Robert Parker - Family Honor

Whenever I skipped rope I had to block Rosie out of the room because otherwise she would attempt to participate. I was skipping rope, wearing tights and a tank top in Spike’s living room while Millicent watched television and Rosie sat in the hallway, humped up like a skunk in the fog, looking at me balefully.

“How come you’re doing that?” Millicent said.

“I can’t get to the gym,” I said.

I kept skipping as I talked, trying not to sound winded.

“Because of me?”

“Yes.”

“So why’nt you just forget it?”

“Several reasons,” I said. “I try to stay in shape, for, ah, professional reasons. I like to eat and drink, but I am vain about my appearance and I don’t want to put on weight... also I’m compulsive about it.”

“My mother’s always exercising,” Millicent said.

“Would you like to try it?”

She shook her head.

“Didn’t you ever skip rope when you were little?” I said.

She shrugged. I stopped skipping and dropped down on Spike’s rug and did some push-ups.

“Have you ever done push-ups?” I said.

“Girls don’t do push-ups,” she said with scorn of an intensity only adolescent girls can achieve.

“Women do,” I said.

“Well, I guess I’m not a woman.”

“Maybe you are,” I said. “Try one.”

She shook her head. I kept doing them.

“Try one,” I said.

“I can’t do them. They tried to make us in gym once.”

“They didn’t do it right,” I said. “Get down here. I’ll show you.”

Millicent dragged herself off the couch and flopped down on the floor on her stomach.

“Okay,” I said. “Start with a half push-up. Put your hands out like this, and push up, but leave your knees on the floor.”

She did what I said and pushed her torso up and let it down.

“Okay?” she said.

“See, you can do it,” I said. “Try five.”

She looked disgusted, but she did five.

“Excellent,” I said.

Millicent got up and went back and flopped on the couch. I finished my push-ups and got up and went to the door and moved the footstool, and Rosie trotted into the room and wagged at us. I picked her up and gave her a kiss and let her lap my neck.

“How come she doesn’t just jump over the footstool?” Millicent said. “Can’t she jump?”

“She can,” I said. “But she doesn’t know it. She thinks she can’t, so she doesn’t try.”

Millicent looked at me and didn’t say anything. I smiled at her innocently.

“You think I’m like that?” Millicent said.

“Sorry,” I said. “But you handed it to me.”

“But you do think I’m like that.”

“You were like that about the push-ups,” I said.

“I didn’t do a real push-up,” Millicent said.

“You did six real half push-ups,” I said. “We work on it regularly and in a while you’ll do some real full push-ups.”

“So what? I hate doing push-ups.”

“If you can do them, then you can decide if you want to do them. If you can’t do them, the decision isn’t yours.”

Millicent frowned, as if I’d said something mathematical that she suspected was correct but she didn’t understand the terms.

“Who cares about push-ups?” she said.

“It’s more sort of an attitude,” I said. “The more things you can do, the more choices you have. The more choices you have, the less life kicks you around.”

“So I do push-ups, my life will be better?”

“It’s better to be strong than weak,” I said. “And it’s better to be quick than slow. But you’re not stupid; you know I mean something a little larger.”

She shrugged again and picked up the clicker and changed channels on the television set.

“You don’t think I’m stupid?” Millicent said.

“No. I think you are probably pretty smart. It’s just that no one has taught you much.”

“Like what?”

“Like how to be a person,” I said.

“You think you know?”

“Um hm.”

“So what makes you so smart?”

“It’s not smart, it’s learning.”

“I hate school,” Millicent said.

“Me, too,” I said. “Mostly I’ve learned stuff from my father and from Richie and from my friend Julie and Spike and Rosie and from being alive and paying attention for thirty-five years. I have plenty more to learn. I need to get my love life straightened out, for instance. But I have more information than you do. I have enough to take care of myself.”

“You learned stuff from Rosie?”

“Yes. How to pay attention, how to take care of someone without owning them...”

“But you do own her.”

“I bought her,” I said. “But I don’t own her. I feed her, I give her water. I take her to the vet. I let her out and in. I take her for walks. The truth of it is she’d die if I didn’t take care of her. And because she’s completely dependent on me, I am determined that within the confines of what I just said, and allowing for her safety and mine, she can live as she wishes and do as she pleases.”

“But you just shut her out of the room.”

“Life’s imperfect,” I said. “I wish it weren’t.”

“Why don’t you train her not to bite the jump rope.”

“I think that imposes on her more than shutting her out,” I said.

“You think stuff like this all the time?”

“Sometimes I think about clothes and makeup and guys,” I said. “Want to talk about them?”

“I don’t know much about that either,” Millicent said.

“Yet.”

She shrugged. I hated shrugging.

Cathal Kragan had no record. Brian had never heard of him. Neither had anybody in the organized crime unit. The name meant nothing to Millicent. Using Spike’s computer I checked out Brock Patton on the Internet.

“Be careful,” Spike said. “You download the wrong thing and you’ll be in the middle of my sex life.”

“At least you have one,” I said.

“We feeling a little deprived, are we?”

“Maybe just a little.”

“Too bad I’m not in your program,” Spike said. “Think of the symphony we could make.”

“It’s always something,” I said. “What’s your password?”

He told me and I punched it in and went online. After much more diddling around than the computer ads would allow you to imagine, I located Brock Patton.

He was in among all the listings on the planet that contained the words Brock or Patton. I got a zillion articles on General Patton, and several on a football player named Brock Marion, and quite a few on an actor named Brock Peters, and a politician named Brock, and two on a football player named Peter Brock, and another one named Stan Brock, who appeared to be Peter’s brother, and, buried among them, five or six on the guy I was actually trying to find.

Here was the CEO of MassBay Trust which was the ninth-biggest bank in the country. Before that he’d been the president of the biggest bank in Rhode Island. He had been a very active Republican fund-raiser in both Rhode Island and Massachusetts. He had served the last Republican administration as Commerce Secretary, and it was said that he would be the Republican candidate for governor in two years. He was also a world-class trap shooter, and a Harvard graduate. There was one article about Betty Patton as a ferocious fund-raiser for several deserving charities. There were no pictures of Betty Patton in the buff. There was no mention of anyone named Cathal Kragan. None of the articles mentioned a disaffected daughter.

I sat back in the swivel chair in Spike’s den and stared at the blue green screen of Spike’s seventeen-inch Sony monitor. I was alone. Spike and Millicent had taken Rosie for a walk. I had insisted that Millicent wear a hat and sunglasses. Spike said there was not much chance someone would even be cruising the South End looking for her, and if they were, they would have an even smaller chance of recognizing her. I said they might recognize Rosie and put it together. Spike said maybe I overrated Rosie’s visibility. Rosie meanwhile was jumping up in the air and turning around before she landed and biting her leash. Rosie loved to walk. She would have gone for a walk with Dracula. Millicent seemed, if not eager, at least not resistant. Anything she wasn’t resistant to was to be encouraged. Spike reminded me that Millicent would be with him and that he was both fearless and deadly. So I said okay, and Spike stuck the big Army .45 in his belt under his jacket and off they went. I had to admit I liked being alone. Maybe my judgment had swayed a little.