by A.W. Hartoin
Chapter Sixteen
MY PARENTS’ HOUSE was silent when we got back. On the second floor, I could hear Mom and Dixie talking in the master bath. It was their habit. If the worst happens, go hang out in the bathroom. I couldn’t throw stones. My best friend, Ellen, and I spent plenty of hours in there, getting ready to go out and discussing our so-called problems. Mom’s bathroom was a sanctuary with a huge claw-footed tub, dressing table with velvet bench and an archway into the dressing room. Dixie was probably crying in a bubble bath, while Mom listened and applied a moisturizing mud mask.
Pete and I went into the guest bedroom and found Dad sleeping. My mother’s cats had emerged from their hiding place and were sitting at the foot of the bed looking like a couple of Egyptian statues.
“So that’s them. The sofa pee-ers,” Pete said, gesturing to the cats.
“Uh-huh. That’s Swish on the left and the other one’s Swat.” I glared at the cats, but they didn’t acknowledge that we’d entered the room.
“Swish and Swat?”
“They have real names on their pedigrees, but we call them like we see them.”
Pete sat on the edge of the bed and looked at the cats. Neither responded. They both stared at Dad and were expressionless. That might sound odd, but those cats had definite expressions. Maybe it had something to do with being well-bred Siamese. My own cat, Skanky, had no expressions. He barely had a brain.
Pete took Dad’s pulse and blood pressure. When he finished, he pronounced him marginally better. As we looked at Dad, Swat stood up, stretched languidly, and walked up the length of Dad’s body. He stood on Dad’s chest. After a few seconds, he sniffed Dad’s nose, sat down, stuck his leg straight up, and cleaned his butt.
“I need a camera,” I said and ran to the office. When I came back, Swat was biting his butt, and Pete was stifling a laugh.
Pete turned red. “I can’t stand it.” He ran out of the room and I heard him laughing in the hall. I shot pictures from every angle until Mom heard the laughter and came in.
“Don’t take pictures, Mercy. That’s not nice,” she said.
“I want to remember this moment.”
Mom shooed the cats off the bed. Pete got paged and left for the hospital. We woke Dad for the cracker test an hour later. He was groggy, but ate half a saltine.
“Why are you smiling?” he asked with narrowed eyes.
“No reason, honey. Go back to sleep,” Mom said.
Dad ignored Mom. “How’s the case?”
“Fine. Try to get some sleep,” I said.
“I don’t need any more sleep. I didn’t come home to sleep.”
“He is better.”
“He’s not better.” Mom pulled the covers up and Dad shooed her away like she shooed the cats.
“Tell me,” Dad said.
“Okay. I photographed the scene, fixed Dixie’s muffler, walked through the church, and talked to Gavin’s last client.” When I said it like that, it sounded like I’d been sitting on my ass.
“That’s all?”
“I went to the morgue, too.”
Dad growled and tried to sit up. “I’ll take over from here.”
“That sounds like an excellent plan. Goodnight, Mercy dear,” said Mom.
“An excellent plan? Dad can’t take over stink.”
“It’ll be fine. He might be well enough tomorrow.”
Swat jumped up on the bed and licked his chops. He had an interesting expression on his pointed face. I could’ve sworn he was thinking, “I just cleaned my ass on you. You’re not going anywhere.”
Mom grabbed me by the arm and steered me out of the room, down the stairs, and into the kitchen.
“Can’t you let anything go?” she asked.
“He’s sick as a dog. He’s not going to the bathroom by himself.”
“I know that. It won’t hurt to let him think he’s going to take over, and then you just keep going.”
“What if I don’t want to keep going?”
“Please. I don’t have the energy for this.” Mom rolled her eyes and rubbed her head. Her hair, which had been damp when she came out of the bathroom, had dried into soft curls around her face. She was pretty, much prettier than a woman her age had a right to be. I thanked God for my fortunate gene pool, mixed blessing though it was.
“What am I expected to do now?” I asked.
“What would you have done if we hadn’t gotten a flight?”
“More interviews, I guess.”
“Then it’s settled. Do that.” Mom handed me my purse and indicated I shouldn’t let the door hit me on the way out.
“You want me to leave?”
“Don’t you have to feed Skanky?”
“He has a self-feeder and Dad might get worse.”
“You’re three blocks away. I think I can handle it.”
“Fine, but I want to give him the next dose of Zofran in a half hour. That way we won’t have to worry about nausea during the night and I’ll be by first thing in the morning.”
Mom nodded her assent. Thirty-three minutes later I was out the door and walking home. The door didn’t hit me.
