by Julie Smith
Missy had often been to his parents’ house, and though she knew perfectly well what to expect, he noticed she had deliberately dressed down. She was wearing linen pants, a silk T-shirt, and sandals. Passable, but definitely not standing on ceremony. She thought it was nuts to put on a coat and tie to go to dinner at your parents’ house on a Friday night, and had said so. Sonny did it because it was his ritual. Because he tried to anticipate what anyone could possibly find wrong with him and plug up all the holes before they started burrowing in them; be better than the best little boy in the world. He wouldn’t have said it to Missy, but the formal clothes felt like armor to him.
His dad met them in shirtsleeves and tie, as if he’d just come home from work and taken off his coat. He was in his mid-fifties, prematurely gray, and might have been handsome if not for the odd redness of his face and the way his brows knit; there were deep creases at the bridge of his nose, as if he’d worn them there, frowning. “Look at this girl, she’s gorgeous.” He kissed Missy on the mouth.
Sonny could see her struggling not to wince. She hated to be addressed in the third person.
His dad shook hands with Sonny, ushered them in, gave them drinks. His mother was in the kitchen.
The house was on St. Charles Avenue, a mansion; a show-place. The furnishings had been lovingly selected over the years by his mother and a decorator she seemed to employ practically full-time. Missy had actually gasped the first time she saw the Chinese rug in the living room.
His dad had made money and so had his dad’s dad; every girl at McGehee’s and Country Day who didn’t like her nose had had it snipped by one of the Gerards; their mothers had been tucked and lifted as well. It all added up, and the Gerards liked to spend their money. But his mother still did her own cooking. She stewed and sweated over it too—they probably wouldn’t see her for ten or fifteen minutes.
Sonny was melancholy, thinking of the interval, but didn’t quite know why. His dad said, “How’s classes?”
“Great. Great.” His armpits were getting clammy.
“Haven’t seen you in church lately.”
“Well, I haven’t had that much time.”
His father raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”
“Studying.”
No answer. The expression on his face said, “In bed with your little girlfriend.”
Missy said, “Sonny and I…”
Oh no. He knew what she was going to say. His dad, of course, had seated her near him, so that Sonny didn’t have her close for comfort—and for cueing. He couldn’t squeeze her hand, make her shut up before it was too late.
“We’ve been exploring a different spiritual path.”
“Oh?” Again the raised eyebrow. “Y’all Buddhists or something?”
Her laugh was a little too high-pitched; nervous. “Nothing like that. It’s real mainstream. It’s kind of a philosophy that talks about ‘God as we understand him.’ That’s very nice, don’t you think? All faiths are welcome.”
She was so sweet, so naive; wanting so much to help him, rescue him. She had no idea how much trouble she was making.
His mother came in with stuffed mushrooms, and in the ensuing greetings he hoped it would all be forgotten. She was a short woman who’d gotten slightly dumpy. She hadn’t had a facelift, hadn’t even had her eyes or chin done, and wore her hair in a short style that emphasized the plumpness of her face. Sonny wondered why she’d eschewed the requisite nips and tucks, had even asked her. She’d said she liked herself the way the good Lord had made her.
“Jess, Missy here tells me she’s converted Sonny to a new religion.”
“Now, Dad, that wasn’t exactly what she said.”
His mother settled herself on the sofa next to him. “Sonny, you’ve always been such a strong Christian.”
Sonny’s tie felt suddenly tight. “Well, I still am, Mama. No fear about that.”
His dad said again, “Haven’t seen you in church lately. Y’all been going to this other church?”
“It’s not a church, Dad.”
“I thought you said you were still a Christian.”
Missy said, “I think you can be on a spiritual path without going to a church, don’t you?”
“Well, I thought you were going somewhere.”
“Tell you what. I’ll come to church this Sunday.”
“Well, I hope you’ll do that.” His dad sounded angry, but Sonny couldn’t figure out why. It had always been that way. When he was a kid, he’d say, “Daddy, why are you mad at me?” and his dad would say he wasn’t, would sometimes shout it. But he seemed mad all the time.
I wonder why? He’s got everything he ever wanted. What on earth could be bothering him?
His father got up and brought a new coaster for Missy’s drink, carefully wiping the one he took away. She had drunk more slowly than the others and the glass had sweated.
In years past, his mother would have said, “Bull, why are you doing that? There’s no way the moisture could possibly touch the table. That’s the point of a coaster.”
He never answered and she no longer asked. Everyone accepted his dad’s little habits, said that’s what made him such a good doctor—his perfectionism.
Seeing him take the coaster gave Sonny a feeling like a stab in his side. If his dad was such a perfectionist, how had he managed to mess Di up?
Thinks he’s God. If you asked him, he’d say it was her fault. Weak abdominal wall.
He hated thinking that, hated the way it came unbidden to his consciousness. He tried not to think about what made his dad tick, tried to just accept him as he was, laugh at the little compulsions, ignore his superiority; but this thing with Di had him going. Whatever people said about Bull Gerard, they didn’t say he was incompetent.
They’re too scared of him.
They went in to dinner, to the shrimp remoulade his mother had made. Sonny complimented her lavishly.
“Shrimp are a little overdone,” said Bull.
Sonny felt light pressure on his thigh—Missy being supportive, saying, “He’s difficult, but not impossible. You’ll get through it. I’m here.”
It didn’t help, it made things worse. He always felt so incompetent around his dad. Kind of melancholy and alone, the way he’d felt when he’d been sent to his room for some transgression or other. There was something under the melancholy, something else, but he didn’t know what to call it. It made him not want to be touched, made him reject his mother when she came to comfort him then, made him now want to slap Missy’s hand away.
Roast duck followed the shrimp. By now his father had had two Scotches and a couple of glasses of wine. Sometimes a few drinks mellowed him out.
“January’s a quiet month,” he said. “Be a good time to get married.”
Missy froze; dismay filled his mother’s eyes, and then compassion. She trained them on Sonny, silently telling him she was sorry, there was nothing she could do.
“Gee, Dad, I don’t think so. Missy and I struck a deal, you know—we’re not getting married till I get out of med school.”
“No sense paying for two apartments when you could live in one.”
Missy said, “Oh, no problem, Dr. Gerard. I live with my aunt, rent-free, in a gorgeous apartment.”
“I’m gonna buy y’all a little house.”
“Dad, I don’t think we’re quite ready to get married; to tell you the truth, I’ve got my hands full with medical school.”
“I got married before medical school. And January’s a good month. Christmas is over, Carnival’s just starting.”
Sonny made a great show of chewing. “Great duck, Mama.”
“It’s about time you grew up, accepted the responsibilities of a man. Isn’t that right, Missy?”
Missy was tight-lipped, white. Sonny realized this was what the evening was about. His dad had somehow gotten it into his head to marry him off this January and had invited him over to announce it.
The same way he’d announced which schools Sonny wo
uld be attending and what subjects he’d take.
Missy said, “I don’t think I’m ready, Dr. Gerard. I don’t have enough recovery yet.”
“Sonny didn’t tell me you’d been ill. Why didn’t you come to me?”
“Listen, Dad, neither one of us wants to get married this January.”
“What’s this about Missy being sick?”
“I didn’t mean I’m sick. I meant recovery from my codependency.”
“Codependency? Isn’t that something to do with being married to an alcoholic? I didn’t think you’d been married, girl.”
For almost the first time the whole evening, Sonny’s mother spoke up. “You don’t have to be married to be codependent. You don’t even have to be around an alcoholic.” To Missy she said, “Are you in Al-Anon, Missy? I’ve never seen you there.”
“I don’t want to get into that!” Bull Gerard’s customary ruddy glow had deepened to a florid mask, his brows had come together in the Jehovah-like fury Sonny recognized from drawings in Bible story books.
All he needs is a long white beard.
Bull turned placatingly to Missy. “Girl, tell me what I’m going to do. I got one son who won’t do a damn thing anybody tells him, can’t even make an honest living, got the hardest goddamn red head anybody’s ever seen on a human being. I got another that just can’t accept responsibility. You know, Sonny’s mother and I were delighted he picked you, couldn’t have been more delighted. You’re good for him, keep him on the straight and narrow. Sobered you right up, didn’t she, Sonny boy?”
Missy was clearly puzzled. “He never seemed very—”
“Oh, he sowed a few wild oats. Ran us a merry chase all through high school. Didn’t you, Sonny?”
“If you say so, Dad.” There was the time I got a B in trig.
“You know what your problem is, Sonny? I really don’t think you have much self-esteem. Missy, did Sonny ever tell you about his grandfather? Sonny was only a kid, didn’t mean to do anything wrong. But you know, he’s never been the same since?” Bull took a long swallow of his wine. “You’ve got to quit blaming yourself, Sonny. It’s over and done now.” He spread his arms, the pictures of expansiveness. “ ’Course nothing will ever bring my daddy back, but the Lord forgives you. You’ve got to forgive yourself, go on with your life.”
Sonny felt a steel band closing around his middle, knew he wasn’t going to be able to manage dessert.
Missy massaged her forehead.
Bull said, “What is it, honey?”
“It’s nothing. I get these migraines now and then.”
“Shouldn’t be drinking wine. You got a good neurologist?”
She smiled. “I have all the right stuff. I just forgot my pills.”
“We’ll give you some coffee. That’ll knock it out.”
She shook her head. “I think it’s too late for that. It’s already too far gone.”
“I guess we’d better go.” Sonny did his best to try to sound reluctant. He didn’t think he’d ever loved her so much.
Safe in the car, he hugged her to him, laughing to release the tension. “Maybe I will marry you in January.”
“Let’s go somewhere and get praline parfaits.”
“That’s probably what Mama was going to serve for dessert.”
“You’re crazy if you think I’m going back in there. I may not marry into this family at all.” She pulled her head away from his neck. Her eyes were very round. “Sonny! Maybe that’s what he’s trying to do. Turn me off so badly I’ll dump you.”
Sonny started the car, didn’t answer. She brushed his one lock of hair back. “Do you think he hates you that much?”
“I don’t think he hates me at all. Why do you say that?”
“He’s all over you all the time. He can’t leave you alone.”
“I get off easy. You should see him with Robbie.”
“He probably hates him too. There’s so much hate in that man!”
Sonny shrugged. “I don’t really think so. He’s just old-fashioned, I guess. He does the best he can, like anybody else.”
TWENTY-SEVEN
DI CERTAINLY HADN’T been exaggerating that time at the Napoleon House when she’d told Skip she went to three meetings a day. She was “healing herself,” if Skip remembered correctly; recovering from “disease.” She’d gone straight from Sonny’s to an Al-Anon meeting.
It was a popular gathering. Alex was also there, along with Adam Abasolo—a curious way, to Skip’s mind, of tailing someone, but Abasolo was so cocky it probably wouldn’t occur to him he couldn’t pull it off. Skip’s mother was there too.
So Elizabeth went to Al-Anon as well as OA. This was a whole other side of her. She might have been going to OA just to lose weight, but you didn’t go to Al-Anon unless you were in pain. Or else wanted to make new friends.
But somehow it was nearly impossible to see her mother as an adulteress. Not because Skip had illusions, simply because Elizabeth didn’t seem to have much sexual energy. She could have been the prototype for the jokes about women who won’t make love because they’ve just had their hair done.
Still, it did give Skip a turn to see her walking out with Alex. Was he going to whisk her someplace on his hog? She had to laugh at the idea.
Her shotgun door opened.
“Langdon! Made you.” Abasolo slipped in beside her, scrunched down beside her.
“Hi, Adam. Aren’t you afraid you’ll lose your guy?”
“Naah. This is good cover for me. He’s waiting for your lady.”
“Glad to be of service, but you’ve got to pay for it. What went on at the meeting?”
“Oh, nothing much. The subject was rage. Alex said he gets so mad at someone in his life he wants to kill.”
“Did he say he just needed to put that out there?”
“Said his higher power ordered him to strangle people.”
“Right. How about Di?”
“Oh, Di. Model of sanity. She never has any problem with rage. Talked about how she used to help people control it when she was a therapist.”
“An inspiration to all of us.”
“Here they come. Did you hear about the new letter?”
“What new letter?”
“Gotta run.”
Elizabeth had gone and Di had caught up. She and Alex stood and chatted a few minutes; then he took her to her car. Skip followed her home and stayed till the lights went out.
She couldn’t wait to get home and call Cappello.
“What’s this about a letter?”
“Postcard—this time to us, not the press. Axeman likes to keep in touch.”
“Mailed after he killed Jerilyn?”
“Had to be, I guess. It was delivered today.”
“I wonder if he mailed it before—if he knew he was going to kill her.”
“Well, here’s what it says. ‘Esteemed Mortal—Couldn’t sleep, so I thought I’d drop you a note. Don’t be put off by the scarf. It was me, all right. By the way, the scarlet A was Fiesta.’ ”
“Fiesta?”
“Jerilyn’s lipstick color. Had to be after he did her, unless he knew her well enough to know her lipstick color.”
“I don’t even know my own lipstick color.”
“Me neither. I guess he looked at it so he could write the note.”
“Or planted it.”
“Why bother?”
“I don’t know. What else about the postcard? Was it typed?”
“Yep. Same typewriter as before. Ordinary card you could get anywhere. No prints.”
She thought of calling Steve, but it was nearly midnight. She lit some incense and a candle, took them in the bathroom and soaked for a while in the soft light. Baths weren’t usually her style—she was too tall for the tub—but she was too tired to stand up in the shower.
Di had been surprised when Alex asked for her help. After what he said at the Coda group on Thursday, she’d imagined he was still angry, taking rejection like a petulant ch
ild. But when she thought about it, his attention span was so short he couldn’t even sustain anger, much less the gentler emotions. He claimed to be a writer but she doubted seriously if he’d ever written anything—how on earth would he keep his mind on it long enough to finish?
He was probably just one of those people who bumbled through life going from one crummy little job to another, living off their relatives when things got tough. Still, somewhere or other he’d gotten together enough money to buy a fancy motorcycle. For the first time it occurred to her to wonder how.
He’d asked her to meet him at his father’s house in Lakeview. So where did Alex live, she wondered? Who the hell was he? She wondered if what she was doing was wise, and immediately shook off the notion.
I’m not like that. I’m going to do what life offers and not be afraid.
Alex had seemed shaken the night before. In the meeting, when he talked about his rage, he had sounded coldly furious, yet conjured for Di an instant vision of a different Alex, red-faced and bulge-veined, near-apoplectic, cold only in the recollection.
Afterward, he had seemed very different indeed. Almost frightened. He had spoken to her with humility, a new deference: “Why didn’t you tell me you were a therapist?”
“Iguess it never seemed important.”
“Di, I’ve got a problem. Have you ever worked with old people?”
“Sure.”
“Well, I never have.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“I mean, I haven’t read much about them. What do you know about Alzheimer’s?”
“A little.”
“Could you recognize it?”
“Probably. Why?”
“My dad’s started to worry me. I used to think he was just an old poot. But I swear to God he’s getting worse.” She could have sworn she saw worry in his face, but it was only a flicker and might have been her imagination. If Alex had emotions, he hid them well.
He said, “Could you—I don’t know—look at him or something?”
“Well, I don’t have an office or anything. I’m only practicing a little right now.”
