“He’s at the movies,” Sheryl had said. “What wrong?”
“I think something happened between Kate and Matt.”
Sheryl had been stunned at his accusation, and shouted, “What are you saying? He’s nineteen years old, for God’s sake!”
“I know. I remember what it’s like to be nineteen.”
Sheryl’s words had been sharp—clipped. “Kate is thirty-eight years old!”
“Kate is a beautiful woman, who Matt happens to have the hots for, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I can’t believe you’d even consider something like this. Your own nephew!”
But Mike wouldn’t let up. “What other explanation is there, Sheryl?”
“You know what I think? I think you can’t be objective about her anymore. She’s turned your brain to mush. Get a life, Mike. And while you’re at it, tell her to get one, too.”
“Kate is my life.”
“Listen to yourself,” Sheryl had said. “You’re pathetic.”
“Thanks, sis.” He’d spit the words out. “Like you’re the queen of great relationships.”
Mike turned off the lamp and reclined the chair. His mind wouldn’t let him alone. Much as he tried, he couldn’t shake the feeling that sometime between Friday morning and Homer’s disappearance that night, something devastating had happened. And it was causing Kate to disengage from him—from life—again.
Like a detective who hates the sight of blood, but knows he has to see it to get his job done, Mike went over all the clues. What he came up with was pretty gory. So much so, that he couldn’t bring himself to accept it. And so he’d start all over again, until an hour had passed, and he was exhausted and unstrung and out of his mind with fear and longing.
The newspaper slammed against the front door, waking him. The morris chair, comfortable for sitting, wasn’t made for sleeping.
Mike came awake on his side. His left arm was folded under his head and completely useless. It took a full minute to get the circulation moving. His right leg dangled over the chair’s wooden arm.
He could still taste the scotch that had finally put him to sleep, and his head felt too heavy for his neck. When he tried to get up, a sharp pain in his shoulder blade caused him to wince, and pushing himself out of the chair became an event.
The very long, hot shower he took was good for his body, but did nothing for his soul. He was on his third cup of coffee when he heard a car start in the neighborhood. It was early enough for him to wonder who it could be, and as he looked out the kitchen window he saw Kate drive away.
“You have to come back sometime, Kate,” he whispered against the mug he held to his lips. “And then we’re gonna have this out.”
Mike let himself in her back gate. Homer greeted him at the porch and waited for a moment to see if any playtime was forthcoming. When it wasn’t, he slowly walked back to his cedar bed, and with a loud, snorting sigh, lay back down.
There wasn’t much left to do on the house. Mike’s plan was to work in the basement most of the day, but first he wanted to install the new bathroom light fixture. He was just connecting the wires when he heard the phone ring. He had no choice but to ignore it, and he continued working until the light was mounted and secure. As he flicked on the wall switch to test it, the phone rang again. This time he ran to catch it.
“Hello?”
“Hello?” came the confused female voice. “Is Kate there, please?”
“No, she’s not.” The voice had a familiar cadence to it, and Mike asked, “Is this her mother?”
“Yes, it is.”
“Hi, Mrs. Moran. This is Mike Fitzgerald. Did you try to call earlier?”
“No, I didn’t, but what a nice surprise! My goodness, it’s been a long time.” She seemed genuinely pleased to hear his voice. “Kate told me you were working on the house for her. It’s a very nice thing you’re doing.”
He had to bite his tongue to keep from saying, “Aw, shucks, ma’am.” Instead, he said, “Always glad to help out where Kate is concerned.”
“Yes. I remember.” Her voice had a smile in it. “And where is my daughter?”
“I’m not sure.”
“Is she still running away from life?”
“You might say that. Did I hear you’re coming out for Christmas?”
“That’s why I’m phoning. We haven’t been able to get a flight out. All the airlines are booked solid. She called on very short notice.”
“She called?”
“Uh-hm. Her father and I asked her to come out here for the holidays. Even offered to pay for her ticket. But since Paul’s accident, she won’t even consider it.” She paused, as if unsure she should go on. “I’m very concerned about her, Mike, but I don’t think anyone can help her. I believe she has to do it herself.”
“I’m finally beginning to believe that myself.”
“Kate can be very black and white in her thinking. Maybe she’ll eventually learn to see the shades of gray in life.”
“I’ll tell her you called, Mrs. Moran.” He thoughtfully returned the receiver to its cradle.
Julia put down the coffeepot to answer the phone.
“Hi, Julia. Mike Fitzgerald.”
“Michael! It’s been too long.”
“So, how’ve you been?”
“Fine—fine. But I surely do miss seeing you now and again, especially now that Kate’s finished her job.”
“Is she there?”
“Now you’ve disappointed me, sweetie,” Julia pouted. “I thought this was a social call.”
“Is she?”
“My, but you are persistent.”
“Julia …” he warned.
“Sorry, sugar. Haven’t seen her lately.”
There was a pause, then Mike said, “Just tell her her mother called.”
“Well, I will if I see her, honey. Anything else?”
“Nothing I’m willing to use a messenger for.”
“Damn, honey. Ol’ Julia could use a thrill, even if it is a vicarious one.”
“That Southern belle routine isn’t fooling anyone,” Mike said before hanging up.
Julia turned and said, “He knows you’re here.”
Kate put her face in her hands. “What did he say?”
“Your mother called.”
Mike played the flashlight along the solid wooden beams above his head until he found the area directly below the kitchen sink. A water stain about the size of a dinner plate caught his eye and he wanted to make sure it wasn’t recent, but the ceiling of the basement was just high enough for him to need a stepladder.
He switched off the light and rubbed the back of his neck. It was still stiff from his night in the chair. He remembered when he could sleep sitting up in the backseat of a car with three other people, and still get up and hike fifteen miles without a twinge. Those days were long gone. Climbing the basement steps, Mike went out the back door and headed for the garage.
Matt drove around the block, didn’t see Kate’s car, and parked his MG directly in front of the house. There didn’t seem to be anyone stirring at his uncle’s house and he unfolded himself from the small car. He carried a plastic bag.
He felt along the edge of the front porch eave and his fingers found the spare key that Kate left in case of emergencies. He quietly let himself in and stood in the entry. Matt listened for the telltale sounds of work being done, but heard nothing.
He climbed the twelve steps to the upper hallway and then up the final four to the little landing in front of the tower room’s door. He waited. Still no sound. Slipping the key into the hole, he entered the room.
As always, the atmosphere engulfed him in nostalgia, and he took it in, before placing the scrapbook back in its place. An intricately carved box that he’d only superficially looked into was his next goal. Opening the hinged lid, Matt lifted out the divided shelf to see what was underneath. He was rewarded by the sight of one of Paul’s World Series rings, and he reached inside. Hefting the mas
sive piece of jewelry in his palm, he then reverently slipped it on his finger. It was a perfect fit. God, did he want one of these for himself.
Reluctantly, he took it off and replaced it on the suede lining of the box. A heavy gold chain, over a quarter inch in width, lay coiled like a gilt snake in one of the corners. Plucking it up, he let it dangle from his fingers before putting it back.
Matt examined every piece of Paul’s life in that box, not realizing how much time had gone by. When he’d finally memorized the box’s contents, he looked at his watch, and was stunned. He’d been standing there for nearly half an hour. Shutting the box with a sharp snap, Matt reached for the next scrapbook, but his fingers slipped on the slick cover and the scrapbook crashed to the floor. “Shit!” Matt grasped the spine, and as he brought it up, a brown five-by-seven envelope fell out. He was just bending down to pick it up when Mike’s voice froze him.
“How the hell did you get in here?”
His heart in his throat, Matt slowly straightened up to face his uncle. Trying to keep his voice steady, Matt said, “With a key.”
“Don’t be a smart-ass. You know what I mean.”
Matt bravely went on, even though he knew the shit had truly hit the fan. “It’s okay. Kate lets me come in.”
“Since when?”
“Since the night I helped her try to find Homer. She wanted to thank me, so she told me where the key was.”
Mike’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t believe you.”
Matt cockily shrugged. “It’s the truth.”
“Then you won’t mind me asking Kate about it, will your?”
The muscles in Matt’s legs began to tremble, but he shrugged again. Not able to bear Mike’s silent stare, Matt turned to put the scrapbook back.
Mike finally said, “I don’t think I’ll need your help anymore. I can finish by myself.” He started down the steps.
Matt felt the unaccustomed sting of tears at his uncle’s rebuke. In all his nineteen years, Mike hadn’t been anything but loving and kind to him. The only sharp words he’d ever aimed at him had been during the summer Matt was seven years old and had climbed to the top of the roof. He’d wanted to emulate his uncle, who had been helping his parents with a leak, and had followed him up the ladder. Matt had slipped, nearly sliding off the steep slope of the slate roof, and Mike had caught him by the cotton shirt he wore and let him have it. He’d cried then—from the angry words and from fear. He felt the same way now.
Matt squatted to pick up the envelope he’d dropped and was about to put it back into the scrapbook, when he realized this was probably the last thing of Paul’s he’d get to examine. Holding it by the short edge, he didn’t take long to decide what to do. He slipped it inside his jacket, and left the tower room and Kate’s house. Where was Kate? He wanted to warn her, but wasn’t sure what good it would do now.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-THREE
Mike sat in Kate’s den. He didn’t bother to turn on a light and let dusk overtake the room.
Once in a while he’d bring his arm up and sip the scotch rocks he’d made for himself, but he didn’t taste it or feel it.
He’d stopped work at four o’clock. Had begun drinking at four-fifteen. The banjo clock struck five, then the half hour. And still, he waited. Every car that drove by was Kate’s. Every crunching footstep on the sidewalk was Kate coming home. So that when her car engine stopped, her car door slammed shut, and her boots clicked on the cement walk, he was prepared.
The front door opened and closed. She went into the kitchen and opened the pantry. Dog food rang in Homer’s stainless steel bowl, and the back door opened and closed. He could hear her talking to the dog as she fed him.
She came out of the kitchen and went upstairs. The third step still creaked, and somewhere in his tortured mind, he filed that away. She was above him now, in her bedroom. Her boots dropped to the floor. Drawers that presumably had been opened, slid closed.
Except for the squeak of the step, she had soundlessly come back downstairs. The door opened and she entered the den. She switched on the Tiffany lamp, making him blink. And then she saw him.
Kate jumped and her hand came up to cover her heart. When her brain registered it was Mike, she sighed. “You scared the hell out of me.” She took a step toward him and her eyes took in the drink in his hand and the look on his face. Alarmed, she asked, “What is it? Has something happened?”
“You tell me,” he said in an oddly emotionless voice.
“Is it Dad? Is something wrong with him? Julia told me Mom called …”
“Your parents are fine. This isn’t about them.”
Mike still hadn’t moved a muscle and Kate stood rooted to her spot.
“What, then?” she asked.
“I want to know what happened the night Homer ran away.” He watched her face. “I want to know what happened between you and Matt.”
Her body seemed to sag. A pounding began in her temple. Kate tried to pull her eyes away from his, but the pain in them held her. “Do you believe that everything in life happens for a reason?” she asked, forcing herself to remain standing despite liquid knees.
“Tell me, Kate.”
“I can’t,” she whispered.
“Your vocabulary has become pretty limited.”
She shook her head. “Don’t make me …”
“What I’m imagining is pretty ugly. Please. Tell me I’m wrong,” he implored. “Tell me that I’m way out of line.”
“I can’t,” she said dully.
His face collapsed as her words confirmed his worst fears. “Is this some kind of bad joke?” he said in disbelief.
“I was drunk—drugged.”
But Mike had stood now and anger erupted out of him, sulfurous and hot. “Let me get this straight. You fucked my nephew?”
She stared at him, horrified at his words. “No! That’s not what happened!”
“Then what did happen, Kate?”
How could she tell him? The truth was bad enough. How in the world could she say the words, when even she wasn’t sure.
“Mike, I was half out of my mind!”
“But with the other half you fucked Matt?”
“Please,” she entreated him. “Please stop saying that! It’s not true!”
“I can’t think of any other way to put it.”
Wringing her hands, she tearfully said, “You don’t understand how it was, Mike.”
He came toward her. “You’re right. I don’t understand. After all these years of wanting you. Loving you. I don’t understand. And I don’t think I want to.” Her face was bathed in tears, and as she reached a hand up to wipe them away, he caught her wrist. “Don’t. This is the first time in a long time that tears look good on you.”
Bowing her head, she quietly said, “I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
“You told me you loved me. I’ve waited all my life to hear you say that.” He flung her arm away. “And now it doesn’t mean shit.”
But she went on. “I never wanted to hurt you, Mike. You said you’d remember. You said you’d believe me …” She couldn’t bring herself to tell him the reality of that night.
“Tell me something, Kate,” he said harshly. “Was it his youth you wanted? Or did he remind you of Paul?” Her silence told him all he needed to know. “I could’ve given you so much more. My love was yours for the taking. But you told me you weren’t ready for it. Have you ever told me the truth, Kate?”
“I’m telling you the truth now! I’ve never lied to you, Mike. Never! I told you I love you and that’s the truth, too.”
“You don’t know the meaning of the word ‘love.’ When you figure it out, come and tell me, because I think I just forgot what it means myself.”
He walked out of the room.
CHAPTER
THIRTY-FOUR
Kate’s first impulse was to run after him, throw her arms around him, tell him it would be all right if he could just understand.
What stopped h
er was a memory so strong that nine years faded away, and she instinctively knew that the last thing Mike wanted was a show of affection from her, however real it may be. Betrayal, and the almost irreversible loss of trust it caused, called for a shutdown. A time to lie quietly and lick wounds. A time to think and regain hope. A time to forgive, because you never forgot.
“A little more to the left …”
“Didn’t I just do that twenty minutes ago?” Paul says from underneath the eight-foot Fraser fir. “C’mon, Kate. I don’t care if it’s straight anymore. I’m growing moss down here!”
“Mom, what do you think?”
Kate’s mother looks up from the string of lights she is trying to untangle. “It looks fine to me. What do you think, Jim?” There is no answer, and Mary Moran glances behind her. “Jim! Are you asleep?”
Kate’s father comes awake with a snort. The box of ornaments he’s been holding falls to the floor and lands with an unhealthy tinkling sound.
Kate swallows a giggle, as her father says, “What now?”
“The tree. Does it look straight?”
“Since when do we do Christmas by committee?”
Mary Moran rolls her eyes at her daughter, and Kate says, “You can come up for air, Paul. It’ll do.”
She is brushing fir needles out of his hair when the phone rings.
Kate’s mother moves to get up. “I’ll get it.”
“No—let me,” Kate says, rushing to the kitchen. “It might be Mike.”
Mary Moran looks at her son-in-law. “Mike Fitzgerald?”
Paul nods, concentrating on stringing the first set of lights around the plump tree.
“Will he be coming home for Christmas?”
“Yeah. He usually stays with us a couple of days if his mom is visiting Sheryl in Maryland. Then he spends Christmas with them.”
“That’s a lot of driving,” she comments.
“Kate wouldn’t have it any other way.” Paul looks up as Kate enters the living room. “When’s he coming?”
“It wasn’t Mike.”
Paul turns his attention to the tree once more. “Well, don’t keep me in suspense. Who was it?”
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