Solemnly Swear

by Nancy Moser

  “What are you now?”

  “Great,” Ken said. “More words to haunt me.”

  But instead of putting the trophy away, he took it with him to the leather chair. He settled in, balancing it on the chair’s arm. The trophy stared at him, reminded him of what he’d been. Once.

  I played the circuit, I was somebody.

  Kind of. Sort of. He’d given it a shot. Such as it was.

  “And since then, I’ve pretended.”

  It was unfortunate there was no one there to argue with him.

  He hugged the trophy to his chest.

  TEN

  The Lord will work out

  his plans for my life—

  for your faithful love, O LORD,

  endures forever. Don’t abandon me,

  for you made me.

  PSALM 138:8

  Deidre awakened with a start. She held her breath a moment, uncertain what had pulled her from sleep.

  It was 3:15 a.m. The house was quiet. There were no sirens outside, no bumps in the night. Then why?

  She turned over and saw that the bed was empty. Where was Sig?

  The bathroom was dark, the door open.

  Deidre got out of bed and tiptoed into the hall. She found herself barely breathing, her ears perked to catch any foreign sound. She passed Nelly’s room, then the guest room, and paused at the top of the stairs. The foyer loomed below, the moonlight casting shadows of the mullions from the door’s sidelights on the marble floor. The faint whirr of the refrigerator and the resonant tick-tock of the grandfather clock in the living room prevented the silence from gaining true victory.

  The only logical place Sig would be was his study, so she went downstairs to check. He wasn’t there.

  Had he left the house?

  His keys were on the kitchen desk.

  She moved toward the door to the finished basement but couldn’t imagine Sig being down there in Karla’s domain.

  The basement was dark. She shut its door with a soft click.

  This was ridiculous. She didn’t know whether to be scared or angry. He had to be somewhere.

  Deidre made another pass through every room on the first floor, flipping on lights, leaving no shadow undisturbed. Then she went upstairs and did the same to the guest room. Pristine and untouched.

  Next, to Nelly’s room.

  She quietly opened the door but did not flip on the light. It took a moment for her eyes to adjust, but then she saw Nelly asleep in bed, undisturbed by her mother’s roaming.

  Deidre was just about to close the door when she heard a soft “Hi.”

  She looked to the far corner, where a white wicker rocker held court among Nelly’s stuffed animal kingdom. Deidre blinked. Sig?

  She moved closer and found him clutching a pink rabbit to his chest—Rory the rabbit, Nelly’s favorite, the first present Sig had ever bought for her. She leaned close so as not to disturb their daughter. “What are you doing?”

  Sig glanced at Nelly wistfully. “I had to be with her. See her.”

  “Why?”

  Suddenly, shaking his head, he put his hand over his eyes. Was he crying?

  There was movement in the bed as Nelly stirred. She sat up and blinked at her parents, rubbing her eyes. “What’s going on?”

  That’s what I want to know.

  Sig went to the side of the bed, shushing her. “It’s nothing. Go back to sleep.”

  But Nelly wasn’t so easily appeased. She turned on her bedside lamp, changing the grays of the room to their full pink. She pointed at her clock. “It’s the middle of the night. Why are both of you in my room? Did somebody die?”

  Sig sat on the edge of the bed. “Actually ...”

  What was he doing? Certainly he wouldn’t tell. There was no reason to tell.

  “I’ve done something.”

  Deidre rushed to him and put a hand on his shoulder, trying to turn him away from their daughter. “Sig. No. Think. You don’t have to tell her.”

  “Tell me what?” Nelly asked.

  Deidre regretted her choice of words. She took Sig’s hand and tried to pull him to standing, but he wouldn’t budge. “Let’s you and I go downstairs so Nelly can get back to sleep.”

  “No way.” Nelly pulled her pillow into her lap. “I am not going back to sleep. Not until you tell me what you’re talking about. Does this have to do with why you’ve both been acting so weird?”

  Deidre couldn’t believe this was happening. She walked to the door, swinging it wide. “I’m leaving. I’m not going to be a part of hurting her and causing her worry when she doesn’t need to know any of it. It’s over, Sig. Let it be.”

  “I can’t,” he said softly.

  She returned to the bedside, hating that she couldn’t leave and let this play out without her. Deidre knelt beside her husband, trying to draw his attention away from Nelly. “Sig,” she said quietly, “you know decisions made in the middle of the night aren’t usually wise. Logic is always cockeyed, skewed, and warped in the dark. Emotions rule. Not now, Sig. Besides, we need to talk first.”

  He took her hands and looked at her with the eyes of someone with extreme knowledge or peace or some other emotion she couldn’t name.

  Sig stood and faced them both: faced their daughter, sitting up in her bed, confused yet waiting for answers, and faced his wife, kneeling on the floor beside the bed, desperate yet hoping for silence.

  “I killed a man, Nelly. I’m going to the authorities and tell them so.”

  Deidre jumped to her feet. “Sig, no!”

  “I have to. I can’t let Patti take the blame for something I did “

  Nelly looked up at them. “Patti? That lady in the trial?”

  Sig nodded. “She’s not guilty. I am.”

  Nelly shook her head. “That doesn’t make sense. No, Daddy. You can’t be guilty of something like that. You can’t.”

  “I hit the man who died with a bottle. Remember how you felt before you hit Damon with the soccer ball? I felt that way too, felt backed into a corner with no way out. But I didn’t just give him a broken nose. I hurt him bad.” Sig took a fresh breath. “Then, instead of helping the man, I ran away. That other lady, Patti, she found him. But I’m the one who hurt him.”

  Nelly stumbled off the bed. She started crying and pulled at the Kansas City Chiefs T-shirt Sig often wore to bed. “Daddy, no. You told me that sometimes people are forced to do something they normally wouldn’t do.”

  “That’s true, but it doesn’t make it right. What Nana said was correct: violence is never right.”

  “But you said people get one mistake like that per person, per lifetime. This is your one mistake.”

  “Hopefully that’s true. But that doesn’t mean I shouldn’t be punished for it.”

  Nelly slumped onto the bed. “I wish you could take it back.”

  “So do I,” Sig said. “But because I did it I have to tell.”

  Talk about a bad dream. Deidre raised a hand to make a point. “So all my hard work on the jury, working for the guilty verdict, was for nothing? And what about the foundation? You’re willing to throw away years and years of hard work to ease your conscience?”

  “What kind of conscience would I be exhibiting if I didn’t come forward? What kind of man could let another person take the blame that was his?” He sat beside Nelly and pulled her head to his chest. “I am not that kind of man.”

  Deidre hated seeing Nelly’s face contort with pain and confusion.

  Suddenly Nelly sat erect. “You said he was a bully. What was he doing to you? Why did you hit him?”

  Sig looked at Deidre and she could tell he was searching for the right words. “Do you know what blackmail is?”

  “Sure, it’s...no, I guess not.”

  “It’s when someone knows something that will hurt you, and they want money to stay quiet. It’s like Damon tried to do with you—he was going to say you cheated unless you paid him.”

  “But I didn’t cheat. It was a lie.�
��

  Sig nodded. “And what Brett was going to say about me was a lie too. But to make things worse, I couldn’t tell the truth about it because that would uncover another lie that I told years ago.” He swallowed. “Lies beget lies, Nelly. That’s a truth no one can ignore.”

  “Brett Lerner was a horrible man,” Deidre said. “All he cared about was power, money, and hurting people, making them squirm. Your father was defending his honor and his work.”

  “I was just as horrible as Brett was in that I got mad and frustrated and hit him over the head.”

  “But what was he going to say about you?” Nelly asked.

  Sig looked down at the stuffed bunny in his hand as if just then realizing it was there. He handed it to his daughter. “Brett said I was having affairs with other women, being unfaithful to your mother.”

  “You weren’t, were you?”

  “I wasn’t. But the woman he’d seen me with was a friend of mine, a former patient who would be very hurt if people thought she was that kind of woman. I didn’t want her to be hurt.”

  “And the foundation. The foundation would have been hurt too,” Deidre added.

  Sig sighed. “The foundation too. But that doesn’t justify me hitting him, and leaving without helping him. Maybe that was worse. To see someone in pain, who needs help, and not help them? I condemn myself for that as much as anything.” He took Nelly’s hand in his. “That’s another reason why I can’t let Patti take the blame. She needs my help. I can’t make the same mistake twice.”

  “But what about me, Daddy?”

  “I’m doing this for you. To show you what kind of man I really am.”

  Which made Deidre question what kind of woman she really was.

  “The award last night was the tipping point. Humanitarian of the Year. How can I accept such an award when I took a life?” Sig said.

  “But you’ve saved dozens of lives. Hundreds. Doesn’t that count for anything?” Deidre said.

  “It means I need to hold myself to a higher standard. If I pretend to be a man of honor, I must be a man of honor.”

  “This is madness.”

  “This is right.” He kissed the top of Nelly’s head. “I’m going to get dressed now and go to the hospital to check on my patients. After that I’m going to the foundation office to clear up a few things. Then I’ll go to the police.”

  “But it’s not even light,” Nelly said.

  “I can’t wait. I have to start the process now.”

  Deidre’s thoughts stalled. All that had happened, all he had said. All you should have said. “If you think we’re going with you, we’re not. I can’t support this.”

  He came close and cupped Deidre’s cheek in his hand. “I’m going alone. I created this problem and I will finish it.”

  Once Sig left the room, Deidre nestled her cheek into Nelly’s hair and rocked her. “Shh, shh. It’ll be all right.”

  She was glad Nelly didn’t ask how.

  ***

  Abigail opened her eyes from sleep. It only took her a moment to remember what had happened the night before: she’d given away a lead in Annie.

  She waited for the regret and what-have-I-done? panic to take hold.

  Nothing.

  Perhaps she wasn’t awake enough.

  She sat up in bed and, for good measure, swung her feet over the side until they touched the cold floor.

  Nothing.

  This wasn’t right. She should feel horrible. She should have awakened with an intense need to call Tony Novotny and take it all back.

  With a surge of rebellion, Abigail whipped off the covers and went into the kitchen. She put some water on for tea—making as much noise as possible. She put an English muffin in the toaster and got out the Nutella, planning to spread it like a thick quilt.

  But once she’d accomplished all these things, once she was forced to wait in the silence for the tea and the muffin, she was confronted yet again with feeling…good.

  As an actress she was a pro at tapping into emotion at will, or if not tapping into it, at least feigning real emotion with something applied. Yet try as she might, she could not conjure up disappointment, sorrow, distress, doubt, or even anger. In spite of her effort and skill, the emotions that had first greeted her upon waking accosted her now: satisfaction, acceptance, peace, and even relief.

  There was a knock on her door. At first she was peeved. Who would come calling so early? But then she saw it was after eight o’clock. Obviously she hadn’t spent the night tossing and turning.

  It was Hayley. The girl stormed in, dressed for school. “How come you quit? Tell me!”

  Oddly, Abigail did not feel her defenses rise. The toaster popped up and she strolled to the counter. “Want a muffin?”

  “No, I don’t want a muffin. I want to know why you gave up the best part in the whole play.”

  Abigail plucked the muffin out of the toaster and quickly dropped it to a plate. “The part wasn’t me.” She dipped a knife deep in the luscious Nutella.

  “It was you. It was perfect for you. You played it before.”

  Abigail gave Hayley a look. “It was me, thirty years ago.”

  Hayley made a face, then plopped in the beanbag. “You could have done it.”

  Abigail licked her finger, poured some tea, then took her breakfast to the couch. “How did Margaret do?”

  “Fine.” Hayley sighed dramatically. “But she’s not you.”

  Abigail smiled. “There’s only one of those.”

  “I don’t get it. I thought you wanted to be in the play.”

  “I did.”

  “With me.”

  “You were the main draw, girlie.”

  “Then why?”

  Abigail put her plate on the coffee table, trying to find words that originated within herself, not on the page of a play. “I think I’ve been holding on to a part that no longer exists.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  She looked at the walls that were covered with playbills and photos of Abigail Buchanan, playing parts. They were the highlights of her life, lovely times, and they elicited warm memories. But they weren’t a part of the here and now. “It’s time to move on and just be me.” Whoever that is.

  “No more plays or movies or TV or anything?”

  It’s not like they’re beating down the doors. “I won’t say never. But I don’t want to pursue it anymore. I don’t want to push.” A new word appeared, one she’d never thought she would say. “It’s time to retire.”

  “You said you’d never retire. You said they’d have to scrape your dead body off the stage. You said—”

  Abigail raised a hand. “I think it’s better to go out before things get messy. Don’t you?”

  Hayley shrugged. “So what are you going to do?”

  Good question. “I don’t know.” She put a hand to her chest. “But I think it’s going to be kind of exciting figuring that out.”

  With a sigh, Hayley gave in. Then she looked toward the kitchen. “Do you have apricot jam?”

  “Help yourself.”

  ***

  Bobby drove to work, totally unsure about what he had to do or how to do it. Yet the image of being able to go home and tell Becky, “I quit my job at Burger Madness,” spurred him forward.

  He knew what she’d do. She’d squeal and wrap her arms around his neck and kiss him and say, “I’m so happy for you!”

  And she’d mean it.

  His own happiness would follow. He hoped.

  But it was more than happiness he was after. Ever since Cass had come back into his life, he’d done a lot of thinking about his past and how things had played out. Up until now he’d tried to ignore all that because it was painful and because it didn’t play into the life he wanted to live. Yet like Becky had said, until he accepted his past as an essential part of who he was now he wouldn’t play any part well. He’d only skim the surface.

  ***

  Patti McCoy had said, “I am who I am.” That wa
s true. But Bobby hadn’t figured out who he actually was. Now. At this point in his life.

  Was he a burger jerk? A popcorn pusher? Or a taxi driver? Those weren’t bad things, but they didn’t define who he was, nor did they seem to be a part of what he was supposed to be.

  He was supposed to be a good husband and father. And to do that, he needed to fulfill his potential in all aspects of his life, even the aspect that included his art.

  Use it or lose it. To do less was an insult to the One who’d given him the gift.

  He walked into Burger Madness and spotted his boss at the fryer. Bobby’s stomach flipped with the burgers.

  But that was part of it too. If fulfilling one’s destiny didn’t cause a few nerves, what would?

  Bobby stepped forward and changed his life.

  ***

  With the dawn of morning, with a house devoid of Sig, with her daughter exhausted from worry, panic set in.

  Deidre wandered the house, seeing things she’d seen a thousand times as if they were new: the picture of Venetian gondolas they’d bought on their honeymoon which hung above the fireplace in the family room. The Windsor clock that had been in Don’s family for three generations, but that was perpetually ten minutes slow, on the desk in the kitchen. The photograph of their wedding, three years previous, with a nine-year-old Nelly, dressed in the palest pink “princess dress,” standing proudly between them. And Sig’s brown leather jacket hanging on a peg near the garage, ready for a weekend errand.

  She took it now and held it to her face. The musky smell of the leather was intermixed with the distinct smell of her husband.

  Who would not be back to wear it.

  He was probably still at the hospital, making his rounds. What was he telling his young patients? “I won’t be your doctor anymore. I’m going to jail”

  It was absurd.

  It was going to happen.

  Deidre continued wandering through the trappings of the life she’d created and crafted. Nabbed and grabbed, according to her needs.

  Suddenly she did a three-sixty. Would they lose the house? Deidre didn’t have a job. Sig’s income would be cut off.