“Knock me over with a feather,” Aunt Elizabeth sighed in her best Southern lady tone. “I’m stunned.”
Felicia, who had leaned forward with my every word, sank back limply against her chair.
17 The Cruelest Month
I HAD BEEN wrong and the great poet Chaucer right. For me and for Delta Ridge, the cruelest month was not February, but April. March had exited as placid as a baby lamb nursing on an Arkansas hillside. Spring-like temperatures had deceived not only the redbuds and dogwoods, but the tulip trees and azaleas too were tricked by bright sunny days and clear starry nights. The new month began on Wednesday and by the weekend, Delta Ridge was pelted with freezing rain.
On Saturday morning when I awoke to gaze out my bedroom window, I watched the falling sleet coat the budded azaleas. Only the purple pansies around the flagstone terrace persisted in bloom. The day brightened, however, when I dressed and went downstairs to find strawberry croissants in a plastic wrapper and instructions as to how to turn on the coffee maker.
Aunt Elizabeth’s note wishing me a good day also said that she was working at Uncle Garland’s house and that Felicia and Simon had gone shopping in Memphis. Weather doesn’t stall kids, I thought, remembering the newscast about the young California couple who had started out to a relative’s funeral in Idaho in January and ended up in a blizzard in Nevada where the wife and baby were found safe in a cave while the husband trekked fifty miles across the frozen desert to find help. And they only lost their toes. I wondered how long it had been since I had felt invincible and made decisions based on that assumed immortality.
At that moment the ringing phone jarred me from my reverie. A portable missing from its kitchen charger, I finally located it under a pile of morning newspapers in a kitchen chair.
“Hello, Holly?”
“Yes. It’s Holly.” I stammered as I recalled Jack Walker’s voice from the Brooks’ party a few nights ago at the other end of the line.
“This is Jack Walker. I hope I didn’t catch you at a bad time.”
“Oh, no… certainly not,” I continued to stammer, taking a second moment to wonder what he could want. Was Jack, radiologist and shoe salesman, calling me or Aunt Elizabeth? I found myself entranced by the languorousness of his telephone voice, its depth and sensual edge. I was glad I had found the damn phone but not so happy about hearing myself rattling on about colossal files and buried telephones. I realized finally that I would learn nothing until I shut up.
“Really?” he began, “I could call back at a more convenient moment.”
“Oh no, now is fine.”
“Well, if you’re sure you have a few minutes. I saw your name in the paper this morning; in fact, I’ve seen it a lot lately regarding the murder investigations, but I didn’t call to talk about that. I was just thinking about you, about how good it was to run into you at the Brooks’ home. I was so sorry that we didn’t have a chance to talk.” He laughed softly again. In the background I could hear Phil Collins crooning “Both Sides of the Story.” I found myself listening to the song and wondering if his answering machine had run amuck.
Seeming to sense my distraction, he said, “Excuse me. I think I have caught you at a bad time. Let me call you later.”
“I do have a stack of files to go through today. Later in the week might be better if that works for you. Our entire office is covered up with work right now. We have to get ready for a murder trial in the next court term. There aren’t enough hours in the day.”
“I understand. As I’ve said, I’ve been sorry that on the few occasions we’ve been together there has been no time to talk. I’d like to know you better. Your work seems terribly interesting. And forgive me for saying this, but there aren’t that many attractive, intelligent, single women in Delta Ridge. I don’t have much time for recreation either, and no one to do things with except my married friends.”
I wondered why he had called me rather than Aunt Elizabeth. At the dinner party, as usual, she had him buttonholed most of the evening. Maybe I was the one he was attracted to after all, but then I felt guilty for thinking that.
“How about a rain check?” I asked. “In fact Aunt Elizabeth is planning a small dinner party for next Saturday night. Why don’t you come?”
“I’d love to if you’re sure it’s okay?
“Yes, certainly, at 7:00. Goodbye.” Why did I do that? My guilt had passed rather quickly.
I TURNED MY attention to Chief Collins’ report on the murder investigations while I ate breakfast—thanks to Aunt Elizabeth’s thoughtfulness. As I read, I underlined information Michael would need for his trial briefings and made notes as I went along. The report confirmed that the DNA taken from Sam Oliver matched that found on Avon Wallace’s body. The negroid hair found at the crime scene matched J.D.’s. I laughed out loud, although I knew Sara Lee would be less amused. I could hear Ham railing about police incompetence. At least that information eliminated as a suspect the black vagrant who had been jailed for public intoxication.
I continued to read, scanning next the autopsy reports: “In addition to 147 stab wounds to the head and body, on the neck, a tooth mark—clear as a fingerprint.”
“Oh, my God.” I continued to rummage through the folder until I came to the rap sheet on Jack Wallace, Avon’s ex. I studied the mug shot taken when he was arrested for selling cocaine in Sacramento, California. Dark hair, thin face, surly expression, nasty looking character; but the face, emaciated from drug use, still looked familiar.
I hesitated, trying to remember where I had seen that face, when the phone rang. It was a nurse at County General Hospital calling for Aunt Elizabeth.
“I’m sorry, Dr. Carter isn’t here.” I remembered that in closing out Uncle Garland’s estate and to protect the water pipes from freezing in his old house, Ham had had services disconnected including the telephone. “I can’t reach her right now, but if it’s important… I’m Holly Scott, her niece.”
“You’re a member of Hamilton Carter’s family?” she asked. I responded affirmatively. “He’s in the hospital’s intensive care unit. He’s had a heart attack.”
“Oh, my God!” I cried. “I’ll be right there.” I phoned Victoria and told her what little I knew. She assured me that she and Grandmother would be here as soon as possible.
WHEN I REACHED Uncle Garland’s house, Aunt Elizabeth’s black Mercedes was parked in the driveway. I banged and banged on the heavy front door. The bell was obviously out of commission, and my thumb was numb from pushing it. Yelling, “Aunt Elizabeth, are you in there?” got no response either. Finally in panic and frustration, I threw my whole body against the door, and it jarred open. Taking my dirty boots off on the front porch, I went inside and paused for a breath. Seeing no sign of life on the main floor, I made my way up the staircase to Uncle Garland’s closed bedroom door at the top. Again I pushed hard against the door, calling “Aunt Elizabeth” at the same time.
Wrapped in a bath towel, she stepped out of the adjoining bathroom. “Whatever is the matter?” she asked, placing me, the intruder, instantly on the defensive. Had she spent the night here? What’s going on?
“Ham’s had a heart attack. I’m on my way to the hospital. You need to get dressed and come along. My eyes darted to movement in the bed.” We both stared silently at the covered body across the room while my slow brain computed two plus two. Negotiating the silence, I turned quickly and half stumbled to the stair behind me, paused, and spoke softly, “I’ve got to go.”
“Wait, Holly, It’s not what you think. I’m sorry. I should have told you. We’re going to get married; but first, what about Ham?”
“I don’t know anything more. I’m on my way to the hospital now. I called Victoria. She and Grandma are coming.”
Recovering her dignity, Aunt Elizabeth said, “I’ll lock the house, and try and contact Felicia. Michael and I will be right behind you.”
At the moment she uttered his name, Michael appeared on the stairwell, tucking his shirt tail
inside his pants. It took me a moment to grasp that this rumpled, sheep- faced man standing before me, a few minutes before, I had mistaken for a rolled-up blanket on Uncle Garland’s bed. He had been hiding under those covers to keep from being caught, and what? Scalped? To his credit, it had not taken him much time to summon his courage, dress, and walk to the stairs like a man. A strange thought came to me: I must mirror Michael’s behavior, summon my own courage, and get the hell out of this house, not like a shrieking Comanche, scalp in one hand, tomahawk in the other, and a war cry dismantling the neighborhood; but rather like a graceful and charming young woman, a professional person whose present hopes and future dreams had just been smashed like a hand in a car door.
I mumbled a “See you, there,” as I looked for and found my feet and stumbled down the stairs. I ran sockfooted out the front door and grabbed my snow boots on the front porch, feeling only the razor sharp sting of the tears on my face as I hit the frigid air. “Asshole, son of a bitch, jezebel, whore,” this collective insult I did not scream out until my car was out of the driveway and on the street. I topped it off with “Silly, stupid bitch, your grandfather may die. Get your head out of your ass. Get your mind back where it belongs” until the chanted mantra became “Nothing else matters. My grandfather may die.” I kept saying it aloud over and over again as I drove slowly and deliberately to the hospital, afraid that if my anger were set free, it might channel itself into treacherous speed, and that I might surely die whether I wanted to or not.
Like others who have seen their futures collapse before them, I did not want to act in haste, and be absent for the regrets. I felt numb. Like a burn victim whose eyes first seek the wound, I would not wait for the delayed pain. I knew that my mind, while unable to deny the wound, could play avoidance games with the pain. I’m not ready. It cannot come now. Not yet. I was suspended in glass, a dream bubble floating above everything else. No pain could enter until I touched down, made some sort of landing. Beneath the bubble, the icy streets were slick, and the trip interminable; and, as my repeated mantra reminded me, the only legitimate pain was my grandfather’s. Mine had no permission to exit the bubble.
When I finally arrived at the hospital intensive care unit, I met Lee in the hallway outside Ham’s door. “How is he?”
“The doctor said he’s stable. You can go in. I think I’ll go out for a smoke,” Lee’s hand was trembling as he pulled a package of unfiltered Marlboros from his parka pocket and studied it.
“What happened?” I asked, holding Lee’s arm.
“Mr. Ham slept late this morning. He’s usually up by 7:00. At 7:30, I knocked on his door and asked if he was ready for coffee. He told me to come in, but he didn’t get up, just motioned me over to his bed and told me his chest was hurting, and that he didn’t have any feeling in his left arm. I said, ‘Maybe it’s those esophageal spasms.’ He said, ‘No, call an ambulance. It’s my heart.’ As soon as we got here, I asked the nurse to call Miss Elizabeth.”
“Thank you, Lee,” I said, releasing his arm and pushing open the heavy metal door into Ham’s private room.
Rousing briefly from his Valium-induced sleep, my grandfather gazed at me. “Is that you, Charlotte?” he took my hand.
“No, Ham. It’s me, Holly. The others are on their way. Is there anything you need?”
Still holding my hand, he said, “Do you remember,” then murmured something inaudible and fell again asleep.
I sat down in a straight chair near his bed and studied his face, always craggy yet swollen and more florid than usual. The remaining winter tan of too many golfing summers blended with the gray of his hospital gown and his silver hair. The white circles of Styrofoam, stuck to his exposed chest and linked by wires to a transistor radio-like device in the pocket of his gown, were connected to the computer at the nurses’ bay across the hall, I imagined. The blue box beside the bed held and monitored the dextrose and blood thinner that slid down from two tubes into one needle in the vein on the back of his left hand.
Occupying myself so as not to think, I counted seven wires and tubes connected to his body. When he groaned, I arose from my chair to see if anything needed adjusting, so he wouldn’t hurt himself. When I pulled on a cylinder, it came lose in my hand. Oh my God, what have I done, I wondered before I realized I was holding, not Ham’s lifeline, but a bright yellow drinking straw.
As if sensing the limits of my caregiving skills, Ham suddenly turned over and looked at me. “Water,” he muttered.
My eyes searched and finally found a glass on the metal cart beside the bed. “Just a minute, let me get you another straw,” I said gently, trying to disguise my concern.
Outside the door, as I headed toward the nurses’ station, I met Aunt Elizabeth and Michael, whose flushed faces, I thought, held more embarrassment than cold air. They both looked caught out, as if their unease had increased from the hour before. “You can go in,” I said, walking past them and avoiding eye contact, thankful for a moment of escape
“He’s asking for you,” Aunt Elizabeth said as I re-entered the room with the straw.
“Here, Ham,” I poured fresh water into the glass, glad to be occupied, and glad to be the only one present who seemed to know what to do.
“What in God’s name are you all doing here?” Ham rallied with the ice water, bull-like and ready to charge the room. “Michael, you and Holly get back to that office. Don’t you have some murderers to catch? Lizbeth, stay here with me awhile. If I’m at death’s door, I want you to show me how to open it. You got all that feel good training. I ought to know, I paid for it. How you make a man feel good when he thinks he’s going to hell?”
“Why would hell want you, Ham? The devil probably likes to run things alone. Why would he want to bring in a boss for himself who’s a second guesser?” How can she make jokes after what she’s done, I wondered in contempt.
“Are you trying to kill me?” Ham was chuckling harder than we all suspected was good for his heart.
“I’ve got to get to the office,” I said, unable to bear humor at the moment.
“How about a ride?” Michael whispered as I headed for the door.
I decided quickly that I’d rather leave and barbeque Michael’s ass with recriminations (I had thought of several) than stay in the hospital room and wait for Ham to take his death fears out on me. He and Aunt Elizabeth seemed pretty well matched. I had not seen her use a Carter comeback before, but playing the dozens is an innate family skill, and I was ready to try it out on Michael.
I was also ready for whatever mangy excuses he wanted throw at me once we were in my car and on our way to his house to pick up his. I assumed, that due to the amount of time that Aunt Elizabeth was spending, including the weekends at Uncle Garland’s house, that they had been hiding out together like a couple of teenagers. I surmised that Elizabeth had done her regular run last night, picked Michael up at home, and sneaked him out of the car into Uncle Garland’s house, so as not to shock Uncle Garland’s neighbors.
I knew her reason for my betrayal was that I was invisible, her stressed niece, concerned only with family problems, like her patients. Michael was a newly arrived available male, and she’d been a year without one. It all comes down to logistics: right place, right time, right method of transportation. Never mind that she had to step on poor little Holly’s head to get him. Was it her fault she was a man magnet, and evidently an anatomy scholar? She had scooped Michael up and into her new bed before most women would get around to asking if a man wanted to stop in for a drink. I could imagine her concocted excuses after she’d had time to think. “I had become so attached to Robert in our therapy sessions.” I’d never known her to be attached to any kids, including her own daughter when she was Robert’s age.
“Let’s get a sitter and go shopping,” she’d say to Victoria. None of this morning’s events had anything to do with Robert’s needing a mother.
“HOW LONG HAVE you two been meeting at Uncle Garland’s house?” I asked, wanting Mi
chael to confirm how deceptive their actions were.
“Just a few weeks. Holly, I have no time to date, and we didn’t want the world to know until we were sure. We needed to spend time together.”
Quality time, I supposed, but said instead, “When’s the wedding?”
“No time soon. We haven’t even discussed a date. Certainly not until these murders are solved; and now with Ham’s heart attack, I don’t know. I’d rather you didn’t say anything yet to the rest of the family.”
“Don’t worry. I won’t, but one question. Why did you ask me to go to the races with you in Hot Springs?”
“Because I wanted to see if it was really over between us. Remember I asked you weeks ago, before Elizabeth and I were involved. Fortunately, you were unable to go, so I didn’t have to cancel.”
“Yes, I guess that was fortunate... for you. Did you tell Aunt Elizabeth that you had asked me?”
“No, did you tell her?”
I shook my head, relieved when we reached his house, but now, he hesitated to leave my car. “Holly, it could never have worked out between us. I know now it was over in Little Rock. I quit seeing you because I knew that I had to do something about Robert, even before my ex-wife was killed. I knew that I could not let another man raise my son, let him grow up thinking I had walked out on him, left him to feel unloved and unlovable. It was driving me crazy and I had nothing to give a woman, especially a spoiled little girl who wanted everything and my blood as well.”
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