by Harry Kraus
“Do you ever feel like killing him?”
The initial startle on Della’s face melted when her eyes met Claire’s. She softened, hesitated, then nodded her response with a sigh. She closed her Bible and pulled her coffee mug up to her chest with both hands. “Almost every day.”
“Last night, I lay awake until morning, listening to him move, and I thought of how difficult life is for him . . . and us. And I found myself fantasizing about ending his torment, just a little morphine and he’d—” She put her hand to her mouth. The thoughts had made her feel guilty.
Speaking them was even worse.
“Relax, Claire. Everyone dealing with a chronic illness like HD has thought like that. The fact that it scared you is what means you’re going to be okay.”
She nodded at her mother. Della could see through her soul like a sister. “Thanks.”
A moment later, Claire continued to vent. “When I lived in Boston, the threat of HD hung like a cloud over my head, but I seemed able to work and forget. A fifty-fifty chance seemed like a mathematical probability, somehow remote, something for Margo and Clay to deal with. I was away, and busy. I was able to cope.”
Her mother nodded.
“Here, as much as I knew it was right to return and help, the fifty-fifty threat seems to have grown.” She looked down. “I can’t get away. Every evening it’s the same. Feed him, talk to him, and wonder what’s behind his silent, darting eyes.”
“He’s still in there, Claire. As bad a father as he was, this HD has given him a frame of reference, some glimmer of understanding of what has been going on for years.”
“How do you do it? How do you keep going?”
“Some days I don’t. Some days I don’t think I can change one more diaper for a man who won’t speak to me for days, and then only curses.” She took a sip of coffee and wiped her eyes with the back of her hand. “And then God will let me see a glimmer of my old Wall. And that’s all it takes to help me go another day.”
“I’m not sure he knew who I was last night.”
“Oh, he knows all right. When you were away, he talked of you every day. Losing Clay was tough, don’t misunderstand me. But Wally and Clay were always at odds, much like Wally and his father were.” Della reached over and squeezed Claire’s hand. “He feels like he is responsible for one good thing on this earth. It’s the only thing he feels good about.”
Claire wasn’t getting it. “One thing?”
“You, dear. Your father is proud of you.”
Claire dropped her head and stared at the mug of coffee in her hand. The irony was not lost on her. The very thing he was proudest of, the fact that his seed had brought her into being, was the very thing she hated the most. “I’m not sure I can keep this up.” She kept her eyes on the table. She liked order, predictability. She liked her coffee the same way every morning: straight up with two tablespoons of French vanilla creamer. Nothing about life with HD offered predictability. “Why don’t we put him in a nursing home? What would be wrong with that? You need a life.” She set down the mug. “If it’s the money, Grandma Elizabeth will come through. I’ve heard her say as much.”
“The time’s coming, Claire. I know that. But months ago I made a promise to keep him here as long as I could.”
“So how can you make it? Who pays the bills since you’ve stopped work?”
“I get his disability check.” She stood to refresh her coffee. “And your uncle Leon adds a little each month. I couldn’t eat without that.”
That her uncle Leon would pitch his brother a bone surprised Claire. He had always been Grandpa McCall’s golden boy, the one who towed the line and joined the family business of McCall Shoes. And he looked with scorn on his brother who ran off to the Navy, off to Vietnam, then returned to a small town that had expectations of McCall boys. It was an expectation that Wally couldn’t meet, and one he lost in an enthusiasm for moonshine and beer.
The wonder must have registered on Claire’s face, because her mother explained. “Oh, you know Leon. He has his McCall pride. But I did work in that blasted shoe factory for close to twenty years, so he calls it my ‘pension.’ It’s not enough for steak, but I can do hamburger once in a while. I think down inside even Leon has a good heart. He won’t let us starve.”
“Wally chokes on steak anyway.”
Della smiled. “You see, everything works out.” She sat back down. “He’s not going to last forever, Claire. You should make plans to restart your training. Go back to Boston. Take that prissy Beatrice Hayes’ spot. You could operate circles around that girl.”
“Mom!”
“That’s what you told me. That backstabber won’t be half the surgeon you will.”
“I can’t go back to surgery.” She held up her hand and tried to hold it still, but the pressure to demonstrate her rock stability made her nervous. She closed her wiggling fingers into a fist. “What if I began to twitch? I’ll cut someone’s aorta or something.”
“So get your test result so you can know. Then go to back to your love of cutting with a clear conscience.”
“You think I’m negative.”
“It doesn’t matter what I think.”
“Fifty-fifty,” she moaned. “Did John tell you about my clinic visit?” Della shook her head.
“He wants me to get the result.”
“I know.”
The phone rang. Della rose to get it. “Ugh,” she said, “the day begins.” She picked up a wireless phone from the kitchen counter. “Hello.”
Claire listened to the one-sided conversation.
Della brightened, then shook her head. “No, but Claire’s right here.” She hesitated, then covered the mouthpiece and lowered her voice. “It’s John’s father. He wants to speak to you.”
John’s father, Tony Jr., was a pudgy man full of heart and smiles. In her years at Brighton, he had treated her like a daughter.
Claire enjoyed going to the Cerelli house as much to see John’s parents as to spend time with their oldest son. Tony was constantly saying corny things about the old country even though he’d only spent his first six years there and his Italian was limited to a few folk songs he’d learned as a boy. She wasn’t even sure that “Mama mia!” was authentic Italian, or just authentic Tony putting on the Italian show that he played with such passion.
But a call from Tony was unexpected. Perhaps he knew of D day, and she’d have to explain yet again why she didn’t know. She took a deep breath and prepared to justify her flight from the genetics clinic. “Hi, Pops.”
“Morning, Claire.” He chuckled and quickly went on. “I’m lookin’ for John. He doesn’t happen to be with you, does he?”
The tension in his voice wasn’t camouflaged by his laughter. “No. What’s up?”
“Oh, you know John. It’s probably nothing. Some manufactured crisis.” She felt her throat tighten.
“He called early this morning while Mary and I were out in the garden. His message indicated he was in some sort of a jam. He’d been up half the night. I couldn’t really make sense of what he was sayin’, to tell you the truth.”
“A jam? I haven’t seen him since yesterday around six. Just what did he say?” And why didn’t he call me if he was in trouble?
“Nothing too important, I’m sure. He said something about needing advice. He’d done something stupid and sounded sorry for it, that was all. I figured it had something to do with you, maybe a lover’s spat or something. I was sure he’d be there by now, roses in hand, begging your forgiveness.” He laughed again.
The roses! I left them at the office in the lounge. “I don’t get it. What did he say he’d done?”
“Okay, okay, I forget you medical types need all the details. Let’s see, what did he say? I shouldn’t have erased the darn message so I could remember exactly. Hmmm.” He paused and imitated John. “‘Uh, Pops, pick up the phone, will you? I hate this machine. I need some advice about a little jam I’m in. Aw shucks, pick up the phone, will you?’”
He hesitated. “I think that’s about it. So I tried calling him back, but all I get is his stupid answering machine.”
“This is bad.” Claire pushed her blond bangs back from her forehead. “Something’s bad.”
“Oh, don’t jump to conclusions. I didn’t call to worry you. I’ve known this boy longer than you have, remember? He’s left messages like this before. Once when he thought he was failing an accounting class in college, another time when his Mustang let him down before spring break.” A chuckle interrupted his message again. “You know Italians. Everything’s a crisis. He probably left his Visa card at the bakery or something.”
“I hope you’re right.”
“You be good, Mama. Come to see me soon, okay? You can bring the boy if you have to.” He laughed.
She lowered her voice, not wanting to parade the relationship she had with John’s parents in front of Della. She repeated the words which were a common part of the Cerelli family language. “You know I love you, Pops.”
“I love you.”
She heard the click signaling the end of the conversation, before looking up to meet Della’s gaze. “John’s in trouble of some kind. Tony doesn’t know much, only that John called and said he was in a little jam.” She clicked her tongue against the roof of her mouth while she pondered what to do. “Can I take some time away this morning? I’ve got a few house-calls to make, and maybe I’ll swing by John’s apartment to see what’s up.”
Della threw up her hands. “Hey, take all the time you need. I had my two-hour date with Tom Cruise last night.”
“Mom!”
“Hey, I’ve still got hormones. I may be aging, but I’ve still got eyes.”
Claire shook her head and left to get ready to go. Behind her, she could still hear her mother mumbling about Tom Cruise like he had really wowed her again.
But Claire’s thoughts quickly turned away from Tom Cruise and onto John Cerelli. Something was up. Something bad. She knew him well enough to be afraid, not so much of the call he’d placed to his father, but because of the one he hadn’t placed to her. If he was in trouble, and he hadn’t called her, it had to be something he didn’t want her to know.
And that’s what made her determined to find out what had happened.
Another briar pulled at the flesh of John’s shoulder, making him wish for the hundredth time that he’d worn a jacket for protection. He was beyond regret at his impulsive behavior. Now, with every new scratch on his arms, he was tempted to curse his actions. It wasn’t just the money. He could work hard and make up for that. It was the fact that Claire seemed so fixated on this ring as “hers.” He sighed at the memory of a recent conversation.
They had stood facing each other, holding hands, on her parents’ front stoop. “Do you know diamonds are like snowflakes, John? Each one is different.” She leaned closer to kiss him, then pulled away at the last moment and whispered, “When the time is right for us, don’t feel like you need to get me a new ring.”
“Isn’t it your turn? I bought the last one.”
She squeezed his hand. “Be serious. The last one is perfect. Please don’t trade it in.”
He wasn’t sure he understood. “Why does it matter, Claire?”
She shrugged as if it didn’t, but her eyes betrayed her. “I guess I just want the original, the one intended for me. A new one would remind me of things I’d rather forget.”
Now, the memories served only to mock his impulsivity. He had to continue. He dropped a handful of leafy soil mixture to the ground in front of him before glancing back up the bank toward the road. He tried to calculate just how far the mangled ring box could have flown. It shouldn’t be too far from the edge of the road. The trees are so thick it couldn’t have traveled—
A shot rang out, snapping John’s thought train and calling his attention to the house beyond the trees. It was a gunshot, he was sure, an unsettling sharp contrast to the buzz of the background forest noise. The report of gunfire seemed to echo around through the thicket, as though it too was trapped, unable to escape the hollow without effort.
He strained his eyes toward the sound. The house was over that way, but invisible to him from this distance through the trees. After a moment, the gunfire was replaced by the bellowing of the dogs. This time John counted at lease three differing barks that seemed to be excited by the shot.
He looked back at the little area he’d managed to cover, a small path from the road’s edge down the bank and straight into a thorny patch that only Brer Rabbit would appreciate. He searched on his hands and knees, filtering each decaying leaf through his fingers, praying that if he did find the smashed little box, Claire’s precious ring would still be inside. After the single shot, there was no more gunfire mixed in with the baying hounds. He knew it wasn’t hunting season, a fact that made traveling in these woods a safer venture, but in light of that, the gunfire unsettled him even more.
He focused his attention on the small area of ground in front of him, carefully mapping out a fixed pattern he would follow to be sure each inch of ground would be covered. But after twenty minutes, he had inched along only two feet, and he had more scratches than a Schnauzer in a cat fight. Disgusted at his progress, he squinted at the treetops, where the canopy of leaves filtered out the morning sun, leaving him wishing briefly for winter when the trees would be bare, but then remembering that all those leaves would be on the ground covering his little treasure below a blanket of color.
That’s when he heard the unmistakable voice of the monster dog, the hound that had reported his trespass only hours before. But this time, the rhythmic lament from the hound continued, intensifying in volume and frequency. Initially, he thought the noise had trailed off to his left, likely following the scent of a frightened rodent, but as the barking grew louder, he began to hear the snap of twigs just beyond the thicket where he cowered. After a moment, he began to hear the panting breath of the beast between each wail, and he knew the dog must be closing in. John reached for a low branch of the nearest tree and pulled himself up, grabbing first one limb and then another until he flattened himself in a bearhug around the trunk, standing on a branch that sat mere inches above the snapping jaws of the biggest spotted hound he’d ever seen.
John stayed, trembling in a tight embrace with a gum tree, figuring he would either die of starvation or become a feast for the monster below. Finally the dog stopped jumping and just sat down and stared at John like he’d never seen a man up a tree before. “Nice doggy,” John said quietly.
If he got out of this alive, his father was going to howl.
Leon McCall always called his attorney “Harvard.” It was part of the informal banter between them that seemed to lessen the seriousness of the business of looking out for number one, a business where lesser-do-wells would be squashed with a frequency matched only by the Stoney Creek possum population. In fact, that’s what Leon always called it: “roadkill,” an unfortunate consequence of paving the way for newer and better technology.
Alfred D. Pittington never smiled when Leon called him Harvard. He preferred to forget the days he’d spent burning the midnight oil in the law library of his alma mater. But Alfred D. Pittington never smiled unless he was on the winning side of a seven-figure judgment.
“What’ll it be this morning, Harvard? Oatmeal as usual for me,” Leon added, winking at the waitress standing at his elbow. “And put some raisins and a banana on the side, and bring the brown sugar in a separate dish.”
She wrote as he talked. He wasn’t sure why. She’d taken the same order from him every Saturday for forever.
Harvard ordered more black coffee and lox and bagels. Leon knew it was because he had told Harvard that just the thought of cold, moist fish made him sick.
Leon leaned forward. “She sure is cute, but dumb as a post.”
Harvard nodded. “Too young.”
“You’re no fun.”
“So what is all the urgency? I know you didn’t get me up on a Saturday morning to admi
re a full-figured waitress in a small-town cafe.”
“You did notice.”
The lawyer squinted. “Bald men have more testosterone. I read it in a magazine.”
Leon grunted, then leaned forward and lowered his voice. “McCall Shoes has just endured the worst quarter ever. We’re down another six percent over the same time last year and until now, that was our record low.”
“What about the Eddie Bauer deal?”
“We can’t make the boots fast enough for them. And that was great until they found a foreign company to make up the difference.”
“What’s wrong with that?”
“Now they’ve switched to the foreigners alone. They get twice the volume we can pump out at a cheaper price. Nobody cares if it’s made in the U.S. anymore. All they care about is price.”
“So what about the buyout? Is Sugimoto going to bite?”
“We’re down to final negotiations. I’ll bring a proposal to the board by midsummer.”
“So what’s the problem? The largest athletic shoe company in the world wants to rework your factory to make the shoes right here. What could be better? McCall stock is going to skyrocket.”
“Exactly.”
Harvard sniffed. “I don’t get it. It’s perfect. You have a downsloping business. This is the solution that will put you on a sailboat to retirement.”
“The stock’s only half mine,” Leon huffed. “Or it will be.”
Harvard’s head started bobbing. “So this is what it’s all about. You’re still hung up about the will.”
“And you’re not? If I prosper, you prosper, that’s how it works, remember?”
“Don’t be greedy, Leon. You’re going to be worth millions.”
“It’s not just the money. It’s the disgrace of my father’s name. Did you know Wally McCall isn’t even a blood McCall at all? His father raped Elizabeth. Why, he—”