by Sally John
“Every good boy wants to be a bad guy. You should know that, Officer.”
“But what makes them want to? I can never understand that part.”
He didn’t reply.
She placed another butterfly tape across his cut. “If these don’t hold, you better see a doctor in the morning. A couple stitches might be necessary.”
“My dad is a putz. Felicia’s cheating on me. NBC hired someone else.”
She unwrapped a large bandage. “So what you’re saying is other people’s behavior makes you want to be a bad guy?”
“I’m not blaming them. That stuff simply proves good guys don’t win. Why should I bother?”
“Because the world needs more good guys, especially ones in the public arena.” She pressed the bandage into place. “There. You really should let the air get to it tomorrow, but keep it covered for now. My EMT skills are not the greatest. It’ll probably all fall apart and gangrene will set in.”
He chuckled. “Thanks anyway.”
“Sure.” She gathered the wrappings, closed up the first-aid kit, and peeled off her gloves. “Trash can?”
“Under the sink.”
She deposited the trash and returned the kit to its proper place. “Okay, as promised, I will leave now.”
He followed her to the door. “What’s your name again?”
“Delgado.”
“You’re Latino.”
He didn’t need a name to go with her appearance to figure that one out.
A lifetime of hearing racial references had tuned Rosie’s ear to nuance. She discerned tones. Erik Beaumont’s carried a hint of surprise, as if her heritage precluded her role as a cop.
No problem.
No problem if she gave herself to the count of five.
She started counting.
It stung. It always did. But she recalled her parents’ admonition, drilled into her psyche from an early age. She didn’t have to let someone else’s prejudice define her.
Five.
“Latina.” Rosie winked. “Got my green card and everything. See you.”
He held up his injured hand and smiled. “DUI and medical attention. Let’s hope you don’t see me again.”
“Amen to that.” She opened the door. “Good night.”
“Good night.”
He shut the door behind her.
A few yards down the hall, she halted and turned to gaze at his door. Several deep breaths later, the stomp dance going on in her chest finally slowed.
“Lord,” she spoke aloud, “he’s a prig. A first-class prig. You’re going to have to get somebody else.”
Nine
Lexi lifted her brush from the canvas and stepped back several paces to study the painting. Full orchestral music rebounded off the walls, some high-velocity piece with the words “fire” and “dance” in its title.
The recomposed rhinoceros was thinner than the first one. Emaciated even, with countable ribs. Nothing at all like the real animal in the photo she’d snapped.
She didn’t often stray quite so far from the photos. It forced her to create out of thin air and taxed her limited abilities. She lost balance in the process. Cohesiveness.
Blame Kevin.
Blame Danny.
Blame Max.
Blame Zak.
Mostly blame Zak.
In the week and a half since Kevin shipped out, she had come to terms with her brother-in-law’s exit. The wedge Danny had driven between himself and her would go the way of a lifetime of spats, its intensity fading. She doubted that Max’s uncharacteristic display of fatherly concern would be repeated.
Life went on. Grateful for a break from family, she buried herself in landscape work by day, painting by night, and wishing Zak would call.
He had, that morning. Sort of. He texted a message to her cell phone. “Dinner, our beach, six p.m.?” Her workday pretty much ended at that point. She left the office early, changed into sweats, and jogged off the tension.
“Their” beach was a stretch in Solana, the midway point on the freeway between their homes. Dinner would be at a casual hamburger place. Nothing all that special. Nothing worthy of “date” status.
Still, Zak had contacted her. He wanted to see her.
Dinner never happened. He greeted Lexi in an exasperated tone, something along the lines of, “You’re going to jog yourself to death, and, oh, by the way, Abbey the ex doesn’t want me to see you. She knows you saved my life. She’s just a little insecure.”
It was all civil, all shrugs and yeah, sure, she understood. No problemo.
In the hours since then she had consumed enough carrots to feed an army of rabbits for a week and lost herself in reconstructing the rhinoceros.
Now she dabbed her brush on the palette, into a glob of charcoal-gray paint, and wondered how many ribs a rhino had.
Through the pounding music, she became aware of a tiny voice.
She cocked her head, listening.
“Pick up the phone!” Danny. His muted shout came from the answering machine in the other room. The phone ringer was turned off, explaining why she hadn’t heard it.
She set down the brush and hurried from the studio, twisting the volume knob to low as she passed the CD player.
“Lexi!”
“Okay, okay, I’m coming.” In the living room, she picked up the cordless phone. “What?”
“Turn on the news!”
Erik. Her stomach twisted into a knot. “What’s wrong?” She lunged for the remote next to the television and turned it on.
“He’s going to flip out this time. Is he still on the air? I’m getting in my car.”
“Just a sec. It’s coming on. What’s wrong?”
“Just listen. I’m heading to the studio.”
The familiar image of Erik and Felicia filled the screen. “He looks okay.”
“Listen to his voice.”
“Felicia’s talking.”
“They should keep her talking and get him off.”
“Shh.”
The “Darling Duo of Newscasts”—as they’d been dubbed in a local magazine article—was engaged in casual banter, segueing from one report to another.
“Well, Felicia,” Erik was saying, “as you know . . .”
Lexi said, “He just called her ‘Flee-sha.’ His smile is goofy. Now he’s got his elbow on the desk. He’s about buried his chin in his bandaged hand, like if he doesn’t hold up his head, it’ll fall off.”
Danny groaned. “They’re not cutting to a commercial, are they? They are going to let him make a complete fool of himself.”
“Great for the ratings.”
Danny swore under his breath.
Her twin never swore.
“Lex, meet me at the studio as soon as you can. We gotta get him out of there.”
“Okay.”
Danny broke the connection.
Mesmerized, Lexi remained in front of the television. It was obvious that Erik was feeling no pain. But as usual, he projected the charm that was second nature to him. Maybe the general public would not notice.
Felicia noticed, though. Her complexion flushed. She interrupted Erik again and again. She stuttered.
“Erik!” she said at last in a loud, strident voice. “It’s time for a commercial break!”
“Right you are, Flee-sha. Stay tuned, folks.” The camera picked
up a full-face shot of him, his eyes all but closed, his mouth a grim line. “Next segment, we’ll learn exactly how long Ms. Matthews has been two-timing me.”
At last, a commercial replaced the newsroom.
The entire thing took less than three minutes.
Wow. One could commit professional suicide in the blink of an eye.
Ten
Ouch.” Rosie cringed at the television.
From his recliner, her father grunted. “I think my hearing is going bad.”
“No, it’s not, Papi.” She muted the volume. “Erik Beaumont really did say what you heard.”
She wasn’t about to answer. The less he heard about her work, the better.
He plopped down on the ottoman next to her. “You think he was digging in his garden?” He snorted a noise of disbelief. “He does not have the look of a man who digs dirt or scrubs his kitchen sink or cooks his own food. No, he injured his hand while up to no good.”
Rosie knew her dad was a smart cookie, but sometimes she was truly surprised at his ability to read people.
“Rosita.” He leaned forward until his forehead nearly touched hers, locking eyes with her. “Why do you come on your nights off and watch him on my television?”
Several replies sprang to mind. In the first place, to be with her father, of course. She spent much of her time off with him. She helped out at his restaurant, waiting tables or prepping food. She made sure he got home at a decent hour for a sixty-five year old. His capable manager did not need Esteban hovering until closing time.
And then there was the fact that she didn’t own a television.
But something told her he would dismiss those . . . excuses.
She cleared her throat. “I’m praying for him.”
Esteban sat up straight. “Ah!” he said in disgust.
“God told me to.”
“You are crazy.”
She grinned, waiting for what always followed.
“Just like your madre. Ah!”
“Thanks.”
He shook his head. “Why don’t you find a nice boyfriend and go out more?”
“I go out plenty.”
“With police people.”
“So? They’re my friends, and they’re nice.”
“The ones you mention are all married.”
“Their spouses are my friends too.”
“You are lonely.”
“Papi! I am not. Stop worrying.”
“This Erik Beaumont reminds me of”—if thunder had a physical expression, it would look like what came over her dad’s face—“Ryan Taylor.”
“Nah. No way. Taylor had blue eyes.”
“Do not make jokes about this. Ryan Taylor was evil. So is Erik Beaumont.”
“Papi, yes, Taylor was evil. I fell for his blue eyes and his lies, and I never prayed for his soul. Beaumont is a stranger toward whom I am not in the least bit attracted. It’s only when the news comes on that I’m reminded of him.” And when I take domestic disturbance calls to his condo. But that wasn’t the point.
“This is true?” he asked.
“It is true.”
He kissed her forehead. “My heart is heavy. You need a good man.”
“I have you.”
He chuckled. “Te amo, mija.”
His term of endearment always warmed her. “Te amo, Papi.”
“Good night. Be careful going home.” He left the room.
Rosie stared at the muted television. The weatherman and sportscaster now sat in the chairs usually occupied by Beaumont and Matthews. They appeared harried and uncertain.
She wondered why Beaumont had been left on air so long. It was obvious from the start of the program that he was not quite sober. He must have the entire staff wrapped around his little finger, else how in the world did he get on the set in the first place?
Unless the powers that be wanted him there because they needed a reason to fire him.
Oh, well! It wasn’t her problem. He wasn’t her problem. If he got fired, then she wouldn’t have to watch him anymore. She wouldn’t have to think about praying for him.
Except when she couldn’t get him out of her mind.
Like now, when he wasn’t on the screen in front of her.
“Aw, nuts, Lord. Please take care of him. Let him be fired or not. Whatever. Whatever will open his heart to Your divine love and mercy. Amen.”
Eleven
Mom!” Jenna’s voice pierced through the phone line.
“Hi.” Claire clicked off the television and wrapped an afghan more tightly about herself.
“Did you see him?” her daughter cried.
“Yes, I—”
“Erik’s life is ruined! What are we going to do?”
“Oh, honey.”
“It is!”
On any normal day Jenna’s emotional outbursts were over the top. It was her personality. Since Kevin’s departure, though, she’d been hitting the stratosphere on a regular basis.
“Now listen to me, Jenna. First off, we’re going to pray.”
“You sound more like Nana every day!” Jenna’s words were not a compliment.
“Well, what can I say? Prayer works. The fact that your father and I are not divorced is proof that God exists and He wants the best for us.”
“Erik doesn’t believe that.”
“It doesn’t matter. Do you know how long your Nana and Papa prayed for us before we really believed that? A long time. So first off, prayer. Second—” An image of Erik came to mind, of his pathetic effort on television to function normally. Claire’s throat constricted.
Her eldest was plunging headfirst down a slippery slide. Most likely he had already hit the low levels of alcoholism and job loss. What was next? Jail? Homelessness? The gutter?
“Mom!”
“Hm?” The word was more a cry of despair than a question.
“You said ‘second.’”
She took a quick breath. “Right. Second. Second, we cry.”
“Oh, Mom!”
Claire grabbed a tissue from a nearby box and pressed it to her face. She and Jenna did not speak for several moments.
“Mom, where’s Dad?”
She blew her nose. “Outside, walking off . . . whatever.”
“He talked to Erik, right?”
“Tonight?”
“No, I mean the day Kevin left, Dad came over and apologized for . . . for stuff. I figured he met with Erik too.”
“Yes, he talked with all of you. Why?”
“It did a number on me, Mom. I mean, it was, like, whammo! All of a sudden Dad’s nearly in tears, apologizing for missing my piano recitals three lifetimes ago. I told him he was crazy and who needed to talk about that? Then he made me realize he was serious, and he really needed me to listen. I reminded him that he always apologized when he didn’t show up for something or was late, like to my wedding rehearsal. My reaction was always to tell him where to get off. Then he’d threaten to wash my mouth out with soap. In the end, we’d make up.”
Claire couldn’t help but smile. Dramatic and mouthy traits served Jenna well when it came to her relationship with Max. She usually didn’t bury her anger or her hurts.
Jenna went on. “Dad said he just wanted to clear the air once and for all. So I said there was nothing to forgive, and asked him when he’d joined AA. He kind of laughed and said the steps were good even if alcohol wasn’t involved. We talked about him starting his own group: Absentees Anonymous.”
Claire blew her nose. Hearing Jenna’s version of their conversation tore off a corner of the scab again. Would the wound ever completely heal? When the kids were little, she had made excuses for their dad’s absence, for his seeming lack of interest in their lives. She should have confronted him and let the chips fall. By not being real herself, she had handicapped her babies.
“Mom, you asked me for forgiveness, too, last fall. I didn’t get it then. I still don’t. But I guess you both need to hear it, so okay: I forgive you and I forgive Dad for not being perfect. All right?”
Claire nodded, as if Jenna could see her. “All right.”
“And I take full responsibility for my actions from here on out. I won’t blame either one of you if I’m unhappy or do something majorly stupid.”
“Honey, that’s a mature attitude.”
“I just don’t want to sound like my students. All day long they gripe about whose fau
lt it is they didn’t do their homework. Anyway, the reason I asked about Erik is I’m wondering: how did he respond to Dad?”
“I’d rather you talked to your dad than hear my secondhand rendition.”
“The thing is, was he upset? I mean, I was upset. It’s just so emotional, you know? Erik doesn’t do emotion. Lexi doesn’t do emotion. Danny expresses it and probably handled Dad’s whammo better than I did.”
Claire nodded again. Jenna’s opinion of her siblings mirrored Max’s report. Lexi and Erik had blown him off. Danny emoted, quickly offering forgiveness to the dad he’d nearly idolized since childhood.
Jenna said, “My guess is Erik is upset and that’s why he did this tonight. He’s working it out. And if what he said about Felicia is true, there’s a double whammo.”
“Do you think she would?”
“Cheat on him? In a heartbeat. She’s a— Well, never mind. So what are we going to do, Mom? Besides pray and cry?”
“Love on him.”
“How do we do that?”
Claire looked around the room. The kitchen was large. She sat on a couch at one end of it, near a fireplace, dining table, and television. One wall was part of the original chapel in the more than one-hundred-year-old adobe building. It still displayed her mother-in-law’s collection of crosses, a constant reminder of God’s faithfulness.
She thought of the hacienda, of how it had suffused her with warmth and hope the first time Max took her there to meet his parents. She didn’t have words for it until many years later. The place had been her safe harbor. People who came for retreats found it so. In recent weeks she could see how, at last, it was becoming the same for Max. It had been for her children as well, especially when they were little. Could it offer safety to them now?
“Jen, one of the guest rooms is almost finished. In another week or so, a second one should be done. Maybe . . .” Oh Lord, please? “Maybe it’s time for a family retreat here. A weekend thing. Everyone would have a place to sleep. What do you think?”
“I think I’d be the only one who’d come.”
Claire grabbed another tissue. What happened to the good old days when they all pretended life was just fine?
Twelve
Lexi entered the television studio not long after Danny. Via cell phone, he directed her to the producer’s office and told her to ignore the closed door.