For Better or Worse

by Donna Huston Murray

  The park was a grassy, shaded plot with two cannons and a fenced corner with wood chips on the ground. Inside were swings, seesaws, and a jungle gym.

  I settled the boy on a bench and produced our snacks. Jack allowed me to feed him bites of the sticky cereal bar; and when that had been washed down, I used the water left in my bottle to rinse my fingers.

  “Oo-et,” Jack remarked.

  My eyes flew open. “Wet. Yes, my fingers are wet,” I agreed. Jack not only remembered the word but had used it in a different context, an astonishing degree of comprehension for his age.

  “Good boy,” I praised him. “Very, very good boy.” I grinned my pleasure and gave him a spontaneous kiss. “We’re going to have a lot of fun, you and me.”

  The jungle gym was too large and the seesaws too risky, so I pushed Jack on a red plastic swing seat that resembled a Medieval chastity belt. When he’d had enough, I stood him backwards on the bench next to me and named the types of cars and trucks driving past. Van, car, panel truck, tanker.

  Suddenly Jack shouted, “Daddy! Daddy, daddy, daddy.” He clambered down from the bench and ran to the chain-link fence that ran along the street. “Daddy, daddy, daddy.”

  Mike Swenson glanced toward the boy before resuming his conversation with another man. Both had emerged from an office building opposite the park. A curbside sign identified it as the “Norristown News.”

  Probably going to lunch, I decided, since a small shopping center with a few fast food possibilities lay half a block away.

  “Daddy!” Jack’s sweet voice was filled with hurt, his lashes laden with tears.

  Could one daddy-daddy-daddy sound like any other to an adoptive father? It seemed unlikely, but as with Susan, I simply didn’t know.

  I scooped up my shoulder bag and the whimpering child and headed toward the parking lot.

  “He was busy, Jackie,” I murmured softly into the boy’s ear. “I don’t think he heard you.”

  Yet I didn't believe myself for a minute. Mike had looked straight at his son—and his difficult-to-miss pink-clad babysitter—then deliberately turned away.

  All the way to the car the toddler clung to my neck and snuffled against my shoulder. I hugged him and patted his back, but he was still sniffling when I buckled him into his car seat. When I checked him in the rearview mirror a moment later, he was sucking his thumb and staring out the window.

  How could anyone hurt a child like that? In my opinion nothing could possibly justify such behavior.

  And yet it had happened on my watch.

  I vowed to find out why.

  Chapter 15

  “DON’T I EVEN get a cup of coffee?” I joked, knowing full well my daughter had the brushes and roller ready to go.

  “Just teasing,” I admitted. “Lead the way.”

  She opted to use the roller first. We would trade when her wrist got tired.

  The color looked great, and I reveled in the luxury of spending time with my daughter. Lovely as that was, between the work and the bright, late-June day, the fan Bobby provided soon proved to be inadequate and I caught myself swiping my forehead with a sleeve.

  “Hope your mother-in-law isn’t a late sleeper,” I remarked regarding the summer heat.

  Our conversation started out light, but by the time we’d completed the front wall and half of a side it began to touch on the more personal things one mentioned only when the time felt right.

  Chelsea asked me if I was lonely.

  “Not the way you mean,” I answered honestly. “I miss your dad. I’ll always miss him, but I don’t think I’m ready to date.”

  “My friend, Corey, told me her mother said she minds not having a witness to her life.”

  “Heavy,” and true. “But I’ve got you and your brother. And Fideaux, of course.”

  “And Gramma Cynthia.”

  “Yes, and Didi.”

  I chose not to mention that Chelsea had Bobby; Garry had his roommate and a dorm full of fellow freshmen; and Didi had finally found Will, who so very obviously adored her. Even my mother had remarried a lovely widower with an irresistible laugh. So at the moment Fideaux was the closest thing I had to a life partner. Who else “witnessed” my tiny triumphs and everyday failures? The drawer I finally wrestled open, the grapefruit juice in my eye, the disappointment of no Sunday New York Times, the new outfit I wore to the grocery store because I didn’t have anywhere better to go. Fideaux observed it all, my private tears included. At those moments he was at my side—heck, in my lap—until I finally had to laugh over his concern.

  Two stories down someone knocked on the kitchen door.

  Chelsea automatically scanned herself for paint spatters, but since I didn’t especially care if I looked like a mess, I offered to go.

  “Oh, hi, Mrs. B,” Cissie Voight said with obvious delight. “I thought I saw your car.”

  Then she grimaced and wrung her hands. “I know you’re busy, but is there any chance you could do me one more favor?”

  Although I did worry about becoming the young woman’s crutch, I really really disliked Ronald Voight’s attitude. Beyond being too chauvinistic for words, he was scary slick, and scary trumped clingy any day. So naturally I said, “Certainly. What do you need?”

  Tucking her hyperactive hands under her arms, Cissie explained that Caroline was outgrowing her bassinet, and somehow she needed to assemble their second-hand crib and bring a dresser up from the basement.

  “The trouble is I stink at putting things together, and the dresser’s too heavy to carry by myself. Since you’re really good at stuff like that, I wondered if you’d mind...”

  Since I intended to help Chelsea finish her guest room on time no matter what, even if it took me a week of all-nighters, I figured a half-hour break wouldn’t make much difference.

  “Just let me tell my daughter what I’m doing.”

  “Thanks, Mrs. B! You’re a sweetheart.” Cissie reached out to hug me, but I raised my hands.

  “Paint,” I pointed out. “It’s all over me.”

  Cissie didn’t care. The hug was long and enthusiastic.

  I thought Chelsea might scold me again for “adoping her whole neighborhood,” but instead she said, “You’re a nice person, you know that?”

  Dumbstruck, I must have stood there a moment too long, because she laughed and told me to, “Go!” with her fingers walking on air. “I know you’ll come back; I’ve got your dog.”

  Baby Caroline’s room had been cleared and cleaned, but this week’s fresh clothes remained in their wash basket, and the changing table and accessories were still in the master bedroom with the bassinet.

  Crib parts were in a heap on the floor. The spindles appeared to be spaced to current standards, but the finish showed a fair amount of wear. “You can cover those marks with scratch remover, you know,” I pointed out. “Not the top edge where Caroline might teethe, but the rest.”

  “Thanks. I will.”

  No instructions were available, but assembling a crib wasn’t rocket science, and I managed the job in less than fifteen minutes. Together Cissie and I added a rubber pad to the mattress, a soft pink sheet, matching bunny-covered bumpers, and a musical mobile.

  “Now about the dresser.” A pinch of concern marred Cissie’s brow. “It’s really heavy.”

  “Girl power!” I said with an optimistic fist punch.

  Unfortunately, I was wrong. Waving my head in surrender, I confessed that we needed a man.

  Cissie’s face clouded. Clearly, she’d hoped to impress her husband with her resourcefulness.

  “Stay right here,” I instructed. “I’ll be right back.”

  Mrs. Zumstein’s porch leaned left, but its roof sagged right. The screen on the front door was torn, and the flower bed needed a good weeding. In contrast to the summery softness of the surroundings, the old Victorian’s battleship hue and maroon trim looked as if Count Dracula had crashed a cookout.

  “Is your grandson at home?” I inquired when M
aisie herself answered the door. She wore a wool jumper and black ankle boots, both styles I had seen and perhaps even worn but from an era I couldn’t quite place.

  “Why?” the gnome-like homeowner demanded.

  “I need to ask a favor. It’s for Mrs. Voight two doors down.”

  Maisie stared for a couple of blinks then waddled back into the house. Thick shadows prevented me from seeing whether she continued straight out the backdoor.

  Yet a moment later the young man I’d seen collecting the newspaper in his bathrobe widened the door opening. “’lo,” he said in a friendly manner. “Who’re you?”

  I explained. “I was wondering if you might be able to help Mrs. Voight and me move a piece of furniture from her basement to her baby’s room.”

  Close up, the fellow looked better than his first impression, and it wasn't just the shorts and golf shirt. The morning’s puffiness was gone, revealing eyes the color of blueberries. His lashes were blonder than his straight, sandy hair, his teeth even but slanted so his smile appeared to be crooked.

  “You’re thinking I played football,” he guessed.

  “Hadn’t thought about it. Did you?”

  More smile. “Nope, so I guess you’ll have to take the heaviest end.”

  Cute answer. Cute guy. I liked him.

  He stepped onto the porch, headed down the steps.

  Cissie met us at the front door, her color warm, her excitement obvious. She looked beautiful.

  “Eric Zumstein,” my recruit introduced himself, taking her delicate fingers in his meaty paw. From his expression I feared he would lift them to his lips.

  “I’m Cissie Voight.”

  “Pleased ta meetcha. Do you have cats?”

  “No.”

  “Good. I’m allergic as hell. Lead the way.”

  As we progressed single file down the basement stairs, I remarked, “Your grandmother has cats, I take it?”

  “Two, Hanzel and Gretyl. I can deal with them during the day, but Gretyl insists on sleeping with me all night whether I like it or not.”

  Which explained the puffy eyes I’d attributed to a hangover. “You can’t shut your bedroom door?” I wondered aloud.

  “What door? I’m sleeping on a foldout in the living room.”

  The three of us stood facing the dresser, a four-drawer, maple specimen that was taller than it was wide. Surrounding us were miscellaneous boxes and household junk, and a laundry tub adjacent to a washer and dryer.

  While gazing at Cissie, Eric rubbed his big paws together. “How about you ladies take a drawer or two and I’ll handle the rest?”

  “You sure you don’t want help?” That was me talking. Cissie was too busy staring back.

  “Nope,” Eric responded as if Cissie had spoken. “Easier to steer it by myself. Don’t want nicks on your walls or bruises on those pretty arms and legs.” He handed Cissie the narrowest drawer.

  I ended up helping myself.

  Cissie led the way with me and my two drawers next. Eric set the last one aside then hefted the whole dresser up the stairs behind us.

  “Nice room. Where’s the baby?” he inquired when we arrived upstairs.

  “Sleeping in my room. Our room, Ronald would make me say. He’s very possessive.” She glanced around as if her husband might jump out of a closet.

  “Don’t blame him,” Eric observed, and another super-charged glance was exchanged.

  “I’ll just...” go get the other drawer, I intended to say, but nobody was listening. I made the trip to the basement and back lickety-split, not because I thought I could stop a rolling train, because I felt responsible for the wreck that appeared imminent.

  “Can you stay for lunch?” Cissie addressed her knight-in-shining-armor directly, and anxiety caused me to do something I would not normally have done. I invited myself.

  “Oh, thanks,” I effused. “I’m ready for a break. Can I contribute something?”

  “Uh, no,” Cissie replied with heat painting her cheeks. “I’ve just been to the store.”

  Eric displayed his crooked grin. “Love to,” he told Ronald Voight’s beautiful wife.

  “Anything to get away from those cats.”

  Chapter 16

  MIKE SWENSON pressed his fingers to his forehead and tried to focus on the want ads he was processing for the newspaper. Mechanics, waiters, sales staff for an electronics store. One for an ETL developer, whatever that was. Nothing for a teacher/football coach, which he once was but could no longer be. Instead he had accumulated his very own list of brainless, dead-end jobs, work scarcely rewarding enough to put food on the table.

  For relief, his eyes strayed to the photograph on his desk. Leaning against his beloved silver Audi, arms extended to show off her new son, Susan wore that blousy yellow-print dress she thought made her look “motherly.” The photo always reminded him of the car’s imminent departure and the large payment he received, which served to underscore a hard-earned lesson. Family above all. No one could say Mike Swenson hadn’t learned well from his parents' mistakes.

  Today, courtesy of Ginger Barnes, the bitter memories circled like sharks. Mike’s dad in jeans and a Notre Dame sweatshirt. Dad, with his ironclad black and white rulebook. Dad, whose favorite endearment had been "loser."

  And then there was his mother. “Pass your brother that last pork chop, honey, he’s got a game tonight.” Or, “Oh no, Mikey! Let Tad do that,” when a monkey with a screwdriver could have assembled that bookcase.

  The too-little, too-late change arrived wrapped in a blue cotton blanket—their first grandchild! Toys and clothes and gadgets accompanied every visit home. Photographs were snapped as if baby Jack were the reincarnation of Elvis. The phone lines hummed with questions about the kid’s first burp, smile, rash, and coo. Dolores proclaimed that she missed Little Jackie terribly, “and you and your wife, too, of course.”

  Mike’s dad congratulated him on “growing a pair.”

  Going underground had been complicated, but depriving his parents the way they’d deprived him proved to be enormously gratifying. Susan didn’t know everything, of course; but she understood that disappearing had lifted a heavy weight. To reward her trust, he agreed to move back to her hometown...where she promptly acquired that stupid, stupid job, and he acquired the babysitter problem.

  His heart had just about stopped when he heard Jack shout, “Daddy, daddy, daddy,” from the park across the street. Miraculously, he distracted his co-worker with some BS about a reporter nailing the receptionist. Too close. Dangerously close. If Bob had turned his head and made the connection...

  He dug an antacid out of his drawer. Chewed it with grim determination.

  So the Barnes woman had followed him. Never mind how or why. The question fermenting in his gut was what to do about it.

  Too soon to move again. Also, too suspicious. Susan's dad, her high school friends, that damn job...Mike's head began to throb.

  Ten after twelve. He put his computer to sleep and headed for the stairs.

  Emerging from the building, he breathed in the smell of warm asphalt and bread from the nearby bakery. The day was overcast, but dry. Two mothers had kids running around the park, but no Jack and no babysitter. Of course this wasn't one of Susan's workdays, so the Barnes woman could be anywhere.

  As much as he tried to tell himself the odds of a babysitter bringing him down were infinitesimal, the reality was he didn’t dare take a chance. Something had to be done.

  He scanned the perimeter, bent down to peek inside parked cars, squinted to peer into the shade of a tree. No one hiding that he could see, yet the sensation of spying eyes burned into the back of his head until his vision blurred.

  Each step striking a blow to his head, he detoured into the newspaper parking lot for the migraine medication he kept in the car. Swallowed the pill dry.

  Relief was on its way in more ways than one.

  He knew what he was going to do about Ginger Barnes.

  Chapter 17

>   THE PAINT ON Chelsea's nose tickled, but her hands were unavailable, what with the roller in one and her cell phone in the other.

  “My mother’s coming Tuesday, July 1 to Sunday, July 6,” Bobby confirmed over the phone.

  Chelsea rubbed her nose against the shoulder of her t-shirt. “Hang on a second. I need to write that down.”

  “You’ll remember.”

  “No, seriously, I won’t,” the visit freaked her that much. She traded the roller for the edging brush and wrote the dates on the newspaper under the paint can.

  “How’s the color?” Bobby asked when she returned.

  “Awesome!” The cornflower blue looked vibrant, young, and fresh, although she worried that Architectural Digest might have been a better source of inspiration than Gin’s dog-eared issues of Country Life.

  "I'm sure it's beautiful," Bobby told her, and her face melted into an affectionate smile.

  “I’ll bring home dinner,” he added, confirming that the honeymoon was still on.

  Speculations about Marilyn Alcott followed Chelsea's paint brush around the doorframe onto the next wall. What did she know about her mother-in-law, really? That she wore tailored, coordinated clothes that made her look preppier than Chelsea’s actual prep-school students. BUT! Did the woman play cards? Did she like movies? If so, which ones? Exactly what type of shopping did she like?

  And how about music? To Chelsea, a person's musical taste said it all.

  Her stomach growled, and her arm ached from rolling paint. Where the heck was her mother?

  "Yoo hoo," the mother in question shouted up the two flights of stairs. "I'm eating with Cissie and Eric Zumstein. Back to work after that."

  "Okay, Mom."

  Chelsea covered the roller and brush, washed up, then scrounged up a lunch of pasta salad.

  From her perch at the kitchen island, she could observe her mother's luncheon party without herself being seen. Seated on the back porch steps, Cissie faced the man, Eric Zumstein, who had sprawled on the ground beside baby Caroline's stroller. Gin, holding a paper plate and nibbling at a sandwich, appeared to be watching her companions with the intensity of a CIA agent.