Jonathan Kellerman - Private Eyes

“No,” she said. “I don’t know him at all. Like I said, he only showed up at the beginning, a real scientist type- walking very fast, writing things down, ordering his wife around. He’s the boss in that relationship.”

Following that insight with a smile.

I said, “Even though your mother says she wants you to go to Harvard, you’re not sure she can handle it. And you feel you can’t talk to anyone to find out if she can.”

She shook her head and gave a weak smile. “A quandary, I guess. Pretty dumb, huh?”

“Not at all.”

“There you go again,” she said. “Telling me I’m okay.”

Both of us smiled.

I said, “Who else is around to take care of your mother?”

“There’s the staff. And Don, I guess- that’s her husband.”

Dropping that nugget into the bucket, then draping it with a look of innocence.

But I couldn’t keep the surprise out of my voice. “When did she get married?”

“Just a few months ago.”

The hands began kneading.

“A few months,” I repeated.

She squirmed and said, “Six.”

Silence.

I said, “Want to tell me about it?”

She looked as if she didn’t. But she said, “His name is Don Ramp. He used to be an actor- never a big one, just a bit player. Cowboys and soldiers, that kind of thing. He owns a restaurant now. In Pasadena, not San Lab, because in San Lab you’re not allowed to sell liquor and he serves all kinds of beers and ales. That’s his specialty. Imported beers. And meat. Prime rib. Tankard and Blade, it’s called. Armor and swords all over the place. Like in old England. Kind of silly, actually, but for San Labrador it’s exotic.”

“How’d he and your mother meet?”

“You mean because she never leaves the house?”

“Yes.”

The hands kneaded faster. “That was my- I introduced them. I was at the Tankard with some friends, a school thing for some seniors. Don was there, greeting people, and when he found out who I was, he sat down and told me he’d known Mother. Years ago. Back in her days at the studio. The two of them had been on contract at the same time. He started asking these questions- about how she was doing. Talking on and on about what a wonderful person she’d been, so beautiful and talented. Telling me I was beautiful, too.” She snorted.

“You don’t think you’re beautiful?”

“Let’s be real, Dr. Delaware! Anyway, he seemed so nice and he was the first person I’d met who’d actually known Mother before, back in her Hollywood days. I mean, people in San Labrador don’t usually come from an entertainment background. At least they don’t admit it. One time another actor- a real star, Brett Raymond- wanted to move in, buy an old house and tear it down to build a new one, and there was all this talk about his money being dirty money because the movies were a Jewish business and Jewish money was dirty money, and Brett Raymond himself was really Jewish and tried to hide it- which I don’t even know if it’s true or not. Anyway, they- the zoning board- made his life so miserable with hearings and restrictions and whatever that he changed his mind and moved to Beverly Hills. And people said good, that’s where he belonged. So you can see how I wouldn’t meet too many movie people, and when Don started talking about the old days, I thought it was great. It was like finding a link to the past.”

I said, “It’s a bit of a leap from that to marriage.”

She gave a sour smile. “I invited him over- as a surprise for Mother. This was before she was getting treatment. I was looking for anything to get her going. Get her to socialize. And when he arrived he had three dozen red roses and a big bottle of Taittinger’s. I should have known then he had… plans. I mean, roses and champagne. One thing led to another. He started coming over more often. In the afternoon, before the Tankard opened. Bringing her steaks and more flowers and whatever. It became a regular thing- I just kind of got used to it. Then six months ago, just around the time she started to be able to leave the grounds, they announced they were getting married. Just like that. Brought in a judge and did it, at the house.”

“So he was seeing her when you were trying to persuade her to get treatment.”

“Yes.”

“How’d he relate to that? And to treatment?”

“I don’t know,” she said. “I never asked him.”

“But he didn’t fight it.”

“No. Don’s not a fighter.”

“What is he?”

“A charmer. Everyone likes him,” she said, with distaste.

“How do you feel about him?”

She gave me an irritated look, brushed her hair from her forehead. “How do I feel? He doesn’t get in my way.”

“Do you think he’s insincere?”

“I think he’s… shallow. Pure Hollywood.”

Echoing the prejudices she’d just decried. She realized it and said, “I know that sounds very San Labrador, but you’d have to meet him to understand. He’s tan in the winter, lives for tennis and skiing, always smiling even when there’s nothing to smile about. Father was a man of depth. Mother deserves more. If I’d known it would get this far, I’d never have started it.”

“Does he have any children of his own?”

“No. He was never married. Not until now. ”

The way she emphasized “now” made me ask, “Are you concerned that he married your mother for her money?”

“The thought has occurred to me- Don’s not exactly poor, but he’s not in Mother’s league.”

She gave a wave of her hand, so choppy and awkward that it made me take note.

I said, “Is part of your conflict about Harvard a worry that she needs protection from him?”

“No, but I can’t see him being able to take care of her. Why she married him I still can’t figure out.”

“What about the staff- in terms of taking care of her?”

“They’re nice,” she said, “but she needs more.”

“What about Jacob Dutchy?”

“Jacob,” she said, with a tremor in her voice. “Jacob… died.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Just last year,” she said. “He developed some kind of cancer and it took him quickly. He left the house right after the diagnosis and went to a place- some sort of rest home. But he wouldn’t tell us where. Didn’t want anyone to see him sick. After he… Afterwards, the home called Mother and told her he was… There wasn’t even any funeral, just cremation. It really hurt me- not being able to help him. But Mother said we’d helped by letting him do it his way.”

More tears. More tissues.

I said, “I remember him as being a strong-willed gentleman.”

She bowed her head. “At least it was quick.”

I waited for her to say more. When she didn’t, I said, “So much has been happening to you. It’s got to feel overwhelming. I can see why it’s hard for you to know what to do.”

“Oh, Dr. Delaware!” she said, getting up and coming forward and throwing her arms around my neck. She’d put on perfume for the appointment. Something heavy and floral and much too old for her. Something a maiden aunt might wear. I thought of her making her own way through life. The trials and errors.

It made me ache for her. I could feel her hands grip my back. Her tears moistened my jacket.

I uttered words of comfort that seemed as substantial as the gilded light. When she’d stopped crying for a full minute, I pulled away gently.

She moved away quickly, sat back down, looking shamefaced. Wringing her hands.

I said, “It’s all right, Melissa. You don’t always have to be strong.”

Shrink’s reflex. Another yea-say.

The right thing to say. But in this case, was it the truth?

She began pacing the room. “I can’t believe I’m falling apart like this. It’s so… I planned for this to be so… businesslike. A consultation, not…”