To Have and to Hold

by Fern Michaels

  “You always have a headache, and if it isn’t a headache, your stomach is bothering you or you have cramps or you’re coming down with a virus. You drink black coffee by the gallon, smoke cigarettes you can’t afford to buy, and you don’t eat. No wonder you’re sick all the time.... I’ll stay through Christmas because I can’t let those little girls be disappointed again. All week they’ve been making presents for you. What did you do for them?” Della turned back to the stove and winked slyly at Donald, whose eyes were bugging out of his head.

  “The first Christmas wasn’t so bad,” Kate said hesitantly. “We had Patrick’s letters and we knew he’d be home for this Christmas. He isn’t here....”

  “But you are. You have to make the best of it. I’m tired of your whining. Now I know where Ellie gets it. Betsy is like her father. It’s not right of you to make Betsy responsible for Ellie. You’re messing up their lives,” Della said quietly.

  Kate squared her shoulders. “It’s true. You’re right.... Has Donald really been buying our food?” She turned to stare at him, and Donald met her questioning gaze with pity in his eyes. “Do you love Della?”

  Donald’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his stringy neck. He hadn’t been expecting the question, but now that it was put to him, he answered honestly. “She’s a fine woman, and the man who gets her is one lucky man. And to answer your question: yes, I do.”

  “How could I not know that?” Kate asked, puzzled.

  “Because you shut us all out of your life, that’s how,” Della said, not unkindly.

  “I’m sorry. Do the girls hate me?”

  “Oh, Kate, of course not, but they don’t understand. They need to talk to you, need to have you hug them. They’re so vulnerable. Betsy is having some problems in school, and Ellie is ... Ellie is starting to lie ... a lot. They need you, Kate.”

  Kate didn’t trust herself to speak, so she merely nodded.

  “There’s a lot of mail, Kate. You haven’t looked at it in over a month.”

  Kate nodded again.

  “I could use some help with this turkey. I wanted to make bread today. I promised Betsy I’d make it for her. Donald is going to string some Christmas lights around the front door. I can still make a late breakfast for you, if you like, before I get started.”

  “Yes. Yes, I would. Eggs and bacon and some juice, but first I want to take a shower. I’ll help with the turkey. The bread, too. I want to be the one to punch down the dough.”

  Della drew in her breath. Donald’s eyes rolled heavenward. “When you wash your hair, why don’t you pile it high on your head with a ribbon. Betsy made this for you a few days ago,” Della said, taking a messy red string bow with curled edges from one of the kitchen drawers. “Put it in your pocket for now, you can’t mess it up any more than it is already. Toward the end she got frustrated and said it didn’t matter because you weren’t going to get up anyway.”

  “Oh, God,” Kate said. “What’s happened to me, Della?”

  Della let loose with a long stream of Spanish, switching to English the way she usually did when she got to the punch line. “The devil got hold of you, and you didn’t shake him loose, that’s what happened.” Her voice was triumphant as she helped Kate up from the chair.

  Kate turned to Della and said, “The devil my ass, it’s the goddamn military and government. Come to think of it, they’re probably in cahoots with the devil.”

  Della clucked her tongue in disapproval at Kate’s language. Donald chuckled.

  “I think it worked,” Della said softly the moment Kate was out of earshot. “I know I’m a fine, wonderful human being, but were you telling the truth when you said you loved me? And why would someone as fine as myself want a skinny old buzzard like you?”

  Donald scratched at his straggly beard. “Well, you’re fat, and I don’t see anyone better than me banging at this here door. I’m a kind, generous man, have money in the bank, and receive a nice pension. I fixed this place up for you. I didn’t have to do that. I take you to bingo and give you my card when I win and you don’t. I go to church and pass the collection plate. I am an upstanding man, Miss Della. When do you want to marry me, now that you compromised me?”

  “Why I—”

  “Don’t be coy with me now. I put a straightforward question to you and I expect the same kind of answer. Admit it, you’ve never been asked before and you don’t know how to respond.”

  “I suppose I could do worse. Swear to me you’ll take care of me and this little family. I don’t ever want to be out on the street without a home. I would have been if not for Kate.”

  Donald threw his hands in the air. “Look at me, woman,” he blustered. “Who in the goddamn hell has been taking care of all of you since Kate got the miseries? Well then, I rest my case. When’s it to be?”

  “June,” Della said sourly. “We’ll tell Kate you got cold feet and postponed it till June. That way we’ll all save face and she won’t be the wiser. We really shook her out of whatever she was in. You’d best be getting on with your light stringing, Donald. And make sure you string them all the way across the roof and put some of those little twinkling ones on the Joshua tree.”

  “You nag, Della.”

  “And don’t forget to do the red arrows. Ellie is going to cry all day and night if you don’t get those arrows in place. Can you believe that little tyke worrying about Santa knowing she moved? She’s terrified he won’t know she’s in this house. Red arrows, Donald, or it won’t be Christmas for that little girl.”

  “I made them in my workshop yesterday. All I have to do is line them up. Painted them last night.”

  When the kitchen door closed behind him, Della danced a jig. Kate was coming out of her bad spell, and she had a proposal of marriage from a man who had his own house as well as Social Security. Christmas truly was a time for miracles.

  It was dark, but not scary dark, Betsy thought as she crawled out from under the covers. She tiptoed to the doorway, careful not to wake her sister. She poked her head out the door, her breath hot little gasps. Santa had left the tree lights burning the way he always did. She was in the middle of the short hallway when she stopped, thought about it, and decided she didn’t believe in Santa Claus. She turned on her heel to return to her room. Quietly, in the dark, she felt along the edge for her father’s picture. She hugged it to her breast as she made her way back to the living room.

  The tree was so beautiful she wanted to cry. She felt herself taking deep breaths to savor the spicy pine scent.

  This was her moment, hers and her dad’s. She dropped to her knees in front of the fir and let her eyes rake the presents that circled the tree. “Merry Christmas, Daddy,” she whispered. “This one is for you, and so is this one. Ellie’s is the one with the green ribbon. I tied red on mine because you like red. This flat one,” she murmured, picking up the tablet-size package, “is the one I made in school for you. Ellie’s school present is the one with the macaroni glued to the top. I know what it is, but I promised not to tell. I didn’t even tell Mommy. I have to look for Mommy’s present to you. We’re going to put them in the closet and give them to you when you get home. The whole shelf is for you. Our Easter baskets are there, too. Mommy says if the shelf gets full, we’ll ask Donald to build another one. I can’t find it, Daddy,” she whispered. “Mommy wouldn’t forget. It must be in the back, behind the others.” She rummaged some more but was unable to find a present for her father with her mother’s handwriting on the Christmas tag. A tear splashed on her hand. She wiped at her eyes with her pajama sleeve.

  Betsy reached for Patrick’s picture and hugged it to her chest. “I know I’m not supposed to cry, but I don’t feel like a big girl this morning. I miss you. Mommy’s sick and looks different. Ellie said she smells pee-uey.” Words rushed out of her mouth, some of them garbled, all of them full of fear and anger.

  “Miss Rolands read us a story before school was out. Everybody in the class cried but me. It was about an orphan who didn’
t have anyone to love her at Christmas. She was dressed in rags and she was hungry. The only thing she had to keep her warm was a puppy she found who was as hungry as she was. She was little, like Ellie, and she lost her mommy and daddy. This kind man was on his way home and he saw her and the puppy. He had real big arms and he picked up Martha and the puppy and took them home and gave them hot cocoa and a real big jelly sandwich. He put cocoa in a dish for the puppy and meat in a dish. The mommy came into the room and sat down with the little girl, and the puppy climbed on her lap. She hugged and kissed the little girl. The puppy, too. She let the puppy lick her face. She didn’t care about germs. She cared about the little girl and her dog. When everyone was nice and warm and not hungry anymore, the lady and the man took them upstairs and gave them a bath and put them to bed. They hugged and kissed them and sat by the bed all night while they slept. Martha wasn’t an orphan anymore. When I go back to school, I have to know what the moral of the story is. That was our homework.”

  Chubby fingers traced the outline of Patrick’s face as her tears rolled down. “I love you, Daddy. Merry Christmas.”

  Kate stood in the kitchen doorway, her eyes glued to her daughter. She had to move, go to her firstborn, kiss her and hug her close and tell her she was loved, but she waited a moment too long. Her father’s picture clutched in her hands, the little girl ran to her room. “My God,” Kate whispered, “what have I done to this child?”

  Kate ran down the hall to her daughter’s room and opened the door. Betsy was curled beneath the covers. “Betsy,” she whispered in a choked voice. “Betsy, honey . . .” She dropped to her knees and let the tears flow. The little girl didn’t move. Kate reached out a hand, drew it back. The moment was gone. Part of Betsy was gone, too; she could feel it.

  “Merry Christmas, honey,” she whispered.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  He didn’t know if it was night or day sunny or rainy. He no longer knew what month it was, much less the day. He did know he was in a space no bigger than a coffin. He could stand or sit, but he couldn’t lie down. He couldn’t stretch his legs out in front of him, either.

  Captain Patrick Starr wiggled his toes. They worked, but he no longer had toenails. Or fingernails. He was no longer sure if his hip was broken or just fractured; not that it made any difference. For a long time he’d had to lean into the coffin corner with the homemade splint some faceless person had strapped on him.

  Crippled. Was it better than being dead? A man could live without toenails and fingernails and with a limp. His tongue slid across his broken teeth with their sharp edges. Teeth could be fixed. Movie stars always had their teeth capped. Kate had beautiful teeth, an ear-to-ear smile that showed them off to perfection. Kate wouldn’t care if he had caps on his teeth.

  Patrick shifted his position slightly before he urinated all over himself. Once he’d had a slop bucket, but it was gone now. He reeked of himself, but the smell seemed to be less nauseous than before. With his broken nose, he couldn’t seem to smell much of anything.

  He didn’t want to cry, but he did, tears rolling down his cheeks. He didn’t bother to wipe them away, they felt good. No one could take tears away unless they punched out his eyes, which was a daily threat. God Almighty, if his sense of smell was gone, as well as the hearing in his left ear, what would he become if they really carried through with their threat to punch out his eyes? He wouldn’t be able to see Kate again or hear the girls laugh. He’d never be able to smell Kate’s meat loaf or the Thanksgiving turkey. The Christmas tree might as well be artificial. Worst of all, he wouldn’t be able to smell Kate’s hair, that warm, sweet vanilla-lemon smell that was always with her.

  If ... if he ever got out of here, he was going to be a gawdamn fucking vegetable. What would Kate say and do when they delivered him to her doorstep, a broken, beaten man with no sight, no sense of smell, and very little hearing? The girls would be scared out of their wits. “You bastards! You gawdamn fucking bastards!” For a moment he thought he’d shouted the words, but he hadn’t. The words were less than a whimper.

  He continued to cry, more from pain than anything else, as he struggled to his feet to lean into his corner. He felt rather than heard movement near his feet. His good leg shot out and then stamped down. With his good ear he heard a weak squeal and knew he’d smashed one of his roommates, a scrawny rat that had less energy than he had.

  Patrick tried to grind himself into his corner when he saw the heavy metal door open, throwing blinding light into his coffin. His arms shot up to cover his eyes. At the same time, he felt a metal prod gouge him in the pit of his stomach. He knew what that meant. He was to stagger out into the light, where they would question him and then beat him.

  For one wild, crazy moment he thought he saw Kate ladling potato salad onto his plate at the Fourth of July picnic. She was smiling at him, knowing how much he liked her potato salad because she sprinkled little bits of crisp bacon over the top, just for him. By God, he wanted that potato salad more than anything in the world. He did his best to square his shoulders, to walk as straight as he could. He stared into the blinding light and jerked away from the metal pole gouging him in the ribs.

  He was a weasel, Patrick decided, this man who constantly interrogated him, speaking perfect English. Once he’d said he was a graduate of UCLA. Then he’d rattled off what he knew of Patrick’s credentials.

  Back then, when he still believed in things like the Geneva Convention rules, he’d stood his ground and given name, rank, and serial number. After his second—or was it his third—beating, he’d realized the rules didn’t apply here in this godforsaken country. He’d shown some spirit, though, calling his interrogator a cocksucking UCLA reject.

  Patrick looked around, trying to identify the structure he was in. It seemed different from the last one, but he did recognize the crude table with rows of torture equipment. He tried not to look at the syringes and the small vials of clear liquid. He did his best to steel himself against the man standing in front of him, did his best to meet his level stare, and felt that he’d succeeded. The only thing he couldn’t match was the man’s evil smile. He waited for his nod, said what he’d routinely been saying: “Fuck you, you son of a bitch!” He saw the arm rise, saw the club with the spiked prongs, a second before his mind retreated to Westfield, New Jersey.

  The wind was whipping his hair backward as he pedaled his bike down the sidewalk, the red, white, and blue crepe paper he’d intertwined between the spokes making thwacking, sputtering sounds. He was new in Westfield, but already he had three good friends and a speaking acquaintance with a blond-haired girl named Kate who lived around the corner. He was riding next to her in the Decoration Day parade. His bike number was six and hers was seven. He had to remember not to pedal fast so she could keep up with him.

  His heart beat extra fast when he saw her coming down the driveway on her bike. He reared up on his Schwinn, letting the front tire hit the ground with a thud. He was pulling a roll of crepe paper from his hip pocket when she smiled at him. “You need streamers on your handlebars,” he said shyly.

  He felt himself jolt sideways on his bike when Kate said, “Do you have enough left over to tie some on my handlebars?”

  Did he? “I have a whole roll.” He fell off the bike, shook his head to clear it. “You have to rip the streamers. If you do, they make more noise. All the guys are doing it.”

  “It looks pretty,” Kate said.

  “Yours looks pretty, mine looks . . . nifty.”

  “Is that because you’re eight years old?”

  “Yeah. Boys don’t do stuff that looks pretty.”

  He was on the ground again, tripping over his own feet. Kate was off her bike in a second, reaching down to help him up. She smiled shyly before she climbed back on her bike. Her saddle shoes were so blindingly white he couldn’t see past them.

  “Let’s ride fast, real fast,” he muttered, confused by the whiteness of Kate’s shoes.

  “I’ll try to keep up,” Kate
said, hunching over the handlebars.

  They rode down the street, around the corner, passing strolling couples, children, and dogs, all headed to the fairgrounds. They rode through a cloudburst, shrieking with laughter, the crepe paper thwacking and sputtering, the streamers billowing upward and outward.

  Patrick braked and was off his bike in a second. “I have a quarter,” he said proudly.

  “I have ten cents.” Kate giggled. “I’m going to spend a nickel on cotton candy and save the other nickel. The hamburgers and weenies are free. I’m going to eat three of each.”

  “Go on, I can’t eat three, and I’m eight,” Patrick said.

  “Can so,” Kate said huffily. “Wanna make a bet?”

  “For money?” Patrick said in awe.

  “Sure. The nickel I’m saving. Two ears of corn, too, and maybe a slice of watermelon. I like to eat.”

  “You’ll throw up.”

  “How do you know that?” Kate demanded.

  “Because I know. My dad doesn’t eat that much. You shouldn’t say something like that unless you can really do it. If you say it and don’t do it, then it’s a lie. It’s like a promise. If you break a promise, it’s a lie.”

  “No, it isn’t. It’s a mistake.”

  “It’s a lie,” Patrick said adamantly. “It’s a sin to lie.”

  “I didn’t mean all at one time,” Kate said, chagrined. “We have all day. So there, Patrick Starr.”

  “Then it won’t be a lie. What time do you have to be home?”