Occasion of Revenge (8 page)

It was a dig, but I couldn’t resist. “Did you think we’d run away or something?”

“Not funny, Mother.”

“I know. I’m sorry.” The coffee had come, so I added some sugar and cream and gave it an absentminded stir. “Look, pumpkin, will you do me a favor?”

“What is it?”

I paused for a moment, not quite believing what I was about to say. Although I’d rather not see Darlene
ever again, I had to be fair to Dad. He would want her to know.

“Mom? Are you there?”

“Sorry, I was just fixing my coffee. Look, honey. Would you call Darlene Tinsley and tell her about your grandfather’s accident? I have her number written down in the flip-top phone book in the kitchen.”

“OK, but you owe me.” Emily paused. “You know I don’t like her very much.”

“Be nice, now. She’s your grandfather’s friend.”

“For sure. And, Mom?”

“What?”

“I love you.”

I pushed the End button and stared at the tiny display screen, nearly overcome with emotion. During Emily’s troubled teenage years, I would gladly have paid a million dollars to hear her say those words. I laid down the phone and took a grateful sip of coffee, rich with cream and sugar, letting it roll over my tongue and down my throat like a soothing balm. I took time to survey the busy restaurant, but the cheerful orange booths and bright orange-and-yellow vinyl chairs and barstools did little to sunny up my disposition.

“Do you want to see the menu?” Paul asked, even though we both had it practically memorized. In any case, the main menu options were plastered all over the walls on colorful disks the size of dinner plates.

#311. The Parris N. Glendening. A baked potato with broccoli and cheese.

#14. The Bill Clinton. Turkey breast on whole wheat toast.

Al Gore was immortalized as a chicken sandwich, and when I got to Senator Barbara Mikulski, the open-face tuna on a bagel, I wondered, not for the first
time, if there weren’t just a bit of editorializing going on, with a decidedly Republican bent. Years ago, the Jimmy Carter sandwich had been peanut butter and bologna. I rest my case.

But it was too early for sandwiches.

Ruth ordered her usual bagel and Paul and I decided on the mushroom-and-cheese omelet which (Oh, joy!) comes with fries.

We gave our order to the waitress. Then, thinking about the copy of the citation in my purse, I said, “I wonder if Daddy knew what he was signing.”

Paul shrugged. “It doesn’t matter, honey. He’d have been in even bigger trouble if he didn’t sign the darn thing. His driver’s license would have been confiscated immediately.”

“Does he have a lawyer, Ruth?”

“I don’t think so; maybe in Seattle, but not in Annapolis.”

“I’ll call Murray Sullivan,” Paul volunteered.

“Don’t you know anybody else?” I hadn’t laid eyes on Murray since the time Paul was accused of sexual harassment by a female midshipman and our marriage had nearly fallen apart. Thinking about it still hurt. I glanced at Paul sideways through my eyelashes. From the wistful look on his face, I could tell he knew what I was thinking.

He shrugged. “OK. I’ll see what I can do.”

I smiled at him gratefully.

Directly behind my husband’s head there was a fourteen-year-old birth announcement, progressively yellowing, and every spare inch of wall was covered with photographs, drawings, and letters of appreciation to Chick and Ruth Levin who, framed newspaper articles reminded us, had passed away in 1995 and 1986 respectively.

Son Ted and his wife kept up the family business and its traditions now. It may have been dying of neglect in the public schools, but the Pledge of Allegiance was alive and well at Chick & Ruth’s Delly. The American flag hung behind the cashier, near a sign that read “Cashier/Carry Out/Hotel Check In,” and every morning at eight-thirty, slightly later on weekends, everyone stood for the pledge. I had been sitting so long, I welcomed the opportunity to shake out the cramps in my legs and persuade my right foot, which had gone to sleep, to rise and shine.

After the pledge, we settled back into our seats and I reached for the last french fry, but Paul’s fingers got there before me. “You know,” he said, licking his fingers, “after that I’m feeling so patriotic I may have to sing ‘The Star Spangled Banner.’ ”

I covered my ears with my hands. “Please! Tell me when it’s over!” Although he tried, Lord knows he tried, Paul couldn’t carry a tune in a bucket.

“It’s a difficult song, anyway,” Ruth commented. “Way out of my range, especially the rockets’ red glare part.”

“Dad doesn’t have any trouble,” I said softly. He’d taken me to an Orioles game the previous fall and I’d stood beside him, marveling as he sang the heart right out of that anthem in his rich, full baritone.

Over my head, a bagel danced on the end of the pull cord for the fluorescent light fixture. “What turns so many veterans into homeless alcoholics?” I wondered out loud. “All those guys sleeping on heat grates in Washington, D.C.?”

Ruth got my drift. “That won’t happen to Daddy, Hannah. He’s got his pension.”

Paul signaled the waitress for a refill on our coffee.
“She’s right, Hannah. Darlene could steal your father’s affection and everything of value that he owns, but she couldn’t take that away from him.”

“Yes, but there’s more to life than money,” I said. “Much more.”

Sunday and Monday we took turns visiting the hospital. Even Dante, who had Monday off, stuck his head in before disappearing for a reunion with his little family. When I showed up around noon, Daddy was in high spirits, propped up in bed reading a Patrick O’Brian novel. There was no sign of the d.t.’s. That doctor was totally wrong. He got us all spun up over nothing.

Daddy laid the book facedown on his blanket. “Hi, sweetheart.”

“Hi, yourself.”

“You just missed Darlene.”

“Oh?” I said. “What a shame.” To be truthful, I was glad I didn’t have to deal with Darlene. The way she acted around my father, all kiss-kiss and lovey-dovey, made me gag. After a few minutes of small talk, I was brave enough to ask, “What do you see in her, Daddy?”

“She’s fun. She makes me feel young again.” He slipped off his reading glasses and looked directly into my eyes. “And that’s worth quite a lot in today’s market!”

“I’m sure that’s true, but as long as we’re talking about today’s market, there are hundreds of widows out there for every available man. Why not date somebody closer to your own age?”

“Seventy? Ha! I’m seventy years old, sweetheart. I’m running out of time in the life expectancy sweepstakes. I don’t want a relationship with someone I’m going to have to worry about losing at any minute.” He closed
his eyes for a moment and I knew he must be thinking about Mother.

“Darlene could get hit by a bus tomorrow, Daddy. You never know what’s going to happen.” I pointed to his bandaged head. “You just proved that.”

It was the first time I’d heard Daddy laugh since Connie and Dennis’s wedding. “I could get hit by a truck?”

“You could get hit by a truck.”

He stared out the window where we could see the bare dancing branches of the trees lining Franklin Street. “When your mother died, something inside me died, too.” He turned his head toward me and winked. “Darlene’s relit the spark.” He snapped his fingers. “There’s life in the old boy yet!”

I tried not to think about what form relighting that spark might take. “Does that mean you’re
serious
about this woman? Is she The One?”

Daddy didn’t answer right away, but when he did, his voice was almost a whisper. “Your mother was The One. The only one.”

“So, does this mean you’re
not
going to marry Darlene?”

“There’ll be time enough to think about that when I get out of here.”

“Don’t rush it.”

“What? Marrying Darlene or getting out of here?”

“Either one.”

Daddy twisted his long body sideways, winced, then rearranged the pillow that supported his back. When he got settled again he said, “Sometimes I feel sorry for her, Hannah. Did you know that somebody tried to poison Speedo?”

“Speedo?”

“Her dog.”

“No! That’s horrible!”

Daddy nodded. And she’s been getting harassing telephone calls.”

“Really? What do they say?”

“Not much in the way of words. Someone breathes noisily for a while, then hangs up. Or, they make a noise like this …” Daddy gave a particularly liquid Bronx cheer. “Then they hang up.”

“Sounds like kids. Forty years ago I tortured strangers with a very fine rendition of ‘Is your refrigerator running?’ ”

Daddy smiled, then shook his head. “Somehow, I don’t think it’s kids.”

“What makes you think that?”

“Because she’s also getting nasty cards and letters.”

“Nasty cards?” I sat back in my chair and thought for a moment. When I worked at Whitworth & Sullivan we used to call them Nasty-Grams—the terse communiqués emerging from the office of the office manager slash drill sergeant. But I’d never heard of a nasty card.

“Sick. People are sick,” Daddy snorted. “Don’t know where they buy these things, but they’re sick.”

“Like what?”

“I’m almost embarrassed to tell you.”

“Daddy, last time I looked, I was forty-seven. I’m a grown woman. I think I can take it.”

“First there was an envelope addressed to Darlene in block letters. But the return address was printed on. It said Last Chance Dating Service, and at the bottom of the envelope someone had stamped Application Rejected.”

I stifled a laugh. “But that’s funny! Surely whoever sent that envelope meant it as a joke.”

“Darlene doesn’t think so.”

“That’s it?”

“No. There have been others, and she’s been getting cards, too. Cards with twisted greetings like ‘Is that your face … or are you mooning me?’ ”

This time I laughed out loud. Daddy shot me a withering glance like I was six years old and I’d just knocked over my juice cup for the third time. I forced the muscles in my face to line up seriously. “Has she argued with anyone recently? A neighbor, for instance?”

He shook his head vehemently. “Ouch!” He patted the bandage where the tape wrapped around his right ear. “Not that I know of.”

“How about her own kids?”

“No, they have lives of their own and pretty much keep to themselves.” His eyebrows shot up and his face brightened. “You’re going to meet them, by the way.”

“I am? When?”

“Saturday night. Darlene’s having a party. Seven o’clock.” He pointed a long finger in the general vicinity of my nose. “Be there or be square!”

“Saturday! But will you even be out of the hospital by then?”

“Of course. Unless something turns up in the test results, I’ll bet I can go home tomorrow.”

I must have looked skeptical because he grabbed my hand and insisted, “I’m fine! I feel guilty lying here, like I’m taking a bed from someone who really needs it.”

My father’s predictions came true. On Tuesday morning, Ruth called to report that she’d be picking Daddy
up and bringing him home the following day. When the call came, Paul was at work, Emily and Dante were house hunting with Chloe, and I had taken the portable phone to the basement so I could talk to my sister while sorting the laundry. The largest load was soaking in a pink plastic pail: two dozen cloth diapers necessitated by Emily’s refusal to pollute the environment with Pampers or Huggies. I had just added the diapers and a cup of Boraxo to the washing machine when the telephone rang again.

“Mrs. Ives?”

“Uh-huh.” I twisted the dial to the fourteen-minute soak-and-wash cycle and pushed it in.

“This is Marjorie Kemper, your father’s next door neighbor? I don’t wish to alarm you, but I know George is in the hospital and, well, there’s a van I don’t recognize sitting in your father’s driveway, and some guy is loading things into it.”

“Ohmygawd! What does the van look like?”

“It’s dark blue and kind of battered.”

“It doesn’t sound familiar. Did you call the police?”

“No. First I called Ruth at her store, but the line was busy. So I called you. I wanted to check if you knew this person before I called the police. Sounds like the answer is no.”

“You’re quite right. Look, uh, Marjorie. See if you can get the license number. I’ll be right over.”

“Can I help?” she asked. “I can block the driveway with my car. And I have a gun.”

The last time I’d seen Marjorie Kemper, she had been wearing a skirted swimsuit and a flowered bathing cap and was doing laps in her backyard pool. I added a gun to the scenario and had to grab onto the washing machine to keep from falling over. “Lord, no,
Mrs. Kemper! Just sit tight, keep an eye on the van, and write down anything you think might be helpful.” I was about to hang up when I had another thought. “And keep trying to get Ruth.”

By the time I arrived at my father’s house, just seconds before Ruth and five minutes before the cops, the van was gone and so was the wide-screen television, the VCR, the DVD player, the stereo tuner, the CD player, and my father’s extensive collection of opera CD’s. I threw myself into an overstuffed chair, seriously depressed.

“How am I going to tell him about this? Mother gave him most of those CD’s! This’ll kill him!” With a sick feeling in the pit of my stomach, I stared at the clean spot on the shelf where treasures such as Wagner’s
Ring
cycle and Boïto’s
Mefistofele
had so recently sat. “Is anything else missing?”

“The silver tea service is OK and I checked the silverware drawer, and it’s all there.” Ruth had a sudden thought. “Wait a minute!” She rushed upstairs, but was back in less than two minutes. “False alarm! Mom’s jewelry is still in its box on the dresser.”

“They were after the electronics,” one of the officers, the tall one, said.

“Our neighbor got his license number,” I said brightly, standing up and pointing out the window in the direction of the Kemper house.

The officer shook his head. “I hate to be discouraging, but that plate was probably stolen.”

I leaned against the wall feeling defeated. “Will the insurance cover it?” I asked Ruth.

“I should imagine, but there’ll be a deductible.” She sighed and sank into the chair I had just vacated. “I
can’t imagine Daddy living anywhere for long without his opera.”