Hidden Heritage

by Charlotte Hinger

  It had gone to Tosca’s head and naturally was Betty Central’s idea to begin with. One afternoon when Josie was out here, Betty had asked me, Sam, Keith, Josie, and Tosca to come to the sheriff’s office. I’d bought a surprise present for Sam’s birthday, the only occasion I could think of that we would keep such a huge secret. Instead, Betty had ordered a cake and the little medal struck for Tosca who took the whole ritual very, very seriously. True, she had been right in the middle of a life-threatening situation, but she was a tiny little dog. She had trotted forward like she was receiving the Congressional Medal of Honor.

  Truth was, Keith and I did not want to think about the circumstances surrounding this medal ever again. Not ever.

  Today, she wore that medal in addition to the flag.

  Keith’s eyes had sparked at that ceremony and if Betty had even a lick of common sense she would have noticed his instant outrage over any hint of stolen valor. He did not want the service trivialized in any manner. But the medal was not a replica of any legitimate medal, so he had let it pass.

  But now his jaw tightened and he stroked Tosca, then carefully extracted the flag from her topknot. The medal and the ribbons stayed. My smile quivered and I carefully handed the flag to Josie whose own smile faded.

  “We do not use the flag as a decoration in this household.” Keith looked her in the eyes. “Not ever. Not on clothes or as an accessory.”

  I would explain all this to Josie later. Keith’s children and grandchildren stood there with solemn looks on their faces.

  Tosca eyed Keith with her huge brown eyes and slunk over to Josie with her tail between her legs like she had been stripped of her medal, too.

  “Christ.” Keith went to the little dog that whimpered and burrowed deeper into Josie’s arms. She would not give him a break. But neither would Keith relent and give her back the little miniature flag for her topknot.

  Josie is a highly regarded psychologist and college professor who has endured much—both physically and professionally—since she became a consultant for Carlton County. But I knew slights from Keith’s family were about the last straw and she took any criticism of Tosca hard.

  The whole flag issue was escalating into the third World War.

  “Let’s go look over your new car,” I said.

  “SUV,” she corrected. We walked to her vehicle, arm in arm, with Josie cradling her dog.

  Keith caught up with us.

  “Some car,” he said with a tone of false heartiness.

  The family flocked around. I was always on edge when Josie was around Keith’s children. Elizabeth glared with disapproval at the car. Her arms were crossed.

  Josie saw too much, knew too much about people. I could count on her behaving herself, having good manners, but I knew immediately when she retreated to a professional distance. My heart sank when I saw the switch after she glanced at Elizabeth. Josie would be cold. Removed. All weekend.

  “Rides, later,” she said. “Briefly, this has a really big engine and a…”

  “And a $110,000-plus price tag,” quipped one of Tom’s friends.

  Josie said nothing and her smile froze.

  “That’s four times what most of my clients earn in a year.” Elizabeth didn’t bother to disguise her disgust.

  Josie switched to resident bitch. I didn’t know which stance would be worse: bitch or professional. “Possibly. But you haven’t looked inside yet. There are lots of goodies that add to the total. He’s way under.”

  Oh God, I thought. She’s doing it on purpose. I could feel her baiting Elizabeth, flaunting this high-priced vehicle, picking up on this daughter’s scorn.

  “Nice to see you have brand loyalty. I hope you got a good trade-in price for your sedan.”

  “Oh, but I kept it,” Josie said sweetly. “It’s easier to park and drive around town. In fact, I might trade it in, too, for a new one this fall.”

  “Ah, Jesus,” I thought. There was no hope for any of this. Then inexplicably, I relaxed. This whole weekend was spiraling out of control and it was not my fault and therefore not my responsibility to rescue it.

  Tom’s friends had no mixed emotions. They scrutinized the instrument panel, admired the leather seats, the high dollar speakers and audio systems, and enthusiastically commented on all the safety features. Tom shot Josie a sympathetic look and winked.

  “Time to eat,” I said and we all trooped inside. After digging into the informal buffet, we went into the room where we normally gathered to play music. Tuning was more complicated by the time we worked Tom’s friends into the process.

  I passed on playing my guitar and settled into a comfortable chair to listen while I sipped a glass of good Scotch. For a minute, Josie’s first visit to meet Keith’s family crossed my mind.

  One that had ended in murder.

  Tom led things off. One by one, his friends joined in as surely as if they had practiced for months. They had to all have played together before.

  “So what’s the deal, gentlemen? Do you all Skype each other and practice the same songs every week?”

  Tom laughed. “No, nothing that complicated. We played together in high school and through the years we just naturally found ourselves listening to the same people.”

  “He’s a damn liar,” said Paul Stone, a tall dark-skinned man who played the upright bass. “He emailed all of us and told us he was coming home and that we’d better get ready.”

  “Well, that too,” Tom grinned. “We all play every chance we get.”

  “That’s obvious,” I said. So far, Josie had just sat on the sidelines. I wanted these men to know how talented she was. “Josie, aren’t you going to join in?”

  “Thought you would never ask.” She rose, carried Tosca over to me, and took her violin from the case. She checked her tuning against Keith’s and carefully coordinated her instrument to the group. It was jammer’s choice and moved in a circle, with each musician in turn calling for a number, usually the one he played best. Josie quickly earned their respect as she was able to pick up on every melody. She was just getting started.

  When it came around to her she was well into the mood. Fun, cooperative. I expected her to ask for the “Orange Blossom Special”—a classic crowd-pleasing fiddle tune.

  “Let’s do ‘Limerock’.”

  Tom choked on his home brew.

  “I’ve been practicing.” She looked at Keith, who grinned and threw up his hands.

  Just last spring Old Man Snyder had won the music contest with this difficult tune and both she and Keith had become obsessed with mastering it.

  “Well, all right,” one of the men said with some amusement. “Let’s do it.”

  She was fabulous. Breathtaking. Not only with her musicality, but also her showmanship. She was a beautiful woman and only when she played music did she let her guard down.

  “Well, damn honey,” Lyle Aller said softly after they finished. “We need to have a little chat. Do you need a roadie? Got an agent?”

  “Forget it, Lyle,” I said. “She’s got a day job.”

  “Figures,” he moaned. “Well, do you know ‘Olympic Reel’?”

  “No, but maybe I can fake it.”

  “Ya think?” He hummed a couple of lines and she listened intently following his strumming and the rhythm. The men immediately launched into the song and in a short time she could play under and over the melody.

  Then I saw Elizabeth’s face. Dark, hostile. I followed her gaze as it switched from my beautiful vibrant sister to the lead guitarist.

  Simply plain vanilla jealousy. That was all. Elizabeth couldn’t take her eyes off Lyle. Well, well, well.

  She jumped to her feet and headed for the piano. “Let’s all sing along,” she called over her shoulder.

  Elizabeth is a fine pianist in any genre, but she’s really exceptional when she plays honky-
tonk. To my dismay she launched into a road house country classic “Wild Side of Life.” There’s only so much showing off you can do with countrywestern. Bluegrass can involve complex instrumentation, whereas its lower-keyed cousin concentrated on ballads. That fixed Josie, of course. Fixed her little red wagon.

  I headed for the Scotch and decided to drink a lot.

  Although Sam was on duty, Keith and I have an informal agreement that one of us abstains from drinking in case we need to back Sam up. This was a new rule. One we had adopted after Josie and I ended up in jail in another sheriff’s county. Nothing about the misadventure was alcohol related, but it wouldn’t have helped our case if Sheriff Deal had ordered blood alcohol tests.

  The new rule wasn’t working well. It meant Keith and I couldn’t go out for dinner and enjoy a meal and a drink unless there was a reserve deputy available. Tonight was my husband’s turn to make like a teetotaler.

  Like a soldier with pending stress trauma, I eyed the phone, willed it to stay silent, and went back to the living room. I was coaxed into singing my throaty rendition of Kitty Wells’ reply to “Wild Side of Life.” Tom and company were well oiled. Bettina had long since disappeared upstairs with the boys.

  Elizabeth thumped along with her effortless riffs on the piano and giving me a broad wink, Josie got into the spirit of the event, picked up her bow, and managed to insert a soft accompaniment. By the time I reached the third verse she had it figured out and came in with her lovely contralto, echoing the end of the line with just enough hesitation on “you gave up the only one who ever loved you” to change the tone from high camp to appreciation for country classics. In a heartbeat she switched from the superb musicality of bluegrass to an awareness of the human condition and the universal sorrow of life and love and death.

  Even though drinking songs and cheating songs are the heartbeat of country western, especially roadhouse country, Josie and I were avid opera lovers.

  I knew she really understood now. Understood all of a sudden that the pathos of opera and countrywestern were the same. Lost love, lost chances, unbearable tragedy.

  Even Elizabeth settled down into a rare congeniality. We all picked up on one song after another and played until two o’clock. By that time I lost my anxiety over the telephone.

  Lulled into a false sense of security by the dog that didn’t bark.

  Chapter Eight

  Angie and her newest husband arrived the next morning. She was two years younger than Tom, wasp-thin, with translucent skin that showed every vein. Childless, she was drawn to Bettina’s boys. No one ever said much about her first two marriages except Keith who had dismissed Angie’s men as “no-count bastards.” He said she had been involved in two abusive relationships.

  In some ways, I was more comfortable around Elizabeth who exploded, raged, wept, and bore down on all of us like a violent storm system. I knew to watch my back around Elizabeth. No need to guard against anything with Bettina, who was wonderfully sane. She was warm, courteous and thoughtful, with a rare sense of what was important. Josie insisted she was the only one of Keith’s daughters who wasn’t crazy.

  I don’t know Angie like I do Elizabeth and Bettina. This stepdaughter carefully said all the right things like someone visiting a stranger. She swallowed my coffee and declared it was just right, which had to be a lie. She helped with every household task and swore she didn’t mind. “It’s fun, really. I’m just glad to be around my family.”

  Today, Angie was inexplicably jumpy and didn’t act like a woman glad to be around anyone. Now as we put together a late brunch, I followed her gaze to Keith’s portrait of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. Dry palm leaves protruded from the top. He put them there after every Palm Sunday service and took them back to the church a couple of days before the beginning of Lent the following year so the priest could burn them for use in the Ash Wednesday service. I don’t like this picture and had once suggested to Keith that we replace it with a reproduction of Odilon Redon’s concept of The Sacred Heart.

  Fat chance. It was the last time I intruded on his religious practices.

  Angie didn’t like it either. She gazed at the Sacred Heart with hostility. She caught me studying her, gave an embarrassed shrug, and turned back to slicing the little membranes in grapefruit halves. She put a maraschino cherry atop each one then grouped them on a bright lime Fiesta plate next to a pitcher of orange juice.

  Angie’s husband bounded down the stairs. Steve Bender was in charge of sales for an insurance company and was as outgoing as Angie was stiff. Once when I visited them, I was tempted to count the rows of motivational books, CDs, and videos on closing sales, winning people over, and pepping oneself up long enough to make it through the day.

  Steve made it a point to use people’s names at least twice in every conversation and could not tolerate any form of negativity.

  Obviously happy to begin the day with a knock ’em dead breakfast, Keith said grace. Angie obediently bowed her head although she is not a Catholic. All of Keith’s children were raised in the church and Keith never discussed why religion hadn’t taken with this one daughter.

  Awkwardly, I fumbled for something to talk about. “I hear the Denver housing market is going through a downturn.”

  “No,” Steve said immediately. “That’s defeatist thinking.”

  “Well. It makes sense to me to call a spade a spade and alter strategy,” I took care to keep my tone light. “We all have to back off sometimes. Deals sour. Bad days do happen.”

  “I won’t allow my friends or relations to have bad days.” He flashed his white, white teeth.

  Keith said nothing.

  Dumbfounded by Steve’s arrogance, I glanced at Angie who averted her eyes and didn’t disguise a bitter half-smile before she rose. “Coffee anyone?” she asked brightly.

  Angie had had two miscarriages. Must be fun being married to a relentlessly positive thinker.

  I suspected Angie had traded one kind of abuse for another.

  There was a blessed interruption when Bettina and Jim clattered down the stairs. They helped the boys choose food from the buffet, then joined us at the kitchen table. Elizabeth was close behind, but took her plate out to the patio table and sat across from Tom. Sunshine spilled into the room. Keith smiled at Tosca’s yips coming from the backyard. I took an extra helping of eggs, and began to talk about the weather. The forecast predicted the temperature would rise to a frightening level by late afternoon.

  “Do you think Marvin and Sam will be able to handle everything, Keith? I’m worried about people who don’t know any better staying out in the sun too long.”

  “They should be okay, but maybe we should take extra coolers of ice just in case. And sheets,” he added, turning to Steve to keep him included in the conversation. “If someone has a heatstroke, we wrap them in ice cold sheets until the EMTs get there.”

  “We attract what we prepare for,” Steve said. “It’s the law of the universe. You’re preparing for trouble.”

  Not trusting myself to speak, I rose and joined the assortment of family on the patio.

  ***

  Tom and Zola were headed toward the barn. Joshua and Kent were trying to set up the wickets for the croquet set. Jimmy laughed at their vain attempts to insert the wire loops into the rock hard summer soil. “Wait until I finish my coffee,” he called. “Then I’ll help.”

  “We can do it,” they yelled in one voice. Tosca was on serious rabbit control and barely glanced at me. Keith came outside to join us. We wouldn’t be going to the fair until time for the parade.

  Only Angie and Steve were inside. I could hear their low unhappy voices, but couldn’t make out what they were arguing about. A short time later, Angie came outside.

  “Anyone up for a rain dance?” she said brightly.

  “Not in this heat.”

  “I’ve never seen it this dry, Dad. Are your crop
s holding up?”

  “What crops? They’re history. It’s too late for rain.”

  “It’s like God has decided to pass us over for a year.”

  Josie came around the corner of the house and joined us. “It’s not like we’re entitled to rain. Consider it a blessing.”

  “Some people just simply seem to feel more entitled than others,” Elizabeth said. We all knew who she meant. Josie’s eyes narrowed.

  “So who owns the rain?” I piped up to stop this nonsense before it took on a life of its own.

  “Wrong song, Lottie,” Keith said. “The title is “Who’ll Stop the Rain?” It’s early Credence Clearwater Revival.”

  “That’s not right, either. It’s “Have You Ever Seen the Rain?”

  “Whatever.” Relieved, I saw that Elizabeth was revving up to deliver one of her lawyerly lectures instead of baiting Josie.

  “As to Lottie’s question, ‘who owns the rain?’ water rights are really quite complicated out here. And it depends on which state you are living in. There’s a huge fight between Kansas and Colorado over water rights. Since 1902, Kansas has claimed that Colorado is taking too much water out of the Arkansas River.”

  “That doesn’t account for the rain,” Josie clearly didn’t want to miss the chance to start a fight.

  “That depends, too, on which state you are living in. In Oregon the state owns the rain.”

  That got our attention.

  “If you dig a pond on your property without permission, the state owns the water. It wasn’t legal to use a rain barrel in Colorado until 2009.”

  “We’re lucky to live in Kansas because we can use the rain God gives us without a permit from the government. To water chickens, which no one has nowadays. Or to water a two acre garden. If we have any rain to use, that is.”

  Blessedly there was a howl of disappointment from Joshua who accidentally hit one of the croquet balls into the windbreak. I wasn’t up to “friendly” banter.

  Bettina and Jimmy went to comfort him and I went inside to tidy up the kitchen.