Widow's Row

by Lala Corriere

  Some of the ladies I had come to enjoy on Widow’s Row circled around us. Three of them were true widows, a couple were divorcees, and then there were a few GRS patients I now knew as girlfriends. Even Jennie was flying in for the annual party. Gossip had it she met her Mr. Right and wanted to show him the Transformation Town that made her ‘the woman she is today’.

  I turned back toward the main porch and watched as Jonathan meandered my way.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Patsy Recline

  There was something extraordinary about Jonathan Marasco that night. He dressed in a lightweight navy cashmere sweater atop white linen pants. The mariner’s cross clung tight against his chest at the ‘v’ neck sweater. He approached me with a fluid and easy gait. His eyes seemed to be scanning the crowd with irreverence until he knew I saw him, and then his smile became vivid and framed with dimples. He was clean-shaven!

  “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” he said.

  “Oh, no,” I said. Flesh and blood. “I’m just happy to see you here. I wasn’t sure.”

  “That this was my kind of thing?”

  For some unfathomable reason, I pecked him on the cheek, then Baird arrived with the drinks. I was glad for the intrusion and not having to account for my actions, even to myself.

  “I expected to see your father here, Breecie,” Baird said.

  “You’re kidding,” I said, suddenly consumed with guilt. It had never occurred to me to pick him up and bring him out to the ranch. One minute I hated Dad and his constant demands for the likes of oatmeal. The next, I was ashamed at behaving like a negligent daughter.

  Baird barreled nearer and put his free arm around me. When I recoiled, he only pulled me in tighter. “He’s a good man, but he’s getting up there in years. You need to cut him some slack.”

  “Is that a suggestion or a threat?” I tore away from his arm.

  Kate heard my remark and scowled. “C’mon. Lighten up. It’s a party, for crisakes.”

  I tucked my face into my hands and shook my head. “I’m sorry. I had a rough night, no sleep, a heavy work day.” My apology was to Kate, not Baird.

  Jonathan came to stand between Baird and me. The glint of concern across his eyes caressed my stable of unstable emotions. He whispered from behind my ear, “Are you all right?”

  I knew if nothing else, he shared my ill regard for Baird. “I can handle it.” I can handle Baird, Dad, the whole damn world. Just not an unsolved murder in the family.

  Ari’s spread included trays of hors d'oeuvres, antipastos and canapés, tables of crisp salads, whole poached salmons, barbecued turkeys and ribs, and decadent displays of desserts. I approximated maybe one hundred guests milling about. Curiously, the only thing missing was Ari.

  Jonathan seemed to want to stay near my side, as I wanted to stay near his. We quit the mingling thing before we even began. He knew I’d been editing and revising my manuscripts and asked me about my progress. I watched his newly unveiled upper lip curve, curl, and otherwise totally enthrall me.

  “You seem to really love your writing life.”

  “I do. But maybe not all the solitude.”

  “I don’t understand,” he said, taking my arm to lead me away from the party tent.

  “That public defender’s gig I told you I never did. It keeps eating at me. I found out my daddy took care of things to get me a cushy job in a sleepy little D.C. suburb. Mostly, so I’d be out of his way, I think.”

  “So you really want to be a public defender?”

  “I don’t know. But something. Right now I’m not thinking much about my future. The past consumes me.”

  “Maybe you should write about it.”

  It had never occurred to me.

  At eight o’clock a five-piece band with a brilliant vocalist began playing some old Patsy Kline. The singer seemed more like she’d be better as a Pasty Recline, a little like a whore and a lot like a drunk. We danced two dances. I ended up in Jonathan’s strong arms, and he started almost rocking me in his embrace against the silence of a finished ‘I Fall to Pieces’. Dizzied by the warmth rollicking across my body, I felt myself lean forward in desire when he pulled me nearer and claimed my lips with urgency. His kiss was slow, patient, and very hungry. He pulled my scarf up to frame my face, kissed me again, then let it fall again to my shoulders.

  “I’m afraid I need to decline any more old Patsy Kline. I’ll be seeing you, housemate,” he said.

  I couldn’t quite read his mood. His comment seemed almost flippant, yet braided with regret. I felt the despair of my body falling away as he took an abrupt step back, turned, and walked away toward the main house.

  “Looks like it’s turned out to be one helluva hot night,” the voice cooed from behind me.

  I reeled around to find Jennie. “I heard you might be showing up. I’m so glad.” I felt an improbable gulp in my throat. I cared for this woman and never realized how much.

  “He doesn’t seem like such a recluse,” she said.

  “Sheesh. You’ve been gossiping,” I said.

  “Just like the best of us girls.”

  “Are you staying for a while? At The Lost Cat?”

  “Kate will be furious, but just for the night. The only way I could justify the trip is because it’s on our way to Marina del Ray.”

  “Sailing?”

  “Last of my tune-ups,” she said. “A specialist back there does magic with vocal cord shortening. I don’t mind a sultry voice, but when I answer the phone I want my caller to know I’m all woman.”

  I met Jennie’s dapper gentleman friend, a tall blond of about her age, then Kate appeared on the scene, sans the glitzy blazer-man I dreaded. “My man wandered off to the boy’s room. I can’t wait for you to meet him,” she explained between happy gulps and tears. She dived into Jennie’s bosomy hug.

  Jennie took Kate’s chin in her hands and searched Kate’s eyes. “Are you being a good girl for me?”

  Kate’s enlarged pupils revealed the truth, a physical trademark whenever Baird was in town.

  “Starting tomorrow,” she promised.

  The old coterie of Widow’s Row women resurfaced. They embraces one another, shared old war stories, and began fluidly flirting with the male caterers moving trays of Bellini champagne cocktails through the crowd. The conversation became distant. It shifted away from me in an eerie dance of circles—inner circles that transcended the ages and didn’t include newcomers like me. For the first time in months, I felt like an outsider. My D.C. roots took hold.

  Those roots stifled me.

  I was deciding whether I wanted to indulge in another drink or luxuriate in the comfort of my own feather bed. A waiter decided for me, appearing with a fresh tray of Bellinis. Lifting one off the tray, I began to wander. Away from Kate and Jennie. Away from the opulent tent and all the red, white and blue. Away from the sounds of the reclining Pasty Kline.

  I’d only walked about forty feet away.

  George Baird was holding his left arm up high against the frame of the nearest chinchilla run. His right arm lunged, throwing punches through the air.

  Across from him, a cowardly Ari stood tittering.

  I ducked through the dense trees lining the paths, slipping closer toward the runs, winding my way to get within earshot.

  Ari’s arm now braced against the wall of the run to steady himself.

  Baird’s arm shook freeform for a second time. His bald skin reddened with rage. “Listen up, asshole. I don’t ever want to catch you flashing your money around like this again. Do you hear me?”

  “You’re paranoid over...”

  “...Shut your mouth, close your wallet and you just might get in on our next payload.”

  My red scarf fell to a cushion of pine needles below me. As I reached to retrieve it, the upper lacings of my left espadrille became tangled in the dense thicket and caused me to stumble. The needles did nothing to absorb the sound. Both Ari Christenson and George Baird looked up, and both of them
saw me gaping at them.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  What Sins?

  Up early Monday morning to deliver my dad a canister of his required Quaker Oats, I decided on yet another approach. The goal remained the same. Get the truth out of him.

  It was a beautiful summer day. Dad chose to sit out in the sun. He chose the wicker patio rocker. Good. Maybe it would calm him.

  I took my seat on the chaise lounge, maybe to calm me.

  “What was it like, Daddy? Tell me about the stroke.”

  “I want more cream in my coffee,” he groused, waving his mug in the air. “Sugar, too.”

  I had already smelled the distinct tang of bourbon in his mug. I complied, retrieving both items from the kitchen.

  “I wish I could have been there for you.”

  “No big deal. They tell me I’d have never known the difference.”

  “But you must remember some things.”

  “None of the warning signs the doctor’s preach and teach. All I remember from that day is feeling a burning line blaze across my cheek. Maybe kind of like what you felt when you got that blast of electricity.” He reached over and poured the cream and sugar into his mug. Quite the cocktail he was mixing up.

  “Were you scared?”

  “No time for that. Never saw it coming. Lucky for me I was on the phone with George. He probably saved my life calling 911.”

  “George Baird?” Savior or not, I still detested that man.

  Dad nodded as his gravelly voice forced the words. “It took its troll. I mean toll. It took its toll on me in other ways.” His eyes fell to the floor and his hands trembled with the coffee mug still firmly in their grasp. I could see the syrupy brown liquid lapping inside.

  “Like not being able to drive?”

  “Maybe I will someday. You sure as hell don’t see my Caddy up for sale. For now, I have my friends and that damn know-it-all nurse you had to go and hire. They take me where I need to go.” He inhaled the linen-crisp air, heaved it out like dirty laundry, and paced his words even slower. “I don’t have a big social calendar. Didn’t get to attend that party of yours Saturday night. Now that was a real dis...disappointment. Heard the whole town turned out.”

  “It wasn’t my party, Dad,” I said, still bridling in my anger. George Baird must have given him a blow-by-blow of the event just to underscore my thoughtlessness not to include him.

  He shook his head and sighed. His demeanor, a one-hundred eighty degree change, and veering toward softness? “It’s taken me six months to be able to talk half-way normal, and then I go and say something stupid to the only person left on this earth that might still love me. I’m sorry, Breecie.”

  I’d never heard Dad apologize for anything, ever, and especially not to me. It was like my Dad’s mantra. According to him, only the weak acknowledged fault.

  His eyes held my gaze, then he succumbed to the heaviness and his eyelids winced until they all but closed. Again, his words came slowly. “Truth is, your old man has been depressed. It’s not an easy thing for me to come to terms with, but you can’t take away a lawyer’s gift of gab without breaking down his whole damn psyche.”

  “You’re talking real well, Dad. Besides, you haven’t practiced law in years. It’s not like you have to be in the courtroom.”

  He looked aimlessly down at his feet. “Hear me, Breecie. I said you can’t take away a lawyer’s gift of gab. Did it ever occur to you maybe I didn’t want to talk to you, early on, because I didn’t want you to hear me talking like some mindless old fart?” His expression froze and grew sallow with the absence of his old boxing-glove spirit. The great James Lemay was finally going to show me his human side.

  “I think I understand. I’m sorry it took me so long.”

  “Good.”

  We sat in silence. I gazed past a glistening spider web, its creator working dutifully to finish spinning in between two porch rails. A scraggly alley cat tiptoed atop the wooden fence that separated Dad’s backyard from Naomi’s. The cat leaped and disappeared behind the even higher fortress of aspens that provided total privacy from snoops like me.

  “You’re doing great. You’re a fighter. You’ve always been a fighter.”

  He scowled.

  The truth was that amidst anguish and resentment, and maybe even guilt, there wasn’t a sign of fighting or determination left in him.

  “We have to look at the bright side. I’d have never come down here to spend any length of time with you. And I have a surprise for you. At least I hope you’ll be pleased. I’ve decided to stay down here.”

  “You’re staying on at that ranch?” I couldn’t tell if his voice was dismissive, challenging, or just plain mad. The calm of the morning already seemed to slip away along with James Lemay’s waning soft side.

  “I’m considering opening up for business down here.”

  “A law practice?” He swung his face upward, the stone look unable to conceal cynicism.

  No. A fucking donut shop. “More like a legal aid office. Maybe I can finally pay off my debts you and Adam so conveniently relieved me of.” Going after him again. Why was I so damn vindictive? Why couldn’t I just love my daddy?

  “Take it from me. You can’t just do a couple good deeds and hope to erase your past sins.”

  “Sins? What sins?”

  “I’ve made some mistakes in my life,” he said. “Done some stupid things I’m not exactly proud of. I’ll pay my dues with my maker, just like everyone else.”

  I heard an edgy penance in his voice. It went beyond any regret he might have for buying a plush job for his undeserving daughter. What the hell wasn’t he telling me?

  An old wooden swing in the corner of his backyard, its slats weathered and splintered, began to creak and sway with a sudden breeze. I wondered how many mornings Dad might have sat there with Erin McGinnis at his side.

  “My friend, Kate, is dating George Baird. I know he’s married. He’s not going to break her heart, is he?” I forced a wink in a last ditch effort to lighten the conversation.

  “Truth?”

  I nodded.

  “On paper I think the old bastard is still probably married. But from what I hear your friend could meet a psychotic Olympian fencer in a black alley and come out unscathed. They’re just having themselves some fun.”

  “So George Baird does talk to you about her? You’ve told me how you know him, judge and all, but I’m curious. I know he’s your friend, but I don’t understand what the two of you have in common?”

  “Big time judge, he was. And we’re in a couple business deals together.”

  “You must know my landlord, then. Ari Christenson?” I wondered. Had Baird told my father I’d been eavesdropping on them at the party? And what business could Dad have with a nefarious George Baird?

  “Never met the man, Breecie, but I’m told he’s as dumb as a rock.”

  “Kate tells me George is in business ventures all over the world. Russia and Mexico, especially. Are your dealings with him there?” The Russian gun was never far from my mind.

  Dad’s cell rang. He retrieved it from his khaki pants pocket. He said nothing for a long time. Finally, he murmured something about an understanding. He flipped the phone closed, tossing it on the table like any normal toxic waste encounter.

  His eyes glazed over as he dismissed mine. “Time for you to go.” The tremulous voice reminded me of his fist struggles at speech after his stroke.

  “What is it?”

  “I have something to deal with. I need to be alone for a while. And Breecie, thanks for bringing me the oatmeal.”

  And there it was. Another glimpse at the kind father I remembered from my childhood.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Oops, There Goes Another...

  Baird knew his face in the mirror cast off power.

  “Omnipotent,” he said aloud to his best friend’s reflection, “but I’m not one to be caught off guard. And that’s why I will always win.”

  Most
folks around Trinidad knew Baird Enterprises owned a chinchilla farm on the outskirts of town. It was a well run facility, clean, and despite the fur controversy and an occasional heated debate around a game of cards at the Elks Club, no one was out to close them down. A few people knew Baird had some sort of interest in the bulls out at the ranch, and that suited them fine, too. It was a common shared belief that the ranch owner, Ari Christenson, had no business in the good old boys game of rearing bulls. Shared gossip that stuck around town like flies to flypaper, everyone knew the bonehead had one too many get rich schemes up his sleeves. And far too many fried brain cells.