When the Sun Goes Down

by Gwynne Forster

  She gave him her address but added, “I’d appreciate it if I could drop by and pick it up. I’d like to take it to my supervisor when I get to work.”

  “Do you mean you’ve already left your mother? How is she?” He wondered about the relationship, but didn’t think he had a right to probe.

  “She’s up and about. She doesn’t need a nurse now, and I’m not one to wear out my welcome, Mr. Farrell.”

  He’d have to think about that one. “Right. But I’m sure she appreciated the fact that you went to her aid when she needed you.”

  Was that a sigh? “I think she did. At least things are a lot better between us than they’ve been. Still, the only things in this life that you can count on are taxes and death, and ain’t neither one of them welcome.”

  “I’d forgotten what a philosopher you can be at times. I’ll be home about five-thirty, and your letter will be ready.”

  “Thank you, sir. You know I appreciate it. See you around six. Bye.”

  He wrote the letter, all the while thinking that maybe his situation growing up hadn’t been so bad. He hadn’t had to pay rent, eat, take care of all his other needs, and plan for a future with the amount of money he paid Frieda, which she had considered a windfall. Leon Farrell gave his children at least a comfortable home and plenty of food; although, unfortunately, after his wife died, he gave them very little beyond that. If he’d learned anything from the man who sired him, it was how not to be a father.

  He walked into his apartment a few minutes before five o’clock, changed his clothes, and went down to the pool on the ground floor of the apartment building. After several laps, he climbed out of the pool, spent ten minutes on the treadmill, swam another lap, and got back to his apartment minutes before Frieda arrived.

  “Where’s Mr. Farrell?” he heard her ask Mirna. “He paid me forty-three dollars a week more than I get for that backbreaking work at the hospital, and he’s giving me a recommendation. I need a raise so I can move from that fourth-floor dump on Franklin Street. Tired as I am when I get home from work, I have to walk up three flights, and that building has high ceilings. But right now, it’s all I can afford.”

  “He a good man,” Mirna said. “And whatever he say he gon’ do, you can put money on it.”

  “Don’t I know!” Frieda said. “Ain’t many like him. And a real gentleman, too.”

  Gunther took the letter from his pocket and walked into the dining room where the two women sat talking. “Here you are,” he said to Frieda. “I hope it works for you.”

  She looked at the unopened letter and then gazed at him for a long time until he wondered at her behavior. Finally, she said, “Mr. Farrell, I’ll never forget your kindness to me. I wasn’t gon’ tell you this, but one good deed deserves another. The day I left here driving to Baltimore, your brother passed me on his motorcycle and sideswiped my car, spinning me around in a circle. He could’ve killed me, and he didn’t even slow down.”

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Sure, I’m sure. I passed him about three miles farther on the highway where he’d stopped to talk on his cell phone. I got his license plate number, looked it up, and saw that Harley belonged to Edgar Farrell. I was without my car for two weeks. But he’s your brother, so I won’t report him.”

  “I’m not a bit surprised. You should have reported it. Next time he’ll kill someone. Have you had your car repaired?”

  “It’s been fixed, sir. I don’t want you to do a thing about it, but I know you wouldn’t want no kin of yours in jail.”

  He thought about that for a few seconds and surprised himself when he said, “I appreciate your sentiments, but I don’t know about that. Maybe getting what he deserves would turn him around.”

  He surmised that Frieda Davis was not as simple as her apparent warmth and lightheartedness suggested. He knew she took her work seriously and did it with pride, more often exceeding what was required of her. And her ever-ready sense of humor could be as effective as a doctor’s prescription. But for all that, she maintained a distance, a right, as it were, to reverse herself and attack if need be.

  He walked with her toward the front door. “I get the feeling that you’ve had a difficult life. My siblings and I have thought that our lives were tough, but I suspect you had it far worse.”

  She stopped walking and looked up at him. “It’s interesting you say that ’cause I try hard not to let it show. I was adopted at birth. My birth mother gave me up without knowing whether I was a girl or a boy. My father—whoever he was—raped her on the way home from school. Coreen—my mother—told me what she suffered during that pregnancy, and I don’t know how she stood it. After that was over, she picked herself up, got two university degrees, is head of a big social agency, and has been president of her international professional organization.

  “But her life wasn’t a bit harder than mine. Starting when I was twelve, my adoptive father raped me whenever he felt like it. I left home in the middle of a winter night wearing my adoptive mother’s housecoat and an old blanket and with one hundred and twenty-six dollars that I stole from my adoptive father’s pants while he violated me. I blamed my birth mother. I spent nearly two years looking hard for her, tracing leads and trying to make her miserable.”

  He didn’t realize that he’d been holding his breath until he suddenly gasped for air. “I gather you found her.”

  “Yes. I tried to ruin her happy marriage and her nice family life, but it didn’t work. I was glad, too, after she told me what she went through. I caused a lot of pain and trouble for her and her family, and I’m sorry. But we’re all on pretty good terms now, and I’m grateful. It’s not perfect. I tried to call her Mother, but I couldn’t. At least, not yet.”

  She looked at Gunther and frowned. “Funny thing. I’m the spitting image of her.”

  He hurt for her. “No matter what’s gone down before, Frieda, she probably would have died if you hadn’t found her and if you hadn’t given her the bone marrow.”

  “You’re right, and I like to think that doing that made up for the trouble I caused. You know, Mr. Farrell, the Lord works in strange ways. Sometimes I just can’t figure Him out.”

  He gave her a light pat on the shoulder. “I don’t think we’re supposed to. Let me know if you get that raise.”

  “I sure will. Thank you so much.” He opened the door for her. “Hmm,” she said, looking up at the sky, “looks like we gon’ have some snow for Thanksgiving.”

  He told her good-bye, went to his bedroom, and dialed Shirley’s cell phone number. “This is Gunther. Have you done anything about getting Frieda a job on one of those cruise ships?”

  “I gave her application to the head of our clinics and asked her to interview Frieda. As soon as I get to Orlando, I’ll push it hard. Not to worry.”

  “Thanks. She needs a break. By the way, Riggs has been trying to reach Carson. I take it you know where he is.”

  “I do, indeed,” she said, and he heard the preening in her voice suggestive of someone’s having won a huge lottery prize.

  He told himself not to react. “When is he coming back here? I mean, when will he be home?”

  “Sunday afternoon, for certain.”

  He didn’t like that. “I see,” he said, and he did. So Carson had scored with his baby sister. He told himself she had a right to live whatever life she chose, but he’d rather not know the details. “I gather you know what you’re doing.” He didn’t believe that, but he accepted that, for Shirley, he probably wouldn’t think any man good enough.

  She spoke softly, without stridence or a tone that suggested he was interfering where he shouldn’t. “I can only judge him by his behavior with me and toward me, Gunther. Right now, he’s batting one thousand. He’s ... Gunther, he’s wonderful. You’ll see.”

  “It’s a cinch I won’t see what you see,” he said dryly. “I hope it works out the way you want it to, sis. So far, I don’t find any fault with him. But I’m waiting for him to deliver. In any
case, we’ll all be together at Thanksgiving. Give him my regards.”

  He hung up and let out a sharp whistle. The old man’s devious behavior had precipitated changes that Leon Farrell could not have imagined and probably wouldn’t have wanted. He disliked government and legal authority and was suspicious of anyone associated with it, including police. Carson Montgomery was a law enforcement officer. Gunther laughed because he needed to release some tension, and laughter was the least painful way of doing it.

  Thanksgiving Day arrived with scattered snowflakes falling softly and quietly and darkening clouds that threatened a more wintry day. Shirley set the dining room table, adding tall, yellow candles and a centerpiece of brown, yellow, orange, and red mums and yellow place cards. The fires that Gunther had lighted in the dining and living room fireplaces sparkled and crackled with warmth, and added festiveness to the day.

  As she regarded the results of her handiwork, it occurred to Shirley that her mother would be proud of her, for Catherine Farrell had loved and enjoyed beautiful things. With that thought came the realization that, after Catherine’s death, their father had rejected the beauty and elegance that their mother had loved and with which she had surrounded them.

  Could it have been that Leon Farrell’s descent into a mean-spirited, stingy man was his way of dealing with the pain of their mother’s loss? If that explained it, perhaps she could forgive him. But she was not convinced.

  “If you was smart as I think,” Mirna said as she put individual salt and pepper shakers in front of each plate, “this ’ud be the last Thanksgiving you had here in this apartment.”

  A frown etched deep grooves in Shirley’s brow. “What do you mean?”

  “I mean this time next year, Mr. Montgomery ought to be at the head of your Thanksgiving Day table in your and his house. That’s clear, ain’t it?”

  Shirley laid her head to the side and looked hard at Mirna. “Why do you say that? You haven’t seen that much of him.”

  Mirna locked her knuckles to her hips and looked toward the ceiling. “Honey, I know a man when I see one, and that man’s got everything a woman could need and plenty of it. Like I said to Mr. G, he’ll make a woman happy, and I ain’t only talking about sex. If he say he gon’ do somethin’, honey, I bet my neck it’s good as done. He ain’t got no right to be single.”

  “So far, you’re a good judge of people,” Shirley said, patted Mirna’s shoulder, and went to her room. Three days with Carson on the Utopia Girl and exploring Ocho Rios with him had increased her appetite for the man, and she had made up her mind that if he remained single, it would not be her fault.

  Caroline arrived first, and after one look at the woman, Shirley decided that her brother had found someone wonderful. “I’m so glad to meet you, Caroline,” she said, “and I hope this will be your happiest Thanksgiving ever.”

  “Thanks. Me too,” Caroline replied. “I’ve been a wreck for days thinking about this. I thought, thank God, I don’t have to meet his mother. Then I shamed myself and remembered that he has a sister. Have you ever been through this?”

  Shirley’s laugh allowed her to get rid of some tension and to calm her own nerves. “I’m in the same boat as you, Caroline. My friend’s closest relative, his younger brother, will be joining us today, and I haven’t met him yet. So worry not. I’m in your corner.”

  The doorbell rang, and Shirley raced to it, her heart thundering in her chest. She opened the door and gazed up at Carson. Speechless. “What kind of welcome is this?” Carson asked her, stepped inside, wrapped her close, and kissed her. “Shirley, this is my brother, Ogden, and Marsha Harris, his girl.”

  “Come in, Ogden, Marsha,” she said, more nervous than she could ever remember being, for Gunther would have something to say about that French kiss she’d shared with Carson, quick though it was. She completed the introductions with Gunther and Caroline, aware that Carson’s arm remained around her.

  I’m not going to discourage him in order to please Gunther, she thought to herself as they walked into the living room.

  Mirna brought hot hors d’oeuvres, Gunther served drinks, and very soon they chatted among each other like old friends. “Dinner’s ready, Mr. G.”

  They followed Mirna to the dining room, took their assigned seats, and enjoyed a feast of corn chowder, roast turkey, corn bread dressing, cranberry relish, wild rice pilaf, grilled crimini mushrooms, asparagus, mesclun salad, assorted cheeses, bread, and lemon chiffon pie.

  “I don’t think I ever tasted such delicious turkey,” Ogden said. He raised his glass to Mirna. “This was a meal for the gods.”

  Later, as they sat in the living room having coffee and aperitifs, Marsha sipped her espresso, rested her head on the back of the sofa, and said, “A poem about this entire occasion is tugging at my mind. When it comes to me fully, I’m going to write it down and send it to Mirna.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Gunther said. “She’ll probably fly right out of the window. Say, I have a taste for some Duke Ellington. What about it?”

  “Right on,” someone said.

  As the strains of “Sophisticated Lady,” one of Ellington’s most famous compositions, filled the room, he sat beside Caroline and eased his arm around her shoulder. Gunther realized that he was proud to be with her in the presence of his sister and of men like himself. She was his type of woman, and he’d see where it went from there. Contented, even a little happy, he squeezed Caroline’s shoulder, closed his eyes, and let the music wash over him.

  “Mr. G, could you please come here?”

  He wondered at the note of what sounded like alarm in Mirna’s voice. Someone or something had surely frightened her. He excused himself and rushed toward the sound of her voice just as Edgar brushed past her and stopped within inches of him.

  “What a pretty scene we have here,” Edgar sneered. “The rich have filled their bellies, and they don’t give a filthy damn about anybody else.”

  “Watch your manners, Edgar. You’re in my home.”

  “You don’t say,” was Edgar’s response. Then his gaze caught Carson, who sat with an arm around Shirley. “What the hell are you doing with your arm around my sister? That’s why you can’t find that will. Or maybe you found it, and you think that if you’re banging her, you don’t have to get me my—”

  Carson reached Edgar in two long strides. “You take that back. I don’t care if you disrespect yourself or me, but you will apologize this second for your insult to Shirley. I’m counting to ten, and if you haven’t apologized when I get there, I’m taking you out in that hall and giving you the thrashing of your life.”

  “You wouldn’t dare,” Edgar said, seemingly unaware that the others gaped at him in silence.

  But Carson knew that all eyes were on him and that Shirley might side with her brother if he gave Edgar the punishment he should have had years earlier.

  “You wouldn’t touch me in my brother’s house,” Edgar said, though his voice carried a ring of fear.

  Carson took his hands out of his pockets. “I assume you can count to ten. One. Two. Three. Fo—”

  “All right, man. I was out of line. I’m sorry, Shirley. I didn’t mean it.”

  “You meant it, all right,” Gunther said to Edgar. It pained him to see how Shirley had metamorphosed from a regal queen to a woman who looked as if she’d been shoved out into a wintry blast. His estimation of Carson heightened further when the man went back to Shirley, put both arms around her, and whispered something that evidently invited her to cling to him.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart,” Carson said aloud.

  Shirley patted his knee. “I don’t know him these days. Maybe he was always this way, but I don’t think so.”

  Gunther ushered Edgar out of the living room and spoke to him with impatience. “What do you want? I hope you’re satisfied that you ruined my dinner party.”

  As if the latter were of no import, Edgar focused on his own interests. “The house is boarded up. I got to find a place
to stay.”

  “And you think that after what you just did, embarrassing me in the presence of my guests and insulting our sister, that I should let you stay here? Don’t even dream it. Get hold of Riggs. He’ll work something out. I’ll see you to the door.”

  Edgar stared at Gunther with narrowed eyes. “What can Riggs do for me if Carson hasn’t found the will?”

  Gunther lifted his shoulder in a dismissive shrug. “A violent storm damaged the house, and the insurance company is paying for repairs. Riggs arranged that and got the company to pay for your housing until the house is ready for occupancy.”

  “Yeah? What about food, man? I’m down to my last fifty-five bucks.”

  Gunther went to the kitchen. “Mirna, would you please give Edgar a takeout Thanksgiving dinner?”

  “Gimmie five minutes,” she said without looking at either of them.

  She prepared a plate of the dinner and added a container of chowder, a big slice of pie, a can of coffee, bananas, biscuits, butter, jam, sugar, and a package of hot dogs.

  She handed Edgar the bag in Gunther’s presence, looked him in the eye, and said, “If you’d learn to be nice, you wouldn’t have days like this.”

  “And if you had had the courtesy to at least stop to investigate the damage you did when you spun Frieda Davis’s car around on the highway, I’d have more respect for you,” Gunther told him.

  “Yeah,” he said, taking the bag and heading for the door. “Life’s a bitch sometimes.”

  So much for gratitude. Gunther went back into the living room and replaced the Duke Ellington CD with Mozart chamber music. “After that hurricane, I think some peaceful breeze is in order. I apologize for my brother’s bad manners.”

  Caroline seemed troubled, and he didn’t like that. She leaned toward him and spoke very softly. “Is he always like that? I mean, is he in a perpetual fight with life?”

  At least she didn’t move from the circle of his arm. “Edgar is a brilliant but self-centered and self-defeating man who takes what he sees as the shortest way to any and every goal, and en route, he invariably creates a problem for himself.” After a few seconds, he drew a labored breath and added, “And for the rest of us.”