by Mary Campisi
“I try not to think about it. It was a mistake for which I’ve paid dearly.”
“Really? How so?”
She shook her head. “I have my own pain.”
“Are you on the back thing again? Pop a few more Vicodin and you won’t feel a thing.”
“What do you want? Is it money? Have the creditors finally caught up with you?”
Harry laughed. “Now I’m really insulted. You think I’m after your money? You don’t have any money, Gloria. That was Charlie’s money, not yours.”
“I’m a very wealthy woman now.”
“Good for you. I’m sure that young stud who was sniffing up your dress at the West Mount Memorial function knows that, too.”
“I’m going to bed.”
“Now there’s an offer I can refuse.”
“It wasn’t an offer.”
“Good.” He straightened and lowered his voice. “But this is; leave Christine alone and I’ll keep quiet about our past indiscretions. Got it?”
“I’ve got it.” She drew in a deep breath, held it, let it out slowly. “May you rot in hell, Harry Blacksworth.”
He threw back his head and let out a loud laugh. “You can count on it. You can goddamn count on it.”
Chapter 14
She couldn’t get them out of her head.
Uncle Harry accused her of thinking too much, working and reworking words and situations, chipping away at them until there was nothing left, sometimes not even the truth. Maybe he was right; maybe she did that when the answers staring back at her weren’t what she expected. Like now.
She wanted to force the Desantros into her subconscious but it was useless. Images and conversations kept resurfacing, gnawing away, until there was a gaping hole that flooded her brain with Lily and Miriam, even Nate.
How could she feel more uncertain at twenty-seven than she had at seventeen? Ten years ago she’d had a plan, a course objective that started with advanced education and ended in running Blacksworth & Company alongside her father, with friends, family, maybe even marriage and a child gathered up along the way. It was a simple plan, mapped out of arrogance and naïveté. Why wouldn’t she believe the world was waiting for her, Christine Elizabeth Blacksworth, to file through life, ticking off the list she’d compiled at seventeen, achieving her goals, lauding accomplishments and successes; living life—right on schedule? But no one had prepared her for the possibility of a plan gone bad.
That would equate failure, which was not an option. Try hard enough, long enough, and you will succeed. She’d believed her father’s words, just like she’d believed everything he told her.
But now?
She couldn’t picture herself with Connor, night after night, stretched out beside him on his black leather couch, discussing stocks and trends and harboring nothing in her heart, no spark, no desire, no love. She’d tried to mold her feelings into love, but it was useless.
Her mother would be so disappointed. She’d wanted this union as much as Connor, and Christine had failed them both.
It wasn’t right that she’d agreed to go back to Magdalena. And it wasn’t right that Lily was occupying large blocks of her mind these days or that Miriam’s sage words kept seeping into her consciousness when she least expected it. It wasn’t even right that she should remember the conversation she had with Nate the night Lily fell asleep on his couch while he was fixing hot chocolate. He’d been almost half-friendly, the bottle of Jack Daniel’s resting on the counter top as he answered questions about his company, told her how his father had started the business out of nothing, how Nate himself had spent hours there from the time he was just a kid. The words flowed from his lips, loosened through whiskey and reminiscing, as though he were recapping someone else’s life, not his own. It wasn’t until she’d asked him if he’d made the beautiful cabinets in his kitchen that he’d given her a curt nod, then clammed up.
None of it was right, not Nate, or Miriam, or Lily, but they were all there, nonetheless, with pulses of their own, living, breathing threats, pulling her, challenging her to turn away, begging her to come back.
She had no choice; she’d go to Magdalena, finish what she’d started. And then she’d be done.
***
It was all a goddamn setup. Harry recognized her work, the bitch. And how convenient was it that she just so happened to fall the night before Chrissie’s trip?
It was staged, had to be: the invitation to The Presidio, with Harry included, which was a first; the demand that it be that night, not one a few days before as Chrissie had suggested; and the request that the gathering be in public, not in Gloria’s home.
Harry figured it was so she could have witnesses when she took the big dive and, of course, sympathy and attention. Afterward, he understood why he’d been invited; she wanted him to witness the accident, see her on the ground, writhing in pain so there would be no way he’d be able to call her a liar.
Well, he still called her a goddamn liar, just a bit more orchestrated, deluged with exquisite calculation, but still a liar. He didn’t recall the exact moment her foot missed the step (accidental or intentional?), hurling her down a flight of thirteen stairs, but he did remember the cries of pain spilling from her mouth, the look of pure terror on Chrissie’s face. And the onlookers, poor damn Armand, the guests, the valet, rushing to her, solicitous, all on cue. Only Harry had stood back, taking it all in, watching, waiting.
The ambulance arrived, the attendants placing Gloria on a backboard, careful of spinal injuries. She has a history of back problems. The swell of the crowd had increased, as many as three deep, murmuring, catching snatches of information, throwing them back.
She slipped on the step…her heel caught.
I think the step was wet.
Will she sue?
… history of back problems…
Gloria Blacksworth…husband died a few months ago…
God, look at her, the ankle’s huge…
… poor thing… horrible…
… widow…Blacksworth & Company…
Will she sue?
Speculations continued as everyone stood by, waiting for scraps of information, a look, a gesture, a nod even that might indicate Gloria Blacksworth’s condition.
Harry only went to the hospital because Chrissie rode with her mother in the ambulance and she’d need a way home once Gloria was settled. No doubt, they’d keep her in the hospital for observation. How was she going to slip a cigarette? Or a nip of Crown Royal? He’d bet she hadn’t considered that, or maybe that little black case she carried was tucked away inside her purse, maybe there was a flask in there, too, and the bottle of Vicodin.
It was all a plan, implemented the night before Chrissie took off for the cabin. What daughter could leave her mother in a hospital bed and take off to “be by herself” or as truth would have it, to spend time with her father’s mistress and her daughter? Good old-fashioned guilt and Gloria sure knew how to use it.
It was almost 11:00 P.M. when Chrissie showed up in the waiting room. Harry visited the café twice, once for a ham on rye and then later for a piece of cherry pie and coffee. The cashier wasn’t half bad-looking either, kind of reminded him of Greta, same blond hair scooped up in a bun, same shape, but younger. Turned out she was a freshman at Loyola, too young, even for him.
Christine sank down in the brown vinyl chair beside him. “She’s sleeping. They scheduled surgery for nine tomorrow morning.”
He nodded. Round one to Gloria.
“It was a clean break, thank God. The doctor said ankles can be tricky but with therapy she should have full recovery.”
“I guess she’s lucky.” Lucky, shit, she knew exactly what she was doing.
“I’m just glad she’s okay. It could have been a lot worse.”
“So I guess this means you’re not going out of town tomorrow.”
“I can’t. There’s no way I can leave Mother right now.”
Exactly according to plan...
“W
hy are you looking at me like that? I can’t leave her, Uncle Harry.”
“What are you going to tell the kid?”
“The truth, I guess; my mother fell down a flight of stairs and had to have surgery.”
Correction…your mother threw herself down a flight of stairs…
“Are you going to plan another trip? Next month?”
“I don’t know. I think so.” She dragged her hands over her face. “I just don’t know.”
“Kind of odd the way it worked out, isn’t it?”
“What?”
“Well, here it is, the night before you leave on a trip your mother doesn’t want you to take and she goes and crashes down a flight of steps and busts an ankle. What in the hell are the odds of something like that happening?”
“It was an accident, Uncle Harry.”
“Did I say it wasn’t?”
“No, but don’t go getting any ideas.”
“Okay, so it was an accident.” He rubbed his jaw. He’d have to take it easy or he’d lose her; she’d be so busy defending her mother she’d never consider any other possibilities. “Anyway, what kind of person would throw herself down a flight of stairs to keep her daughter from doing something she didn’t want her to do?”
“A nut case...someone who’s deranged...”
“Right.”
“And she’s neither one of those.”
“True.” He let her relax a little, then hit her with, “Of course, if a person were really desperate, then maybe she’d be driven to do something like that.”
“Uncle Harry, stop it, okay? I’m tired and I’m hungry.”
“Sure. I’m sorry, kid.” He stood, grabbed his trench coat and held out a hand. “Come on. Let’s see if we can find you a burger. Maybe a Big Mac and fries, like in the old days when you were a scrawny little runt in pigtails? Huh?”
She grabbed his hand, worked out a small smile. “Thanks, Uncle Harry.”
He laughed. “Don’t thank me until after you’ve eaten. Indigestion comes with age you know.”
“No, I mean thank you for coming here, for being with me. I know you and my mother don’t always see eye to eye but I appreciate you making the effort.”
“Sure, kid.” He pulled her into his arms. She was the best part of his screwed-up life.
“Uncle Harry?”
“Hmm?” He’d do anything for her.
“It was an accident.”
And if Gloria ever pulled a stunt like this again, he’d do what he had to do. By God he would.
***
“She’s not coming, is she?” It was just a guess but he’d watched his mother’s smile falter, then fade seconds after she’d answered the phone.
“No.”
“I knew it.”
She sank into a chair. “She said her mother fell last night and broke her ankle.”
“Right.”
They’d been sitting at the kitchen table waiting for Lily to finish dressing. She’d wanted to do everything herself today, even her hair, so she could show Christine. When the phone rang, he’d almost reached for it, thinking it might be Christine. But then he’d changed his mind. Maybe a small part of him had been hoping she’d show. “Do you want me to tell Lily?”
“No. I need to do this.”
He hated seeing her like this, as though she’d been stabbed in the gut and left to bleed dry. Why didn’t she ever learn with these people? The Blacksworths wanted to play both sides of the fence, no matter who paid the price, even a child.
“Did you really think she’d come back?” he asked.
“I did.”
“Why, because the Blacksworths are such noble people who always honor their word?”
“Don’t, Nate, please, not today.”
“She won’t be back again. Lily will be waiting for her the whole goddamn month and she’ll never show. We were just a novelty for her, don’t you see that? This way, she cuts you off now, with this mother’s broken ankle excuse, and just kind of eases out of it, maybe even tells Lily she’ll come next month and then invents another reason why she can’t make it. Hell, after a while, it will all start to blur, and one day she’ll wonder if it happened at all.”
“I think you’re wrong, Nate. I think Christine did want to understand her father’s reasons for coming here.”
“Maybe she got it already; she just didn’t like what she learned.”
“No, that wasn’t the impression I got.”
“You believe in everybody. They all sell you a bill of goods and you just believe them.”
“There’s a lot of good in people; you just have to give them a chance.”
“That’s called letting them take advantage of you. That woman’s not interested in you or Lily or anybody who’s going to inconvenience her lifestyle or tarnish the Blacksworth name.”
“Christine—”
“Is she here?” Lily bounced into the kitchen, mouth open, eyes bright beneath her thick glasses. She wore black corduroy pants and a red shirt with eight shiny white buttons, all done exactly right. Nate knew the button count on the shirt because he’d helped her redo them on several occasions. It was her special shirt, the one she wore to church, the movies, school recitals, and now to meet Christine, only Christine wasn’t coming. Damn her.
Once again, human nature proved to be just as untrustworthy as it always was and still, his mother acted surprised.
“Where is she? Where’s Christine?” Lily moved past them to peek out the back window. “I think I heard her.”
“Christine isn’t here, Lily.”
“Oh.” Her smile slipped. “When’s she coming?” She took another step toward their mother, picked at a shiny button. “Did she call?”
“Yes, she called. Come here, dear.” Lily clasped Miriam’s hands, held tight. “Christine’s mother was in an accident last night. She fell down a flight of stairs and broke her ankle.”
“Christine’s not coming?”
“No, she’s not.”
“But she said she’d come. She promised.” Her voice squeaked, her lower lip started to wobble.
“I’m sorry, Lily, she can’t come.”
“But she promised.”
“Her mother needs her right now.”
“I need her, too!” She yanked her hands away and tucked them under her armpits. “I need her, too!”
“Lily, stop.”
“I’ve been waiting twenty-seven days.”
“I know, dear.”
“She promised!” Her small chest heaved up and down as the tears started. “She promised.”
Miriam pulled her into her arms. “I know.” She smoothed her thick hair, stroked her back. “Christine’s mother is hurt, Lily. She’s in the hospital and Christine can’t leave her alone right now.” More stroking. “You wouldn’t leave me if I were in the hospital, would you?”
“No.” It was a small word, muffled by tears and the cloth of their mother’s shirt.
“I know you wouldn’t. If Christine could be here, she would be.” She ignored Nate’s hard stare and went on. “I know she’d be here.”
He watched the tears pool in his sister’s eyes. Dammit, why had their mother ever agreed to let that woman come to Magdalena?
“I got all dressed,” Lily murmured, “all by myself. I just wanted her to come back.”
“I know.”
This was what happened when you trusted a Blacksworth. The crying went on and on, Lily’s small body trembling with sobs.
“I’ll bet Christine’s really scared.” Lily stilled, inched away. Her eyes grew bright beneath her thick lenses. “I’ll make her a card.”
“That’s a good idea. But, you know we can’t send it, Lily.”
“I know. I’m just going to keep it for when she comes back.”
Chapter 15
Harry let himself in the front door. He could hear Greta moving around in the kitchen, cupboards, drawers, opening and closing, water running. She’d made bread today or maybe it was rolls
he smelled, the sourdough kind with butter smothered on top. What would it be like to come home just once to real apple pie filling his senses, not the manufactured aroma of an apple air freshener? He’d never know, of course. His women didn’t cook and hiring someone like Greta, or even hiring Greta herself, was out of the question. How could he screw Bridgett on the kitchen table with Greta mashing potatoes next to him?
He could never hire Greta as a cook or housekeeper or whatever in the hell she was. How long would it take before he forgot she was a decent woman with two kids and tried to bang her? One day? Two? He just had to picture her bending over the oven, that nice ass full and tight against the white of her uniform and bam, he’d be after her.
He heard her humming some soft little tune that made him picture her lips, teeth, tongue. Jesus, he was sick. He shrugged out of his coat and headed for the staircase. It was midafternoon and Chrissie was still at work, which was why he’d decided to make the trip now. The poor kid looked worn out—popping in to visit her mother every morning and every night, squeezing a few hours of work in between, then running around the city picking up magazines, books, lotions, anything that might speed Gloria’s recovery. The damn bitch was wringing the life from Chrissie, one damned aromatherapy candle at a time.
But that was all about to end.
The bedroom stood at the top of the stairs to the right. Harry eased the double doors open and stepped inside. It was different from what he remembered; no crimson and gold walls with matching curtains and bedspread poured out in lavish excess, smothered in heat and sensuality. Even the carpeting was gone, a dark red that later he thought of as blood-red, seeping betrayal, harboring secret remnants of sweat and lust within its thick piles. The new carpet was a palest blue, the color of an ice pond.
This new décor suited Gloria. He bet she’d picked it from a showroom window, down to the stuffed white cat sitting on the rocker. Or she could have gotten the idea from a House Beautiful cover. There were blue stripes, some pale, some almost white, and peach; at least he thought it was peach, covering the walls, the curtains, a few pillows. And then she’d gone and mixed a flower pattern, peach and blue with white, on the rest of the pillows and the bedspread, or was the technical term comforter? He guessed House Beautiful would consider the room elegant, but Harry had one word for it—dead.
