Death by the Riverside

by J. M. Redmann; Jean M. Redmann

  “I’m sorry,” she finally said.

  I shrugged.

  “I guess Granddad figured that Dad got what he deserved and that an investigation and trial would only drag the rest of us through the mud. Granddad wanted to avoid that; so he pulled a few strings. A lot of strings, actually. Dad officially died in an accident forty miles away and a day later. The shotgun blast disappeared and all the deaths were ruled accidental, with no connection between the wreck that killed your father and the one that killed my father. And the books were closed on it. ‘Neatly whitewashed,’ as my mother said.” She paused and glanced at me.

  “It’s up here on the left,” was my only reply.

  Cordelia turned into the drive of the shipyard. I jumped out and opened the gate, then closed it after she drove through.

  “I’ve met your aunt,” she said as I got back in. I shot her a questioning look. “After my mother told me, for some reason I wanted to meet you. I felt I had to. So I got the address from Grandpa and went there. Your aunt said that you had moved out and she had no idea where you were. She also told me not to bother looking you up, that you had turned out bad.”

  “Aunt Greta, the soul of generosity,” I commented sarcastically. I pointed to the track that led up to the house.

  “Did you ever get any of the money? Every month Grandpa sent five hundred dollars to help with your expenses. He went out to your house in Metairie to arrange it. Your aunt said you were getting counseling and that it was expensive.”

  “That dried-up old thief,” I exploded. “She certainly made a nice profit off me. The only reason she took me in was so she could get her hands on my dad’s life insurance. Fifty thousand. And now I find out she was getting another five hundred a month out of your granddad. Bitch!”

  Cordelia stopped in front of the house. She turned off the motor.

  “Then that’s where I heard your grandfather’s voice,” I continued, remembering my reaction when I had turned the film over to him.

  “Yes, it must have been.”

  “Did you know it was me then?” I asked.

  “No, but I wondered. I saw a picture of you at your aunt’s.”

  “She kept a picture of me?” I was incredulous.

  “A group shot. You were in it. She pointed you out, mentioning that you were darker than a Robedeaux should have been.”

  “Aunt Greta, a true light of tolerance,” I remarked bitterly. The rain splattered on the car roof.

  “Let’s go inside,” Cordelia said. She grabbed the groceries and we made a run to the porch.

  “Wait here,” I said as I entered. I found a lantern, lit it, then motioned her in.

  “Kitchen?” she asked.

  I led the way and lit some candles and a hurricane lantern to light the kitchen. I started the wood stove. It was chilly in here.

  “Soup and sandwiches?” Cordelia asked.

  “Sounds great. If you can find your way around, I’ll go light a fire in the fireplace.”

  She nodded. I went back into the living room. By the time I got a roaring blaze going, Cordelia emerged from the kitchen with a plate of sandwiches and two mugs of steaming soup.

  “Thanks,” I said as I bit into a sandwich, “I appreciate this.”

  “I haven’t had much to eat today. I didn’t think you did either,” she answered.

  We lapsed into silence, eating and letting the fire warm us. Cordelia put down her plate while I was finishing a turkey sandwich.

  “I knew that day we met in the park,” she said simply.

  “How?” I asked between swallows.

  “Danny Clayton. I saw a picture of you in her apartment. I casually asked who it was, saying you looked familiar. Which you did, since I had seen you deliver the film. She said you were both from Bayou St. Jack’s and that your parents had died in an auto wreck and you had an atrocious aunt who had raised you. I figured Michele Knight and Michele Robedeaux had to be the same person.”

  “Touché. You never told Danny?”

  “No, that was up to you. If you hadn’t, I wasn’t going to.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Why Knight?” she asked. “Do you see yourself as a knight in shining armor?”

  “No.” I laughed. “Here, I’ll show you. Remember that I was eighteen at the time.” I led her over to the corner next to my room. There were a number of old pictures and a brass plate hung on the wall. I held the lantern up to the brass.

  “Knight of Tides,” Cordelia read.

  “My grandfather’s boat. The name of it. He was a shrimper. Dad took the brass nameplate off it when he sold it.”

  “Hence, Knight,” she said.

  “I wanted a name in the family, but not one that would connect me to…” Both Aunt Greta and the accident, I left unsaid. I shrugged instead and asked, “Why are you James and not Holloway?”

  “My mother’s maiden name. She went back to it after Dad’s death. She said that I could keep Holloway if I wanted, but we were moving and I was starting a new school and didn’t want to have to go around explaining why my name didn’t match my mother’s. Which one is your dad?”

  “That one.” I pointed to the best picture of him.

  “You don’t look at all alike,” Cordelia commented.

  “We’re not related. Not by blood, I mean.” She gave me a questioning glance. “A long story,” I answered.

  “I’ve got time.”

  “My mother was a local girl. She got in trouble. Pregnant and sixteen. Her father kicked her out. Just threw her out because she had brought shame to the family name. Dad ended up taking her off the streets and letting her stay here until her father saw reason. Since she didn’t get any less pregnant, her father didn’t get any more reasonable.” I was telling the story in my dad’s cadences, repeating what he had told me. “Dad was thirty-four at the time. As you can tell by the picture, he was not a handsome man. He was wounded in World War II and had a limp.” I looked at the picture of my father. He was tall and skinny, with a receding hairline and a covering of freckles. No, not a handsome man, but I had never noticed. “Somewhere along the way he offered to marry her, just so the kid, so I, wouldn’t be a bastard. He had always wanted kids and a family. Somewhere further along the way, after I was born, they fell in love and decided to stay together. For a while at least. So my mom finished high school and Dad put her through college. The local junior college. He always treated me like I was his child.” I stopped. I could feel my voice starting to crack.

  “Where’s your mother now?” Cordelia asked.

  “I don’t know,” I answered. “She left when I was five.”

  “Why?”

  “She left a note saying that if she stayed here the rest of her life, she would end up hating us. And hating herself. The best thing she could do for all of us was leave. There were some letters and postcards from New York City, telling us she was happy and hoped we were, too. I think that’s why I went to college in New York. In hopes that I might find her. But I never did.”

  “I’m sorry,” Cordelia said. “That must be hard on you.”

  I shrugged nonchalantly, then I took an old cigar box off the bookshelf and started looking through the pictures in it. When I found the one I wanted, I handed it to Cordelia.

  “She’s a very handsome woman,” she said, looking at the small color picture. “Very like you. Hispanic?”

  “No, Greek. Helen Nikatos was her maiden name.” I wanted to say more, but I didn’t trust my voice.

  “Micky, are you crying?”

  “No, I’m okay.” I hastily wiped my eyes. “I guess I’m pretty tired.”

  “Can I hold you?”

  I could feel her watching me, standing very close, neither of us moving. I started to pull away, my instinctive reaction.

  “Yes, I…yes,” I finally said.

  She put her arms around me. I let myself cry on her shoulder.

  “Can we sit?” she asked, finally lifting her head up. “I feel like I’ve been on my f
eet all day.”

  I nodded. We walked over to the couch in front of the fireplace and sat down. Cordelia laid her head on my shoulder.

  “It feels so warm and safe here. I almost wish we never had to leave,” she said.

  I turned my head to watch her, the flickering orange from the fire bringing out the burnished copper in her hair. Her eyes were still amazingly blue, even by the amber glow of the fire. I brushed a strand of hair off her forehead, then gently touched my lips to the spot.

  She sighed, shifted slightly, and relaxed into me.

  I suddenly felt like I was falling, as if I had just stepped off the edge of a cliff. Even though I hadn’t moved, I had that feeling, that physical feeling of falling in the pit of my stomach. Part of it was sexual, I knew that, a rush of desire for her. But it was much more than that. I was falling in love and I had no idea where I would land. Based on what I knew about both of us, we didn’t have much of a chance. But I knew I would follow this to the end. I could no more stop this falling than I could have stopped any physical fall. And I was scared. You’re falling, Micky, and there’s no one there to catch you anymore.

  Cordelia sighed again and shifted. She caught me watching her. I knew I should turn away, break away from her eyes, because my desire for her had to be visible.

  “Cordelia James, you are a beautiful woman by firelight,” I said, caught, unable to turn from her.

  “How about daylight when you can see clearly?” she said, smiling at me.

  “Then, too,” I answered, falling deeper. I traced her jawline with my finger, lingering on the softness of her cheek. Somehow the knowledge that her wedding announcement had appeared in this morning’s paper seemed very far away, a dream. It was just the two of us in a world contained by firelight, where anything was possible.

  I bent my face toward her, slowly, tentatively, giving her a chance to stop me, if that was what she wanted. She didn’t look away. I kissed her gently, carefully, savoring the moment. I felt her arms tighten around me, then the thrill of her tongue inside my mouth. I embraced her fiercely, kissing her deeply, out of some need I never knew I had.

  I felt the warmth from one of her large hands covering my breast. She pressed, causing me to gasp.

  Then suddenly, she let go of me and pulled away. “I’m sorry, Micky, I can’t do this,” she said. “It’s not right. For me. I led you on and I apologize for that.” She stood up.

  I let her go, not trying to stop her.

  “It’s okay,” I said, standing up, still aching for her. “I guess we both got carried away by the events of today. We’re tired,” I babbled, giving us polite lies out of the awkwardness.

  “I’m…” Cordelia started, then just shook her head, as if arguing with herself. “I don’t…” But she stopped again, wanting to say something, but unable to. “I’m sorry. I guess I am tired,” she finally got out, echoing my polite lies.

  “I’ll make your bed,” I said to break the discomfort of the moment.

  “No, I’ll do it. Actually, how about a blanket? I’m ready to collapse.”

  “Sleeping bag?” I asked.

  She nodded. I went to my grandfather’s trunk and got out a sleeping bag. I led her to what had been my father’s bedroom. I put the candle down and turned to go.

  “Micky, I…”

  I turned back to her, but she stood there, no words coming forth.

  “Good night, Micky,” Cordelia finally said.

  “Good night.” I closed the door as I left. I got another sleeping bag out of my grandfather’s trunk, but I didn’t go to my room. Instead, I sat in front of the fire, watching the flames flare up, then die down to embers, wondering what had happened. Not just now with Cordelia, but the whole day. It made my falling in love and being rejected seem small in comparison. Poetic justice even. I had done the same thing to Danny that Cordelia had just done to me. There was no way I could look honestly at myself and say I didn’t deserve it. “The wheel is come full circle; I am here,” a line from some play. I couldn’t remember which, but it seemed apt. I wondered where I could find the joy in the circle of my life. If I could. Ben today. Frankie a week ago. Barbara still hanging in the twilight. And twenty years ago Alma and little David. He should be a handsome man of twenty-three now and she a proud mother.

  And my father. My dad should be sitting here now, giving me advice. I tried to picture it. He would be older, but I could only remember him in his forties and I couldn’t change that image. I saw him as he was then, reddish hair fading to gray. He would pull up a chair and sit on it, backwards, his elbows leaning on the back. “Lee Robedeaux’s advice to the lovelorn now open for business,” he would say with that grin of his that told you he took it seriously, but not more than it deserved. And I would tell him, “I love her, Dad, but she’s not interested.” “Her loss,” he would snort, “someday she’ll wake up and realize what a mistake she made.” And it wouldn’t change anything, but I would feel better.

  “Thanks, Dad,” I whispered to the glowing embers. I was tired and should try to sleep, but that seemed impossible. Instead, I sat wondering how far away dawn was.

  I heard a floor board creek behind me. I turned around. Cordelia was standing there, outlined faintly by the reddish glow of the embers.

  “I couldn’t sleep,” she said after a minute.

  “Funny, I can’t either. Maybe it’s the crickets.”

  “No, not for me,” she said. “I couldn’t stop thinking.”

  “About?” I asked.

  She sat down on the couch, looking into the embers, not answering. “Can I put on another log?” she said.

  I nodded. She got up and put a log into the fire, causing a shower of sparks. For a moment, the log hid the embers, darkening the room, then it caught and blazed with an orange light. She sat back down on the couch.

  “What about a shot of Scotch?” I asked. “It might help you sleep.”

  She shook her head, then said, “No, no thanks.” A pause, then she said, “Forgiveness. That’s what I couldn’t stop thinking about. You’re the only person who can forgive me.”

  “You’ve done nothing…”

  “I know. Intellectually, at least. But still…something hangs.”

  “I forgive you. Please know that. If anything the reverse is true. I need your pardon. I pulled the trigger.” As I said it, I knew it was true. I had run from so many people, because I had always figured that if they knew who and what I really was, they would despise me. But if this woman, the daughter of the man I had killed, didn’t hate me, didn’t run from me…perhaps absolution was possible.

  “And I forgive you. But the words aren’t enough, are they?” She paused, staring into the flickering amber flames. “They don’t…touch deeply enough. I want to sleep with you. There, I’ve said it. You must wonder at my inconsistency.”

  “I’ve never won any constancy prizes,” I answered, knowing she was right, words weren’t enough.

  “Will you make love to me? Or is that presumptuous to ask?”

  “One question,” I said, knowing that I would say yes, no matter what her answer was, and not liking myself for it.

  She looked at me expectantly.

  “Are you still going to marry him?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she answered softly.

  “What am I? One final fuck before the wedding?” I said harshly, angry at us both.

  “Perhaps,” she replied, not flinching, just looking at me.

  “Two beds or the floor in front of the fireplace. Take your choice.” I stood up and took off both my sweatshirt and T-shirt in one motion, then dropped them on the floor.

  She remained motionless. I started to unzip my pants.

  “Don’t,” she said. “Not like this. Don’t compound my usury.”

  I stopped, standing still, feeling the chill on my bare breasts.

  “Then what?” I demanded, not willing to acknowledge my vulnerability.

  “I…” she started, then stopped.

  S
he took a deep breath, then reached over and handed me my shirts from the floor.

  “King Lear committed suicide,” she said, breaking the silence of the fire. “Maybe not directly. But…the T-shirt I gave you that night you stayed with me.”

  I nodded and put my sweatshirt back on.

  “We lived together for over two years. I came home one evening, fairly late. I was in medical school then. I called and there was no answer. I figured Kath was working late as usual. At midnight the phone rang. A resident from the ER; someone I knew; called. The hospital had contacted her family hours ago, but…” Cordelia stopped and let out a long ragged breath.

  I reached out and took her hand, holding it with both of mine.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  She nodded and held my hand.

  “There wasn’t much left of the car. They said she lost control. But I don’t think she did. Kath never lost anything. She let go of it. I don’t guess she wanted to go anywhere that car was going to take her. She had such black moods at times. But they always seemed to be gone by the next day. I guess I was young enough then to think I could save her. That somehow, if I loved her with everything I had, it would be enough.

  “Things weren’t going very well. She was a set designer, in theater, and had gotten into an argument with a director and been told to start her design from scratch again. And Kath’s parents found out about us and they were threatening to have her committed. I was off, too busy learning how to save people to bother with her.”

  “You can’t blame…” I interrupted.

  “I know, I know. But I can’t help it. We had a fight the day before. She left a note in the morning, which she sometimes did, but it wasn’t usual. It said, ‘Sorry, Cordelia. Nothing you did. I love you.’ Maybe that made it hurt all the more. Knowing that I loved her and she loved me and that still…love isn’t a solution. I had always thought it was.”

  “Something should be. But I haven’t found it yet.”

  “Her family swooped in. Like vultures. Took everything we had except the wrecked car and flew her back to Kansas for burial.”