by Mary Daheim
Alison had lingered. “I’ll stay until five just in case.”
I shook my head. “You have to drive home to your parents’ house in Everett. That’s not going to be any picnic. Take off now.”
Alison smiled. “Okay. I’ll clean up and go. Merry Christmas!”
“Such a nice girl,” Vida said softly. “So chipper compared to Ginny when she mopes. If they straighten out the bank mess, maybe Rick will be promoted and Ginny won’t have to work. Marv Petersen doesn’t seem inclined to sell the bank to outsiders. I’m not sure he knows what happened. I hope he’s too addled or the Arizona sun has shriveled his brain so he can’t take in the disaster he left after retiring as president.”
Rick and Ginny Erlandson had been spared the worst of the bank’s recent tragedy. But the Petersen family had been decimated in the past ten years. The last funeral had been held only two weeks ago. I, too, had suffered from what seemed like the Petersen family curse. I’d awoken in the middle of the night at least twice thinking it was happening all over again. I was falling, down, down, down. Then … nothing, just my dark bedroom, with chilly rain splattering the window. And Milo not there to comfort me.
“Drat,” Vida said under her breath. “Dare I call Brenda?”
“Bad idea,” I said. “Whatever it is, it isn’t good.”
“It’s the not knowing that bothers me,” Vida said.
If there was one thing Vida couldn’t tolerate, it was not knowing. “We’ll find out eventually,” I told her. “Are you almost done?”
“One more letter.” She tapped a sheet of stationery. “Pastor Purebeck’s wife, Selena, thinks he’s strayed.”
My jaw dropped. “Your pastor? Did she sign her name?”
“No, but I know her handwriting. Pastor Purebeck is a most virtuous man with a spotless reputation since coming here in 1985.”
“Does she offer proof?”
“Only suspicions. Not being where he said he’d be. Coming home late with flimsy excuses. Remarks by other church members.”
“What will you tell her?”
“To proceed with caution—and trust. Selena insists it started in October. If so, I’d have heard. Of course, I can’t say that in print.”
“Too bad,” I said. “That’d convince me.”
My phone rang, so I left Vida to handle Mrs. Purebeck. I heard Spencer Fleetwood’s mellifluous voice at the other end. “You’re still working,” he said. “I’m halfway to Seattle for the holiday. Did you get the sheriff’s news?”
“What news?” I asked, falling into my chair. “What’s happened?”
“Calm down,” Spence said, amused. “I’ll clarify—the sheriff’s headquarters, not the great love of your life. He and I are not close.”
“You are a real jackass,” I said, sitting up straight. “What is it?”
“Maybe I should hang up. Now you’re mad …”
“Just tell me. I’m busy.”
“There was a prison break in Monroe this afternoon.” He paused for a single beat, just as he did before breaking news on the air. “The escapee is Troy Emory Laskey. Merry Christmas, Emma.”
TWO
I SPENT MOST OF CHRISTMAS EVE ALONE. BEN HAD TO SAY TWO Masses—the children’s Mass at seven and the midnight Mass at nine. The latter ran for almost two hours. My brother couldn’t eat in between because he had to take communion at both liturgies. He’d gone straight to the church and didn’t reach my house until eleven-thirty. Not having eaten since grabbing a pastry at the airport, he was in a grumpy mood and expected to be fed upon his arrival.
“You never gave me details,” I yelped at him while he searched the fridge for edibles. “You didn’t call me until almost eight.”
“I didn’t have time,” he shot back. “I thought you’d have dinner ready when I got here.”
“Why would I make a big dinner at this hour? It’s three a.m. in your time zone. I thought you’d be dead on your feet by now.”
“The trip up here sucked scissors. Drivers go fast, go slow, can’t make up their frigging minds. They leave their brains in the garage.”
“You are one uncharitable priest,” I said, trying to push Ben out of the way. “I’ll make scrambled eggs and ham. Sit down and shut up.”
Ben gave in, falling into a chair. “It’s been a long day.”
“I know. Fasting was never your strong suit. How many eggs?”
“Three.” He sighed. “It’s a good thing I only have a ten o’clock tomorrow. I assume you’ll be there.”
“Maybe.” I put a ham slice on to cook. “How long’s your homily?”
“Six minutes.” He stretched and yawned. “Not my strong suit.”
“I can endure that,” I said, breaking eggs into a bowl. “Den keeps his short, too. Neither of you exactly electrify your listeners.”
Ben yawned again. “It’s a dirty job, but someone’s got to do it.”
“You two have other gifts. He’s a good manager and down-to-earth. Parishioners love him—once they got over realizing he was black.”
Ben nodded. “Den can’t change that. He’s a fair theologian, too.”
“Say,” I said, flipping the ham, “can you say a special prayer for Mitch and Brenda Laskey? Their son escaped from Monroe today.”
“The town off Highway 522? What’s wrong with Monroe?”
I realized Ben still didn’t know all the local references. “The state correctional facility that used to be known as the reformatory,” I explained. “That’s why the Laskeys moved here from Royal Oak, outside of Detroit. Or so we’ve gathered. They’re Jewish, but …” I shrugged.
“What the hell. Sure, I can do that. You got a beer in the fridge?”
Ben’s lack of curiosity about Troy Laskey indicated he was really tired or had seen so many slices of life on the raw that nothing surprised him. The eggs sizzled, the toast popped up, and I got Ben a bottle of beer.
“Glass?” I inquired.
He shook his head. I dished up his meal. He wouldn’t eat again until after the ten o’clock Mass. I sat down, but neither of us spoke for a few minutes. It was a comfortable silence. It could’ve been forty years ago and we were sitting in our parents’ kitchen.
“What are you smiling about?” he asked.
“Us—as kids. Our folks.” I leaned closer. “Except for being tired of city life, are you content with who you are and the choices you’ve made?”
Ben was unfazed by my random question. “Yeah, for the most part. I’m okay with it.” He ate some toast, chewing and swallowing before speaking again. “And you?”
“I’m getting there.”
The brown eyes so like my own gazed back at me. “Don’t tell me now. If you run off with Crazy Eights Neville, I’m too tired to care.”
“I didn’t intend to,” I said. “And it’s Crazy Eights Neffel.”
“Emma Neffel,” Ben murmured. “Emenefel.” He shook his head. “Why am I thinking ‘Heffalump’?”
I laughed. “Because when we were little, Mom couldn’t read that part in Winnie-the-Pooh without literally wetting her pants.”
Ben laughed, too. “She’d start giggling, try to go on, giggle some more and fall apart. I didn’t know what happened to that Heffalump until I learned to read.”
We spent the rest of his brief visit talking about our favorite childhood books. I mentioned Heidi and Heidi Grows Up; Ben confessed that he’d reread his own favorite, the classic Robin Hood, only a year ago. He left for the rectory shortly before one o’clock. I told him I’d see him in church.
Spence’s stand-in—a woman named Rebecca—gave the local news Christmas morning. She reported that Troy Emory Laskey had escaped from Monroe the previous day and was still at large. Law enforcement agencies in SnoCo, SkyCo, and KingCo were searching for him. There was no mention of his parents living in the area. I considered asking Kip to post the update on our site, but decided against it. I didn’t want to bother Kip on Christmas, nor did I want to add to the Laskeys’ misery.<
br />
Before going to Mass, I checked to see if Adam had emailed me. Nothing. I left early for church. I wanted to ask Ben if he’d received a text from Adam. While putting on his red liturgical vestments, he told me he hadn’t. I went into the sanctuary to find a seat close to the altar—and far from Ed and Shirley Bronsky. I needn’t have bothered—my former ad manager and his brood weren’t in attendance. Ben told me later that they’d been at the evening service.
“Fat and fulsome as ever,” he said upon arriving at my house around noon. “Are Ed and Shirley really living in a shallot on the river?”
“Oh, good Lord! He probably meant ‘chalet.’ It’s a decent house, if cramped. I don’t know why their older kids haven’t moved out. They’re as lazy and unmotivated as Ed. The villa formerly known as Casa de Bronska before Ed blew all his money is opening soon as a rehab center.”
“For Ed?”
“Too late for that.”
We were in the living room. I’d put the turkey in the oven before he arrived. Neither of us had heard from Adam. I was getting nervous.
“You did text him, didn’t you?” I asked Ben.
“Twice. No response could mean he’s airborne.”
“If he is, I wish he’d let us know.”
“Give him a break,” Ben said, lounging in the armchair across from the sofa where I was sitting. “You’ve never been up there to St. Mary’s to see what it’s like, and I can only tell from what he says and the pictures he sends. Adam has to get out by bush plane to Nome, then fly to Anchorage and on to Sea-Tac. That’s a long haul. Throw in lousy weather and the holiday, and he’ll be lucky if he gets here tomorrow.”
“But once he gets to Nome, he could call me or text you.”
Ben smirked. “He could text you if you weren’t such a dolt. I’ll bet he’s still stuck in St. Mary’s. The presents and the leftovers can wait.” He glanced at the dozen pretty packages under the tree. “Let’s make drinks. Then you can tell me about your journey to self-discovery.”
“Oh …” I dreaded this moment, but I had to face it. “Let’s see how many drinks I need before I can talk about it.”
Ben grimaced. “It sounds worse than I thought.”
“It is and it isn’t.” I went into the kitchen. Confronted with the small stash of liquor in an upper cupboard, I stood like a lump. Ben would drink just about anything, including kerosene, so I got down my favorite Canadian whiskey and managed not to spill any liquid or drop the bottle. After adding ice and water, I checked the turkey, taking my time to baste the beast. I decided we needed coasters. I had a set with a Currier & Ives motif in the towel drawer—or so I recalled from seeing them circa 2002.
“What are you doing?” Ben called. “Drinking all the good stuff?”
“I’m coming,” I yelled back, finally giving up. Unless, I thought, they were in the junk drawer …
They were. I emerged from the kitchen. “I was looking for these,” I said, placing a coaster on the table by Ben’s chair. “Nice, huh? I got them from Edna Mae Dalrymple at a Christmas bridge club gift exchange. I never remember to use them. Is that enough ice?”
“Why are you talking so fast?” Ben inquired. “You haven’t offed somebody, have you?”
I scowled. “Not intentionally. But that’s a side issue.”
“Wow. Guess I’ll pretend I’m in the confessional and nod off.”
“I wish,” I muttered, taking my glass over to the sofa.
The phone rang, causing me to slosh my drink on the rug. I set the glass on the coaster and grabbed the receiver. Maybe it was Adam.
“Merry Christmas,” Milo Dodge said, devoid of any kind of cheer. “Whatever you’re doing is more fun than what I’m doing. Some holiday. Everything okay with you?”
I sat down, trying to act unruffled. I hadn’t heard from Milo in almost a week. “Yes,” I replied, “but Adam hasn’t arrived yet. Ben got here last night.”
“Is he there now?” Milo asked, sounding wary.
“Yes.” I glanced at my brother, who was trying to appear disinterested. “We’re having a drink. How are things with you?”
“What you’d expect. Tanya’s coping a little better. At least she only woke up twice last night.”
“And … Tricia?” I inquired, using his former wife’s real first name for once.
Milo uttered a tired laugh. “Mulehide went to the store—if she can find one that’s open. She ran out of orange juice. That’s about all Tanya drinks for some damned reason.”
“How about the rest of the family?” I avoided looking directly at Ben, who’d fetched a magazine from the rack by the fireplace.
“I haven’t had to throttle anybody yet,” Milo said. “Jake the Snake showed up today, making nice with Mulehide. I couldn’t say hello to the bastard without wanting to deck him. I’d like to blame him for screwing up my kids while he was screwing around, but Mulehide should’ve figured if he’d cheated with her while they were both still married, why would the S.O.B. change?” He paused. “Hell, I blame myself, too. If I’d spent more time with the kids, maybe it’d be different. Who knows?”
I certainly didn’t. “Do you think Jake wants back in?”
“I don’t know. Don’t care, either. Hey,” he said, his voice taking on a brighter note, “Sam Heppner called last night to tell me the Laskey kid broke out of Monroe. Anything new on that?”
“Not as of this morning,” I said, aware that Ben was pretending to concentrate on an issue of the National Geographic. “I haven’t talked to Mitch since he took off yesterday in a tizzy. He didn’t even tell us what was wrong.”
“Can’t blame him,” Milo said. “God, what’s wrong with this younger generation? You sure you’re okay? You sound … strange.”
“I am,” I admitted. “Do you know when you’ll be back?”
“Maybe Tuesday. I hope.” He’d lowered his voice. “God, I miss you. If I stay here much longer, I’ll even miss Sam Heppner.”
“I imagine you miss work, too,” I said.
“Not as much as I miss you. Well … you know what I mean.”
“I do.” I did. “I’m the same way.”
“I hear Mulehide. Got to go. Oh, shit, here comes Tanya, tears running like Deception Falls. Shit!” The sheriff clicked off.
Ben waited a moment or two before closing the magazine. “Want me to get a rag to mop up what you spilled on the rug?”
I looked down at the carpet. “No. This rug needs cleaning. I didn’t slop that much anyway.”
Ben nodded absently and took a swig of his drink. “I thought that might be Adam calling,” he remarked.
“I did, too,” I said, fiddling with the lampshade on the end table, hoping my brother wouldn’t notice that it didn’t require my attention.
“Well?”
I shook my head. “Never mind.” I waved at the lighted Christmas tree in front of the living room window. “It’s the wrong day—the wrong time of day—to talk about deep things.” I pointed to the mantel. “Do you remember those little candles from when we were kids?”
Ben turned to look toward the fireplace and chuckled. “Snowman, streetlamp, choirboy, Santa, tree. They came from a gas station, right?”
“Freebies,” I said. “Imagine—coaxing people to buy gas.”
Ben had gotten up to study the candles more closely. “I never took much of Mom and Dad’s stuff. I couldn’t. I’ve always had to travel light.”
“I didn’t take a lot, either,” I said. “All I could do at the time was try to keep from going crazy and stay in college.”
“Yes.” He stood very still, a taller, broader, more stalwart, masculine version of me, staring at the candles. Staring inwardly at memories. Staring into the reality that, in the end, is all we have.
I got up and went out to baste the turkey again.
I was mashing potatoes when Adam called from Nome. Ben answered, but gave me the phone when I rushed into the living room. “Hey, Mom, don’t return my gifts,” my son said befor
e I’d barely said hello. “I’ll see you tomorrow afternoon if I find space in the baggage section.”
I was too elated to ask why he hadn’t contacted me or his uncle until now. “At least you’ll be here. Oh, Adam, I’m so happy! But you’ll have to rent a car. Have you got money?”
“I can roll a couple of Christmas drunks when I get to Sea-Tac,” my son replied, typically sounding more like Ben than his father, Tom. “Or cadge a loan from a hooker working the main drag by the airport.”
“Just don’t take any detours,” I said. “I can’t wait to see you.”
“Good. Then maybe I’ll use your credit card for the car. Got to go—people are lined up for the phones. My cell’s dead.”
Ben regarded my smiling face. “Feeling the Christmas spirit now?”
“Definitely,” I said. “My appetite’s back.”
“Mine never left,” Ben said.
After dinner, we sat in the living room, chatting easily and listening to music. Ben hauled himself out of the armchair just before nine. I assumed he was leaving, but I was wrong. He threw another log on the fire and sat down. “Let’s hear it. Once Adam arrives, you’ll shut down.”
“I want to talk, but I’m not sure you’ll like what you hear.”
“That’s a given,” he said, folding his hands in his lap as if he was about to hear a confession.
And that, of course, is what it was.
It took twenty minutes to relate what had happened in recent weeks and how I felt about it. When I finished, Ben stretched and yawned. “Sluggly,” he began, gazing at the ceiling, “you’re a smart Catholic woman. You know the rules.” He looked like he did at twelve when he told me why a ten-year-old girl couldn’t play baseball with him and the other boys on the vacant lot at the corner. The lot was gone. So was our youth. “Have you been to confession lately?”
“Yes,” I informed him, on the defensive. “I won’t go to St. Mildred’s. Too many people lurk outside the confessional and I’m always afraid they’ll overhear something. Last Saturday I went shopping at the Everett Mall, so afterwards I drove over to St. Mary Magdalen’s.”
“St. Mary Magdalen sounds about right, given what you told your confessor,” Ben remarked. “Did he have anything to say?”