Fran Keighley

by The Next Heir (lit)

  "Chemistry," I said vaguely.

  "Oh, come on now! I know you like your independence, but you can't tell me you're indifferent to men. I've known you too long to buy that. We've been best friends too many years, confided in each other too much! And Frank's so much like Tony."

  "In all the wrong ways." My tone was wry. "I might be more interested in him if he wasn't. It's like he - oh, like he's a caricature of Tony. It's as if he's parodying Tony, disrespecting Tony's memory. I didn't see it, in the beginning - just the resemblance. But when I did - oh, it's hard to explain. I don't mean that Frank does it deliberately, but - chemistry. Just say chemistry. It's simply wrong between us. Where I'm concerned, at least..."

  That described it as well as anything. Why else would I love one man and not his very similar brother? I liked my independent life, yes - but not to the extent I would definitely rule out remarriage, if the right man came along.

  "If you say so." But she still looked unconvinced. And until thoroughly convinced...

  "I do say so. Frank is definitely not the right man for me, and why on earth he's so positive I'm the right woman for him..." I shook my head despairingly. "He wants a traditional Italian- type wife, who'll stay home, cook and keep house, and have babies."

  "Well, that should be easy enough to find in Pittsville!" Barbara's amusement bubbled over. Almost everyone in town had some Italian ancestry. Immigrants had streamed over from Elba and the Bay Of Naples and Sicily in the 1890s and 1900s to build the railway and work in the coalmines. "Oh, we're a lot more liberated than our grandmothers, even mothers, but all the same, marriage and children and making a good home still does have top priority for most women." She cocked her head, studying me. "It did for you, too, as I remember."

  I was no longer among their number, somehow. When had I ceased to be? "Oh, sure - earlier in my life I did want to have children. I really regretted that we never managed to have any, but no - well, maybe technically I'm still able, but I don't feel the least desire for motherhood. Not at my age! The same applies to spending hours in a kitchen, simmering sauces and even making my own pasta the way Mama DiLenzi does. I can satisfy my craving for children and Italian banquets by visiting family and friends."

  "Is that a hint?" Barb grinned. "You know I'll set another place anytime you come over!"

  "It wasn't, but thanks! I'll take you up on that! I'll keep you supplied with fresh vegetables! That damned garden Frank planted out back is not going to lure me back into spending whole days in the kitchen, cooking and canning and freezing!"

  Casting a fulminating glance out the window, I wondered whether I was determined enough to go uproot the seedling tomatoes and peppers along with the weeds. If I did it too soon, Frank would just get more plants and replace them. Or I could just let the plot grow up in weeds and leave the produce unpicked. However, that offended my tidy soul. Anyway, Frank would probably come weed and harvest. Or my own thrifty spirit would weaken. Perhaps I could give away most of the crop, to Barbara and others. And I wouldn't mind having a few fresh vegetables - the flavor was always so much better than store-bought.

  Since she still had that gleam in her eye, I did my best to distract her. "When the right man comes along, I'll get interested - but believe me, he won't be a blurred carbon copy of the man I've already had. Now, if Senator Warren wasn't taken!"

  We laughed together, but for some odd reason the man in my mind's eye was rougher-hewn, with a battered face - but I had no intention of letting a dedicated matchmaker like Barbara know Chief Judd intrigued me. Not yet.

  "Well, I could get plenty interested in Frankie-boy. Who knows - I might persuade him to garden in my yard next year!"

  Frank, when he did arrive, tossed a paperback romance with a lurid cover onto my coffee table. "Here y'are, babe. Can't say I think much of your taste in reading material."

  I made a face at it. "Where on earth did you get that - and what were you doing with it?"

  He grinned tantalizingly. "Out of the box you've got in your back bedroom. You must be crazy about them, really feeling the lack in your own life, to have such a stash."

  At first I couldn't imagine what he was talking about - oh, his prurient meaning was all too clear, but - my books? I didn't have... "Oh, those! Those were donated for the hospital bazaar! Books always go well."

  "Oh, sure. Sure! And you never read them at all!" His jocularity was heavily sarcastic.

  Well, I had looked through the box, and had read some. "Not that line, I don't. You don't mean you did? Why?"

  Frank looked pleased with himself. He would. "TV show I watched told men to find out what their women want."

  "Oh, my God! Did you strike out there!"

  That romance line went for what seemed borderline sadomasochistic behavior, to me - rich middle-aged heroes described as having cruel mouths and nasty tempers, and domineering to the point of brutality. Heroines were invariably timid virgins often still in their teens, beautiful, of course, who submitted and thought themselves in love when any sensible woman would have told the man off and walked out.

  Barbara was no help; she just leaned back in her chair, giggling, until I gave her a nasty look.

  Then, diplomatically, she introduced a new subject. "We were just talking about the town meeting. Frank, didn't you once work for Senator Warren in some capacity? Do you suppose DiLenzi Construction will get any of the building contracts for the resort?"

  Frank was far more interested in that topic than whether I read romances. "The Senator? Sure - and, I should hope! Cris, for God sakes, when old Pitt didn't show up, why didn't you call me? I could've filled in for him."

  "You?" The idea had never crossed my mind - and now that he thrust it in, I still couldn't see any validity for it. "Frank - you aren't a city official, not of any kind!"

  "Not yet." His tone was significant, and he obviously had more than a casual interest in whether Hizzoner had showed up yet. "Old Man Pitt's not much of a mayor, is he? Shouldn't be hard to beat, come the next election."

  "Oh, I don't know - he's well-liked, and people are used to him. He doesn't do such a bad job, actually."

  "You mean you do a good job, for him." Barbara was shrewd. "Everyone knows who does the work."

  I shrugged. I did, but it hardly seemed modest for me to say so.

  "Between the two of us, we'd be an unbeatable combination." Frank spoke bluntly, and when we stared, "I'm strongly considering running for the office myself. What d'you think?"

  "You'd be fantastic!" Barbara loved the idea. "Oh, Frank! You'd be lots better than Old Man Pitt! Go for it!"

  "Well, I'm already putting out feelers. You know - letting it be known that if I were the mayor. What d'you say, Crissie? You could keep your job, if you wanted to - at least till I got the hang of being mayor."

  And then stay home and keep house for him, as his wife, he meant. No, and no. Working for Mayor Frank would be an even worse proposition than working for Hizzoner. Frank would be in the office all the time, bossing me around, and if he never paid any attention to my opinions now, he certainly wouldn't as mayor.

  "That's - worth thinking about," was the best I could say. Could I stay on as secretary to any other mayor, either? Most candidates would have their own staffers, or want the post as a patronage appointment. Yes, it was worth thinking about - where was I going to find a reasonably congenial job elsewhere, once Pitt was out of office.

  "I was talking to the priest," Frank said, and before I could demand why - politics or was he arranging for our wedding without consulting me? - he interrupted himself. "Father Tyszko, that is. What's Father O'Dowd doing, still hanging on? He was getting hard of hearing way back when I first enlisted, and now he's deaf as a post and senile to boot - thought I was Pop. Yet he had a line for Confessions a mile long. Father Tyszko's a damn sight more likable and with it - in every way. I don't get it."

  "Oh, don't you?" Barbara's smile was smug. "Really? That is exactly why. They go to Confession to Father, knowing he can't he
ar what they say and couldn't remember it if he could! Father Tyszko not only does, he gives stiff lectures and penances and then when he meets people he has that little knowing gleam in his eye when he asks them to do things. I don't call it blackmail - not in a priest, but still..."

  After they left - not together, unfortunately - I was restless, wandering about the house. I took the romance novel back to the box in what was supposed to be the spare bedroom. It had evolved into my junk room, with my little-used sewing machine, and a card table where I did crafts and puzzles. Uneasily, I wondered how much the room told Frank about me. This was the room where I could work on messy projects and then close the door, with the rest of the house remaining tidy. How much it told him about my interests. Oh, some things in there were misleading, like all those paperback romances. The stack of jigsaw puzzles, however - I enjoyed figuring out how to make the pieces fit, until the picture emerged. I never worked them a second time, however, so they, too, were headed for the bazaar.

  Jigsaw puzzles. Perhaps that was why Pitt's inexplicable behavior bothered me. I liked for all the pieces to fit, to form an understandable picture.

  Closing the door on the room, I wondered for the first time how much of my house Frank had investigated. I had somehow taken it for granted that he only went into the garage and the kitchen. Well, and the bathroom, if need be. I didn't object to that. But if he had been in the junk room - and he'd have to go clear in and prowl around, to find the box of books, which was not visible from the doorway - he must have done the same thing in my bedroom, too.

  Why did I find that thought so distasteful? Simply the idea of anyone snooping? Had he looked in my closet, in the double-dresser and armoire drawers? Examined my lingerie? Noticed the absence of nightgowns and pajamas, and misconstrued that, as he had that box of romance novels? Had he noticed that I had kept Tony's T-shirt collection? What would he make of that? And if he had the perspicuity to connect that with the absence of feminine sleepwear, what would he make of me sleeping in Tony's T-shirts?

  I had always slept in Tony's T-shirts. It began early in our marriage, when he was away, and this made him seem closer. He used to joke that he didn't know whether he was buying the T's for himself or for me. And since his death - well, I continued. Sentimentality? Habit? I was sensible about it; as they wore out, I used them as cleaning rags, pitched them. But, having them, why change the habit of nearly half my lifetime?

  Frank wouldn't understand. It would reinforce his belief that any widow must be panting to get a man in her bed. Just as that blasted paperback would make him certain that when a woman was indifferent to a man, even disliked him, she was secretly mad about him. The male ego!

  Fuming about Frank left me even more unable to settle to watching television or working on any of my projects. I couldn't sit down; I prowled through the house, unwontedly restless and uneasy. Then I decided that if I was going to walk, I might as well really walk. Shrugging into the windbreaker that hung near the back door, I started out.

  Pittsville was such a safe little town, strolling around after dark held no fears for me, especially since it was still fairly early evening. People didn't bother to draw their window shades; I caught glimpses of them, and knew most of them well enough to guess pretty accurately what they were doing, discussing, watching on TV. I relaxed in the knowledge that if I yelled for help, I would receive it, from friends and cousins - who would, of course, never let me forget the time I'd screamed because of whatever-it-was. They'd be Samaritans, not saints. As for mugging and the street crime so common elsewhere, it simply didn't exist in Pittsville. Well, not in the residential areas, at least. Along the highway and downtown, particularly around the taverns, there was the occasional robbery, fight, or a drunk getting rolled. However, the uneven old brick sidewalks were a hazard in their own right, and by the time I stubbed my toe for a second time, I was ready to rethink walking alone after nightfall.

  The funeral home was just ahead, dimly lit, its tall white columns catching the light and gleaming. No cars were parked around the impressive Georgian brick mansion, which was a sign no visitations were in progress this evening. That was a rarity these days; I only saw Rosa and Quin in passing as they bustled about, softly directing and consoling. So, I turned in and rang the bell.

  Actually, though I - and most people in town - referred to Quinlans as the funeral home, there was a second, Virden's. The homes' clientele were divided almost entirely along religious and social lines: in the founding days of Pittsville, the local elite had been strictly British and Northern European Protestant, and Virden's was the funeral home.

  Quinlans had started as the cheap one for the lower classes and immigrants. The homes, of course, had different names back then; over the course of approximately a century, each had changed ownership and names several times. These days, Quinlans had eclipsed Virden's in popularity for the simple reason that there were so many more of us Catholics in town.

  Virden's still retained some snob appeal, but it was faintly shabby, and even some Protestants preferred Quinlans elegance and new limos. Rosa loved redecorating, and finished major renovations only a few months ago. Expensive ones - I'd seen some of the prices in helping her decide between brocades and moirés and velvets. And I didn't have to read limo window stickers to know they were way beyond my budget. Although Rosa and Quin gave me their usual warm welcome, I had the feeling I had interrupted something. They seemed ever so slightly abstracted, even worried.

  "How's Tim doing? Will he be home for the summer?" I explored; handsome college juniors seemed a likely cause of parental concern. "When last seen, he was car-shopping. Did he find one he liked?"

  Quin's smile was faint. "Oh yes. That compact he bought turned out to be a red Corvette - not new, of course, but..." His look of gloom wasn't necessarily significant. He always looked lugubrious, but I knew what a wicked sense of humor he had. Rosa could be lively company, as well, when off duty. They were two of my favorite people.

  Conceivably, I realized, I interfered with their very private plans for the evening. They didn't have much time alone together, and soon Tim would be back - possibly they'd meant to make the most of tonight, retiring early for a romantic interlude. I must have been widowed too long, to be so slow in thinking of that possibility.

  "Well, I'd better finish my walk." I rose and reached for my jacket.

  Did they seem relieved? At least, they made only polite attempts to persuade me to stay longer.

  Strange, I reflected as I went back home, battling any tendency to feel rejected or miffed. Uninvited company could expect to discover he or she had arrived at an inopportune moment. Look how I felt about Frank taking it for granted he could drop in anytime. Ann Landers' column dealt with drop-ins fairly often. Only in Pittsville, people still did, with family and close friends. Calling first, or waiting for invitations, was considered strange behavior, too stiff.

  Even so - Rosa and Quin hadn't seemed like their usual selves this evening.

  What's more, I realized, they hadn't for - how long had it been? Since I'd only seen them in passing, at visitations and rosaries, at their busiest, I couldn't quite pinpoint it. I didn't feel it was directed at me, that I'd done anything to offend. More as if something was on their minds, nagging at them, distracting them from mere conversation.

  I shook my head dismissively as I reached home. First Pitt pulling now for one of his disappearing stunts, and now this. As if I didn't have enough problems of my own, with Frank set on marrying me regardless how plain I made my lack of interest! I should concentrate upon that, and quit nosing into other folks' business. Except - as a friend, I felt concerned. Why did they act this way?

  So what if Hizzoner went to the city for periodic R R; so what if Rosa and Quin didn't tell me their troubles! We were all adult. They were entitled!

  But I still felt uneasy about it. I was glad to get inside my house, to close and lock the door, and switch on a brighter light. Silly as I knew it was, Pittsville had seemed - dif
ferent - as I returned home. Unfamiliar. I no longer felt it was so safe, that I knew everyone.

  This feeling was scary. I didn't like it. And there wasn't a thing I could do about it. I couldn't make these pieces fit, as I did with the ones in jigsaw puzzles. I just had to wait. Till Rosa confided in me.

  Till Mayor Pitt returned.

  They would. Of course they would.

  "He's still not back?"

  We stood in the city hall parking lot, where the slot marked MAYOR was vacant. I didn't realize until that moment how much I had counted upon seeing Pitt's white Cadillac there. Or how fond I actually was of that old goat.

  "You suppose - something's happened to him?" Anita sounded reluctant to even mention it. Nervously she brushed back a wisp of tawny blonde hair the breeze had flicked out of place. "Has anyone checked his house? I mean - he lives all alone. If he got sick - or hurt - or even - even..." She couldn't bring herself to finish.

  "Don't worry about that." Chief Judd's gravelly growl had never been more reassuring. "I cruised past several times. His garage and drive are both empty. And, I haven't known him that long, but does he ever walk anywhere if he can drive there instead?"

  "Well, no." I debated whether to say what I had in mind, whether it would be gossip or necessary information, and decided to go ahead, regardless, and phrased it carefully. "I wonder, from time to time, if he may have a drinking problem."

  "Oh, no. I'm sure he doesn't. I've seen him from time to time with drinks which are definitely alcoholic."

  Anita's comment wasn't as inconsistent as it sounded. An alcoholic of the type we all knew I suspected Pitt might be was unable to take even one drink without going on and on for hours - even days - until collapsing. So, since we had seen him take a drink or two then stop, and function normally the next day, that was ruled out.

  "It's a little hard to know what's best to do, at a time like this - mount an all-out search for him, or keep it quiet." Judd stood, scowling in ferocious-looking concentration.