by Robin Allen
“I’m proud of you, honey,” he said.
“Thanks, Daddy.”
And with that, our worlds tilted back into place.
We cleared more tables in silence, loading our trays with what should have been considered signs of success, but had been recast as relics of a disaster: half-finished entrées, ramekins of sauce on the side, lipstick-smudged wine goblets. If Mitch had it in him to keep moving an inch, he would keep going.
I was as strong and determined as my father, but my feet hurt. “Let’s let the wait staff do this in the morning,” I said. “It’s late … or early … and we’re both knackered.”
Mitch crouched down and scooped his right shoulder under the dish-laden tray, then dead-lifted it. “I still got it,” he said.
And then he fell, crashing his head and the tray onto the tile floor.
“Daddy! Are you okay?”
“I think so,” he said, trying to sit up.
“You’re bleeding. Don’t move. I’m calling an ambulance.” I ran to the hostess stand for the cordless phone.
“I don’t need an ambulance,” he said. “I need another drink.” He tried to sit up again, but I was back, kneeling beside him and dialing 911. “Don’t make me sit on you, Daddy.”
I grabbed a couple of bread rolls from the nearest table and arranged them under his head to cushion it against the hard tile as I told the emergency operator what happened.
“That’s what you came up with? Sourdough pillows?”
“Try to relax, Daddy. And try not to make fun of me. The ambulance will be here in a few minutes.”
“At least give me some butter.”
I laughed as much from his silliness as from relief at the wail of a siren coming closer. Would this have happened if we had both listened to Nina? If Mitch had downed plain orange juice instead of juice laced with rum? I had been feeling smug about winning this small battle against Nina and her wet-blanket campaign, but was it really a victory? I leaned down and kissed him on the forehead. “I’m sorry, Daddy.”
The EMTs who arrived were the same Barbie and Ken team who had taken Évariste away earlier. They rolled a stretcher through the front doors, entering cautiously, both of them with a not-another-dead-body look on their faces.
“Over here,” I called, standing up between the tables. “My father fell.”
“I didn’t fall,” he said, “I slipped on this tile floor, which could use a good scrubbing now that I’m down here so close to it.”
Ken began questioning Mitch about his general health and the medications he took. “None,” I answered for him. Mitch was the healthiest senior citizen in Austin. But my father corrected me, speaking another language as he told Ken about dosages and daily schedules. When had his health become so tenuous? He didn’t take medication before he married Nina. That much I knew.
Barbie hooked him up to a portable machine and ran some tests, then nodded in agreement when Ken suggested Mitch go to the hospital. “You’ve got a wicked contusion on the side of your head and may have a concussion. And your blood pressure is low.”
“Hey,” Mitch said as the EMTs gently transferred him to a gurney, “did you hear the one about the ambulance and the Aggie?”
“Right behind you, Daddy,” I said. “I’ll call Nina.”
The restaurant phone rang as they wheeled him out the front doors. I answered on the fifth ring. “Markham’s Bar and, uh, Grille and Cocktails. How can I help you?”
“Put your father on the phone.” Nina sounded panicked about something, probably that one of her mollycoddled dogs had stopped eating again.
“Nina, Mitch is—”
“Go get him!” she demanded. “Ursula has been arrested.”
“Arrested? For what?”
“For killing Évariste!”
“What? How? Why?”
“I don’t know. Ursula just called me, hysterical, and now I’m calling your father. He has to meet me at the police station.”
Nina would be useless at the police station, and frankly, I would rather she stay with Mitch to make sure he didn’t fall through the medical cracks. She began to cry when I told her about Mitch’s accident. I assured her that he would be all right, that the EMTs took him to the hospital only as a precaution.
“I’m closer to the police station,” I said, “so I’ll check on Ursula and you check on Mitch. They’re taking him to St. David’s.”
I hung up and raced for the front door, but didn’t have my keys. I had stuffed them in my backpack, along with my chef’s coat, which I remembered tossing into the dry storage room, what, eight hours earlier? I turned the lock on the front door, ran through the dining room, grabbed my backpack, then shot out the back door and into a line of bright yellow police tape. A young uniformed policeman looked up from his notebook. I held my breath, waiting for a lecture about contaminating a protected crime scene.
“How’s your dad?” he asked.
“How did you—”
He pointed to his police radio. He probably knew about Ursula, too.
“Just a little bump on his head,” I said. “He’ll be back soon.”
“I’ll keep a good thought for him.”
“Thank you,” I said, then with transparent nonchalance, “I know it’s early in the investigation, but did y’all find anything you can use tonight?”
“Just the knife in the guy’s heart,” he said, as if such a discovery happened on every one of his shifts. Maybe it did. He rubbed his eyes. “We’ll look again as soon as it gets light.”
“Thanks,” I said, offering a quick salute before maneuvering around the cordoned area to my Jeep.
I threw my backpack in the front seat, then put the key in the ignition. The sky had turned from inky black to charcoal gray, and the blobby outlines of cars, trees, and houses began to take on definition. The previous morning had started out the exact same way. I dropped my forehead to the steering wheel. How had so much gone so wrong in a single day?
During the police interviews, while refilling coffee cups, I overheard several Markham’s employees telling the detectives about Ursula locking horns with Évariste, but that couldn’t be enough to arrest her for murder. Nina had to be mistaken. She usually missed important parts of a story because she paid more attention to herself than to the storyteller. She could have missed the part about Ursula being taken in for questioning because she left the restaurant before she could give a statement, or she could have missed the part about Ursula confessing to the murder.
I took off for the police station, wishing I had thought to ask the officer the quickest way there. It’s one of those places you pass on your way out of downtown or while looking for a place to park for a concert at Stubb’s. Was it on the corner of I-35 and 7th or 8th? Darn Ursula.
By the time I pulled into the parking lot under the bridge on I-35, the dark gray sky had pulled the pants off the crack of dawn. I crossed the access road, dodging early morning commuters, and took the steps two at a time into police headquarters. My presumption that I would announce my purpose and be escorted straight to Ursula turned out to be a delusion. Several people crowded into the small foyer and I had to take a number and wait my turn—on my feet because every chair held someone desperate for information. Darn Ursula.
In the fullness of time, I spoke with a desk officer. He confirmed that an Ursula York had been arrested, but unless I was her attorney or a detective on an official visit, I couldn’t see her. He told me that because Ursula’s last name started with Y, I had to wait until the T through Z public visiting hours on Friday at 6:00 PM. I doubted Nina had spoken to Mitch’s attorneys, and I didn’t want to wait until the next night to see my troublesome stepsister, so I tried a bluff. I dug in my backpack and flashed my health inspector’s badge. “I’m official,” I said, disappearing it before he could get a close look.
Of course it didn’t work. “Ma’am, this is the wrong place for con games. If you really want to come in here”—he looked toward a side door—“I’
ll gladly take you in.” He moved his hand to his lower back. I had seen enough episodes of Cops to know that his gesture implied handcuffs.
Did they handcuff Ursula when they arrested her? She probably resisted and made things worse. I would have resisted, too.
“Sorry, sir,” I said. “I’ve been awake for twenty-four hours and not thinking straight. Can you please tell me what’s happening to her?”
It wasn’t a good story. After being questioned by detectives at headquarters, Ursula had been taken to the county’s central booking facility on 11th Street, which was where she would stay until she was released on bail. He assured me that I could not contact her. So until she called me or Nina, I would have to use my imagination about her overnight lodgings and state of mind. I hoped she had kept her mouth shut and asked for a lawyer. Even if she hadn’t, this mistake would be corrected soon. Ursula may have all the tender sweetness of a seasick crocodile, but I couldn’t believe she murdered Évariste.
So who did? Yes, Évariste was infuriating enough to want to kill. I myself had flirted with that sentiment. But to actually go through with it?
And then I had a sickening thought. Could this be my fault? Had I provoked Ursula past the point of all reason? I had simply been having a bit of fun making sure their paths collided once or twice, but had I gone too far?
No, I wouldn’t believe Ursula did this. Even if she had motive and means, she didn’t have time to do it. She was slammed all night. Everybody was.
Back in my Jeep, I called Nina’s cell phone to check on Mitch, but she didn’t answer. Every dehydrated cell in my body, every frazzled hair, every ragged fingernail wanted to go home and sleep. I had already fulfilled my end of our deal by going to the police station. My house and my bed were so close. But my father was more important.
The information lady at St. David’s told me that Mitch had been admitted to the fourth floor. I found Nina asleep on the couch in the waiting room, a garish fence of chip bags, soda cans, and candy trash on the table in front of her. Ursula had once told me that her mother ate junk food when she felt stressed out, but after watching Nina regularly nibble on toast and coffee for breakfast, salad for lunch, and skinless chicken for dinner, I had found that hard to believe. I had to believe my own eyes, though. How could she sleep with all that sugar in her?
And how could she look so good? She had changed out of the silk suit she wore at the party and dressed in white cotton pants and a navy blue twin set, a ruby red pashmina shawl draped over her feet. I still wore my cook’s clothes, the same ones I had been wearing for the past fifteen hours, and felt especially grungy against the contrast of her freshness. She had probably even brushed her teeth.
I left her to whatever dreams aging socialites dream about and found my way to Mitch’s room. My father lay in the far bed, face up, head back, mouth open, reminding me of how he looked when I was young enough to be fascinated by the sight of my father napping. But his body looked small and frail under white sheets and ugly blankets. A clear tube connected his nose to a machine and a pulse monitor clung to his finger. He looked much older than his sixty-two years. I sat in the chair next to his bed and held his hand.
He snorted, waking himself up, then he opened his eyes and raised his head.
“Hey, Daddy,” I said.
“Hey, honey.” He squeezed my hand. “Long time no see.” He dropped his head on the pillow.
“I just now finished bussing all those tables.”
He smiled weakly. “Don’t expect overtime.”
“When are they letting you out of here?” I asked.
“Today or tomorrow. Nina’s making me listen to the doctors.”
“Nina is right,” I said.
He turned his head slowly and looked at me. “I’m counting on you to keep an eye on things.”
Fury stirred inside me. That was all he cared about. That bloody restaurant! I opened my mouth to remind him that I had a job and that he had a general manager. But when I looked into his weary eyes, the words evaporated. My father was sick and needed to get better. It wouldn’t be too difficult to help Will look after Markham’s for the weekend, especially since we would be closed.
He squeezed my hand again. “Do this for me, Penelope Jane.”
“Sure, Daddy.”
“That’s my girl.” He released his grip and closed his eyes. “I feel better already.”
Before he asked, I said, “I can’t see Ursula at the jail until tomorrow night, so I don’t know exactly what’s going on.”
His eyes flew open and he jerked his head to look at me. “Ursula in jail?”
“They arrested her a few hours ago. Didn’t Nina tell you?”
“Arrested.” He started coughing, then gasping for air.
I ran toward the door as one of the machines beeped out an SOS, summoning a male nurse into the room. “It’s okay, Mr. Markham,” he said gently. He helped Mitch sit up and the coughing subsided. Mitch drank water from the cup I handed the nurse, then laid back, breathing hard.
The nurse checked the machines then readjusted the oxygen tube. “Only happy words today, okay?” he said to me on his way out.
I felt as tall as a baby carrot. “Sorry, Daddy,” I said.
He nodded, but didn’t speak.
I leaned down and kissed his forehead. “Get better and don’t worry about anything.”
When I walked out the door, Nina was at the nurse’s station talking to Mitch’s nurse. He pointed at me, then said something to Nina. She pinched her lips together so tightly, her mouth looked zippered shut. It wouldn’t stay that way for long.
I was in no mood or age range to get lectured by her. I kept my head down as I walked past her, but she followed me into the waiting room. “What did you do to him?” she said.
“Why didn’t you tell him about Ursula?”
“Because I knew it would upset him.” She placed a trembling hand on her chest. “And I was right.”
“It’s his restaurant, Nina. You can’t keep something like this from him.”
“Not with you around.”
She sat on the couch and adjusted the shawl around her thin frame. “Did you see Ursula? How is she?”
I sat down next to her and she scrunched up her surgically perfected nose. I lifted my arms to fix my hair, a childish attempt to offend her further with my eau de kitchen, and she scooted to the other end of the couch.
“I couldn’t talk to her,” I said. “She’s being processed through central booking right now and we have to wait until tomorrow night at six for visiting hours.” Nina’s lower lip quivered. I have a genetic aversion to helpless emotions, so to preempt any waterworks, I said, “Has she called you?”
“No.” She checked her cell phone to make sure. “Ursula doesn’t belong in jail with all those disgusting criminals!” She slapped her fist on the couch which made a light plopping sound. Hardly the punctuation such a statement deserved. “You have to get her out of there now!”
Nina has no concept of time. Everything has to be done now—speeding tickets are dismissed now; weight is lost now; wrinkles are erased now. Ursula should be out of jail now.
I scraped something brown and crusty off my pants. “That’s not really possible, Nina. It’s up to the police to let her go.”
She scooted back over and took me by the shoulders. “Then you have to convince them!”
“Sure, Nina. Right after I convince a class of sixth-graders that cauliflower is good for them.”
She sniffed. “There’s no need for sarcasm.”
“Then please listen when I say that the police have to go through a process. It takes time.” I leaned against the back of the couch and caught the flickering light of a television in the corner of the room. A color publicity photo of Évariste filled the screen. When they showed the video of his sheet-covered body being loaded into the ambulance, I shifted my eyes back to Nina. “Why are the doctors keeping Mitch?”
She told me that Mitch had a slight concussion and low
blood pressure so they wanted to keep him overnight. Nothing different from what Barbie and Ken had said.
“Your father told me about the terrible things you said to him at the restaurant,” she said.
I looked up at the ceiling. “It’s an old argument, Nina. I didn’t say anything to him tonight that I haven’t said before.”
“You’ve been back less than twenty-four hours and already you’ve upset him.” Nina stood. “Twice.” She began to pace the waiting room, arms crossed, hands clasped around her elbows.
She had me there. I was sure Mitch hadn’t told her we’d had a drink together or she would have thrown that in too.
I felt more tired than I had ever been. Not even as tired as the weekend I staked out a cock fight, the losers of which were suspected of becoming the “pollo loco” taco special at several street stands on the east side. It’s not against health code to cook and serve fighting cocks on a tortilla with pico de gallo and guacamole, but the birds need to come from a USDA-approved supplier.
My brain had stopped working, so it couldn’t tell my muscles to move my limbs. I watched Nina walk in circles, looking like a stir stick agitating a martini.
I must have dozed off because the next time I saw Nina, she was looming over me with a cup of coffee in one hand and a candy bar in the other. “They gave your father a sedative,” she said, accusation dripping from her words. “Why don’t you go home and see what you can do about getting Ursula out of jail.”
Of course Nina hadn’t listened to me when I said I couldn’t help Ursula. And of course it never occurred to her that I might want to sleep when I got home. But that was not the time to help her improve her listening and comprehension skills. “If Ursula calls you, ask her to call me next,” I said. I could at least get her story firsthand.
I had more than just dozed in the waiting room. It was 10:00 AM when I left the hospital so I had slept for about three hours. I felt better and decided to swing by Markham’s on the way home to fulfill my promise to my father.
When I drove up Lamar past the front of the restaurant, I saw Will leaning into the open passenger window of a black sedan. I braked hard then gunned the Jeep over the curb into the parking lot, coming to a stop by the front doors. Will waved to the car as it pulled away and I reached over to throw open the passenger door as he approached.