Rosemary Remembered (6 page)

46 » Stuan
Wittig Albert

"That's speculation." I picked up the salt shaker, but it was empty, too. "I hope you don't mind margaritas without salt. Brian must have used the last of it to make dinosaurs." Back in the old days, I never ran out of salt.

"Just so there's tequila," McQuaid said, pushing the onions around testily. He tossed in four garlic cloves. "Maybe it
u>
speculation. But I'm not willing to take a risk." He glanced at the clock. "Where
L>
that kid, anyway? It's nearly six."

I got out the tequila. I thought I knew McQuaid pretty well, but I'd never seen him like this: edgy, irritable, nervous. He was acting like a stranger, and it made me uneasy.

"It's Thursday," I said. "He went to the matinee at the movie with some of the kids from the cadet corp."

For the past year, Brian and his father have been members of the Austin chapter of the Star Trek fan club, the U.S.S. Rhyanna. McQuaid is a security officer on this starship, and Brian is a cadet lieutenant. The activity seems to be a variant of the Boy Scouts, with a heavy dose of space and science. Being a Trekkie is certainly a lot better for Brian than belonging to a street gang.

"Oh, yeah, the matinee." McQuaid took the bowl of cheesy stuff out of the microwave and replaced it with a dozen corn tortillas. "Is somebody giving him a ride home? Maybe we should go pick him up."

I stepped close behind, wrapped my arms around him, and laid my cheek against his broad back. "It's okay," I said soothingly. "Brian will be home in a few minutes, I am making a margarita that will mellow you out, and your enchilada casserole will be
maravillMO."
I slipped my hand under his belt. "So just relax. Okay?"

I felt him untense a little.

"That's good," I murmured, and stood on tiptoes to nibble his earlobe. He turned, put his arms around me, and gave me a long, deep kiss that made me glad I'm living with this guy, in spite of the bad moments.

He rested his chin on the top of my head, still holding me. "I guess this Jacoby business has brought out the cop in me. I just need to know you're safe. You and Brian."

"We're safe."

He held me closer. "Oh, no, you're not. Somebody who looked a hell of a lot like you was shot dead, in
our
truck."

"And she could have been killed by her ex-husband, who was stalking — "

"Robbins has an alibi, for God's sake." McQuaid lifted my chin so that I had to look into his eyes. "It's not just you. Brian's easy game. I'm going to tell him to stay home until this is over."

"But that's
prison,"
I objected.

He turned to stir the onions and garlic in the skillet. "More like protective custody."

At that moment, Khat strolled through the hallway door, whiskers twitching, tail held high, a gourmand inquiring delicately about the progress of dinner.

I put my hands on my hips. "If protective custody isn't prison, I don't know what is. And what do you mean, 'until this is over'? When will it be over? Jacoby did his time. He played by the rules, such as they are, and he earned his freedom. If he wants to drive from New Braunfels to Pecan Springs, you can't stop him. It's his constitutional
right."

"Spoken like a goddam defense attorney," McQuaid said through his teeth.

"Well, somebody sure as hell has to speak up for people's rights," I snapped.

McQuaid was about to reply when he was preempted.

Khat saw Howard Cosell's butt sticking out from under the stove and succumbed to temptation. He unsheathed the claws on his right forepaw, took aim, and fired. Howard yelped and turned, teeth bared belligerently, to defend his left flank. Khat hissed and struck again. The fur, as they say, flew.

McQuaid had just put the dog out and I was trying to coax Khat down from the top of the refrigerator when Brian came into the kitchen. He looks a lot like his dad: blue eyes, dark hair, dimples. He sniffed.

"Something's burning," he said.

"Oh, shit," McQuaid said. He grabbed the skillet, burning his thumb. "Ow! How come you're late?"

"I'm not late," Brian said reasonably. "We just got out of the movies." He wrinkled his nose. "Are onions any good if they're burned?"

"Absolutely," McQuaid muttered, holding his thumb under the cold water. "Charcoal's good for you."

"That's a crock," Brian said with cheerful insolence.

"Don't be insubordinate," McQuaid thundered, raising his voice over Howard Cosell's indignant baying. "Now, go upstairs and start your homework. When I get this casserole in the oven, you and I have something important to discuss."

"It's summer," Brian said. "I don't have any homework."

"Upstairs!" McQuaid began to scrape burned onions off the skillet.

Brian stomped off, McQuaid went back to his cooking, and I cut off a piece of aloe vera for his burned thumb. Then I finished the margaritas, thinking nostalgically about the old days, the halcyon days, when I had no one to take care of but myself, a cat, and a small, undemanding herb shop surrounded by tidy gardens. Why had I joined this circus?

While Khat and Howard Cosell ate their dinners (one in the kitchen, the other in the backyard) and McQuaid and Brian conferred upstairs, I took my drink out to the porch swing, where I pushed myself back and forth, watching two squirrels chase one another around the pecan tree. Reluctantly, I considered McQuaid's theory. Rosemary and I looked alike; even Grace Walker had mentioned it. Rosemary had been driving McQuaid's truck. And Jacoby was living less than fifteen miles away. Even if I didn't buy McQuaid's conclusion, I had to acknowledge that it had a certain logic.

But my theory was just as logical. Rosemary's ex-husband had a history of abuse, and abusers can turn murderous, especially when the victim has the temerity to get a divorce. Robbins had showed up at the hotel and raised a ruckus; he might just as easily have waited for her in front of her house and shot her. His alibi? Well, I've heard plenty of trumped-up alibis concocted by family members. My theory seemed every bit as plausible as McQuaid's.

But it was only a theory, with no hard evidence to back it. Unfortunately, it reminded me of a faulty form of argument that one of my philosophy professors had labeled the "undistributed middle." Abusers murder; Robbins is an abuser; therefore, Robbins is a murderer. But while that kind of fallacy would have earned me an F on a logic exam, it's constantly used in subtle and devious ways in the media and even in court—
especially
in court. I've used it, too, more times than I can say. I'm not proud of it, but there it is. Guilty, Your Honor. Guilty of the undistributed middle.

The heat got to me after a while and I went back inside. Brian and McQuaid came downstairs to set the table. They didn't say anything about their conversation, but I could tell from Brian's sullen face what he thought about his father's restrictions. Still, as we sat down to eat, we were decendy polite to one another. The meal was peaceful. But not for long. The enchilada casserole was just making its second round when the phone rang.

"I'll get it." Brian knocked his chair over as he bolted from the table. A minute later, he was back with the cordless phone. "For you, Dad," he said, handing it over. "It's Mom."

"Oh, shit." McQuaid dropped his fork as he took the phone. "Hello, Sally," he said in a guarded voice. There was a long silence, while he listened. Then he got up and carried the phone into the kitchen, closing the door behind him. Whatever he had to say to Sally, he didn't want to say in front of Brian. Or me.

Sally and McQuaid's ten-year marriage had been a casualty of his profession, at least as McQuaid saw it. I'd never checked with Sally, whom I barely know. As I understood it, she had never wanted him to be a cop, and the uncertainty, danger, and low pay — especially the pay —eventually got to her. After a long bout with depression, alcohol, and tranquilizers, she fell apart. When she came back from detox, she sued for divorce. It was a good thing she didn't want custody of the boy. Given her history of emotional instability, McQuaid would've fought it, and the conflict would have been terrible for Brian. As it was, she didn't contest, and the court awarded him custody.

That was five years ago. Sally sees her son a couple of weekends a month, when she can take time from her work as a sales representative for a multinational firm based in

San Antonio. She still has problems with alcohol and depression, but she's seemed better recently. So much better, in fact, that she's begun to talk about Brian coming to live with her. McQuaid doesn't seem to take it seriously, but I do. After all, she's Brian's mother. It's natural for her to want to spend more time with her son.

Brian turned to me and I noticed once again how handsome he is, like his father. "She's bugging him about me living with her, ain't she?" he said, serious now.

"Isn't," I said automatically, and added, with caution, "If you want to know what they're talking about, you'll have to ask your dad."

It's odd. Before McQuaid and I moved in together, Brian and I enjoyed an easy, uncomplicated familiarity. We high-fived when we met and bestowed the Vulcan blessing when we said good-bye and even occasionally hugged each other. But now that I'm in loco parentis, as it were, things are different. I'm never quite sure what to do, how to act. Am I too strict, or not strict enough? Too affectionate, or not affectionate enough? Too much mom, too much four-star general, too much pal? What exactly
is
this thing called mothering?

This issue isn't a new one, of course. It has its roots deep in my past. As a mother, mine left something to be desired: an alcoholic who drank to forget that her lawyer husband hated her because she drank. As a father, mine was occasionally present but always absent: a workaholic who substituted the law for a life and money for love. As a child, I yearned for each of them, for both of them. For a mother to hold me, a father to teach me. For a normal family. Not too much for a kid to ask.

But now that I've got a few decades under my belt, I'm not too sure whether there is any such thing as a normal family. Maybe every family is a circus. My mother eventually got counseling, sobered up, and last year married a guy who seems pretty decent. But there's no real bond between us. How can there be, after all those lonely, separate years? Anyway, with all this stuff behind me, it's pretty tough to be a decent mother to Brian. I feel like I'm inventing it as I go along, with no idea what the hell I'm doing.

Brian mashed a hunk of cheese with his fork. "What if I decided to go live with Mom?" He wasn't looking at me.

This was a big Catch-22. If I said, "Yes, do what you want," he'd think I didn't want him, and that would be wrong. You can harm a kid for life by letting him think he's not wanted. But if I said, "No, stay here with us," he'd think I was trying to tell him what to do, and that was wrong, too. Kids need to make decisions on their own. My perennial parental dilemma. Damned if I did and damned if I didn't.

After a moment I said the only thing I could think of. "That's something you'll have to take up with your dad." Over to you, McQuaid.

The dark hair fell across his forehead and into his eyes, slate-blue, his dad's eyes, and I leaned forward to smooth it back, gently. I haven't learned any easy way to show affection to this boy, but I feel it, and not just because he's a miniature version of his father. Brian has his own way of warming my heart. I wish I knew how to show it better.

He gave me his Mr. Spock look, eminently reasonable, logical. "I already know what Dad thinks. What do
you
think?"

I put my fork down. Tonight, of all nights, was not the best time for this conversation. But we needed to ease the strain that had grown between us. I put my elbows on the table, opened my mouth, and heard the cliches fall out like wooden blocks.

"I think we ought to shoot straight with one another, Brian. I know it's been tough, getting used to living together. It's been plenty tough for me, too. I haven't had a lot of practice being a mom. But we both care about your dad, and we want to see him happy. And I know that you love your mother and want to be with her as much as you can. Maybe we ought to try a little harder to .
..
to . .."

To what? Here I was, with a reputation for putting the most complex case in terms that the least sophisticated juror could relate to, and I was tongue-tied by a reasonable, logical eleven-year-old whose direct look and honest question splintered my easy answers.

"To understand each other," I finished lamely, embarrassingly conscious of how little I'd said. It had sounded like a bad script for the longest-running American sitcom.

He looked back at his plate. "Maybe living with her would be better," he muttered.

His dilemma was as sharp as mine and I could hear it in his voice. He hadn't had a full-time mother for five years, and he wanted one. I knew how deeply, how painfully, a child could long for a mother. I remembered my own empty, unfulfilled yearning for my mother, a longing that was never satisfied, and I felt it echoed in him.

"If I was living with her, I wouldn't have to hang around the house all summer." He gave me a sideways glance. "Anyway,
dhe
wants me."