, too."

  Charlie glanced sharply from the girl to Beau. "Where is he?"

  "On the bus. He's tanked, Kick. He's not goin' anywhere."

  "Isn't someone gonna be missing you?" Charlie turned his attention back to the girl. She seemed to have a lot of trouble with that question. He gestured impatiently with his hands.

  "You know. Family. What time were you supposed to be home?"

  She shifted her gaze around the three of them, then looked shamefacedly down at her hands. "I told my dad..." She swallowed hard. "I was staying at Monica's. She's going to cover for me."

  Charlie hooked his thumbs through his belt loops and stared at the girl. God save him from teenage daughters. He wondered if there was any way to ensure that Molly gave birth only to sons. If what he recalled from sexed class was accurate the determining factor for that rested squarely in his court. He let out a long breath and shook his head. "How old are you, young lady?"

  She had to consider that question for a while, too, but Charlie didn't think she was lying. "Sixteen," she said finally.

  That effort seemed to use up the last of her reserves. Her hand went to her mouth again and her eyes darted frantically around the room. Charlie pointed the way to the bathroom and cleared a path for her as she made a dash.

  "She's legal in this state, Kick," Harlan said quietly over the sounds of her retching.

  Charlie turned on his friend. "Don't hand me 'legal,'" he muttered under his breath. "She barely knows her own name. She's in no shape to consent to anything."