Toni rushed to him with water, which he sipped. “God. I don’t know what’s wrong with me. You’re not feeling well, and I’m running on like Mrs. Hernández with diarrhea.”
The water helped. “No, I want you to tell me everything,” he said.
Nodding, she sat down on the edge of the bed. “I’ve never been ashamed of who I am, Pops. But I also wondered where I truly belonged. But this man, this man made me feel like I finally knew the answer.”
“Did you ever tell him that, Antonia?”
She shook her head.
“You should have. Maybe he needed to hear it.” Francisco clasped her hand.
“You probably expected better of me.”
“No, Antonia. You’re what’s best about us. But don’t forget to go to confession.” He wiped at her tears.
“You don’t go to confession.”
“That doesn’t mean you shouldn’t.”
49
JUDGE ANDREW PARSONS read from the paper without any emotion. “The jury finds for the plaintiff and awards her thirty thousand dollars.”
Michael’s client, Mrs. Woodruff Keefer, beamed as if she had married the king of England. Her wide shoulders shivered with greed at the judgment against the real estate agent who had failed to properly manage her rattrap apartment buildings on the north side of town, including one on Jackson Street, a few blocks from Toni’s house.
“Mr. Shaw, I’m quite overwhelmed.” Mrs. Keefer’s voice rose as high as a dog whistle.
“My dear Mrs. Keefer, you’ll get over it when you get my bill.”
She shook off his comment, gathered her purse and left thirty thousand dollars richer, for now.
The bald head of the defense attorney, Jonathan Cole, burned red. He took out a handkerchief and swept it over his forehead. The real estate agent, a peppery-faced man, sat still at the table, absorbing the news of his loss.
Michael would have had the case won without thumping Cole, but he intentionally tortured the other attorney by crushing him in front of the jury, judge and anyone else who happened to be in the courtroom. He made shredded wheat of the defendant’s witnesses with harsh questioning. All the while, he kept throwing up his hands and giving the jury one of those “I apologize this lawyer is so bad” expressions. The other attorney, meanwhile, perspired through the armpits of his suit and continually wiped his hands on a damp handkerchief. If the law had included the equivalent of a thrown towel, the other side would have tossed it in right after the opening remarks. With no towel, Michael kept throwing legal punches, because now he only existed in front of a jury of strangers.
Jonathan Cole extended his hand.
“Better luck next time.” Michael took his hand, which felt like cold liver.
The real estate agent stomped out.
Martin Shaw stood at the back of the courtroom, his arms folded. “Poor Jonathan certainly offered no match. He really should have urged his client to settle.”
“It might have saved us a lot of trouble if he had,” Michael said.
“You were pretty vicious to ole Jonathan.”
“How proud you must be.”
“I’m heading to lunch … Like to come?”
“I have to finish up the paperwork on this case.”
“Don’t forget the party.”
“Oh yes, the party.”
Michael messed with papers until his father left and then walked out of the courtroom. Increasingly, he couldn’t stand being near his father. He cut short business meetings with him and made excuses to avoid dinner at his house. Within any proximity of his father, Michael felt his essence being sucked away, and he wanted to keep what little he had.
Martin walked ahead of him, shaking hands with the judges and lawyers who walked by in the courthouse, wishing all a Merry Christmas and a Happy New Year.
Michael’s pricey shoes squealed to a stop.
One of the people shaking his father’s hand was Deputy Herb Bell, now Bailiff Herb Bell, with a promotion and a new uniform. Michael stepped into a doorway, close enough to hear them but not be seen. His father fidgeted at the meeting, while Bell kept up his fawning.
“Mr. Shaw.” Bell took the older man’s hand in both of his. “I hope all is well with you and your lovely family.”
“Thank you, ah … ”
“Herb Bell.”
“Yes.”
“Thanks again for your help. You, sir, know how to return a favor.”
Martin stepped back and pulled his hand away, annoyed. “I have to run.”
“If there’s anything else I can do for you … ”
Martin hurried out the doors of the courthouse. Bell smiled as if watching his best friend. The smile narrowed with revenge when he saw Michael.
“Hiya, Mr. Shaw. Me and your dad were shooting the breeze. We’ve become buddies.”
“You thanked him for returning a favor. What kind of favor?”
“Whatever he needs doing. Whatever he needs to know,” Bell said.
“Son of a bitch.” Michael threw down his briefcase and grabbed Bell’s shirt collar. “You did it.”
“What?” Bell’s tiny eyes watered. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Spotting the men’s bathroom, Michael dragged Bell through the door. Bell could do nothing but kick his legs. Once inside, Michael slammed him against the tiled wall. “It’s too bad I don’t have a brick so I could ram it down your fucking throat.”
“We did it for your own good, Mr. Shaw. You had no business with that woman.” He was shocked at his bravery and realized he’d soon regret it.
Michael’s fist crashed into Bell’s face, and then he punished him with his other fist, which sent Bell skidding five feet. Bell collapsed on the floor. His nose spouted blood.
“You’re goddamn nuts!”
Michael picked him up, and his fist met Bell’s gut. Bell folded like an envelope and fell to his knees, gasping for breath. Michael again hauled the man to his feet. “You also like terrorizing women, don’t you? Try a man on for size, you fucking piece of shit.”
“Your father asked me to warn her off. I didn’t mean her no harm,” Bell squeaked, hoping the elder Shaw might show up to rescue him.
“No harm, you malignant asshole? Let’s see how you like it.”
Michael held up Bell, who took a swing and missed. Michael pounded his kidney. Bell flayed like a suffocating fish and dropped to the floor, blood dripping from his nose and mouth onto his new bailiff’s uniform.
“You know, Herb, for the benefit of all humanity, I’m going to pound you into the wall. People will think you’re a shit stain, and they’ll be right.”
Michael took a step forward but felt the vise arms of Sheriff Bobby Maxwell grab him from behind.
“Michael, what the hell are you doing?” The sheriff’s placid voice was at ear level.
“Let me go.” Michael resisted, but the sheriff’s grip proved unbreakable.
Another deputy helped Bell to his feet.
“Settle down, Mike, or I’ll hold you as tight as my old man holds onto his money.”
Michael calmed his muscles but continued to stare murder at Herb.
When two men entered the bathroom, the sheriff yelled at them to get out. He ordered a deputy to stand outside the door and let no one pass.
Bell looked in the mirror at his pulpy face. “Jesus!” He spit out a front tooth.
“What the Sam Hill is going on here?” The sheriff released Michael and stepped in between him and Herb Bell.
Bell wheezed. He guessed he had a broken rib. “Sheriff, we had a misunderstanding is all. Right, Mr. Shaw?”
“Fuck you.” Michael spit.
“Let’s go into my office and straighten this out without any legal entanglements,” Sheriff Maxwell said. “Or do you want to bring charges, Herb?” The sheriff’s expression warned him against it.
“No.” Bell wiped at his bleeding nose.
“See, we can be civilized men. Michael, you stay away
from Herb for a while. I don’t know what he did, and you probably had reason for beating him silly, but he’s a peace officer, and you’re an officer of the goddamn court.”
“He’s a goddamn piece of shit,” Michael said.
“You’re both sworn to uphold the law. Now, let’s get outta here before somebody pees his pants waiting outside.”
Michael rushed out, pushing through a crowd gathered outside the bathroom.
Sheriff Maxwell put his hand to his gun as if steadied by its force. “What happened, Herb? You bust him for drunk driving or something?”
“It’s a private matter, Sheriff.”
“I’ll hand it to you, son. You managed to piss off one of the most powerful lawyers in town.”
Concern charged through Bell, yet only momentarily. “But his daddy is a personal friend of mine.”
“You better hope so. Now, get the fuck back to work.”
Michael’s cuffs were spotted with Herb Bell’s blood, as was the front of his shirt. Banging his fist on the dashboard of his car, he cursed at a slow-moving truck, swerved around it and stomped the gas pedal. As he raced to his father’s house, he didn’t know what he’d say or do when he got there. He only saw Toni’s beaten face.
Michael’s sports car threw gravel in the air as he stopped in the driveway.
Shoving open the double doors, Michael stood in the foyer. “Father, goddammit, where are you? Come out here!” His yells reverberated through the house.
From the kitchen, Josita heard the shouting and followed it to Michael. His face was slick from sweat, and his chest looked ready to explode. His hands were in fists.
“Mr. Michael, can I do anything for you?”
“Where’s that old bastard? He wasn’t at his office. He must be here.”
The way Michael acted made Josita fear for him more than his father. “He met Miss Melody at the airport, and they flew to Palm Springs. They’ll be back a couple of days before the New Year’s party.”
Michael staggered into the living room and fell back on a chair. Josita followed instinctively, as if he were still the child she had helped raise. She had cleaned his cuts when he crashed his bike and scrubbed him after he played in the mud at the ranch. She enjoyed his ability to accept a dare thrown at him by her sons and his attempts to speak Spanish. Even as a kid, Michael had asked lots of questions, many of which she couldn’t answer.
On the day Michael learned his mother had died, he ran to Josita in the kitchen and hugged her hard. She picked him up, sat down and rocked him. He buried his wet face against her chest.
“Don’t cry, my little one,” she had whispered and wiped the tears with the edge of her apron. “Your mama’s with the angels, and she’s the prettiest one in heaven.”
“I don’t want her with the angels. I want her with me,” he had wept. “You’ll never leave me, will you, Josita?”
“Never.”
Then his father had entered into the kitchen. “Michael.”
The boy clung more tightly to her.
“Let him go, Josita.”
She didn’t want to, but she did. Michael ran to his father and grabbed his leg, but his father only pushed him away and said, “Quit sobbing like a little girl and go to your room.”
Before the young Michael left, he had turned back to look at her. His small face was wet with tears. Now, the older Michael’s face was also wet from crying. Not wanting to embarrass him, Josita stood at the threshold of the room where he sat.
Here again was the little boy she had rocked in the kitchen.
50
DRESSED IN A DINNER JACKET, Michael stood in the backyard of what he called the pink flamingo house. A glass in his hand, he looked down into the black square hole the previous owner had dug out for a fallout shelter. Michael sipped at the whiskey and thought about the day he had discovered what his father and Herb Bell had done to Toni. Not finding his father home, he’d driven back to Borden and contemplated wrapping his British sports car around the most convenient tree. He’d follow his mother and her easy way of wrenched metal and smashed windshield. The chicken shit route. Instead, he returned to face the severest of punishments.
By the time his father and stepmother returned from Palm Springs, Michael was ill. So much so, he couldn’t get out of bed for two weeks. He slept through Christmas and sweated into his pillow. He vomited bile and culpability. If he hadn’t given up Toni in the first place, she wouldn’t have been hurt by them.
Actus reus. The guilty act he had committed.
Under the full moon, his shadow was long and solitary in the backyard. Inside the pink flamingo house, Jenny prepped to go to his father’s annual New Year’s party. He was going to attend, if only to join the rest of the guilty.
Tightening a sweater about her shoulders, Josita enjoyed a short break outside the kitchen. Soon the guests would arrive. Her corns already announced them. Yet dressed up with pretty bows, candles and evergreens, the house was ready. Yet despite all the trimmings, Josita couldn’t help but click her tongue in disappointment.
Each year, she hoped the Shaws would buy a nativity scene to display at the holiday. It would remind them what this holy season was all about. Jesucristo. Proud of the ten-piece ceramic set her sister had sent her from Jalisco, Josita delicately unwrapped each piece from tissue paper to set on a doily in her living room. Even though the set was seven years old, she admired the detail, like the gold earring the wise man Balthazar wore. He reminded her of Jim, the cook. With care, she arranged each figure, except for the baby Jesus, who would be placed on the manger after midnight Mass.
To the Shaw family, Christmas meant champagne, party dresses and the stuff on crackers resembling cat food.
Josita clicked her tongue again at what was to come. How the guests would leave small plates and glasses all over the house, even in the bathrooms. She especially hated how they would shove cigarette butts into the half-eaten food or let them float in drinks. She longed to be home with her grandchildren, who’d rub her feet and pour her a big cup of coffee with extra sugar and cream. By the time she got home from cleaning up after the party, they would all be in bed. She would have to kiss their heads to welcome the new year. She couldn’t even have a drink with her husband, Diego, and older son, who parked the cars. But she grinned. No use crying over spilled champagne she’d have to clean up, anyway.
After closing the kitchen door, Josita replaced the sweater on the wooden hook. She ran a hand over her black crepe uniform with the white collar Miss Melody had bought her to wear for the party.
“I see you’re wearing your slave outfit, Josita,” Jim hooted.
“This is a nice dress.”
“Honey, don’t wear it too long, or you’ll go dark as me. You Mexicans got it better than us because you’re halfway to white.”
The cook slapped his knee in laughter.
“I never thought of that, Jim. Well, time for business.”
Josita commanded the extra help, which amounted to six young Mexican kids who tugged at ties and aprons. “Enough fooling around. Get the food out there,” she ordered in Spanish.
To each young man, Josita assigned a tray to carry into the large dining room. After hauling in a tray of shrimp cocktails, she made sure the napkins were in place and the tablecloth straight. More workers prepared to check in the mink coats from the women and mohair coats from the men.
Josita walked around for a last-minute check. She did admire the fifteen-foot-tall Christmas with its luminous bulbs tree in the foyer. The beauty and size of it amazed her.
Michael stood behind her. “¿Bonito, verdad?”
She smiled. “Sí, Mr. Michael. The tree is very pretty.”
Her heart tightened. She had not seen him since the day he’d busted into the house yelling for his father. His eyes now looked as empty as one of the glass ornaments on the tree. Misery lived in him like a possessing spirit. “Pardon me, sir, I must get ready. Have a nice time.”
As if on cue, a small combo b
egan playing. Martin came down the stairs with Melody on his arm. Her face was starry with the prospect of entertaining, and her silk dress clung to her curves.
“Join us, Michael.” Martin touched the end of his bow tie and pointed to a spot near the door.
Michael took his place beside Melody in their traditional greeting line. His stomach churned with acid.
“Where’s Jenny?” Melody asked.
“Don’t know. Hold on for a second.” Michael put two fingers in his mouth and let out a long and loud whistle. Then he yelled, “Jenny, front and center.”
“For God’s sake, Michael, you act like you’re two years old.” His father frowned. The old troublemaking Michael was staging a comeback that night.
Soon the tap-tap of high heels followed. Jenny rushed in pulling up black gloves. “Apologies. I was doing some touch-ups.”
Melody didn’t even glance at Jenny, instead keeping her eye on the front door. “You’re lovely.”
The door opened, and in came the first knot of guests, who chatted like careless birds. The reception line extended hands and holiday greetings. Michael soon tired of the annual shaking of many clammy palms.
The silver-haired woman fanned herself with a napkin. “In a couple of hours, it’ll be 1960. Another year gone.”
“Don’t remind me, Betheen.” The woman held her hand up like a traffic cop to halt Josita, who held a tray of champagne-filled glasses. She picked one off. “The fifties were so, so … ” her eyes flickered, searching for the word, “comfortable.”
“The sixties sound like the space age.” Her friend played with her pearls. “All rockets and bombs. Don’t you think, Michael?”
“Huh?” After mingling with the guests, he desperately wanted to get smashed, but was sticking with club soda through the night, given his queasy stomach.
The women exchanged knowing looks.
“Michael, I asked what you think about the sixties?” one of the women repeated.
“I think they come right before the seventies.” He headed off.
Verdict in the Desert Page 27