Solemnly Swear

by Nancy Moser

  The eulogist was Davey’s brother Oscar, another good guy. Actually there were a lot of good people on Ronnie’s side of the family. Ken missed them almost as much as he missed Ronnie. His own family was rather staid and stodgy. The uncles on his side thought fun was talking about tax shelters over a rousing game of pinochle. Whoop-de-do. His family didn’t do outside, and Ken’s love of a sport (albeit “just golf) was never looked upon as a serious occupation. It was a game. “When you going to get a real job, Ken?” was a mantra heard at most Doolittle family gatherings. Since he obviously could never provide them an answer they would accept, he’d stopped gathering. And since losing the companionship of Ronnie’s side of the family in the divorce…

  Is it any wonder I seek companionship elsewhere? A man’s got to have people.

  Such as they were.

  To wrap things up, Davey’s brother led them in a rousing rendition of “Roll Out the Barrel.” He even got the preacher to join in. Davey would have loved it.

  There was no graveside service as Davey’s remains had been cremated and tossed onto a mountain lake he particularly loved. Ken was sorry for that, only because he hated to lose Ronnie’s company so soon.

  As they made their way down the pew toward the center aisle, Ken spotted a couple of Ronnie’s cousins. There were back slaps and a couple “How you been?” questions.

  How had he been?

  Fair to partly cloudy. Chance of rain 90 percent.

  He didn’t have much sun in his life anymore.

  Out on the front steps, the skies had clouded up. How appropriate.

  “Well then,” Ronnie said, buttoning her coat. “I really appreciate you coming with me, Ken. It meant a lot to the whole family. They were glad to see you.”

  “I was glad to see them too.” He took her arm, steadying her as she went down the steps in her heels. “And being in your company wasn’t half bad either.”

  She stopped at the bottom. “Care for an encore?”

  “Who else died?”

  Her laugh made the sun shine. “No one, thank God. But I do need an escort for a fund-raiser tomorrow.”

  “Where they’ll ask me for money?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  A funeral and a fund-raiser. Two of his least favorite events. “I don’t know, Ron. I’m not in a generous mood right now.”

  She slipped her hand around his elbow. “What if I tell you to leave your checkbook at home? What if your sole purpose is to be my companion?”

  “Well then.”

  “It’s a dinner. Food?”

  “Bland chicken and a side salad?”

  “Probably.”

  He sighed. “I’ve always been a sucker for bland chicken and a side salad.”

  She kissed his cheek.

  ***

  Abigail was flying high.

  Power was the culprit. She was the jury foreman. Yee-ha and take a bow. She’d been chosen above a fireman, a golf pro, a computer wiz, a teacher, and a socialite. The old lady had been chosen above all others.

  Not that she’d ever expected to be foreman. It hadn’t been a part she’d tried out for. But wasn’t that the way? One of her best parts had come about in just such a manner. At age thirty she’d gone into a production of Fiddler on the Roof hoping to be cast as the eldest daughter but had ended up playing the mother, Golde. Sure, they’d had to make her look older, but having scene after scene opposite the lead, Tevye? The mother had much better songs too. She’d wowed them with “Sunrise, Sunset” and “Sabbath Prayer.”

  She hoped the success she’d had with the jury might be carried over to the call-backs of Annie. Last night the director had recognized her and asked her to try out for one of the leads. Why not? Such moments of serendipity could not be ignored or thrown away.

  Hayley sat in the car, biting her nails. Abigail reached across and moved her hands away from her mouth. “Stop that. You’ll be fine.”

  “I’m nervous. I can’t help it.”

  Abigail leaned a bit toward the middle of the car and lowered her voice. “So am I.”

  “Really?”

  It wasn’t true, but if it helped the girl... “Nerves aren’t necessarily a bad thing. Here’s a trick.” She held out her right hand. “Dig your fingernail into your thumb until it hurts. Come on. Do it.”

  Hayley complied. “Ouch!”

  “See? It’s hard to be nervous when your thumb hurts.”

  Hayley rolled her eyes. “That’s dumb.”

  “Hey, it works.”

  Whatever works. That motto had gotten Abigail through more than her share of tough spots.

  ***

  I could lose this part.

  During the last three minutes, witnessing Margaret Timmons run through her call-back for the part of Miss Hannigan, Abigail lost all cockiness. The woman was good. And her look was physically a better match for the part than Abigail.

  Bummer.

  Not that Abigail hadn’t done her best. She’d wowed them and had garnered effusive gushing from the director. “Wonderful, Ms. Buchanan. As expected. Thank you for gracing us with your presence.”

  But now, all praise aside, it looked like she could lose the part.

  Wouldn’t that be a downer.

  Margaret Timmons finished, and the director said, “Very nice, Margaret.”

  According to the old praise-o-meter, Abigail won, hands down.

  But there was still that nagging doubt, and fear of humiliation. To lose a part in a volunteer production to an amateur?

  Luckily Hayley had done well, and though Abigail wouldn’t want to bet on her own chances, in her eyes, the child had clearly beaten Kathy Button. Shmooshed her under her heel.

  The director stood and stretched. “Well, that’s it, people. We’ll make the decisions by tomorrow and will call with the news. Thanks for all your hard work.”

  Hayley bopped up beside Abigail. “I did good, didn’t I?”

  “You did great. How about some ice cream?”

  A double dip of rocky road had always been Abigail’s celebratory choice.

  ***

  After a long bath, and downing the remains of a bag of Oreos she found in Sig’s bedside stand, Deidre went to bed, playing out the part of not feeling well for the second evening in a row. But sleep eluded her as her thoughts kept returning to the trial. Although she’d voted guilty she knew the girl was innocent. And though it was imperative Patti was found guilty, Deidre found her thoughts drifting to another what-if. What if Patti was found innocent? Then what?

  Then you could lose everything.

  Her eyes opened and fell upon Sig’s empty place beside her. The vacancy only fueled the thought.

  She needed Sig. Sig had saved her from poverty and widowhood. Sig had saved Nelly from a handicapped life. Sig had saved Karla from living in a dive after the Polland home became too much for her.

  Sig had saved the three of them, as he continued to save children around the world. Sig was a good man. Even if he made mistakes, he was good.

  She couldn’t lose him and this life he’d given her. Given Nelly. Given Karla.

  She’d worked hard to win him over. If she wasn’t completely happy? If she had to deal with a few infidelities on his part? It was a small price to pay for security.

  Sig was a man of passion. Deidre had seen that, and used that.

  It hadn’t been a seduction of just the physical that Deidre had employed when she and Sig first started dating. She’d spotted a need in him to help the helpless. And who was more helpless than a struggling widow with a handicapped child? Sig’s ego ached with the need to help. Was it wrong that she’d fed that need? Sure, she’d lured him into marriage with the ulterior motive of gaining health for her child, obtaining financial stability for all the Polland women, and becoming one of the beautiful people. They’d fed one another. What was wrong with that?

  She pressed her pillow into her face, hiding from her own evil nature. What kind of woman was she anyway?

 
A practical one. One who would do whatever it took to survive and take care of her child. Sig was the second man who had saved her.

  Would he be the last?

  Toward that end she sat up, retrieved a pad of paper and pen from the bedside table, and listed the names of the jurors and their votes. It was mean to keep Sig in the dark. Maybe this would appease him.

  She put it on his pillow and lay back down just as she heard him in the hall. It was after ten. He was coming to bed.

  Sit up. Open your arms to him. Make up for all your horrible thoughts.

  But instead of doing what she should have done, Deidre closed her eyes and pretended to be asleep.

  It was easier than pretending to be a good person.

  ***

  Deidre still couldn’t sleep. She slipped downstairs and put a mug of water in the microwave. Maybe some chamomile would calm her.

  As the microwave dinged, she spotted Karla on the edge of the kitchen. “You scared me!” Deidre whispered.

  “I thought I heard someone up. You still feeling badly?”

  “I’m fine. Or I will be fine. I’m making tea.” Normally she would ask Karla if she wanted some, but she didn’t want to encourage her to stay. “You can go back to bed now. I’m fine.”

  “Care if I join you?”

  Deidre could not suffer another private moment with Karla. She didn’t want to be told once again that they’d mishandled Nelly’s situation with the bully. “Actually, I think I’ll go back to bed. I don’t feel much like tea after all.” She handed Karla her mug of hot water. “Here, use—”

  Karla put her hand on Deidre’s. “Please tell me what’s wrong. Yesterday, that whole thing with the bully? You’re a loving mother, but up until now I thought you were also a mother who disciplined when it was appropriate in order to teach the proper life lesson for Nelly’s own good.”

  “I don’t want to talk about that anymore, Karla. It’s over. Do you understand?”

  Karla neither shook her head nor nodded. “It’s Patti, isn’t it?”

  Deidre didn’t know what to say.

  Karla continued. “I’ve been thinking about her. Patti was pregnant by Brett. She wanted him to marry her.”

  “I don’t want to discuss Nelly’s upbringing or the trial, Karla.”

  “This isn’t about the trial. It’s about having a child out of wedlock. About having the father of the baby refuse to take responsibility for the child.”

  Deidre glanced toward the stairs. Sig and Nelly were in bed but she lowered her voice just the same. “Don made a much better father than Nelly’s biological father ever would have made. Don was her father in every sense but one. I was lucky Nelly’s father didn’t want anything to do with us. Patti is lucky Brett didn’t want to marry her. He wasn’t an honorable man. He didn’t care about women. He only cared about using them, abusing them, hurting them—”

  Deidre realized she’d said too much.

  “You did date him, didn’t you?”

  Uh-oh. “Karla, please.”

  “You know so much about him, it sounds like you were personally hurt by him.”

  The truth burst out, unexpected. “He raped me, all right? Will that little fact finally get you to stop asking questions?”

  Karla sucked in a breath. “Oh, Dee-Dee.” She came close, her arms ready to comfort.

  Deidre sidled away. “I don’t need pity. I just want you to leave all this alone. Yes, I dated Brett. Yes, he raped me. Date rape is the correct term these days, though Brett certainly didn’t see anything wrong with it. I never had anything to do with him after that. Ever. Even when—Good riddance.”

  Suddenly, Karla’s face changed from disgust to revelation. “Oh, my goodness…oh, dear…is...is Nelly his?”

  Deidre turned on her, her finger pointing. “She is Don’s. She is your son’s daughter.”

  “But she was ten months old when you married Don.”

  Although Deidre whispered the words, she applied as much strength to them as she could. “Nelly is Don’s child. End of story.”

  Hardly.

  Deidre escaped upstairs.

  If only there were a way to escape.

  SEVEN

  Trust in the LORD with all your heart;

  do not depend on your own understanding.

  Seek his will in all you do,

  and he will show you which path to take.

  PROVERBS 3:5-6

  To sleep: perchance to dream.

  Ay, there’s the rub.

  Shakespeare could have been writing about Deidre’s situation. For to sleep meant to dream, and to dream meant being assailed by doubts and fears and lapsed morals and the shame of being a victim and the horror of living in uncertainty and doubt.

  Although Deidre returned to bed after her late-night discussion with Karla, she didn’t sleep. Seeing Sig asleep beside her added to her inner turmoil, twisting sane and logical thoughts into feelings that were stretched, frayed, and distorted.

  After a long hour of private tumult, she returned downstairs, taking solace in the most private room in the house—Sig’s study.

  She loved this room, especially after the sun went down and the deep patina of the oak paneling and the solidity of the floor-to-ceiling bookshelves enhanced the cozy shelter. She was quite content to curl into the tufted leather love seat, tuck a fleece afghan around her toes, and pull it up to her chin. She did so now. And by the glow of a single lamp, the shadows of the room were nearly as comforting as the light, providing a muted layer to her cocoon. She was not in the mood for hard edges and bright lights. Her conscience would not tolerate the glare.

  Deidre had no idea if Sig knew she occasionally used his study as a late-night retreat, as a place to fold within herself, to find comfort and strength. Somehow this one room, experienced alone in the midst of the darkness outside and the silence within, was a way to recharge and regroup so that she could go on, the capable Deidre Kelly, mother, wife—

  Liar.

  Deceiver.

  Manipulator.

  Like a child, Deidre pulled the afghan over her face, closing her eyes against the truths that haunted and taunted her. She didn’t want to hold any of these titles. But what choice did she have?

  When Brett raped her, she’d felt shocked, hurt, humiliated, and without worth. She’d felt completely and utterly stupid. How could she have been so blind to the kind of man he truly was beneath the charming veneer?

  Yet she’d never had an easy go of it with men. The problem had deep roots. She and her father had never bonded. He’d had more important things to do than care about a scrawny girl. And when Deidre’s mother hadn’t been able to have any more children and her father realized Deidre was it, he’d withdrawn the scrap of love he’d originally offered. Her mother had suffered too, and when he’d moved out, it was more relief than tragedy. To live in a house with someone who didn’t want to be there and didn’t want you to be there created an open wound.

  “He could have loved us. ”

  Deidre hadn’t meant to speak aloud, but the presence of the words beneath the confines of the afghan made her lower it to her shoulders. She took a few breaths, relishing the fresh air. Then she shook her head, dispelling any residual memories of her father. Long ago she’d vowed not to be the sort who made excuses, blaming her behavior on a crummy childhood. My childhood made me do it.

  No sirree, Deidre was responsible for her own life. Yet she did hold Brett accountable for what he’d done to her. No woman deserved to be forced.

  When she’d discovered she was pregnant she’d never considered telling Brett he was going to be a father. Besides, he was long gone. She’d kicked him out of her life and had even threatened to have him arrested. Maybe if she’d pressed charges back then, Brett would still be alive and Patti unaccused.

  Deidre wished she’d considered the pregnancy a blessing, but such a lofty declaration would have been a lie. Her first reaction upon seeing the pregnancy test show its indisputable plus sign was
to scream, “No!” Her next reaction was to throw the test across the bathroom where it bounced off the wall and ended up in a philodendron like a white signpost among the green.

  A signpost reading: Life will never be the same.

  An understatement.

  After the initial shock, Deidre briefly considered abortion. But it just seemed wrong. Life was a miracle, even when it was forced, inconvenient, and didn’t make any sense whatsoever.

  The sense came when Deidre first held Nelly in her arms. This came from me? And in that initial moment of bonding Deidre felt true love for the first time. True love given and true love received. For even though baby Nelly didn’t know she was showing love, she was by the very way she fit into Deidre’s arms, calmed when held against her chest, and eventually smiled at Deidre’s voice.

  Deidre ached with the magnitude of such love.

  Nelly was the reason for everything she’d done ever since, including marrying Don, then marrying Sig.

  It wasn’t that she didn’t—hadn’t—loved these two men who had become fathers to Nelly. But she’d often wondered, if she’d been a woman unencumbered with a child, would she have married them? Would she have been so drawn to them, so adamant about catching them?

  Catching two men who were completely different from each other.

  Don had been a rock, a rough-hewn boulder, occasionally handsome in the eye of the beholder. He’d been unpretentious and genuine, solid in build, strong in heart, and unmoving in character and faith. Since Don’s death from skin cancer (all those sunburns while roofing had finally taken their toll) Karla often said, “God made a good one with my son, didn’t he?”

  To which Deidre always replied, “The best.”

  Neither woman exaggerated. Don was the best man Deidre had ever known. That God had chosen to let him die caused Deidre to ask God why. She’d screamed, “Why?” Whispered it. Sobbed it.

  She had not received an answer and probably never would.

  It was this silence that had made her shove God aside. He obviously didn’t care about Deidre and Nelly, thus leaving Deidre to do the caring for both of them. She was the one who made ends meet to pay the bills, and dealt with the bone-numbing weariness at the end of the day when the walls of their home loomed far too close.