Cooper was quieter than usual. He leaned back in his chair and stared up at the star-filled night sky.
This hour or so together had become their evening ritual on the nights Radhauser didn’t have to work. They talked about politics, local happenings in the community, baseball. Lizzie and Jonathan’s antics. The chores that needed to be done around the ranch. The collapse of the Twin Towers and what it meant for people like the Azamis. Sometimes they only sat and listened to the night sounds, talked about nothing at all.
These times with Cooper probably meant more than they should to Radhauser. They allowed him to experience what he might have had with a grown-up Lucas. The thought had barely registered when he caught himself. Cooper was not his son. He was someone else’s son, a dead classical pianist’s son. He was a borrowed gift Radhauser would soon have to return.
In truth, the two of them didn’t have a lot in common. From everything Radhauser could piece together, Cooper had grown up isolated, cultured, overprotected, yet abused, by his demanding mother.
While Radhauser’s son, Lucas, had donned boots, spurs, and a cowboy hat to ride his bicycle in the Sonoran Desert, Cooper played Beethoven on a baby grand piano. This young man, at twenty, had already traveled the world. Performed at Carnegie Hall, and drove a fancy BMW convertible.
Radhauser shook his head to pull himself from his reverie. No matter how different the backgrounds of Cooper and Lucas, Radhauser had developed a fatherly fondness for Cooper Drake.
Tonight, the moon, a waxing crescent, had situated itself between the two enormous conifers in the front yard. It shone like a beacon on the hammock stretched between them, casting pine-needled shadows on the striped canvas. Through the screens, crickets sang their evening songs and frogs chirped in the nearby pond—country sounds in spring.
“Have you always lived in the country?” Cooper didn’t wait for an answer. “This is the most peaceful place I’ve ever known. Except maybe for one other.”
Radhauser told him that he’d grown up around Phoenix in the Arizona Sonoran Desert, but had spent a lot of time on his Uncle Roger’s 160-acre cattle farm, west of the city. He purposely left out the part about his parents’ divorce, his mother’s breakdown. They weren’t memories he liked to relive and he’d shared parts only with Gracie and, of course, Laura, who’d been by his side for the worst of it.
“Gracie grew up on a little horse ranch near here and wanted that life for our kids. Her mother sold the ranch about ten years ago, but she still lives in Talent.”
“Do you regret moving from Arizona?”
“It was hard for me in only one way—leaving behind the graves of my first wife and son. But the truth is, moving helped me heal.” He told Cooper about the accident that had killed Laura and Lucas. About the year of grief that followed. Twelve months that nearly ended his life and his law enforcement career. And finally, the way meeting and marrying Gracie had saved him.
“She’s a pretty amazing person. I can’t imagine having a mother like her.”
For a moment, they were both quiet. Was this the right moment to ask him about his mother? Before Radhauser could form a question, Cooper started to talk.
“I used to escape my mother when I was a kid by telling her I was going for a walk, then hitchhiking to a trail that led up into the mountains above Ashland. The Native Americans named it Red Hatchet Falls. Maybe you know it? It’s an incredible waterfall, at least fifty feet tall. Legend has it, a bloody battle took place there. When the sun sets, it turns the water red. The Indians think of it as a sacred place—that blood-red water a reminder that sometimes violence is necessary for justice. I’ve always been able to feel a sacredness in the mist from the falls. As a teenager, I’d go there to write songs and poems. I hid them in a metal box up there so my mother wouldn’t burn them.”
“I’d love to go there with you sometime.” Radhauser didn’t want to interfere, but rather offer a safe place for Cooper to talk about what happened with his mother. “Have you ever talked to anyone about your childhood and all the pressure put on you to perform?”
"You mean like a counselor or a psychiatrist?"
The candle cast a golden light on Cooper’s face. “Never.” He began to rock, seeming unaware he was doing it. “Mother would never approve. She’d see it as some kind of betrayal.”
“Take it from me, it’s not good to keep things bottled up. They can erupt in more destructive ways than betrayal.”
“Drake was neither my mother’s name nor my father’s last name. Not a trace of family history or meaning in that name. She gave me a stage name at birth. With her, it’s all about the façade.” Cooper rocked faster.
Radhauser reached out and put a hand on Cooper’s arm to stop the motion. “You can talk to me, but only if you want to. I promise to listen to everything and repeat nothing.”
The rocker slowed. “What do you want to know?”
“Anything or nothing. Whatever you want to tell me.”
They sat for another thirty seconds or so in silence. “My mother wanted to be a concert pianist. She took lessons her entire life. With hard and diligent practice, she became technically very competent. But she lacked the one most important thing and never made it on the concert stage.”
Radhauser waited.
Cooper seemed lost in his reverie, staring straight ahead. His eyes were fixed and rarely blinked.
“And what is that most important thing?”
As if startled, Cooper twitched. “It’s hard to define. People don’t know what to call it, so they call it passion. But it’s more than that. It’s one of those things that can’t be taught. The ability to turn yourself inside out and become one with the music. My mother said it was a gift she didn’t receive, but I did. And that it was my God-given duty to use that gift.”
“What does your mother do for a living? Is she independently wealthy?”
Cooper laughed. "You'd think so, wouldn't you? And that's what she wants everyone to think. It's why she wears that fake diamond ring and has her older brother pretend to be her chauffeur. Poor Uncle Rollins. He rarely says a word, but he's been devoted to her for years. She gives piano lessons and plays on Saturday and Sunday nights at a local piano bar on the Plaza. It keeps her in gin."
So, Julia was a drinker? That could explain her behavior the previous night, though she didn't appear drunk and Radhauser didn't smell alcohol on her breath.
“Apparently,” Cooper said as if he’d heard Radhauser’s thoughts. “That’s my fault, too. You see, I’ve let her down. I was supposed to support her in the lifestyle she believes is her birthright, but…”
Radhauser raised an eyebrow. “Are you supporting her?”
“During the time I toured, she acted as my business manager and agent. Handled all the money. And I was paid pretty well. Julliard was happy because it gave them even more name recognition. But I haven’t brought any money in since I left the concert circuit. I figure she’s running out and that’s why she took the job at the piano bar and started giving lessons.”
Radhauser couldn’t imagine what it would be like to have that kind of talent and not use it. “How do you feel about letting it all go?” Did he quit piano in an attempt to punish his mother?
“It was never my dream in the first place.”
“What did you want?”
“To be a poet and songwriter. Maybe teach creative writing at the high school or college level. But like most little boys, I also wanted to play sports and video games. I wanted friends. I wanted a normal life.”
Radhauser didn’t know what to say. It was a rare poet who could support themselves with their poetry. But who knows, Cooper might have moved to Nashville and made it as a songwriter. From the music he played while working in the barn, he seemed to favor country and western. Maybe he could have become a honky-tonk pianist. “And did you ever get the chance to take creative writing classes?”
"I wanted to, but Mother and Uncle Rollins homeschooled me." He paused and looked a
t Radhauser, the whites of his eyes shining in the candlelight. "They did a good job with what was required. I had no trouble with the SATs or passing the tests necessary for a high school diploma. But Mother forbade my studying anything except the basics. She said terrible things to frighten me into obeying her."
“Are you saying she threatened you?”
He grimaced and turned away.
“It’s okay,” Radhauser said. “You don’t have to talk about anything that makes you feel uncomfortable.”
“It’s not that. It’s just so creepy to remember—like I’m hearing her all over again. Like I’ll never escape her voice.” He stopped himself and said nothing for several minutes, staring into space and blinking rapidly, the way people do when they’re trying not to cry. “I need to be on my own.” His voice was little more than a whisper, but he clenched and unclenched his hands. There was a slight tremor in his shoulders.
Radhauser swallowed hard. A mother raccoon and her kits splashed in the small pond to the left of the porch. "Those little bandits are at it again this year." He attempted to distract Cooper from the disturbing memories. "Once the mother has enough, she climbs the oak and calls for them. But they don't come, just keep splashing around in the pond. It makes me laugh. They're smart, like toddlers."
Cooper remained silent.
“Listen, you don’t have to talk about this anymore if it's too painful.”
Backlit by the light coming through the kitchen window, Cooper, his face in shadow, turned to look at Radhauser. It was as if a faucet inside him had been turned on and the words just kept spilling out. "In the beginning, I think she thought I was cute in my little short pants, bow tie, and red suspenders. She liked to show me off. But from the time I turned five, my practice sessions were often accompanied by ridicule."
Radhauser was speechless. What she'd done to her son was criminal. And if he could, he'd arrest Julia Drake tonight. "You could press charges for child molestation. Judges are often very lenient concerning statutes of limitation on child abuse. She shouldn't get away with what she did to you."
Cooper straightened his back and stared ahead, his face a dark mask. His long-fingered hands gripped the arms of the rocker. "I could never do that." His right leg began to shake as if it had a little motor inside it. "What kind of man has his mother arrested?" The venom in his voice more than compensated for whatever expression his face lacked.
Regretting his impulsive statement, Radhauser knew he needed to back off, not press too hard. He’d wanted Cooper to have the opportunity to talk about what had been done to him. Silencing him was the last thing Radhauser wanted to do. “I’m sorry. Maybe it's the father in me. Or maybe I’m always the cop wanting justice for victims. But the truth is, I probably couldn’t have my mother arrested either. No matter what she did to me.”
Cooper's grip on the chair arms loosened. "After I'd practiced for six or seven hours, if she was happy with the way I'd performed, she'd massage my hands for long periods. She'd slather them with some lotion that smelled like peaches. It was as if those hands were the most precious things in the world to her."
“How did you feel about that?” Radhauser cringed as soon as the words left his mouth. He sounded like a therapist.
Cooper laughed, picked up his mug and took a long swig of his root beer. “I guess it was sick, but I let her do whatever she wanted to me until I went off to Julliard at seventeen. Like any other kid, I wanted my mother to care. My hands ached after all those hours of practice. Her rubbing them felt…well, it felt like love.”
Radhauser remained quiet, not wanting to say anything more that might silence Cooper.
“I wanted to play baseball, just be a normal kid. I read every book I could find about the sport. I understood the theory, but never played the game until I was in New York and joined a league there.”
“So that’s why you volunteered to coach Little League? I wondered, because almost all the other coaches have one of their kids on their team.”
"I suppose so. Maybe I'm getting a second chance to be a kid." He paused and thought for a moment. "Maybe there are no adults, just tall kids stumbling around in an adult world of unrealized dreams and unmet needs."
Radhauser laughed. “You may be on to something there.”
"I hope you don't think some weirdo is coaching your kid now. I try to respect my players and treat them the way I'd want to be treated. I'm fond of my team."
“I can tell. You’re a great coach.” He told Cooper about the jealousy he’d initially felt when he realized how much Lizzie cared about her baseball coach.
"Ah, Lizzie. She's quite the kid. Queen of the knock-knocks. Want to hear the one she got me with today?"
“Sure.” Perhaps they were due for something a little more light-hearted.
“Knock. Knock.”
“Who’s there?” Radhauser responded automatically, accustomed to doing this at least a half dozen times every night with Lizzie before bed.
“Little old lady.”
“Little old lady who?”
Cooper chuckled from deep in his belly. “Well, what do you know? I had no idea you could yodel.”
“I see she’s got you hooked, too.”
"I don't know why, but it's funnier when she tells it. It's that giggle of hers, like a fountain bubbling over."
They finished their drinks and sat another few minutes in comfortable silence.
“May I ask you another question?”
“Sure,” Cooper said. “Ask away.”
“How could you conjure so much passion in your performances when you hated what you were doing?”
"At that waterfall I told you about, I gave the music words—words I'd written from my heart and felt deep inside me. When I played, no matter if it was a Beethoven sonata or a Mozart concerto—I sang the words to myself. And the words lit in front of me caught fire and raised me higher than I'd ever been before. High enough for the audience to feel the heat of my flames. And the music critics called it passion."
Cooper hoisted himself from the chair and reached for Radhauser’s hand and shook it. “Thanks for listening, man. But we best be calling it a night. Cardinals have the nine o’clock game tomorrow morning.”
As he stood on the porch and watched Cooper make his way down the driveway toward the barn, Radhauser realized he'd made a judgment that turned out to be dead wrong. Despite Julia's affluent and cultured appearance, there had been nothing cushy about Cooper Drake's life.
Chapter Eighteen
Another week passed. Daria was in the final month of her pregnancy.
Late Saturday morning, three weeks after Marsha Parsons’ hand was discovered in Lithia Park, Daria and Ahmed sat behind field #5 at the Thomas Flannigan Sports Park. Marsha’s body had been cremated, but no memorial service held. Daria did not like Sherman Parsons very much, but could not imagine he would murder the mother of his children.
Ahmed had placed their folding chairs under the shade of a massive oak tree in front of first base. She moved sluggishly and felt as if she were carrying a twenty-pound watermelon inside her womb. If Marsha were still alive, she would say something funny to make Daria laugh at her protruding belly. She missed her friend so much.
An under-eight division Little League game between the Eagles and the White Sox was in progress. It was a typical May day, the sky a bright blue with only a hint of clouds. With temperatures in the mid-seventies, the air was tinted with the smell of lavender from the bushes that bloomed along the back fences. Daria was far too warm in the abaya she had worn over her skirt.
Kareem’s team, the Eagles, was up to bat. From where she sat, Daria could see him sitting in the dugout. He wore his green shirt and gleaming white baseball pants and was separated from the other players on his team. His black eye was fading to shades of purple, blue and green. Daria’s heart went out to him. Kareem did not want to play baseball, but Ahmed had insisted he learn this most American of sports, thinking it would help their son fit in with the other
boys. Daria was not so sure her husband’s plan to Americanize their son was working.
Bradford Baker, coach for the Eagles, played Kareem only as often as necessary to comply with the rules of the division—that all children get to play and that the batting order includes every child on the team. For the brief periods Kareem was in the game, he stood out in right field where the action with players in this age group was dismally minimal. Ahmed had worked with his son, trying to get him to be at the ready, glove poised to make a catch. But Kareem often chased butterflies, kicked at the grass with the toe of his plastic cleats, or stared at the sky when a plane or bird passed overhead.
This was a home game. The White Sox led five to four. In the final inning with two outs and a man on first and third, Kareem stepped up to the bat.
Daria’s heart thumped. All around them, kids chased each other through the park, played catch with their friends, and ate popcorn from the red and white boxes they had purchased at the snack bar. The smell of hotdogs and hamburgers grilling made Daria slightly nauseous. Maybe it was the pregnancy. Or maybe it was because of being a vegetarian.
Ahmed paced back and forth along the fence behind first base. He wore his white prayer cap under his baseball hat. And, like many other fathers, he had dressed in jeans with a green, short-sleeved T-shirt to show his support of the team.
Daria watched the way Kareem shifted his weight from one foot to the other as he assumed his stance and took a few practice swings in the batter’s circle. She knew he, too, was nervous.
Coach Baker whispered something in Kareem’s ear, then stepped away.
The first pitch was a ball, but Kareem swung anyway.
Parents in the metal bleachers behind the catcher’s backstop groaned.
“Strike one,” the umpire boomed.
One of Kareem’s teammates stood in the dugout, clutching the chain link fence. “Keep your eye on the ball. Wait for a strike,” he cheered. “Level swing.”
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