Solemnly Swear

by Nancy Moser

  Abigail fell onto her couch that was covered with an Indian throw to conceal the cigarette holes in the upholstery from its previous owner. Her other furniture—what little there was—was a mishmash of styles. After her opportunities in New York folded in the late seventies, she’d followed the work to LA, where she’d submerged herself in movie, TV, and ad work. But her true love was live theater, which had been why she’d ended up smack-dab in the middle of the country, in Branson, Missouri. She’d been lured by her dear friend Andy Williams and had moved out for a gig in his new Moon River Theatre. But even that gig had ended and since then, other than a sprinkling of parts, she was an out-of-work hoofer, actress, and crooner.

  Abigail lit a candle. Her collection of candles and incense burners were a holdover from her hippie days, although she now preferred the more subtle scent of vanilla over patchouli.

  She leaned back, letting a dramatic sigh have its moment. Her eyes skimmed over the framed programs and posters from her past that dotted the walls, a collection that had highest priority whenever the need to move intruded. It was quite impressive. Forty-two shows on Broadway (and off, and off-off Broadway), eight movies, twelve TV shows, and nineteen ads.

  Her smiling Ivory Soap face glared down as if saying, “See what you once were? Too bad you’re nothing now.”

  She grabbed a crocheted afghan and lay down on her side, her back to the mocking wall of her past.

  ***

  “But, Bobby, last night was so wonderful.”

  Bobby buttoned the shirt of his concessions uniform. “I know, Beck, but when I have the chance to work, I need to take it. One of the girls called in sick.”

  Becky scooped a helping of spaghetti into Teresa’s bowl and cut it into small pieces. “The trial shouldn’t last more than a couple weeks,” she said. “That’s what the lawyers told you. You can be away from work a couple weeks. Your bosses said so.”

  “But if I go into work, I get paid. They told me that too.”

  “Use your vacation time.”

  “I want to save that for when you have the baby.”

  In a motion that had become a habit whenever the baby was mentioned, Becky stroked her belly. “It would be nice to have you here then.”

  “Ghet!” Teresa said. Becky had paused in serving her spaghetti.

  With a few more cuts to the pasta, Becky gave her daughter the bowl. The little girl took a handful to her mouth.

  “The fork, little one,” Bobby said, putting the pint-sized utensil into her hand. The parents’ discussion was put on hold until Teresa managed to scoop a forkful of spaghetti into her mouth.

  “Yay!” Becky said, clapping.

  Bobby joined in. “Yay!”

  Teresa grinned and tried for bite number two.

  “I can eat with a fork too,” Tanner said, showing his expertise.

  “I know you can,” Becky said. “You’re quite the big boy. You can show your sister how it’s done.”

  With that challenge given—and taken, as Tanner started talking to his sister about forks and spoons—Bobby motioned his wife toward the back door, where his jacket hung on a hook. “You know I’d be here if I thought it best.”

  Becky changed her weight to the other foot and nodded. She looked adorable pregnant. She was one of those women who carried the change in physique as if it truly was her calling. Although it was a trite saying, she glowed from the inside out.

  Actually, Becky always glowed. There was a calm assurance about her that rarely wavered. It was one of the first things he’d noticed when they’d started dating. One time he’d asked her how she could always be so calm, so confident. So glowy.

  She’d shrugged and said, “I just try to remember that whatever’s happening, God’s got it. Knowing that, how can I worry much? I do worry, but I try not to.”

  The answer had put him off, sounding way too Holy Roller. Yet, Becky hadn’t pressed the issue, hadn’t gone into a sermon about how he too could glow with the love of Jesus if only he believed.

  Bobby appreciated that. It wasn’t that he was against Jesus, or ignorant. His grandpa had been a Jesus man—albeit a bit crusty. Bobby had gone to church with Grandpa most Sundays, and he’d liked what he saw. He’d come really close to going up front one Sunday when the preacher had invited anyone who wanted to commit their life to the Lord.

  But he hadn’t. Though his heart was willing, his mind had been jumbled that morning because one of his brothers had shown up at Grandpa’s the night before, running from the police because he’d stolen a car. The police had come with lights flashing and arrested Chuck. But the worst of it was that Bobby’s carefully molded life, the one he’d created since moving into Grandpa’s, had come tumbling down. Suddenly people knew he had a brother, and soon after that some kid at school found out his dad died a drunk and his mother committed suicide.

  After church that day Grandpa came up to his room and sat on his bed. He’d said, “Own up to your roots, Bobby. It’s who you are. A maple tree can’t pretend it has an oak tree’s roots. But that doesn’t mean it’s any less of a tree. It can be the best maple tree there is. Rise above, boy. Rise above.”

  Suddenly, Becky stood on tiptoe and kissed his cheek. “Be home as soon as you can. I love you, you know.”

  He knew. And it sustained him.

  ***

  I will not eat alone again.

  Ken stood by the phone in his kitchen and leafed through his little black book. He got a kick out of having such a thing, and yes, it did contain the names of many, many women. One of whom would have the privilege of eating with him this very night.

  Lunch break during the trial today had been humiliating. He’d asked the pretty little blonde juror with the button nose—he thought she was a teacher—if she cared to join him. She’d had the gall to say no, she had other plans. And then she’d waved at a sandy-haired man standing by the stairwell wearing jeans and a slumpy red T-shirt emblazoned with the message “No, I Will Not Fix Your Computer.”

  She preferred a geek to moi?

  Apparently. So Ken had sauntered out of the courthouse and down the street two blocks to a Wendy’s. Luckily, he didn’t recognize anyone from the trial inside.

  That was then. This was now. He was hungry and in need of a little companionship.

  Easily remedied.

  His first thought was the waitress who had shared his bed most recently: Loretta (or was it Lorena?). She was so recent that he didn’t even have her name recorded in the book yet. He opened the junk drawer and found the matchbook from the bar where she’d written her name and number. Loretta Dawson. He dialed.

  “Hey, Loretta, this is Ken Doolittle.”

  “Ah. The man I dallied with nearly two weeks ago but haven’t heard from since?”

  Oops. “I was called to jury duty.”

  “I’m happy for you.”

  He moved the phone to his other ear. “How ‘bout some dinner?”

  Silence.

  “Loretta?”

  “I’ll pass.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you expect me to go. Bye, Ken. I think it would be best if you lose my number.”

  She hung up and Ken looked at the phone, incredulous. “The nerve.” He tossed the matchbook in the trash and moved on to the next name.

  No.

  The next? Some other time.

  Six noes. When he got the reaction “Ken who?” from a woman named Martha he scratched out her name, closed his little black book, and grabbed his keys. If his existing women friends didn’t want his company, he’d get himself a new one.

  Within twenty minutes he was in the parking lot of one of his favorite bars: Jet. He turned on the dome light of his Mercedes and checked his reflection in the rear-view mirror.

  With the careful stroke of a finger, he moved a stray hair into place.

  He heard laughter to his left and watched as a curvy twenty-something flirted with a hunky companion. Across the parking lot he saw another young couple make their
way to the bar. No one was going in alone.

  Not that he would leave alone, but...

  But suddenly the thought of playing the part of debonair golf pro offered little excitement and filled him with an overwhelming weariness.

  He couldn’t do this. Not tonight.

  On the ride home, his body embraced the weariness like a long-lost relative, so by the time he unlocked his front door he barely had the energy to undress before falling into bed.

  The silence was heavy and condemning.

  Ken turned on the television. He ran through the channels twice, landing on a shopping channel. After watching the spokesman rave about a set of top-of-the line steak knives, Ken dug one of his Visa cards out of the drawer of the bedside table.

  A man could never have too many steak knives.

  FOUR

  We are in this struggle together.

  You have seen my struggle in the past,

  and you know that I am

  still in the midst of it.

  PHILIPPIANS 1:30

  “The state calls Lucy Delgado.”

  Patti smiled and offered Lucy a little wave as the woman moved past the defendant’s table to the witness stand. Lucy returned neither gesture but held her arms stiffly against her short, stout frame as she walked. She looked like she was going to the gallows.

  Abigail’s first reaction was uh-oh. Although Patti had innocently greeted the woman as a friend, Abigail was astute enough to realize whatever Lucy had to say wasn’t going to be in Patti’s favor. After all, Lucy was a prosecution witness. Didn’t Patti realize that?

  Abigail studied the defendant. As Lucy was being sworn in, Patti was still smiling. She even looked expectant, as if she was eager to hear Lucy’s words. It was painful to watch someone so clueless.

  Jonathan Cummings stood and also smiled at Lucy. And his smile she returned. Double uh-oh.

  Cummings settled into the space halfway between the witness box and his table as if a piece of tape on the floor marked the perfect spot. Abigail had often placed such marks on a stage.

  “Ms. Delgado,” he said. Abigail was once again impressed by the fullness in his voice. He would have made a good actor. Perhaps he was a good actor?

  “Yes, sir?”

  “Would you tell the court your relationship with the defendant?”

  “She’s my friend.” Lucy glanced at Patti, then focused on the lawyer in front of her.

  “How did you meet?”

  “We work together at the resort. We both work in the kitchen. I make the salads. She washes dishes.”

  “Do you spend time together outside of work?”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Doing what?”

  Lucy fidgeted in the chair. Although Abigail couldn’t see the woman’s feet, she doubted they reached the floor. “We go out to dinner sometimes. Or to a bar. We went shopping once. At the outlets.”

  Cummings smiled. “Are you married?”

  “Was. My husband died six years ago.” She smiled. “But I’m engaged to a wonderful man now.” She held out her left hand, revealing a ring with a small diamond.

  “Congratulations. In your time together with the defendant did the two of you ever talk about romance or your love lives?”

  Even from the jury box Abigail could see Lucy blush. “Quite a bit.”

  “So you were aware of Ms. McCoy’s relationship with the deceased?”

  Stadler rose. “Objection, Your Honor. Anything she has to say will be hearsay.”

  Cummings turned to his opponent. “It goes toward evidence of intent, Your Honor.”

  “Overruled.”

  Cummings began again. “So you were aware of Ms. McCoy’s relationship with the deceased?”

  “Oh yes. She talked about him constantly. She was really smitten.” She hesitated a moment then added, “She said she loved him.”

  “To your knowledge was the relationship a smooth one?”

  Lucy shook her head. “They were always fighting.”

  “About what?”

  “Hearsay, Your Honor,” Stadler said.

  “Sustained. Get to the point, Counselor.”

  “Did you ever hear the defendant threaten the deceased?”

  Lucy looked down. “ Yes, sir. I did.”

  “What did she say?”

  Lucy hesitated. The words were obviously hard to say. “She said, ‘I could kill him. I’m going to kill him.’”

  Abigail looked at Patti, whose smile had been replaced by a gawk. Clearly she had not expected this.

  “’I’m going to kill him’?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “When did she say this?”

  “A week before he died.”

  There was a collective oh from the gallery.

  “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  The judge looked at the defense table. “Mr. Stadler? Do you have any questions for this witness?”

  Stadler pushed his chair back with a rattle and stood. “I certainly do.”

  Unlike Cummings, Stadler was a roamer, a habit Abigail found disconcerting. As an actress she’d learned not to move unless there was good reason because unnecessary movement diluted the moment and was a distraction from the importance of the words.

  As it was in Stadler’s case.

  “Ms. Delgado, how many years were you married?”

  “Twenty-two.”

  “During those years did you and your husband ever argue?”

  Cummings stood. “Objection, Your Honor. Relevance?”

  “I’ll show relevance, Your Honor.”

  “Overruled. But make it quick.”

  Stadler strolled past the jury box then turned back toward his desk. “Have you ever said the words I could kill him. I’m going to kill him?”

  Lucy lifted her chin. “Never.”

  Stadler stopped roaming and turned toward her. “Never after a big argument, perhaps while talking with a confidante?”

  She shook her head. “Never.”

  “Then you had a better relationship than the rest of us.”

  Cummings stood. “Is the counselor admitting to dire intentions of his own, or perhaps even a more serious deed?”

  The judge pounded his gavel. “Enough, gentlemen. Mr. Stadler, do you have another question for this witness?”

  Stadler scratched his left eyebrow then faced Lucy. “Did you ever see the two of them together? Did you ever actually see Ms. McCoy with Brett Lerner?”

  Once again, Cummings rose. “Your Honor, I don’t see the point of this question. By her own admission the defendant is pregnant by the deceased. Obviously, they were together, witnessed or otherwise.”

  Abigail had to bite back a chuckle. Others in the courtroom were less successful.

  The judge pounded his gavel. “Order!”

  Wisely, Stadler made a beeline for his chair. “Withdrawn. Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  ***

  Prosecution: 1, Defense: 0.

  Ken Doolittle couldn’t help but enjoy the humiliation of Stan Stadler. Actually, the way he felt that morning—after suffering his own bout of humiliation the night before, after spending over five hundred dollars on various shopping channels—Ken didn’t much care which lawyer was humiliated. As long as someone was. The fact that it was someone who had no taste whatsoever and needed to lose fifty pounds was a bonus.

  Ken pinched a piece of lint from his navy trousers and was almost disappointed that the greasy-nailed juror wasn’t beside him to see it. Since that first day Ken had managed to sit elsewhere. Yesterday he’d sat beside the pretty teacher who’d shunned him for Techno-nerd, and today he’d positioned himself next to Mary, a thirtyish Hispanic woman with good taste in shoes. He was disappointed—but not deterred—to see she wore a wedding ring.

  The next witness was Howard Smithsen, a burly guy who obviously used a gym more than twice a week. Ken looked at Patti. She wasn’t smiling. In fact, since the last witness, she’d slumped in her chair, making her already small frame
appear even smaller.

  “Mr. Smithsen, what relationship do you have with the defendant?”

  The witness looked shocked. “None. We’ve never dated.”

  Cummings smiled. “Are you her neighbor?”

  “Oh. Yeah. I live right next to her in 4D. We share a common wall.”

  “Which wall?”

  Howard smiled. “The bedroom one.”

  Ken sat up straighter. This could get interesting.

  With a nod to Stadler, Cummings asked, “Did you ever see the defendant with the deceased?”

  “Lots of times.”

  “Did you ever hear them argue?”

  Howard smiled again. “Lots of times. Out front and through the wall. More than once I heard her break something against that wall. A vase or something glass.”

  “How do you know it wasn’t the deceased acting so violently?”

  “Because she—Patti—she told me she always broke things. Once I met her on the stairs bringing out a wastebasket full of a blue broken glass.”

  Cummings looked like he was surprised, but Ken knew he wasn’t. “Blue glass? Was it a wine bottle?”

  Stadler shot out of his chair. “Objection!”

  Cummings sighed and said, “He saw it, Your Honor. Mr. Smithsen is a direct witness.”

  “Overruled.”

  “Was the blue glass you saw in the trash a wine bottle?”

  “Yeah. The pouring part was still there.”

  Not good, Patti-girl, not good.

  “Perhaps she’d dropped the bottle by accident?” Cummings offered.

  Howard shook his head. “Nope. She told me she’d thrown it across the room. Then she laughed and said, ‘I need to stop doing that. It gets expensive. And messy.’”

  “Nothing further, Your Honor.”

  The judge turned to Stadler. “Any questions, Mr. Stadler?”