Retribution (25 page)

Trina had designated the foyer for snacks for the evening, and had covered the table with a red skirt. The antique crystal punchbowl graced the center. The punch, made from green powdered drink mix, lemon-lime soda pop and lime sherbet, looked festive against the red cloth.

Sandra had provided a tray of home-baked cookies and had included oatmeal raisin just for Trina. But it was the spiced cider that made the entire downstairs smell like cinnamon and cloves.

Too bad Paul had been called to work before he could enjoy the food.

Roger glanced toward Lillian as she placed a ball on the tree. The woman confused him. He could swear she suffered from multiple personalities. After her trip home at Thanksgiving, she had returned a different person—cheerful, more confident. And now, all of a sudden, the jumpy, nervous Lillian had resurfaced.

He walked toward her and placed a hand on her shoulder.

She jumped as though his touch were lightning, and walked away without explanation, stopping beside Trina at the punch bowl.

Shrugging, he turned back to the task at hand. Might as well finish and be done with this silly tree trimming nonsense.

He took one of the remaining ornaments out of the box and stared at the ball with its stripes of pink and white running up and down the frosted glass. “Where did you get all these things? Good thing you have them, though. There must be a tree in every room of the house.”

“Nope,” Bill said, plopping down onto the couch that had been moved to the opposite wall from the tree. “There's none in my room.”

Sandra laughed and looked at Trina. “We tried, didn't we?”

“And I said if you put a tree in my room I would shove it out the window.”

Sandra leaned over and gave him a hug. “You might act like a big bully, but we know better.”

“There's one in my room and I love it.” Lillian said.

Roger glanced at her. That was the most she had said all evening.

“I'm glad you like the tree in your room, Lillian,” Bill said, “but my room will remain my domain.”

“One point for you, Uncle Bill,” Jimmy said, making a slash mark in the air with his finger.

“Give me five, buddy.” Bill clapped palms with the young boy. “We can't let these women think they control us.”

“Right.” Jimmy puffed out his skinny chest.

“Come on, Dad, don't teach Jimmy bad things.” Trina put a hand on each of Jimmy's shoulders and bent her head toward him. “Women don't control the men, and men don't control women. We work together, just as God intended.”

Lillian didn't seem to notice the interaction, or the good-natured jesting that followed. She stood, staring at the tree, and then her gaze shifted to the wall, and then at nothing.

Roger's gut clenched. What was going on with her? They had established trust, at least he thought so. What had happened that she wasn't telling him?

“Back to your question about the decorations, Roger,” Ted said, “we found trunks full of them in the attic. Either each generation bought new ones, or this house has been decorated Trina-style sometime in the past.”

“I guess it helps to own the house your ancestors have lived in since before the Civil War.” Sandra fingered a glass bell. “We should get some of these ornaments appraised.”

Trina gave a huff. “You would never sell them.”

“You never know.”

“Where's Nadine?” Lillian asked Trina.

“I invited her to help us, but she had a meeting to go to. She said she'd try to get here before we finished.”

“She'd better hurry,” Roger replied.

What was with Trina inviting house guests to family events lately?

“How about this one?” Jimmy took a delicate-looking glass Santa from the box.

Sandra lifted the decoration from his hand. “Honey, let Grandma give you the pieces you can put on the tree. Some of the ornaments are fragile and you don't want to break them.”

“I won't break them, Gram.”

“You won't mean to, but accidents happen.” She pulled a wooden reindeer with a piece of holly held in its mouth from the box.

“We could go to the store and buy some more if these got all broken,” Jimmy said as he attached the wooden ornament to a lower branch.

Trina grinned. “You would never be able to buy these at the store, honey.” She gave the boy a hug and pulled him to the couch with her. “Do you know some of these decorations are over a hundred years old?”

Jimmy stared at the tree, his eyes wide. “That's older than Uncle Bill.”

“All right, hotshot,” Bill said. “Since I am so old, how about getting me a couple of cookies off that table over there—not the raisin ones, either.”

“Can I have some too?”

Bill glanced at Sandra. “Grandma said yes.”

“But only one,” Sandra called as she bent to remove Jimmy's reindeer from the branch that already drooped from the weight of too many decorations. “You've already had more than enough.”

“That's the last one. All the decorations are on,” Ted said. “And now, stand back and wait for the great tree lighting! If you will assist me, Miss Sandra.” As Ted reached for the end of the electric cord, Sandra switched off the lights in the entry and the living room.

They stood in darkness until a rainbow of color brightened the room. Awed silence filled the space.

“That's the most beautiful tree I have ever seen.” Sandra clutched her hands to her chest.

Lillian stood in the back of the room, staring at the tree. But rather than showing pleasure, deep lines pulled at her face.

Roger slipped beside her. “Hey,” he whispered, “you don't seem yourself.” She flinched when he touched her arm. “Has something else happened since…” he glanced around but no one seemed to be paying them any attention, “since, you know…the gas can incident?”

She turned toward him. “It's worse than ever,” she murmured, her eyes pools of pain. “I may know who's setting your fires.”

He grabbed her arm. “How do you know?” What had happened in the past few days that she had not told him? He thought they were beyond secrets, that she shared everything with him. Isn't that what women did—talk? Every muscle in his body trembled as he tried to keep from shaking her.

She pulled away. “I'm not ready to talk about it. I need to pray about it first.” She joined Trina at the snack table.

He stared after her in frustration. What good would prayer do? As he snatched his jacket off the corner of the chair and barged toward the door, the hair on the back of his neck stiffened. He rubbed his skin, trying to ease the sensation.

Bill continued to stare at him as he walked out the door.

~*~

Decorating over, Bill drove Sandra and Jimmy home. He enjoyed the times alone with Sandra, but there weren't many of them. Between Jimmy and Trina, the instances when it was just Sandra and him amounted to late-night visits, usually after working at the shelter. Jimmy would soon be going to bed, so tonight was a bonus.

He told himself his attraction to Sandra wasn't romantic, but more a need to share with someone his own age. Even at the high school, he was one of the older teachers. But selfishness nagged at him. Sooner or later, he had to be honest with her, but he hesitated to share his true feelings. She would surely reject his friendship once she knew he had nothing more to offer.

“Why don't you make coffee while I put Jimmy to bed,” Sandra called over her shoulder as she shepherded the reluctant boy through the kitchen.

He reached into the cupboard for the coffee and filters.

Jimmy's arguments over bedtime drifted from across the house.

Bill smiled, remembering similar nights when Trina was Jimmy's age.

Sandra might be gone awhile.

With the coffee on, he sat at the table to wait. All evening he had expected the thrust of fear to grip him, the sensation of danger that accompanied Lillian to disturb the special night. But the feeling never came. Shifting in the hard chair, he mulled over the change. The sense of danger came less often, and sensation hit less intently as time went on.

Had he misinterpreted God's message again? There was no way he could have conjured up the pain and fear on his own. God had sent them, sure enough. So what did this change mean? Had Lillian grown to love his family, and given up her angry intent, whatever it had been?

He shook his head in frustration. A mark on the silverware drawer caught his attention. Needing something to distract him from his thoughts, he grabbed the dishcloth off the edge of the sink. Sandra liked a clean kitchen. As he hovered over the spot, he found the paint by the handle of the drawer had worn off. Strange he had never noticed that before. Looking around, all of the cupboards showed use. He chuckled, thinking most likely Sandra had scrubbed off the finish from her constant cleaning.

With the coffee only half done, he went back to the table. What about the rest of the house? Sandra kept the two-bedroom 1,200 square feet spotless, but, as far as he could tell, nothing had been replaced since the house had been built around 1970. The bathroom fixtures were old. The tile dated. Did she even know about things like furnace maintenance?

Jimmy's irate voice reached him, followed a stern reprimand from Sandra. Too many cookies—partially his fault. The corner of a magazine jutting out from under a pile of mail caught his attention. Hoping for a distraction, he pulled to remove it and the envelopes lying on top scattered across the floor.

“What an oaf,” he muttered to himself as bent to gather the papers off the floor. The contents had been removed from the envelopes, exposing overdue bills. Lots of them. The electric bill, the water bill, insurance. Surprise mingled with a tightening in his gut. Sandra wouldn't forget to pay her bills. His frown deepened as he piled the papers back onto the counter as near to how he found them as he could. When Sandra finally appeared in the kitchen, he was sitting at the table flipping through the magazine.

“He put up quite a fight tonight.” She chuckled as she reached for the mugs off the shelf. “Most likely too many cookies.” The cups were soon filled with coffee, and he watched as she added the measured amount of sugar and milk to hers before carrying them to the table.

He took a sip, hesitating to ask, but knowing he must. “Sandra, I know it's none of my business.” Her innocent gaze made his throat tighten.

“But…?”

“I noticed the overdue bills on the cupboard.”

Her eyes widened. “You went through my mail?” She placed her cup on the table.

“I pulled out this magazine,” he waved the offending copy of a home interior magazine, “and the mail fell on the floor. Honest, I wasn't snooping.”

Sandra stared at the wall. Her silence lasted so long he wondered if he should leave. Finally she spoke. “I know. I need to get the bills caught up. I promise, tomorrow morning I will sit down and get them done.” She sighed and stared at the wall again. “I've been really busy lately, with Christmas right around the corner.” When she turned to him, her smile did not reach her eyes.

He remembered Roger's words about her financial situation. “If you need money…”

“Bill Iver, it will be a cold day before I accept money to keep a roof over my head.” The ice of her voice was challenged by the fear in her eyes. She needed money.

How could he have not noticed before? She seldom went shopping, and when she did, it was for Jimmy. The house, although solid, needed repairs. He rubbed his chin, wondering how to approach her without being offensive. “Look, we're family. Let me help if you need it. There's no shame in that. Heaven knows, you've been kind enough to Trina and Ted.”

Sandra's dark expression shouted that he had crossed one of those invisible lines that women seem to draw.

He held up his hands, “Sorry. I won't mention it again. Just promise me that if you ever need help, you'll let me know.”

Even as she promised, he still wondered about the stack of unpaid bills. It wasn't like her to put things off. He tried to shrug off his concern; why did he care, anyway? He had enough problems of his own.

Sleep came slowly that night.

~*~

As soon as Lillian could slip away from the family festivities, she went to her room. Falling on the bed, she prayed.
God, I'm so confused and frightened. You sent me to Darlington. Why create a new life for me, and fill it with pain? Haven't I proved I love You? God, please tell me I did not start these fires.
Tears flowed. She pounded her pillow with tight fists, venting the frustration and anger she no longer could hold in. Emotionally drained, she waited for divine answers to float down in the darkness, like manna from heaven. Silence pervaded, and she remained as starved for answers as she had before.

The house settled into quietness; the night providing its blanket of sleep.

But no rest came her way. In fact, the more she waited alone in her room for the voice of God, the more claustrophobic she felt. Sighing, she pulled herself off the bed, tied the laces of the now-clean walking shoes and slipped on a navy jacket. It was almost midnight.

The downstairs lay in darkness, but the path from the stairs to the kitchen door was familiar. Outside, she inhaled deeply of the night air. A floral scent filled her, but she couldn't identify it. Sandra would know. All tender petals had long ago frozen in Cleveland. She set a power-walking pace, hoping both to burn some of the calories from the cookies she had eaten, and melt off some of the stress that had built up over the past few days.

There were few streetlights on Cashua Street, and the moon lay hidden behind a storm front that had been heading east for the past week. Silhouettes, darker than the night sky, darted overhead—bats out for their night feeding.

Once her muscles warmed, she thought about jogging, but feared she would end flat on the sidewalk from tripping over a crack in the cement. Many of the houses were adorned with Christmas lights, and the glow relaxed her. As she walked, Roger's face surfaced. He was kind. She had known that from the first day they had met. But sometimes, when he stared at her, his eyes took on a strange look, almost guarded and wary.