In-Laws and Outlaws (7 page)

In short: I wanted to run away again.

I sat on that damned tree stump until my bottom turned numb. The sun was almost gone and the air was getting chilly; I hugged myself and stood up to pick my way among the leaf litter back toward the direction I'd come from. I really should have brought different shoes.

Things couldn't go on in this kind of limbo I'd created for myself and the Deckers; some sort of equilibrium had to be established. I went into the house and told Rob and Michelle that I'd stay with Connie until the repairs on her Martha's Vineyard house were completed, and then I'd take her there myself.

5

The next day I went back to Connie's house on Mt. Vernon Street, thinking Annette would be relieved to be relieved. But she was in no hurry to go, perhaps waiting for Tom to leave for Martha's Vineyard before returning to her own house in Brookline. At any rate, it gave us a chance to talk, to try to reestablish a kinship that had never been all that close to begin with.

Connie was saying nothing about murder now. She seemed more like the placid, accepting woman I'd always thought her to be, with one major exception: she was unhappy. I'd never seen Connie unhappy before. She'd always been a princessy sort of woman, leading the kind of life in which tragedy simply didn't figure. But after the double tragedy of seeing both her son and her husband die violently, she'd had her breakdown and was now starting to show signs of being resigned to a life that had to look bleak and empty to her. That surprising spurt of frenzy and accusation that had brought me here was over. She'd stopped fighting back.

I'd called my assistant in Chicago, explaining that I'd be gone longer than I originally thought. He did a poor job of concealing his pleasure; I could stay forever as far as he was concerned. Leonard had been assistant curator of the museum longer than I had been its curator; he'd thought, with some grounds, that he'd be promoted to the curatorship when my predecessor retired. When that didn't happen, he'd sort of gritted his teeth and hung on. Leonard never dragged his feet or worked against me; it's just that we weren't exactly buddies. He'd be in his element while I was away.

A few days passed, with all the family phoning or dropping in at least once a day to check on Connie. I had a long talk on the phone with Aunt Elinor in Georgetown; she told me she and Oscar would be going to Martha's Vineyard as soon as Congress recessed, in less than a week. A lot of Connie's friends came by, including the semi-anonymous Marcie who'd answered the phone when I'd first called from Chicago. I was impressed by the parade of well-wishers; how could so passive a person as Connie Decker have acquired so many concerned friends? Probably by never saying or doing anything that would offend anybody.

I asked Annette if she carried a picture of Ike. She did; I looked at a lean, black-haired youngster grinning confidently at the camera. Ike Henry had not been the grown man that Bobby Kurland was, but there were an alertness and a friendly curiosity in his face that were highly appealing. You could just see the intelligence in those eyes—and I found myself thinking, once again,
What a waste
.

“Tell me about him, Annette,” I said.

She told me that Ike had been one of those people who could juggle a dozen different balls at once without dropping any. He'd been involved in a number of school activities simultaneously without ever feeling pressured; Ike simply didn't fail at what he tried. Annette had wanted him to go into the family business but had raised no objection when he'd announced he wanted to do medical research instead, because she'd understood—they'd all understood—that Ike was special. He'd already been accepted in Harvard's pre-med program even though he still had one year to go at Exeter. If there was a genius among the family's younger generation, it was Ike. Annette told me this without any false modesty or apology for what might look like the hyperbole of maternal pride. It was simply a statement of fact: Ike was a genius.

So here was one more kid who'd been going to set the world on fire—and he probably would have, too, along with Bobby Kurland … and Lynn Ferguson? I asked about her.

Annette tilted her head to one side, thinking. “Connie ought to have a picture of Lynn—of all of them.” We went looking for Connie and found her in the breakfast room pinching dead leaves off an African violet. Annette asked her about photographs. “Remember that picture Raymond took last summer of all four of the kids—the one on the pier? You still have a copy of that, don't you?”

Connie remembered. “I'm pretty sure Raymond kept that one in his desk.” She sniffed the fingers that had been pinching the violet leaves. “How can anything that pretty smell so bad? Come on, let's go see.”

We all trooped into Raymond's study, the first time I'd been in there since I came back. Most of the furniture I remembered had been replaced with newer pieces, but the wood paneling and the orderly bookshelves were the same. Connie rummaged through the desk drawers until she found what she was looking for. “Here it is. Gillian, why don't you keep this one? I can have another made. You should have a picture of your own.”

What a sweet gesture. She handed me a five-by-seven glossy and stood next to me to look at it. Annette came up and looked over my other shoulder. We saw four healthy teenagers in swim suits standing on a wooden pier before a sea that glimmered with sunlight; the prow of some sort of boat was barely visible on the left. Lynn Ferguson was a coltish, long-legged adolescent, her skin bronze and her black hair shiny wet. Bobby Kurland's forearm rested easily on Ike Henry's shoulder, and Lynn had a hammerlock around Joel Kurland's neck. Three of the four were laughing; Joel was mugging for the camera, pretending to be in mortal fear of his life. It was a happy picture, and it created an ache in me that I knew would never quite go away.

I'd never asked Connie to show me a picture of her son, Theo, because I didn't know what kind of reaction that might provoke. But the family had produced five bright, capable offspring, assuring, they thought, a future they could all look forward to with satisfaction. Yet only one of the five was still alive; as Michelle had said, it all came down to Joel. “I wish I'd known,” I said ruefully. “I'd have come back sooner.”

Connie went over to a large leather sofa and curled up in the corner with a familiarity that told me that was “her” spot in Raymond's study. “You'd have come back? You keep saying that,” she said in a voice barely above a whisper. “But you didn't come for Theo's funeral, either. You had to know about it—it was in all the papers. But you didn't even call.”

The accusation rocked me. I saw Annette watching me out of the corner of her eye, waiting for an answer. I sat down on the sofa next to Connie and touched her arm. “Connie, I
didn't
know. Not at the time. I was in China when it happened—and even if the story had been in the papers there, I wouldn't have been able to read it. By the time I got back, it was all over and the papers were no longer carrying the story. It was more than a year later before I found out what had happened to Theo.”

Connie looked at me with watery eyes. “Oh,” she said. “Then you really didn't know, did you?”

I shook my head.

Annette asked, “How did you find out?”

I remembered that well enough. “I was reading a
Newsweek
story about that province in Italy that's made it a felony to pay ransom money, and how that's pretty much put an end to kidnapping there. The article went on to summarize recent cases in other parts of the world where the ransom money had been paid but the kidnap victims were killed anyway. One of them was what they called the Decker case. The story didn't give much in the way of details—just that Raymond had paid the ransom but Theo … Theo didn't make it.” Connie twitched but said nothing. I went on, “Then I didn't know what to do. It'd been over a year … I thought if I called, I'd just stir up painful feelings. Open old wounds.” In the end, I had done nothing.

Connie was nodding, accepting it.

“What were you doing in China?” Annette asked.

“Directing the tour of a repertory company. The State Department sent us.”

Then Annette nodded too, satisfied she had the whole story. “You should have called,” she said.

Annette made a practice of checking in with the offices of Decker and Kurland every day, but mostly she was making plans for her trip to Paris. Annette never talked to me about Tom; that was a closed subject. So at first I'd assumed she was going to France to escape the fallout of their separation. But no, it was a business trip.

“What's in Paris?” I asked.

She put aside a prospectus she'd been looking over. “A group of enterprising young men who propose to establish a software distributorship that would cover most of western Europe,” she told me in her usual precise way of speaking. “We've been researching the market to see if there's a real need for such a service, and the answer's turned out to be a resounding yes. Now I want to go check out the people themselves.”

“Check them out how?” I said idly, only mildly interested. “What do you look for?”

“Obsession,” she answered unexpectedly. “If the idea's a good one, and there's a real market need for it, the other ingredient we look for before we invest is obsession. If the people involved in this software distributorship are eaten alive with the desire to make their idea work, then we'll back them. But if it's just another business deal to them—we'll pass.”

“Do they know that?”

“Probably. But it's very difficult to fake a real obsession.”

“You said a group of enterprising young men. No women?”

“Not in this bunch. Just four young men—in their early to mid-twenties, I'd say.”

That made me think of something I'd wondered about before. “Annette, there can't be many women venture capitalists. Does it get in your way, being a woman?”

She'd obviously been asked that before, because she didn't need to think about it. “No, not really. Money's money, whether it comes from a man or a woman. Perhaps I'm remembered a little better than some of the men because I'm a woman, but that's about all.” Then she smiled, a big full-blown smile, the first I'd seen from any of the Deckers since I'd come back. “But I'm remembered even more for being a twin. Oh yes—people remember
that
.”

I'll bet they did.

Another time, Connie was taking a nap when Annette casually (too casually) asked me if I missed working in the theater.

I said I did, a little, but I had found work that was satisfying. “If someone offered me a plum directing job on a platter, I'd probably take it,” I admitted. “But I no longer have the drive you need to pursue jobs in theater. Theater does require a special kind of energy … which I seem to have run out of.”

Annette gave me that look out of the corner of her eye again. “Was it worth it?”

The question surprised me. “Of course it was worth it. I wouldn't have missed it for the world.”

“Even though you failed?”

It was like a slap in the face. “I didn't fail completely,” I told her, hating the defensive note in my voice. “I had some good moments.”

She smiled, mouth only. “Good moments. And were those good moments reason enough for turning your back on us?”

Ah, that was it; she resented my not staying with them, just as I'd feared. “I had to try to make a go of it, Annette. Theater is as much my work as your trip to Paris is yours. I've never really left it, you know—my museum is a theater museum. Please understand. I couldn't just sit on my bottom and live off Decker money for the rest of my life.”

“But that's exactly what you've been doing, isn't it?” she said in a pleasant tone of voice completely at odds with her words. “I don't recall your turning your back on the money Stuart left you. You never ‘suffered for your art'—do they still use that phrase? You had Stuart's money to see you through the lean times.”

I couldn't believe she was attacking me like this; I didn't know what to say. “Annette, do you begrudge me the money?”

She made a sound of exasperation. “Of course not! It's your inheritance, you're entitled to it. But don't you see, Gillian? You took from the family what was convenient for you to take, and you took it without offering anything in return … not even your occasional presence. Certainly I can understand your wanting to pursue a career in theater—Stuart was doing the same thing. But that was no reason to cut us out of your life.”

I knew it was only affronted pride that was speaking instead of something more intimate like love betrayed (do they still use that phrase?), but it didn't make any difference. Annette was right, in a way; I did take the money and run. My action must have appeared hypocritical. But I couldn't explain my loyalties were to
one
Decker, Stuart, not to Deckerism as a way of life; telling her that would have been insulting. Oh, lord. What had seemed so clear and clean-cut in Chicago had become disturbingly ambiguous in Boston.

Annette must have read my facial expression correctly because her voice softened when she said, “That's why you came back, isn't it? To make amends.”

“I came back because I read in the paper that Raymond had died.”

She smiled, this time with her eyes as well as her mouth. “But you're still here.”

“Yes. I'm still here.”

“And that's as it should be. Here is where you belong, with the rest of your family. No one can live without family, Gillian, and we are yours. For better or worse. And family means responsibilities. Connie called you back because she needs you. We're hoping you'll see her through this trouble.”

What could I say to that? “I'll do what I can,” I temporized.

Then on the first day of June, I mentioned to my two roommates that I didn't have the right kind of clothing to wear at Martha's Vineyard. Annette jumped at that as an excuse to get Connie out of the house; just the three of us, out for a day of shopping. Girl stuff. I hated shopping; Annette wore only designer originals; and Connie didn't want to go. It was going to be a fun day.