Verdict in the Desert

by Patricia Santos Marcantonio

Aside from his excessive drinking, Michael had everything Jenny wanted in a man—looks and charm and bountiful prospects. His affluent family was more than a bonus. While he looked like a leading man in a movie, Michael had never been the romantic type and didn’t fawn over her with compliments or gifts. Instead, he joked a lot and almost treated her like a buddy. She could live with that. Her expectations for the brightest of marriages, however, started to disintegrate two nights before their wedding. At her apartment she planned to seduce Michael and get pregnant. As her mother often commented about real estate, Jenny wanted to close the deal. In her mother’s image, she had come to view the act as a tool to get what she wanted.

  After pouring more than a few glasses of his favorite whiskey, she had taken off her clothes and drawn him to her, but Michael stepped back and produced one of those humiliating rubber things from his pocket. “I don’t want any kids, Jenny. I’m sorry,” he had said. She told him she felt a headache coming on and got dressed.

  Their ceremony and reception was glorious, mostly because his father paid for it and Michael didn’t pass out from drinking. On the flight to Acapulco for their honeymoon, she convinced herself that marriage would change his mind about kids. In the hotel room, she slipped out of her expensive negligee and into bed, but he again wore the artificial skin. Afterward, he didn’t talk about their life together. He went to sleep. Over the years, his lovemaking became less frequently and he approached it like a chore. He would put on the rubber and get on top of her. He couldn’t mask his sighs.

  For the last month or so, Michael hadn’t touched her. Jenny tried to understand his work, but all those papers and writs she found dull. She didn’t understand half the stuff he talked about. She didn’t understand him.

  The front door opened as Jenny poured one of her mother’s famous martinis. Her smartly groomed stepfather took a step in and called, “Hello,” to no one in particular.

  “In here.”

  “Why, Jenny, it’s great to see you.” Max, a balding fellow with a winning smile, kissed her cheek. “Where’s Lily Ann?”

  She pointed to the bedroom, and off he trotted. Jenny wished Michael trotted after her like that. She swallowed her drink and resolved to follow her mother’s advice. As far as she knew, her mother had never been wrong when it came to men. Still, Jenny’s ankle itched, and she scratched until the wound bled some more.

  21

  DURING THE DEPOSITION, Michael circled Mrs. Lewis Stratton as if binding her with words. Svelte and elegant, the woman sat upright in a leather chair in the conference room of Smith, Allen & Allen in Tucson. Her styled hair resembled a coiffured spider web.

  Michael stood behind her. “Mrs. Stratton, did you have a few cocktails that night?”

  Her eyes were fever blisters ready to pop. “Your client caused my injuries, young man.”

  “Mrs. Stratton, were you drinking that night?”

  Eyes focusing on her attorney, George Allen Jr., Mrs. Stratton made a mental note to berate his father for talking her into going with this rubber band of a youth.

  “Mrs. Stratton?” Michael said.

  “I drank a little.”

  “What’s a little?”

  “I don’t recall.”

  “How many drinks did you have?”

  “I said I don’t recall.”

  “Is that because you were so inebriated you lost count?”

  “See here.” She stood up. “Mr. Allen, stop this.”

  “I can’t. I’m sorry, Mrs. Stratton.” The young Allen answered as if he had eaten shards of glass. “We’ll get our opportunity.”

  She sat back down.

  Michael folded his arms. “How many drinks?”

  “Three manhattans.”

  “Within how much time did you consume these drinks?”

  “Two hours, but I ate.” She smiled impertinently at her attorney, who had advised her against volunteering anything.

  “Any wine with your dinner?” Michael said.

  Her smile faded. “Two glasses.”

  “What did you eat that night?”

  “I beg your pardon.”

  “Did you have a thick steak and a baked potato with lots of sour cream?”

  “No, a Waldorf salad.”

  Michael had her. He sat across from the woman. “Let’s tally this up, shall we? Three manhattans and two glasses of wine and an insubstantial dinner before you got in your car an hour later.”

  Young Mr. Allen pounded a weak fist on the table. “I object to your tone, Shaw.”

  “I’m done, Mr. Allen. Thank you, Mrs. Stratton. That’s all the questions for now. Call me, and we can schedule a deposition of our client.” Michael began placing papers in his briefcase. “That is, unless you’d like to talk settlement.”

  Mrs. Stratton grabbed her purse, and young Allen handed her the cane she had used since her car accident west of Borden. Michael watched her leave and guessed that she probably used the cane to thump the people who worked for her, including her attorney, if she got the chance.

  At the other end of the table, Martin studied his son. Michael had become a fine attorney, and he took credit as his mentor. With time, he would become his worthy heir. But not now. Michael bucked at authority like a rodeo horse. His whole attitude smacked of ingratitude. He had everything but appreciated nothing.

  “See, Father, you didn’t have to come with me,” Michael said as the deposition wrapped up. “I’m a big boy. I handled it all myself.”

  “Your client Harvey Ryan is an old friend of mine, Michael.”

  “Harvey Ryan is also part owner in the Lucky Hope Copper Mine.”

  “I have a lot of friends.”

  “You have a lot of connections.”

  Martin stood up, but nausea forced him to put his hands on the table for balance. Got up too fast, he reasoned. He drank water to force away the sickness and buttoned his jacket. “I do believe Mrs. Stratton will settle.”

  “No matter. Our client will still have to pay up.”

  Michael checked his watch. He wanted to get back to Borden. Jenny had left town to visit her mother for a few days, and that meant one less lie. At times, he wished Jenny would find out about him and Toni, to force a decision out of him. No doubt Jenny would hire his father’s firm and sue him for divorce on the grounds of adultery.

  Adultery. A dumb word. A legal word. Not one to associate with Toni.

  “The Bordereaux for lunch?” Martin stood at the door.

  “If you’re paying.”

  “Don’t I always?”

  The restaurant his father selected amused Michael with its old English decor in the center of such a southwestern city. After a meal of rare roast beef and yorkshire pudding, they sat back in thick padded chairs and quickly reviewed the lawsuit, leaving them not much else to say after that. Martin puffed a cigar, the smoke circling his head like a low cloud.

  “I’m happy this murder trial will soon be over, and you can get back to business,” Martin said after a time.

  “Let’s not talk about my case.”

  “Your time is too valuable for such nonsense. I would have found a way to get you out of that commitment.”

  “Maybe I wanted to believe in a case instead of just collecting a fee.”

  Martin took a drink of water, feeling bile rise in his chest. “I’m only trying to say you did a fine job with Mrs. Stratton.”

  About to take a sip of wine, Michael held the glass in midair. “The last time you complimented me was when I threw a winning touchdown against Central High School. Wait a minute, back then you also told me, ‘Fine job.’”

  “I know I don’t praise your work much, but if you weren’t a skilled lawyer, I wouldn’t have you in the firm.”

  “Two compliments in one day. My heart may explode.”

  “Can’t we have a nice conversation without an argument?” Martin grimaced as a biting pain sliced through his shoulder.

  “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing but indigestio
n. The beef chewed like an old pair of work boots.”

  “Time to head to the airport anyway.”

  They didn’t talk on the way there or in the plane. Michael checked his watch again. His father dozed against the window, which ruffled his hair. Michael reached out to smooth it, but withdrew his hand. Although they sat next to each other, his father was as distant as another country. Michael couldn’t reach that far without getting lost in the void.

  The airplane landed in Borden and jarred Martin, who awoke with a snort. “I’m glad we’re home,” his father said.

  “Me, too.”

  As Michael picked up his briefcase, Martin put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. His father never touched him. Not a spank or a hug.

  “What is it?” Michael asked.

  “A spasm from sitting on the plane. We’ve got the Hennessey case to discuss tomorrow.” Martin stepped in front of his son and took the lead off the plane.

  At the bottom of the stairs, he dropped his briefcase, went to his knees and slumped over on his side. Michael emerged from the door and saw his father on the ground, with a stewardess loosening his tie. Rushing past passengers, Michael kneeled beside his father, whose face had become ashen and his mouth gnarled.

  “Get him some help!” Michael shouted.

  “We’re sending for an ambulance,” said the stewardess.

  “Father, can you hear me? Help is coming.”

  Sitting down on the asphalt, Michael put his father’s head on his lap. His father’s eyes barely opened. His expensive suit was wrinkled, and his hair and shirt were wet with perspiration. Michael reached into his pocket for a handkerchief and dried his father’s hair and face. He took his hand. “Don’t worry. I won’t leave you.”

  When Dr. Ted Sorensen informed Martin Shaw of the diagnosis, the patient did not raise an eyebrow. Under similar circumstances, the doctor had seen patients wail with relief, praise God or thank him for being the best healer in the whole damn world. Old man Shaw seemed to expect the outcome as if entitled to more life.

  “Then sign a release so I can go home,” the patient said. “The sooner, the better.”

  Not since his internship had anyone ordered him around. The doctor had detested it then, as he did now. “Mr. Shaw, I’ll determine when you can go home.”

  “I have my own doctor.” The old man sat rigid on the bed. “And I’d like a private room.”

  “I’ll consult with your doctor, and the admitting office will have to see to your request about the private room. Your wife and son are waiting. They can visit after I bring them up to speed on your condition.”

  “I don’t want to see anyone right now.”

  “They’re very worried about you, and it might comfort them.”

  Martin Shaw placed his head back on the pillow and closed his eyes. “Now I’d like to rest.”

  Dr. Sorensen was stunned by the expert dismissal. “Damn patients,” the doctor muttered as he walked down the hall to the glass-enclosed waiting room. Just his luck to draw such an annoying case at the end of an interminable shift. His last duty before he went home would be to tell the family of Martin Shaw that the old man would live.

  Martin Shaw’s wife saw him coming and pulled a lipstick from her purse. His son sat up from dozing on a firm couch. They rose to meet him as if they were greeting a king. The doctor smiled. At least they showed him respect.

  “Mr. Shaw has suffered cardiac angina. Pain caused by an inadequate blood flow through the heart muscle.” Dr. Sorensen had lots of practice using layman’s terms for patients’ families. “The episode was a mild one, and he’s quite out of danger.”

  Michael suddenly kissed Melody on the cheek. He kept thinking about his father on the asphalt, helpless and vulnerable. He almost forgave him.

  The doctor looked at his watch. Mentally, he was already out the door. “We gave Mr. Shaw medication to widen the blood vessels. According to test results, the heart wasn’t damaged, but we should keep him under observation for a few days.”

  Melody fluffed her hairdo. “Thank you, Doctor. Can we visit him now?”

  “Ah, he’s very tired and needs rest, Mrs. Shaw.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  “He doesn’t want any visitors right now.”

  Michael put his arm around Melody. Her blinking eyes signaled that she had, at last, understood her precarious place in his father’s life. The realization probably rolled down to her painted toenails. She was, after all, wife number three.

  “Martin will see you tomorrow.” Michael’s tone mollified her, like a mother reassuring a child she hadn’t been adopted. “Anyway, Dad must be feeling better if he’s giving orders. Right, Doc?”

  The physician shrugged.

  Michael held out his hand. “Thanks for everything.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  Picking up Melody’s sweater, Michael gently placed it on her shoulders. “I’ll get you a taxi.”

  Watching the family head to the front entrance, Dr. Sorensen lit a cigarette and inhaled as deeply as he could. He blew out the smoke and wished he had listened to his father and become a stockbroker.

  At her small house, Toni smoked and paced the floor. Earlier in the evening Michael had called the laundry where she worked and told her about his father’s illness. He would get away as soon as possible. Her reply: she’d wait.

  Nearing midnight, she still waited and would for as long as it took. She glanced down. Oscar paced with her, making her laugh. Picking up the dog, she snuggled him and felt guilty, as if she had won a prize by default. Toni placed the dog on his pillow and patted his head.

  In the darkness, Toni sat down on the bed, hugged her legs and listened. She had left the door open. With every noise, she took in a mouthful of smoke, making her cigarette glow.

  From outside came a faint rumble in the alley. A car stopped, a door closed. She put out the cigarette. Oscar growled, and she told him to be quiet.

  The next moment, Michael opened the door. “Toni?”

  “Here.”

  He followed her voice. His hand reached out to her outstretched one. He sat down and leaned against her. She undressed him and laid him back on the bed. Slipping off her robe and nightgown, she lay down next to him. They held onto each other until he got up and left at first light.

  22

  THE PRIEST HELD THE HOST UPWARD. His white and gold vestments pointed the way to salvation. “This is the Christ who takes away the sins of the world.”

  With the congregation at St. Catherine’s, Toni recited the response in Latin, “Only say the word and my soul shall be healed.” For more than one month, she hadn’t gone to confession. She still took the host at Mass rather than have her father question her about why she didn’t. Each Sunday, she also asked for God’s pardon for understanding why she slept with a married man. She estimated a penance of about 200 Hail Marys and Our Fathers might absolve such a transgression. Dear God, can this really be a sin? She tapped her closed hand against her chest in time with the altar bells.

  “Ándele, hurry.” Francisco led the way down the church aisle, pausing long enough for a touch of holy water in the basin at the foot of the tall statue of Jesus. He wanted to get home to prepare chili. Toni’s old childhood friend Juanita, her husband and children were coming to dinner.

  Francisco had run into them while entering the church and had extended the invitation: “Come on over and eat. There’s going to be plenty. We’re celebrating. Carmen is going to have a baby.”

  Juanita and her husband, Guillermo, agreed, hugged Carmen and shook Víctor’s hand. Since Carmen and Víctor had told him the news, Francisco couldn’t pass up the opportunity to tell everyone he knew, sometimes even strangers they happened to meet.

  “We’ll bring beer,” Juanita whispered as she rushed her two children ahead of her into the church.

  Among friends and relatives, Francisco’s green chili was legendary for its kick and flavor and as a reliable cure for hangovers.

 
; When they returned home, Francisco rejected help with the chili from Carmen and Toni in the kitchen. They were responsible for cleaning the house and making tortillas, beans and Spanish rice. Víctor, who had no talent for cooking, went outside to change the oil in his truck. Not even bothering to change from his church clothes, Francisco pulled down a large stainless-steel pot. From Montgomery Ward, it shone like a new cruise liner. After frying cubes of pork, he poured in canned tomatoes, creating a sizzle that made Carmen wet her lips. Wearing a dishcloth around his waist to protect his pants, he sliced onions and jalapeños.

  “How many you adding there, Pops?” Toni looked into the pot.

  “Enough.”

  “I remember one time when you added so many jalapeños my eyes watered as soon as I came in the house. I couldn’t feel my tongue for two days afterward.”

  “That was a good batch,” he said.

  From the cupboard, Francisco brought out a small bag of cumin. He methodically added the spice to the chili as if he was a chemist.

  Toni took a big whiff of the bitter but inviting odor. Cumin smelled of home. When she lived in Phoenix, she’d even bought some of the spice to place in a bowl on the counter.

  Near dinnertime, Francisco removed from the pot a piece of pork, which shredded with the slightest handling.

  Carmen sneaked a small piece of tortilla and dabbed it in the pot. “Wow, Dad. It’s great, but hot. I hope the baby doesn’t get heartburn.”

  “My grandbaby will be raised on chili. He’ll be sturdy as steel when he grows up.”

  Toni stole a piece of tortilla away from her sister and dipped it in for a taste. She closed her eyes and smiled. Francisco pronounced the chili ready.

  Juanita and her family arrived a little later, and half the pot was emptied in good time. Toni sat next to her old high school friend, who swiped at the last of the chili on her plate. Juanita had filled out with marriage. She and her husband were friendly people who loved to laugh.

  Toni used to kid Juanita that an Irishman must have sneaked into her family line somewhere because of the spray of pink freckles on her cheeks, a complexion fairer than those of the other Mexican kids and a red tint to her hair. Juanita would always laugh and say she wished the Irish guy had left her a pot of gold.