Infamous (41 page)

“Everyone, this is Alison,” A.J. said. “Alison, this is … everyone.”

Alison recognized A.J.’s mother immediately.

Dr. Rose Gallagher was tall and elegant looking, with regal, almost harsh features and brilliant green eyes. Her gray hair was pulled back into a single braid that hung down her back. She wore a plaid flannel shirt and well-worn jeans, but her casual attire didn’t detract from her queenly appearance. She gazed back at Alison, one eyebrow raised.

A.J.’s sister Bev was beside her—had to be. She looked like a younger version of their mother. But her eyes were a softer shade of hazel, her face slightly more round and her mouth curved up into a welcoming smile. Her long hair was brown and wavy—Jamie Gallagher’s hair, Alison realized.

And there was Adam. The old man was A.J.’s grandfather, there was no doubt about that. They were nearly identical in height and build, and despite Adam’s age he still stood straight and tall. His hair was white but thick and full, and his face was leathery and lined. The eyes that sparkled at her from under bushy gray eyebrows were that of a much younger man—in fact, they were very much like A.J.’s eyes. And like Jamie Gallagher’s. Who was allegedly Adam’s father. As Melody Quinn was allegedly his mother.

For a moment, Alison couldn’t quite breathe.

Adam didn’t hesitate. He swooped in and enveloped his grandson in a hug.

A.J.’s mother, however, hung back. “I’m not
everyone,”
she said. “I’m Rose Gallagher. Dr. Rose Gallagher.”

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Alison said, shaking the older woman’s hand. This was not a woman one greeted for the very first time with an embrace.

In fact, if Alison were casting a movie about A.J.’s life, she’d build a time machine and go back to 1968 to hire Katharine Hepburn to play his mother. Rose Gallagher had the same no-nonsense attitude, the same almost aloof air of authority that Hepburn had brought to many of her later movies like
The Lion in Winter
.

“You’re looking tired,” Rose said to A.J. as Adam released him. “Are you well?” Her tone was cool, businesslike, but Alison knew that the older woman was hiding a great deal of anxiety and worry. She cared about her son, and quite deeply, despite her lack of obvious outward affection.

“I’m fine,” A.J. said. “I’m … 
really
fine.”

“Welcome to Heaven,” Adam said to Alison, distracting her so that she never did see if Rose smiled at her son. Rose finally did hug him, though—thank goodness. If she hadn’t, Alison would’ve been tempted to smack her.

But Adam was now holding out a hand for Alison to shake, and his grip was firm and strong. “I’m Adam, and I’m real pleased to meet you, dear. Anyone who’s responsible for Age answering
fine
to that question instead of
I’m getting by
or
I’m surviving
deserves a ticker tape parade.”

Age? It was a shortening of A.J., Alison realized. A nickname for a nickname. She liked Adam and his twinkling blue eyes instantly.

“I’m Bev.” A.J.’s sister also shook her hand. “And this is my husband, Charlie, and my father-in-law, Tom.”

Everyone else in the crowd started calling out their names and waving, which was a little overwhelming. A.J. put his hand on her shoulder, but it was Tom—Tom Fallingstar, the old shaman—who reassured her.

“You’ll get a chance to meet them all back in town,” he told her quietly. “They don’t want to be rude. Just smile and wave.”

A.J. had told her about Tom on the plane—a kind of crazy story about how, just as he’d hit bottom with his drinking, Tom had seemed to appear. He’d given A.J. the money he’d needed to get back home.

The way A.J. had spoken of him, Tom was at least a million years old. And he did look both simultaneously ancient and ageless. He could have been anywhere from forty to seventy, with hair that was still mostly dark. He wore it long, much as Rose wore her hair—back in a single braid. His face was all sharp angles and well-defined planes, as if he’d been carved from stone. But his eyes weren’t cold. They were brown and warm and welcoming.

“Thanks,” she whispered back to him.

“I can’t tell you how happy I am to meet you,” Bev said. “We’ve all read your book. We’re
very
impressed.”

“Well, thank you.”

Bev may have been impressed, but if Rose Gallagher was, too, she certainly wasn’t letting on. Alison felt the woman’s cool gaze on her, studying her. So she faced her head-on.

“I’m eager to get a look at those diaries,” Alison said. “They’ll go a long way toward verifying A.J.’s claim.”

“Claim?” Rose repeated, eyebrows elevating to new heights, the chill in her voice dropping to sub-zero. “Don’t you believe what A.J.’s told you?”

She felt A.J.’s hand tighten on her shoulder. But before he could run interference between her and his dragon of a mother, who apparently didn’t have a problem with confrontations in front of an audience, Alison stepped up to the task.

Public speaking didn’t frighten her. And Rose Gallagher didn’t frighten her, either. Regardless of the fact that she clearly knew that Alison and her son had gotten it on. And on. And on.

Alison smiled. “I’d
like
to believe A.J., Dr. Gallagher,” she said, the perfect balance of sweetness and light, refusing to be intimidated or even remotely defensive. “I’m sure you know that. His story is very convincing. His nonverbal communications are convincing, too.”

The crowd laughed and Rose Gallagher glanced at her son, who was now nonchalantly examining the toes of his boots and hiding his face from view beneath the brim of his cowboy hat.

From most people’s view. Alison was standing close enough to achieve eye contact, and the look he gave her was a mix of amusement and disbelief.

“But I’m an historian,” Alison continued. “I can’t let my personal interest in A.J. sway my good judgment. The fact is, he’s given me no written proof—so far—that anything he’s told me is true. To counter that, to date, it’s been documented in writing that Silas Quinn killed Jamie Gallagher in Arizona in 1898. I’m here to find documented proof that Jamie Gallagher in fact lived quite a bit longer.”

Dr. Gallagher stared back at Alison, the expression in her eyes unreadable.

“It’s my job, ma’am,” Alison said quietly but firmly, “to question your family’s claim. I’m sure you can respect my need to do my job as well and as thoroughly as I possibly can.”

Tom Fallingstar chuckled softly.

“En garde, Mom,” Bev said, with a broad smile.

Rose Gallagher blinked and glanced at her daughter. “Yes,” she said. “Indeed.”

She smiled then, and to Alison’s surprise there was now genuine warmth and amusement in the older woman’s eyes.

“You’ll do,” Rose said to Alison. “Quite nicely, in fact. I hope we’ll have time to chat while you’re here in town. But in the meantime, you’ll want to get to work, I imagine. You’re staying at A.J.’s, I assume?”

“Uh, yes,” Alison said, slightly off-balance at the older woman’s sudden total acceptance.

“Good,” Rose Gallagher said, briskly leading the way back to the cars and trucks parked at the edge of the field.

A.J. grabbed Alison’s hand and pulled her along.

“I’ve got to get back to work,” Charlie Fallingstar, Bev’s husband, said. He kissed his wife and waved to Alison as the rest of the crowd dispersed, too. “Nice meeting you, Alison. I’m sure I’ll see you later. Come on, Adam, I’ll give you a lift.”

“For the record, I want more grandchildren,” Rose said before Alison could even properly say good-bye to Charlie. “I make no bones about that. Of course I’d prefer it if you were married first. I’m old-fashioned that way—where children are concerned.” She glanced at Alison. “You haven’t, by any chance, agreed to marry my son …?”

“Fishy’s,” A.J. murmured into Alison’s ear. “Seven o’clock. I’m having the salmon.”

“We’ve really only just started seeing each other,” Alison said, trying not to laugh. “It’s a little soon to think beyond the end of the year.”

“What happens at the end of the year?” Rose asked, stopping in front of a bright yellow SUV with MD plates.

“My sabbatical ends and I’m back in Boston,” she said. “Teaching.”

“Hmm,” Rose said. “American history, right?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I didn’t think I’d like you, but I do,” she told Alison, just point-blank. Pow. “Your book was …” She paused, searching for the right word.

“Wrong?” Alison supplied, and Rose laughed.

“Not many people would be willing to admit that,” she said. “Even as a remote possibility. Yet … here you are. Interested in the truth.”

“I’m a history professor,” Alison told A.J.’s mother, “because I’m fascinated by the lessons we, the human race, can learn from the past. But one of the things we need to keep in the forefront of any discussion about that past is that history has been and always will be recorded by the winners. We rarely get an unbiased picture of any event. I mean, even on a fairly innocuous level. Think about who recorded the history of this country from the time of Columbus until, well, about the mid-twentieth century. Men—and predominantly white men. We view much of our past through that white male filter. Which is one of the reasons why I’m extremely interested in reading the story of Melody’s life with both Silas Quinn and Jamie Gallagher—in her very own words. I suspect Jubilation,
Arizona, and even Heaven, Alaska, too, will look a little different through her lens.”

“I don’t just like her,” Rose pronounced to A.J. “I love her. Marry her immediately.”

She didn’t wait for an answer, she just turned and beeped open the door of her car.

“And I’ll have the Death by Chocolate for dessert,” A.J. murmured in Alison’s ear. “Although, I’m gonna order it to go.”

“I like you, too, Dr. Gallagher,” Alison told Rose, this time trying not to think about sharing a dessert called Death by Chocolate with A.J.—back in the privacy of his home. “But like I said. Too soon.”

The last of the cars and trucks were gone, leaving A.J. and Alison alone with his mother and Bev and Tom the shaman. Who appeared to be considered part of the family.

Rose turned back to look at her. “You know about it all?” she asked, again point-blank. “The Gulf War, the injuries, the hospital, the drinking, rehab … Everything?”

“Well gee, Ma, if she didn’t, she’d sure as hell know now, wouldn’t she?” A.J. said dryly.

Alison glanced at A.J. His mother may have exasperated and frustrated and sometimes even embarrassed him, but he didn’t really let that bother him. It amused him instead, his fondness for her clearly evident in his wry smile.

Alison looked back at Rose. “I know about everything.”

“Including Jamie?” Rose asked.

“She knows, Mom,” A.J. said.

But for the first time, Alison couldn’t quite hold the older woman’s steely gaze. She faltered, but for only a moment. Still it was enough.

“Hmm,” Rose said. “Another nonbeliever in the spirit world. Well, I guess it’s all right. I don’t buy it, but I love A.J., too.”

“I’m still sorting through what I’ve seen and … felt,” Alison tried to explain.

A.J. squeezed her hand, his fingers warm, his presence
solid. “It’s okay,” he said. “It’s not a problem. We’ll see you later, Mom. Tomorrow. We’ll stop by.”

He nodded to Tom and leaned forward and kissed his mother on the cheek before opening the door to his sister’s truck and helping Alison inside.

It’s not a problem
.

Tom Fallingstar moved to stand next to Rose and her bright-colored car, a silent pillar of support.

As A.J. climbed into the truck, as Bev started the engine and pulled away, Alison could feel Rose Gallagher’s brilliant green eyes, now tinged with sadness, still watching her.

I love A.J., too
.…

I was getting really tired of Gene.

If he even
was
Gene.

He’d headed back to Tucson, where he’d gotten a room in a cheap motel and sat around watching crap TV and smoking some kind of foul-looking drug that made me glad I didn’t have to breathe the air in there.

Twice a day a skinny whore with tremendously bad teeth would come in and do some of the drug with him and then pull up her skirt and give him a go as she leaned over the table and unenthusiastically watched whatever was flickering across the TV screen.

The first time I closed my eyes and stayed, but that made me want to rub myself all over with sandpaper, and then give myself a good bleaching. I’d always thought lovemaking was a beautiful thing—it certainly was whenever I had done it—but this was rutting, pure and simple, and about as beautiful as watching Gene take a dump.

It took him about five glorious minutes from start to finish, and really, the only reason I stuck around, staring at the sink in the bathroom, was in hope that she’d call him by name. Or that he’d say something.
Yeah, I’m waiting for a call from Wayne’s tall friend, you know, the one with the ponytail
 …, and then he’d fill in the blank by calling Wayne’s killer by name.

Because it was clear that old Maybe-Gene was waiting on
a phone call. His cell was out and in a position of importance on the bedside table—within easy reach at all times.

But Gene and his hooker friend didn’t bother talking. She’d knock, he’d let her in, and they’d start smoking. And then Gene would unzip.

By day two I learned to pop quickly away when she knocked, and this time, I went to check in on A.J., who’d just gotten back from dinner out with Alison.

She looked like a million bucks in a simple black dress and nice shoes, her hair shiny around her shoulders. She had her arms around A.J.’s neck and she was smiling up at him as they stood in his kitchen.

“You
really
should have let me pay,” she was saying. “You won the bet.”

I know he saw me pop in, at least out of the corner of his eye, but he purposely ignored me. In fact, he turned his back on me and kissed her soundly.

It was more than clear where
that
was going, so I said—somewhat crossly, “Sooner or later, kid. I need to talk to Alison about old dead Wayne.”

“Later,” he lifted his head to tell me, then kissed her again.