CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE

by Julie Mulhern

“Who was the father?”

  Either Mother didn’t know or she wasn’t telling. Or maybe she thought if she ignored my question, the cat would slink back into its bag and I’d forget I ever saw its furry face.

  Not likely.

  “You know the story of the Prodigal Son?” Mother asked.

  “Of course.” We heard it from the pulpit at least once a year.

  “I hate that story.” She glared at the one piece of art in the room—an innocuous print of a soothing beach. “The Prodigal Son comes home not because he’s seen the error of his ways.” Some of the starch leaked out of her posture, and she leaned against the back of her chair. “He comes home because he’s out of money.”

  Mother shifted her glare to me. “None of the things he’s done matter. All is forgiven. Meanwhile, the other son, the one who followed the rules, is practically forgotten.”

  In a million years, I would never have suspected that Mother harbored such resentment for Aunt Sis. Disapproved of her lifestyle? Absolutely. Disliked her clothing? Certainly. But this—this venom? “It’s a story about forgiveness,” I ventured.

  “Nonsense.” She wielded the word like a knife.

  What to say? I had no idea.

  Thank God, Greg pushed open the door. His skin looked pasty and his eyes were red-rimmed. His gaze shifted between Mother and me, and his tongue darted out of his mouth as if he could taste the tension in our little waiting room. “Marjorie wants to see you.”

  Mother stood.

  “Both of you.”

  I stood as well.

  “Ellison, go find your father. He’ll want to see Marjorie.”

  “There’s a limit of two visitors at a time, and she asked for the two of you.”

  Did Marjorie really want to see me, or had Greg made that up to thwart Mother? I suspected the latter.

  “Fine.” Mother disappeared through the door, somehow intimidating the slow hinges into slamming behind her.

  Greg sank into a chair.

  I paused and patted his shoulder. As gestures went, it was awkward, ineffectual and insufficient. It was also all I had. “How is she?”

  “Mad at me.”

  Had he expected that getting shot would mellow her?

  “How is she feeling?”

  He sank his head into his hands. “Right now she’s feeling no pain.”

  That made one of us.

  I offered up another awkward pat and a platitude. “Things will look brighter tomorrow.”

  Greg snorted. “They won’t.”

  Not with that attitude, they wouldn’t. I glanced toward the door. “I’ve got to go. If Mother is holding the elevator, she’ll be livid with me. You’ll be all right?”

  He sunk his head into his hands.

  I’m not good with raw emotion. I didn’t grow up with larger than life displays of grief of anger or happiness. Grief was meant to be personal and private. Anger found surrogates like golf balls or wide swaths of paint. Happiness called for Shirley Temples with two cherries or, as I got older, a glass of Champagne. I have no skills when it comes to comforting a man who has screwed up his marriage so badly that he radiates anguish. But I couldn’t just leave him. “What can I do?”

  “Nothing.” He lifted his head and sat up straight in his chair. “Go.”

  “I’ll call or see you here tomorrow.” I hurried down the hallway to the elevator.

  Mother had left me.

  Of course.

  She doesn’t enjoy being kept waiting at the best of times. These were the worst of times. That argument with Sis…Mother had peeled back the carpet and revealed the creepy crawlies that hid beneath.

  I know a thing or two about sibling rivalry, and I wasn’t about to judge Mother for nursing her resentments (even if she had been overfeeding them).

  I took my time getting to Marjorie’s room, in no hurry to deal with Mother in her current mood.

  I lingered outside Marjorie’s open door and considered what I might say to my sister.

  How are you feeling?

  Who shot you?

  Did he mean to shoot me?

  Mother’s voice carried into the hall. “What seems to be the problem?”

  Marjorie mumbled something.

  “Well, he’s not my favorite. But divorce? What’s wrong with you and your sister that you can’t make your husbands happy?”

  Why did it have to be me standing outside Marjorie’s room as Mother eviscerated her? Why couldn’t someone else save her from Mother’s epic snit? Greg was dissolving in a waiting room. Daddy was drinking coffee. Aunt Sis was in a cab on her way back to my house. Grace was at home. That left me. I drew a breath deep into my lungs and stepped into the breach.

  Marjorie looked pale. It was hard to tell if that was from being shot or Mother’s foul temper.

  “What took you so long?” Mother demanded.

  I answered with a pained smile, slipped past Mother and claimed Marjorie’s hand. “How are you?”

  “Tired.”

  “You should rest.” I glanced at Mother. “We should go.”

  “We just got here.”

  Tap, tap, tap. Anarchy entered the room.

  “What are you doing here?” Mother’s lip curled as if Anarchy smelled like a just turned compost heap.

  “I have a few questions for Mrs. Blake.” Anarchy’s mild tone belied the sharpness in his eyes.

  “You’ll have to come back. Now is obviously not a good time.”

  “Mother, Marjorie was shot. That’s an attempted homicide. Anarchy is just trying to catch the person who did this.”

  She snorted. “Call Hunter.”

  “Marjorie doesn’t need a lawyer.”

  “Don’t be naïve, Ellison.”

  “She’s a victim not a suspect.”

  Mother pursed her lips.

  “I think you should have Daddy take you home. Put your feet up, have a drink, you’ve had an awful weekend.” A couple of strong scotch and waters might take the edge off Mother’s temper.

  “That’s an excellent idea.” Daddy stood at the door with two cups of coffee in his hands.

  “But—”

  “No buts, Frances. You need to rest. We’ll come back later.” He handed Mother a cup, crossed the room, and dropped a kiss on top of Marjorie’s head. “Looking good, sugar.”

  Was there no one in the whole family who could tell a convincing lie?

  Mother joined him next to the bed, reached out, and stroked Marjorie’s cheek.

  “We’ll be back soon, sweet girl.”

  My father led Mother away from the beeps and blips of the machines that surrounded Marji.

  Mother stopped at the door. “I love you.”

  “Love you too, Mom.”

  Mom?

  That one word defined the difference between Marji’s and my relationship with Mother. My shoulders tensed. For a moment I returned to high school, a vision complete with Mother wondering aloud why I couldn’t be more like my sister.

  All things considered, I was glad I wasn’t more like Marji.

  Mother and Daddy left and Anarchy cleared his throat and looked at me expectantly.

  “What?” My voice was too sharp

  “I need to speak with your sister.”

  Marjorie shifted and the sheets on her bed rustled. “Please, can she stay?”

  His coffee hued gaze shifted between Marjorie and me.

  “Please?” Marjorie sounded so pathetic—looked so pathetic—there was no way he could tell her no. And even if he did, I wasn’t going anywhere.

  Anarchy rubbed circles at his temples as if we were giving him a headache. “Fine.”

  I settled into the Naugahyde chair next to Marjorie’s bed.

  Anarchy leaned against a window sill large enough to acc
ommodate half a florist’s shop. No doubt it would be filled by tomorrow. “Did you see who shot you?”

  “No.” Her voice was small.

  “What were you doing there?”

  Marjorie’s gaze slid my way. “I met someone.”

  “Who?” The question slipped out. Anarchy’s lips twitched as if he was amused and not annoyed by my interruption.

  “A friend,” Marjorie whispered.

  Oh. Dear. Lord. Quin Marstin? John Ballew? Kinky? Who? This time, my question remained locked behind clenched teeth.

  “You look like Mom.” My sister’s voice was stronger now.

  I put my hands on my face and smoothed away whatever expression I wore that reminded Marjorie of Mother. I relaxed my jaw. Or tried to. Had she no sense? Marjorie couldn’t have picked a more indiscreet place for a rendezvous.

  “What happened?” asked Anarchy.

  “My friend left and I walked back to Ellison’s car.”

  “You were alone in the parking lot?”

  “I thought I was. I didn’t see anyone.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt you?”

  A tear escaped from the corner of Marjorie’s eye and she scratched the tip of her nose. “No.” No doubt about it, my sister was the worst liar in a family of bad liars.

  Anarchy’s slightly indulgent expression morphed into something harder.

  “You were wearing your sister’s coat?”

  “Yes.”

  “And driving her car?”

  “Yes.”

  “Can you think of anyone who might want to hurt her?”

  “No.” This time, Marjorie didn’t scratch her nose.

  A nurse bustled in, took one look at Marjorie’s pale cheeks, and said, “You have to go.”

  Anarchy flashed his badge.

  “I don’t care if you’re with the FBI. Mrs. Blake needs to rest.”

  He pushed away from the window sill. “One more question. Is there anything you can think of, anything that seemed off?”

  Marjorie closed her eyes. She really was pale, nearly as white as the hospital sheets. “The tapping.” Her voice sounded tired.

  “The tapping?” Anarchy leaned forward.

  So did the nurse. “Out!”

  “I’ll be back, Marji.” I patted her hand. “Is there anything I can bring you?”

  She fingered the hospital gown. “A nightgown and bed jacket.”

  “Of course.”

  “My makeup and the pig bristle hair brush.”

  “Certainly.”

  “My moisturizer. I can’t do without that.”

  I nodded. “Nightgown, bed jacket, makeup, hairbrush and moisturizer.”

  “And—”

  I shook my head. “Five items is my limit unless I can write them down. I’ll bring anything you want first thing in the morning. If you think of something else, call.”

  The nurse herded us into the hallway. As the door closed behind us, I heard her ask, “Would you like a warm blanket?”

  “I need to call a cab.” Exhaustion reached out and grabbed me. If Marjorie didn’t want a warm blanket, I’d be happy to take the bossy nurse up on her offer.

  “No, you don’t. I drove your car here.”

  My hero.

  Anarchy led me to the parking garage and Henry’s car. He even opened the passenger door for me. “I’ll get your purse from the trunk.”

  Perfect. I didn’t have to go back to the club tonight. He really was a hero.

  Although…the club served dinner. There was nothing at my house but frozen pizza. My stomach rumbled in protest.

  Anarchy climbed into the driver’s seat.

  “Thank you for bringing the car.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  We drove in silence for a few blocks.

  “Who would want to kill your sister?”

  That’s the question I should have been pondering. Instead, I’d been wondering how long it would take the Chinese restaurant to deliver fried rice and Moo Shu. “I don’t know. We don’t talk often. Do you have siblings?”

  “A brother.”

  “Do you get along?”

  There it was again—that amused smile. Barely visible in the dark car but still potent enough to make my empty stomach flip. “We do best when there’s half a country between us.”

  I understood completely.

  “I have to go back down to the station. Do you think you could avoid trouble for the rest of the night?”

  All I wanted was dinner, a large glass of wine, and the comforts of my bed. “I think I can manage that.”

  The best laid plans…

  Thirteen

  Grace sat curled in the corner of the couch holding a plate.

  Max sat at her feet and watched with rapt attention as a slice of pepperoni pizza traveled from the plate to her mouth.

  Aunt Sis sat in an easy chair clutching an industrial-sized glass of wine. She looked blurry, as if the glass was not her first.

  The television was tuned to the NBC Mystery Movie. Peter Falk, wearing a rumpled raincoat and carrying a camera, asked Dick Van Dyke a seemingly innocuous question.

  “Dick Van Dyke’s the killer?”

  Grace, her mouth full of pizza, nodded.

  If only it were so easy to identify a killer in real life.

  “Did you take a cab home?” Not only did Aunt Sis look blurry, she sounded blurry.

  “Anarchy brought me.”

  Two gazes shifted from the television to me.

  “He had Henry’s car.”

  This comment helped with the gazing not one bit.

  I frowned at Aunt Sis. “Would you like something to eat?”

  “The only thing you have is frozen pizza.”

  “I can call for take-out.”

  Aunt Sis snorted into her wine. “I’d like to go out.”

  She was in no shape to go out.

  “I insist,” she said. “My treat.”

  From her spot on the couch, Grace nodded. “Mom, you should take Aunt Sis to Luigi’s. I bet she’d love it.”

  Half-bar, half-restaurant, Luigi’s was nearby and an enormous bowl of noodles might soak up some of the Blue Nun sloshing around Sis’s stomach. My own stomach rumbled at the mere thought of lasagna. “Fine. Sis, are you ready?”

  My aunt lurched to her feet.

  Oh joy.

  Luigi himself led us to a table which was nice of him since the place was surprisingly full for a Sunday night. Perhaps it was the baseball game on the screen above the bar.

  “Who’s playing?” I asked.

  Luigi tilted his head and looked at me as if I might have a few screws loose. “The Dodgers and the A’s. It’s the World Series.”

  Who knew?

  Apparently a bar full of men.

  “Who’s winning?” asked Aunt Sis.

  “The Dodgers, one to nothing.”

  We sat and Luigi put menus in our hands.

  With her menu still closed, Aunt Sis said, “A glass of Chianti, please.”

  Really? Water might be a better choice—and not a glass but a pitcher.

  My aunt squinted and cocked her head. “You look just like your mother when you make that face.”

  Oh dear Lord. “Make that two glasses.”

  “Just make it a bottle,” Aunt Sis amended.

  This little excursion had the makings of an epic disaster.

  I was seated facing the bar and that’s where Luigi’s gaze was glued—television high. “Of course. Your waiter will be with you shortly.”

  Epic, I tell you. We’d be lucky if we ate before midnight.

  Apparently the waiter wasn’t a baseball fan—he arrived promptly, took our order and delivered a bottle of water to th
e table. He even poured Aunt Sis a glass.

  She didn’t take the hint. “The man who seated us was going to bring a bottle of Chianti.”

  “I’ll check on that for you, ma’am.” The waiter departed.

  Waiting on liquid courage would be cowardly. I took a sip of water and asked, “What were you and Mother arguing about at the hospital?”

  “Frances.” Aunt Sis pronounced Mother’s name as if it was a new version of an old-fashioned four-letter word. “She’s been like that since we were girls.”

  “Like what?”

  “You know. Something doesn’t go her way and she’s an absolute witch for a few days.” She lifted her left brow. “Don’t tell me you’ve never noticed.”

  I’d noticed. “There was more to that argument than Mother being in a foul mood.”

  Aunt Sis pretended a sudden interest in baseball and swiveled her head to see the game.

  “What was going on, Aunt Sis?”

  “Leave it alone, Ellison.” She scanned the small restaurant. “Where’s that waiter with our wine?”

  “You had a baby?”

  “I said leave it alone.” Her voice was loud enough to draw the attention of a few baseball fans.

  If there was indeed a family secret kept hidden for decades, discussing it at a neighborhood restaurant at decibels more suited to a Grand Funk concert wasn’t the best idea. I fell silent.

  The waiter arrived with our wine and Aunt Sis kept him pouring until the level in her glass neared the brim.

  “How’s Marjorie?” she asked.

  “The doctors say she’ll make a complete recovery.”

  “I’ll drink to that.”

  As if she needed a reason.

  “I felt sorry for Greg today.” She sat back in her chair and cradled the bowl of the wine glass in both hands. “I always got the impression they were happy.”

  “I think they’re both having mid-life crises.”

  “Another woman?”

  I shrugged. She wasn’t the only one who could keep secrets.

  “Another man?”

  Another shrug.

  “They should both just buy sports cars.”

  Excellent advice that came too late.

  Our dinners arrived and we tucked in, eating in the companionable silence shared by anyone who’s ever missed a meal then been served excellent Italian.