“Father,” she said in a low voice as she held the baby out to him, “I’d like you to meet your grandson.”
33
Hard Questions
March 21, 1993
He died?” Little Am protested, sniffing loudly and reaching for a tissue. “Harper died without ever seeing his baby grow up?” She frowned and shook her head. “That’s not fair, Grandam. I’m beginning to hate this story.”
Amethyst gazed at her namesake and gave a little chuckle. “Life is rarely fair, child. And it’s not a novel or a movie, where you can write the ending to suit yourself. The good Lord knows that if I had been creating this plot, I would have let my dear Harper live to a hale and hearty old age. But yes, he died. On January 14, 1928, I placed Conrad on his chest, held both of them in my arms, and committed my husband to God’s keeping.”
“Weren’t you mad, Grandam? I mean, really furious?”
“At whom?”
“At God, of course, for taking him away. God could have healed him.”
“Yes, I suppose you’re right. But the miracles we get in life aren’t always the miracles we hope for. I was angry at first, certainly—at God, and at Harper, for leaving me. It’s part of the process of grief. Eventually the anger subsided, the pain lessened, and I went on with my life.”
Little Am dried her tears and gazed at her great-grandmother. “Did you ever get over him? I’ve heard that you never get over your first love.”
“When love is real, you don’t ’get over it’ at all,” Amethyst answered with a smile. “It stays with you forever, expanding your heart and enabling you to love others more deeply. Love is a gift, child, a grace.”
Amethyst watched while her great-granddaughter pondered the words. She was too young to understand; she hadn’t yet met someone who would enrich her life the way Harper had enriched hers. But her time would come, and when it did, Amethyst prayed that she would choose wisely.
“So,” the girl continued, “Con never really knew his father. That explains a lot.”
“Yes, I suppose it does,” Amethyst mused. “But it doesn’t explain everything. Conrad grew up—well, strangely. From the time he was old enough to understand, I made sure he knew all about Harper—what kind of man he was, what kind of principles he stood for.”
“But it didn’t take,” Little Am said bluntly. “Grandpa didn’t turn out to be anything like his father. He turned out more like . . . well, like his grandfather, Abe. Or Avery. Or whatever he called himself.”
Amethyst felt herself wince. It was true, although she didn’t want to admit it so boldly Still, the girl was bright and perceptive, and she deserved to know the whole truth. “Yes,” Amethyst said at last, “I guess Con did turn out to be more like his grandfather than like Harper.”
“Did Abe stick around?” Am lifted her lip in a sneer as she uttered the name. Clearly she didn’t like what she had heard about her great-greatgrandfather, and Amethyst couldn’t blame her. “Or did he pull his vanishing act again?”
“My father lived with us until the day he died,” she answered quietly. “Eight years after Harper went.”
“And you let him?” Little Am narrowed her eyes. “I can’t believe it, Grandam. That man was poison!”
“Perhaps,” Amethyst conceded. “But he was ill and unable to care for himself any longer. And he was also my father.”
“By ’ill,’ you mean he drank himself to death.”
“I’m afraid so. He needed care, and I was the only one left to give it.”
Little Am peered into Amethyst’s eyes. “But you wish you hadn’t.”
Amethyst shook her head. The girl was much too precocious for her age. But she had started down this path, and she would tell the truth, even if it wasn’t a truth she particularly cared to revisit.
“Conrad adored his grandfather. From the time he was old enough to exert his own will, he spent every available moment with the man. At first I thought it was a good idea—a fatherly influence, you know Con wouldn’t have a thing to do with Enoch Warren, and there were no other men in my life close enough to fill that role. Then he began repeating stories his grandfather told him—he thought Abe’s tales about drinking and gambling were exciting and adventurous. He also began picking up on Abe’s negative and demeaning attitudes toward women.”
“So that’s where he got it,” Am muttered.
Amethyst shrugged. “I’m afraid so. Anyway, I tried to counter Abe’s influence by telling Conrad about his own father, what a good and gentle man he was, how loving, and how righteous.”
“I’ll bet that had about as much effect as a snowflake in—”
Amethyst held up a hand. “I get your point. And you’re right, although I’m not thrilled about your choice of images.”
“Sorry, Grandam. Go on, please.”
“By the time Conrad was six or seven, he had become the image of his grandfather, despite my best efforts. He got it into his head that the freewheeling life of a gambler was the most glamorous occupation on earth. He picked up the most awful language, too, and although he learned pretty quickly never to use it in my presence, I knew it was still part of his vocabulary. He couldn’t seem to grasp concepts like honor and dignity and truthfulness, but he hung on his grandfather’s every word. When people asked what he wanted to be when he grew up, he’d say, ’A blackjack dealer,’ and laugh.”
“That must have been embarrassing.”
“I wasn’t concerned so much about my own embarrassment as about my son’s mind and heart. I tried to talk to my father about it, but he wouldn’t listen, either. Stubborn as mules, both of them.”
Little Am nodded gravely. “That sure hasn’t changed. Grandpa Con quit drinking, but some of the other stuff he learned from Abe has obviously stayed with him.” She bit her lip and sighed. “Do you wish you had done things differently—told Abe to hit the road, for example?”
Amethyst thought about the question she had asked herself a thousand times. “Sometimes I do, to tell the truth. But I was torn between loyalties—my son on one side and my father on the other. I felt as if I had a duty to my father, even though he had abdicated his responsibility to me years before.”
“And if you were choosing now?”
Amethyst didn’t hesitate. “I would choose my son.”
That night, in the quietness of the big house, Amethyst found herself unable to sleep. Her conversation with Little Am replayed in her mind, and a familiar anguish washed over her.
Could she have done better at protecting Conrad from his grandfather’s negative influence? She might have refused to care for her father—thrown him out on his own, abandoned him as he had abandoned her and her mother. He certainly deserved it. Still, Amethyst had learned over the course of nine decades that a person reaped more spiritual dividends by offering grace than by exacting justice.
Her father had, in the end, asked her forgiveness. Amethyst had never been sure of his motives—by then he was dying, and he knew the end was near. But the damage to Conrad had been done. The boy had embraced the worldly legacy of his grandfather rather than the spiritual heritage of his parents.
She sighed and turned over, pulling the comforter around her shoulders. When all was said and done, she supposed, you simply had to trust God—both with your own life and the lives of those you loved. In this world there weren’t even any easy questions, much less easy answers.
34
Round Three
March 22, 1993
Conrad looked around Judge Tweety Bird’s office and fiddled with his watch. She was playing the waiting game again, and he didn’t like it one bit.
“Honey, stop fidgeting.”
Conrad glared at Mimsy The leather band of his new watch cut into his wrist, reminding him with every pinch how much he missed the satiny gold of the Rolex. He hadn’t gotten a quarter of what it was worth, but selling it and the Mercedes had bought him a little time. He had lied to Mimsy, too, telling her that the Mercedes was beginning to develop
transmission trouble and that a mugger at Mud Island had stolen his watch.
He didn’t feel guilty about the lies, just mildly disgusted that his wife would accept such a stupid story so readily. She didn’t think to ask why the mugger hadn’t taken his wallet and credit cards, or why he hadn’t simply gotten the transmission fixed. She just swallowed it all and gave him a day’s worth of sickeningly sweet consolation over his losses.
If she only knew. The clock was ticking down—Mario had called twice yesterday, and one of the clients whose money he had borrowed had been after him about the pension account. Conrad had actually put the client on hold, disconnected him, and then unplugged the telephone so it would look as if he were having trouble on the line. What would he stoop to next?
A phrase came back to him from deep in the recesses of his memory, some poem an English teacher had crammed down his throat years ago: “I choose never to stoop.” He couldn’t remember the poet or the context, but it was a sentiment that appealed to him. If Judge Dove would just get off her honorific behind and get this situation dealt with, he would never have to stoop again.
The door opened and Her Honor entered the room.
“I see you’re here bright and early, Mr. Wainwright,” she said as she rolled her leather chair into place behind the desk. “With good news for me, I hope.”
“I’m afraid not, Your Honor,” Conrad answered. “I spoke with my mother and tried to reason with her, but she is simply not capable of rational response. She is still holding my granddaughter hostage, and—”
“I wouldn’t exactly call it hostage, Con,” Mimsy interrupted. “Little Am is being well cared for and actually seems to be enjoying herself.”
Con leveled an acid glance at his wife and then turned back to the judge. “I believe that time is of the essence here, Your Honor. There’s no telling what my mother might do if she goes into one of her . . . ah, spells.”
“Spells?” Mimsy squealed. “What in heaven’s name are you talking about, Con? Amethyst has never had a spell of any kind in her entire life.”
“Whose side are you on?” he whispered under his breath.
“Why, yours, of course,” she responded, tempering her tone to match his. “I’m just trying to help.”
“Well, don’t help. Just keep quiet.”
The judge pulled her glasses down her nose and stared at Conrad. “Mr. Wainwright, you say you’ve attempted to reason with your mother. Precisely how many times in the past week have you spoken with her?”
Conrad squirmed. “Ah . . . several, Your Honor.”
“Several. As in five or six?”
“Not quite that many times.” Con coughed loudly and cleared his throat.
“Three times? Four? A number, please.”
Conrad lowered his eyes and fought to keep his composure. Male bashing, that’s what it was. Give a woman power, and she’d use it against a man every time. It was something in their nature, like a praying mantis eating her mate before the act was even completed. Judge Harriet Dove might as well have skewered him onto a spit and lit the fire.
“Mr. Wainwright? I’m waiting.”
“One,” he mumbled.
“Speak up, if you please. Did you say ’one’?”
You heard me just fine the first time, he thought, but he didn’t say it. “One, Your Honor.”
“You spoke to your mother once.”
“Yes, Your Honor.” Entirely against his will, the yes came out with a vicious hissing noise, like the sound a snake makes as it prepares to strike. The hostility and disdain he had been trying to hide were not lost on the judge.
“You will keep a lid on your temper in this room,” she commanded curtly. It reminded him of something his mother used to say to him as a child: “You will not speak to me in that tone of voice.”
“Yes ma’am.” There it was again, that sarcasm he was trying so hard to curb.
“You are an attorney, is that correct, Mr. Wainwright?”
“That is correct.”
“Then I assume you know I can slap you with a contempt citation before you can blink twice.”
Conrad felt a hot flush creeping up his neck and into his ears. “Yes, Your Honor.”
“I’d advise you to watch yourself. I wouldn’t think twice about doling out a hefty fine and a week in the county jail.”
Mimsy leaned in and put a hand on Conrad’s arm. He flinched at the touch, but suppressed the desire to jerk his elbow away. “Why is she so mad at you?”
She’s not mad; she’s enjoying herself, Conrad wanted to retort. But he couldn’t risk saying that or any of the other uncomplimentary words that came to mind to describe Judge Dove.
Her Honor let out an exaggerated sigh. “All right, Mr. Wainwright. I’ll be perfectly honest with you. I despise what you’re doing here, and I strongly suspect you are not being completely candid with this court. But nevertheless, I have in front of me a motion to declare Amethyst Noble incompetent, and much as I would like to throw you and your motion out onto the sidewalk on your respective derriéres, I cannot ignore my responsibility under the law.”
A lightning flash of hope struck in Conrad’s heart. “You’re going to sign it?”
“Not so fast. I will sign nothing until I hear from all parties involved, face to face. I’m issuing an order for Amethyst Noble to appear before me in these chambers on Friday at 5:00 P.M. And I want your granddaughter present for the proceedings as well. What’s her name?”
“We call her Little Am,” Mimsy piped up. “She’s named Amethyst, after her great-grandmother.”
“Certainly not my choice,” Con muttered.
The judge ignored him. “Little Am.”
Con jerked to attention. “But Judge, you don’t really want to see her. I swear you don’t.”
“And why not?”
“She’s—well, she’s just a child. A teenager. She doesn’t know what’s good for her. She dresses all in black, with this ghastly white makeup, and—”
“How old is your granddaughter, Mr. Wainwright?”
“Seventeen. There’s no telling what she might say or do, Judge.”
“Is she mentally ill? On drugs? Unable to speak for herself?”
“No, Your Honor. At least I don’t think so.”
“Then she will appear before me. And that’s final.” Judge Dove signed the order and slid it across the table for his inspection.
Conrad picked it up and scanned it. “Does it have to be Friday?”
“Too soon for you?” The judge gave him a sly smile and held out her hand. “I can make it two weeks from Monday.”
“No, uh, Friday’s fine.” He handed the order back to her.
“I’ll have the sheriff serve the order, then. And I’ll see you back here on Friday. Five o’clock. And don’t be late.” The judge got up from the chair and placed her hands squarely on her desk.
“And Mr. Wainwright?”
“Yes, Your Honor?”
“Let’s let our little meeting on Friday be the end of this, all right?”
I can only hope, Conrad thought as he gave the judge an affirmative nod. Or it may be the end of me.
“Well, well,” Amethyst mused as she held the judge’s order out for Little Am to inspect. “Looks like you and I will get our day in court.”
Am took the paper and perused it. “A woman judge. Cool.” She folded it up and handed it back to Amethyst. “You sure you’re okay with this, Grandam?”
Amethyst nodded. “My own son wants to have me declared incompetent, take my house, and have me committed to a nursing home for the rest of my days. What do you think I should do about it, child?”
Little Am cocked her head. “I think you should fight like—” She paused and grinned. “Like crazy”
“Then we go before Judge Dove on Friday.”
“Yeah, but why does she want to talk to me?” Am countered. “I’m just a teenager.”
“You don’t think a judge would be interested in what a teenager h
as to say?”
“Why should she be? Nobody else is.”
Amethyst smiled and laid a hand on the girl’s cheek. To her delight, Little Am didn’t flinch or move away, but leaned into the caress as if hungry for a loving human touch. “I’m interested, child.”
Little Am ducked her head sheepishly. “I know you are, Grandam. At least I do now. This time last week I wouldn’t have been so sure.”
The affirmation warmed Amethyst’s heart. They had come a long way during their week together. “Now, I have no idea what kinds of questions Judge Dove will ask you,” Amethyst went on, “but I have one for you.”
“Fire away”
“What do you want to do?”
“About what?”
Amethyst sighed. “You don’t have to stay with me until Friday. You’ve been here a week already. I know you probably miss your friends, and the mall, and whatever it is you do when you’re not in school. What do you do, anyway?”
“You probably don’t want to know” Am grimaced. “But some of it I won’t be doing anymore.”
“All righty, then,” Amethyst said, employing one of Am’s favorite phrases. “I guess we won’t pursue that line of discussion. But if you want to leave, go back home, I won’t ask you to stay. You have a life apart from your ancient great-grandmother, and—”
Amethyst stopped suddenly as Little Am’s face sagged into a mask of dejection. “You don’t want me to stay?”
The tone was plaintive, like the cry of an abandoned child—a feeling Amethyst remembered vividly, even after nearly eighty years. “Of course I want you to stay,” she amended. “I just don’t want you to feel obligated.”
The girl’s expression brightened, and she sat down on the hassock and motioned Amethyst into the chair by the fireplace. “Hey, I have to go back to school in a week anyway. I can wait a few more days to find out whatever’s been happening while I’ve been gone. Now, where were we?”
Amethyst gazed with love and astonishment at the young girl who bore her name. Was this the same child who came to her door a week ago looking like a ghoul and skulking around with a chip on her shoulder? “You want more of the story?”
The Amethyst Heart Page 27