When the Sun Goes Down

by Gwynne Forster

  As they passed the lighted counter that displayed the flavors for sale, she chose raspberry margarita. A waitress seated them beside a window that overlooked a waterfall and a brook. Shirley could see their reflections in the water. “This is one seductive environment,” she blurted out, “and you don’t need any help.”

  He looked at her for such a long time that she blanched beneath his stare. “Be careful what you say to me, Shirley. I take everything you tell me seriously, even some things said in jest. You just told me that you’re attracted to me. I know that, and it’s important to me. After all, you’ve agreed that you’re my girl. But that word seductive carries a punch.”

  He was a grown man, and she shouldn’t have to mince words with him. “Because I’m your girl, you should expect me to tell you like it is. You’re seductive. Period. One of these days, I’ll give you some details. And there’s no reason why knowing it should blow up your ego.”

  Both of his eyebrows shot up, and he sat back in the chair and gazed at her, seemingly nonplussed. “Shirley, when you decide to be serious and truthful about what’s going on between you and me, please try not to choose a public place in which to do it. If I had you to myself in a private place right now, I would make love to you before I let you out of my sight, and I wouldn’t play at it, either.”

  Her heart began to pound like the hooves of a runaway Thoroughbred horse. “I don’t consider anything you say to me as a threat. You ... You’re piling it on. I don’t think I’m quite ready, but I’m definitely looking forward to it.”

  Chapter Seven

  Carson hadn’t been in the Farrell house twenty minutes that Saturday morning when he heard a key in the front door. He hadn’t wanted one of the Farrell siblings with him, because he did his best thinking alone, and something teased the edges of his mind, something he simply could not get a handle on. Whatever it was, it would lead him to that will.

  “What the fu ... ? Who the hell is in here?” a voice yelled, and he knew he’d have to deal with a surprised and irritable Edgar.

  He put the desk upright, straightened his clothes, and strolled slowly and with caution down the stairs, every molecule of his body alert and on edge. “What’s wrong, Edgar?”

  “You? I thought you’d checked this place. No wonder it’s taking you—”

  “Cool it, man, and act your age. How do you expect me to find that will if I don’t look for it?” He’d figured that the best way to handle Edgar was to remind the man of his obvious shortcomings. “I’m successful, among other things, because I’m thorough. Since you’re here, do you have any idea why your father’s robots are missing?”

  “Hell, no, man. He was paranoid about those stupid things. I wouldn’t be surprised if he buried them in the cemetery and marked the grave with an expensive headstone. A grown man sitting around playing with toys. He should’ve been committed, but Gunther and Shirley wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “The man was sane. To have had him committed to a mental facility would have been criminal. Didn’t you like your father?”

  “He was too harsh. Expected us to be like him. Gunther tried to please Father, but he didn’t treat Gunther any better than he treated me. Shakespeare said it all: ‘To thine own self be true.’ And I been doing my own thing ever since I figured out that nobody could please the old man.”

  Carson rested his back against the side of a big hutch in the hall between the dining room and the kitchen. “You’re just getting in from Atlantic City, I suppose.”

  “Man, I quit that half-ass job weeks ago. I’m just getting back from Vegas. Now, that’s where the action is, and as soon as I can, I’m going back. But, man, that place eats money like a whirlwind sucking up sand. Haven’t you come up with any leads yet?”

  “Sure, and one by one, they petered out. But after a conversation with Shirley about the type of person your father was, I’ve begun a different tactic, and it should work. I’d better get busy. See you.”

  “Man, I’m not staying. I gotta run over to Baltimore and see about making some bread. I need to pick up a couple of gigs. You’ll probably be gone when I get back.”

  “If you’re not back in an hour, I certainly will be.”

  Carson walked back up the stairs, deep in thought. How did a parent avoid creating a person like Edgar? He wasn’t born that way, and he had had the same advantages and disadvantages as Gunther and Shirley, but his resemblance to them began and ended with the color of his eyes.

  An hour and a half later, speeding down Jones Falls Expressway, Edgar sideswiped a car. He slowed down, but he neither stopped nor looked back, though from his side-view mirror, he should have seen the car spin around 360 degrees and rock precariously before settling on its four wheels. However, in slowing down, he allowed the driver of that car to see enough of him to remember what he wore, though she didn’t get his license plate number.

  In her usually meticulous way, Frieda Davis jotted down the color and shape of his helmet and drew the shape of the two interlocked red Vs on the back of his white leather jacket. Then she examined her tires, got back into the car, and drove on to Bakerville to continue her care of her birth mother. If she ever saw him again, he’d owe her plenty.

  When his cell phone rang persistently, Edgar slowed down and pulled over to the shoulder of the highway. He didn’t try to use his cell phone while riding his motorcycle. It would be too dangerous. Besides, he wouldn’t be able to hear one word. “Farrell speaking.”

  “When you coming back, Edgar?”

  “Look, babe. I got here this morning, and a lot’s facing me before I can leave. Don’t be anxious about me going back there. You got my music, babe, and nobody ever played it like you do. You get my meaning?”

  “You bet. When you get back, I’ll be here just like you left me, honey.”

  “That’s my girl. See you.” He put the phone back in his pocket, kicked the starter, and headed to the Eubie Blake National Jazz Institute, the one place where he could always get a gig. While he’d talked with the woman who paid for his trip home, Frieda Davis passed, and as she did so, she made a mental note of his license plate. Edgar parked at the Institute and tried without success to reach Gunther by phone.

  But while Edgar seethed in frustration because he couldn’t reach his brother, Gunther was learning that Bravado, his video game about three mischievous little boys and a nurse, had become the country’s best-selling video game.

  “We’re speaking money here, Gunther,” his distributor said, socking his left palm with his right fist. “Yeah, man. Oodles and oodles of green United States money. Man, you’re at the summit. I want fifty thousand more copies this week. When the iron is hot, strike it. And you’re hot.”

  Gunther had expected the game to be a hit, but not to the extent that it had. He made an effort to adopt a businesslike demeanor and to resist displaying the excitement that he felt. “I’ll order the copies today, and you should have them by Wednesday.”

  “Uh, by the way, if I were you, I’d open a special account for each product to simplify record keeping. That way, you’ll always know exactly what your net gain is from each game.”

  “Thanks, Ken.” He didn’t bother to tell the man that he had an MBA from Harvard and knew how to manage a business.

  “You keep ’em coming, and I’ll put ’em where your customers can get ’em.”

  Gunther left the man’s office shaking his head. Four million copies sold in three short weeks. Even counting what it cost him to produce the video game and get it to stores, he’d made sixteen million dollars net off that one product. Over sixteen times his net worth three months earlier. Frieda Davis had inspired that game, and if he saw her again, he’d make her a present of something valuable. Leon Farrell, how I wish you were alive to eat the crow I would delight in serving you.

  He reached his car, put his hand in his pocket for his keys, and, along with them, he pulled out a yellow slip of paper that he was about to throw away when he noticed the handwriting on it. A flaw
less script as might be composed by someone who had studied calligraphy. He stared at it until he remembered the writer and how the slip of paper got into his pocket.

  Drops of rain reminded him to unlock the door and get into the automobile. He put the key in the ignition but didn’t turn it. While the rain pelted the car, he made up his mind and dialed the phone number on the yellow slip.

  “Hello, Caroline. This is Gunther Farrell. I would have called you weeks ago, but I went on a fishing trip and came down with pneumonia. I’m just back to myself.”

  “What a surprise this is, Gunther. It’s nice to hear from you. I am terribly sorry that you’ve been ill. How are you now?”

  “I’m my old self and very happy about it. Would you have dinner with me one evening? Soon?”

  “I’d like that very much. I had about concluded that I wouldn’t be hearing from you, and I’m glad you called, because I thought we got on well that one time we were together.”

  “So did I, and that’s why I want to see you again. I have a deadline Wednesday, so I can be free Wednesday evening.”

  “Oh.”

  “Wait a minute. We can have dinner again Friday, Saturday, and Sunday evenings, but I want to see you soon, and Wednesday’s my earliest free day.”

  Her laughter floated to him through the wires. “You’re smart. I was indeed about to conclude that, to your mind, I was only good for a midweek date. Wednesday it is.” She gave him her address.

  “Thanks, I’ll be there at six-thirty in a jacket and tie.”

  “Wonderful. That tells me how to dress. I’ll look forward to it.”

  “So will I.” Maybe he’d finally begun to get his life together. He was thirty-four years old and had never had a satisfying relationship with a woman. He’d had plenty of girls, but every one wanted to go to the best restaurant, have the best seat at a football game or tennis match, get the most expensive seat at a concert. He blew out a long breath. He was not a stingy man, but it irked him when a date told him where she wanted to sit at an event. At least Caroline didn’t ask where he’d take her to dinner or suggest a restaurant.

  If he was lucky, Caroline and he would have common interests, and, most importantly, they would care for each other’s well-being. He did not want a woman who had to have the latest fashion, belong to numerous social clubs, and attend every big social function. And he disliked social leeches like Lissa, women whose criteria for a mate consisted solely of his ability to take care of them financially. He wanted a woman who loved him and needed him for things other than financial support. But I know better than to put too much hope in this. The higher your expectations, the longer you wait for their realization. Well, he’d waited this long, and though he wanted to settle down and start a family, he’d continue to wait till he was sure he’d found the right woman.

  At home that evening, Gunther asked Mirna how she knew Frieda. “Well, Mr. G., I’ve known Frieda ten years. I worked for a family in Baltimore, and Frieda came to take care of the man’s mother. Frieda took care of that old lady like she woulda her own mother. She amazed everybody, even the man what hired her. That old lady loved the ground Frieda walked on. Frieda a real nice person, but if you mistreat her, look out. She don’t take no tea for the fever, Mr. G. I know she good-looking, and some men fall for they nurses, but you ain’t—”

  He interrupted her. “Slow down, Mirna. I asked how you knew her. I didn’t ask for a reference, and I am not interested in her as a woman. Got that?”

  “Yes, sir. You jes never can tell. Right now, she doing a good deed.”

  Frieda had given herself a month to care for her birth mother without charge, but after that, she’d have to start earning, because she had to pay the rent on her apartment and save what she could for the house she hoped to buy someday. She had been saving for that house—sometimes as little as fifty cents at a time—since she got her first paycheck, nineteen years earlier. That afternoon, she sat with her mother in a rocking chair on the screened-in back porch of the house Coreen Treadwell shared with her husband.

  “Would you like some lemonade?” Frieda asked Coreen. “You’d never drink a drop of anything if I didn’t insist. You have to stay hydrated.”

  “I don’t really like water, though I know I should drink it,” Coreen told her. “You know,” she went on, “I’m kind of glad I got sick. If I hadn’t, you and I would never have gotten to know each other. I hope you’ve forgiven me.”

  “I’m the one who needed forgiveness,” Frieda said. “What happened to me was not your fault. You had already suffered more cruelty than I could have imagined, and I added to the pain. I’m sorry I did what I did, but I know I’d do it again.” She didn’t care to rehash that story and changed the subject. “A man on a motorcycle sideswiped me on the highway recently, spun my car all around and didn’t even pause. I got enough information about him to cause him plenty of trouble, and when I get ready, I will.”

  “How much did it cost to fix your car?”

  “Oh, don’t worry about that. Eric took care of it. He’s a really nice person.”

  “I see that you like Eric, and I’m glad for that. Have you forgiven Glen?”

  Frieda locked her hands behind her head, braced her feet on the floor, and moved the rocker back and forth in a soothing rhythm. “Forgive Glen for what? He didn’t do as much to me as I did to him. We forgave each other. It’s all over.”

  “I’m so glad. I’ve worried plenty about that. Maybe I will have some lemonade. I don’t know what I would have done without you, Frieda. You’ve made my recovery so pleasant, almost like a nice vacation.”

  “It is a vacation. You’ll be back at work in another month.”

  “God willing. I sure hope so.”

  And in another month, she’d be back at the hospital doing whatever the registered nurses thought was beneath them. If she ever got a few pennies ahead, she was going to school and get her RN. She said as much to Coreen.

  “Soon as I can, I’m gon’ quit work, go to college, and get my RN. It took me a while to get my LPN, ’cause I didn’t work hard at it, but I’m sure gon’ work hard at that RN.”

  “I know nursing is hard work, and you have to be exhausted at the end of the day,” Coreen said, “but can’t you take a couple of courses in the evenings after work? Then, when you’re able to go full-time, it won’t take you so long.”

  “I never thought of that. I can drive to Towson in no time. It’s got a great program for nurses. Well, this is my day. Five years from now, you gon’ see that RN insignia on my cap, my collar, and everywhere else I can put it.”

  Coreen’s hearty laugh was the response she sought to her comment. She got up, went to the kitchen, got a pitcher of cold lemonade, and gave a glass of it to Coreen. “It sure is good to see you drink that down to the last drop. I won’t feel so badly about leaving you at the end of the week.”

  “We’ll be able to manage. All I want is for us to keep in close touch. You call me, even if you don’t have anything to say. I want to hear from you.”

  Frieda took the glass from Coreen, put it on the little table beside the woman’s chair, and stared down at her. “Is there gon’ be some reason why you can’t call me sometime, too?”

  Both of them laughed, and Coreen reached out and grasped Frieda’s hand. “If we lose touch, it will never be because I didn’t try to keep you close to me.”

  The sound of the front door opening relieved Frieda of the need to respond to Coreen’s obvious quest for a closer mother-daughter relationship. Frieda went to see who came in and was glad for the excuse to ignore Coreen’s remark. I’m not ready to cross that bridge, she said to herself, and that’s a thing I couldn’t fake.

  Three days later, at the month’s end, Frieda stood at an ironing board, pressing her uniform—she preferred cotton uniforms to synthetic ones—and talking with Coreen, who sat nearby in a rocker.

  “I know I can earn more in private duty, but it means working twelve-hour shifts all the time. In the ho
spital, I work from seven to three, five days a week. The trouble is with the wages. I won’t earn half as much at the hospital as Mr. Farrell paid me. I declare, that is one nice man.”

  “As who paid you? Who did you say?”

  “Mr. Farrell. He’s super to work for, and, Lord, that man looks good enough to eat. I’m gon’ pack these now, so I’ll be ready when Eric comes.”

  She packed her suitcases, came back downstairs to Coreen, and sat down. She realized that she’d been sitting there five minutes, and Coreen hadn’t said a word. Something’s out of gear here, Frieda thought. But if I did or said something wrong, she’ll have to tell me, ’cause I sure ain’t gon’ ask her. Eric arrived, and Frieda would ordinarily have had dinner with them before leaving, but as Coreen remained withdrawn, Frieda told Eric that she had an appointment and would have to skip dinner.

  To make sure that a rupture of her relationship with Coreen wouldn’t come from any deliberate action on her part, Frieda leaned down and kissed Coreen’s cheek. “I’m gonna miss you,” she said, and meant it.

  She couldn’t know that the mention of the name Farrell took Coreen back thirty-seven years to some of the most miserable moments of her life.

  Carson sat on a log beside the Patapsco River, picking up pebbles and throwing them as far as he could into the barely moving river. After an hour, he got up, dusted off his trousers, and started back to his car. His gaze took in a huge hollow log that appeared old and nearly white from the ravages of the weather. He went to the log for a closer look and determined that it was no more than a shell. He kicked it and wished he hadn’t, for the outside of the log proved as strong as if it were green and freshly felled.

  He walked on slowly, trying to summon that idea that teased at the edge of his mind. “This won’t do,” he said. “I’ve never had anything beat me like this.” He got into his car, started the engine, flipped on the radio, and headed for his office. If he could just get a handle on that something that should be as clear as his hand before him.