by Nancy Moser
“Nothing at this time, Your Honor.”
It took a wise man to know when to fold ‘em. Yet the score had changed. It was now Prosecution: 2, Defense: 0. Mr. Frumpy Dumpy better get his act together. And soon.
***
The prosecution rested. It was the defense’s turn and Bobby was ready for them. He wanted to hear something positive about Patti McCoy. Although there seemed to be flaws in some of the evidence, it would be hard to counter the last two witnesses who’d testified about Patti’s anger and her threat.
Actually, the worst thing about hearing the co-worker and neighbor testify was how it brought back memories of his father’s tirades. What had the neighbors heard coming from the Mann residence? What did people say about them after Bobby’s father got run over while he was drunk? After his mother’s suicide?
He shuddered and was glad he’d been so absorbed in his own grief and the uncertainty of what would happen next that he hadn’t been aware of any gossip. Ignorance had indeed been bliss.
If called, would his childhood neighbors say anything good about the Mann household? Had they ever witnessed his mother tucking them into bed every night, stroking their hair behind their ears, saying special prayers for enough money, enough protection, and enough happiness? Had they ever heard his little sister, Cass, sing “Jesus Loves Me” in a voice so pure the air hung on to the notes a moment longer than usual as if sad to let them go?
Or had they only heard his father threaten his mother? Had they cringed when they’d heard his older brothers nearly come to blows with their dad on the front lawn? Had they heard the front door being kicked in when his mother locked his father out?
Would any of that have been held against Bobby like it was being held against Patti?
Bobby was hopeful the defense witnesses would do Patti some good, but another co-worker, a high school friend, and some distant aunt, all saying Patti was a sweet girl and wouldn’t hurt a fly, had as much impact as a fly hitting a screen.
Patti the fly. Too easily swatted and flung away.
***
Deidre didn’t trust psychologists. She’d been to one when she found herself still mired in grief a year after Don had passed away. Her insurance had supplied three free sessions, so why not? She’d quit going after two.
“So, how does your husband’s death make you feel?”
“Like I was pushed into a huge pile of dog doo.”
When the therapist had nodded politely at her analogy as if Dee-Dee had said something profound, she’d realized the man was of the I’m-okay-you’re-okay-everything’s-okay bent. If she kept seeing him she’d probably hear all the right words, but they’d be like froth on a cappuccino—tasty, but gone too soon. If only he’d yelled at her, “Come on! Snap out of it!” she might have respected him.
It wasn’t as though she hadn’t been handling things. Dee-Dee Polland prided herself on handling whatever was thrown her way. Nurse a husband? Check. Bury a husband? Check. Raise a crippled daughter? Check, check. Zoning in on her feelings would only upset the cart of her emotions. As it was, her day-to-day survival had been a precarious balance. The Polland family home, where she and Nelly lived with Karla, was a money pit. Every week something broke down and needed fixing. Between Karla’s income as a receptionist at a CPA’s office and Deidre’s hospital job, they’d barely gotten by. Dee-Dee didn’t need some almost-a-real-doctor telling her she’d be okay if only she let it all out.
If she’d done that…
The psychologist brought in to testify today was Dr. Bridget Rand. The defense attorney was about to begin his questioning. Deidre needed to forget her past, be in the present, and listen. Too much was at stake.
“Dr. Rand, have you had a chance to speak with the defendant, Patti McCoy?”
“I have. At length.”
“What are your findings?”
Jonathan Cummings stood. “Objection, Your Honor. None of us want to be here for days. Can we have a more specific question?”
“That would be preferable,” said the judge. “Mr. Stadler, please rephrase.”
Stadler hitched up his pants. “In your professional opinion, what is the defendant’s temperament?”
“She’s generally a needy personality. But she’s also very giving and has a servant’s heart. She’d do anything for anybody. She’s meek, nonaggressive, and non-confrontational to the point of being a doormat. She’s not a leader but a follower.” She appeared finished, then added, “And she’s terribly naive.”
“Do you believe she genuinely loved Brett Lerner?”
“I believe she did.”
“And through her naiveté, did she believe he would marry her—in her delicate condition?”
“I believe she did.”
Cummings stood up again. “Is this leading anywhere, Your Honor? This is a rehashing of known facts.”
“Get to the point, Mr. Stadler,” said the judge.
Stadler cleared his throat and pushed his glasses into place. “In your expert opinion, do you believe Ms. McCoy had the temperament, the wherewithal, and the inner constitution to kill someone?”
Dr. Rand leaned toward the microphone. “No, I do not.”
“Nothing further, Your Honor.”
Cummings popped out of his chair. “I have a few questions for this witness.” He walked around the prosecutor’s table and took his place. “I’m a little confused, Doctor. You state that Ms. McCoy is non-confrontational to the point of being a doormat, yet previous witnesses have testified to her violent outbursts during arguments, throwing bottles against walls, and making threats to kill the deceased. That doesn’t sound very meek and nonaggressive to me. Nor does it sound like a follower. It sounds very much like Ms. McCoy was ready to do something with her anger.”
It was Stadler’s turn to rise. “Your Honor? Is there a question?”
The judge nodded at Cummings. “Ask a question, Mr. Cummings.”
The lawyer nodded once. “How do you explain the discrepancy between your assessment of the defendant’s temperament and her verbal and physical actions?”
“Everyone gets angry once in a while.”
Cummings looked shocked. “Not according to you. According to you Ms. McCoy is needy, nonaggressive, non-confrontational, meek…”
“Everyone can get pushed past their breaking point.”
Cummings beamed. “As was Ms. McCoy the night she killed her lover. Nothing further, Your Honor.”
Dr. Rand stepped down. Deidre’s opinion of psychologists had not altered.
***
Abigail had just put Nat King Cole on the CD player, had just sat down with a bowl of bean with bacon soup and a glass of milk, when there was a knock on her door. “It’s open.”
Hayley came in, beaming. She held something behind her back. “Guess what I have.”
Hello to you too. “A million dollars in small bills.”
“Nope.” Hayley revealed a newspaper. “I’ve been reading about your trial. I know everything about it.”
Abigail put a hand in front of her face. “Number one, it’s not my trial; it’s Patti McCoy’s trial. And number two, get that thing away from me.”
Hayley’s smile disappeared. “Why? I saved it for you.”
Abigail let her voice soften. “As a juror I can’t read anything about the trial. I can’t watch or listen to the news either.”
“Why not?”
“I have to remain impartial.” She pointed to the stove. “There’s some soup if you want.”
Hayley looked as if she’d just been told there would be no Christmas this year. “But I read it for you, so I could talk to you about it.”
“I can’t, girlie. Sorry. I have to base my final decision on what I hear in court and only what I hear in court.”
“That’s no fun.”
She had a point. Abigail blew on her bowl of soup, waiting for the girl to leave.
She didn’t. Instead she fell into a rattan bowl chair. “Every time I think about the
audition I want to throw up.”
“Bathroom’s over there.” Abigail ate a spoonful of soup. Warm and creamy.
Hayley rolled the newspaper into a tube, peered through it, and did a quick scan of the room, looking like a pirate with bad posture. Then she tossed it on the floor with a sigh. “I’m never going to get the part of Annie because Kathy Button is trying out.”
Abigail laughed in spite of herself. “Kathy Button? With a name like that, she can’t be much of a threat.”
“She can sing. Really sing.”
“So can you.” She paused. “I assume. Yes?”
“She was the lead in our school program three times. Whatever part she tries out for, she gets.”
Abigail had dealt with a few of those types herself. Victoria Mason, Zoe Marshall. Marguerite Albertini. She used to cringe whenever she’d see one of them at an audition. These three women possessed a certain aura, a confidence, a presence, that seemed to make any director buckle to their charms. And talent. They did have talent. The cretins.
When the intro to Nat’s song “When I Fall in Love” started up, Abigail set her soup aside and stood. She extended a hand to Hayley. “Come on.”
“What?”
“Join me. It’s sacrilegious to sit still while the King is singing.”
“Elvis?”
“Never! Nat King Cole.”
“Who?” But Hayley let herself be pulled into the dance. Abigail took the male role and led expertly, singing along. “‘When I fall in love, it will be forever.’” She swung Hayley under her arm and back again, making good use of the small space. She ended with a deep backward dip, then bowed. “Thank you, mademoiselle. I’d like to see Kathy Button do that.”
Hayley headed back to the chair. “She probably could. She can do anything.”
Abigail intercepted her, took her hand, and swung her around so they were face-to-face. “You can do anything, girlie. Don’t worry about other people. You can’t control them. Just go out there and do your best. Then, whether you get the part or not, you can walk away free and clear.”
“Feeling crummy.”
Abigail gave her one final spin and let go, sending her sprawling into the chair. “That’s part of it too, little girl. We don’t always get what we want—or even deserve. Get used to it.”
Hayley made her feet dangle. “I was wondering if you would go with me tomorrow night? If you were there, if I could look at you when I tried out, I’d do my best. I know I would.”
Abigail knew it was always helpful to play to a specific person in the audience. But this girl’s presumption…until the other day, their friendship had consisted of a few words while passing in the hall.
“Come on. Help me. People will think it’s cool, you being famous and all.”
Considering Abigail’s lack of exposure of late a little adulation would be appreciated. “Sure. Why not? You can even introduce me to Kathy Zipper as your acting coach.”
“She’ll just die.”
“That’s the plan.”
***
Becky waited for Bobby right inside the door. She stood there, arms crossed, a piece of paper in her hand.
Bobby unzipped his jacket and hung it on the hall tree. “Hey, hon.” He leaned to kiss her cheek but she jerked just out of reach. He glanced at the paper she held. It was yellowed.
“Where are the kids?” he asked, needing a diversion from whatever Becky had on her mind.
“Mrs. Ross has them next door.” She took a deep breath, making the baby in her belly rise. “I went to the bank today.”
“Why?”
“To see about getting a second mortgage.”
Bobby’s stomach slid into his boots. He had no idea what to say but managed, “Oh.”
Becky’s eyebrows rose. “Oh? That’s all you can say?”
“Beck, let me explain.”
She moved to the Queen Anne chair with the frayed arms. She perched on the edge of its cushion, placed the yellowed paper in her lap, and set her hands on top of it. “I’m waiting.”
He sat on the couch, as far away from her as possible. He was very glad the kids weren’t there because this was not going to be pleasant. “We don’t have a mortgage.”
“So I was told.” She held up the paper. “The mortgage was paid off in 1993, by Theodore Mann, your grandfather.”
“Where did you find that?”
“In a box of old papers in the attic.”
He was going to get after her for snooping but wisely did no such thing. What was his was hers. He’d been the one who’d crossed the line. He’d been the one to lie and keep secrets.
“I lived here with Grandpa from the time I was fourteen until he died when I was nineteen. He gave me the house in his will.”
“A house you own, free and clear.”
An entire paragraph full of explanations turned into one word. “Yes.”
“So all your talk about needing three jobs to get by, to pay the mortgage, was a lie.”
The one-word answers kept coming. “Yes.”
“So all the times you could have been here with me and the kids, you chose—you chose—to be gone from us, earning money we didn’t need.”
“That’s not entirely true,” he said. “We do need the money.”
“For what?”
He ran a finger over a tear in the couch upholstery that Becky had sewn together. It reminded him of a surgery scar. He’d had his appendix out when he was eight… “You deserve better.” He swept an arm around the room. “This place has the same carpet it had when Grandpa was alive. The walls need painting, the bathtub has chips in the enamel, the maple tree out front has dead limbs that are going to fall on the house one of these days and cause some real damage, you and I never did get a proper honeymoon, and—”
While he’d been reciting his want-to-do list, she’d risen from the chair and strolled toward him. After the mention of the honeymoon, she stopped his words with a finger to his lips.
“You are mistaken, Bobby Mann.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Shh.”
He couldn’t speak. He couldn’t go against her will, not with her finger touching his lips, not with her eyes looking down at him. He didn’t know if he believed in auras and stuff like that, but he couldn’t think of any other term that fit the effect his wife had on him. Having her close was like standing on the edge of a riverbank, fishing with his grandpa, content to watch the river flow as if it had all the time in the world to go nowhere or everywhere. In his memories, his grandpa sang an old hymn.
When peace like a river attendeth my way, When sorrows like sea-billows roll; Whatever my lot, Thou has taught me to say, “It is well, it is well with my soul.”
Becky reminded Bobby a lot of his grandpa, the quiet manner, the deep faith, the comfort radiated by their presence.
Even though it had been nearly ten years, he missed Grandpa so much.
“Bobby?”
He blinked and the song and memories stopped. “Mmm?”
‘Tell me about your family. The rest of your family.”
Family? Wasn’t she talking about the mortgage? He welcomed the change of subject. “My parents died when I was young. I’ve told you that.”
“But your brothers and sisters?”
His heart jumped. He’d never told her about any of them. Had he? Nor how his parents had died.
Becky moved to the mantel and brought him an old photo of his family. His entire family when he was about six.
“Where did you get this?”
“In the attic.”
He looked up from the picture. “What were you doing up there anyway? Just leave it alone, Beck. There’s no reason for you to go through all that old junk.”
“Family photographs are not junk.” She pointed at the youngest boy—at Bobby’s image. “This is you, isn’t it?”
“How can you tell?”
She looked at him, then the photo. “Your kind eyes. You had them even then.”
“I’m living out my calling.” She moved to his side to see the picture better. “Tell me who’s who.”
Bobby went through the picture. “That’s my mom and dad, then Martin—the oldest, Chuck, me, Cass, Katie, and Vicki.”
“I wish I’d had brothers or sisters. Aunts and uncles for our children. With the possibility of cousins for our children to play with.”
He shook his head vehemently. “I don’t know where they are. After our parents died, we were spread around. I lost track.”
She stared at him, mouth agape. “Lost track of family? How could you do that?”
He let her hold the picture and stepped away from her, to the recliner, where he took off his shoes. “We were kids. We didn’t have any say. My brothers ran off, my sisters went to live with my dad’s sister in Chicago or something. I got the best deal of it, here with Grandpa.”
“Didn’t he want to see the rest of them and stay in touch?”
Bobby remembered a few visits. “I was plenty for him. He was an old man. His health wasn’t that good.”
Becky gazed down at the photo and ran her fingers over the faces. “How did your parents die?”
He did not want to go into this. Ever. He’d be willing to talk about the mortgage rather than this. “You still haven’t explained your comment. I was telling you what you don’t have, what you deserve, and you said—”
“I said you were mistaken.”
He set his shoes to the side of the recliner. “And why is that?”
“Because I have plenty. I don’t need more things bought with wages you earn by working three jobs. I need you. Here. And the kids need you, here.”
He held out his hand. Becky set the photo down, came to him, and he pulled her into his lap. “I know.”
Her eyebrows rose. She’d obviously expected a fight. If she only knew her power over him, as well as his intense desire to keep the past past.
She wrapped her arms around his neck. “Care to tell me the real reason you’re working three jobs?”