Dying for Chocolate (27 page)

His slippery body quieted. His cough was still ragged, but he had stopped fighting the water so hard. I began a one-armed crawl to the side. Slowly, slowly, I kicked and pulled and fought off sheer panic. My eyes burned. I swallowed the heavily chlorinated water. I couldn’t see the pool’s edge, but in a minute my head cracked the cement.

“Okay, carefully, carefully,” I said to Arch. He shook loose from me, his hands still bound, and walked suddenly up the submerged concrete steps.

“Goldy, it’s you!” said an astonished, shivering Sissy. “What happened in there? Did you push me in? What happened to Arch?”

I glanced around at my son. Despite the burn from the chlorine, my eyes were growing accustomed to the darkness. He had crouched down to bring his hands close to his feet. Savagely, he tromped on the bamboo pole with its ropes that pinned his wrists. Within a moment the bamboo broke and he wriggled his arms free.

Sissy’s hands were empty. No weapon. “Get a towel,” I ordered her, unwilling for the moment to accuse her of attempted murder or being an accessory thereto. Her face puzzled, she silently handed me a couple of small towels. I wrapped” both of them around Arch, who was sniffling hard and coughing.

“Mom, I was trying to get away from her! I thought if I could get out of the manacles quickly, I’d be able to run away!”

“It’s okay, Arch, it’s okay.” I grabbed a tarpaulin that was covering some pipes, then picked up one of the pipes. I looked around to where Sissy had been sitting. No weapon there, either—nothing but the bag, her flashlight, and her school notebook.

“Let’s all get back to the van,” I said. I reached the long-handled flashlight before Sissy could get it. “I don’t want to be here if Adele comes back. And don’t touch me or Arch,” I warned Sissy fiercely as I brandished the pipe and the flashlight. She gaped at me.

Arch said, “But, Mom, you have to look at her notebook! You have to—”

“What we have to do is get out of here,” I said curtly. Sissy marched sulkily in front of us. When we were all in the van I turned the heat to high and handed Arch the pipe and flashlight. He knew what to do with them if he needed to. Greeted by a rush of cool air from a cold engine, I turned to Sissy as we lurched forward.

“You want to tell me why you’re here?”

“I was taking care of Arch,” she whined. “Just until Adele got back with you. I don’t know what happened to her.” She added, “She was paying me to keep him there.”

“Did that include drowning him?”

“No!” she exclaimed. “Of course not! Adele gave me the bag with the tricks and just told me to make sure he practiced with the Chinese manacles tonight. That’s all.”

“And what about pushing me into the glass case at the café? Did she pay you for that, too, you little bitch?”

Sissy snorted. “I wasn’t trying to hurt you!” she protested. “I was just supposed to warn you off. She’s Julian’s mother! She told me! She could do so much for him financially, for his future and everything. She said you were screwing it up!”

I heard Arch gasp and cough upon hearing about Julian’s parentage.

“And yes,” Sissy was saying, “she paid me to push you. She said it would save you from being hurt.”

I was so angry I didn’t even want to talk to her. I said, “Arch? Did you see Adele with Brian Harrington out by the pool last night?”

Sissy caught her breath. Arch snuffled mightily, then coughed again. He said, “Yeah, I guess. So what? I thought she’d tell on me for turning off the security system and sneaking in late from the pool. When she didn’t, I didn’t tell on her, either.”

Ah, playground morality. I said, “You know she fixed your manacles not to work? You should have told me you saw her!” I could hear the scolding in my voice so I stopped. I was so happy to see Arch alive, I couldn’t imagine bawling him out.

Arch coughed and tried to clear his throat repeatedly as we jounced and swerved along the road to Aspen Meadow. Whenever he stopped coughing, he sniveled and shivered. Where was I supposed to take him? I felt bad about Schulz. I knew I had to go back and check on him at the Farquhars. Arch’s clean, dry clothes would be there, too. But I would only go in if the entire Furman County Sheriff’s Department assured me it was safe.

“Maman,”
said Arch with a loud sniff.
“Comment s’appelle felle?”

“Oh, Arch,” I said, “I’m in no mood—”

Sissy said, “This isn’t fair. My father’s the only one in my family who speaks French.”

Arch coughed. He insisted,
“Comment s’appelle feller

What was Sissy’s name? What kind of question was that? I took a deep breath.

I said,
“Elle s’appelle Sissy.”

“Et le surnom?”
Arch persisted.
“En français, s’il vous plaît. “

I shook my head. Too much stuff going on in one evening. I was not in the mood, not in the mood . . .

Slowly, my mind shifted French gears. I pulled the car over onto a narrow slice of shoulder. I turned with great deliberateness to Sissy. What was the word for stone in French?

I glared at the teenager sitting next to me.

I said,
“Pierre.”

30.

“Tell me,” I said, “was the pseudonym your father’s idea?”

She sulked. Said, “No, I got it from a dictionary.”

I could feel my voice rising out of control. “Now tell me,” I shrieked, “what did I ever do to you?”

Sissy’s nostrils flared in indignation. “Julian said he wanted to be a
chef.
He wanted to ask if he could apprentice with you! He was going to do that instead of be a doctor! Of course I had to make you look bad!”

I should have known. The
unfortunately named Goldy Bear.
Julian’s
grossly misguided quest.
The undeniably pedantic use of language.

I said, “Sissy, if you are worth anything, which I doubt, I’m going to sue you for it. Now shut up until we get to the Farquhars.”

When we got to the end of Sam Snead Lane, lights from police cars flashed importantly at the top of the driveway. The place looked like a carnival. I drove up to the police line and asked for Schulz.

After some conferring between officers, Schulz came walking slowly down the driveway.

“Where did you go?” he demanded. His color was still awful, but his eyes were furious.

“To the school,” I said. “To get Arch.”

His face softened. “Thank God. Where is he?”

“In the van. He’s still pretty cold, and he has an awful cough. Did you find Adele?”

He rubbed his forehead. His tone was weary. “Yes and no. She got out on 1-70, turned off her lights, made a U-turn on the median. Hightailed it back here. She’s in that damn storage area screaming about a detonator. They’re trying to talk to her.”

My heart quaked with fear for Bo. “What about the general—”

“He’s okay, on his way to Denver in an ambulance. Soon as he recovers we’re going to book him.”

“Oh, that’s nice. For what?”

“For breaking every explosives-storage law on the books, thank you very much.”

There was some shouting from the top of the driveway. A wave of police officers came running out toward their vehicles, shouting about clearing the area.

Suddenly there was a flash and a boom. We were all thrown to the cement. Booms, hisses, more booms. I covered my head and hoped that the van had not been hit by a rocket-propelled grenade. Light erupted and then abruptly went out. The booms wouldn’t stop.

There was a great roar. The garage was on fire. Debris showered around us: the remains of the magazine. There was one final, terrible explosion, then a silence, broken only by the crackle of the fire and my ragged breathing.

“Arch!” I cried. Schulz grabbed for me, but missed. I ran back to the van. It had survived the explosion. As I was about to open the door I heard a loud meow and felt a wad of fur dash between my legs. I looked down at Scout. I scooped up the cat and climbed into the van.

Sissy looked at me wide-eyed. Her wet hair was disheveled, her face white with fear. “Adele?”

“I’m sorry,” I said. I handed her the cat. Wordlessly, she opened the van door and climbed out holding Scout.

Arch was coughing, choking. His chest heaved. He was having trouble breathing.
Why, why, why?
I asked myself.

“Breathe for me, Arch. Take deep breaths,” I ordered. He wheezed and coughed. His history of virally induced asthma made this doubly frightening. He must have aspirated pool water. I gave myself a mental kick. This happened all the time to river rafters. The raft would capsize in rapids and rafters would aspirate river water. After initial coughing and gagging, they would appear to be fine. But water could get trapped in the air side of the lung wall, and an hour after being pulled out of the water, they drowned.

Arch wheezed and could not get his breath. He gasped wildly before he went unconscious. I catapulted backward out of the van and went shrieking up to Schulz for help.

After some initial confusion, a medic pulled Arch out and began to work on him in the driveway. He cleared out the airway while a second medic put in a call to Lutheran Hospital for permission to intubate. Once the medic got the permission, he checked with a laryngoscope and put down an endotracheal tube.
Breathe, breathe,
I prayed. The EMS team hooked Arch up to oxygen from their truck, then shooed me away.

I told somebody to call Dr. John Richard Korman. I knelt down on the side of the driveway, aware for the first time in the last hour that cold wet clothes clung to my skin. There were people all around; I ignored them. All of them except for Schulz, who sat down heavily beside me and put two clean sweat suits in my hands.

I said, “I’m a terrible mother.”

Schulz said, “You are a wonderful mother. Now I risked my life getting these dry clothes for you and Arch, why don’t you find some place to put them on?”

My arms reached for Schulz’s large body. While my head was buried in his shoulder he murmured, “Well, look who’s here.”

I jerked back and whirled to face a very disheveled Julian Teller dressed in camouflage gear. He flopped down beside us. After a moment he said, “I was on my way back here when I saw the explosions.”

I could think of nothing to say. I was aware that I was shivering. At that moment a member of the EMS team trotted up. He looked very serious. I braced myself.

He said, “Your son has gained consciousness. He pulled the tube out! He’s breathing okay now, but we’ve got to take him down to Lutheran for twenty-four hours’ observation.” I nodded and handed him the kid-size sweat suit.

Schulz said, “Let’s go.”

I pulled myself together enough to ask the cop in charge to call Marla Korman with the bad news about her sister. Then I asked Schulz if he was feeling well enough to drive. He smiled and muttered a macho response I was glad not to catch. I climbed into the back to change. With Sissy gone, Julian sat in the passenger seat, and the three of us took off in the van behind the EMS ambulance.

There was the usual flurry at the hospital. Despite the dry clothes, Arch kept shivering, so I asked for heated blankets from the warming cabinet and got them. The EMS guys had started him on an IV, in case the hospital needed to give him antibiotics, antiwheezing meds, or vasoconstrictors if he dropped into shock. I knew I had to call John Richard, but I couldn’t leave Arch’s side just yet. After chest X-rays and blood-gas tests, they finally settled him into a private room in the Pediatric Observation area. I would let John Richard pick up the tab.

Despite much protestation from Arch, Julian and I tucked a cocoon of blankets around him. Tom Schulz moved chairs in for us all and then went in search of a vending machine. Within ten minutes he was back with a cardboard tray with four cups: one filled with water and three with steaming hot chocolate. Schulz mumbled an apology to Arch that the nurse had said clear liquids only. Arch smiled and said Schulz could buy him a milkshake when he got out of this place. Then he tossed off the pile of blankets and sat up to receive the water from Schulz’s big hands.

“You should be down in the ER being treated with activated charcoal to get out the rest of that cantharidin,” I chided Schulz.

He raised those wonderful tentlike bushy eyebrows at me, reached into his pocket, and pulled out some aspirin-shaped tablets. “Speaking of which,” he said, “a nurse in the ER gave me some when I identified myself and told her what happened. We can take it together.”

I groaned, but took my medicine. Anything tastes good when you wash it down with chocolate.

Then Schulz handed Julian a cup and demanded, “What happened to you?”

Julian sipped. He said, “When I was doing some filing for the general, I found that letter from the Utah Bureau of Vital Records. It was a shock. I ran away. . . to think.” He told us briefly that he had seen the magazine erupt on his way back from Flicker Ridge, where he was going to practice camping skills the general had taught him the night he was supposed to have a date with Sissy. “I didn’t want anybody to know I might take off,” he said. “But I decided to come back. When I saw the explosions I knew there was only one place . . .”

I told him Adele was gone. I said, “I’m sorry about Adele and Brian. Your . . . parents—”

He said, “My parents are in Utah.” He paused. Dirt crusted along his hairline; he looked haggard. Arch gave Julian his adoring attention. Julian said, “Where’s Bo?”

I told him. He sighed wearily. He said, “I really liked the general. I’d like to help him. You know, like be his support person when he’s going through his trial. That’s what Dr. Miller was always telling me. Everybody needs support.”

I said nothing. I had tried to be supportive of Julian, but it had never worked out. And maybe Philip Miller had tried to be supportive of me. That had not worked out either, despite what may have been his intent. I conjured up Philip’s face. With some effort, I willed forgiveness.

After a moment Julian turned to me. He said, “My scholarship at Elk Park runs through next year. I’d like to finish there. But I need a place to live and a part-time job.” He eyed me. His scalp under the bleached, clipped hair was covered with dried mud, like soil between parched rows of corn. There were dark smudges under his eyes. He put his cup down. I looked at Schulz, who raised his eyebrows.

Julian went on, “You had a boarder once, Sissy told me. I know I’m not real. . . sophisticated.”

“Julian—”

“Let me finish. I’m asking if you would hire me to help cater. Teach me, like. Let me rent a room in your house. Please?” Before I could answer, he looked up at Arch and grinned. “I could help you with Arch, too. He likes me.”

We were all silent.

After a while Schulz said, “If she says no, you can come live with me.”

I said, “She’s not going to say no.”

Arch indicated he needed help getting into the bathroom, and Julian jumped to his aid. I looked at my watch. Time to phone John Richard.

I was almost as surprised to reach John Richard at his house as he was to hear I was at the hospital. I told him Arch was fine, but that the Farquhars’ house had exploded. He demanded to know what the hell was going on, why the hysterical phone calls saying Arch was missing, unconscious, why the devil couldn’t I—

I said, “You owe me.”

He was stunned into silence. “Owe you what?”

“Listen. Why did I have to go to the Farquhars in the first place? Because of you. You were jealous of Philip Miller. You tried to intimidate me.”

The Jerk began to say, “Excuse me—”

“You owe me,” I pressed on, “and you can either make it up to me now in terms of dollars and cents or you can wait for me to haul your stupid ass into court for breaking a bunch of flowerpots. That ought to be great publicity for your precious medical practice.”

The Jerk hesitated. I could feel his rage through the telephone wire. He said, “What do you want?”

Well, it didn’t take a corporate accountant to figure that one. I said, “I need money for two things. Number one, I’ve already started to put in a security system. You can pay for it. Number two, I need to change my name.”

He said, “Again?”

I told him briefly about George Pettigrew and Three Bears Catering, and that I needed money for legal fees.

“How much?”

I said, “I’ll send you the bill,” and hung up.

Arch came out of the bathroom. Julian helped him back into bed and resettled the IV. Then they silently toasted each other with their cups of cocoa and water. Schulz took my hand and held it determinedly. I asked him if he was feeling all right and he said he was.

He said, “Just tell me this. How come your ex-husband isn’t jealous of me?”

I couldn’t help it. I burst out laughing.

Schulz said, “So what are you going to change your name to? Would you consider Schulz?”

Oh my God. Julian gagged on his hot chocolate. I looked at Arch, who tilted his head and gave me a serene smile. I was utterly flabbergasted. Speechless, for once.

Finally I said, “I can’t answer that one right now. Let me think about it. Thanks. Sheesh! I don’t know what to say.”

“Well then,” Schulz went on, “for now, how about B-a-e-r? Sounds the same without the grizzly connotation. Of course, you could make it B-a-r-e, but people might get the wrong idea. Schulz has a better ring to it.”

I smiled.

“Well,” he said, “I’m not going to force the issue.”

We were all quiet for a few minutes. I reflected on the people who had come to inhabit my life in the last month. That was what everyone wanted: to force love’s issue. Adele and Weezie adored Brian and had tried to make the adoration mutual. I had cherished the illusion that Adele was my friend and confidante. Julian was enamored of Sissy. Sissy in turn had great affection for the idea of being married to a doctor. And I wanted to make Arch love me, so that he would choose to live with me instead of his father.

“Mom,” Arch said, as if he were reading my mind. He put down his cup. “I’m sorry I said that about going to live with Dad. I’d like to stay with you. I mean, if you want me to.” I got up to hug him. Schulz joined us. Julian held back, but after a moment he put a hand on my shoulder and a hand on Arch’s back.

When we were all hugging, Arch said, “Can Julian share my room?”