by JoAnna Carl
The guard didn’t ask for my ID, and I appreciated his attitude, though it may have been based on sexism. I’m not a local celebrity like Irish Svenson, but sometimes people do recognize my byline.
Unfortunately, the episode left Mike and me committed to a visit to his mother. The guard was polite, but he kept standing there, obviously waiting for us to move on to the spot Mike had said we intended to visit, Wilda Svenson’s house. So we got in the truck and drove around a curving street lined dotted with five-year-old oak trees and lined with town houses. Mike pulled into a well-lit drive.
Wilda’s town house reflected her status as one of Grantham’s top real estate operators. Two stories of buff brick with dark trim doesn’t quite tell the tale. Adding a few details—wrought-iron chandelier over the arched entranceway, stained-glass insert in the front door, topiary trees in stone pots—may give a better idea of the total effect.
I got out of the truck and stared. “Wow!” I said.
The doorbell gonged like Big Ben. I “wowed” again. Then I nudged Mike. “Don’t you have a key?”
“Yeah. But on Labor Day I learned it was more tactful to ring first. I hope my mom learned the same lesson yesterday.”
A light went on in the hall. “Don’t say anything you’re going to regret,” I said. “Keep cool.”
Mike squeezed my hand. “I’ve developed cucumberitis.”
Wilda smiled graciously as she opened the door. “Hello! Mike. You should have told me you were bringing Nell by.”
She wore a long, coppery brown robe in a moire fabric I was willing to bet was pure silk, and she held a pair of reading glasses in her hand.
“Come on in,” she said. “Mickey dropped by to watch the game.”
So Mickey didn’t live there. But no car had been parked in the drive. Mickey must park in the two-car garage. A smart move, if he wanted to keep his private life from being discussed by his employees. I wondered if he consulted the schedule, to make sure he didn’t arrive just as an O’Sullivan car drove by.
Monday Night Football was blaring from the television set, and Mickey was putting his shoes on as we came into the den. The rumpled cushions said clearly that he’d been stretched out on the off-white couch. A circle of lamplight, a lap board, and a stack of file folders near an easy chair said just as clearly that Wilda had been looking over some papers. They’d been settled in for a companionable evening. I had the feeling Mickey might not be planning to leave after the game was over. But I also had the feeling he might fall asleep before the final play.
I was completely out of my depth. I was scared to death that Mike was going to create a scene. What if he accused his mother and Mickey of having an affair while his dad was still alive? What if he and Mickey came to blows? I could understand why Mike felt he had to talk to his mother, but I didn’t want to be a witness.
Luckily, the conversation didn’t depend on me. Instead, Mike and Mickey began to watch the game. Between plays, they discussed the Dallas Cowboys’ Super Bowl chances and other topics of portent. Wilda gave me the gracious hostess treatment. Where was I from? Where had I gone to college? Why did I decide to become a reporter? I had barely enough presence of mind to stumble through the answers.
This went on for the longest ten minutes of my life, then Wilda stood up. “Mickey and I were just talking about popping some corn,” she said. “How does that sound?”
Mike jumped to his feet. “Great! I’ll help you.”
He might as well have run up a flag saying, “I want to talk to you alone.”
Mickey smiled his sardonic smile, and my stomach lurched as the two of them left the room.
“What’s Mike up to?” Mickey said. I shook my head. I was too scared to talk. I pretended to watch the game.
Voices rumbled down the hall, but I couldn’t distinguish any words until I suddenly heard Wilda raise her voice. She sounded as if she were trying to keep her voice icy cool, but it got louder. “I don’t want to go into it. It had nothing to do with you.”
“Oh, thanks for assuring me of that.” Mike’s voice was cold, but it had an angry edge. “But you and Dad always talked things out. This must have been too serious to talk about.”
“Dammit, Mike! I hope we wouldn’t separate over something trivial!”
Mickey’s mouth was set. Moving deliberately, he got to his feet.
Mike was speaking again. “I just want to understand what was going on in Dad’s life at the time he died.”
“We never understand what’s going on in someone else’s life, Mike. Forget it.”
“I can’t. He called me, you know. Said he had to talk to me about something when I came home. But I didn’t come that week. Now I’ll always wonder if it would have made a difference. Sometimes I blame myself—”
“Don’t be stupid! It wasn’t your fault.” Wilda’s emphasis on the word “your” was unmistakable. She was almost yelling. “How do you think it made me feel when he died, and I realized we’d never get things worked out! Never! I get to blame myself forever!”
Mickey walked purposely from the den, obviously headed for the kitchen to intervene. I followed him into a kitchen that was straight out of Better Homes & Gardens.
“Hey, hey,” Mickey said soothingly, “Mike, maybe you’d better talk to your mom about this when you’re both calmer. Wilda, you know you have nothing to blame yourself for.”
Mike was glaring coldly at his mom. “There was something Dad wanted to talk to me about, something important, he said. Something he had to tell me face-to-face. But I changed my leave time, for my own convenience. By the time I came home, it was too late. For two years I’ve felt that I let him down. Now I find out there was a bunch of stuff going on that nobody thought was important enough to mention to me.”
He shifted his glare to Mickey. “And just where do you fit in here, Mickey? Just what was going on—”
I grabbed his hand. “Mike!”
But his meaning had been all too clear. He’d come very close to accusing his mother of having an adulterous affair.
Wilda’s face flamed. “My god! You’re as sanctimonious as Irish was, aren’t you?”
Mike gripped my hand until my mother’s ring cut into my little finger. He stared at the floor tile.
Wilda drew herself up regally. “Yes, Irish was always so sure he knew exactly the right thing to do, the honest thing! He was Mr. Upright. No cheating! No stepping over the bounds of propriety! Well, he found out!”
“Wilda!” Mickey was raising his voice now. “Mike doesn’t need to know all this!”
“Oh, yes, he does! He’s not a little kid! He needs to understand that his father was a human being! Flawed! Just like the rest of us.”
She held her regal pose, her head framed by the lit window of the microwave. Behind her, the popcorn began exploding and its sack began swelling.
“Yes, you’re right, Mike. Adultery was at the heart of the problem between your father and me. But I wasn’t the guilty party. Your dad had been seeing another woman. For months!”
She turned around and pounded her fist against the door of the microwave oven with a gesture that strangely echoed the motions Mike had made throwing pine cones.
“And when I found out about it,” she said, “Irish said he had ‘responsibilities.’ His responsibilities to this bimbo apparently outweighed his responsibilities to me. He said he was going to go on seeing her! He said he had no choice!”
She whirled back to face us. The popcorn was at the rapid-fire stage now, giving the impression that Wilda’s brain was shooting off machine-gun bullets. She spread her arms, resting each hand on the edge of the tiled cabinet top. She looked like an avenging goddess, standing there while the popping sound gradually grew. Steam began to fill the glass window behind her head.
“He gave me no choice! I threw him out! Damn right!”
The d
ramatic moment grew in intensity, and we all stood like statues. My heart was making a noise like the popcorn behind Wilda, and my stomach was jumping around the same way. I didn’t dare say anything.
Then the microwave bell gave a loud bing and the light behind Wilda’s head went off. And Mickey chuckled humorlessly. “He did it to you again, Wilda,” he said. “You never learn.”
Wilda’s chin quivered, but she still held it high, staring at her son. “No, Mike’s the one who never learns,” she said. “He works around until he gets what he wants, but then it’s not the thing he was really after.”
Wilda had been our center of attention, but now I looked back at Mike. He hadn’t moved, but his mother had analyzed his emotional situation very clearly. He looked crushed and sullen. He dropped my hand and folded his arms. His mouth almost pouted.
“You don’t believe me,” Wilda said quietly. “You don’t believe Irish had an affair.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed. “I believe you believe it,” he said. “But Dad would never have done something that stupid.”
“Mike, he admitted it,” Wilda said.
Mike shook his head. “Morals aside—and Dad’s morals weren’t all just talk, Mom—he really loved you. I always knew who came first around here. I was important to him, but you were everything.”
“Oh, he claimed he loved me,” Wilda said. “But he wouldn’t tell me he’d quit seeing that woman.”
Mike ignored her remark. “And Dad wasn’t dumb. He loved his job. He knew his job depended on his reputation. He would never have risked a scandal.”
“You’re not hearing what I’m saying,” Wilda said. She moved across the kitchen and took Mike by the arms, as if she were going to shake him. “None of us is perfect, Mike. We all make mistakes. Your dad was no exception. He made a mistake.”
She closed her eyes, and when she spoke again, her voice was a whisper. “I was so angry. I pushed him too hard. I have to live with that—for the rest of my life.”
Mike stood silently. I could almost see his brain processing data. Then he put his arms around his mother. “No, Mom. If you believed Dad was seeing another woman, your reaction was—right. It’s what Dad would have expected. You have nothing to blame yourself for.”
Wilda spoke into Mike’s shoulder. “Irish was human. He had to find that out the hard way. We all make mistakes, and we have to pick up and go on after them. But Irish couldn’t accept that. He couldn’t let go of a situation he admitted was a mistake.”
They hugged each other tightly, then Wilda backed away and looked up at Mike. “You didn’t really think that Mickey and I—”
Mike grinned. “Aw, Mom. When I’m around you and Mickey, I can feel a lot of mutual affection and respect.”
Then the two of them laughed as if this were the funniest joke of the year. Wilda pulled a paper towel from a roll next to the sink and wiped her eyes.
Mickey looked at me. “How did two normal people like us get mixed up with these crazies?” he said.
Chapter 15
Mike and I didn’t hang around. Mickey pulled the popcorn out of the microwave, and he and Wilda walked us to the front door. Mike had only one more question for his mother.
“Did Dad tell you who this woman was?”
Wilda lifted her head firmly. “No.”
“He didn’t tell me either, Mike.” Mickey put his arm around Wilda’s shoulders. “Irish stayed with me that last week of his life, but all he told me was that he and Wilda needed a cooling-off period. I didn’t know the cause of the fight until Wilda told me months later.”
Mike frowned. “Apparently he went out of town the day he died, Mickey. Did he tell you where he was going?”
“No. He got only one phone call at my house. It was from Dr. Willingham.”
“Dr. Willingham!” Mike sounded amazed. “He’s been gone for years.”
“Yeah, but he was a good counselor. I figured—I hoped—Irish was going to talk to him.”
Wilda put her hand on Mike’s arm. “We hadn’t given up.”
Mike hugged her, and she squeezed my hand. We drove away.
“Who is Dr. Willingham?” I asked.
“He was the minister of First Presbyterian back when I was a little kid. Ran my confirmation class. He left Grantham nearly fifteen years ago. Now he’s at Lovers’ Lane Presbyterian in Dallas. But Mickey’s right about one thing. My dad always liked him. If he wanted someone to talk to—wanted counseling—Dr. Willingham could well have been the one he went to.”
“Do you think your dad could have gone to see him the day of his death?”
“No, I know he didn’t. Dr. Willingham came to the funeral, and I remember he told me he’d flown into Grantham from New York. He’d been there for a couple of weeks, teaching a workshop. He didn’t mention talking to my dad.”
“If he’s a reputable counselor, he very likely wouldn’t tell you or your mom anything your dad had told him, anyway.”
“I know.” Mike sighed. “I have no idea where my dad could have gone the day he was killed. And it could be the key.”
I sat silently. I don’t like scenes, and the one between Mike and his mom had disturbed me. Mike told me that one thing he liked about me was that I don’t dither, but at that moment I was strongly tempted to dither like mad. My stomach was still jumping around like the popcorn in Wilda’s microwave. I wasn’t too happy with Mike for putting me through that, and I certainly didn’t approve of his losing his temper with his mother. But he’d been upset by the news of the rift in his parents’ marriage, so I tried not to judge him too harshly.
Right at that moment, Mike reached over and took my hand. “You were great at Mom’s,” he said. “She’s right. The news I got wasn’t what I wanted to hear, but I had to know. And she’d never have told me without the little nudge from you.”
“Nudge from me?”
“Yeah. That ‘Mike!’ like you were holding my coattails. It was perfect. That’s when she lost it.”
I felt as if the security guard’s floodlight had hit me in the face again. I saw the scene at Wilda’s house for what it was. A scene, true. But not an emotional scene. It had been a staged scene.
Mike had not really been angry. He had been pretending to be angry. He’d been goading Wilda into losing her temper, prodding her into telling him something he thought she wouldn’t reveal when she was calm. And he’d used me to do it.
The whole scene had been a sham. Mike had put on a show, used a semblance of anger to egg his mother—his own mother!—into blurting out the thing that she’d refused to tell him for two years. Mickey had said as much. “He did it to you again, Wilda,” he’d said.
And my obvious embarrassment, my eagerness to keep him from accusing her of having an affair, my anguished “Mike!” had convinced Wilda of his sincerity. He’d tricked his mother, and he’d made me into his confederate.
Honest Nell, the woman who never lied. I’d lied for Mike.
A lightning strike of anger surged through my entire body.
If I ever kill anyone, it will be because that particular kind of anger flashes though my being at a moment when I’m holding a lethal weapon. Mike will never know how near to death he came right at that moment. If I’d had a sword in my hand, I’d have run him through. If I’d had a club, I’d have smashed his head. If I’d had a pistol, and if I’d had any idea of how to fire it, I’d have shot him dead, dead, dead.
As my head cleared and the fury drained out my feet, I knew that this was the end of the line for Mike and me.
Reaching this stage of self-knowledge took just about as long as it takes for a flash of lightning to jump from a cloud to a mountaintop. Then the storm burst. I wasn’t mad enough to kill Mike anymore, but I was mad enough to tell him what I thought.
I started with, “You mean to tell me that whole scene was a performance—” and over the next
five minutes I made my opinion pretty clear.
After a couple of startled looks and a muttered, “Hey,” early in the tirade, Mike didn’t say anything. He simply drove, looking straight ahead, and let me talk. When we came to a shopping area, he pulled in and parked the truck. He sat silently until I at last came to the final words, which happened to be “—manipulative creep!”
“I’m surprised at your criticism of manipulation,” he said. His voice was tight and cold. “You’re so good at it yourself.”
Before I could get beyond, “And just what does that mean?” he got out and walked away from the truck.
His last remark had really ripped it. I was good at manipulation? Me? Honest Nell? The reporter who wouldn’t take information off the record because I didn’t want to lie about what I knew and what I didn’t know? Nell, who never lied? Nell, whose conscience had been killing her for two days because she felt obligated to tell her boss about her romance with a cop?
But Mike hadn’t seemed to care about whether or not I told my boss. Now I saw why. He saw nothing wrong with sneaking around. He thought I was merely afraid of getting caught.
I hated him.
Sitting there seething, I became aware of my surroundings. The truck was in the parking lot of an ice cream and dairy products store, and Mike was inside. I could see him in the ice cream line.
Ice cream? At a time like this Mike wanted ice cream? I growled in anger. “Hell’s bells!” He’d taken the keys to the truck, or I might have driven off.
The line wasn’t long, but it took five or ten minutes for Mike to get whatever he had ordered. And, of course, that was about the amount of time I needed to cool down from liquid lava to semisolid basalt. When he came back out, with a covered ice cream cup in each hand, I slid across the seat and opened the door for him.
“Chocolate ice cream with marshmallow topping,” he said, handing me a cup. His voice was as cold as the ice cream.