In Self-Defense

by A. W. Gray

  And spent still another night without sleep, tossing and turning as she pictured Melanie in one of her forays through mommy’s bedroom in search of gum or candy, Melanie finding the pistol, squinching one eye closed as she peeked down the barrel and pulled the trigger with her thumb. By four in the morning, Sharon had had enough. She stalked into her den carrying a paperback edition of The Firm by John Grisham—which everyone else in the world had read two years ago, and which had rested unopened on Sharon’s nightstand for eighteen months—flicked on a lamp, wriggled angrily into one corner of the Spanish-style sofa, and tried to read.

  The reading went about the same as her attempts at dozing off had gone. Her mind wandered so that she went over the first paragraph four times without the slightest comprehension, and she finally tossed the paperback aside to stare bleary-eyed around the room. She was frustrated, angry, and totally exhausted.

  Dawn found Sharon jamming panty hose and Jockey for Her cotton briefs into a stocking bag for loading into the washing machine. After measuring two capfuls of blue liquid All detergent into the washer, she dropped the bag inside. Then she set the dial on Gentle and the water temperature on Cold, and entertained herself by watching the water run until the tub was half full. Sharon returned to her bedroom, removed the gun from the nightstand, and dropped it on top of the covers, and stared at the cylinder and its loaded bullet chambers as if she could chase her fear of guns away by sheer will.

  It was around seven when she finally decided, Bull. No way was she having a firearm in her home unless it was safely hidden. She got a coat hanger from her closet and bent the wire into a crude sling, and suspended the pistol inside her toilet tank. Now, she thought, when the wacko attacks me in my bedroom, I can talk him into letting me use the potty. The hiding place would have to do until she could think of something better.

  All hope of rest abandoned, Sharon trudged down the sidewalk in early sunlight to bring in the newspaper. She’d finally found the time to mow her lawn on Thursday, and thick piles of clippings lay here and there on fresh-cut grass. The City of Dallas had decreed just that summer that no longer would the garbage folks handle grass clippings, and Sharon was going to have to rake her yard. If she could ever get her weary bones in gear, which was doubtful. She lugged the paper inside and sat on the couch to spread the first section open across her lap. She was halfway through the front-page story about the furor over Bill Clinton’s proposed health-care plan when her fingers grew suddenly numb. The newspaper rattled as it drifted to the floor. Sharon’s chin sank down to her breastbone. Her body sagged, and she was fast asleep.

  Less than a half hour later, Melanie blasted her mom into groggy wakefulness. Sharon opened one eye to find the eleven-year-old, fully dressed in a print blouse and brand-new jeans, with one knee up on the sofa as she violently shook Sharon’s arm. “Stores open at nine, Mom,” Melanie bubbled. Her face was scrubbed, her hair brushed, and she smelled fresh as a daisy. Sharon felt as if she might actually die from lack of sleep.

  God, Sharon thought, is this really happening? Every single other Saturday morning she could remember, it took nothing less than an A-bomb to get Melanie out of bed before ten. The den clock showed a quarter past eight. Sharon wondered how stiff the criminal charges would be for locking Melanie in a closet for a couple of days. She staggered to her feet and yawned. Shopping for camp day, that’s what it was. This was the Saturday that Sharon, list in hand, was to trip gaily through the malls with Melanie in tow, in hot pursuit of new shorts, T-shirts, riding gear, and arts and crafts materials. To hell with camp, Sharon thought. To hell with everybody in this entire frigging world. She ignored Melanie, stumped into the kitchen, and sank two Eggo waffles into the pop-up toaster. “You can butter and syrup them on your own, dear,” she said, then went into her bathroom and turned on the shower. She very nearly stepped in under the hissing waterfall without removing her underwear.

  The shower should have refreshed her and made her zesty and zippy, but as she toweled off she merely felt like a cleaner zombie. Her hair dripping wet, she looked in the mirror and examined the bags under her eyes. No way can I go shopping, she thought. Absolutely no way. She’d have to put Melanie off until next week. Her mind made up, she stepped into shorts and an oversized Tshirt, and went into the kitchen to break the news. Melanie would wail and moan. Tough, Sharon thought, this is one day she’s going to have to live with disappointment.

  Melanie had drowned two thawed and heated waffles in syrup. Her fork lay beside her plate. Sharon said, “Melanie, I—” Then halted in mid-sentence to look closely at the child.

  Melanie hadn’t touched a bite of her breakfast. Her expression was vacant. She looked … God, Sharon thought, it’s the identical look that the Rathermore kids have. Well, not precisely, but plenty close enough for concern. She sat across from Melanie and said gently, “Penny.”

  Melanie started. She looked at her mother as if seeing her for the first time in her life. “Nothing, Mom. Just thinking about camp.”

  In a pig’s eye, Sharon thought. In addition to her eleven-year-old ways, Melanie sometimes showed a strange maturity. A secrecy, actually, as if she wanted to protect her mother from whatever sadness that Melanie was feeling. Sharon was afraid that she sometimes didn’t notice Melanie’s problems because she feared the knowledge of what was causing them. “It’s something, Melanie,” Sharon said. “You haven’t touched your waffles.”

  As though trying to demonstrate, Hey, everything’s cool, Melanie used her fork to dissect a triangular wedge of waffle and poked it, dripping with syrup, into her mouth, and as though further trying to demonstrate, See how much fun I’m having, she grinned as she chewed. Acting is in the genes, Sharon thought.

  “Sweetheart,” she said, folding her hands on the table, “something is bugging you. If you don’t want to tell me about it, I can’t make you, but I’m going to worry about it until you do.”

  Melanie laid her fork aside. “Can I have a glass of milk?”

  Sharon went to the refrigerator, pulled a half-gallon carton of Oak Farms from the shelf, checked the label to make sure of the spoilage date, and half filled a cup with the cold white liquid. She set the cup in front of Melanie. “This isn’t going to change the subject, young lady,” Sharon said.

  “Mom,” Melanie said hesitantly, then, more forcefully, “Mom, am I ever going to meet my father?”

  There was sudden weakness in Sharon’s knees as she resumed her seat. “Why do you ask?” It wasn’t a good response and she knew it. Melanie’s upper lip quivered.

  “Just that some kids asked me,” Melanie said.

  “Asked you what, darling?”

  “Well, this one kid, Connie. Her folks don’t live together, but her dad’s taking her to Sky Ranch. Trish gets to see her father sometimes.”

  Sweet Jesus, Sharon thought, now of all times. “Trish’s father lives right here in Dallas, Melanie.”

  “Connie’s daddy doesn’t. He’s way off in San Antonio.”

  Sharon considered ducking the issue by explaining how much closer San Antonio was than New York, but decided that the distance wasn’t pertinent and wouldn’t mean anything to Melanie anyway. “Let me ask you, sweetheart,” Sharon said. “You’ve never said you wanted to see your father before.”

  “I didn’t used to,” Melanie said. “But I’ve been thinking about it.”

  “You’ve been wondering about him?”

  “Yeah. Pretty much.” Melanie drank some milk. Her gaze wasn’t directly at Sharon; rather, the child was looking in the approximate direction of her mother’s left shoulder. She’s hiding something, Sharon thought. Something’s rotten in Denmark here.

  She felt a sudden surge of panic. Sternly she said, “Have you been in my bedroom again?”

  Melanie’s mouth twisted. She was on the verge of tears.

  Don’t attack her, you dumbass, Sharon thought. Something as big as this
in a little girl’s life, and her mother acting like a drill sergeant. Her tone now gentle and caring, she said, “It’s all right if you found the letter, Melanie. I was going to show it to you.” And felt she should run for president of the Liars’ Club.

  “It was on your dresser, Mom. I wasn’t rummaging or anything.” Her face screwed up with curiosity. “Is my daddy really on television?”

  “He has been lately. If you read the letter, you know he’s going to star in a show next fall.”

  “Can I tell people about it?” A sort of childlike anticipation now, wanting to get one-up on the other kids.

  “If you like,” Sharon said. Beans spilled, trying to make the most of the situation.

  “Are you going to let me see him when he comes here?”

  Of all the questions, Sharon thought, of all the frigging times for this to come up, and of all the questions for Melanie to ask. Sharon’s lack of sleep was now totally forgotten, her weariness replaced by an empty feeling in the pit of her stomach and an aching sensation where her heart labored like a sump pump. All these years of …

  “It’s something to think about,” Sharon finally said. She forced a smile and winked. “Hey, what about shopping? Don’t you think it’s time we were getting a move on?”

  30

  On Monday morning, Sharon thought she’d found something which would knock her entire theory of Midge Rathermore’s defense into a cocked hat. Her spirits sinking, she turned the page in the Federal Second. The decision she was reading had to do with a Boston housewife who’d shivved her husband with a steak knife as he sat at the dinner table. The Massachusetts court had ruled that since the stabbing had occurred forty-eight hours after the last time the husband had beaten hell out of his wife, she couldn’t raise self-defense as an issue in her assault trial. Sharon continued to read. Aha, she finally thought, brightening. Since the federal appeals panel of judges had refused to hear the case on the grounds that no constitutional questions had been raised, the Massachusetts decision had no bearing on a Texas case. Nevertheless, Sharon had no doubt that Kathleen Fraterno would locate the Boston decision and try to use it in the Rathermore trial to muddy the water. Sharon notated the case on her legal pad, then moved the thick Federal Second volume aside and rubbed her eyes.

  Russ Black came into the library and flopped down at the head of the conference table. The collar on his pale blue shirt was undone, and he’d loosened his tie. “We’ve got to go travelin’ again,” he said.

  Sharon squeezed her right hand between her left thumb and fingers. She winced. “Where are we going?”

  “We’re gettin’ the cook’s tour of the crime scene.”

  “Oh?” Sharon continued to massage her palm. Her hand was tender as a boil.

  Black frowned. “You hurt yourself?”

  Sharon limpened her wrist and shook her fingers. “It’s just sore. I’ve been taking some target practice with a pistol that doesn’t like me very much. Wants to kick me. Like a sore backside when you first ride a horse.”

  “You need to learn to shoot. All single women should.”

  Black propped his shin against the edge of the table and folded his hands around his knee. “How you holdin’ up since the …”

  Sharon pretended to scan a paragraph in the law book and did her damnedest to appear unconcerned. “As long as the guy’s in jail, I’m all right,” she said. “If I were to find out he’s back on the street, though, I’d probably come down with the screaming meemies.”

  “How ’bout your little girl?”

  “Slept through the whole thing, and I’m not about to tell her about it. She’s fine,” Sharon said. “When’s the crime-scene tour?”

  Black checked his watch. “’Bout two hours from now. What’s the word from Sam Spade? Our detective, Mr. Gear.”

  “His surveillance isn’t working out all that wonderfully,” Sharon said. “Linda’s been living in the Rathermore lake house, up at Lake Tawokoni, ever since the murder. Mr. Gear shadows her wherever she goes, but so far the worst thing she’s done is grocery shopping. I suspect Milt Breyer’s told her that if she doesn’t cool it until after the trial, he’ll have her head.”

  “Damn. This time next Monday we’ll be pickin’ a jury.” He dropped his knee from the table’s edge. “Somethin’ you should know about us goin’ over the crime scene.”

  “Oh?” Sharon said.

  “Yeah. Our guide on the walkthrough is goin’ to be your old friend Detective Green. That bother you any?”

  Sharon’s jaw dropped in dismay. “How did you … ?” Black waved a hand as though batting mosquitoes. “Oh, hell, I knew about it before I hired you. I told you I keep up. And even if I hadn’t of known, it looked sorta funny, him showin’ up at your house in the middle of the night with that loony runnin’ around in there.”

  Sharon pursed her lips. “Anything between me and Stan Green is over, Russ.”

  The corner of Black’s mouth tugged sideways. “None of my business.”

  Her forehead tightened in concern. “Well, maybe it isn’t. But I want you to know.”

  He shuffled his feet on the floor. “So consider that I know. Let’s get goin’, girl. I’ll spring for breakfast on the way.”

  Sharon decided that the Rathermore home would have been safe from invasion during the Wild West days. The land sloped down and away from the house, a full quarter acre of perfectly groomed English ivy dipping down to Lakeside Drive, and any sort of Indian war party charging up the hillside would have been sitting ducks from the third-story bedroom window where Sharon now stood. Halfway down the hill was a flat asphalt parking area where Russ Black’s Buick sat alongside a Dallas Police black-and-white cruiser. Behind the patrol car sat the unmarked Chevy four-door in which Stan Green had arrived. Across Lakeside Drive, Turtle Creek flowed deep and silent between twin columns of giant elms and sycamores. The view was absolutely breathtaking. The Rathermore Highland Park mansion was even grander than the Schlee home, two doors down the way. The serenity of it all made it easy to forget the bloody murder committed in this very bedroom. A shudder began in Sharon’s spine and worked its way upward to her shoulder blades.

  She turned. Russ Black was examining the wall panel which controlled the burglar alarm. Stan Green, slouching, one hand shoved casually deep inside his pocket, stood near the end of the four-poster bed. A squat uniformed cop leaned against the dresser. Other than curt nods and hellos, Sharon and Green hadn’t spoken. The detective had responded to Black’s questions with a series of noncommittal grunts; the prosecution hadn’t wanted to show the crime scene to begin with, and any help Stan Green supplied would be purely accidental.

  “So if somebody opened the front door,” Black said, “the siren noise would come through this thing.” He indicated the intercom speaker located below the ten-digit security panel.

  Green hesitated before answering, obviously determined that the wily veteran lawyer wasn’t going to trick him into anything. In a battle of wits against Russ Black, Sharon thought, old Stan is playing without any linebackers or defensive backs. She nearly giggled. Finally Green said, “Fifteen seconds after the downstairs door opens, or any window. The fifteen seconds gives time to reset the alarm in case it’s somebody who belongs here.”

  “Okay,” Black said, “and you can talk to somebody standing on the porch through this, too?” He frowned. The bumbling act was all a game; Russ and Sharon had gone over the workings of the Rathermore alarm system a thousand times. He was screwing around, trying to get the cop’s guard down.

  “Yeah,” Green said. “It’s an intercom.”

  Sharon left the window and walked slowly around the bed. The drapes on the four-poster king-size were dark red velvet with a satin draw cord. The side-by-side oil paintings of Linda and William Rathermore above the dresser looked like Dmitri Vails. Sharon narrowed her eyes to read the artist’s signature. Yep, it was Vail
s’ work, all right, and she suspected that the paintings had cost more than her annual income. Against the far wall was an early American vanity complete with pearl hand mirror and what must have been fifty spray bottles of perfume. Sharon wondered briefly if Linda had used one scent before bedding Rathermore alone, and another for the cluster fucks with the teenagers. On the Mexican tile floor between the bed and vanity, William Rathermore’s body was still outlined in chalk, and there were dark stains here and there on the floor and on the walls. Sharon pictured the two nice-looking boys, their features wreathed in insanity as they bludgeoned Rathermore over and over with a steel lug wrench. She stepped carefully over the chalk lines. Excuse me, old pervert, Sharon thought.

  “Has anybody checked this thing out,” Black said, still hovering over the security panel, “to make sure it was working that night?”

  Green now straightened defiantly. “You heard Mrs. Rathermore’s testimony.”

  “I heard what she said. And that’s not what I asked. We’re wantin’ to know if anybody from the police department verified with the security company that the alarm was workin’ that night, or if we’re just supposed to take Mrs. Rathermore’s word for it.”

  Sharon wandered near the bathroom door and bent to examine the lock. The door was flimsy, hollow wood, thin as flypaper. The lock was a button apparatus like you’d buy in any hardware store. The floor beyond the bathroom entry was shiny pale blue tile. There was a sunken tub with fixtures in the shape of twin geese.

  “Well, I don’t know whether we checked it out or not,” Green said. “I’ll have to find out.” When Stan Green lies, Sharon thought, his voice goes up a half octave.