“Listen, Kitty,” Pamela said quietly, trying to break Kitty’s stream-of-consciousness chatter without raising her voice. She’d managed to dust and sweep the house without disturbing Lizard. She didn’t want to wake the child up by yelling into the phone. “I need to talk to Joe.”
“So, how are things with you lovebirds? Didn’t I tell you the man’s a prince?”
“Sure.” If Joe was a prince, Pamela must be a scullery maid, if not one of the serfs. “I really do need to—”
“But I keep telling him, what he ought to do, once everything dies down, is take you on a real honeymoon. I mean, yeah, I know, the whole thing is kinda bogus—”
“Please, Kitty! You’re in public!”
“My lips are sealed. Don’t you worry your little West Coast head, Pam. Everybody just knows it’s a love match.”
“Fine. Can you put my love match on the phone right now?”
“Matter of fact, I can’t. There was a scuffle here. This guy was massively stewed, and he took a swipe at someone and lost his balance. He hurt himself, is all. Fell into a chair and needed a few stitches on his chin. Joe took him down to the hospital. The last thing he wants is to have this bozo suing him.”
“Oh, God. Is there a danger of that happening?”
“Nah. This sort of stuff happens all the time. Joe’ll just fill out an accident report. Joe won’t have to worry about much.”
He’ll only have to worry about having the court and his in-laws find out that he earns his living by carting drunks to the hospital to get stitches, Pamela thought grimly. “Will he be back soon?”
“Can’t say. Hang on a second...” Kitty again muffled the mouthpiece with her hand and shouted, “Lois, get your butt over here! These margaritas have been sitting here for years!” Back to Pamela, she said, “So, you want me to give him a message?”
Pamela sighed. “Ask him to get home early if he can.”
“Don’t hold your breath, honey. Tonight’s been a rough one. I wouldn’t expect any nookie if I were you.”
Pamela wasn’t expecting any nookie in any case. She considered telling Kitty the reason she wanted Joe home early, but decided not to. Kitty was clearly in a garrulous, dangerously indiscreet mood. If Pamela mentioned the social worker, everyone in the Shipwreck would know about it before Joe got back from the hospital. “Just tell him I called,” she requested, then said good-night and set down the phone.
She pulled open the drawer where she’d hidden Joe’s bills, rummaged inside it, and came up with a sheet of paper and a pencil. “Dear Jonas,” she wrote. “A court-appointed guardian is coming tomorrow morning to check up on Liz. Please wake up as early as you can, and don’t wear a conspicuous earring. I’ll do my best to take care of everything else. Pamela.” She taped the note to the newel post at the bottom of the stairway, where Joe would be sure to see it. After double-checking to make sure the porch light was on for him, she climbed the stairs.
Her back ached. Her hands were chapped from the cleansers, and the flesh under her fingernails felt gritty. Sweat glued her hair to the nape of her neck. She grabbed her robe, then trudged down the hall to the bathroom for a shower.
Fifteen minutes later, her hair still damp from her shampoo, she sank into bed and closed her eyes. She thought about the impending visit from the social worker, about Joe’s in-laws, about trying to convince the court that she was a good mother-figure to Lizard when she herself wasn’t terribly convinced of that. She thought about Joe, staggering home at some ungodly hour, wearing a drunkard’s blood stains on his shirt, and finding her note with its unwelcome news.
She had always thought of marriage as a shimmering vision on the horizon, beautiful yet distant, something to aim toward, to dream about, to reach for, something that would be waiting for her once she was ready for it. She had imagined marrying a man who shared her tastes, her rhythms, her low-key demeanor and her preference for intellectual pursuits and aesthetic pleasures.
She had not imagined that it would entail an exasperating five-year-old child, a mop, and an out-of-touch husband. She had not imagined that it would result in sleeping alone.
She had not imagined that being married would compel her to take care of everyone, putting their needs and concerns ahead of her own. Yet deep in her heart, she knew that that was exactly what marriage was all about.
So much for pretending that this was a real marriage. Except for the empty pillow beside her, she felt incredibly married—and not terribly thrilled about it. Marriage, she realized as she rolled over and hugged her blanket to herself, was damned tiring. She fell asleep wondering whether she’d gotten more than she’d bargained for, or less.
Chapter Nine
AT SEVEN O’CLOCK the next morning, Pamela emerged from her bedroom, her head pounding and her nerves twitching like the quills of a porcupine sensing danger. She moved quietly down the hall, pausing at the open door to Lizard’s bedroom and surveying the bedlam within. The floor was strewn with toys, clothing, a pillow, peanut shells, and, not surprisingly, an impressive assortment of feathers. Picture books were stacked haphazardly on the bureau, several drawers of which hung open. The bed’s mattress wasn’t lined up with the box springs. The roller shade hung at a drunken angle.
Lizard herself wasn’t there. Not that Pamela blamed her; she wouldn’t want to spend a second longer than necessary in that room, either.
With a shudder of disgust, Pamela continued down the hall to Joe’s room. Halting outside his closed door, she listened for sounds of life within.
She heard nothing.
Wonderful. He was sleeping late, and she couldn’t count on him to assist her with Liz’s court-appointed guardian. The first true test of the contrived Brenner marriage, and Joe wasn’t going to do his part. He was going to sleep the morning away.
A strange mixture of emotions seized Pamela: disappointment, exasperation, sympathy for a man who might lose his niece simply because he worked odd hours—and a sudden, treasonous pang of doubt. Perhaps a man who couldn’t wake up early on what was conceivably the most important day of his niece’s life didn’t deserve that niece.
As soon as the thought took shape in Pamela’s mind, it self-destructed. Joe deserved Lizard because he’d raised the child for three long, difficult years, because he’d rearranged his entire life around her, because he’d sold his houseboat for her. Because he kept her drawings on permanent exhibit in his living room. Because he’d taught a stubborn little girl that before she left the table she had to ask to be excused. Because he loved Lizard as much as any parent had ever loved a child.
Because he was either stupid enough or noble enough to have given his hand, his name and his protection to Pamela, knowing the threat she was living under.
For that noble stupidity—or stupid nobility—Pamela would deal with the social worker. With or without her husband by her side, she would convince the court official that Lizard belonged in Key West with her uncle.
Sighing, Pamela U-turned and stalked back down the hall to the stairway. At the bottom of the stairs she saw that the note she’d left for Joe last night was gone. Evidently he’d read it and didn’t care, or slept through his alarm, or had an unjustifiable degree of faith in her ability to handle the social worker without his assistance.
She herself had no faith in her ability. What did she know about children and custody claims?
She located Lizard in the den, seated on the floor in front of the television, gaping at a cartoon program and shoving fistfuls of dry cereal into her mouth. A feather protruded from the back pocket of her shorts.
“No feathers today,” Pamela announced briskly.
“Huh?”
“No feathers. Plus,” she added, recalling news stories from a few years back that had revealed a relationship between sugar consumption and hyperactivity in children, “you’re going to have a healthy breakfast this morning.”
Whatever peace she and Lizard might have negotiated yesterday was dashed by Pamela’s announcem
ent. “I’m not eating anything healthy!” the kid shrieked. “I’m already healthy! And I’m strong, too. I bet I’m stronger’n you. I bet I could beat you up.”
That was a bet Pamela wasn’t foolish enough to take. Pamela decided to rely on her superior intellect, plus what few scraps of control she still had left.
She strode into the den, plucked the feather from Lizard’s pocket and spoke before Lizard could protest. “Have you ever eaten pink grapefruit?”
Hearing the word pink gave Lizard pause. She eyed Pamela dubiously, obviously searching for a trap. “Grapefruit’s yellow,” she finally said. “And it’s yucky.”
“Pink grapefruit is sweet. I think Uncle Joe has some in the refrigerator.”
“I won’t like it,” Lizard predicted, although she sounded tentative.
“It’s pink,” Pamela crooned. “Pink, pink, pink. Come on, let’s have some pink, pink grapefruit.”
Lizard’s expression changed from skeptical to incredulous. “You’re gonna eat some, too?”
“If you’re willing to share it. Once you taste it, though, you may wind up wanting the whole thing for yourself. Come on.” Not waiting to see if Lizard was following her, she strolled into the kitchen, swung open the refrigerator door, and pulled a pink grapefruit from the bottom shelf.
Lizard might be stronger than Pamela, but she was only five years old, and incurably curious. Sure enough, she trailed Pamela into the kitchen and hovered at her elbow, observing as Pamela cut the fruit in half. “That’s not pink,” she scoffed, sounding less than surprised at Pamela’s lame attempt to trick her. “It’s orange, like that icky fish you made me eat.” She reached around Pamela for her cereal box.
Pamela swiftly lifted the box and set it on a high shelf in one of the cabinets. She didn’t care whether Lizard ate a healthy breakfast of any color. The brat could eat refined sugar straight from the bowl like a dog, as far as Pamela was concerned. But if the social worker arrived while Lizard was stuffing her face with junk, she might decide Joe’s house wasn’t wholesome, and Lizard would wind up with the Prescotts.
“Pink grapefruit is very sweet,” Pamela said, stretching the truth as much as she dared. “Try it, and I’ll make you some whole-wheat toast. With strawberry jam.”
“Strawberry jam’s red, not pink,” Lizard muttered, scowling at the fruit.
“Just try it.”
“I don’t want it. It’s yucky.”
“Try it.” Pamela carried the plate to the table. “It’s pink. Try it.” Refusing Lizard the chance to argue further, she turned her back on the child and slid two slices of whole-wheat bread into the toaster.
Behind her she heard a slurping noise—and then a gagging noise. “It’s disgusting!” Lizard whined.
“It’s delicious.”
“It’s poison! I hate you!” Lizard dragged her chair across the room, used it to climb onto the counter, and pulled her beloved box of cereal from its high shelf.
If Pamela weren’t so anxious about the social worker’s visit, she would have yielded. But she was in no mood for Lizard’s shenanigans. “You can’t have cereal today,” she said, wrapping her arms around Lizard’s knees to keep her from falling off the counter. “And you shouldn’t climb up there. It’s dangerous.”
“I climb all the time,” Lizard retorted, popping open the flaps of the cereal box.
“Lizard, I’m warning you—put that cereal away and let me get you down.”
“I’m getting down,” Lizard acquiesced, kicking free of Pamela’s loose hold on her legs. But she didn’t get down, and she didn’t put the cereal away. Instead, she dug into the box and pulled out a handful of sugary pink puffs.
Pamela reached for the box. Lizard gave a war whoop and hurled it into the air. The box overturned, spilling granular pink nuggets across the floor. Lizard leaped from the counter, knocking the chair on its side with her foot and letting out a howl of pain. “My toes! Ow! I think they’re broke!”
Pamela didn’t agree with Lizard’s diagnosis—especially after Lizard managed to run across the room when Pamela tried to catch her. “I told you climbing up there was dangerous,” she scolded, righting the box of cereal and glowering at the kid.
“Climbing wasn’t dangerous. Coming down was dangerous. I hate you! You wanna poison me and kill me, too! And the house is on fire, too!”
As soon as Lizard mentioned the word fire, Pamela smelled something burning. Spinning around, she saw a plume of smoke rise out of the toaster. Cursing under her breath, she yanked the plug from the socket and peered grimly into the slots, almost expecting to see flames. All she saw, however, were black crusts and more smoke.
“You’re trying to kill me,” Lizard declared, then squatted on the floor, gathered the cereal near her feet into a small mound, and scooped it into her mouth. “When Uncle Joe wakes up I’m gonna tell him you’re a murderer.”
“You do that,” Pamela snapped, jiggling a knife into the toaster slots until the two charred slices of bread emerged. “I’ll defend myself by saying it was justifiable homicide. I bet he’ll believe me, too.”
“I hate you, I hate you, I hate you!” Lizard hollered.
The doorbell rang.
“Oh, God.” Pamela stared in dismay at the cereal-covered floor and inhaled the stench of incinerated crumbs. In a firm voice, she said, “Clean up this mess right now, young lady.”
“I’m not a young lady! I’m a Boo Doo chief.”
“Not at the moment, you’re not. Sweep up the mess. There’s a broom and a dustpan in that cupboard.” She pointed to the broom closet.
“It’s your mess,” Lizard retorted. “You grabbed the box. You made me spill it. You clean it up.”
“Clean it,” Pamela spat out.
“I don’t got to. The doorbell’s ringing. I bet it’s Birdie. She lets me eat anything I want!” With that, Lizard flounced out of the kitchen, Pamela at her heels.
Her heart was racing, her eyes stinging with tears of anger and frustration. Hadn’t there been a time, not so terribly long ago, when she’d been in complete control of her life? Hadn’t there been a time when her daily existence was calm and orderly?
Lizard’s words echoed in her skull: It’s your mess. That said it all, the ultimate truth. This was Pamela’s mess.
Lizard was already swinging open the inner door when Pamela reached the front hall. She smoothed her shirt into the waistband of the neat denim skirt she’d chosen to wear, and arranged her face into a polite smile for her visitor.
The social worker appeared as calm and orderly as Pamela’s life used to be. On the far side of middle age, the woman was slim and well groomed in a cotton sheath, a stylish linen blazer and stack-heeled sandals. In her left hand she gripped a thick leather briefcase; in her right she held a business card.
Pamela ran her fingers through her disheveled hair, discreetly unraveling a piece of cereal from the strands behind her ear. “Hi,” she said to the woman, whom Lizard was regarding with blatant distrust. “I’m Pamela Brenner.” Thank heavens she’d practiced saying her married name often enough that it glided naturally off her tongue.
“I’m Mona Whitley from the Department of Social Services,” the woman introduced herself. “I’m here at the behest of Judge Roger Ephraim, who’s going to be presiding at the custody hearing—”
“Yes, I know,” Pamela said hastily, shooting a quick look at Lizard. She didn’t want the social worker discussing the custody fight in front of the child.
Mona Whitley smiled and nodded, apparently understanding Pamela’s desire to protect Lizard. “May I come in?”
“Of course.” Pamela nudged Lizard out of the way and held open the screen door. “I was just making some coffee. As a matter of fact, we’ve just barely gotten out of bed—”
“I’ve been up for hours,” Lizard declared. “And I’m starving.”
Great, Pamela thought—Mona Whitley was going to think Pamela and Joe weren’t feeding her. “Anyway,” Pamela went on breezily,
accepting Ms. Whitley’s card, “the kitchen is a little bit messy at the moment—”
“A little bit?” Lizard hooted. “It’s a lot messy. Remember the hurricane?”
“Indeed I do,” Ms. Whitley said, her eyes narrowing on Lizard. “You must be Elizabeth.”
“I’m Lizard,” Lizard said petulantly. “Nobody calls me Elizabeth. I’m Lizard, and I’m a Boo Doo chief, and I can eat whatever I want.” With that, she swiveled on her bare foot and stomped back to the kitchen.
Pamela’s spirits plummeted. “Elizabeth is always a little cranky in the morning,” she fibbed, gesturing toward Lizard’s retreating form. “Perhaps I could get you a cup of coffee. If you’d like to have a seat in the living room...” Which I spent last night dusting and polishing so it would pass muster with you, she wanted to add. At the moment, the living room was in better shape than she herself was.
“You don’t have to entertain me,” Ms. Whitley said. Her smile revealed too many teeth, like a shark’s. “What I’d really like is for you to let me just fade into the background while you go about your usual routines.”
“I see. Well. As I said, we just had a spill in the kitchen, and I’m in the middle of getting breakfast for Liz—” she silenced herself before adding -zard. “And I’m afraid my husband is—”
“Right here,” Joe’s voice came from the stairway. “Good morning. Glad you could stop by.”
If hearing Joe awake and coherent surprised her, seeing him absolutely astonished her. She turned and glanced toward the stairs in time to see him descend the last few steps. Clean-shaven, his hair parted and damp, he had on a fresh shirt and untorn, unfrayed jeans. His ear was decorated with a gold dot so discreet she almost didn’t notice it
Reaching the bottom step, he extended his right hand toward Mona Whitley. His smile was as cool and confident as hers. “I’m Jonas Brenner,” he said.
Maybe it was because Pamela hadn’t seen him for the past couple of days. Maybe it was because she felt overwhelmed by the social worker’s visit and her own overwrought mental state. Maybe it was just that, with his riveting blue eyes, his thick, tawny hair, his tall, lean physique and that smile, announcing that he had nothing to fear, nothing to hide, nothing to worry about.... Joe was like the morning sun, bright and steady and dependable.
CRY UNCLE Page 15