I did. When I finished, she said grimly, “It’s not your fault, Mama, and it isn’t Kat’s. Daddy brought this on himself. If he hadn’t cheated in the first place, you’d never have gone over there. And if he hadn’t tried to stab you, he’d still be alive.”
My heart twisted to hear the coldness in her voice when she spoke of her dead father.
“I just wish I could go back and live this day over differently,” I told her.
“You were only trying to help Kat, Mama. That’s all you’ve ever done.”
Now that it was all out, I barely had the breath to speak, totally deflated.
“Do you want me to call Emma and tell her?” Amelia offered.
“I already did. She took it really hard, but was with Bill, thank goodness.” Shame welled up in me afresh. “I didn’t tell her what happened, just that Greg was dead. I told Bill the rest.”
“Let me talk to her,” Amelia said. “She’ll listen to me. And I’ll call Nana, and make sure she doesn’t bug you.”
Mama would probably do a jivin’ devil-dance for joy.
Grateful to have Amelia’s help, I nodded. “Thanks, honey. I really appreciate that.”
“We’ll be there tomorrow,” she said. “But for now, I want you to take a hot bath, yourself, then get some sleep too. Promise you will.”
“I will.” The prospect of oblivion was distinctly appealing. Assuming I didn’t have nightmares about what happened.
As if she’d read my mind, she said, “Take a sleeping pill, so you won’t dream.”
“Okay.”
“I love you, Mama. It’s gonna be okay.”
No it wasn’t. Not for a long, long time. “Call me when you find out about your flights. And don’t all fly together.”
Disaster hung heavy enough over my head. I didn’t want to tempt fate any further.
“Okay,” she said. “Now get some sleep.”
I hung up and took my daughter’s advice. I hadn’t been in bed more than a few minutes before a dark curtain descended, blotting everything out. I slept like the dead till I heard someone at the bedroom door and opened my eyes to see Kat, silhouetted by the strong western sun from the foyer, her tousled hair aflame, and her thin body outlined inside her summer gown.
“Tell me this is all a horrible dream,” she said, her voice hoarse.
I patted the plissé coverlet beside me. “C’mere.”
She came to the far side of the bed and sank down with her bent back to me. “I can’t get it out of my head. I keep reliving it, over and over, wishing it would come out different, but it won’t.”
“What’s done is done, Kat. We can’t change it. But you didn’t do anything wrong.”
She turned to glare at me. “I killed my husband. That’s wrong, any way you slice it. The last time I looked, infidelity wasn’t a capital offense.”
“It was an accident,” I said, the words rote. “You never meant to hurt him.”
“Then why do I feel like a murderer?”
I sat up in alarm. “Don’t say that, Kat, not to anybody. They might get the wrong idea. I know you feel that way, but feelings aren’t facts. There’s a world of difference between murdering somebody and accidentally killing them. You didn’t do anything wrong.”
“But I was so angry,” she said through fresh tears. “I wished he was dead, and then he was, and I did it.”
“Don’t say that. I mean it.” I frowned, at a loss as to how to convince her. “I never should have butted in. If I hadn’t brought you that envelope, none of this would have happened.” My memory suddenly triggered. “It’s just like my dream. We were in your kitchen fighting, the three of us, and then he was dead.”
Kat scowled. “You dreamed about this?”
“God help me, I did, and I was glad he was dead.”
“Don’t say that, not to anybody,” she quoted me. “They might get the wrong idea.”
I flopped back against the pillows, staring at the slow-rotating ceiling fan. “Helluva mess we’ve gotten into, ain’t it?”
Kat reclined. “Damn straight.”
We lay there on opposite sides of the king-sized bed, pressed down by the weight of what had happened. Long seconds passed before she ventured, “How long do you think it’ll be before the police arrest me?”
I bristled, rearing up to say, “They’re not going to arrest you, period. They have no case.”
“I stabbed him in the stomach,” Kat said. “With an eyewitness. That sounds like a case to me.”
“An eyewitness who saw that it was an accident,” I said. “I told them what happened, and the evidence bears it out. Greg’s prints are on the other knife, and he wasn’t holding it like he was going to slice food. He was holding it like a weapon. And all the soup stuff you’d been chopping was there. The evidence bears it out.”
“I sure hope so,” Kat said numbly. “’Cause I cain’t feature goin’ to prison.”
“You are not going to prison,” I fumed. I picked up the TV remote and punched on the Ellen DeGeneres show, wishing some of her lightheartedness could penetrate the darkness that surrounded us. “Here. Stop that foolish talk and watch Ellen. Look. There’s Dennis Quaid. Now, there’s a man who got better looking when he got older.”
Kat ignored the TV. “Are the police still at my house?”
“I don’t know. Let me look.” Groggy, I got up and went to see that everyone had left except a forensic cleaner’s truck.
I returned and flopped into bed. “The police are gone, and the cleaners are there. Zach called them. You can go home as soon as they’re done, if you want.”
“I never want to set foot in that house again,” Kat said.
“Nobody’s going to make you,” I promised. “You can stay here as long as you want.”
“Thanks.” She paused. “You called Little Zach?”
“And Sada. And the girls.” A long sigh escaped me. “Emma took it hardest.”
Kat covered her face with her hands. “Oh, God, Emma. She’s going to hate me for this forever!”
“Not as much as Sada hates me for butting in and causing the whole thing, to start with,” I said dryly.
We lay there in silence with Ellen’s incongruous banter filling the room.
“I wish it was me, dead,” Kat said softly, “instead of Greg.”
Bull hockey. “I don’t. Greg caused this whole thing. Even Amelia said so.”
Kat faltered. “What are we gonna do?”
This wasn’t getting us anywhere.
I stood. “First, we are going to eat a whole half gallon of Breyer’s chocolate. Then we’re getting drunk, then going back to bed. Tomorrow, we’ll go give our statements. With a lawyer.” I realized Little Zach’s friend hadn’t called. “Zach knows one who can help us. We’ll figure out the rest after the kids get here.”
Kat stood, looking more like her old self than she had since the stabbing. “Sounds like a plan to me.”
When the going gets tough, the tough go for carbs.
Over ice cream, we started talking about the funeral, and Kat decided she wanted to have Greg cremated, if that was okay with the girls, which suited me fine, since it was lots cheaper. Under the circumstances, we both agreed that a private funeral would be best. No sense parading our tragedy in front of every curious acquaintance in Sandy Springs.
By the time we went to bed, we were snockered, but the final arrangements were made.
Then the next morning, the sun came up on our day of reckoning.
Twenty-three
The next day was a blur of phone calls and sad but necessary activities. Zach’s lawyer friend, Scott Brown (who, it turned out, specialized in DUIs and domestic cases, not murder), met us outside the police station and accompanied us inside to give our official statements, which were the same as our unofficial statements the day before. Scott’s presence was reassuring, but the fact that our stories didn’t vary only made the detective more suspicious. After he’d grilled us for the third time, Scott rem
inded him that the truth is the truth, then escorted us out.
Once we were outside, he said he’d find someone who could defend Kat if they arrested her. “How much money do you have on hand?” he asked Kat.
“Plenty,” I answered for her. “Greg had gobs of insurance.”
The young lawyer pulled a face, glancing around to make sure nobody overheard me. “I wouldn’t go mentioning that to just anybody,” he said. He looked to Kat. “Do you have any other funds on hand? Because the insurance company isn’t going to pay as long as there’s a chance this might go to trial.”
Kat blanched. “I have about five thousand in my household account, altogether. But that’ll only keep me fer a few months. Greg took care of everything else.”
Scott frowned. “A good trial lawyer’s going to expect more than that on retainer.”
Kat shook her head. “I got an IRA from Zach’s years with the DEA, but I’d only git fifty cents on the dollar, time I paid the penalties.”
“Don’t worry about the money,” I told Kat. “I saved up about thirty thousand over the years. It’s yours if you need it.”
“Betsy, no,” Kat said. “You’ll need that money to live on. With Greg gone, there’s no more alimony. You’re up the creek. I couldn’t take your savings.”
“You’ll take it, and that’s that,” I said, then turned to Scott. “Find her a good trial lawyer. We’ll get the money.”
He nodded, then gave us his cards and left.
Back at my house, we Googled budget funerals and came up with several prospective providers in Atlanta, most of them on the south side of town. Since the service itself was going to be private, at Kat’s church, it didn’t matter where the funeral parlor was.
By the time we made lunch, Sada arrived (needing sixty dollars for her cab), followed shortly by Little Zach.
I greeted them, then melted into the background, letting them console their mother.
Little Zach tried to coax Kat into going home. He’d checked things out on his way in, and the place was spotless, even the soup debris cleared away. But Kat resisted till he said it was his home too, and Greg shouldn’t be able to deprive him and Sada of that.
Shaken, Kat agreed at last to go.
I watched the three of them cross the cul-de-sac. Please, God, take away all the awfulness from that house and fill it with Your peace.
I closed the door with a sigh, then got busy changing beds and getting ready for my girls. When the house was ready, I started cooking enough pot roast and mashed potatoes and pole beans for both our families, plus four apple pies. (If you make one, you might as well make four.)
Emma called at six. “Hey, Mama,” she said, subdued. “Is Kat still there?”
My eyes welled at the sadness in her voice. “Hey, precious girl. Kat’s gone home. Y’all come right over. I’m fixing supper for everybody.”
“Kat too?” she asked, wary.
“Kat too,” I said gently. “Emma precious, I was there. She never meant to hurt your daddy.”
“I …” She faltered. “I’m just not sure I could …”
Why was I taking up for Kat? Emma needed my support, not justifications. “Honey, just come home. Nobody’s going to make you do anything you don’t feel up to, I promise.” I could send food across the street, if necessary.
“Thanks, Mama. I really appreciate it.” Emma sniffled. “See you there.”
Thirty minutes later, I’d just put the pies in the oven when the front door opened and Emma walked in, looking small and fragile as she stood silent next to her tall and steady husband.
Her father’s death had turned her from a girl into a woman, which caught me by surprise.
“Hello, Mrs. Callison,” Bill said.
“Please call me Betsy,” I asked for the umpteenth time, giving him a brief hug.
“Betsy,” he corrected, visibly uncomfortable with the familiarity.
I turned to my daughter. “Hey, sweet girl. You look worn out.” I pulled her to me, and she started crying.
The only comfort I could offer was to hold her and let her cry. There were no words that wouldn’t sound trite or self-serving, so I just let her sob in my arms till she was spent. Meanwhile, Bill disappeared into the living room, leaving us in privacy.
When at last Emma pulled away, I guided her to a chair, then got her some cold water and tissues before going back to my cooking. I knew she’d talk when she was ready.
I didn’t have to wait long.
Emma blew her nose hugely, then asked, “Has Kat said anything about the funeral?”
“She has some ideas, but she wants to do what you and Amelia want.”
Emma looked out over the garden. “I never thought about it, really.” She paused, then asked, “How long will it be before they … before his …”
“Thanks to Big Zach’s connections, they’re going to do the autopsy right away,” I said, “so we can make arrangements.”
“Good.” She stared back out at my flowers and vegetables in the yard.
“What are your feelings about cremation?” I asked her gently.
“Ecologically sound,” Emma said with a maturity I hadn’t seen before.
“I know it makes sense,” I prodded. “But how would you feel about having your father cremated?”
Emma frowned, considering. At length, she answered. “It feels okay. As okay as it can when it’s Daddy we’re talking about.”
She looked down, staring at her hands as if she were seeing them for the first time, and I wondered what she was thinking.
“Kat would like to have a private ceremony at their church,” I said, “if that’s okay with you and Amelia. Under the circumstances, I think it would be easier on us all if we kept things small, don’t you?”
Emma’s chin went up, a defensive spark in her eye. “Daddy really was a Christian, Mama. I know he committed some big sins, but he believed in the cross. He wasn’t just faking it for Kat’s sake. We talked about it.” She turned an anguished expression my way that begged me to agree. “The cross part, not the sins. But nobody’s perfect. He messed up, but he was a believer.”
“Of course,” I soothed with what I hoped was believable conviction. “He’s in heaven, beyond the shortcomings and disappointments of this life, now.” I truly hoped he was, but I wasn’t sure if I felt that way out of nobility of spirit, or guilt because I’d triggered the whole mess.
Emma searched my expression. “Christians have the same choices as unsaved people,” she said as if she was quoting. “And they can make just as many bad choices, but that doesn’t mean they’re going to hell.”
I certainly wasn’t going to argue with her. “Nobody’s perfect, honey.”
“Right. Nobody but Jesus. Not even you.”
That stung. I stopped stringing the pole beans with the potato peeler. “Do you think I think I’m perfect?”
“No. That’s not what I’m saying,” Emma hastened to say. “It’s just that Daddy …”
I resumed peeling down the sides of the long, lumpy beans. “Honey, I loved your daddy very much for a long time, and we were very happy.” I was, at least. “That’s what I’ll remember about him, not the rest.”
Emma nodded. “That’s good. That’s what I’ll remember too,” she said as if she was trying to convince herself. “All the good things, and not the bad.”
A lengthening silence stretched between us, broken at last when the phone rang, causing us both to jump.
Emma got up as I picked up the receiver. “I’m going to see about Bill,” she told me as she left.
I nodded, then answered, “Hello?”
“Hey, Mama. It’s me,” Amelia said. “We’re here.”
My heart swelled. I loved both my daughters, but Amelia was so much less complicated than Emma, and she never judged me. “Oh, honey, I’m so glad y’all had a safe flight. What about Sonny?”
“His flight got in thirty minutes before ours. As soon as we rent a car, we’re on our way.” She sounde
d calm, almost cheerful, which was what I’d expected. Amelia had buried her father emotionally a long time ago.
“Everything’s ready for y’all here,” I told her. “And Emma and Bill are here too.”
“Good. How is she?” Amelia asked.
I dropped my voice to a whisper. “As well as can be expected,” I said. “But I know she’ll be better when y’all get here.”
“The kids will be a good distraction,” Amelia said.
“For all of us.”
Forty minutes later, Sonny and Amelia’s rented minivan rolled into the driveway, and I was able to put the past day’s events from my mind as we all gathered in the family room that opened onto the kitchen. My grandbabies were as adorable as ever, and Emma brightened immediately when her sister came in and wrapped her in a brief, reassuring hug.
Sonny offered to get a hotel room, but Emma and I convinced him to stay with us.
In deference to Sada, I sent Amelia across the street with the food. When she got back, we all sat down and pretended that love, not death, had brought us together.
There’s nothing like a couple of grandbabies and a good meal to make things right.
The next morning at breakfast, Emma announced she was going across the street to talk to Kat. I was proud of her, and said so. Amelia offered to go along, but Emma turned her down and went alone. She came home at peace that what had happened really was an accident, but annoyed that Sada still blamed me.
“Don’t worry,” Amelia told her. “I’ll talk sense into Sada.”
The next few days flew by. The autopsy report confirmed that Greg had died from a single stab wound to his abdominal aorta, with the blade flat to his waist. Ironically, Kat’s knife had severed the one structure guaranteed to kill him on the spot.
Nobody said anything about the possibility that the police might charge Kat with murder, but it hung over us all like the big, dirty cloud of pollution that hovered over Atlanta.
To keep myself from worrying, I dove into helping Kat plan the memorial service and the reception her church ladies were giving afterward at her house.
Then, in what seemed like a blink, the service was behind us, and our children went back to their lives. My house was empty again, as was Kat’s.
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