Beebe watched her closely. The wary strategist who met her at the door dissolved into a mourning mother. Well now, Beebe thought, we might just get somewhere.
Turning away from the window-front display, Arnett moved to the couch. Beebe seated herself in the adjacent armchair. She immediately noticed two odd items occupying the oval coffee table: a pipe stand and kidney-shaped ashtray. Odd because, other than the status-symbol piano, Beebe could not believe one item belonging to unfaithful Jack Sebring remained in the house. Neither could she picture Arnett puffing a pipe. The stand was constructed of a round, wooden base and central spindle around which six pipes leaned upright into cutouts. The ceramic ashtray was the color of putty and flecked with brown. It was divided into two sections: the objective to keep a resting pipe from slipping into tapped-out ashes.
“Dan’s the younger of my two sons,” Arnett began. “He was eternally happy as a child. Inquisitive. Rambunctious. Always ready with a smile for his mother. He grew into a kind, responsible man. He was as comfortable with computers as hand tools.” Arnett’s dull eyes bore into Beebe’s. “A mother should never be asked to bear the loss of a child. Forty-two was too young. His sons need a father’s influence. Geoff’s back at college,” she said of her oldest grandson. “And Chad’s just four. I expect memories of his daddy will be hazy at best. The day will soon come when he’ll ask why his daddy died. The honest answer is: his mother encouraged his father’s pursuit of a worthless hobby.”
By then, Beebe ushered her natural talent for listening into play. She didn’t interrupt, but her neutral expression must have slipped. Beebe knew Arnett read surprise on her face when she heaped full blame for Dan’s loss onto Lizbeth’s shoulders. No accidental death. No wrong place, wrong time. Not even a dodge toward an act of God to account for the tree crushing the weekend artist.
“Gary came with the awful news that day. My son died alone, in a field, in a cold, driving rain.” Arnett’s strong voice was accusatory. “I refused to believe it for days. Chad is the miracle Dan left behind. The pain in my heart numbs somewhat whenever he comes to play.”
Elbows anchored on the chair arms, Beebe laced her fingers. Denial was a classic symptom of grief, numbness another.
Arnett brightened. “Chad’s such a delight. He possesses his father’s energy. You saw the snapshots. They’re interchangeable. They have the same hazel eyes. Oldstone eyes. Just like my father’s.” With the reference, Arnett flicked a glance toward the pipe stand, and Beebe understood. The pipes were a treasured possession of an admired father.
Then Arnett checked off one more son-like-father characteristic. “They have the same grin, what I call sweet-boy smiles.” Arnett went inside herself for a moment. “Chad is the very image of his father.”
Beebe’s concentration broke. The image of someone else. Those words touched her. Arnett relished the idea of keeping Chad close because the grandson was a duplicate of the son she’d raised. Beebe remembered all too vividly how her father seemed to push her away for precisely the same reason. Her face was a match for her runaway mother’s, identical in every respect. He could not accept the daughter who simply went off to study theology. He stared hard every time she visited. Her clerical collar made no shred of difference. He saw only the wife who left a puncture wound in his heart so profound, no amount of time could heal. In Arnett Sebring’s living room, Beebe was struck by the possibility that she’d chosen the ministry so that she might wear a uniform different from her mother’s nursing garb—different, to regain her father.
Arnett’s voice drew Beebe back to the present.
“If I don’t bend to her commands, she’ll pack Chad up and move him to Florida. A branch of her family is there. And Geoff. I see the conspiracy mounting.” Arnett leaned Beebe’s direction, a polished pink fingernail tapped the sofa arm. “Cassel, Maryland, has always been this family’s home base, and this is where she should stay.”
Finally, Beebe spoke. “I agree.”
Arnett’s mouth gaped. “You do?”
Beebe nodded. “Lizbeth is making this decision to move to Florida while she’s grieving. That’s a mistake. The two of you must learn to work at being a family again. How suddenly family members can be taken from us.” Beebe waited for that realization to soften Arnett’s charcoal eyes; she didn’t blink. Beebe put her battering-ram resolve to good use. “Arnett,” she said in a prepare-yourself tone, “I need you to scrape together every bit of fortitude and grace you own. You have some work ahead of you in order to keep Cassel the family base.” Beebe produced the folded pamphlet from her jacket pocket. “I have a little reading material for you. It’s a roadmap of sorts. You’ll find yourself there on the path you just described. Lizbeth is very nearby. Look for her.” With those words, Beebe watched an intensity form in Arnett’s eyes.
“Lizbeth has asked me to facilitate this peace summit, as she’s called it, and it’s a perfect title,” Beebe said with a dollop of enthusiasm. “You can conquer your temper. You must, for Chad.” She placed the pamphlet on the table, its simple heading turned Arnett’s direction.
Arnett read the title: Understanding Grief. Her shoulders and backbone stiffened. Her gaze shifted to the pipe stand and ashtray, then rose to bounce off a variety of objects while Beebe continued.
“I won’t preach about grief, but you’ve got to believe that you and Lizbeth are grieving, and you’re lodged in the second stage: the anger stage. Neither of you should make wild, sweeping decisions this close to Dan’s death. You both need time to heal.”
Arnett’s avoidance tactics snagged on the fireplace andirons.
“All the resentment, the recent upset between you and Lizbeth, don’t you see,” Beebe said, drilling the phrase with a spicy zest that drew Arnett’s attention back, “we can use that. The more difficult the situation, the better the redemption in Lizbeth’s eyes. I will take your part if you try.” Beebe sat forward. “I’m worried about Lizbeth. So worried. You should be, too.”
Beebe knew Arnett Sebring well enough by then not to expect an amenable, even a pacifying response. Beebe worked herself out of the soft chair and onto her feet. “I’ll pick you up Saturday at ten. Callie says to bring a sweater.”
Arnett’s mouth twisted involuntarily with the mention of Callie’s name, then she was quickly amused. She lifted her chin and shot her obsidian irises to Beebe. “You’re a little bit nuts, lady. You know that.”
“Probably so.” Beebe chuckled. Arnett’s judgment contained a measure of warmth that stirred with the beginnings of an understanding between them.
Honesty Pledge
Arnett Oldstone Sebring sat motionless on her living room couch for a long moment after Beebe Walker left.
Anger, drizzled with confusion, percolated inside her. She realized she didn’t quite know who to blame for her troubled life. For the longest time, she blamed Callie MacCallum, first and foremost. John had always been a close second.
In the afternoon quiet, though, her heart spoke and she listened. She simply could not endure life without Chad to hold and watch grow.
Arnett set her mouth. Lizbeth was to blame. More specifically, Lizbeth’s pride. Arnett’s middle finger scratched the sofa arm. She willed a resurgence of the matriarchal dominance that had been hers to brandish throughout a forty-year marriage and saw Lizbeth’s rising stature take a tumble.
“Wait, you’ll see,” Arnett said aloud.
Using the heel of her hand on the sofa arm, Arnett pushed herself up. She snapped the collar of her shirt with both hands, then marched toward the table in the front hall where she’d lain the three novels her sister-in-law Stella dropped off earlier. Arnett felt a tension burn behind her eyes. When she reached the table, she slammed her hand down hard. A china figurine of a woman sitting there teetered violently. She grabbed
it. The ivory woman was tall and shapely, so like her daughter-in-law. She hurled the figurine at the open door. It struck the knob and shattered into a million satisfying shards.
In the back of her mind, Beebe’s words rose up, encouraging Arnett to conquer her temper.
She pushed down Beebe’s chastisement, left the mess, and returned her focus to the murder mystery atop the stack. It appeared to contain a bookmark, but what Arnett slipped from under the cover was a business card Stella wanted Arnett to have. The embossed card read: Harlow Nolan, Attorney-At-Law. Stella promised this man could write a letter certain to riddle Lizbeth with the fear of the Great Almighty himself. Arnett flicked the card and smiled.
Maryland’s legislature passed a law guaranteeing grandparents the right to a relationship with their grandchildren. Arnett was willing to pursue court action to secure her relationship with Chad, if necessary.
Yes, she’d committed to the West Virginia trip. Nothing wrong, she told herself, with simultaneously operating two lines of defense.
. . .
Twenty minutes later, Arnett was returning broom and dustpan to the narrow kitchen closet when her sister-in-law’s voice pealed through the house. Arnett raised hers in return, then heard Stella Oldstone’s heavy footsteps closing in on the kitchen. A handful of seconds later, she stood in the long room, yellow and cheery with large paned windows at both ends.
Arnett carefully swept up all evidence of her overwrought emotions, not that she minded sharing with her best friend the events that precipitated smashing the figurine. Stella would understand. She was married to Arnett’s oldest brother, Raymond. Raymond and another brother, Emmett, ran Oldstone Brothers Manufacturing and Machine Works, the company that employed Arnett’s son Dan. Two more brothers were back home in Laurel County, Kentucky.
This day, the demise of the figurine would not be discussed.
“Lizbeth called,” Stella said, nearly breathless, her green eyes wide.
Arnett’s head whipped around. “When?” Movement of the teakwood tray she held stopped, suspended several inches above the granite countertop.
“Just now. I tried to call, but your line was busy, so I came on over.”
While Stella was turned to stash keys and pocketbook on the breakfast table, Arnett lowered the tray. It had grown heavy with apprehension. “What did she say?”
“First, she wanted to be sure I knew the West Virginia trip was on, and that she planned to invoke an honesty pledge.”
“An honesty pledge? What does that mean? Why would she call you?”
“To gloat, dear heart, to gloat. She said she’d bring the pledge up to the others Saturday morning. The sweet thing wanted me to break the news gently.” Stella shifted her weight to the other hip. “She’s changed since Dan’s death.”
Holding a loose fist to her chest, Arnett thought aloud, “She’s still plotting against me.”
“Don’t go,” Stella said, wagging a finger in the air. “I think it’s a mistake. Let Harlow Nolan handle things.”
“I called him. I have an appointment tomorrow afternoon.”
“Friday,” Stella said. “Good, then you can back out on the trip. I don’t think this Beebe person can control Lizbeth.”
Arnett nodded absently. “An honesty pledge,” she mumbled.
“That’s what she said.”
Arnett loaded the tray with the sugar bowl, china, spoons, linen napkins, and the coffee decanter from the KitchenAid appliance. Other than the two drops of coffee that sizzled on the warm burner, the room and the women were silent. Arnett picked up the tray. She and Stella turned their backs on the countertop coffeemaker. Side by side, they stepped down to the family room. Arnett always appreciated two things about her sister-in-law: First, she owned a cackle that was purely contagious, and second, she forever remained Arnett’s loyal compatriot.
The family room was another sunlit space, decorated in complementary greens and blues. The tray rested on a low table, the women on the plaid couch.
“What are you thinking?” Stella asked.
“I wonder if Callie’s involved with this honesty pledge.” Arnett poured coffee into a gold-rimmed cup.
“You think she’s feeding Lizbeth ideas? That would mean she and Lizbeth are conspiring. I get no sense of that.”
Stella’s use of the word conspiring kicked Arnett into motion. She was up and fidgeting with items in the room, along the mantel, on the desk. A family member conspiring against her hadn’t happened in a long, long time.
Arnett, the only daughter of Judge Cyrus Oldstone, was innately attuned to her daddy’s version of judgment. As the willful daughter of the invincible judge, she learned to approach life in much the same way. Truths could be locked away in his Kentucky courthouse, files sealed, gag orders issued. She was stronger because she, too, stood in judgment before her father.
At twenty, she married secretly, without his permission, and to a man not of his choosing. The backwoods news traveled swiftly. It rolled into town to rap smartly on the courthouse door. The judge sent family to deal with family. Brother Simon found the honeymooners’ cottage and, at gunpoint, rousted Arnett and her handsome groom out of bed. Arnett and Eben Collins were hauled back to Judge Oldstone’s courtroom.
Arnett slid an index finger along the frame of the family room’s large landscape painting, absently checking for dust. A flickering memory reminded her again how the air inside the courtroom smelled distinctly of lemony furniture polish when she was escorted inside. Completely unruffled by the judgment he was about to declare, the robed figure behind an elevated dais ordered the courtroom cleaned while he waited. When the threesome appeared, the judge’s head remained angled toward an opened law book.
Unintimidated, Arnett marched forward, through a wooden, hinged gate. She heard scuffling behind her; the courtroom door opened and closed. Judge Oldstone looked up. She kept her eyes on her father. She knew Simon led Eben out.
Both father and daughter, staged as judge and defendant, were positioned beneath overhead lamps, their expressions of mutual disappointment clearly visible. Arnett’s ranting proved worthless that day. He shut her down with one word: “Enough!”
Just as quickly, he annulled her marriage. Balancing glasses on his crooked nose, he scratched his ballpoint forcefully over the pre-prepared legal document laying on the dais’s varnished surface. With matching efficiency, Arnett was banished to Cassel, Maryland, into the care of her two married brothers who lived there. Early on, she often wondered what happened to Eben.
Stella’s voice invaded her thoughts. “I still say don’t go.” She patted the couch cushion. Arnett accepted the invitation, sitting down with a sigh.
“Don’t you see, I must go. I have to know what Lizbeth will tell Beebe and Callie.” Both Beebe and Callie promised Arnett their support. The persuasive words Callie said out by the pool seemed suddenly artificial, appropriate only for a woman wearing a disguise. In truth, Arnett feared Callie. “What if John told Callie things about me? What if she runs to Gary?”
“Spiteful,” Stella said, pouring coffee for Arnett.
“She would go to Gary if she’s teamed up with Lizbeth, if she wants to see Chad kept away from me, if she wants to turn Gary against me.” Arnett held her cup, needing both hands to steady it.
A rhythmic chink, chink, chink broke the silence. Stella stirred her coffee. “The thought of this class in Wilderness Psychobabble is enough to make me want to spit in Lizbeth’s face.”
Imagining that scene grew Arnett’s strength immensely. She grinned over the raised cup.
And Stella cackled.
. . .
Later, after walking Stella to the door, Arnett wandered in
to the living room and up to the table where the sepia photograph of her father leaned back on its stand. The frame was gilded; the judge, robed. Wiry and uncontrolled described his hair and eyebrows, but not his physique or disposition.
As her early days in Maryland passed, the bite of her father’s venom-like justice eased. His banishment tactic morphed into prevailing wisdom. She came around to that way of thinking about the same time something hot and sticky was searing through her veins. Arnett yearned to marry a man named John Avery Sebring.
Arnett scuffed across the room and sat in the chair that faced the table. Her eyes skipped from one framed family member to the next, picking out those who were aware of the unspoken irony that defined her: Callie MacCallum’s sin had first been Arnett Oldstone’s sin. They both ached for a not-quite-available John Sebring.
When Arnett met John, he was dealing with two Mrs. Sebrings, mother and wife. Mother Sebring, although not gavel-powered, was eminently strong-willed and bent on making her then current and disliked daughter-in-law’s life one of continual misery. That made her son’s life one of constant and wearing mediation. Arnett wedged herself into the story at that point and raised the jealousy quotient. John exhibited a valiant effort to maintain fidelity, but appearances mattered. Appearances and back-chatter. They were the eventual undoing of the marriage.
The day John’s divorce was granted, Arnett secretly hailed the usefulness of judges and courts.
Her marriage to John spun into four decades and separate bedrooms. One April morning, Arnett banged through his bedroom door, waking him up. She had evidence, proof he strayed. It seemed her husband turned out to be a risk-taker even after she set unequivocal terms: She promised him ruin, poverty, if he was ever unfaithful. He understood she had the courts on her side.
Straying, however, did not adequately describe the crime. John was embroiled in a nineteen-year affair. She damned him for hiding secrets, and she dubbed the much younger other woman the Scottish Tart, refusing to speak her name. She read the name often enough in the newspapers. Callie MacCallum won this golf trophy or that, one tournament after another. She was Chesterfield Park’s glory. Without fail, each article mentioned her roots. They were traced back to Scotland, the birthplace of what Arnett deemed “a wretched sport.”
Wild Raspberries Page 7