Rohn Federbush - Sally Bianco 03 - The Recorder's Way

by Rohn Federbush

  Chapter Two

  “…raining frogs and the dust turned to lice…”

  The Egyptian Plagues

  First Monday in May, 2008

  Ann Arbor

  George Clemmons was not going to be a problem. Max and Helen followed him from his home into a coffee shop on West Stadium and Packard. The different blends of coffee filled the small shop with a rich variety of coffee aromas. Max asked, “Could we get a caffeine high by breathing too deeply?”

  When George noticed Helen standing behind him, he fell all over her. “You’re Helen Costello, aren’t you?”

  “How did you know?” Max asked.

  A warm wind from the brewing coffee machines or George’s inappropriate enthusiasm made Helen’s cheeks flush. She needed to get out more; stop copying her mother’s isolating behavior.

  “Mrs. Clapton pointed you out to me last week at St. Andrew’s church.” George paid for the three coffees. “We need to talk.”

  Helen was lost for words. Max guided them to a corner table. Helen seated herself with as much dignity as she could and waited for George to continue. Something about him seemed familiar. Ann Arbor faces meshed together after seeing people again and again. He said he was a churchgoer. George was good looking, so she smiled as he patted her hand.

  “You’re my half-sister,” he said.

  “Am not.” Helen sounded like a six-year-old in an argument she couldn’t win.

  “Mrs. Clapton assures me your mother was pregnant when she married Mr. Costello.”

  “She was not.”

  “Your mother was engaged to my father before she met your step-dad.”

  “Her father,” Max insisted.

  George leaned back as if to get a better picture of Helen. Helen touched her hair. It did match George’s sandy color. “Mother would have said something, when we took the case.”

  “What case?”

  “Never mind,” Max said. “I’m Max Hunt.”

  George shook Max’s hand. “How tall are you?”

  Max grunted. “Tall enough for all practical purposes.”

  Helen finished her coffee, wondering if the caffeine would help her swimming thoughts come to any conclusion. “How old are you?”

  “Twenty.” George smiled at her, again. “You?”

  “Twenty-two.” Helen felt the doors of her lonely world open a crack. “Is your dad still alive?”

  “No. But my mother is.”

  “Do you live at home?” Max asked.

  “No.” George said the word as if that would be unseemly for a young man of twenty.

  “I do.” Helen wondered if she would ever say those two words in an environment a little more pompous than a coffee house … like in a flower-filled church, when she wouldn’t ever return to her mother’s house, where she could start to really plan on how many children she wanted in her own home, where the world would open up to an infinity of possibilities.

  “I haven’t told my mother that I was going to seek you out,” George said. “Only Mrs. Clapton knows.”

  “And my mother.” Helen felt like weeping for her mother. That evil, grinning Mrs. Clapton’s need for revenge might open a fissure of shame between Helen and her mother. All this high-minded talk about letting everyone live with the truth didn’t take into account the injuries encountered. The truth could descend on a peaceful family like a swarm of flies or ants at a picnic. There was no telling what might be ruined.

  “How would your mother know we would meet?” George asked. “Don’t cry.”

  Max offered Helen his handkerchief. He glared at George. “See the havoc you’ve wreaked?”

  Their combined sympathy released more of Helen’s tears. “Mrs. Clapton mentioned your name in front of my mother.” Helen felt she was being too cagey to what might be a family member. “Have you met Millicent?”

  “Her scrawny daughter?”

  “Did you know Millicent is quite interested in you?” Max asked.

  “She plans to marry you a year from now.” Helen dried her eyes. “I helped pick out a bridal dress for her.”

  “I’ve never said a word to the child. Mrs. Clapton sought me out at my father’s investment firm.”

  Max pulled out their business card. “The Firm,” didn’t enlighten George. Helen turned the card over so George could read the words. George shook his head. “He that knows least commonly presumes most.” Too much cream in his coffee, Helen could see the caffeine had been neutralized in George’s brain. Max spelled the truth out for him. “Mrs. Clapton hired us to find out if you were a suitable groom for Millicent.”

  Helen added, “I think her motives were more vindictive. My father dated her in high school. Now, after all these years, she’s found a way to get even with my mother by shaming her. Max and I are partners in a detective agency.”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  The Day Before, Which was the First Sunday in May, 2008

  Waterloo Recreation Area

  Rufus, the yellow Irish setter, was making a sloppy mess of the back seat in Sally Bianco’s Honda. Marilyn spread her bulk over the parking brake, as she handed her dog crumbling potato chips from the giant bag resting on her stomach’s bulge.

  Overeaters, Sally reminded herself, were as privy to the Twelve Step Program as alcoholics. “What step are you on in your program?”

  Marilyn struggled with her seatbelt. “I have thirty more hours of community service at the convent. I’m on the first step. God’s knows a drug addict’s life is unmanageable.”

  “I’ve been sober five years, but I needed the retreat to keep me focused.”

  “Don’t you ever graduate?” Marilyn grunted as she leaned forward to replace a gargantuan cup of diet-pop in the car’s holder.

  “I’ll be an alcoholic the rest of my life, so I’ll be a member of AA for that long, too.” The outing up route M50 to Waterloo, just north of I-94, seemed longer than Sally anticipated. “Do you enjoy hiking in the woods?”

  Marilyn remained intent on cramming food in her mouth. “I wish I had a fix right now. It’s the only thing that keeps my weight down. How bad of a drunk were you?”

  “Bad enough.” Sally berated herself for inviting the girl for a ride in the country. Marilyn didn’t seem the type of person to keep confidences. Sally had wanted to take home at least one acquaintance from the recovery retreat. Being magnanimous probably was not a humble enough stance to fit into God’s plan. “Do you have a sponsor?”

  “Sister James Marine said she would sponsor me.”

  “Was Mother Superior an addict?”

  “Of course not. Didn’t you experience her aura of peace?”

  “Your sponsor should be someone familiar with the nature of addictive diseases as well as its spiritual program. How long have you been sober?”

  “Three weeks. No one is more spiritual than Mother Superior. I think she floats instead of walking.” Marilyn laughed and Rufus barked.

  In Chelsea, Sally exited M50 taking I-94 to Pierce Road. At the road’s dead-end, she turned west on the gravel road winding through the state-owned forest. She slowed the car to a crawl past a hunter’s blind on the passenger side of the car, but the field of winter wheat was nude of deer.

  Rufus’ ears pricked up. Sally hoped he wouldn’t bark if they spotted any wildlife. The tree trunks were black from recent rains. Every so often Sally would spot the white petals of cottonwood seeming to float against the ungreen landscape. Marilyn remained unmoved by the obvious approach of spring. The rutted road skirted the gravel pit presenting a bird’s-eye view of an extensive swamp lined with spring’s offering of pussy-willow hedges.

  Sally stopped the car and pointed across Marilyn’s bulk. “Those sand-hill cranes nest here.”

  “They’re the color of deer.” Marilyn said. “Why aren’t they afraid of cars?”

  “No one is allowed to hunt them.” Sally had plied the dirt roads to Seymour Road since 1969, the year she had deserted her tyrant of a first husband. Oaks, maples, dyi
ng elms and pines fought for turf in the deep ravines and rolling hills surrounding the numerous small lakes. The trees soothed her soul with century shadows of unconcern. She drew Marilyn’s attention to the beauty. “God’s glory.”

  “Wasted space.” Marilyn dismissed the scenic drive between mouthfuls of potato chips.

  Easing her Honda into the small picnic site near Mud Lake, Sally pushed down all the automatic window buttons down to listen to the birds singing their hearts out. A flock of Canadian geese flew over to splash, still squabbling, into the lake’s blue expanse. “This place probably hasn’t changed since before Native Americans camped here.”

  “Boring,” Marilyn said.

  Rufus was more appreciative. He licked the window frames as if trying to taste the birds or the beauty. Sally was disappointed this young stranger couldn’t bring herself to enjoy the pleasures offered by nature. As they left the turnabout, they faced freshly planted fields revealing the earth’s gentle slopes. Sally pointed to the village graveyard outside the line of trees. “My friend, Robert Koelz, is buried here. He ran a used bookshop in Jackson before alcohol killed him.”

  “Were any of your friends not alcoholics?”

  Sally laughed. “Most of my new friends don’t have drinking problems.” She continued to drive toward the small town of Waterloo, a collection of houses around a gristmill’s pond.

  “Dr. Whidbey lives out here,” Marilyn said. “Somewhere. I don’t remember her exact address.”

  Sally heard the change of tone in Marilyn’s lie. “I tried to buy a parcel of land, years ago.” Sally hoped she didn’t appear too cagey. “Is Dr. Whidbey one of the doctors involved?”

  “No. No.” Marilyn grabbed her drink. “She’s my addiction shrink.”

  Probably not. Sally decided not to directly pursue the subject. “I couldn’t afford the forty grand they wanted for a lot the size of half a football field. Can you imagine?”

  “Too far from civilization for me.” Marilyn replaced her empty cup. “They probably can’t even get cable out here, or a pizza delivered. I thought you said Rufus could walk around some lake?”

  “Portage Lake.” Sally thanked God in her heart. “We’re almost there.”

  After they arrived, Sally watched Rufus trot down the Portage Lake path to his tall, sturdy owner, who scratched his ears.

  Sally was tired of waltzing around the woods with Rufus interfering with every step. She repeated one of AA’s ‘Just for Today’ slogans to herself to keep calm. “I will adjust myself to what is, and not try to adjust everything to my own desires. I will take my luck as it comes, and fit myself to it.” At least, Sally smiled to herself, memorizing all the advice in the AA program kept her mind sharp.

  Marilyn did not re-attach the leash on her dog. “I’ve kept in contact with two of the doctors.”

  “Why?” Sally had not lost interest in the case.

  “The Bible. I memorized two verses in Ezekiel, Chapter 38, ‘Thus saith the Lord God: It shall come to pass that at the same time shall things come into thy mind, and thou shalt think an evil thought. And thou shall say, I will go to them that are at rest, that dwell safely: to take a spoil, and to take a prey; to turn thine hand upon the desolate places and upon the people.’”

  Sally wiped her eyes. Marilyn was standing with her back to the sun. Sally’s cataract made her eyes water and caused Marilyn’s face to appear black. Sally tilted her head to see better.

  A flash in the woods, up the hill from where she stood, caught her attention. A large buck moved in the sunlight. Shimmering foliage draped his shoulders in a mirage of cottonwood flowers as he strutted away into brighter sun. Sally tried to point him out to Marilyn, who had finished quoting scripture to justify her immoral actions.

  “My drug habit requires the doctors’ prescriptions and financing.” Marilyn placed one fat finger on her top lip. “Hush money, you know.”

  Sally took her car keys out of her pocket. She started back down the trail to her car. This trip was ended as far as she was concerned. Blackmailers were not endearing companions.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  First Tuesday in May, 2008

  The Firm

  Helen opened her drenched umbrella once she was safely within the reception area of the office.

  “Bad luck,” her dad said, “to open an umbrella inside.”

  “It will get moldy, if I don’t let it air out.” Helen clapped her dad’s shoulder as she passed behind the automated reception counter. “Any word from Sally Bianco?”

  “None. Max is already here this morning.”

  Why Max was changing his habits. Arriving before noon, driving his own car. She knocked on his office door. Opened it to say good morning. “What’s up?”

  Max turned toward her. His handsome face seemed aged.

  Emotions clamped Helen’s throat shut. She quietly amended her question. “What’s wrong?”

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  “What’s going to be right, ever again?” Max struggled to get control of his face. His emotions were bouncing off the ceiling, caving in his chest. God help me? He hadn’t prayed in earnest since he left the desert in Iraq.

  The day before when they found Anita Brent wasn’t home, Max had dropped Helen off at her home in Burns Park before he headed for his studio apartment. Next to the north-facing windows, Maybell was painting a yellow barn on a huge canvass. He couldn’t help smiling at the silly lopsided thing.

  She returned his grin. Max wondered why Anita’s husband fixated on his wife’s teeth. Maybell’s couldn’t be any whiter than the wife of the strange bloke. “How lucky was I to convince you to take a key to the place last month? Would you believe I think it’s nice to have a woman around?”

  Maybell wiped off a spot of yellow paint from her palm. Her bracelets jangled enticingly. “I thought we might hit the sheets again.”

  “Do you mean hit the deck?” Max was in no hurry. “Don’t sailors say ‘hit the deck?’” Maybe she’d fix a potpie for supper again. Not only was she a blonde doll, she cooked.

  “I thought you were in the army.” Maybell had a way of sidling up to him leaving Max without any defenses.

  After Maybell had worn him out and served him a cup of soup in bed, she let him know her big news. “I passed the pregnancy test this morning.”

  Max sat up too quickly. Tomato soup spilled on the sheets. Maybe the news made his hand shake. He placed the offending cup on the bedside table, then pulled her down next to him. But, Maybell sat up and swung her knees over the edge of the bed. She wiggled her green painted toenails. Max wrapped his arms around her small waist to steady himself. He nudged his head into her lap. She ran her fingers through his curls and looked down at his upturned face. So, he asked, “Now we have to move up our wedding date?”

  “I thought you knew.” When she cradled his ears, her bracelets clanked.

  “Knew what?” Max asked, wanting to nuzzle her breasts again.

  “I’m already married.”

  Max moved his head to the pillow at the head of the bed. No rings, repeated over and over in his awe-struck brain. Maybell snuggled beside him. Max tried to calm down, rationalize the effects of this new reality. She was temporarily married. “Divorces don’t take long, do they?” Something was terribly wrong here. Evil, disloyal thoughts tempted him. “Why don’t you wear rings? Didn’t you say your hands swelled?”

  “A lie.” She nodded, as the truth swept over him.

  “The baby?” Max didn’t recognize his voice. He felt as if he’d been punched out. The feeling was similar to shocks of noise and blasts from shells falling too close. He rubbed his stinging eyes from Iraq’s thrown sand.

  “The baby,” Maybell was saying, “needs a good home. My husband can provide everything.” She smiled again, licking her glistening teeth. “He’ll think it’s his. You don’t want to make trouble.”

  Max placed his hands over his head, pushing them hard against the wall. He had never struck a woman in his life.
Not like his father. “Didn’t you know I loved you?” He heard the pitiful whine in his voice. Max remembered the client, Mr. Brent, with the diamond stud in his red tie. Mr. Brent’s voice pleaded in that same sickening, unmanly pitch.

  “That’s what makes it so nice.” Maybell knelt astride him. “I’ll be raising our love child.”

  Max’s mind couldn’t take it all in. His crowning glory, the beautiful lover he intended to make a permanent joy in his life, tricked him into fathering a child for another man. She used him the way he used women. She didn’t care if the rest of his life was ruined. She got what she wanted: a child and all the money she needed from her husband. Max couldn’t recall what color Mr. Brent said his wife’s hair was. “Anita?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she responded from somewhere near his hip.

  ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦

  At the firm, Helen moved quietly to stand behind Max’s desk chair. She stroked his hair. “Maybell?” She watched the six-foot-five, iron man who only yesterday adhered to romantic principles, dissolve into a broken-hearted boy.

  “Gone?” Max asked, with despair in his tone. A surge of anger or pride straightened his spine. “Gone, with my child in her belly?”

  Helen felt her knees give way. Max swung the chair around in time to catch her from falling. He embraced her, drew her to his lap. Helen kissed the side of his cheek. “I’m so sorry.”

  Max briskly pushed her to a standing position. “What did you do? Can’t you see, I’m the idiot?”

  “She’s wrong to use you.”

  “Sound like any jerk you knew in the past?”

  “But you’ve changed.” Helen wanted to keep alive the sweet, openhearted man who only yesterday made her sound cynical in comparison to his dreams.

  “Can people really change?” Max pounded the arms of his chair with his fists.

  Helen retreated to the business side of his desk. She dropped into the nearest client chair. “Emotions are so exhausting.”