Impossible Dreams

by Patricia Rice

  Feeling like the French Resistance struggling with the German occupiers, Axell ordered his bartender to send over a bottle of wine. He’d yet to lose a battle. He wouldn’t start now. Constance was his, if he had to pay the schoolteacher’s salary to keep her.

  Noting a drunk and disorderly situation building to his left, Axell released some of his frustration by collaring the jerk and hauling him out to the local taxi. The jerk began yelling “Police brutality!” as Axell heaved him into the taxi’s back seat. Another night, it might have amused him. With the mayor inside and his license on the line, the comment only seared more acid through his stomach.

  Under the guise of retrieving a drink from the bar, the mayor was waiting for him when Axell returned.

  “Your bartenders are pushing too many drinks,” Ralph said coldly, rattling the ice in his glass. “This is a family town. Drunken disturbances won’t be tolerated.”

  Axell was more than familiar with the Southern propensity to hide liquor behind closed doors. The vote to ban all alcohol sales had narrowly lost in the last election. Taking a swig of the mineral water his bartender handed him, Axell bit down on his temper. “You’ll not have my license on that flimsy excuse, Ralph, and if you really want that school gone, you’d better find new tactics.” Now that he had the schoolteacher in the palm of his hand, maybe he could bluff the mayor into a trade-off.

  “That shopping center is more important to this community than any artsy liberal kindergarten,” the mayor warned. “I’ll do what it takes to take care of the people who elected me.”

  Axell snorted. “You’ll do what it takes to take care of yourself, Ralph. I’ve got the schoolteacher. If you want my cooperation, you’ll leave my bar alone.”

  “Scratch my back, and I’ll scratch yours.” Nodding approval, the mayor returned to his table.

  Axell squeezed the plastic bottle in his hand until water squirted from the opening. How could he trade a school teacher for a liquor license? Cursing silently, he escaped to the orderly chaos of the kitchen.

  ***

  “You could have moved in with me, you moron,” Selene exclaimed over the phone line, “but I can’t complain if you’re sleeping with the enemy. That goes well beyond the line of duty.”

  Maya wrinkled her nose at Selene’s commentary and watched as Matty proudly taped his creation to the vast barren space of the refrigerator door. He might not be good at letters yet, but he was definitely expressive in paint. “I wouldn’t want to cramp your style, girl,” she returned her attention to the conversation, “and I’ll have you remember ‘sleeping’ is the only thing a woman in my delicate condition can do.”

  Selene clucked disapprovingly. “Shows how much you know. Does this mean we have a serious advocate on the city council?”

  “For as long as it suits his purposes.” Maya eased her weight onto a kitchen stool. If this baby wasn’t born soon, her feet would be flatter than Matty’s painting. “He’s not half-bad, once you get to know him. Just kind of stiff and proper and accustomed to having his way.” Remembering the clothes shopping incident, she figured that was the polite way of putting it. “Domineering,” was the better word.

  “Well, you just keep pouring on the butter, and I’ll work my end of it. I’ve got a party with a DOT board member tonight. Wish me well.”

  Maya grinned. She’d never seen Selene work one of her “parties,” but she could imagine it. “Sweet talk him good, sugar. We’ll have that nasty old shopping center installing underground parking yet.”

  “I’ll not go that far. That’s a flood zone out there. But we’ll find something.”

  Selene hung up, leaving Maya to admire the artwork of her two talented charges. Matty was into dragons at the moment. Constance, apparently high on earlier praise, was painting more and more elaborate nurseries.

  “Grandmother gave me a baby doll,” she replied matter-of-factly when Maya asked about the infant in the picture. “But dolls aren’t like real babies, are they?” Big, serious eyes watched Maya expectantly, with a trace of wariness behind them.

  Maya felt as if she were on a witness stand, sworn to tell the truth. She didn’t like being pinned down, but she couldn’t lie to a child. “Dolls are pretend babies.” She dodged the question agilely, sending a mental apology to Constance’s grandmother. Sandra hadn’t bought the crystal ball, after all. Apparently, she’d found a suitable doll elsewhere.

  “You’ve got a real baby in your stomach.” Constance pointed at the figure in the painting. “This is a real baby, like my mommy had in her stomach.”

  Oh dear. Deeper and deeper waters. She wished she’d taken more child psychology courses, but there’d never been enough time, or money. She leaned over and taped the picture to the refrigerator. “I’m sorry you lost your mommy and her baby.”

  “I didn’t want the baby,” Constance whispered. “I hated the baby.”

  She slid away, back to the kitchen table and Matty.

  Shocked, Maya pretended normalcy by taping the picture in place. Scary little spikes of panic raced through her veins, piercing her heart. Axell needed to be here — now. This was his daughter. He knew the score better than she.

  Without thinking, she grabbed the kitchen phone and hit the starred code number for the restaurant. She was only an outsider in this precarious little family drama.

  ***

  Grimly, Axell slammed into the house. He didn’t know what was so all-fired important that he had to leave his bar to the mayor and his vipers, but it didn’t appear the house was on fire.

  He stalked through the mud room into a brightly lit kitchen no different from the one he’d left a few hours ago. Maybe there was more paint splattered across the newspapers and floor, and his refrigerator looked like a cock-eyed pop art gallery, but he didn’t see any dead or dying. He watched his daughter decorate Matty’s forehead with a sunburst, then turned his glare on the teacher sitting on a stool by the counter, stroking her cat.

  “What?” he roared as she met his gaze with a worried frown. She’d scared him half to death over nothing.

  “Daddy!” Constance raced to throw her arms around his legs.

  Amazed by her reaction, Axell didn’t even blink at the smear of yellow paint across his new Perry Ellis trousers. He crouched to stroke her hair and gratefully accepted the paper towel the teacher handed him.

  “Can you stay? Me and Matty been painting.”

  Constance — when she bothered speaking — usually spoke grammatically. Axell threw the teacher another glare.

  “Show your daddy your paintings, honey,” Maya intervened calmly from her seat.

  Axell wondered if she was feeling all right. She usually bounced around as much as the children. That made him wonder if she’d been seeing a doctor, which returned his terror of her having the kid on the kitchen floor. He had to get her out of here — soon. He didn’t want anything to do with babies.

  Constance seemed oddly reluctant to display her art. Holding her hand, Axell crossed to the refrigerator. Matty’s swirls of red with polka dot nose holes and pointed ears were easily discerned from Constance’s carefully detailed scenes. He wasn’t entirely certain he understood the subject matter, however.

  Crouching beside her, he examined a painting of what appeared to be a room full of furniture. The cat leapt from Maya’s lap to curl around his ankles, meowing. He scratched its head with one hand while holding out the picture with the other. “Want to tell me about this one?”

  Pink little lips closed firmly, and her fine hair flew around her face as she shook her head.

  “That’s the nursery,” Maya explained from her seat.

  The nursery. Axell’s heart plummeted to his stomach. He couldn’t look at his daughter. His fingers clenched around the wrinkled painting. The nursery, of course. There was the crib his daughter had outgrown, the cradle he’d built himself, and the playpen full of toys they had shopped for every weekend.

  Agony shot like fire through his chest. His stomach crampe
d, nearly bending him in half. Maybe a heart attack would prevent his ever thinking about that time again. Apparently aware of his crippling pain, the cat fled behind the refrigerator.

  Carefully, Axell unfolded from the floor, still gripping the painting. “That’s a very pretty picture, Constance,” he said with what he thought was admirable calm. “I need to talk with your teacher for a moment. Miss Alyssum?” He lifted his eyebrows in expectation and nodded toward the family room.

  “You need to talk with your daughter.” Refusing his commanding gesture, she remained seated.

  He’d fire an employee who ignored his orders. He couldn’t fire a guest. Gritting his teeth in frustration, Axell fought the dangerous firecrackers popping behind his eyes. Constance had already returned to the table, but he wasn’t ignorant enough to believe she didn’t listen to their every word. For two years he’d been pretending she’d forgotten. He couldn’t pretend anymore.

  Holding the picture, he stormed into the family room. If Maya wanted him to talk to Constance, she’d damned well have to talk to him first. He didn’t have any idea how to handle this.

  Staring at the childish picture, Axell absently swatted at a dirty tennis shoe in his path. Constance had drawn his son’s nursery. The child had been delivered dead after the accident — the accident that had killed Angela instantly. The acid in his stomach spilled through his gut like wildfire, and he kicked another loose shoe in the direction of the first.

  The schoolteacher appeared before him without his knowing she’d entered the room. She wore the swinging floral dress he’d bought for her, along with the heavy sweater. The dress was more like summer wear, and the evening had turned cool. He should turn up the furnace. He never noticed the cold, but she was so thin-skinned, she was probably shivering.

  Dammit, there he went again. She was a grown woman. She could damned well take care of herself. Avidly seeking lost shoes now, Axell used his toe to pry a slipper from beneath the leather sofa. It took two slams to land it in the pile with the first two.

  “Your daughter seems fascinated by nurseries. She made a few revealing comments I can’t fully understand. I thought you might prefer to deal with them rather than me.”

  “What comments?” Axell asked roughly, glaring at the picture before dropping it on the table as he uncovered a sandal lurking in a corner.

  She hesitated, as if afraid to alight anywhere. He pointed at the couch as he swatted the sandal out of its hiding place. “Sit down.”

  She sat. She clasped her hands in her lap. She twiddled her thumbs. She looked everywhere but at him as he stalked the enormous room in search of shoes.

  At his growl of exasperation, she finally sighed. “I don’t want to get involved in your family problems,” she stated baldly.

  “Tell me about it,” he agreed with venom. He didn’t mean to make her flinch, he just couldn’t help himself right now. He kicked the sandal until it landed upside down on a sneaker. “Go ahead,” he finished a little less irascibly. “We might as well know each other’s life stories at this rate.”

  She threw him a rueful glance. “I don’t think so. Comic farce isn’t my strong point.” She pointed at the discarded picture. “Constance tells me that’s a real baby in the crib. That her mommy was going to have a real baby.”

  Feeling as if a gun had exploded in his face, Axell swayed where he stood. Pain rippled through him, and in a desperate effort to fight it, he dropped to his knees and began systematically searching for the rest of Constance’s shoe collection. “I didn’t think she remembered,” he muttered from the floor. “I had a decorator take the nursery apart and refurnish it right after Angela died. It just seemed simpler.”

  “No wonder she doesn’t talk to you.”

  He bonked his head on the entertainment center. Rubbing the sore spot, he glared at her as if she were to blame, but he saw no accusation in her eyes. He threw a dusty patent leather shoe into the pile.

  “She’s only imitating you,” she continued remorselessly. “If an adult like you can’t tell her how you feel, how can you expect a child to say how she feels?”

  Axell cringed and continued prowling the room. “She was so little,” he protested. “How could I explain? Her mother was dead. That was difficult enough. Damn.” He pounced on another sandal. “It was all so difficult. Angela and I hadn’t been getting along. We’d hoped the baby would cure our differences,” — the sandal hit the pile with the first throw — “but it only made things worse. We had a furious fight that morning. I stormed off to my office. She must have decided to follow.”

  The words poured out, words he’d never told anyone, words that ripped his soul from his gut and tears from his eyes. Men didn’t cry, dammit. He jerked a dollhouse away from the wall and located the missing leather shoe. Something wet streamed down his cheek, and standing, he kicked the shoe so hard, it flew past the stack.

  In a dead voice, Axell finished the sorry tale. “We’d just had a thunderstorm. The roads were slick, leaves and limbs everywhere. I’d taken the big car because she liked the little convertible. She didn’t even fasten her damned seat belt.”

  “It wasn’t your fault,” she said softly.

  “Hell, I don’t know.” Wearily, Axell pinched his nose and wiped the tear before turning to face her. Why go over this now? It wouldn’t change anything. But she stared at him with those damned open-as-the-sea eyes, and he struggled for words. “Angela died instantly from a blow to the head after she was thrown from the car,” he said with a sigh. “The doctors couldn’t save the baby. Angela was only five months along.”

  He. His son. They hadn’t even given him a name. He’d just had “Infant Son” inscribed on the gravestone. He hadn’t cried. He’d simply stood there at the funeral, holding his young daughter’s hand, watching them bury the last of his dreams.

  Fighting the tears he hadn’t cried then, Axell slammed his foot into the pile of shoes, scattering them across the room again. “What the hell does any of this have to do with the urgent reason I had to come home?”

  “Now that I know the story,” Maya replied quietly, “I suspect it means that your daughter thinks she’s responsible for her little brother’s death.”

  “What?” Axell yelled, swinging to glare at her.

  But he already knew. For two years, his beloved daughter had been living the same nightmare hell as he had.

  Ten

  All generalizations are false.

  “What do I say?” Collapsing into a chair, Axell covered his eyes.

  Maya thought she ought to preserve this moment in her memory. She didn’t think it was often that this big, self-assured man crumbled, especially before an audience. If she was any good at this astrology thing, she’d say he had a Scorpio moon — which would make him passionate and profoundly emotional, but for some reason far beyond her ability to understand, he was obsessively disguising it.

  She had the nonsensical urge to stroke his hair and pat his cheek and tell him everything would be all right. But Axell Holm wasn’t a child.

  Glancing at the scattered assortment of shoes, she spoke cautiously. “You tell her you love her, then go from there.” When he didn’t immediately leap up and kick anything else, she offered, “It’s amazing how much children can understand, the untold insecurities we could relieve if adults didn’t insist on hiding things. You can’t hide things from a child. They always know when something is wrong, and they almost always blame it on themselves.”

  Lifting his hand from his eyes, he threw her a shrewd glance. “Spoken from experience, I take it?”

  “The voice of experience,” she agreed grimly.

  She saw the sudden look of curiosity in his eyes at her remark, that archeology-professor-studying-a-new-hieroglyphic look, but she didn’t explain. “Now,” she said softly. “Go to her now.”

  He grimaced and threaded his hand through his hair. “I trust you realize I left the mayor and my mother-in-law at the bar, conspiring to take Constance and your school away
. Maybe while you’re at it, you could wave your wand in that direction.”

  With that gloomy warning, Axell rose from the sofa and gaining momentum, strode out the door.

  Maya had no magic wands. Instead, she lingered where she was, soaking in the ambiance of the messy family room — the only room in the house that looked lived in. It looked as if every pair of shoes Constance owned had been under the furniture, and she owned a lot.

  This was the kind of room she’d dreamed of as a child — a room where she and Cleo could kick off their shoes and safely sprawl on the floor and watch TV and color pictures and read books to their heart’s content. She’d probably painted in a happy mother and father at the time, but she knew better than that now. The happy mother and father was an illusion even in the dreamland of wealth.

  The image of a golden Norse god kicking shoes as he writhed in agony wouldn’t easily be erased.

  She rubbed the tumbling infant in her abdomen. Her limited insurance didn’t cover sonograms, so she had no clue whether she carried a boy or girl, and it didn’t matter. Maybe she couldn’t provide her child or Matty with an expensive room like this one — heck, right now she couldn’t give them a roof over their heads — but she could give them love. She had a lifetime of unexpressed love to offer. And she knew a whole lot more about showing it than Axell Holm did.

  Matty wandered in and plopped in front of the TV, examining the knobs for the one that would make it work. With a smile, Maya picked up the remote control and switched on the VCR that still contained the dragon tape. Matty’s eyes grew wide with wonder, and he threw her one of those magical looks she cherished.

  “See, even the TV knows what you like.”

  He beamed then and relaxed in happy fascination with the movie. He was too easily satisfied to suffer from attention deficit, she’d already decided. Maybe mild dyslexia. She should ask Social Services about testing.