Father of Two

by Judith Arnold

  “Daddy is a monster!”

  “He turned into an incubus!”

  “He’s Oscar the Grouch.”

  “It’s terrible, Gail, and we can’t go to see Mommy and Mr. Potato-Head because if we do Daddy might do something awful.”

  “Like eat the remote control or something.”

  “Stop!” Gail held up her hand like a traffic cop. The children tilted their heads as far back as they could in their helmets, staring at her but obediently quieting down.

  Gail took a deep breath. “Why is your father going to eat the remote control?”

  Sean answered, “He said he was so mad he could eat nails. I think there’s nails in the remote control. And if he eats it, we’ll never be able to watch two shows at once. There’s this button on it, the PC button? I think that stands for Politically Correct, only I’m not sure what that means? But you hit it and you can go back and forth between two stations and watch two shows at the same time.”

  “PC on the remote control stands for ‘previous channel’. Listen, I’ve got a trunk full of groceries that are going to spoil if I don’t get them into the refrigerator. If you want, you can help me bring in the groceries, and then we can talk.”

  The children dismounted their bicycles and followed her back to the car. They weren’t going to wait until the groceries were put away before they resumed talking, though. “He’s just such a grouch,” Erin said. “All the time. He’s got PMS, I think.”

  “You gotta help us,” Sean implored. “Like, yesterday? I was playing Weird Al and he made me take it off. He said he hated ‘Another Tattoo.’ That used to be his favorite song. Well, actually, it was my favorite song, but he liked it.”

  “It’s because he doesn’t want to laugh anymore,” Erin explained, holding out her arms so Gail could place a shopping bag into them. She picked out two of the lighter bags for the children, then heaved two heavier bags into her own arms and led them back across the lawn to the porch.

  “He hasn’t smiled in days,” Sean said.

  “I asked him if he had a toothache or some hemorrhoids, but he said no,” Erin reported. “I’m not sure what hemorrhoids are, but they talk about them on TV ads a lot.”

  “He told us to go away and ignore him because he was in a bad mood,” Sean said. “So we ignored him, and then he got all mad, because he told us to go to bed and we ignored him.”

  “He told us to ignore him,” Erin emphasized. “We were only doing what he told us to do.”

  Gail led them into the kitchen and nodded toward the table. “Leave those bags there. One more trip ought to do it.”

  The three of them trooped back out to the car, Erin and Sean chattering the entire distance about how Murphy was in a bad mood, how Murphy was grouchy and grumpy and he promised he’d bring home ice-cream but he forgot, and he just kept sitting at his desk in the study every evening and staring straight ahead, or else sometimes closing his eyes and acting like he was dead or something, and if Gail didn’t help them they’d have to go the police, because they knew this police officer who arrested them last fall when they’d been compasses in a bank robbery. Very little of what they said made sense, but Gail decided to let them vent. Once they ran out of steam, she could fix them some milk and cookies and find out exactly what was going on.

  “We got a food disposal,” Sean announced, exploring Gail’s kitchen while she unpacked the bags of groceries. He peeked into her sink. “Do you have a food disposal?”

  “No. This is an older house. I don’t think food disposals had been invented when the house was built.”

  “Wow. Is it an antique?”

  “No. It’s maybe fifty years old.”

  “Do you have a compactor?” Erin asked. “We do. We call it Big Foot, ’cuz it’s like a big foot stomping on your garbage.”

  “I like to stomp on garbage,” Sean volunteered.

  “For some reason, that doesn’t surprise me,” Gail muttered.

  “Imagine if you stomped on garbage, like, this morning,” Erin murmured, unsnapping the chin strap of her helmet and removing it. “Daddy would freak out.”

  Sean took his helmet off, too. “Yeah. He’s gotten weird.”

  “In what way weird?” Gail asked, wishing she weren’t so curious.

  “Last night,” Sean told her, “when I went to the study to ask him if we could roast marshmallows over the stove?” He lowered his voice to a spooky pitch. “He was sitting at his desk with his eyes closed and...talking to Erin’s Barbie doll.”

  That was definitely weird. “What was he saying?”

  “I don’t remember the exact words,” Sean said, “But it was something like, ‘She hates me. She’s afraid of guys, or something, so she’s just running away ’cuz she’s scared of men when they’re mad.’ Or something like that. Actually, he used a lot of swears, too. He used the F-word. I heard him.”

  Gail scratched her head and frowned. “He was saying this to a doll?”

  “Well, the doll was just sort of sitting on the edge of his desk.”

  “I left her there to keep him company,” Erin added. “I didn’t know he was going to be using the F-word.”

  “He was very upset, I think,” Sean rationalized.

  “He swears too much,” Erin complained.

  Gail occupied herself folding the empty shopping bags while her brain processed Sean’s report. If Murphy had been talking about her, well, he was utterly wrong. Her refusal to respond to his stupid, unapologetic phone message had nothing to do with her feelings about men. She knew damned well how to deal with male anger. She knew that when a man was angry, she had the right to protect herself, to get out of his way, to duck before he swung. She’d been devastated by a man once, and she knew better than to let any man hurt her again.

  Stunned, she dropped the bag she’d been folding. Is that what Murphy thought was going on? That she had cut him off because of what an evil man had done to her eleven years ago?

  What about what Murphy had done? He’d billed her for his services. He’d all but accused her of aiding and abetting Leo Kopoluski. He was holding her accountable for a misguided young immigrant’s mistakes. And then, puffing his ego up to maximum strength, he’d telephoned her and gloated. The gist of his phone message had been: “I’m angry and I’m not going to apologize, so get over it.”

  What did that have to do with the cop who’d hurt her?

  “I don’t know what your father was talking about,” she said, swallowing the tremor in her voice. “Maybe he had dozed off, and he was talking in his sleep.”

  “I dunno. Maybe.” Sean shrugged. “Did you say we could have milk and cookies?”

  Gail pulled a carton of milk out of the fridge and filled two glasses. “Does your dad know you’re here?” she asked.

  “No!” they chorused. “Don’t tell him,” Erin urged her. “He’d kill us if he knew.”

  “One thing your father would never do is kill you,” Gail assured her.

  “Can we have cookies?” Sean asked.

  Gail pulled out a package of chocolate chip cookies and emptied it onto a plate. “Why do you think he wouldn’t want you here?” she asked, trying not to be paranoid.

  “Well, it’s more like, we told him we were going on a bike ride, and he said we could ride over to the park near his building. But we looked up your address and rode over here.”

  “We had to cross Dudley Road,” Sean pointed out. Dudley Road was a major thoroughfare.

  “We crossed at the light,” Erin assured her. “And we got off our bikes and walked. But he’d still kill us.”

  “Hauser, too,” said Sean, naming another busy street.

  “And we had to ask two people for directions. They were strangers. We’re not supposed to talk to strangers.”

  “So he’d probably kill us,” Sean said blithely, then dipped a cookie into his milk and sucked on it.

  “I don’t think he’d kill you, but he’d be upset. There are a lot of bad drivers out there,” Gail scol
ded. “And he’s right about your not talking to strangers, too.” Her impulse was to telephone him, to let him know the children were with her and perfectly safe. But then she would have to talk to him, and... No. She couldn’t.

  “Will you help us?” Erin asked.

  “I don’t know what you want me to do.” Her gaze caught on the delicate pink curves of Erin’s ears. Would buying earrings for the child fix things?

  “Talk to him.”

  “If your dad wanted to talk to me, he’d call me,” she said. He’d call and apologize. He’d tell her he didn’t blame her. He’d tell her he shouldn’t have let his secretary send her an invoice, as if Gail had done something wrong and had to pay.

  “We think he misses you,” Erin said.

  I miss him, too, Gail thought. And I miss you kids. Watching them devour cookies and listening to them talk about their father with such love and concern made her agonizingly aware of how empty her life had been since the day, more than a week ago, when Murphy had telephoned her and told her that her feelings didn’t count when his kids were at stake.

  “If your father misses me,” she said, blinking away the tears that sprang to her eyes, “he’ll have to call me himself.”

  The children looked gravely disappointed. “He won’t,” Sean groaned. “He’s too busy being a monster.”

  “We thought you could save him,” Erin said tremulously.

  Gail’s eyes filled with too many tears to blink away. She simply opened her arms, and the children seemed to understand that she needed to hug them. Maybe they needed to be hugged, too—needed it so much they would willingly abandon a plate of chocolate-chip cookies just to have her arms around them.

  She had never before considered what a wonderful thing it was to have two arms. When a person was dealing with twins and they both needed to be held, two arms were required.

  “Everything will work out,” she promised in a whisper, although she had no idea how to fulfill that promise. “Your dad is going to be okay.”

  “Will you talk to him?” Erin asked, her voice muffled against the side of Gail’s breast. “He ought to be talking to you instead of a Barbie doll.”

  “Yes,” she said, because at that very moment the children’s feelings were more important than her own. They were desperate to get their father back—the charming, witty, funny, self-confident man, the rock they depended on, the shoulders they rode on, the daddy who would stop meetings and toss aside professional propriety the instant his children needed him.

  For these two children who fit so magnificently into the curves of her arms, she would set aside her own anger and fear and talk to Murphy.

  Tomorrow evening, she promised herself. She would call him tomorrow, after Allison Winslow’s wedding. She didn’t want to spoil her mood before the wedding. Afterward, who cared? The wedding was scheduled to start at noon. She’d be home by six. She would get undressed, scrub off her make-up, don a pair of cut-offs and a T-shirt, and then make the call to Murphy. She would tell him that if he cared as much about his kids’ well-being as he claimed, then he ought to open his eyes, quit talking to Erin’s doll, and stop acting as if he had PMS.

  And he’d also better deposit her check, because if he didn’t, her monthly bank statement wasn’t going to balance.

  Yes. That was what she’d do: demand that he deposit her check, just so he’d be forced to recognize how much damage he’d done.

  Chapter Sixteen

  DENNIS TUGGED DISCREETLY at the knot of his tie. The early June day was unseasonably warm, and the sun’s dry heat descended upon the back yard of Jamie McCoy’s acreage like an electric blanket with no “off” switch. Not a cloud marred the sky. The only shade to be found was under the huge striped-yellow canopy set up a short walk from the deck at the rear of the house. But most of the area beneath the open-sided tent was taken up by rows of folding chairs draped with white satin ribbon. If Jamie went into the shade, he’d have to take a seat, and he was too restless to sit.

  He remained on the deck, nursing the bourbon he’d just gotten from the bartender who was serving drinks on the screened porch. A buffet table extended across part of the deck, but its offerings didn’t entice Dennis.

  He had already conveyed his congratulations to the groom, who was acting like a host as much as a guest of honor. Dennis had managed to keep a straight face when he’d shaken Jamie’s hand, but the sight of the Ultimate Guy in a natty black tux was a bit unnerving.

  Incongruous apparel notwithstanding, Jamie seemed thrilled by his imminent marriage. He laughed, he schmoozed, and as Dennis watched, he reached down and scooped his daughter off the ground as she toddled toward him. He held her high in his arms, and she sucked her thumb and gazed around, evidently fascinated by all the hullabaloo.

  Guests wandered around to the back yard from the both sides of the house as well as from inside. A few ushers helped those who wished to be seated. Dennis observed as an elegant older woman in a pastel suit, with a dapper silver-haired fellow hanging from one arm and a walking cane dangling unused from her other, approached Jamie and gave him a kiss. He slung his free arm around her and introduced her to his guests. “My Grammy-in-law,” he said.

  “Just plain Grammy,” she snapped. “The day you use that in-law stuff with me is the day I’ll stop taking your side in every argument.”

  “Ah, but Grammy—you know Allison and I never argue,” he said with mock innocence.

  “Not about anything important, thank goodness. You want me to take Her Highness?” she asked, reaching for the baby as the baby reached for her. Dennis noticed that their dresses were color-coordinated. She handed her escort her cane and gathered the baby into her arms. Together they headed for the tent to find seats.

  Dennis took another sip of bourbon. Jamie McCoy’s wedding was a good distraction. For at least this one afternoon, Dennis could be out of touch, far from his home and office phones. He’d spent too many hours of too many days staring at the telephones in his life, waiting for them to ring, waiting to hear Gail’s voice saying, “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have sent you that note closing out my account with you. I should have returned your call when you left that message. I shouldn’t have vanished from your life the way my jackass of a client, Kopoluski, vanished from mine.”

  His various phones did ring occasionally, but she was never on the other end of the line. The disappointment he felt at each non-Gail call was growing unbearable. So maybe it was just as well that he was beyond reach for this one day.

  He drained his glass, turned to set it on a passing waiter’s tray, and saw a familiar face through the elegant swarm of guests. Detective John Russo was hard to miss, standing several inches taller than the people around him. Ever since Russo’s tactful handling of Sean and Erin when their baby-sitter had induced them to help him rob an ATM last November, Dennis had been indebted to the detective. He hadn’t expected to see him at this wedding, though.

  Descending from the deck, Dennis crossed the grass, his right hand outstretched. “Detective Russo? Remember me? Dennis Murphy.”

  “The father of the twins. I remember,” the detective said. In his dark suit and silk tie, he looked as warm as Dennis felt. He shook Dennis’s hand. “What brings you here?”

  “I heard there was a wedding,” Dennis said. “And you?”

  “My wife is the matron of honor. Are you on the groom’s side?”

  “I’m the groom’s lawyer. So...you’re married to the wedding party, huh.”

  John’s smile reflected pride in the connection. “I’m married to the bride’s best friend. Allison and Molly have been pals since childhood.”

  “Molly?” Dennis’s tie seemed too tight again; he struggled to keep air pumping through his windpipe. There had to be more than one Molly living in Arlington, of course—but the Molly he knew was Gail’s sister. “Your wife wouldn’t by any chance be Molly Saunders, would she?”

  “Molly Saunders-Russo,” John told him. “She’s into that hyphenated stuff.”<
br />
  Dennis glanced up. He was certain a huge cloud must have slid across the sun. But the sky above was a vast stretch of uninterrupted blue. And despite the chill that whispered through his soul, he was still too hot.

  “How do you know Molly?” Russo asked.

  Dennis swallowed and swallowed again, wishing he could yank off his tie before he choked to death. “I took a few of her Daddy School classes this spring. She’s a good teacher.”

  “The best teacher in the world,” John said with simple pride. He gazed past Dennis and motioned with his hand in a slight wave of acknowledgment. “There’s my sister-in-law.”

  Gail. Gail was here.

  Well, damn it, if her sister was the matron of honor, why shouldn’t she be here?

  She shouldn’t be here because Dennis wasn’t ready to see her. She shouldn’t be here because she had cut him off. She had written him a note as cold and harsh as a slap in the face, and she had refused to meet him halfway when he’d tried to talk to her.

  She shouldn’t be here, because if Dennis saw her he would want her, and she didn’t want him, and it was going to get very messy.

  “Come on, I’ll introduce you,” John offered.

  “That’s all right,” Dennis muttered, turning reluctantly. “We already know each other.”

  “You do?”

  “Arlington’s legal fraternity isn’t that big. We’ve worked with each other. Or maybe I should say we’ve worked against each other.” His voice drifted off as he caught sight of her standing near a towering spread of lilacs that grew along the side of the house. She had on a dress with a matching jacket, the same pale blue the color as her eyes. The dress had a V-shaped neckline that displayed her graceful throat; it nipped in at her narrow waist and ended an inch above her knees. It was the most daring, feminine, bone-rattling-beautiful outfit he’d ever seen her wear.

  Her hair was brushed back from her face, held with pearl-studded clasps. Around her neck was a string of pearls.

  He reminded his lungs to keep pumping air into his body. It wasn’t his tie choking him, but rather a riot of emotions that coagulated into a huge lump in his windpipe.