Shotgun, Wedding, Bells

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  That spring, when Francois journeyed to St. Louis, he recognized the potential for a business selling supplies to fur traders. Since he had many friends among the voyageurs, he was trusted by them, and his small mercantile quickly flourished. Word of his success reached far and wide. All he needed was a wife, so he wrote letters back to his family in Canada, asking them to find someone suitable. Thus he began a stilted correspondence with a French Canadian lass, Marie de Haviland.

  Arriving in St. Louis, she found a well-established business, an eager young man, and a small building with a hastily added second floor for living quarters. Marie might have expected more, but she was too stubborn to return home. Theirs was an uneasy marriage. Francois was convinced that St. Louis could only grow and prosper. Instead of buying furniture or building a house away from the dirt of the main street, he spent every coin that came his way on more land. This did not please his young bride. Before long, he had bought up most of the riverfront property and earned his wife’s hatred.

  Marie might have run away, if she hadn't become pregnant repeatedly. Francois, it's been said, had a dream of fathering a dynasty. To do so, he needed as many sons as Marie could give him.

  Over time, Oberlione became Oberlin. Marie blessed Francois with many children. Thanks to Oberlin’s wise investments, his sons went on to great riches. Following the example set by their pater familia, they bought up land and invested in businesses. To say the Oberlins are wealthy is like saying Ford builds cars.

  The Oberlins went forth and multiplied, sometimes within the confines of marriage and sometimes on the wrong side of the blanket, so to speak, but always with their heads held high.

  In St. Louis, the “old” society can usually trace its roots to those early fur trappers and beer barons. Therefore, the Oberlins not only enjoy the natural caché of being rich, they also count themselves among the blue bloods, the pedigreed few, of our city.

  Young Keith Oberlin graduated from CALA, the Charles and Anne Lindbergh Academy, where my children rub shoulders with the crème de la crème of St. Louis society. For this, I have Sheila to thank. She's a donor, a diva, and a doting grandmother who wanted Anya to have the same advantages that she and her son, George, had. When Erik came along, the school balked because he's not a true “legacy,” since George wasn't his father. But Sheila raised such a fuss that the administration reluctantly caved in to her wishes. I say that they did it reluctantly, but given the choice between having her change her will and accepting a smart little boy who helped them fulfill their much vaunted desire for “diversity,” they made a wise choice.

  Of course, Keith Oberlin is older than Anya and Erik. By thirty years.

  Not that he acts like it. He's a stereotypical playboy who refuses to settle down. When our local paper boasted a society column, they ran a photo of Keith with a different woman every week. His tastes run to tall and thin, insanely beautiful, and young. Really young. Keith has been arrested for public intoxication, for driving 100 mph in a school zone, for punching out a reporter, and other crimes too numerous to mention. At the heart of his misbehavior is a drug habit. Here's the equation: money + no responsibilities + drugs = life-threatening situations.

  Even so, no one expected Keith to find a sixteen-year-old girl dead in his bed.

  CHAPTER 21

  “Detweiler's working that case? The one involving the teenager?” I tried to keep my voice low so I didn’t attract attention. While most of the other folks had cleared out of the ER, a few still warmed the seats. Robbie was sharing confidential information, the kind of scuttlebutt that people drooled over.

  “I imagine that Chad didn't want to share that with you. Diya Patel wasn't much older than Anya.”

  “Diya Patel? She was the dead girl? They didn't release the name.”

  “Because she was a minor. Makes my skin crawl, and it takes a lot to bother me these days.” Robbie shook his head. “Just a kid, really. Pitiful. Pretty little thing, too.”

  “Anya knew her!”

  “But she's older,” said Robbie.

  I explained that Diya had been kind to my daughter, helping Anya locate her locker on the first day of Middle School, little more than a year ago. After that, Diya also made it a point to stop and chat with Anya in the halls. Of course I’d heard about a dead girl being found in Keith Oberlin’s bed, but I had no clue the deceased had been Diya.

  “I knew she died recently. I just didn't know how it happened. The school is planning a memorial event for her. I figured it was a car accident. With each crop of new drivers, someone dies. Usually I'm on top of the gossip at CALA, but…”

  “Is Anya going to the memorial service?” Robbie raised an eyebrow.

  “No. She told me she'd rather remember Diya as she was.”

  The loss hit me hard. Once again I was reminded how fragile life is. I couldn’t help but imagine the pain of losing my own daughter, and that brought on a fresh wave of tears.

  Robbie got up, grabbed a box of tissues and waved them at me. I grabbed a handful and mopped my face, not worrying about how many I used. Fortunately, they’re a staple in the Emergency Room. Robbie stared down at me and sighed. “I'm sorry. I should have realized Anya might know the girl. Detweiler has made a lot of progress on the case. He's been interviewing people, matching up their stories, tracking down details. Diya's mother has been particularly helpful.”

  “Maybe that's why someone took a shot at us. The public is clamoring for an arrest. The paper has been full of angry letters to the editor. Maybe someone decided Detweiler wasn’t moving fast enough.”

  “I’ll look into that, but there are only a few people in the department who know that Detweiler was assigned the case. I’ve made it clear that vigilante justice is not going to happen here. Not on my watch. I instructed Detweiler to go at his own pace. He's been in close contact with the mother of the deceased. According to him, we've made tremendous progress. I don't care if the hounds are baying. We want all our facts straight before we go public with our findings.”

  “But what if one of those hounds quit baying and decided to grab a gun? What if he and a friend dropped by my house this morning?” I stared hard at Robbie. “You counted on your people keeping their mouths shut. What if they didn’t? Maybe you should have thrown those barking dogs a bone. You could have held a press conference saying you were making progress. Something, anything to give people a feeling that justice would be done!”

  “Now you’re telling me how to do my job?” As he sank back down into the chair he’d recently vacated, his eyes blazed with anger. “Lucky you. You’ve got the luxury of twenty-twenty hindsight, Kiki. It’s easy from where you’re sitting. But I had to make a choice. I could cave in to the creeps who said we weren’t moving fast enough and ruin the lives of innocent people. Or I could trust Detweiler to do his job. Maybe I have more faith in your husband than you do!”

  That felt like a blow to the gut. I had to look away from Robbie’s unflinching glare. Yes, I wanted to blame him, but in my heart, I knew he was right. Was I big enough to admit as much?

  “You did the right thing,” I said, at last. “At least, I suppose you did. I'm being selfish. I can't expect you to coddle my husband because we're family. That's wrong of me.”

  “No,” he said with a sigh, “that's natural. Especially given your situation.” He ran a shaking hand through his hair. “And if it makes you feel any better, I’ve questioned my judgment on this twenty times a day.”

  “No one knows exactly how Diya got into Keith Oberlin's house?”

  “Your husband does. At least, he's pretty sure he does.” To close the topic, he slapped his thighs with his open palms. “I better order a guard for Detweiler and Hadcho's rooms until we learn more. Meanwhile, let me get back upstairs to see about your mother-in-law.”

  That was the topic we’d both been avoiding. As he lumbered to his feet, my heart went out to him. “I’m sorry, Robbie. I hope this will teach her a lesson. Maybe it will put a big scare into her, an
d she’ll straighten out.”

  Of course, I knew better. I’d grown up with alcoholic parents. It takes more than a scare to sober up most people. Riding a wave of sympathy, I stood up and put my arms around him.

  He rested his head briefly on my shoulder. “You don't know how good this hug feels. Family is all that matters, Kiki. You said I shouldn't coddle Chad, but I will. He's my son-in-law and you're my daughter-in-law. That’s my grandchild you’re carrying. Please remember that I'm on your side.”

  CHAPTER 22

  As Robbie moved to leave, I spotted the surgeon in the hallway.

  “Mrs. Detweiler?” Dr. Fizzio scanned the waiting room. Her surgical mask hung around her neck, as she grasped a clipboard. She looked a little lost, so I waved to her. She squinted as if trying to get her bearings. Maybe she was simply tired. I hoped it had nothing to do with Detweiler. I tried to remember what color scrubs she’d been wearing earlier. Had she changed clothes? If so, what did that mean?

  Robbie looked from her to me and hesitated. His body language suggested that he would stay long enough to hear what the doctor had to say.

  Dr. Fizzio came closer, consulted her notes, and slowly opened her mouth. It was like we'd been captured on film and the projector was moving super slo-mo, one frame at a time.

  There are moments when you think, “After this, nothing will be the same.” And it isn't, but change has already happened. There’s no way back. You can only go forward. I held my breath, waiting for her to talk, thinking, “Please God, let him be okay.” Then I added, “Please God, give me the strength to cope with whatever happens.”

  The surgeon's lips moved, and her words bounced up against me, but they didn't penetrate my brain. She said, “Your husband is awake and responding well.”

  But her facial expressions didn't mirror her words. An alarm bell went off inside me. Dr. Fizzio was holding information back. For some reason, she wasn't being entirely candid with me.

  Robbie must have come to the same realization. He introduced himself as my father-in-law. “Detweiler's out of surgery? But you're worried about him? Doctor, could you be more specific regarding his prognosis.”

  That made her squirm. She hesitated, finally saying, “I think I have the bleeding stopped, but with these gut shots, you never know. I’m hopeful that he’ll make a full recovery. It's just that his blood pressure isn't exactly where I'd like it to be.”

  “When can I see him?” Her assurance wasn't good enough. I wanted to see Detweiler with my own eyes.

  “Give him another twenty minutes. He's coming around, but slowly. We're transferring him upstairs to our critical care unit.” Wiping a hand across her forehead, she turned to leave.

  “Doctor?” I called after her. “Thank you.”

  She paused, turned around, and frowned. “Thank me when he's back on his feet.”

  CHAPTER 23

  Robbie wanted to stick around and say hello to my husband, but he was also worried about getting back to Sheila. “She might bolt on me if I don't get back soon. Or eat one of the nurses alive. Either way, it's touch and go. I’ll check on Detweiler before I leave the hospital, but right now I really should look in on Hadcho.”

  With a sudden slap of guilt, I realized I hadn't given much thought to our friend. Hadcho always seemed so self-sufficient. But then again, lately he'd been spending a lot of time at our house. Falling asleep on the sofa had become a habit.

  “Is there any way you can get them to bend the rules so I can see him, too? He doesn't have any family nearby.”

  “I'll see what I can do.”

  I realized then that I hadn't asked about Sheila. I'd been too preoccupied with Detweiler and Hadcho. “Sheila's going to be okay, isn't she? Once they get all the booze out of her system.”

  Robbie's shoulders drooped. “No. Not really. That's one reason I need to get back. The doctor plans to lay it on the line with her. He thinks that if she doesn't go into rehab, she'll be dead within a year.”

  A year?

  My parents had been drinkers all of my life. Sure, my dad had died young, but Mom was still alive and kicking. According to Amanda, Mom did just fine with two glasses of wine before bedtime.

  But Sheila only had a year to live?

  How could that be?

  “It's that bad?” I reached for his hand. He gripped mine, more tightly than ever.

  “It's bad. She has a minor heart problem. A birth defect. The alcohol is making it ten times worse. We've never said anything about it because it's not worth worrying about. Or it wasn't worth worrying about until she started drinking like a drunken sailor. Between her heart, the alcohol, and her age, it's a deadly trifecta. As a binge drinker, she’s really putting herself at risk. What if I hadn't found her this morning? Sheila’s by herself more and more these days. Linnea only works part-time, because she's spending her afternoons with her great-grandson. I guess I could hire another housekeeper to keep an eye on my wife, but I’m not sure that would work. Not long term.”

  “She's always liked her drinks, but she used to have them in moderation. When did all this change?”

  “I'm not sure. I think it was shortly before I moved in. She's been a binge drinker most of her life. Mutual friends would mention that she'd tied one on at this function or that. I heard about it through the grapevine, even before we got back together. But I didn’t think much of it. I sort of brushed it off. Sheila is Sheila. She goes overboard on almost everything.”

  Pain etched his face with new lines, symbols of his concern. His voice was thick with emotion. He pulled away from me and used his hands to scrub his face. “I've loved her since we were teenagers. Now I'm supposed to stand by and lose her to booze? I don't think so. I won't give her up without a fight.”

  “I'll support you in any way I can. Detweiler and Anya will, too.”

  “That might mean a family therapy session in the future.”

  “Say the word and we're there.”

  “Thank you,” he said. “You’re a good kid.” He ruffled my hair, turned on his heel, and walked away.

  CHAPTER 24

  How strange life could be. Sheila and I had once been mortal enemies. She hadn't wanted her son to marry me, and she hadn’t kept her disappointment a secret. But after George died, our mutual love for Anya became the glue that bound us together. We came to respect and finally love each other.

  When had she become so reliant on the pleasures of drinking? Had it happened before my eyes? A counselor once told me, “All alcoholics hit rock-bottom. Some die there.” Was I destined to lose two people I loved, sooner rather than later? Would Robbie be able to convince Sheila that she had to change? Or would he eventually grow weary of fighting with her? By all accounts, he was heading for the best years of his career, so a distraction like her health was totally at odds with the strides he'd made.

  Since I hadn’t had caffeine in eight months, that first cup of tea had sent my mind whirling. A glance at the institutional clock told me I still had ten minutes to wait until trying to visit Detweiler. I’m not accustomed to sitting still. Not at home. Certainly not at work. The magazines looked dog-eared and gross. My skin felt like it was crawling. Just when I decided I couldn’t stand it one second longer, Laurel and Joe came striding in. As they walked toward me, people did almost comical double-takes. Without a doubt, Laurel is the most beautiful woman I've ever met, inside and out. Her long blonde hair bounced along as she took long steps in her tall black boots. The fake fox collar of her quilted black jacket accented her strong jawline. At her side was Joe, also known as Father Joe, an Episcopal priest. He was wearing his clerical collar, a black leather jacket and jeans. Together they looked like a pair of other-worldly angels slumming it here on earth. All eyes followed them as they hurried my way. In a graceful move, Laurel dropped to her knees and caught me up in her arms. “It's going to be okay,” she said, patting my back. “We’re here. You aren’t alone.”

  Joe reached down to stroke my hair. Under his breath, he murmu
red a prayer. Strange as it might sound, I could feel a shift, a change in the energy that surrounded me.

  “I’m so glad to see you both,” I said, between sniffles. “Thanks for coming Laurel and Joe.”

  It had been Joe himself who suggested we drop his religious title and simply call him “Joe.” Erik was already having trouble trying to sort out all our roles. Upon being introduced to “Father” Joe, the boy’s lower lip trembled. “Am I going home with you?” he asked in a tiny voice.

  Kids are great observers, but poor interpreters. After calling Van Lauber “Daddy,” and accepting Detweiler as his new father, meeting a third man called “Father” was too much for the child to process. The boy had a meltdown. It took Brawny two days to unravel the confusion.

  “It doesn’t matter what he calls me,” Joe had assured us. “If I’m not more than a title, then I’ve failed at a larger calling. Why don’t all of you call me by my first name?”

  Erik’s confusion eventually led to a discussion about our newly co-mingled family. Sitting the little boy down, we explained that some families are born together and others, the luckiest ones, get to choose each other. Detweiler and I emphasized that we chose to have Erik as our son.

  I had hastened to add, “Van was your father, and he loved you very much. He'll watch over you from heaven.”