Carnival (14 page)

And they were sure sensing something this day.

Gary had spent several hours Sunday afternoon patching up the men and women involved in the hotel fracas and he had later told Martin that the people could remember absolutely nothing about it. They were alternately astonished or outright indignant and disbelieving when he told them what had happened.

A strangeness was overtaking the town. And Martin could not help but connect
deadly
with it.

Don Talbolt had his quarters as clean and neat as that much-talked-about pin, and was settling right in.

And Alicia was furious at Martin for, as she had put it, “Getting into a fist-fight like some common cowhand in a drunken barroom brawl.”

Martin had laughed at her—at first:

Alicia had always been a tad on the snooty side, but of late, she had become almost unbearable with her haughtiness. There were things—and Martin would agree with her in most instances—that decent people just did not engage in. And brawling was one of them. Only the lowest classes beat each other about the head and shoulders with their fists. According to Alicia.

Martin wasn't particularly worried about Alicia's newest opinion of him. She'd either get over it or she wouldn't. But she had irritated him last night by harping about the fight. It seemed to Martin that she was deliberately trying to bring something to a head; but he couldn't imagine what. She kept complaining about what other people might think about his fighting Lyle Steele. Martin had finally told her to shut up about it.

She had then puffed up like a spreading adder and ordered him to leave their bedroom and sleep in the guest room. Martin had looked at her and told her if she wanted to sleep alone then she could leave the room.

Which she had promptly done, stalking out in a cold, silent huff.

He had not seen her that morning. But out of pure spite—amazing how delicious-feeling it was—he had dressed in old jeans and old worn—but comfortable—cowboy boots, and denim western shirt with a frayed collar and cuffs. He knew, of course, how she despised seeing him in that kind of attire.

It was very childish, and he knew it. But he gleefully did it anyway. And to make matters worse—to Alicia's mind, when she did see him that morning—he had gone down to the basement storage room and found his battered old Stetson hat. It was now tilted back on his head.

Now was one of those rare moments when he wished he'd gotten a tattoo in the Army.

It promised, he thought with a smile, to be a very interesting morning.

Those words would return to haunt him.

The kids were up and moving around; he could hear them talking in low tones in the house. They probably would not tarry this morning, having heard their parents quarrel the night before, something they rarely did. But, Martin recollected, over the past six or eight months, their quarreling had taken on a seriousness and bitterness. They had quarreled more in the past half year than in all the previous married years combined.

Martin waved at a neighborhood teenager passing by on her way to school. It was to be a short school week in Holland. School would be dismissed at noon Wednesday, enabling the kids to put the final touches on their fair projects.

The word “final” seemed to stick in Martin's mind.

Odd.

Mark and Linda joined him on the porch, Mark with a cup of coffee and Linda with a Coke. His daughter took in her father's slightly swollen lip, the bruise and cut on the side of his face, and his battered hands.

“Mom's up,” she informed him, then cut her eyes to her brother.

“That's nice. How is your mother this morning?”

“In a bad mood,” his son told him. “I said good morning and I thought she was going to look out the window to check it.”

Martin laughed. He stopped laughing when Linda said, “She's packing, dad. I don't know what she's planning on doing.”

There was something in his daughter's tone and in both his kids' eyes that told Martin they both did indeed know what was going on. He didn't pursue it. He nodded his head and dug in his pocket, handing the kids some bills, not looking to check the denominations. “Go get you some breakfast at the Dog's Puddle, or whatever that place is called where you kids hang out.”

She laughed at him. “It's Chicken & Dog, dad!”

“Whatever.”

Linda studied him, checking out his clothing and hat. “You mind if I say something, dad?”

“You probably will anyway. You both got your mother's good looks and my mouth.”

She grinned. “You look funky!”

* * *

“What is this, Alicia?”

She glanced up from her packing. Martin stood in the doorway to their bedroom. Theirs, but for how long? Martin thought.

“I'm moving my things down the hall.” Her tone was very cool. She studied his attire through decidedly hostile eyes, her gaze finally settling on his old hat. “Good God, Martin! You look positively dreadful.”

“Thank you.” He wondered if dreadful and funky lay on the same plane. “How long is this change in sleeping habits going to last?”

“I don't know, Martin. And that is a totally honest answer.”

“You want to talk about it?”

“We have. Over and over. It doesn't seem to do any good.”

That confused him. He wasn't certain what she was talking about. “This—” He waved his hand at the pile of clothing on the bed, “—is rather sudden, isn't it?”

“No. Not really. If you'd paid attention to details you would have known that it's been building for quite some time.”

“I knew something was bothering you. But I didn't know it was this serious. Could have fooled me.”

The look she gave him shook him right down to his old cowboy boots. It told him that she had been fooling him, and for some time. “Well. I ... see.”

“I rather doubt it, Martin. Your sensitivity level is rather low.”

“What does that mean?”

“There isn't another man.” She said it quickly. Too quickly to suit Martin.

“Another woman?” he tried a joke.

“Don't be
disgusting!”
she snapped back.

He stepped into the room, pushed aside the pile of blouses, and sat down on the bed. “Maybe you need a vacation, Alicia. Might be a good time for it. Name your spot. I'll take care of the kids.”

“Oh, you'd like that, wouldn't you?”

With a sigh and a shake of his head, he said, “Alicia, what do you mean by that?”

“Read anything into it you like.”

“My God, the possibilities are endless. Alicia, do you feel all right?”

She turned, facing him squarely. “I think, Martin, that I feel better than I have in years. And I should have done this years ago, I suppose. But the children ...” She let that drift off. “Anyway, the children are old enough to understand this and to take it all well enough.”

“Wait a minute!” Martin almost shouted the words. “Just hold on. Correct me if I'm wrong. But the way I'm reading this is you're going to walk right past the guest room and out the front door. Now you tell me if I'm reading something into this scenario that isn't there?”

“That last sentence is very apropos, Martin.”

“What?”

“You know very well what my major was in college, Martin.”

He got it then. How could he have ever forgotten? “Oh, no!” he said wearily.

“Yes.” The one word held enough frost to ruin a spring garden. “That's the very way you've summed up my feelings for years. And quite frankly, Martin, I'm tired of it.”

A line from
Gone With The Wind
sprang into Martin's head. The very last line.

Alicia had majored in drama at the university. But she was just not a good actress.

“Honey,” Martin said patiently, thinking this was all covered ground, “I told you years ago, when you came up with this little theatre idea, that I'd back you.”

“I have money of my own, Martin! she popped at him.” I don't need your money. What I needed was your personal support, and you did not give it to me.”

What you wanted was for me to tell you you were another Faye Dunaway, and baby, you ain't. “Alicia! I'm not an actor. I'm a businessman, with a lot of businesses in this area to look after. Not to mention a ranch and farm operation down in Colorado, a mine and mineral—”

She cut the air with a curt slash of her hand. “Enough! she shouted at him. ”I don't need to be reminded of your great wealth, Martin. Great wealth!” she said contemptuously, her eyes sweeping him. He could feel the scorn from across the room and wondered if what was taking place in town had anything to do with this? ”You look like some saddlebum.”

He couldn't help it; a smile played around his lips. “I can say with all honesty, Alicia, that I dressed just for you.”

“I certainly don't doubt that!” she came right back at him. “And to me, that is just another indication of your tastelessness and your utter lack of respect and support for me.”

Martin got a little hot under his battered hat at that. “Alicia, I told you when you started this theatre group thing it would flop. This town is simply not big enough to support it. Or cultured enough, for that matter; and it hurts me to say that. This is cowboy country. Honey, you know that I enjoy the plays and the opera and the ballet on PBS—we've always watched them together. But I am not an
actor!”
He flung his arms wide, wincing slightly at the pain from Steele's blows that he'd blocked with his arms. “And I will not make a fool of myself by wandering around on stage, wearing a mini-skirt and carrying a wooden sword and yelling,
Et tu, Brute!”

The look in her eyes summed it all up. That, and a whole lot more.

And Martin could not believe it; did not want to believe it. There had to be some other explanation. Something else behind it all. “Alicia, what are you holding back from me? Why not get it all out into the open, now, and let's talk it out.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Because you just can't, or won't, see it, Martin.”

“Well, obviously I don't. That's why I'm requesting we talk about it.”

“You're not going to like it, and believe this or not, I don't want to hurt you. I want us to be friends.”

The kiss of death from a woman's mouth, Martin recalled. Anytime a woman says, “Oh, but I do want us to be friends,” hang it up, find your shoes, and start looking for the door. “Uh-huh. Right,” was all he could trust himself to say at that moment.

“Martin, you are perfectly content to remain exactly as you are.” She arched an eyebrow as she eyeballed his bruised face. “Perhaps even to regress some. But I, on the other hand, wish to grow. Now ... don't sit there all dressed up in your cowboy clothes and look so startled. You know it's true. We've discussed this very thing time after time, and you haven't made any effort to change.”

And, he was forced silently to admit, they had discussed it. But he had never taken her threats of leaving seriously.

“All right, Alicia. So say it. Are you leaving, or not?”

“You really want to press the issue, don't you, Martin?”

He shrugged. “Why drag it out? If you've made up your mind, so be it.”

“Very well. Perhaps that is for the best. Mark can remain here. I shall take Linda, of course.”

That got Martin hot. He pointed a finger at her. “You walk out that door, the kids stay right here, with me! For when you walk, with your only reason for doing so some unfulfilled, middle-aged theatrical urgings, that is desertion on your part, just any ol' way you want to cut it. Now you hear me well, Alicia. You want a nasty court fight that I guarantee will last well past Linda's eighteenth birthday, you just try to take her. You push me on this and I'll have Linda on a plane bound for a girl's school in Europe in the
morning
!” He shouted the last, rising from the bed, his bulk huge in the bedroom and his bruised face flushed with anger.

“How dare you threaten me!”

“Oh, I'm not threatening you, honey. Not at all. I'm just telling you the cold, hard, cruel facts of how all this is going to be.”

“I see.” Her voice was hushed. “Well. Do I walk over to my parents' old homeplace, or will you allow me to take the station wagon?”

Martin knew then that he had, at least for the moment, won. Alicia did not like confrontation. And, he felt guilty even thinking it, he knew that she was slightly afraid of him when he lost his temper. Even though he had never given her the slightest reason to think he would do physical harm to her.

“Don't be ridiculous, Alicia. Take the car. Keep it. Take anything in this house that is yours, or was,” he said sarcastically, “ours.”

The sarcasm was not lost on her. Her mouth tightened and her eyes narrowed. He knew that she knew that when he made a decision, there was no turning back. That if she walked, keep walking. For that was the end of it.

She said nothing.

“Take anything you want except the kids. But get it all out and be clear of here today, Alicia. I'll arrange for a couple of hands to help you and get some company trucks over here. And I'll have a man to open up and air out your parents' old place. Now you tell me firm, right up front: is this what you want?”

“Can't we be civil?”

“Just answer the question.”

“You seem to be doing all the talking, Martin. Carry on.”

“That's no answer from you. And you're still holding back from me. I don't like that one bit. I have never lied to you. Nor has there ever been another woman. Not even in 'Nam. I always assumed I was getting the same kind of respect from you. Now I'm not so sure of that. Is there another man, Alicia?”