Unexpected Dismounts

by Nancy Rue

  “We could start with hello. And a hug.”

  “Hello,” he said. The request for a hug went unrequited.

  “I think we can get started,” Vickie said.

  “Lemme start.” Desmond pulled out the chair across the table from his aunt, sat himself down, and folded his hands so close to the way Hank did I felt a pang. “You don’t want me,” he said to her.

  “Of course I want you.” Her voice was so condescending, it set my teeth on edge.

  “No,” Desmond said, “you jus’ think you want me. But you don’t know me. I’d be way too much trouble for you, I can tell that by the fancy way you dressed and the way you holdin’ your chin.” He leaned into the table. “Only people can handle me is Big Al and Mr. Chief. And Miss Hankenstein, and Mercedes-Benz. I got way more people here can handle me than you even know. I am doin’ you a favor tellin’ you this, so you don’t got to go to all this trouble.” He took a breath and smiled up at Vickie. “We done, then?”

  She smiled back at him. “You are,” she said. “That was a huge help, Desmond. I’m going to have Miss Doyle take you on to school.”

  “If you need me, you know where to find me.” He followed Liz happily to the door and turned back to Priscilla. “Have you a good trip back to wherever it was you went to when you lef’ me and my mama in the street. I bet it’s way nicer there.”

  All the air went out of the room as he and Liz exited. She put her head back in.

  “Yes?” Vickie said.

  “Before I go, as the foster care manager for the county, I am not recommending that Desmond be placed into foster care between now and the hearing.”

  “Was that even a possibility?” I said.

  “That would be news to me,” Kade said.

  Vickie shook her head. “Although Ms. Sanborn suggested that, I never seriously considered it. Desmond is obviously in good care and in no danger right where he is.”

  Liz bugged her eyes at me and left. Priscilla Sanborn barely waited for the door to close before she said, “He most certainly is in danger—of never being able to speak like a normal human being. Did you hear the grammar?”

  “Four months ago he would have been dropping F-bombs in here,” I said. “It’s all relative, ma’am.” I covered a smile with my hand as I realized for the first time that Desmond was right. She did draw in fake eyebrows with a pencil.

  “All right.” Vickie pressed her hands together. “Ms. Sanborn, you have seen your nephew, and despite any reservations you may have about his verbal skills, you now know that he is in good health, he’s obviously self-assured, and he knows that he’s loved.”

  “He knows he’s indulged,” Priscilla said.

  I opened my mouth, but Vickie shot me a warning look. “Our concern is in determining what is best for Desmond.”

  “If I may,” Kade said.

  “Please.”

  “According to a ruling by Judge Baker on December twenty-sixth of last year, what is best for Desmond has already been determined. That decision was arrived at not only with the information that my client had already been caring for him for several months, but by the legal document signed by his mother giving custody to Ms. Chamberlain in the event of her death.

  “And if I may,” Mr. Quillon said.

  He sounded so like my father I cringed. Even though he was at least twenty years younger, he was of the same vintage. He’d definitely been trained to be Southern gentleman on the outside, serial opportunist on the inside.

  “The boy’s mother”—pronounced mu-thah—“was a known drug addict. We can’t be sure she was even in her right mind when she agreed to that.”

  “She didn’t agree to it,” Kade said. “She initiated it. And she’d been clean for months at that point.”

  “I’m sorry, son,” Mr. Quillon said, making a show of flipping through his papers. “I’ve been remiss. I don’t seem to have the document that says a drug test was administered that day.”

  I was sure they could all hear my teeth grinding.

  “There’s no way of proving that either way,” Kade said smoothly. “The point is that Miss Chamberlain has already shown herself to be a more-than-adequate mother to Desmond, and a judge has agreed. Only under very unusual circumstances is His Honor going to overturn a ruling.”

  “You know, I’m glad you used that phrase, unusual circumstances, because that is just what we have here.”

  “And those would be?”

  Mr. Quillon smiled, showing a neat fence of capped teeth. I’d seen smiles like that when I was growing up, smiles put on when there was really nothing to smile about.

  “Harvard Law, was it, Kade? May I call you Kade?

  “You can call me whatever you want if you’ll get to the point, Clyde.”

  I cringed again. I was right there with Kade, but Chief hadn’t coached him in the finer points of plastic Southern etiquette. “There” wasn’t a place you wanted to take a hometown boy like Quillon.

  Mr. Q. gave a laugh that matched his nonsmile. “You’re a Yankee for sure, aren’t you? That’s a sly Harvard Law tactic, trying to tease our case out of me before we get into the courtroom.”

  “Clyde, please, the point?”

  Oh, dear. It was all I could do not to get Chief on the phone.

  “The point. The point is that those unusual circumstances are exactly what we are going to bring before the judge.”

  “You seriously intend to put your client through that,” Kade said.

  I glanced at Priscilla, but she seemed unconcerned about being put through anything. Her face was a complete blank, until she caught me watching her. Even then she only stiffened and refused to meet my eyes again.

  “It’s your client I’m concerned about.” Mr. Quillon gave me a paternal look. “Little lady, I knew your daddy.”

  There were so many retorts I wanted to throw at him like darts, starting with Dude, I am neither little, nor a lady, but I had to undo the damage Kade didn’t even know he’d done. I left all the sarcastic possibilities in the quiver and said, “Did you, now? You couldn’t have been more than a boy when he passed away.”

  “I had just graduated from Stetson Law,” he said. “You familiar with that school, Kade?”

  “Yeah. Great school. Look, I’m sure your résumé is stellar, but I don’t see what this has to do with the case at hand.”

  Mr. Quillon winked at me. “They’re always in a hurry up there north of the Mason-Dixon, aren’t they?”

  “Now we’re revisiting the Civil War.” Kade looked imploringly at Vickie.

  “Mr. Quillon, we really do need to wrap this up.”

  “That’s is exactly what I’m trying to do.” Quillon stopped grinning and let his eyes sadden dramatically at me. “The only thing I wanted to do when I passed the bar was work for Chamberlain Enterprises. I had an interview scheduled with your father for the day after he was murdered. I didn’t have the heart after that. I opened my own firm, been very successful, but I never got over it. Did you?”

  “Ms. Rodriguez is right, Clyde,” I said, voice stony. “You need to wrap this up.”

  The Southern smooth slid from his face and left his eyes cold and his mouth hard. “We goin’ to trial, Miss Allison. Mr. Capelli, if I were you, I would advise my client to drop this case, because I am going to hate humiliating her.”

  “Mr. Quillon, there will be no threats here.” The vein in Vickie’s forehead was throbbing.

  “Oh, that is not a threat, Señorita. That is a promise.”

  “Enough.” Vickie stood up and made no attempt to slow her breathing. “The hearing will take place as scheduled on Thursday, April fifth. You will both have an opportunity to present your arguments and provide witnesses. But I warn you: Judge Atwell will not tolerate attempts at intimidation. Watch yourself, Mr. Qu
illon.”

  He gave her the smile. “No bias here, I see. That’s why we’re going to court. We will see you all there.”

  Kade and I were the first ones out. I was afraid if I stayed any longer I’d wind up sharing a cell with Zelda.

  “That went well,” Kade said when we were safely entombed in the elevator. “How does he get away with that?”

  “It’s the South,” I said. “And he’s a good ol’ boy in a designer suit. I’m sorry nobody told you they play by different rules down here.”

  “They play dirty.” Kade rubbed the back of his neck. “I hate to do this to you, but if you have any skeletons in your closet, you need to tell me about them now because I guarantee you they’re going to come up in court and I need to be ready to deflect them.” The doors sighed open and he put his hand on my back to usher me out, mind obviously still going like an Intel processor. “If you’ve got any dirt on her, I need that too.”

  I stopped him dead in the middle of the lobby. “No,” I said.

  “No, what?”

  “No, we’re not going to play that game. And if you don’t get that, you can’t represent me.”

  “They’re going to dredge up things in your past that didn’t even happen and make them sound like the truth.”

  “Then let them.” The words freed themselves from the stuck place and flowed out. “If I’m capable in the present, there’s no need to bring up the past. Hers or mine.”

  I waited for the protest. But Kade only grinned. “Chief warned me,” he said.

  “About what?”

  “He told me not to push you when you get that God-look in your eyes.”

  I was still trying to respond to that when he spun out through the revolving door.

  On Sunday, the HOGs and Hank and a team of physical therapists moved Chief into my house, traction and all. Although Desmond had offered his “place,” we turned the living room into Chief’s domain and the dining room into the PT area for the therapist to work with him when he came daily.

  “Casa de Chief,” Nita said when she and Leighanne and the Sisters came to celebrate Palm Sunday with us.

  “I don’t know nothin’ ’bout no casa,” Desmond said. “This here’s HOG Heaven.”

  “Shall I have a sign painted?” Bonner said.

  India looked at me in horror. I couldn’t keep a straight face.

  “Let’s just call it home for now,” I said. “Y’all need to get those palms out so we can get started. I’ll get the bread.”

  Bonner followed me into the kitchen. “For now?” he said.

  “Slip of the tongue,” I said.

  “You haven’t told Desmond you might sell?”

  “No.”

  “Chief? He might want to be making other arrangements in case somebody buys it right out from under his hospital bed.”

  “I haven’t told anybody except Hank.” I set her homemade communion bread on the counter and leaned over it. “Last week I thought Ms. Willa was going to come through, but she wants me to use her money to get into some kind of war with Troy Irwin.”

  Bonner looked at me over the tops of his glasses. “I thought you were already in a war with Troy Irwin.”

  “I don’t know, Bonner. I just don’t feel like I can say the H-word anymore.”

  “The H-word?”

  “Hate. I mean, don’t put me in the same room with the man, but for as angry and frustrated as I am, I can’t go at this like an attack on him. You’re the one who told me: this has to be for God or I can’t do it. I physically can’t. I don’t know how to explain that to you.”

  “You don’t have to,” he said. “You look like you’re having an attack of appendicitis.”

  “It feels more like labor pains.” I added quickly, “Not that I would know what that felt like.”

  “Unless you tell me not to, I’ll just keep praying that we’ll get the funding for Sacrament Two and you won’t have to part with this place.”

  “Do it,” I said. “Can I ask one more thing of you?”

  “Anything. Except for me to change Chief’s bedpan. I draw the line there.”

  “Will you keep me posted on Zelda? I haven’t given her any support. I know you go there, and that’s a lot. Still.”

  “The girl’s getting more support than an eighteen-hour bra.”

  “I’m sorry?”

  Two splotches of color appeared on Bonner’s cheekbones. “Bad analogy. People have been to see her. The Sisters are over there praying with her every Sunday. I’m on the phone with her daily. Hank tried to take her communion but they put the kibosh on that.” He craned his neck toward me. “Allison? What’s with the tears?”

  “I have no idea, Bonner,” I said. “Just hand me a paper towel, would you?”

  We had our Palm Sunday celebration standing in a circle in my living room with our palms. Chief didn’t have much of a choice but to join us, parked as he was in the middle of it all. But I saw him listening, his eyes intense, as I talked about the week that lay ahead of us.

  “It’s Holy Week,” I said. “The marking of Jesus’ last seven days on earth. Seven remarkable days. These days need to be remarkable for us too. There are feet to be washed, my friends. Many, many feet.”

  “Mmm-mmm,” Mercedes said.

  On Monday the physical therapist came to work with Chief. It was apparently grueling, because Chief let out so many groans I had to go out on the side porch to keep from, to use Desmond’s words, punching the therapist in the face.

  That was where Troy Irwin found me.

  I didn’t hear him coming. He must have coasted the Beamer into Palm Row. I considered diving back into the house, but it was too late for that. Troy stood at the bottom of the steps, hands in the pockets of his Dockers. That seemed to be the preferred posture for men who were trying to look like they didn’t know what to say. I wasn’t fooled. Troy Irwin always knew what to say.

  He has feet, Allison.

  I gritted my teeth. I know. Really dirty feet.

  “Out for a stroll, Troy?” I said. Even I could hear the icicles hanging from my voice.

  “No,” he said. “I came to see you.”

  He wore a white polo shirt and a matching long-sleeved thing tied around his shoulders with a casual air that must have taken him half an hour to achieve. His sandy-going-gray hair barely spiked in the wind coming off the bay, and the sleeves dangling across his chest were just as cooperative. He already had a tan.

  “Been to the islands?” I said. Did civility covering disgust count as a footwashing?

  “Just got back, and to some disturbing news. Do you have a minute?”

  No, I thought. “Yes,” I said.

  I nodded him toward the swing, but like every other person who wanted to take control of a conversation on this porch, he opted for the Adirondack chair. I leaned against the railing on Miz Vernell’s side. If I took a swing at Troy, she’d call the cops. I was counting on that for self-control.

  “So what news has disturbed your world?” I said.

  “I won’t go into all the ins and outs. I know you hate the corporate thing. So I’ll keep it simple.”

  Nothing was simple with him, but I nodded.

  “It’s come to my attention—” He stopped and tilted his head at me. “Do I really have to be this formal with you? It just feels wrong.”

  “Whatever way you want to be it’s going to tick me off, Troy, so just get on with it.” Not nice, but it was better than a kick in the teeth. And it was honest.

  “Right. I’ve learned that an attorney at the firm that represents Chamberlain is also representing a woman who’s trying to take your boy from you.”

  I willed myself not to move.

  “I don’t know the man personally, but he’s connected to me
through …” Troy leaned forward, arms on his thighs. “Look, Ally, I don’t agree with most of what you’re doing. Matter of fact, I think it’s pointless. You know that.”

  “You’ve made that clear,” I said. “And in some pretty threatening ways. The last time I saw you, you were smearing my reputation in the middle of 95 Cordova. The time before that you were threatening me at my best friend’s funeral. So forgive me if I’m not sure what else there is to say.”

  “There’s this: I don’t think you adopting the boy is pointless. I actually think it makes a tremendous amount of sense.” He punched his knuckles softly against his mouth. “It’s ironic, isn’t it?”

  “What?” I said.

  “How much you hated having your father as your father, and how he was the only father I ever wanted.”

  It was such a complete non sequitur it gave me whiplash, but I felt the Nudge to go with it.

  “How was yours that much different from mine?” I said. “I always thought they were interchangeable.”

  “I thought they were too. When I thought about them at all.” He eased himself back in the chair. “You and I were both allergic to our fathers as kids, if you’ll recall.”

  My upper lip wanted to curl. “Only one of us was cured of that allergy.”

  “There was one major difference between your father and mine. I saw it when I came back after college and sat down in the same office with the two of them.” Troy gazed at the ceiling as if he were watching the memory on video. “That’s when they told me Chamberlain had bought out Irwin. Not a merger. An acquisition.”

  I hadn’t known that. Hadn’t actually cared. But the skin around Troy’s eyes was tightening. If we’d been playing poker, I’d have upped the ante.

  I said, “My father didn’t give him a good deal, I take it.”

  “It was a great deal. My father died a rich man. My mother’s in the best Alzheimer’s facility in the state.” Troy looked me full in the face, his blue eyes simmering. “The difference was, my father didn’t fight. I don’t care how good the deal was, he built that business up from nothing. He even forced me not to marry you when you were pregnant, just to save the reputation of Irwin Inc. And then he just let it go for money.”