Abuse of Power

by Nancy Taylor Rosenberg

  “MOM,” Tracy shouted, her hands on her hips. “Will you please slow down a minute? How many cups of coffee have you had today?”

  “I don’t know,” Rachel said, picking the weights off the floor and lining them up in a neat row against the back wall. “What difference does it make?”

  “You’re wired,” her daughter said. “I’ve seen kids on drugs who are more mellow. What’s going on? Why are you acting like this?”

  “Nothing’s wrong,” Rachel lied, patting her face with a towel. “I just wanted to get some things done around the house. Now that I lost the State Farm job, there’s no reason for you to do all the housework. I’ll have my days off to spend with Joe. You can go out with your friends.”

  “You didn’t tell me you lost the State Farm job,” Tracy said. Even though she had pressed her mother to quit, she knew they needed the extra income. She had been wearing the same clothes for over a year. The kids at her school made fun of her. She hemmed them, dyed them, added different accessories she scrounged from her mother, but they were still the same clothes.

  “Oh, didn’t I?” Rachel answered, folding the towel neatly and placing it on the edge of her bureau. “Well, it’s for the best. You were right, honey. Working two jobs was too much for me, and it wasn’t fair to you and Joe. We hardly saw each other.”

  “It’s more than that, isn’t it?” Tracy said, her stomach churning. “Something’s wrong. I can tell by the way you’re acting. When Dad died, you didn’t stop cleaning for a month. You finally collapsed from exhaustion and ended up spending a week in the hospital.”

  “Sit down,” Rachel said, sitting on the edge of the bed and patting the spot next to her. She had been anguishing about the incident with Grant and the Hillmont boy ever since it had occurred. If she let the house go and moved to an apartment, she felt certain they could get by even if she lost her job at the department and had to secure employment elsewhere. Tracy was very attached to her school and friends, though, and Rachel wanted to test the waters before she decided what she would say in her report. “What would be the worst thing that could happen to us?”

  “I don’t know,” Tracy said. Her mother had played this game for years. She believed a person had to visualize the worst and learn to accept it. If you could do this, her mother had always preached, then the other problems you encountered would seem insignificant. “I guess if you were to get killed.”

  “I’m not going to get killed, okay?” Rachel said, taking her hand. “Now, what’s the second worst thing that could happen?”

  “This is stupid,” Tracy said, jerking her hand away. “I’m not like you, Mother. You believe bad things can be turned into good things. Bad things are just bad things. The world is full of bad things, bad people, bad diseases.”

  Rachel put a finger under her chin. “Come on, think.”

  Her daughter sighed. “If you lost your job, okay?”

  “I could always get another job,” Rachel countered. “It’s not like the income I earn at the PD is such a tremendous salary. I could probably make the same amount of money working as a waitress in a busy restaurant.”

  “We talked about that when Dad died,” Tracy said. “If you work as a waitress, we won’t have any medical benefits. Dad had insurance, remember, and we still ended up owing thousands of dollars to hospitals and doctors.”

  “That’s because his insurance didn’t cover certain chemotherapy drugs,” her mother explained. “If a person doesn’t have insurance or is too poor to pay their medical bills, the government will pay for their treatment. We might have been better off if we’d had nothing…no insurance, no savings account, no house.”

  “Now we’re going on welfare?” Tracy cried. “You promised no matter what happened, you’d never make us go on welfare.”

  “I’m not suggesting we go on welfare,” Rachel said, attempting a laugh. “If I lose my job and have to work as a waitress, we’ll just have to make certain we don’t get sick.”

  “Right,” the girl said facetiously. “Look what happened to Dad. A person has to have medical coverage. Even I’m old enough to know that.”

  Rachel took a deep breath, then slowly let it out. “What if we had to move to an apartment? How would you feel about that?”

  “Would it be in the same school district?”

  “I don’t know,” her mother said, dropping her eyes. “I haven’t checked the price of apartments around here yet. Lucy says the rents are considerably lower in Simi Valley.” Seeing the look on her daughter’s face, she added, “It might not happen. I just want us to be prepared in case it does. Things haven’t been going that well at work lately.”

  Tracy buried her head in her hands. When her father died, she had been uprooted, ripped away from her friends at a time when she had needed them the most. Now when she had just befriended Matt, starting her very first relationship with a boy, her mother was telling her they were going to have to move again. Life sucked. Some mornings when she opened her eyes, she wanted to turn around and go back to bed, maybe never wake up again.

  “Why is life always just one problem after another?” she cried. Leaving her mother sitting on the bed, Tracy raced down the hall to her room and slammed the door.

  After she had bathed Joe, Rachel put him to sleep in her bed. Tracy had refused to come out for dinner, and was still holed up in her room with the door locked. The steaks had gone into the freezer. She was about to heat up some soup for herself when the phone rang.

  “Is this Rachel?” a man’s voice said.

  “Yes,” she said. “Who is this?”

  “Mike Atwater,” he answered. “Have you already had dinner?”

  Rachel glanced over at the pot of soup bubbling on the stove. “Is that an invitation?”

  “Do you like Chinese?” he asked. “There’s a great restaurant about a block from the courthouse. They make the best Peking duck in town.”

  Rachel looked at her watch. It was almost eight o’clock. “Are you still at work?”

  “I’ve been going over some police reports,” Atwater said. “The shooting incident in front of the Majestic Theater, to be precise. When I stumbled across your name as one of the principals, I decided to call and invite you to dinner.”

  “Why?” she asked, suspicious.

  “Why does anyone call a lovely lady and ask her to dinner?” he said, chuckling. “I want to enjoy your company.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Absolutely,” he said. “Why don’t we meet at the China Palace in thirty minutes, unless you’d prefer to have me pick you up at your house?”

  “Are you trying to get information out of me?” she said. “If so, tell me now.”

  “What information?” Atwater said. “If you’re referring to the shooting, I have everything in the reports. I noticed your report hasn’t been turned in yet. I assume it will come in tomorrow.” He lowered his voice. “I didn’t call you to talk shop. Are we on for dinner or not?”

  Rachel reached over and turned off the stove. She would have to shower, change, try to look presentable. She knew she couldn’t talk to Atwater about the situation with Grant Cummings, at least not until she knew what she was going to write in her report. Since the attorney had ambushed her in the courtroom, however, she decided to let him treat her to a decent meal. “Give me the address, make it an hour, and you’ve got a date.”

  “Tracy,” Rachel yelled through the door, “I’m going out for a few hours. Joe’s already asleep in my bed. If you’re hungry, there’s a pot of soup on the stove. All you have to do is heat it up.”

  “Go away,” the girl shouted.

  “I can’t leave until you come out,” she said, wondering if she would have to call Atwater back and cancel. “You can’t hear Joe with the door closed.” She leaned her head against the wood. “I have a date, Tracy. The attorney who sent me the flowers asked me to go to dinner with him.”

  The door swung open. “He’s not married, is he?”

  “Of cour
se not,” Rachel said.

  “Great,” Tracy said, looking her mother up and down. “You’re not going to wear that, I hope.”

  Rachel glanced down. She had on the same pink blazer and white dress she had worn to court. “Why?” she said. “Does it look bad? I don’t have many street clothes. This is one of my best jackets.”

  “It’s hideous,” Tracy said, grabbing her mother’s hand and leading her down the hallway. “And you need to fix your hair, put on some makeup.”

  “Gosh,” Rachel said, smiling broadly, “you sure made a rapid turnaround. I thought you weren’t speaking to me.”

  While Rachel carried Joe back to his own bed, her daughter searched through her closet. “This,” she said when Rachel returned, holding a black knit dress on a hanger.

  “I hate that dress,” her mother said. “I haven’t worn it for years. Since I’ve gained weight, it makes me look fat.”

  “Take off that terrible thing,” Tracy told her. “You’ll look fabulous in this, probably better than you did when you were thin. Wait,” she added, dropping to her knees to search for the right shoes on the floor of her mother’s closet. “You have to wear high heels. Men love women in high heels.”

  “Let’s not get carried away,” her mother said, laughing. “I’m only going for the free meal.”

  Tracy stood, her upper lip trembling. “Don’t say that.”

  Rachel saw the desperation in her child’s eyes and her stomach twisted. “Come here,” she said, walking over and embracing her. “I can’t marry someone just to solve our financial problems. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”

  “I don’t know,” the girl said, sniffing back tears.

  Rachel brushed the strands of hair out of her face. “We’re going to be okay,” she said. “Please, try to believe me. I’m going to take care of us. Whatever I have to do, I’ll do.”

  c h a p t e r

  FOURTEEN

  When Rachel walked through the door of the China Palace, Mike Atwater was already seated in a chair in the reception area. Wearing the black knit dress her daughter had selected, nylons and high heels, she felt awkward and self-conscious. The restaurant, located in a strip shopping center, was tacky and cramped. Several people were waiting for takeout orders, and only a few tables were set up in back of the restaurant. “I guess I’m overdressed,” she said, smoothing down her short skirt. “I don’t go out for dinner that often.”

  “You look great,” he said, smiling. “Don’t worry, we’re not going to eat here. I’ve already ordered our food. It should be ready any minute.”

  “Oh,” she said, caught off-guard, “where are we going? Back to the courthouse?”

  “My house is only a few miles from here,” Atwater said. “It’s a beautiful night. I thought we’d eat outside, get some fresh air.”

  Rachel looked toward the back of the restaurant. “This place isn’t so bad,” she said, uncomfortable with the thought of going to his house. “Why don’t we just eat here?”

  Atwater picked up their takeout order. “Trust me,” he said, taking her elbow and steering her toward the door, “you’ll love my yard.”

  “Okay,” she said, slipping away from him, “I’ll follow you in my car.”

  Mike Atwater’s house was located on a tree-lined street near Ventura College in an older, quiet neighborhood with mature trees and manicured yards. From the attorney’s grandiose style, Rachel had expected him to live in a palace. He drove a new Mercedes. He dressed in the finest clothes. From her perspective, everything about him seemed extravagant and pretentious. When he pulled into the driveway of a modest stucco house, Rachel was surprised.

  Inside, the floors were Spanish tile, the furniture casual, the colors muted and earthy. The focal point of the living room was a large stone fireplace. Silver trophies from his track and field days were lined up on top of the mantel. Even though the house had a cozy feeling, there were no pictures, no knickknacks other than the trophies, no personal items strewn around. To Rachel, it looked more like a hotel room than a home.

  “I saw you run once on television,” she told him, walking over to study the trophies.

  “You’re kidding,” he said.

  “No,” she said, smiling shyly. “I was in high school at the time. You were fabulous. I always wondered why you didn’t make the Olympic team. You broke the world record in the indoor mile.”

  “Yes,” Atwater said, remembering the excitement of that day. “I held the record for all of thirty days, then Damian Washington took it. When the Olympic trials came up that year, I was suffering from a hamstring injury. By the time they came up again, my window of opportunity had passed.”

  “That must have been difficult to accept.”

  Atwater shrugged. He didn’t want to dwell on the subject. “Would you like to see the rest of the house?”

  “Sure,” she said, following him down the hallway. He led her to a spare bedroom, crammed full of electronic equipment and computer terminals. Papers were strewn everywhere. The trash can had spilled over onto the carpet. The windows were covered with black paper, fastened with masking tape. The room was so cluttered and dismal, Rachel felt claustrophobic.

  Atwater rubbed his chin. “I’ve been trying to sell off some of my securities and reorganize my stock portfolio. If I had a window in here, I’d never get anything done.”

  The next room he showed her was his bedroom. It was stark, containing only a bed. For an end table, he used a wooden crate.

  “As you can see,” he said during their walk back to the living room, “I don’t care much for indoor living.” He motioned toward the French doors leading into the backyard. “Go outside and make yourself comfortable. I’ll get some plates and open a bottle of wine for us. We’ll eat in the gazebo.” He darted into the kitchen, then returned with two candles and some matches. “Maybe you can light these,” he said, handing them to her. “I have electricity in the gazebo, but candlelight is nicer, don’t you think?”

  Rachel passed through the French doors into a paradise of lush greenery. The patio had a lattice-style roof, and Chinese wisteria crept down the columns. She inhaled the sweetly fragrant lilac-blue flowers, plucked one off, and brushed it past her nose.

  The Santa Ana winds had kicked up. It was balmy and breezy, the temperature in the high seventies. On the right side of the yard was a black-bottomed pool, surrounded by natural boulders. The gazebo was located on the left, and in the center of the yard was a stone walkway lined with lush plants and blooming perennials. Rachel spotted a yellow cactus dahlia, dozens of purple liatris, orange lilies, and white acidanthera with black centers.

  The gazebo was constructed out of wrought iron, but tented with white canvas, the ends of the fabric tied back like curtains around the supporting columns. Atwater had developed an entire living area inside the gazebo. There was a fire pit, an entertainment center containing a television and stereo, a daybed with dozens of colorful pillows, two padded recliners, and a small round table with four chairs. Seeing twin candelabras on the table, she placed the candles in them and lit them with a match.

  When Atwater came out with their food, Rachel said, “You must have a great gardener. I was married to a landscape architect, and I have to admit I’m impressed.”

  “You’re looking at the gardener,” he said, smiling as he set up their plates at the table. He left and returned with the bottle of wine and two glasses.

  Atwater had discarded his jacket and tie, and had rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt. Several buttons on his shirt were open, and Rachel’s eyes drifted to his chest. He wasn’t hairy like most men. Joe’s chest had looked like the national forest. The skin on Atwater’s chest and forearms was a burnished copper, hairless and smooth. Glancing at his face, she didn’t see one wrinkle.

  “The yard’s so perfectly balanced,” she continued. “Don’t tell me you designed it yourself?”

  “Ah, yes,” he said, beaming. “Now, are you ready to eat?”

  Dinner
passed quickly. They were both famished, and the duck was everything he had promised, moist and succulent, wrapped in little pancakes and smothered in plum sauce. Once Atwater had refilled their glasses with wine, he stood and directed Rachel to the recliners. “We can watch TV if you want,” he said, stuffed from the meal. “I seldom use the house. When the weather is good, I generally sleep out here.”

  “I’m not much of a TV person,” Rachel said, taking a sip of her wine. “Besides, I should go home soon. The past week has been hectic.”

  For a long time, they sat in silence. Rachel didn’t feel the need to talk as she did with most people, and from what she could tell, Atwater felt the same. “You’re not what I expected,” she said softly.

  “Oh, really?” he said, arching an eyebrow. “How’s that?”

  “I don’t know how to explain it,” she said. “I pictured you living in a different environment. You know, fancy furniture, expensive artwork. I certainly didn’t peg you as the type to putter around in the garden.”

  “See,” he said, chuckling, “you’ve learned something. Never judge a book by its cover. This,” he added, sweeping his hand toward the yard, “is my oasis. When I retire, I want to move to Bali, where I can live in a house with no walls.”

  “I had a yard like this once,” Rachel said, cutting her eyes to him. “I doubt if I’ll ever have one again, though.”

  “Why is that?”

  “I can’t afford it,” she said, brushing a wispy curl back from her face. “All I’m trying to do right now is survive.”

  He turned sideways on the recliner, reaching over to clasp her hand. “One way or the other, Rachel, we’re all trying to survive,” he said. “You may not believe that, but it’s true. Money isn’t the answer, having a certain kind of car, house, whatever. Possessions are just toys. Sure, it’s nice to be able to pay your bills, but money doesn’t guarantee happiness.”

  Spoken like a person with a fat paycheck, Rachel thought. “I’m sorry,” she said, slipping her hand out of his. “I didn’t come here to talk about my problems. Tell me about yourself. Have you ever been married? Do you have any children?”