Irish Chain

by Earlene Fowler

  “Does he have to sell out?” I asked, feeling sad because I already knew the answer.

  “He can’t run the ranch and the church too. Besides, that place hasn’t turned a profit for a long time. I heard he’s been sending Oralee money for years. Even used up the money from his wife’s insurance. You know most of the Reid land is leased from the oil companies and they’re starting to sell it off now to developers. A plain old cattleman can’t live off the land anymore.” She looked up at me. “But then, I don’t have to tell you that.”

  “That’s for sure.” I was still in the midst of helping my brother-in-law, Wade, dissolve the holdings of the foreclosed Harper Ranch. Wade and his family had gone ahead and moved back to Texas to live with relatives, and we were transacting most of the business through the mail or over the phone.

  “Are you really going to tell Gabe about Oralee and that card game business?” Elvia broke in. I smiled at her gratefully. She knew how much thinking about losing the ranch bothered me.

  “I guess I’ll be forced to, since he’ll see them tonight and he hates walking into situations cold. You know, since he and I have been seeing each other, I’ve had more people stop me in the street and tell me their problems. Mr. Treton next door grabbed me yesterday and told me he thinks the electric company is increasing voltage to the homes of senior citizens in an effort to cause more static electricity, which short-circuits their hearing aids. He says the electric company owns all the hearing-aid manufacturers, and he wants Gabe to set up a task force to investigate. Offered to go undercover himself.”

  “That crazy old fool,” Dove said. “He couldn’t find a cowbell in his own bed.”

  “Then I find it hard to believe you’d find anything he has to say worthwhile....” I gently tapped the top of her pillowy white hair with the back of my fingers. She didn’t raise her head.

  “He has something of interest to say every now and then. I just like being there when it happens.”

  The fact that she bribes Mr. Treton with home-baked bread and jars of her clover honey for information on my daily activities still tends to rattle my cage once in a while. Not that it stops her.

  “All done,” she said, standing up. “All I have to do now is whipstitch it real quick.” I turned and studied myself in the mirror.

  “Well, look at me. All Scarletted up and ready to face whatever.” I pulled at a strand of my curly reddish-blond hair. A little over two months ago, in a mindless, emotional moment, I’d cut my waist-length hair up to my neck and now had no idea what to do with it except poke at it once in a while. “Maybe I shouldn’t have cut my hair.”

  “It looks fine,” Elvia assured me, inspecting a strand of her own shoulder-length mink-black hair. “You look very contemporary. Very . . . cute.”

  I cringed inwardly the minute the word popped out of her mouth. Though I didn’t usually spend much time thinking about my looks, at thirty-four and seeing a man eight years my senior, cute wasn’t exactly the look I was striving for. Wirehaired terriers were cute. Opie Taylor was cute.

  “Besides,” she added, “anything is better than that boring old braid you used to wear everywhere.”

  “You’re really pushing it today, Suzie Q,” Dove said, shaking the tip of her own white braid at Elvia.

  We were laughing at Elvia holding up her hands in playful surrender when a triple rap on the front door interrupted us. I looked over at the clock-radio on my nightstand. Eleven o’clock on a Saturday morning. Some things were getting as predictable as spring onions.

  “Dove, will you answer it?” I picked up my full skirt and dashed into the bathroom, just off my bedroom.

  “Benni, watch that hem,” Dove complained.

  “Please,” I called. “I’m unarmed.”

  “You’re what?” Elvia asked.

  A minute later, I stood in the doorway of the bathroom and watched Gabe follow Dove into my bedroom. He looked especially attractive and unprofessional this morning in his tight black running shorts and a faded gray sweatshirt displaying a peeling picture of Albert Einstein.

  “Hey, Chief Ortiz.” I walked sedately toward him, hands behind my back, hoop skirt bobbing around my ankles like a bell around a clapper. We locked eyes and exchanged big smiles.

  “Hey, Benni Harper.” His eyes scanned me from head to toe. “You look like . . .” Words appeared to have failed him.

  “Scarlett O’Hara?” I offered. “Vivien Leigh?”

  He laughed. “Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of Little Miss Muffet.”

  “Well, there goes my donation to the Police Benevolence Fund.”

  “It is kind of cute.” He reached over and ran a finger along my exposed collarbone, causing me to give an involuntary shiver.

  “Hands off, mister,” Dove said. “Until you’re paying the bills.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” he said, pulling his hand back and winking at me.

  “Dove!” I said. “Do you mind?”

  “Yes, I do,” she answered. “That’s what I was just saying.”

  “Look,” Gabe said, “I was supposed to pick up my gray suit at the cleaners by three o’clock, but I have a special meeting with the city council. Could you get it for me and drop it by the station?” He pulled up his shirt to wipe the sweat off his face, revealing a hard, brown stomach.

  “Sure,” I said, trying not to stare at the line of coarse black hair trailing down and disappearing into his damp shorts.

  “Thanks.” He let his sweatshirt drop and grinned when he caught where I’d been looking.

  Physically, our relationship had limped along with the speed of a hobbled horse, mostly due to my hesitancy to get involved. That didn’t stop me from thinking about it. A lot.

  “Eyes to yourself, young lady,” Dove said.

  My face tingled with warmth. “Gee, Dove, I don’t think I’m embarrassed enough here. Maybe you could try a little harder and go for total humiliation.”

  “You were the one whose eyes were grazing where they weren’t supposed to,” she said, lifting her white eyebrows.

  Before I could shoot a smart remark back, Gabe diplomatically broke in. “I need to finish my five miles and shower. Do you want me to pick you up tonight?”

  “No,” I said. “I have to be at Oak Terrace early to supervise things. I guess I’ll see you there. Try not to be late.”

  “I’ll try.” He leaned over to kiss me, reaching for something from the back waistband of his shorts.

  He was fast, but not fast enough.

  When his lips touched mine, I pulled a small green water pistol from behind my back and shot him right in the temple.

  “Head wound!” I yelled. “Fifty points. I win!”

  “Okay, pipsqueak, prepare to eat worms and die.” He sprayed me in the face.

  “No fair. Head wounds mean you’re out of commission. That’s cheating.” I fired back with short, rapid bursts.

  “I’m going to whip the both of you,” Dove said, scurrying out of range, but not before getting hit with a stream of water.

  After some artful dodging on his part and some juvenile shrieking on mine, he gave one last pull on his trigger, then shook his empty red pistol.

  “Ha,” I said, waving my still half-full gun in front of his face. “Looks like you’re out of ammunition.”

  “That’s okay.” He stuck his gun in the waistband of his shorts and wiggled his dark eyebrows. “I’m an extremely fast reloader.”

  “You are one cocky son-of-a-sodbuster.” I stepped closer and squirted him between the eyes.

  “Grandson,” he corrected. “And no farmer jokes this early in the day or I will be forced to arrest you. I’ll invoke executive privilege and conduct the strip search myself.”

  “In your dreams, pal.”

  Over on the bed, Elvia cleared her throat. “Considering his means of employment, that is an incredibly sick game. You two need some serious counseling.”

  “What they need to do is decide what they want to do with
each other and get on with it,” Dove said. “In my day we didn’t make such a big darn deal of things. You tied the knot, did your business, then got up and fed the chickens.”

  Gabe turned and looked at me, his face solemn. “The deal’s off, sweetheart,” he said. “You never said anything about chickens.” He turned to walk out of the room.

  “Smart aleck,” Dove said, picking up the yardstick leaning against the wall and giving him a sharp smack on the backside. I have to give him credit; he only gave a fraction of a flinch. Without breaking stride, he raised a large hand in good-bye, the back of his neck slightly red.

  Dove turned and shook the yardstick at me. “Trouble with young people these days is y’all make a joke about everything. And you think too much. Discuss everything to death.” She fanned herself and headed for the kitchen. “My heavens, I think I need a cup of coffee. And wipe that water off your dress before it stains.”

  Elvia gave a deep chuckle. “My brother would have paid fifty bucks for a picture of that. Can you imagine Miguel passing a snapshot around the police department of his boss getting a swat on the butt from your grandmother? Priceless.”

  “Dove has four sons, nine grandsons and two great-grandsons,” I said. “Believe me, she is no respecter of men’s butts.” I went into the bathroom and grabbed a towel.

  “So, what is the status between you and Gabe these days?” Elvia asked casually.

  “Quo.”

  “As in nada?”

  “You got it.” I dabbed at the water that was causing the yellow chiffon to glue itself to my skin.

  “I take it that means you don’t want to talk about it.” She stood up and brushed imaginary lint off the front of her thighs. “I’m deeply hurt. We’ve been friends since second grade. We’ve always told each other everything.”

  I ignored her and reached back to unzip the lamp-shade dress. My relationship with Gabe was something I wasn’t ready to discuss in depth with anyone yet, not even my best friend. I was confused and nervous about going into another relationship, and when I get that way I tend to turtle into myself while trying to figure things out. It wasn’t just the physical part that was intimidating, though after being married all my adult life to my high-school sweetheart, the thought of even taking my clothes off in front of another man was terrifying. It was really the emotional part that frightened me. I wasn’t sure I ever wanted to love anyone again the way I had loved Jack. It was too hard when they left you. Fortunately, Gabe hadn’t pushed it except in jest. He’d been happily divorced for seven years and wasn’t even sure if he was staying in San Celina. His friend Aaron Davidson, San Celina’s official police chief, had been diagnosed with liver cancer a month or so ago. Talking about the future was something Gabe and I both had reason to avoid. I stepped out of the dress and reached for my flannel shirt.

  “Well, speaking of your love life, guess who’s back in town?” Elvia’s black eyes glittered with mischief.

  “Forget my love life, and who?”

  “Clay O’Hara.”

  “You’re kidding.” I sat on the bed and pulled on my jeans. Clay O’Hara. He hadn’t crossed my mind in years, even though I knew he was Brady O’Hara’s great-nephew. He had been the love of my life one whole summer when I was seventeen and mad at Jack for some reason I can’t even remember now. Clay O’Hara, with the thick-lashed, wounded brown eyes, long, sandy sideburns and insolent pirate smile. “I wonder what he’s doing here.”

  “Apparently seeing to his uncle’s financial business. He came into the bookstore yesterday. When he saw me, he walked right up and the first question out of his mouth was about you.”

  I buttoned my shirt and tried to sound casual. “What did he ask?”

  She inspected her long red acrylic nails. “Just wondered where you were living now. What you were doing. All I told him was where you worked. He knew about Jack.”

  I couldn’t resist the obvious question. “How does he look?”

  “Actually, pretty good. He still has his hair. And that killer smile. Remember the night he crashed the Senior Farewell Dance and cut in on you and Jack? If Jack had been wearing his buck knife that night, Clay O’Hara would be singing soprano now.” We grinned at each other. That night they both ended up with bruised knuckles and swollen mouths and I didn’t get a goodnight kiss from either one of them.

  “That was a long time ago,” I said, tucking my shirt into my jeans. “He’s probably married with six kids.”

  “He didn’t walk like a married man.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” I laughed and threw a patchwork pillow at her. “You’re a real troublemaker, Elvia Aragon.” I checked my watch. “Shoot, I gotta go. I have to get Gabe’s suit and drop by Oak Terrace and make sure those kids are actually getting the decorating done. And since I forgot to tell Gabe about Oralee and Mr. O’Hara, I better leave him a note.”

  “Picking up suits,” Elvia said, tsking under her breath. “Sounds pretty domestic to me.”

  “I’ve picked up your dry cleaning a time or two,” I pointed out. “I’m thoughtful to all my friends.”

  “Well, don’t forget, a certain chief of police is a pretty hot commodity on the singles block in this town. In between refereeing senior-citizen fights and pouring punch, you might try to fit in a dance or two with him. You might also consider making this a night to remember.”

  “Pretty corny, Elvia. Wasn’t that the theme for the Senior Farewell Dance? Wonder how long it took them to come up with that gem.”

  “Watch it, I was chairman of the dance committee. Besides, it was a night to remember for you.”

  “No kidding.” Besides the fight between Clay and Jack, it was the first time Jack told me he loved me. He spoke the words from behind lips so swollen they could barely move, but got out “I love you” nonetheless. Then we broke up two days later for the rest of the summer. “I can’t believe it was seventeen years ago.”

  “You know, something feels vaguely familiar about this prom business. I have an eerie feeling this is going to be another night you’ll never forget.”

  “Maybe. But probably not in the way you think.”

  And, as so often happened in our friendship, we were both right.

  2

  OAK TERRACE RETIREMENT Home was located a mile outside downtown San Celina on a twisting two-lane highway leading to Morro Bay. Its five salmon-colored mission-style buildings were perched on a small rise, flanked by alfalfa fields on one side and scrubby range land dotted with white-faced yearlings on the other. It offered a top-of-thestagecoach view to anyone sitting in the English rose garden in front of the administration building, a popular spot for pipe smokers and marathon talkers.

  By the time I arrived at two o’clock, Ramon and his classmates had been decorating for a little over an hour. They were in the process of transforming the normally staid decor of the retirement home’s combination recreation hall/ dining room into a party setting with kelly-green and screaming-pink streamers and matching helium-filled balloons. The decorations’ connection to the Civil War was tenuous at best, but the bright colors certainly gave the room a more cheerful and festive look. I handed the bags of McDonald’s apple pies and french fries I’d bought for the students to the nearest warm body and grabbed the work-assignment clipboard. In a far comer, Ramon grappled with two white and gold papier-mâché columns borrowed from Cal Poly’s drama department.

  “The leaning tower of Tara,” he joked when I walked up. I tugged at the long, thick ponytail bisecting the back of his moth-eaten green and black Pendleton wool shirt. The hair and the thrift-shop clothing he prefers drives his five conservatively bent older brothers and his native Mexican father insane, which, of course, is why he does it.

  Every time he let go of the left-hand column, it leaned precariously forward, as if pushed by the north wind. One bump from an out-of-control wheelchair and it would fall like a redwood tree marked for picnic benches.

  We were attempting to re-create the porch of Scarle
tt’s beloved mansion in the corner of the brown-tiled room next to the white brick fireplace. The two columns, left over from the drama department’s somewhat ill-received adaptation of I, Claudius, along with two white wicker chairs, a painted backdrop of a fancy front door and a dubious likeness of Rhett and Scarlett, made up our souvenir photograph spot.

  “Maybe we could attach it to the wall from behind with some fishing line and thumbtacks?” I suggested.

  “Fresh idea. Hang on to it.” He released the column and I grabbed the teetering pillar. “I’ll go find the janitor. Maybe he has some.” He bounded off toward the exit before a protest could squeak past my lips. Standing there with a clipboard in one hand and Tara in the other, I fervently hoped he wouldn’t be waylaid by one of the many chattering female students twisting crepe-paper streamers and setting out napkins and paper cups. Ramon, the youngest of Elvia’s six brothers, was the most easygoing of the Aragon boys, which made him fun, but not always dependable.

  “Hey, Miz H., smile,” a crackly, tenor voice called from my left. A bright flash temporarily blinded me.

  “Todd Simmons, you’d better not be wasting film.” I blinked and gave my head a small shake, trying to clear away the exploding stars. When my vision cleared, Todd stood in front of me, his normally serious pale blue eyes half closed in amusement.

  “Just testing the flash.” He aimed the camera again, but only shot me a wry smile. I couldn’t help smiling back. It was hard to get mad at Ramon’s best friend. He was a quiet, good-natured young man with a slim, sturdy surfer’s build and skin the exact shade of Dove’s homemade toffee. He’d inherited all the best features from both his Asian and Caucasian background. His shoulder-length, dark brown hair, perfect features and surprising eyes made it difficult for the girls to concentrate on their assigned tasks. He was also as smart as an old cutting horse. Seventeen and a freshman at Cal Poly, he was the pride and joy of his grandfather, Mr. Morita, who owned a fish store that Gabe frequented down in Old Town San Celina, our newest tourist trap. It was good seeing him smile. From what I’d heard, he’d had a rough time of it lately. His mother had died of cancer a few months ago, leaving only he and his grandfather in the family.