For Better or Worse

by Donna Huston Murray

  The moment ended when I noticed a car driving by too slowly. The driver's face was shadowed, but he seemed to be scanning the property—including the picnic area under the pin oaks.

  "Look!" I gestured toward the road just as the car sped up. "Is that Mike?"

  "Could have been," George agreed. "He drives an old black Chevy."

  Years of no intrigue, and now two situations that made the hairs on my arms bristle. If this was what opening myself up to the world was like, maybe I should stay home and learn how to knit.

  ***

  THE GOOD NEWS was the inexpensive recording device Mike Swenson had placed on his home phone told him where Ginger Barnes would be at noon.

  The bad news: his father-in-law was with her.

  "Dammit!" He hammered the steering wheel with a sweaty fist. Waved his head with disbelief. Susan had sworn her father and the Barnes woman were not together. "No way," she'd told him. "Never happen."

  And yet there they were.

  Grill Susan again? To what purpose?

  Mike’s gut told him it was already too late.

  Chapter 21

  ERIC ZUMSTEIN MARCHED robotically from the parking garage into the lobby of Ludwig Memorial Hospital. With afternoon visiting hours about to begin, the needed elevator quickly filled with other family members eager to see their loved ones. Breathing in short, tense breaths, Eric stared ahead as if he was completely alone. Breaking free of the cluster at last, he focused on the checkered tiles of the third-floor hallway, glancing up only to check the passing room numbers.

  Which Gram would it be today? The Maisie who greeted him as her one and only grandson, or the banshee who blamed him for her fall? Enough talk like that and people would take her seriously. Then what would he do?

  The soft-blue single room possessed a framed pastel print of a flower garden and one sizeable window darkened by a thin-slatted Venetian blind. Nestled in crisp white linens, scowling in her sleep, its elderly occupant looked like a wrinkled, fuzzy troll.

  Eric recalled one of the days he and his childhood playmate, James, had been parked at Gram’s while their mothers worked. The two of them played Go Fish on the floor while Maisie watched “The Price is Right” on TV. Something Bob Barker said struck Maisie funny, and her raucous, staccato laugh scared the bejeezus out of James. Eric found his friend sobbing into his sleeve in the powder room under the staircase.

  “What you blubbering about?” he demanded. Gram was the woman who baked peanut butter cookies and let him win at checkers. Whenever she laughed, he laughed even harder.

  Now he finally identified with what James felt all those years ago—except with a significant difference. The threat Maisie posed was not in his imagination. It was in hers.

  Convincing the old woman he loved her was crucial now, not only because of her wild claims about her fall. If she lived (as it appeared she would), and if he remained unemployed a while longer (as it appeared he would), some adjustments needed to be made. He could scarcely sleep, for one thing, and he itched from cat dander nearly all the time. Also, the house smelled like old skin, and he hated Gram’s cooking.

  Not much he could do about most of that, but some improvements could, and should, be made. The clutter, for instance. Easily half of Gram’s possessions were overdue for the dumpster. Unfortunately, Eric feared suggesting even a modest cleanout might anger his grandmother so greatly she would toss him out.

  Stalling, he sought out a nurse for an update. The white board under the wall clock identified the person on duty as “Shawna.”

  "She's with a patient,” the woman at the central desk reported, "but I can ask her to come speak with you."

  As an afterthought, Eric requested an extra blanket. Gram was always cold.

  The woman waved to her left. "There's a warmer around the corner. Help yourself."

  Two of the hospital’s thin cotton sheets seemed just thick enough to kill the chill of the air-conditioning. Eric lay them across his grandmother as delicately as he could, but her eyes sprung open with alarm.

  "Lonny," she almost screamed. "Get away from me!"

  "It’s Eric, Gram. Your grandson."

  Maisie’s gnarled fists gripped the edge of the flimsy covers. "Nurse!" she yelled. "Nurse! Get him out of here!"

  "Lonny’s gone," Eric assured her. Decades divorced, in fact. Five years dead. You can stop now, he wanted to shout. Let it go. Move on. But no. Maisie’s hate had a life of its own.

  "Liar," she snarled.

  He tried a concerned smile. "How you feeling?"

  The troll face narrowed into another scowl. "What do you care?"

  "I care, Gram. Are you warm enough? Are you in pain?"

  No reply.

  When the silence began to stretch, Eric realized he would simply have to ask his question and roll with the consequences.

  "About the house,” he opened. “I’d like to get it ready for when you come home, but the first floor is already jam-packed. If you’ll be sleeping there, and I’m already sleeping there...”

  No way would he trade beds with her. If she couldn’t do stairs, maybe her insurance would spring for a rental.

  “How about getting rid of a few pieces of furniture? Maybe the burgundy sofa?” He had stumbled into it many a morning when he woke up on the adjacent sofa bed. “Whadaya say? Can I sell it, donate it? What do you think?"

  "No!" Maisie gathered a wad of blanket to her chin. "Greedy pig," she added with hot, narrow eyes. "Greedy pig." She lifted her head as if she were aiming to spit.

  "Now Gram," Eric responded reasonably. "Who are you talking to, me or Lonny? I moved in to help you, remember?"

  "Nurse!" The old woman’s voice lacked punch, and she hadn't pressed the call button. Maybe they wouldn't be interrupted just yet.

  "I'm Eric," he tried again. "Your grandson. And I'm cleaning up the downstairs so you can get around easier when you come home. Help me out here, Gram. Tell me what you want to keep and what I can move out of the way."

  "Leave my stuff alone. It's for my grandson, not you."

  A young black woman in bright pink pants and a loose shirt printed with colorful flip flops tapped on the door jamb.

  "Thief," Maisie barked at him. "I'll have you arrested. You hear?"

  "Hi." The nurse greeted Eric as if she hadn't heard a thing. "I'm Shawna. You must be Maisie's grandson."

  "Deadbeat!" Gram shouted. "Greedy bastard!"

  "That's me," he said with an uncomfortable shrug. "Eric, the greedy bastard."

  The nurse nodded. "When she's lucid, she asks for you."

  "Thief! Rotten sonovabitch!"

  "Let's step into the hall. You’d like an update, right?”

  “Yes.”

  When they were safely out of Maisie’s hearing, the nurse filled him in. "Aside from her arms and the hip, her blood pressure's up, and she's a bit dehydrated. Neither is unusual in the elderly. Easy fixes, both of them, although you should see that she drinks more fluids when she gets home."

  Eric nodded. "I don’t suppose she’ll be doing stairs for a while, right?"

  “Correct.” The nurse tilted her head. "You know she'll need rehab first?"

  "No, I did not know that. What do you mean rehab?"

  "In a specialized facility. At her age hips take a long time to heal, and with her mental ups and downs she needs close supervision. Might be several weeks before she's ready to resume her everyday life. Even then, she may not have the mobility she had before."

  Eric glanced through the open doorway. "She thinks I'm her ex-husband. What's with that?"

  "She's in a weakened state. Traumatized, medicated. She's getting a neurological consult tomorrow. We should know more after that."

  "What if her mind doesn't come back? What then?"

  Folding her arms, the nurse stole a glance at her watch. "One day at a time," she answered. "No different from the rest of us."

  She pivoted toward the next room and smiled her goodbye.

  “Wrong!” he
wanted to shout after her. Who else would be spending all day every day being mistaken for Gram’s loathsome ex-husband?

  For a second, a mere heartbeat, he imagined what life would be like without Maisie Zumstein in it.

  The sky was blue.

  ***

  ERIC DROVE home in a fog of emotions—regret, worry, confusion, loneliness, and more, but especially loneliness.

  He considered calling Graham, his best friend back in Brigantine, New Jersey, but Graham was riding high on his internet marketing company success, and sharing his present woes would have made Eric feel pathetic in comparison.

  There were others—Danny and Earl, Frogman, Patrick—but Eric had met them when he borrowed a bottle opener at an Eagles tailgate, and thereafter it was sports, sports, sports. He was pretty sure the guys had no idea he had attended a high school for the performing arts, and he certainly couldn’t picture any of them sitting through a recital of his present predicament.

  Yes, Gram’s suburban neighborhood was the sort of place where those friends would settle down soon enough, but Eric was already there. The eclectic houses lined up like antiques on display, the park where little kids learned to climb and run and share, the sound of basketballs bouncing in a driveway at twilight, car doors slamming as the neighborhood hurried off to work in the morning. To Eric, this was already home.

  He parked his old Pontiac next to the junky garage where he kept his voice in shape, although at this moment singing was the farthest thing from his mind. Right now he needed somebody to hear him, everything he could put into words, and everything else, too.

  So compelling was his need that when he reached the front of Gram's old gray mare, he kept walking. Past Gram’s property line, past the newlyweds place, straight up to the Voight's house two doors down.

  Mounting the steps onto the porch, Eric hoped—make that prayed—that Cissie would be there, and that she would let him in.

  Chapter 22

  ALTHOUGH SUSAN was punctual for a change, by the time I grocery shopped, threw in some laundry, and fixed dinner for Fideaux and me it was evening before I got to do what I was so eager to do—put on pajamas and sit down at Rip's old computer with a glass of merlot.

  "Indiahoma," I recited, typing in the Oklahoma location Susan and Mike had chosen soon after their marriage.

  It had been a while since I’d indulged in a little harmless snooping, and I caught myself hunched forward in pounce position, snitching quick sips of wine, and grinning like a Cheshire cat. Even if all I learned was that Mike Swenson liked to move his family around, so what? It was my time to waste as I pleased.

  Turns out that Indiahoma is situated between Oklahoma City and Wichita Falls slightly off Route 44. The old want ads I found were for truck drivers, medical professionals and military trainers, but especially medical professionals. Opportunities to work from home were also plentiful but usually required an investment of money up front. The town’s population was evenly divided between men and women, the total a mere 380 souls with an average of 38.64 years. Many were Native Americans or Hispanics with a small assortment of assimilated Europeans.

  What I really needed was access to the archives of the local paper, The Lawton Constitution, and that, too, required money up front. Sixty cents for a one-day account.

  "I think I can afford that," I informed Fideaux, but the dog had fallen asleep.

  Knowing the year the Swensons married would have helped, but pressing George for more detail would have made him suspicious. I went with my best guess—three years ago—and spent an hour delving into ancient Oklahoma news. If I encountered so much as a hint of criminal activity by anyone named Swenson, I planned to phone the appropriate police department and hope they could put my worries to rest.

  Nothing turned up. The only fishy part of the family’s brief residence in Indiahoma was Indiahoma itself. From the look of it, people were moving out, not in. Plus it just plain seemed like an odd choice.

  Stop Two: Pollock, Louisiana, easily remembered because of the artist famous for splashing paint on large canvases. A good-looking guy starred in the movie. What was his name? Another search for another night.

  Pollock, the town, appeared to be part of Grant Parish in the Alexandria, Louisiana, metro area, population about 368 in 2003, named for a guy who owned a lumber mill. Employment opportunities leaned toward store managers and the same come-on, work-at-home jobs offered in Indiahoma. I chalked that up to the site I was consulting rather than a trend. They also needed a U.S. Army Chaplain.

  Potential pay dirt! Fifteen miles north of Alexandria in the middle of the Kisatchie National Forest, a United States Penitentiary needed correctional officers ASAP. A couple more mouse clicks informed me of an adjacent minimum security prison for slightly less scary male offenders. The convenient "inmate locater" assured me that no Swensons resided there either now or three years back.

  Stop Three: Montezuma, New York, a pinprick on the map west of Syracuse just south of Lake Ontario. Influenced by a trip to Mexico back in the early 1800s, New York doctor Peter Clark named his soggy estate Montezuma. Neither the extraction of salt, a necessary industry if not an especially lucrative one, nor the Erie Canal bothered Peter's marshland much, but the Cayuga-Seneca Barge Canal built in 1910 lowered the water a drastic ten feet, and humans have been trying to repair that shortsighted error ever since. Dikes, for instance, and the reintroduction of nesting eagles. Nothing, however, prevented lots of carp from infesting the pools when Cayuga Lake overflowed, and unfortunately these "nuisance fish" bred and ate and pooped themselves into trouble with the species in charge.

  The reported population of 1,431 were mostly Caucasian, so the Swensons would not have attracted attention in that respect. Although the average income for males was higher than at the family’s previous stops, over fifteen percent of Montezuma’s residents still lived below the poverty level.

  More and more I wondered what jobs Mike might list on his resume. And why such obscure places to ply his trade, whatever it was?

  Next came Jacksonville, Florida, and since that move actually made sense, I allowed myself to go to bed. My concentration was gone anyway.

  Comfortably nestled down, my fingers twined in Fideaux’s kinky fur, my last waking thoughts were about Susan. My personal reservations about her aside, I had difficulty imagining her staying with a violent man. Nor could I imagine the wife of a violent man taking a job over her husband’s objections.

  Anyhow, it seemed to me that most criminals (the ones in the annex, not the high security prison) were primarily after money, and none of the tiny hamlets I’d researched offered much temptation in that regard.

  They were, however, excellent places to hide.

  Chapter 23

  RONALD VOIGHT'S life was turning to shit. On top of the Cissie thing, the site manager had ragged on him about his daily report. "You call this quality control? What the hell have you been doing all day?" High and mighty sonovabitch. Probably never missed a payment. Probably never had anything worse than a hangnail in his whole friggin' life. What if his wife let another man into the house in the middle of the day? See if the short fat fuck could concentrate with that going on in his head.

  He'd picked up his neighbor's message ten after twelve and called right back. Had to be about Cissie, because he'd asked Harry to keep an eye on her.

  "Hey, man," his old drinking buddy opened. "Sorry to bother you, but..."

  At first it sounded like Harry messing with him. Unemployed, bored, and soused most of the time, there was an even chance he was jerking his chain. But no. He put his wife on, and Evelyn swore on their kids' heads that her husband was sober. So it was with disbelief and anger sizzling through his veins that Ronald told Harry to say it all again.

  "I got a good view from the front room, as you know," Harry reminded him, "your front door and mine maybe forty feet away, fifty tops. So it’s lunchtime and I was taking turns watchin’ TV and lookin’ out the window, and there he is. Big guy. Big! Two
thirty, maybe fifty, that big. Seems to be stayin’ with that old lady. Anyhow, he parks in her drive and walks down the sidewalk plain as you please. Then he knocks on your door like maybe he's a long-lost friend or somethin'."

  "Yeah?"

  "Yeah," Harry told him. "Then the door opens and in he goes."

  "How long?"

  "Hour. Maybe hour and ten minutes."

  "See anything else?"

  "Naw. The door was closed."

  "Thanks, man. I owe you."

  "No problem."

  Except there was a problem, a huge problem. He wanted to kick down a tree. The world was a blur. His head was so swollen with fury all he could hear was the buzz of his own blood.

  Never in a million years would he have figured Cissie for a cheater. Didn't he keep a roof over her head and food on the table? Damn right, he did. And the way she oohed and ahhed over that kid, you'd think she had everything she could possibly want.

  He, on the other hand, had plenty to complain about. One glance and Cissie used to jump. Breakfast, beer, sex, whatever, she fell all over herself trying to please him. No more. Those days were gone.

  Ronald locked up the company pickup and strode to his car.

  His usual pub started out quiet but soon filled with noisy men, construction workers softening the edges before they went home to deal with their own women and kids. Any other night he would have been one of the back-slappers, in the thick of the crowd trading jokes and complaints.

  Tonight he kept to himself at the short end of the bar and ordered his bourbon neat. The bartender, a skinny guy with the ridiculous notion of growing a beard, eyed him from a safe distance. Only a matter of time before he got flagged.

  We'll see about that. The bourbon condensed his anger, toughened him, tightened his fists until he felt capable of taking on a heavyweight champ.

  He raised his hand to signal the bartender.

  The next thing he knew he was being man-handled into a cab.

  ***

  CHELSEA HAD PUT the finishing touches on the guest room then cleaned all afternoon. Now she longed for a shower and a guilty half-hour in front of the TV before Bobby came home. But first she needed to unload the dishwasher, make the first impression complete. The voila factor, as she thought of it.