My Sister, Myself

by Tara Taylor Quinn

  Buddy’s ears dropped at his stern tone, and Ben’s anger disappeared.

  “Come here, little man,” he said, sliding to the floor.

  Tennis ball in hand, he engaged the puppy in a game of catch. He’d only been working on this for a week and already Buddy was bringing the ball back to him.

  “You’re a quick learner, aren’t you, Bud?” he praised after the fifth retrieval. Buddy sat, pressing his head into Ben’s hand as Ben scratched him behind the ears. “Wanna read some economics for me?”

  The phone rang and, jumping up to answer it, he missed Buddy’s reply. Other than various utility services and the school—and Zack—there was only one person who had his new telephone number. It was after hours, so no services or school personnel would be calling. And when he and Zack had shot some hoops on Saturday, Zack had mentioned that he was going into Phoenix to visit some friends this evening. He’d invited Ben to join him, have a few beers, relax for a while. Ben had been tempted, but economics had won out.

  “Alex?” He picked up the phone on the second ring. “Is that you, honey?”

  The operator interrupted, telling him he had a collect call from Ms. Alex Sanders. Would he accept the charge?

  Of course he would.

  His little girl had used his name, not the bastard’s, though Mary had already had it legally changed.

  “Daddy?” Her voice almost brought tears to his eyes. He missed her so damn much. “Daddy, it’s me, Alex. Can you hear me?”

  “I can, sweetie. How are you?”

  “Okay, I guess. I called in secret. Mommy said no again.”

  “Is something wrong, baby?”

  “Noooo. Only I want you to live here with me, Daddy. Can’t you just ask Mommy if you can have a room, too? We got an extra.”

  “We’ve already talked about this, Al,” Ben said softly, forcing cheer into his voice. “Your mommy wants you to give your new daddy a chance, and when I’m there, that’s too hard for you to do.”

  “Do you want me to give Pete a chance, too, Daddy?”

  If it would make Alex happy? “Yes, I do.” The words stuck in his throat. The bastard damn well better love Alex with every sorry bone in his body. She sure as hell wasn’t going to get enough caring from her mother.

  Silence hung on the line. Ben couldn’t bear to waste a single second of the brief time he had to talk with his little girl. “You’ll try really hard for me, won’t you, Al?”

  “Okay. But…”

  “What, baby?”

  “Daddy, do you know how to not lie again when you didn’t lie?”

  “What?”

  “Because it’s real important, Daddy. Real important.”

  What? Ben’s stomach tensed at the strange tone in Alex’s voice. He’d never heard it before. Had no idea what it meant. He knew her tired cry, her hurt cry. He knew her happy laugh and her faking-it laugh. But he didn’t know what she was trying to tell him now.

  “Do you know, Daddy?”

  Ben scrambled, trying furiously to translate the question into something that made sense.

  “If you don’t lie to begin with, baby, then you don’t have to worry about not lying again,” he finally told her.

  “Are you sure, Daddy?”

  Ben paced his kitchen, the mobile phone to his ear. “I’m sure.”

  “Promise?”

  “Yes.”

  She was quiet again and Ben couldn’t help wondering how she’d managed to sneak in the call.

  “Where’s Mommy?”

  “She and Pete went across the road.”

  And left Alex alone? At night? “What are they doing there?”

  “I dunno. They’ve got friends there. I’m supposed to be asleep.”

  Cold and sick, Ben stayed on the phone while he had Alex take the mobile unit and go check the doors and windows. Then, making her promise to go right to bed and to sleep—knowing that if she was sleeping she wouldn’t be able to feel scared or lonely—he finally hung up the phone.

  Mary was going to be hearing from him whether she liked it or not.

  TUESDAY AFTERNOON on his way home, Ben took a detour to visit his great-grandfather, wondering what the best time was to catch his ex-wife without her new husband around. They were having one of Arizona’s rare cloudy days, and he was eager to be outside, soaking it up, at least long enough to calm him for that phone call. He also wanted to share the good news about his first-ever college exam, and his long-dead ancestor was the only one he could think of who’d appreciate his accomplishment. He didn’t have his grade yet, but he knew he’d done well, and the whole experience hadn’t been nearly as intimidating as he’d expected. Pulling his truck to the curb, he noticed a white Mustang parked a couple of spaces over and thought of Christine. Ever since he’d found out what she drove, he always thought of her when he saw a Mustang.

  He looked around for her, just in case the car was hers. Not that he’d seek her out even if he knew where she was. He had nothing to say to her outside of class. No reason to know what she might be doing downtown. What shops she might frequent.

  Still, it didn’t hurt to look. To be on his guard.

  The car was empty, the area surrounding it deserted—much to his disappointment. Shaking his head at his adolescent behavior, Ben headed for the statue. Just a quick silent chat with his great-grandfather and then he was going home to hit redial all night if that was what it took to get hold of Mary. Pete be damned.

  Ben had supported Alex for the first six years of her life while that bastard sat in a prison cell for stealing cars. Lots of cars. Ben had not only worked years off his life to support Alex, he’d raised her. He’d taught her the difference between right and wrong, shown her how to be sensitive to other people’s needs, potty-trained her. He’d loved her.

  He loved her still.

  Christine was sitting on a bench in front of his statue.

  Great. The woman was going to think he was stalking her.

  And she was trespassing at his statue.

  “What are you doing here?” he asked her, taking the offensive before she could accuse him of following her.

  “Sitting,” she said. At least she didn’t jump. Or drop the book she’d been reading. “Phyllis, Dr. Langford, is getting her hair done. Her car’s in for a tune-up, so I drove today.”

  “You two live close by?” She looked different. Younger.

  It didn’t take long to figure out why. She was wearing an expensive-looking pair of shorts and a sleeveless blouse. And a pair of casual, though high-heeled, sandals. Much more relaxed attire than he was used to seeing her in.

  “We’re sharing a house on Elm Street,” Christine said. “The house is Dr. Langford’s, actually. I’m staying with her until I find something of my own.”

  “You two know each other from before?”

  Christine nodded, arms folded in front of her, the book she’d been reading closed on her lap. “We met at Boston College.”

  “As students?” Hands in the pockets of his denim shorts, he placed a foot on one end of the white cement bench.

  Shaking her head, Christine looked at his foot. “As teachers.”

  He was making her uncomfortable again, and for the life of him, he couldn’t understand why. Girls had always run to him for security or advice, for help out of whatever trouble they’d gotten themselves into. Until now, they’d never run from him.

  Not that Christine was running. He just had a feeling that she wanted to.

  “Are you this tense all the time,” he asked, “or is it just me?”

  “I’m not tense.” Throwing up her hands to reinforce her denial, she knocked her purse to the ground.

  Ben picked it up and gave it back to her. Her fingers, as they brushed his, were shaky. And soft.

  “I don’t bite,” he muttered.

  “Of course you don’t.” She laughed stiffly.

  Ben sat down. Christine scooted over, ostensibly to make room for him, in spite of the two feet he’d left b
etween them. If she moved again, she’d fall right off the end.

  “I’ve never hurt a woman in my life,” he said.

  “I didn’t think you had.”

  He didn’t know why her reaction bothered him so much; he just knew he couldn’t let it go.

  “Do I make you nervous for some reason?”

  “No!” She was staring at the statue of his great-grandfather. “Uh, maybe. Yes, maybe you do.”

  Ben frowned, trying to figure out how he might have treated her differently from how he’d treated anyone else.

  “You’re my student,” she said, her voice relaxing some. “I’m sure it’s not proper that we be—”

  “Friends?”

  “Right.” She glanced over at him quickly and then away. “Friends.”

  “Is that what’s happening here?” he asked, suddenly as intent as she. “Are we becoming friends?”

  “I hardly know you.”

  “Would you like to?” Why was her answer so important?

  “Sure. Of course.” Her arms were folded around herself again as she stared at the statue in front of them. “I don’t know.” She looked in his direction.

  “Probably not.”

  She didn’t convince him. “Because I’m in your class?”

  “Montford has a strict code of ethics, and I know I read something about improper behavior between students and teachers.”

  “Our friendship doesn’t have to be improper.” Ben wanted to turn toward her, to look at her face while they were talking, to see what expressions were accompanying her words, but the conversation was too important to risk making her run.

  “I’m not a young college kid,” he reminded her.

  “I’d guess I’m as old as you are, or close to it.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “I’m twenty-six, by the way.”

  “Oh.”

  “How old are you, Christine?”

  “Thirty.”

  “See?” He glanced at her and then at his great-grandfather again. “Hardly any difference at all.”

  He’d guessed she was a little younger than that, but he’d never been a good judge of age. Especially with women. Besides, sometimes when he met her eyes in class, they looked ancient. Yes, he decided, she could easily be thirty.

  She was quiet again. But she didn’t make any excuse to leave. That had to mean something.

  His great-grandfather stared right back at him, sculpted stone eyes filled with compassion, almost as though he could hear this strange conversation—and understood.

  Ben wished he understood. He had no idea why he was even sitting there.

  “Have you been here before?” Ben finally asked, gesturing at the statue.

  Christine nodded, tapping her fingers on her book. “Phyllis brought me on Sunday. We were at dinner Friday night with the woman who had this piece commissioned last spring.”

  “He’s Shelter Valley’s founder,” Ben said.

  What woman had had a statue of his ancestor commissioned? And why?

  “I know. Becca Parsons and her family researched his biography all last winter. And a friend of theirs, Martha Moore, wrote a play, which was put on by Shelter Valley teenagers on the Fourth of July, the day the statue was unveiled. I guess there was a big write-up in the paper, too.”

  Ben sat up. If there was a write-up in the paper, he should still be able to get a copy of it at the library. He’d been planning to do his own research once he got settled in school and had some extra time. He knew about the early years of his great-grandfather’s life, but his knowledge ended abruptly—with the day his grandmother had left home.

  Part of his reason for coming to Shelter Valley was to find out about his family. Find out who he was.

  She nodded, fingers lying still across the book.

  “I don’t know about you, but I’ve never lived in a community like this,” he went on, “one where everyone knows everyone else, and more, watches out for everyone else.”

  “And everyone else’s kids, too,” Christine said, smiling. “I never have, either.”

  “I find it pretty incredible.”

  “I do, too.” Her words were so soft he barely heard them.

  “A bit like I’ve arrived on another planet,” he said.

  “I know what you mean.” She nodded, looked over at him. “Everyone knows who I am, but I can hardly keep track of the kids in my classes, let alone every other person I pass on the street.”

  “Kind of helps having an influx of nearly six thousand students, though, doesn’t it? We don’t stand out quite so much.”

  “Except that most of them live in the dorms….”

  “But some get jobs in town.”

  “They’re younger than we are. We still stand out.”

  For a very brief moment, they connected again, just as they had that first day of class.

  What the hell was happening to him?

  His gaze darted away from her, landing back on the statue. “He’s my great-grandfather.”

  “Really?”

  For a diversionary tactic, his ploy had worked. Except that now she knew something he’d been planning to keep to himself. At least for a while—until he’d completely soaked up the feeling of Shelter Valley, made this place his own.

  Ben nodded. “My grandmother was his daughter.”

  “You’re related to Samuel Montford?” She was looking at him fully now.

  “I am.”

  “I don’t believe this! Becca was just telling us the other night that the only Montfords still alive were Sam’s namesake, a great-grandson who left Shelter Valley more than ten years ago, and his parents who have a home in Shelter Valley, but have lived in Europe for more than a year.”

  He had a cousin? An aunt and uncle? Ben’s heartbeat quickened. He had family? Legitimate family of his own?

  “Where’d Sam go?” He had a cousin. Maybe even close to him in age.

  “Apparently no one knows for sure. They tried to locate him, to ask him to come back for the dedication, but they couldn’t find him. I gather he left town in something of a disgrace. It had to do with a broken marriage, I think. His wife is still here in town. They mentioned her name, but I don’t remember it. Sam moves around a lot.”

  Ben had a cousin.

  Christine looked over at him again. “So if you’re a Montford, how come nobody knows about you?”

  She was more at ease than he’d ever seen her.

  “My grandmother left Shelter Valley when she was fourteen.”

  “Old Sam’s daughter! She disappeared in the desert. They figured she got lost, died, and then wild animals got her remains.”

  “That’s what they thought?”

  Christine shrugged. “Becca was just telling us about it the other night. The sheriff and his men searched everywhere for her and eventually concluded that she must be dead. They held a funeral for her, erected a headstone that’s still standing out at the cemetery. But apparently, no matter what people said, Sam never believed his daughter had died.” She stopped, staring at the statue of his great-grandfather, her eyes wide as she shook her head.

  “It’s hard to believe, you know, that a man could love his daughter so much.”

  Thinking of Alex, it wasn’t hard to believe at all. Ben watched Christine closely. What kind of life had she led that she’d find a father’s love so foreign?

  “He was the only one, though.” She continued her narrative, and Ben left his questions for another time. “Becca said even the girl’s mother was convinced she’d met with a tragic fate in the desert. Sam spent the rest of his life waiting for her return.”

  The oddest feeling came over Ben, as though two parts of himself had just met for the first time. Unconnected halves becoming one whole. His blood ran cold and then hot. He’d always heard about those later years second-hand, through his father and from his grandmother’s point of view.

  “She missed him all her life.”

  “Why didn’t she ever get i
n touch with him, then? Where’d she go? Why didn’t she come home?”

  Ben turned, his arm along the back of the bench as he faced her. “She fell in love with a Hopi Indian she’d met out riding in the desert. They used to meet secretly, in a cave they found halfway up the mountain on the south end of town.”

  “But Becca said that Sam had lived with the Indians—when he first came out West from Boston.”

  “That’s what my grandmother told my father when he was little.”

  “So why couldn’t she just tell her father she’d fallen in love? Why did she have to hide?”

  Christine was like a different person, relaxed, completely alive.

  “Did Becca Parsons tell you about Sam’s first marriage?” he asked, eager to continue the conversation, to be able to share something that, until then, he’d guarded so carefully. “The way it ended?”

  Her brows coming together as she thought, Christine nodded. “He married a black woman, didn’t he?”

  “That’s right,” Ben murmured.

  “And people, his family and friends, went a little crazy.”

  “Slavery was still legal back then. They might have lived in the North, but that didn’t mean interracial marriages were accepted.”

  “They had a baby, and one day while his wife was out walking with her son, they were both attacked. Killed.” Christine shuddered.

  If she’d been any other woman, Ben would have put his arm around her, touched her face, something to bring her back, to reassure her that it was only a story from a bygone day.

  “You can see why his daughter didn’t dare tell him she wanted to enter into an interracial marriage of her own.”

  “But…”

  “She tried once,” Ben said, relaying the story he’d been told when, as a young boy, he’d visited the reservation where his father had been born and raised. Some of the old people had still remembered his grandmother. “But she only got as far as saying they were friends. Samuel forbade her to see him anymore and then spent hours lecturing her on the proper behavior of a young white girl, whom she should and shouldn’t see as she prepared herself for marriage.”

  “And he thought that was it? That she didn’t see the Indian again?”

  Ben nodded. “She even tried to do as he’d ordered. For a time. But she was so much in love and kept riding out to their cave, just hoping he’d be there.”