Robert Parker - Family Honor

Actually I thought it was Betty that was taking Millicent at face value.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Do you have a license to do what you do?” Betty asked.

“Yes.”

“Well, if my daughter is not back here promptly you will lose it.”

“Oh, oh!” I said.

“And that will be the least unpleasant thing you’ll face.”

“If you’re going to threaten me,” I said, “you need to be specific.”

Betty shook her head. I looked at Brock.

“And you?”

Brock tossed his hands in the air.

“I have long ago given up trying to work things out with women.”

I sat for a moment.

“Okay,” I said. “Your daughter is well and safe. And, despite the paralyzing impact of your threat, I will make every attempt to keep her that way.”

I stood. Neither of them moved.

“I have warned you, Ms. Randall,” Betty said, “don’t take what I’ve said lightly.”

“Hard not to,” I said, and turned and marched out. I love a good exit line.

Rosie and Millicent were with Richie. I didn’t know where. And I was sitting at a table for four with Spike, watching the new cabaret act he had put together for the restaurant.

“It’s funny,” I said to Spike. “I can’t live with Richie, but I trust him even with Rosie.”

Spike was watching the show too intently to do anything more than nod. I didn’t mind: the remark had been as much to me as it had been to him, anyway. While I was thinking about my remark, and Spike was thinking about his cabaret, Don Bradley came in and sat at the table with us. The cabaret singers started a medley of World War II songs.

“Hi, Sunny,” he said. “I been trying to reach you.”

“I know.”

“... praise the Lord and pass the ammunition...”

“I guess I got a little buzzed at the end of it, I don’t remember the way we parted, exactly.”

“I do.”

“I didn’t get out of hand, I hope,” he grinned at me. “Sometimes I get a little wild.”

“Don, please,” I said. “I’m afraid we’re not really meant for each other. Let’s let it go.”

“Damn it, Sunny, I thought we were having a good time.”

Don raised his voice a little. It was enough to break Spike’s concentration on the cabaret. Which I knew Spike didn’t like. He looked at Don.

“Don,” I said. “You spent the evening talking about yourself until you got so drunk I had to half carry you into your home, at which time you tried to force yourself on me.”

“That’s not how it seemed to me, Sunny.”

Spike had half turned now, and leaned his elbow on the table and his chin on his elbow and had his face very close to Don’s, listening intently. When I spoke Spike’s eyes shifted to me, but his face stayed close to Don’s.

“I don’t wish to argue it,” I said. “I’d simply prefer not to go out with you.”

“I’m not taking no for an answer,” Don said.

Spike’s closeness was beginning to make him uncomfortable. He looked at Spike.

“... with anyone else but me, anyone else but me...”

“Excuse me?” he said.

“Certainly,” Spike said.

“I mean, excuse me, why are you interfering with our conversation?”

“I do that, sometimes,” Spike said.

“Well, I don’t like it,” Don said.

There was an edge to his voice. He was not a man to be crossed.

“Gay bashing,” Spike said.

“What?”

“I’m a charming gay man, and you have turned on me for no discernible reason. I say it’s gay bashing.”

“I didn’t even know you were gay.”

“For crissake,” Spike said. “What am I supposed to do, sit in your lap?”

“Of course not.”

“This is blatant homophobia,” Spike said. “Sunny?”

I smiled and didn’t answer.

“... a hubba hubba hubba, hello, Jack...”

“See,” Spike said.

Don said. “Why don’t you just butt out.”

“Sunny has made it clear that she doesn’t like you and doesn’t want to go out with you,” Spike said. “I felt it was important that you know I feel the same way.”

“What?”

“Stay away from Sunny,” Spike said.

And then Spike did what he does. I don’t know how he does it. Something happens behind his eyes, and whatever it is shows through, and quite suddenly there’s nothing playful about Spike.

Don saw it and it scared him.

“You’re threatening me,” he said finally.

“You bet,” Spike said. “Think how embarrassing it’ll be, to tell the guys at the health club that you got your clock cleaned by a ho-mo-sex-ual.”

Don didn’t move. Better men than Don had been frightened by Spike. But he didn’t want to back down in front of me.

“... remember Pearl Harbor, as we march against the foe...”

“Don,” I said. “There’s nothing between you and me.”

“I’m not scared of him,” Don said.

“You should be,” I said. “Walk away from this. There’s nothing here for you.”

Don sat for another moment. Then he stood up.

“All right, but only because you asked me, Sunny.”

“Sure,” I said. “I understand. Sorry it didn’t work out.”

Don nodded and said, “Good-bye, Sunny.”

“Good-bye, Don.”

To salvage his self-regard he gave Spike a hard look. Spike smiled at him. Don turned away and walked stiffly out of the restaurant.

“I could have chased him away myself,” I said to Spike.

“Sure,” Spike said, “but it’s like the old joke, praise God you didn’t have to.”

It was after six and I was starting supper for Millicent and me. She had slept much of the afternoon and now sat at the kitchen counter drinking a Coke and watching me. I had a cookbook open on the counter beside me. I had put a carving knife across it to keep the pages from flipping over. Rosie was between and around my ankles as I worked.

“You like to cook?” I said to Millicent.

“No.”

“Do you know how?”

“No.”

“Would you like to learn?”

“You a good cook?” Millicent said.

“No. But I’m getting better. Actually I’m learning, too. I’d love somebody to learn with me.”

“Who’s teaching you?”

“I’ve been watching Martha Stewart,” I said.

“Who?”

“A woman on television,” I said.

“What’s in the plastic bag?”

“Pizza dough,” I said. “I buy it at a place in the North End and let it warm a little and then roll it out.”

“You’re making pizza?”

“Yes, white, with vinegar peppers and caramelized onions.”

“Whaddya mean, white?”

“No tomato sauce.”

“What’s that other stuff — whatchamacallit onions and peppers.”

“Sweet and sour,” I said. “Here, roll out some of this pizza dough.”

“I don’t know how to do that.”

“Take this roller,” I said. “Put some flour on this board.”

I showed her.

“Put a little more flour on top of the dough.”

I showed her again.

“Roll it from the center out.”

Millicent sighed a large sigh and took the rolling pin. She dabbed at the dough with it.

“No, no,” I said. “Roll it.”

I took the pin and showed her. The dough sat there inertly. When I rolled it in one direction it shrank up in another. I rolled more vigorously. The dough sat there more inertly. After five hard minutes I had a lump of pizza dough the same size and thickness with which I had started. I put the rolling pin down and stepped back and looked at the dough.

“You ever make this before?” Millicent said.

“Not exactly,” I said.

“Maybe if you just squished it with your hands,” she said.