Diane Davidson - The Grilling Season

“From church?” I guessed, without adding that her face was only vaguely familiar. But St. Luke’s had three services each weekend and it was possible to go for years without knowing another parishioner s name.

“Mom?” Arch called from the van. “We need to go or Dad’s going to be really upset.”

I signaled to him to wait. “I … I’ve met your brother, Tina. Chris. At ACHMO. Are you a doctor, too? I mean, It says… on your jacket …

She chuckled again. “No-o, this is just the adult-size Babsie-as-Veterinarian costume. Do you like it?”

“I … uh … sure. I need to go. Want to give me the cat? She’s not mine.” But when I reached out to Tippy, the cat hissed at me.

“Animals always love me,” Tina assured me. “Want me to return her to her rightful owner?”

“Actually,” I said, desperate, “if you’d just be willing to take care of her for a while until we can get her turned over to the Mountain Animal Protective League – “

Tina opened her eyes wide. “Never! I’ll keep her! I have a bunch of cats already. What’s her name?”

“I think the owner called her Tippy.” Murmuring, Tina reached up and gently removed the cat from her shoulder. Gail Rodine glared. “Sweet baby!” crooned Tina, “I’ll have you fixed up in no time.”

“Thanks, Tina,” I said, not waiting for the cat’s reply. “See you next week. At the doll show.” I trotted back to the van, not daring to glance at Gail Rodine. I hopped back into the driver’s seat and cleared my throat. There was no easy way to do this, despite what Marla had said. “Listen, Arch,” I said. “Dad’s in trouble.”

He moved impatiently in the seat next to me. “What?” Behind the thick lenses his eyes grew wary. “Is he okay?”

“Not really. I mean physically he’s okay, but – “

“What do you mean, then? Dad’s in trouble?” Anxiety cracked his voice. I was desperate to co-fort him even as my own voice trembled with each revelation. Dad’s down at the department with Tom and Looks like he and his girlfriend had an argument and Actua//y, nobody knows exactly what happened, but Suz Craig is dead. Arch’s reaction-dumbfounded denial was followed by panic.

“She’s dead? Suz is dead? Are you sure?”

“Yes. I saw her body lying in a ditch when I drove by her house this morning. And your dad’s under arrest.” I took a deep breath. “He’s been accused of killing her.”

Arch looked out the window. Gail and Tina were seated, conversing, on the porch. The cat was in Tina’s arms. “But… that doesn’t make sense.”

“Hon, I know.” He was silent, then said: “When will I get to see him?”

“I’m not sure.”

“But, why were you driving by Ms. Craig’s house in the first place?”

“Arch, please. I just wanted to avoid taking you to an empty house.”

He faced me again. His voice rose with confusion. “Whose empty house? Why? What are you talking about?”

“Dad’s! I mean, I thought he might have spent the night at Suz’s place and not be home yet! I … was just trying to see where he was so I could spare you some pain,” I gabbled helplessly. “I didn’t know what I was going to stumble on to.”

“Well, you didn’t spare me any pain,” my son said harshly, and turned away from me to stare out the window again.

As I drove the van back into Aspen Meadow, I did my best to act loving and patient. It didn’t work. Arch had retreated into silence.

Why did John Richard Korman continue to mess up our lives? That was the question to which there was no answer. My knuckles whitened as I gripped the steering wheel.

At home Arch slammed out of the van ahead of me. Macguire had let Jake into our fenced backyard. The hound howled with delight at our arrival. Anticipating my worry about the neighbors’ complaints, Arch became intent on getting Jake back into the house. I sat in the van contemplating Arch’s short legs and flapping T-shirt and the crisis that confronted us.

My son would talk to me about how he was feeling, I felt sure. Only he would do it in his own time. We always worked things out, I told myself. But I felt a twinge of uncertainty. I slid out of the van and trod carefully across the wooden deck I’d added to the back of the house some years before. Suddenly I stopped and stared at the diagonal slats. The deck, the doggone deck. Dizzily, I sank down on a cushioned redwood chair.

The deck had been my idea. My present to John Richard on our fifth anniversary. Oh, Lord, why was I thinking about this now? Because everything was erupting: my life, my family, my mind. The world felt like a pinball machine flashing TILT with no way to turn it off.

I gazed down at the deck. I had saved the money out of what John Richard called my “grocery allowance,” what I later referred to, once I learned how much money he was really earning, as my “pittance.” Naively, I had thought the deck would be a wonderful place for us to gather as a family. I’d even believed that John Richard and I would enjoy watching the progress of its construction. Ha.

I ran my fingers over the smooth redwood railing that always smelled so wonderful after a rain-storm. When the builders started, John Richard had second-guessed and criticized every aspect of the construction. Why redwood? It’s too expensive. Why do you have to have it so big? The next day: Why is it so small? Why don’t you add a barbecue? and despite the fact that he wasn’t contributing, he’d yell This is costing a mint! Do you think I’m made of money? In the end, he’d declared he was never going to sit out on our lovely redwood deck. So the deck stood empty. To his friends, he’d laughed about my project. He’d called it Goldy’s Golden Goof.

After the divorce papers were signed and I had deposited my settlement check, my very first act had been to drive to Howard Lorton Galleries, the most exclusive furniture store in Denver. There I’d impulsively ordered a thousand dollars’ worth of deck furniture.

Why rehash old history now? Once again my brain supplied a warning. Because he’s barged into your life again, and it’s not just to declare bankruptcy. Watch your back, Goldy.

7

Inside the house, Arch was on the phone. He looked at me solemnly, then shook his head.

“ReeAnn,” he said impatiently into the receiver. Had John Richard’s secretary called us? Or had Arch just phoned her? “I don’t know what you’re supposed to tell the patients. Better see who’s on call for Dad… I don’t know! Look, would you please ask him to give me a ring if he phones in?” His voice cracked. “No! How should I know what they’re doing to him?” He banged the phone down and regarded me dolefully. After a moment he said, “You look terrible, Mom.”

“Thanks.”

“Why don’t you cook .or something?”

I glanced around the kitchen. Cook or somethIng. The rows of cupcakes sat waiting to be iced. The remains of my coffee fixings lay in a heap by the sink. Nothing beckoned.

“Mom, please.” Arch gave me a quick hug, then pulled back, embarrassed. “It’s going to be okay. It’s just all a big mistake.”

“Oh, honey…” But words failed.

“Let me go see if Macguire went back to bed after he let Jake out,” Arch announced abruptly. “It’s time for him to be up, no matter what, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, sure.” I shook my head as Arch left to rouse our boarder. To keep from brooding, I made another espresso.

“I’m up, I’m up,” Macguire Perkins hollered through the closed door of his room. His muffled voice echoed mournfully down the stairs.

I slugged down the coffee, hauled myself over to our walk-in refrigerator, and stared at the contents. Fixing breakfast for Macguire Perkins – maybe that was a cook or something challenge I could handle. Arch was right: I seemed to think more logically when preparing food, anyway. And with Macguire as a buffer, perhaps Arch and I would be able to discuss his father’s status as a murder suspect without further fireworks. I heard more banging upstairs.