Shoot Don't Shoot

by J. A. Jance

  “Who’s coming to dinner?” Jenny asked as they, too, headed for the elevator.

  “Leann Jessup,” Joanna answered. “She’s a new friend, someone I met here at school. And Adam York, the DEA guy from Tucson. You remember him, don’t you?”

  Jenny nodded. “He’s the guy who thought you were a drug dealer.”

  “Well, he’s a friend now, and so is Leann.”

  “Are you fixing the two of them up?” Jenny asked.

  Joanna was stunned. She wasn’t quite ready for Jenny’s inquiring mind to take on the world of male/female relations.

  “What a strange thing to say. No,” Joanna declared firmly. “Nobody’s fixing anybody up.”

  “So Mr. York isn’t her boyfriend?”

  “No. He doesn’t even know her.”

  “Is he your boyfriend, then?”

  “Jenny,” an exasperated Joanna said. “As far as I know, Adam York isn’t anybody’s boyfriend. He’s a friend of mine and a colleague. What’s all this stuff about boyfriends?”

  “But why does he want to have Thanksgiving dinner with us?” Jenny asked.

  Joanna shrugged. “It’s a holiday. Maybe he doesn’t want to be alone. Besides, I’ll be happy to see him again.”

  “Why can’t he have dinner with his own family?” Jenny asked.

  “Look,” Joanna said. “Adam York is one of the people who encouraged me to run for office. He’s also the one who suggested I come up here and take this course. He probably just wants to see how I’m doing.”

  “Are you going to marry him?” Jenny asked pointedly.

  “Marry him!” Joanna exclaimed. “Jenny, for heaven’s sake, what in the world has gotten into you? Of course I’m not going to marry him. Whatever put that weird idea into your head?”

  Jenny frowned. “That’s what happened to Sue Espy. Her parents got a divorce when we were in second grade. Her mother asked some guy named Slim Dabovich to come for Thanksgiving dinner last year. Now they’re married. Sue likes him, I guess. She says he isn’t like stepfathers you see on TV. I mean, he isn’t mean or anything.”

  Joanna almost laughed aloud. “Just because Sue’s mom married the guy she asked to Thanksgiving dinner doesn’t mean I will. Now, do you want to go swimming or not?”

  In advance of the holiday, Dave Thompson had stocked up on booze. Fighting a hangover from the previous night’s excess, he went looking for hair of the dog the moment the last of the students and instructors left campus. By nine-thirty that night, he had been drinking steadily for most of the afternoon and evening. And not just beer. Booze—the real hard stuff—was the only thing that could dull the pain on a night like this. Dave knew that if he drank long enough and hard enough, eventually he would pass out. With any kind of luck, by the time he woke up again, part of Thanksgiving Day would already be over and done with. He would have succeeded in dodging part of the holiday bullet, one more time.

  For a real binge like this, he tried to confine his drinking to inside his apartment, but each time he needed a cigarette, he went outside. That was pretty funny, actually—that he still went outside to smoke. Irene had been a very early and exceptionally militant soldier in the war against secondhand cigarette smoke. She had never allowed him to smoke inside either the house or the car. Her prohibitions had stuck and turned into habit. Despite Irene’s betrayal—despite the fact that she had been gone all these years—Dave Thompson continued to smoke outside the house.

  It would have surprised Irene Thompson to realize that over time her former husband had found some interesting side benefits to smoking out of doors that had nothing at all to do with lung disease. People didn’t expect someone to be standing outside in a yard or patio at night for long stretches of time. Dave Thompson had seen things from that vantage point, learned things about his neighbors and neighborhood that other people never even suspected. As a matter of fact, it was something he had seen through the kitchen window of their old house back in Chandler that had signaled the beginning of the end of Dave’s marriage. If it hadn’t been for that one fateful cigarette, he might never have found out what was really going on with Irene. He might have gone right on being a chump for the rest of his life.

  Dave didn’t look at his watch, but it must have been close to ten when he staggered outside for that one last cigarette. He knew he was drunk, but it was a fairly happy drunk for a change. He laughed at himself when he bounced off both sides of the doorway trying to get through it. Since he wasn’t driving, though, what the hell?

  Dave lurched over to his smoking table—a cheap white resin table and matching chair. His one ashtray—a heavy brass one that had once belonged to his ex-father-in-law—sat there, waiting for him. Pulling the overflowing ashtray closer, he lit up and then leaned back in the groaning chair, gazing up at the sky.

  Sitting there, he remembered how, when he was a little kid growing up in Phoenix, it was still possible to see thousands of stars if you went outside in the yard at night. Some of his favorite memories stemmed from that time, standing in the front yard with his folks, staring up in the darkness, trying to catch a glimpse of the newly launched sputnik as it shot across the sky. Now the haze of smog and hundreds of thousands of city lights obscured all but the brightest two or three stars. And if there was space junk up there, as Discover magazine said there was, it was invisible to the naked eye from where Dave Thompson was sitting right that moment.

  He was still smoking and staring mindlessly up into the milky white sky when a car pulled into the APOA parking lot. Headlights flashed briefly into the private patio that separated Dave’s quarters from the building that housed the dormitory.

  Shit, Dave thought. Who’s that? Most likely one of the students. There was no law against being drunk on the patio of your own home, but finding the APOA’s head instructor in that kind of condition wouldn’t be great for trainee morale. He meant to get up and go inside, but as footsteps came toward him across the parking lot, Dave froze in his chair and hoped that not moving would render him invisible.

  Within moments, he was sound asleep.

  Joanna pried Jenny out of the pool a minute before the ten o’clock closing time. After a quick trip to the nearest 31 Flavors, it was ten-thirty by the time they made it back to their room, where Jenny was delighted to find that the covers on her bed had been turned back. On the pillow was a gold-foil-wrapped mint and a letter addressed to her in her mother’s handwriting. She tore open the envelope. Then, munching on the mint, she sat down cross-legged on the bed to read the letter. She looked over at her mother who had settled on her own bed, textbook in hand.

  When she finished Joanna’s letter, Jenny sighed, refolded the letter, and returned it to the envelope.

  “Mom,” Jenny said. “Did you ever think your classes here would be this hard?” Jenny asked.

  Welcoming the interruption, Joanna closed the book and put it down on the bedside table. “Not really.”

  “And do they make you do push-ups and run laps, honest?”

  Joanna smiled. “Girl Scout’s honor,” she said.

  “That’s no fair,” Jenny grumbled. “I always thought that when you got to be a grown-up, people couldn’t make you do stuff you didn’t want to do.”

  “That’s what I thought, too,” Joanna agreed.

  Suddenly Jenny scrambled off the bed and charged over to her suitcase. “I brought something along that I forgot to show you.”

  After pawing through her clothing, Jenny came back and sat down on the edge of her mother’s bed. She was carrying two pictures. “Look at this,” she said, handing them over to Joanna. “See what Grandpa found?”

  One was the picture of Joanna taken by her father, the one in her Brownie uniform. The second photo, although much newer and in color, was very similar to the first one. It was a picture of Jennifer Ann Brady, dressed in a much newer version of a Brownie uniform, and standing at attention near the right front bumper of her mother’s bronze-colored Eagle. In the black-and-white photo, a nine-ye
ar-old Joanna Lathrop posed in front of Eleanor Lathrop’s white Maverick. In both pictures the foreground was occupied by the same sturdy, twenty-five-year-old Radio Flyer, and in both pictures the wagon was loaded down with cartons of Girl Scout cookies.

  As soon as she saw the two pictures side by side, Joanna burst out laughing. “I guess pictures like that are part of a time-honored tradition,” she said, handing them back to Jenny. “Where did you get the second one?”

  “Grandpa Brady got it from Grandma Lathrop.”

  “That figures,” Joanna said. “She probably has drawers full of them. I’ll bet somebody takes a new picture like that every single Girl Scout cookie season.”

  Jenny didn’t seem to be listening. She was holding the two pictures up to the light, examining them closely. “Grandma Brady thinks I look just like you did when you were a girl,” Jenny said. “What do you think?”

  Joanna took the pictures back and studied them for herself. It was easy to forget that she, too, had been a towheaded little kid once upon a time. The red hadn’t started showing up in her hair until fourth or fifth grade—about the same time as that first traumatic haircut. This picture must have dated from third grade or so since Joanna’s hair still hung down over her shoulders in two long braids.

  “Grandma Brady’s right,” Joanna said. “You can tell we’re related.”

  “Yes, you can,” Jenny agreed.

  “Did I ever tell you about the first time Grandma Lathrop took me out for my first haircut?” Joanna asked.

  Jenny frowned and shook her head. “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Well, get back in your bed,” Joanna ordered. “It’s about time you heard the story of your mother and the pixie.”

  “I know all about pixies,” Jenny said confidently. “They’re kind of like fairies, aren’t they? So, is this a true story or pretend?”

  “This is another kind of pixie,” Joanna said. “And it’s true, all right. Believe me, it’s not the kind of story I’d make up. And who knows, once you hear it, maybe it’ll make you feel better about what happened to you when Grandma Lathrop took you to see Helen Barco.”

  Joanna told her haircut story then. “See there?” she asked as she finished. “It may not make you feel any better, but at least you’re not the only kid it’s ever happened to.”

  “I still hate it, though,” Jenny said.

  “I don’t blame you.”

  Despite Jenny’s fervent pleading, Joanna nixed the idea of watching even one video that night. “Tomorrow morning will be plenty of time for E.T.,” she said, reaching up and turning out the lamp on the bedside table between them. “Right now we’d both better try to get some sleep.”

  “Good night, Mom,” Jenny said. “I love you.”

  “I love you, too, Jenny. Sleep tight.”

  And they did. Both of them, until the sounds of police and aid-car sirens brought them both wide awake sometime much later. Joanna checked the time—one o’clock—while Jenny dashed over to the window and looked outside.

  “What is it?” Joanna asked. “A car wreck?”

  Jenny peered down at the flashing lights and scurrying people far below. “I guess so,” she said, “but I can’t tell for sure.”

  Joanna climbed out of bed herself to take a look. In the melee of emergency vehicles and flashing lights, she caught a glimpse of a blanket-covered figure lying on the ground.

  “It looks like someone hit a pedestrian,” she said, drawing Jenny away from the window. “Come on, let’s go back to bed.”

  But instead of crawling into her own bed, Jenny climbed into her mother’s. “I don’t like sirens,” she said softly. “Whenever I hear them now, I think of Daddy. Don’t you?”

  “Yes,” Joanna answered.

  “Do they make you feel like crying?”

  “Yes,” Joanna said again.

  For some time after that, Jenny and her mother lay side by side, saying nothing. At last they heard another siren, that of an ambulance or aid car pulling away from whatever carnage had happened on the street below. As the siren squawked, Jenny gave an involuntary shudder and she began to cry.

  Joanna gathered the sobbing child into her arms. When the tears finally subsided and Jenny’s breathing steadied and quieted, Joanna didn’t bother suggesting that Jenny return to her own bed. By then the mother needed the warmth and comfort of another human presence almost as much as the child did.

  Soon Jenny was fast asleep. Joanna lay awake. The fact that Jenny associated sirens with Andy’s death jarred her, although it shouldn’t have. After all, would she ever be able to see a perfect apricot-colored rosebud or her diamond solitaire engagement ring without thinking of the University Hospital waiting room, without thinking about Andy dying in a room just beyond a pair of awful swinging doors?

  Jenny was, after all, a chip off the old block. The resemblance between mother and daughter went far beyond the eerily striking similarity between those two photographs taken twenty years apart.

  What was it Jim Bob was always saying? Something about the apple not falling far from the tree.

  Remembering that last little proverb should have been reassuring, but it wasn’t. Not at all, because if it was true, then there was a fifty-fifty chance Joanna Brady would end up being just like her mother—tinted hair, lacquered nails, lifted face, and all.

  17

  It was probably only natural that since Eleanor Lathrop was the last person Joanna thought about before falling asleep, she was also the person who awakened them the next morning. When the phone rang, dragging Joanna out of what had finally turned into a sound sleep, it was a real challenge to find the phone.

  The room at the Hohokam was, after all, the third room she had slept in that week. Bearing that in mind, it wasn’t surprising that she came on the phone sounding a little disoriented.

  “Hello, Mom.”

  “Happy Thanksgiving,” Eleanor said.

  “Same to you,” Joanna mumbled, stretching sleepily and glancing at the clock. It said 7:15. Jenny was still huddled under a pile of covers that was only then beginning to stir.

  “It took so long for you to answer, I was afraid I had missed you altogether,” Eleanor Lathrop said. “I was about to try Jim Bob and Eva Lou’s room.”

  “It’s late for them. They’re probably already down at breakfast.”

  “I’m glad I caught you, then. You’re the one I wanted to talk to. I’ve changed my mind.”

  “About what?”

  “About coming up to Phoenix for Thanksgiving,” Eleanor announced. “Just for tonight, of course. I couldn’t stay any longer than that. What time are you planning on eating?”

  “Five. Right here in the hotel dining room.”

  “Good. If you’ll add two more places to your reservation, that’ll be fine. And we’ll need two rooms there as well. I’d prefer to be in the same hotel, but if they don’t have rooms, someplace nearby will be just fine.”

  “Wait a minute,” Joanna interjected. “Two dinner reservations. Two rooms. Who are you bringing along, Mother?”

  “I can’t tell you that. It’s a surprise.”

  “Mother,” Joanna objected, “you know I don’t like surprises.”

  “A surprise?” Jenny said, sitting bolt-upright in bed. “Grandma Lathrop’s coming and bringing a surprise? What kind of surprise, something to eat?”

  “Jenny, hush. I can’t hear what Grandma is saying.”

  Jenny dove out of bed and began pulling on her clothes. “Of course, I’ll reserve the rooms, Mother. It’s just that…No, the dining room is plenty large. I’m sure it won’t be any trouble to add two more places to the dinner reservation.”

  Fully if hurriedly dressed, Jenny was already making for the door. “Wait a minute. No, Mother, not you. I was talking to Jenny.” Joanna held the mouthpiece at arm’s length. “Just where do you think you’re going?”

  “Down to have breakfast with the Gs. The sooner I eat, the sooner I can go swimming.”

 
“Wait for me,” Joanna said. “We can go down together.”

  “Do I have to?”

  “Yes, you have to.”

  Sulking, Jenny switched on the television set, flipped through the channels with the remote, then settled on the floor in front of an old Roadrunner cartoon.

  “Sorry, Mother,” Joanna said, returning to her phone conversation. “What were you saying? Yes, I’ll get on the room situation right away. But I’ll need a name, for the reservation. Hotels require names, you know…. All right. Fine. I’ll put both rooms under your name.”

  In the interest of holiday spirit, Joanna tried to keep the irritation out of her voice. For weeks her mother had refused every suggestion that she come along on this Thanksgiving weekend outing. Now she was going to show up after all, at the very last minute, at a time when making room and dinner reservations was likely to be reasonably complicated.

  Not only was Eleanor coming herself, she was bringing along an undisclosed guest. Read boyfriend, Joanna thought.

  “What time do you think you’ll get here? Around three? We’ll try to be down in the lobby right around then. You shouldn’t have any trouble finding us. If we’re not in the lobby, try the pool. See you then.”

  Joanna put down the phone and turned to her daughter. “The surprise is whoever Grandma is bringing along to dinner.”

  “Who’s that?” Jenny asked, her eyes on the television set.

  “She didn’t tell me. If she did, it wouldn’t be a surprise. But my guess is it’s a man.”

  “You mean like a man who’s a friend, or a man who’s a boyfriend?”

  “I don’t have any idea, but I do have a word of warning for you, young lady.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Just because this guy, whoever he is, is showing up for Thanksgiving dinner doesn’t mean Grandma Lathrop is going to marry him. In other words, you are not to mention the M word. Do you understand?”

  Jenny nodded. “Okay,” she said. “Now can we go eat breakfast? I’m starved.”