Mr. Elliott Finds a Family

by Susan Floyd

  CHAPTER TEN

  FOR TWO DAYS, Christian and Beth Ann didn’t speak. Well, Beth Ann thought, that wasn’t technically true. They spoke about Bernie and Iris. They discussed the secret code that would make the stove work. They even exchanged polite chitchat about how clear the fifty-inch television screen was when they watched a nearly new movie without commercials or fuzz. They didn’t sit next to each other anymore. In fact, he sat on one end of the couch and she sat on the other with Bernie and Iris as buffers in between.

  It hadn’t helped that Christian had been right.

  After the inaugural load of laundry in the brand new washer, she saw how much cleaner their clothes were. Embarrassed by her reaction to Christian’s generosity, Beth Ann didn’t know how to apologize and with each day that passed, it was harder for her to do. While she still felt strongly that what he’d done was presumptuous, another part of her acknowledged the thoughtfulness behind the gifts. After all, these were appliances for goodness sake, not the crown jewels. But she had every reason to hate that television, especially when it so easily replaced their evening conversation.

  So, they didn’t speak of his hurt feelings or her sense of sorry. But when Christian casually mentioned at the dinner table his plans to leave a week from Saturday, Beth Ann was startled back to reality. As he talked about going on to Napa, his original destination, Beth Ann realized she’d never thought about him as a guest, but as a permanent fixture, like the new stove and refrigerator he’d had installed for life.

  After his announcement, Beth Ann’s appetite was gone. Was she so morose because Christian’s leaving meant her freedom to paint would be gone? She watched Christian talk with Iris, saw Bernie’s hand reach to grab his green beans, not the ones Beth Ann had put on her tray, and knew she would miss him, the deep-down achy kind of missing, the kind of missing that comes from loving someone and wanting them around forever. She would miss Christian’s broad shoulders filling her doorways, his light footsteps down the hall, his laughter and Bernie’s squealing infiltrating every nook, every corner, every bend of this old house that had never really had a permanent male resident.

  It had always been a feminine household. Always. Even before she and Carrie moved in with Iris, whose husband had died before Beth Ann had even been born. Men passed through, like Glenn or Fred or her grandmother’s dear friend, Henry, who had died more than a decade ago, but no one had ever stayed. Never before had she ever felt there was any need for a masculine presence. But now, having experienced a sense of completeness, like a circle finally joining at the ends, she missed Christian already.

  Even though her heart was breaking, Beth Ann took advantage of the precious time remaining. She no longer dreaded her time in the attic, but climbed the stairs with anticipation. She was now confident that she had what she needed to preserve her five slots in the hotel lobby, and she had Christian to thank, which made her heart ache more. His blunt comments about her art had pushed her forward. As she painted, Christian’s words pounded through her head. I see someone who’s afraid of taking the risks needed to paint.

  It was a risk branching so far away from what she was used to, when she had so much riding on getting into this small show. But she painted what she knew, what she felt in her soul. There was less need for landscapes than for faces as she tried to capture movement around the axis of the garden. Yes, it was risky, but there was no going back.

  No way of getting back who she was. That artist, that person was gone—like Carrie. When she surveyed her work again, she was pleasantly surprised to see a freshness that hadn’t existed in her painting in a long time. Maybe not being able to go back wasn’t a bad thing.

  WITH BERNIE DOWN for a badly needed nap, Christian sat in the living room and sweltered, despite the swamp cooler rattling so badly that it seemed to want to come through the roof. He regretted not having central air-conditioning installed while he was at it. The cool days of spring had not prepared him for the intense, constant heat of summer. Ninety was considered cool in the valley where the temperatures could soar past one hundred ten degrees.

  The floorboards above him creaked. Even though it was her own stubbornness that brought it on, Christian felt for Beth Ann. If it was eighty-five degrees where he was, it was easily ninety-five in the attic. Christian reached for the Federal Express package he had ordered from Mrs. Murphy nearly a month earlier. For most of his stay, he’d been able to ignore the appointment books that contained the past three years of his life. His intimate conversations with Beth Ann had revealed much to him about Caroline so he no longer felt the driving need to track Caroline’s travels.

  But he was painfully aware that his departure date from Mercy Springs was only a few days away. Beth Ann’s only reaction when he’d mentioned it was to comment that Fred and Glenn were coming for Bernie’s birthday party on the Saturday he planned to leave. She didn’t ask him to stay, but when he hemmed and hawed and finally said, “Well, I guess it’d be better if I left on Sunday,” she didn’t disagree.

  Now, he opened the black leather-bound books more to track his own life than Caroline’s, trying to find out what he’d been doing on the day Bernie was born. He studied the books, using Mrs. Murphy’s small, neat script to jog his memory. He started with the months prior to Bernie’s birth. What he learned was depressing. During the last few days of Caroline’s pregnancy, he was working on negotiations he didn’t dare send Max to. Instead, he himself had been in limousines and taxis, off to meet with corporate heads, who’d been mostly suspicious of his company’s motives.

  It had taken him hours to reassure them that they would fare much better with his family’s backing, rather than flounder under the salivating jaws of a less caring set of corporate wolves. On the day Caroline had pushed Bernie into the world, he’d sat in a board room pushing documents back and forth. Thanks to Mrs. Murphy’s notes, he remembered the meeting clearly even down to the tuna fish sandwich that had given him indigestion. When Bernie was being born, he was making money for a conglomerate that had more revenue than they knew what to do with.

  He heard the water running above him and Beth Ann’s footsteps as she moved around in her attic workshop. Perhaps he had been hasty to announce he was leaving. He didn’t need to leave. In fact, there was nothing for him to go to. It was a knee-jerk response to Beth Ann’s reaction to the appliances. She had been so angry, the atmosphere around them so tense that he thought it would be better if he left.

  Now he wasn’t sure. The past week, he’d found Beth Ann reading the thick manuals for the appliances, fiddling with all the switches, programming the stove. If he was asked, or rather if Beth Ann asked him, he would readily stay another two months beyond Bernie’s birthday festivities. Maybe even longer. After all she needed a good sitter so she could keep painting. They had both said things they didn’t mean. Maybe it was something they should talk about. Maybe in some circumstances engagement was better than walking away.

  “Are there any good movies on?”

  Christian looked up and instinctively shut his appointment book.

  Iris settled herself next to him on the couch.

  “No nap this afternoon?” he asked.

  Iris shook her head. “I’m tired, but not sleepy. I thought I’d try out this satellite dish of yours. Do you think you could find a Humphrey Bogart movie?”

  Christian smiled and found the satellite directory he’d had express-mailed to him. He had also tacked on a three-year subscription to the monthly guide while he was at it, which he hadn’t told Beth Ann about. By the time she discovered it, he’d be long gone.

  “I’ll see what they’ve got but you know, this television—it’s yours now, not mine. I’m not going to take it with me when I leave.”

  “Oh, but that’s not going to be for a while, right?” Iris asked.

  “The Sunday after Bernie’s birthday,” Christian said, feeling a little twinge as he did. He had casually mentioned it again at dinner the night before, hoping Beth Ann would ask him
to stay, but she had looked away and he took that as his cue. So Sunday it was. He scanned through the listing, looking for Humphrey Bogart.

  “Will Cary Grant do?” he asked.

  “I thought you’d stay,” Iris commented instead.

  “Stay?” Christian looked at her in surprise. His heart pounded a little bit harder. He shot her a hard look. “What would make you say that?”

  “I thought you liked it here.” There was the barest trace of reproach in her tone.

  Christian was quiet and then admitted, “I love it here.”

  “Do you have to leave?”

  “I don’t think Beth Ann—”

  “Do you like Beth Ann?” Iris interrupted bluntly.

  Christian didn’t know how to answer Iris. Beth Ann was very different, irreverent in ways that were wonderful. He admired the fierce nurturer in her, as well as the talented artist. When he saw her with Bernie or she gazed at him with those brown, brown eyes, he couldn’t stop the rush of feelings that swept through him. Did he like Beth Ann? No. It was much more than like.

  “I love her,” came shooting out of his mouth. He felt his face flush.

  Iris smiled broadly. “She’s different from Carrie.”

  Christian was silent.

  “They were always different,” Iris continued. “Carrie couldn’t wait to shake the dust of this town off her heels. Mercy Springs just wasn’t, oh, I don’t know, enough for her.”

  “May I ask you a question?” Christian found his voice.

  Iris nodded, her eyes twinkling. “Can’t guarantee I’ll know the answer.”

  “Did it bother you that Caroline never came back?”

  Iris looked at him puzzled. “But she did come back. She came back and gave us Bernie.”

  “But didn’t you find that odd?”

  “Odd? Why would that be odd?” Her question startled him.

  “Because—” Christian tried to put it tactfully “—she never spoke of you or invited you to visit in San Diego. She never included you in her life.”

  “San Diego?” Iris looked at him blankly. “Who are you?”

  Christian shook his head, not understanding. “Who am I?” He laughed. “I’m the babysitter.”

  “Where’s Beth Ann? Where’s Carrie? Does Beth Ann know you’re here?”

  Christian could hear the panic in Iris’s voice and his smile faded.

  “I’m Christian,” he said slowly. “I’m Caroline’s husband.”

  “What do you take me for? A fool? Carrie’s too young to have a husband. The girls aren’t even out of school yet. You should be ashamed for what you’re trying to do to an old lady.” Iris’s voice shook with agitation and she got up, rapidly putting half the living room between them. “If you don’t leave, I’m going to call the police.”

  “Iris.” Christian rose and took a cautious step toward her, but Iris backed up against the side of the door, frozen with fright.

  “How do you know my name?” she quavered. “Beth Ann! Carrie! Beth Ann!”

  Christian heard the clatter of a tin can hitting the floor, then the sound of Beth Ann pounding down the stairs. She appeared in a flat minute, her hair disheveled as if she had been running her hands through it, her skin glistening with sweat from the heat in the attic. She skidded to a halt, as if forcing herself to slow down. Her shirt and shorts were splattered with paint. Green smudged her tanned legs. But she seemed unconcerned with her appearance as she walked calmly up to Iris and placed a reassuring hand on Iris’s withered arm.

  “Grans, I’m here,” Beth Ann crooned.

  “Who are you?” Iris demanded, a wild look in her eyes. She glanced back and forth between Christian and Beth Ann, pressing herself harder against the wall. Her hands feeling behind her. As Beth Ann stepped a little closer, Christian slid over to retrieve a vase that was about to be tipped over by Iris’s panicked movements.

  “I’m Beth Ann.” Beth Ann had adopted a soothing, low, almost hypnotic voice.

  “No, you’re not,” Iris denied frantically, slapping Beth Ann’s hands away. “Beth Ann just started high school. You’re too old. You can’t fool me. Where are my granddaughters? What have the two of you done with them? Carrie! Beth Ann! Run!”

  “No, honey, I was in high school a long time ago. Carrie’s gone. This is her husband, Christian.” Beth Ann put both hands on Iris’s upper arms, gazing straight into her eyes as if by mental will alone, she would pull Iris back to the present.

  “Liar! Liar!” Iris screamed, her arms starting to flail. “Give me back my granddaughters!”

  Christian watched helplessly, as Beth Ann ducked her head away from the blows and enveloped Iris in a big bear hug.

  Beth Ann’s heart pounded as she hung on to Iris, her throat tight with adrenaline, as she tried to restrain the older woman without hurting her. But Iris was strong and her kicks hurt.

  Damn, she hated this.

  She absolutely hated this.

  The worst part was that she’d been almost lulled into the belief that Iris’s dementia was merely passing. The distance between Iris’s spells always caught her off guard. Most of the time, she could realistically believe that Iris was functioning in this world. But each subsequent episode jerked Beth Ann rudely back to the awareness that at these times, Iris didn’t know what world she was in, and Beth Ann couldn’t blame her for her terror as her normally agile mind regressed fifteen, twenty, sometimes forty years. Iris stopped struggling and Beth Ann eased her hold, relieved that it was over.

  Iris’s elbow jerked up, and pain burst in Beth Ann’s eye. She tightened her grip again, catching Iris’s arm before she got away. Iris struggled to free her arm. Beth Ann pulled her close, feeling sweat drip down the side of her face.

  “Let me go!”

  “Grans,” Beth Ann pleaded. Her eye hurt like the dickens and it was swelling closed. “It’s me. Beth Ann.”

  “Let go of me! I don’t know who you are! What have you done with my family? Carrie! Beth Ann!”

  Then Iris was gone, not because she escaped, but because Christian had come up from behind and pulled Iris against him, one strong forearm across the top of Iris’s chest. Beth Ann saw him take a sharp jab in the ribs, but undaunted he moved with her toward the couch, finally pulling her down to sit on it.

  “Listen!” he said in a voice so quiet and so serene that Beth Ann could have kissed him.

  “No!” Iris still struggled, trying to stand, but she was effectively pinned between his arm and the couch.

  Beth Ann watched him use one hand to turn up the volume loud, loud enough to startle Iris. The opening orchestral music to an old film filled the entire bungalow and Iris immediately looked in the direction of the television.

  “What’s that?” The frenzied look left Iris’s eyes, curiosity getting the better of her. She relaxed slightly.

  “I think it’s Cary Grant,” Christian replied evenly, as if this were an everyday occurrence. “Why don’t we watch it?”

  Beth Ann watched Iris stop struggling and stare at the actor, his face huge on the fifty-inch screen. Beth Ann couldn’t have been more grateful for Christian’s foresight. A smaller television would have fit her decor better, but the fifty-inch set was positively panoramic, riveting those who watched it.

  “I always did like Bogie better,” Iris said conversationally.

  “Here,” Christian offered and gently pulled his arm away from Iris. “Why don’t you take this pillow?” He put a worn throw pillow in her lap and Iris immediately clutched it. Christian rose, remarking, “I’ll make some popcorn.”

  “Where is this coming from?” Iris looked around the living room that she had lived in for more than forty years. “This isn’t the Mercy Springs Playhouse.”

  “No, sweetie,” Beth Ann said. “You’re home now. And Christian bought us that television.” She went to the kitchen and got a glass of water, a cookie and a bottle of small white pills. Her hands were shaking so badly she could barely open the childproof top. She sat n
ext to Iris and gave her the glass. “Why don’t you take this?”

  Christian watched Iris obediently swallow the pill and then eat the cookie, crumbs falling from her mouth. Beth Ann brushed Iris’s lips with a paper towel and then left her, ducking past him with the empty water glass. He followed her into the kitchen. She had the faucet running full blast as her thin shoulders shook.

  Christian did the only thing he could think of doing. He wrapped his arms around her. With her fists at her throat, her elbows pulled tightly against her body, Beth Ann sobbed and pressed her face into his shirt. Christian stroked her hair, surprised at the softness of her curls, deeply inhaling the smell of lavender and paint. The most natural thing to do was rest his chin on her head and tighten his hold, saying nothing.

  The comfort of Christian’s embrace was terrifying. Even though he was hot and sticky, he smelled of clean aftershave. She could feel his heart pounding against her cheek and she couldn’t help but cry. All these years of being in control, of handling thousands of everyday crises had taken their toll. Not just on her painting, but on her sense of self.

  Once she started bawling, she couldn’t stop. Iris’s episode had just reminded her how hard this was. She sniffled, the salt from her tears stinging her eyes. She rubbed one and it throbbed terribly. The only thing she could think of in her misery was that if this had been an ordinary day, she would be handling Iris by herself. Without Christian, there wouldn’t be a television to sedate Iris. Without Christian, she would be alone and the prospect of returning to that was dismal.

  She wiped her eyes, wincing at the sore one, and pulled herself back from him, embarrassed. Instead of focusing on his face, she stared at the perfect mother-of-pearl buttons, not really registering the bright red smeared on his pristine white shirt. She touched the damp stain and then gasped.

  Blood. Her blood.

  With disbelief, she touched it again, feeling the heat of his skin through the thin cotton and then touched her eye.