Tumbling Blocks (31 page)

“She always does,” he said. “My wife is very competent.”

They stared at each other a moment. The air seemed to crackle in our small kitchen. I almost said something, thinking that maybe Dove’s advice wasn’t right just at this moment, that perhaps these two did need intervention. I caught Ray’s eye, and he shook his head slightly from side to side. Though I hadn’t known him long, he’d impressed me as being a wise and thoughtful man, so I heeded his warning.

“Why couldn’t you be there?” Kathyrn asked.

“I had to work.” He looked over at me. “Didn’t you tell her I had to work?”

I nodded my head, not daring to say anything.

“Surely you could have taken an hour out of your busy schedule for your wife’s event. Honestly, Gabe, this was a big night in Benni’s life, and I would think you’d want to be a part of it.”

“I had to work,” he repeated, enunciating each word with great care. “
Surely
you know what that’s like, not being there for your family because duty calls.”

His bitter words took her by surprise, as they did me. But she recovered more quickly. Her voice was cold. “I was trying to make a living for my family.”

“So am I,” he replied, matching her icy tone.

He left the room without another word. The three of us sat there in stunned and embarrassed silence. Thankfully, Boo chose that time to wake up and start squirming in my hands.

“Whoops,” I said, standing up. “I think someone needs to go outside and water the grass.”

It was a perfect out for me. The moment was about as awkward as I’d ever experienced. I’d been married to my first husband, Jack, for fifteen years, and had lived within shouting distance of his mother. Nothing close to this kind of thing had ever happened. But Jack and his mother had both been extremely easygoing people. Jack had been her youngest son, the one who had inherited her relaxed and cheerful personality. His older brother, Wade, had been the volatile one, the one more like his father. Gabe and his mother were behaving like Wade and my late father-in-law: two strong-willed people butting heads, both determined to prove the other was at fault.

Though I felt sympathy for Kathryn, I also knew that she’d asked for it a little by springing her new husband on Gabe and keeping him out of the loop about her MS.

And there was all that history when Rogelio died—Kathryn, a traumatized widow with the frightening task of making a living, raising her ten-year-old daughters and coping with Gabe, a traumatized, out-of-control sixteen-year-old boy with raging hormones and a grief he couldn’t express. If any family had needed grief counseling, it was probably them, but people weren’t as open and accepting about going to therapy back in the sixties.

When I came back into the kitchen, only Ray was there. He was rinsing out our teacups and putting them in the dishwasher.

“Kathryn went to bed,” he said. “She asked me to wish you good night.”

I set Boo down on the floor and reached into the dog treat jar to give him and Scout their before-bed biscuits. I couldn’t help smiling when Boo took his biscuit, threw it in the air and attacked it like it was actually a moving animal. I was beginning to remember why people got puppies. Their spontaneous antics made you forget for a moment the dreariness of everyday life. I turned my eyes back to Ray. “What are we going to do?”

He closed the dishwasher door and turned to look at me. “Benni, this is old, old business that happened way before you or I came into the picture. I don’t think we can do anything except wait around to pick up the pieces.”

I sighed, reached down and scratched behind Scout’s ears. He looked up at me, his golden-brown eyes worried. He was more nervous than usual, obviously picking up on the tension in the house. Like most animals, he hated it when his routine, either physically or emotionally, was interrupted. “You’re right. It’s basically the same advice Dove gave me, but I can’t help but want to hurry things along. It would be a tragedy for Kathryn to go home without the two of them resolving this.”

His face looked tired. “I know.”

Upstairs, Gabe was in bed with his bedside light already turned out. I put Boo in his crate and took a shower. By the time I crawled under the covers, I’d decided that if Gabe was awake, I would talk to him about this.

“Friday?” I whispered.

“I’m awake.” His voice was flat, unemotional, telling me that he did not want to talk about this.

I scooted closer to him, placing my hand on his warm back. The snarling marine bulldog tattooed on his back eyed me with its never-changing anger. “Friday, this can’t go on.”

“I don’t want to talk about this, Benni.” He didn’t move an inch.

I leaned over and placed my lips right over the bulldog’s mean-looking face. “Did you see Father Mark tonight?”

I felt his back stiffen, then he turned over to look at me. “If you’re asking whether Mark said anything about my mother, no, he didn’t, because I didn’t tell him she was visiting.”

“Oh,” was all I could say. Then, in a moment of frustration, I sat up and decided to ignore all the advice I’d been given and tell my husband what I thought. “Well, I think you’re acting like a jerk and that you ought to just forgive your mom for whatever it is that is upsetting you and get on with your life. This is ridiculous.”

He didn’t move a muscle but lay on his back, his head propped up by his pillows, and just looked at me. The look said it all. “I think,” he said, saying each word slowly. “That you should mind your own business and—”

I held up my hand for him to stop. “This is my business—”

He sat up and lowered his voice in anger. “No, it is not. You don’t know what it felt like to be left at sixteen with an uncle I barely knew, starting over in a new school, not seeing my mom and my sisters for almost a year. I was the man of the family . . . My dad would have . . .” His voice faltered.

“I’m sorry,” I said, moving closer to him. “I know it must have been hard, but, Gabe, that was so long ago.”

“She didn’t call me for two months,” he said, his voice harsh. “My dad had been dead less than three months, and she didn’t even call.”

“Have you told her this? I mean, did you two ever talk about it?”

He gave a low, bitter laugh. “Right. That would be so easy, talking to my mom. What do you think?”

I moved closer to him, touched his face. “Maybe that’s why she came out here. Maybe it’s time you talked. Maybe it’s time you . . .” I swallowed, then tried again. “Time you forgave her.”

“She’s never asked for forgiveness. She’s never said she was sorry.”

I didn’t know what to answer. He was right; it would be easier if she brought it up, if she said she was sorry, asked for his forgiveness. “I know that would be the ideal, Friday. But sometimes we have to forgive even when the person doesn’t ask us to.”

He narrowed his eyes at me, not willing yet to give up his anger. “Easy for you to say.”

I looked over at him, thinking of Jack, the night not many years ago when he left Trigger’s, a bar down by the bus station, angry and drunk, with a friend. The question of whether he was driving or not remained unanswered. It would never be answered, and did it matter anyway? Months after he died I was so angry at him for being stupid and selfish, for risking so much because of an inconsequential fight with his brother, Wade. I thought I’d never forgive him, never forgive Wade. But I did forgive his brother. And if I could see Jack one more time, I’d hug him hard and say, “It’s okay. We all mess up. I forgive you. I’ll always love you.”

But I’d never be able to hug or talk to him again. But I could forgive. That was the one thing I could do. And when I did, I was able to go on with my life. It was when I was able to feel real love again.

“No,” I said, touching his shoulder. “It’s not easy for me to say.”

He pulled away and turned back over. “Let me handle this.” Those were the last words he said to me. I lay in the dark for a long time afterward, listening to his even breathing as he slept.

The next morning, his side of the bed was empty when I woke up. There was a note lying on his pillow. “I turned off your alarm and took Scout and the puppy out at about five a.m.” I glanced over at the clock. It was seven a.m. Through the closed bedroom door, I heard the distant clatter of pots and pans.

Downstairs, I discovered Ray stirring oatmeal. Scout and Boo were playing with a crumpled paper sack on the kitchen floor. I glanced out the kitchen window. Gabe’s car was gone.

“Gabe went to work early,” he said. “I’m making enough for two.”

“Thanks.” I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d rather have a Pop-Tart.

“Coffee’s fresh. And strong.”

“The stronger the better.” I poured a cup, took a sip of it black, a huge change for me, but I needed the quick jolt this morning. “How’s Kathryn?”

“Not awake yet. I’m letting her sleep. Nights are sometimes hard, so she has to sleep when she can.”

“Of course.” I wanted to ask more about how she felt, find out more about what to expect with this disease, but now wasn’t the time. What Ray and I needed to do right now was eat a quiet, relaxing breakfast. “I’ll call Gabe later on today. Find out what’s up for dinner.”

He nodded and kept stirring.

The oatmeal started to softly bubble. I contemplated apologizing for Gabe’s behavior last night, then decided that it wasn’t my place to do that.

“What are your plans for today?” Ray asked.

I opened the cupboard and took out two deep bowls. “I’ll probably drop by the museum to make sure the tours are going okay, then I’ll try to finish up my Christmas shopping. What are you and Kathryn going to do?”

“I think we’ll stay around the house today. Yesterday was pretty tiring for her. If you’d like to leave the dogs, we’d be happy to watch them.” He smiled and spooned some oatmeal in the bowls.

“That would be great,” I said, then reconsidered. “Actually, I’ll take Scout with me. He’s been a bit neglected since Boo arrived. But if you’d watch the little guy, I’d sure appreciate it. Doggie day care is wonderful, but I think he needs a quiet day. Don’t want to give an overly exhausted puppy back to my friend.”

“Don’t worry a bit,” Ray said, sitting down in front of his cereal. “Feel free to stay out as long as you need.”

This worked into my plans very well. I wasn’t lying when I said I needed to finish up my shopping. I would do that. But I also wanted to go out to Pinky’s house and look for that cat, see if he actually looked like the one in Abe Adam’s painting. What I thought that would prove, I had no idea. But it beat worrying about my husband and his mother.

I threw on faded Wranglers, my oldest boots and a pale green San Celina Cattlewomen’s Association sweatshirt. I also wanted to explore the land around Pinky’s house, the land that Bobbie and Pete wanted to include in their easement. I wondered if Nola bought the place if she’d consider such an arrangement. I didn’t have a clue about her feelings about the environment.

Thinking about hiking around Pinky’s property lightened my mood. I needed to get outside, get my boots dirty, and smell the pine and oak trees. Scout would have a ball, and we’d both come back more relaxed and able to cope with life.

It was a cold, misty day with storm clouds roiling around San Celina’s hills like soldiers getting ready for battle. I drove Highway 1 out to Cambria, the Pacific Ocean to my left, gray and flat, almost the same color as the steely sky.

When I got to Santa Rosa Creek Road, I rolled the truck’s passenger window down a crack, just enough for Scout to smell things but not enough for him to stick his head out. I’d read enough about dogs’ eye injuries from flying debris to do that any longer. But he loved stretching his nose up to smell the passing scent of rabbits, squirrels, skunks and other varmints. Coming out here reminded me that I hadn’t been to the ranch and worked cattle with Daddy for over a month. Not that he needed my help anymore. There were any number of young men who needed the part-time work, and Sam was always willing to help him, but I missed it. I rolled down my own window so I could enjoy the scent of damp earth and fresh pine.

Pinky’s house was as gorgeous as I remembered, but it definitely looked empty and, if it was possible, a little sad. I wondered who would eventually buy this house and live here. Though Nola was considering buying it, a part of me hoped a young family would move in. This house needed children. Though with the real estate prices being the way they were in Cambria and throughout San Celina County, that wasn’t likely. If not Nola Finch, it was more apt to be some idealistic retired couple from Los Angeles or the Bay Area who had visions of living the country life. When they realized how inconvenient rural life was, it would be sold again. And maybe again. If it was lucky, it would end up being a bed-and-breakfast. If it wasn’t, if the joint easement with Pete and Bobbie didn’t work out, the house might be moved or even torn down and the land eventually sold for an upscale housing tract.

I pulled into the circular driveway and parked. I opened the door and let Scout jump out. While he sniffed around the area close to the truck, I flipped through the folder with the photo of the painting and the articles I’d found on Abe Adam. I glanced over them again, looking for something, though I wasn’t sure what. There was something that had been bugging me for a while, something that pecked at my subconscious, persistent as one of Dove’s chickens. A piece of the puzzle, the puzzle that was Abe Adam Finch.

Scout gave a joyful bark, chasing after a black and yellow butterfly. He was thrilled to be outside, unencumbered by the small charge he’d taken so seriously. I stepped out of the truck and watched him frolic like a puppy on the emerald grass in front of Pinky’s house. It made me forget everything for a moment and just laugh at his obvious joy. He caught scent of a rabbit and turned to look at me, his thick body shuddering with excitement, his shiny eyes begging.