by Judy Alter
Sounding deflated, he asked, “On what grounds?”
“Uh…she took a shot at him last night. At his feet. A warning shot. Well, actually two warning shots.”
“I assume she’s licensed to carry?”
“And apparently is a crack shot.”
“I’m turning the clock off,” he said, “just because as usual you’ve intrigued me. Tell me the whole story.”
When he heard it involved Ms. Lorna, he really got interested. “You couldn’t make this stuff up, Kelly. How do you get involved in these situations?”
“Believe me, it’s without trying,” I said.
“So what’s on the table?” he asked.
“Two things. Do we just wait for Bruce Hollister’s next move, or do we press charges for trespass and threatening an officer?”
“I’d wait. As Mike said, see what he’ll do. I think it would take chutzpah to even accuse her of being a danger to others.”
“Okay. Then there’s the whole thing about Ms. Lorna dying….”
“I haven’t called yet. Nice to say I was too busy…and I didn’t realize it was urgent. But if she’s dying….”
I explained we didn’t know if she was dying, just that she hinted at it. “She calls you ‘that young lawyer.’ I’ve made a doctor’s appointment for next Monday, so maybe we’ll know more then.”
He sighed. “I’ll start a file on this whole business. But so far, no charge. The story’s been more than worth my time. Keep me posted on anything that happens.”
I promised, and he said he said he’d go see Ms. Lorna about a will. “I’ll have to have a witness, and it shouldn’t be an interested party. That probably lets you and Keisha out. I can take my secretary, but there’s a charge for that.”
I assured him it was no problem and reminded him she never answered the phone. “If you call during the morning, Sheila will be there. She does answer.”
With that settled, I turned to what would be a weeklong preoccupation—tracking the movements of Bruce Hollister. From what I could tell on the Internet, he seemed to be in San Antonio that day, going about the business of being a televangelist—raising money. He made at least three public appearances in Austin and San Antonio that week, and the blog for his ministry said he was spending much of his time in seclusion, praying for the health and recovery of his wife. I was disgusted that the blog always had a contribution link, offering viewers a chance to contribute to this important ministry.
I was still tracking him when Elisabeth Smedley walked into the office, missing the leather carrier and what I’d come to think of as her annoying attitude. She looked pale.
“You all right?” I asked, without any greeting.
“Yeah, I will be. I just didn’t realize how tough this murder and mayhem business is.”
Keisha grinned, because Elisabeth couldn’t see her, and I bit back a retort of I told you so. Instead I said, “He found you, didn’t he? Tell me what happened. If he so much as touched you, we’ve got him on assault.”
Elisabeth sat heavily in my chair and stared into space. “He didn’t touch me, but he made it clear what would happen if I didn’t keep my nose out of his business. It…it wasn’t pleasant. And it was all about what some other guy would do to me.” She still looked shaken.
I nodded, and this time I said it. “I told you this is not lighthearted fun and games. People’s lives are at stake…and now maybe yours. We don’t know who this ‘other guy’ is, what he looks like, what he drives, nothing, so we can’t tell you what to look for. I have some ideas, like a black SUV, and a guy with airplane sunglasses.”
“Campus police want me to move from our house to the dorm, but that would leave Megan in the lurch for more of the rent, and I don’t want to do that. Besides, I’m not a dorm kind of person.”
I bet that was true, but I was a bit surprised she’d gone to the campus police. “Were you that scared that you went to the TCU police?”
Still subdued, she said, “Yes, ma’am. I was. You don’t know what that man is like.”
“I have a pretty good idea,” I muttered, and then I remembered Mike had called the TCU police. I felt sorry for Elisabeth. She was young, naïve for all her brazen attitude, and now she was truly scared.
“Elisabeth, I know you want to publish fiction, but the piece you wrote for the student paper was an exercise in journalism. You have to separate the two. If you’re reporting, you are bound by ethics to stick to the facts. Tell the truth in an unbiased manner. When you write fiction, you can tell the story your way, as long as you don’t make the people or situation recognizable.”
I took a deep breath and continued my lecture. “Sending the newspaper to Bruce Hollister was manipulative. You were trying to use journalism to stir up a better story. That’s unethical too.”
She had the grace to look chastened, and I reached over to pat her arm. “Just don’t write any more. Stay out of it. Go study and hang out and drink beer, but don’t get involved in this whole mess.”
She sighed. “Maybe you’re right,” and resignedly she stood up and said goodbye, giving Keisha a half wave as she went by.
After she went out the door, Keisha said, “Poor kid. That’s a hard way to learn about life’s realities.”
“But a necessary lesson,” I said.
****
Terrell did indeed go to see Lorna that week and reported he had a legal, signed document, dated that day. His secretary was witness, and Sheila was banished from the room while they talked. Later, Sheila told me her mother wanted to leave token bequests to my daughters, Keisha, and the current movement to legalize marijuana. Mike would choke over that one. But the bulk of her estate—especially her house and belongings—would go to Sheila.
“I don’t know what to do,” she said, shifting in her chair at our dining table one evening after the girls were off getting ready for bed. “On the off chance that she is indeed dying, I think I should start divorce proceedings. I wouldn’t want Bruce to have half her estate. That would be a travesty. On the other hand, filing for divorce is going to bring out the beast in him.”
Remembering she had said sometime she’d tell me the whole story, I simply repeated, “Beast?”
Mike was gone somewhere that evening, and I guess she decided this was as good a time as any for a girl-talk confession. What she recounted was a too-common tale, carried to extremes. During courtship, Bruce was charming, tender, caring—all the things a girl wants in a man.
“I was old enough to know better—twenty-six—but I fell for it. I somehow overlooked or rationalized his wish to downplay my family background. He could overlook my mother, because I had so little idea about her, and he conveniently omitted the word ‘movie’ from my father’s background and then told a story so often he believed it: my dad was a successful Broadway producer. So much more respectable than a movie producer.”
Her father apparently only met Bruce once and did not like him, even telling Sheila she was making a big mistake. “That’s when Bruce suggested I change my name to Diane Winston Hollister. I balked and kept the O’Gara, though it was obvious what Bruce thought of my Irish roots. I never did change my name legally, so my driver’s license reads Sheila, but publicly I became Diane. Now I can’t believe I did that.”
Having made a mistake of my own in marriage, I could sympathize—though my mistake was not quite as extreme and certainly didn’t last as long. Still, I’d been married to a womanizing, blackmailing scoundrel. Who was to say a televangelist was worse?
According to Sheila, a televangelist was a lot worse. There followed a tale of domination and abuse. She had lived as a virtual prisoner, doing what he told her, going where he told her, wearing what he chose, almost saying what he rehearsed with her. The only privacy she carved out for herself was in trips to the library and the grocery store, two places that became sanctuaries to her. “Religion,” she added with some bitterness, “was never a sanctuary but a torture. I’d like to begin to go to church again.”
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I thought Mom might take her to the neighborhood Methodist church that had become so important in her life that she sometimes chose their Sunday night fellowship over dinner at our house. But I kept quiet and let Sheila talk.
She told me I didn’t want to know about the so-called intimate side of her marriage but did say there were weeks when she was confined to the house to hide a black eye, a bruise on her cheek, or even once, throttle marks around her throat.
Suddenly, she stopped talking and slumped in her chair. “I’ve said too much. I’m sorry to burden you with all this. But you have no idea how good it feels to tell someone my story.”
I sat stunned, glad she felt better but wishing she’d told it to a trained therapist. I had no idea how to respond.
Sheila stood up and paced to the kitchen. “Do you mind if I help myself to more wine?”
I simply held out my glass to indicate I too wanted a refill. We sat in silence, each lost in our own thoughts, until the girls came to say goodnight.
Em stared at me. “What’s the matter, Mom? You look awful.”
That jolted me out of my dark place, and I managed to turn it into a joke, “Why, thank you, Em. How kind of you to tell me how bad I look. I’m tired, that’s all.”
Maggie picked up on it. “Sheila, you look kind of tired too.”
“I guess I am,” she said with a wan smile.
Both girls gave particularly warm hugs and went off to bed, advising us to do the same. In truth, Sheila and I were exhausted emotionally, and she left for her apartment, promising to lock herself in and turn on the alarm. I tidied up the kitchen, laid things out for morning, and fell into bed. When Mike crawled in next to me, I gave him such a fierce hug, he asked, “What was that for?”
“For being who you are,” I murmured.
****
The next morning when I sent Maggie out to call Sheila for breakfast, she was gone a long time and finally came back with the report that Sheila was not joining us. “I think she’s sick. I knocked and waited, knocked again, and I think I heard her throwing up. Then she finally called out that she couldn’t come to breakfast.”
Sure sounded like food poisoning to me. My mind raced back to what she could have eaten the day before. I had no idea what she and Ms. Lorna had for lunch that day, but we’d had spaghetti with a meatless sauce for supper—that shouldn’t do it. Neither should the salad I’d served with a vinaigrette dressing. I was so puzzled and concerned I asked Mike if he could take the girls to school so I could check on Sheila. He agreed cheerfully—I think he enjoyed playing the daddy role in public now and again. He told me later when he walked Em to class, he chatted with a couple other dads who walked their children not just to school but to the classroom door.
Once Mike and the girls were out the door, I went to check on Sheila. She answered my knock with, “Just a minute, Kelly,” and finally opened the door after what seemed a really long time. Her face was ghostly white, her eyes rimmed with dark circles.
“How long have you been sick?”
“Since about five this morning. I’ve got the dry heaves—forgive the graphic term.”
“Just today?” You’d think I was a physician, the way I asked.
“No,” she said slowly. “I’ve been feeling sick for about a week. Usually breakfast helps, but I knew today it wouldn’t. I just couldn’t face food, and don’t mention coffee to me.”
“Can you come in just as you are?”
She looked startled. “I guess. Why?”
“I think I know what will fix you.” So I took her by the hand and led her inside where I gave her hot tea and dry saltines. A little color came back into her face, and she said she felt some better but weak. I suggested she stay in the apartment and rest.
“My mother will be expecting me.”
“I’ll go by and tell her you’re not feeling well.”
Reluctantly she agreed. I sent crackers and tea bags with her back to the apartment and promised chicken soup for lunch. Okay, it would be the dehydrated kind out of a packet, but it would be chicken soup. I wasn’t quibbling about eco-health here. I was just trying to get her to feel better…and I had a big suspicion what was wrong with her. I’d been there twice myself, but it wasn’t a question I could delicately ask.
By suppertime, Sheila was back “at herself,” as Keisha would have said. I’d deliberately made a bland menu—roast chicken (already roasted from Central Market), mashed potatoes (made from raw potatoes and mashed by Miss Em who was getting to be quite the cook), and steamed broccoli. Sheila didn’t eat heartily, but she ate. The girls and Mike would get chicken sandwiches the next day.
Ms. Lorna had not reacted well when I told her Sheila could not spend the day with her. She pouted like a child, and then she gathered herself into a motherly pose and wanted to come take care of her. I discouraged that, saying she just needed to rest. After that one day, Sheila went back to her mother’s house, but she still looked pale to me and didn’t have her usual energy and determination. I surely hoped Bruce Hollister didn’t make a move this week.
I babied Sheila over the weekend with chicken soup, vegetable soup, and bland meals until the girls complained. “Can we have hamburgers and grilled vegetables?” Maggie asked Saturday, so I agreed we’d do that for Sunday night and invite my mom and Otto.
Sheila nibbled at her hamburger, seemed to enjoy the grilled squash and sweet onions, but ate lightly. I caught my mom studying her intently when she thought no one was looking. When I was doing dishes, she pulled me aside and whispered, “Sheila’s pregnant.”
“I know,” I whispered, “but she doesn’t. And I don’t want to be the one to tell her.”
“I thought she didn’t like that husband of hers.”
My mother had a black-and-white view of morality in the world, including marital relationships. I wasn’t about to undertake to give her a dose of reality at this point. But I’d had a plan all along. The next day was Ms. Lorna’s appointment with Dr. Goodwin. The appointment was for nine o’clock, and I planned to call first thing in the morning to ask if there was any way they could fit Sheila in to the schedule.
Chapter Thirteen
By eight-thirty Monday morning, Sheila and I were at Ms. Lorna’s house. We found her sitting stony-faced in the living room, wearing her usual Chinese dressing gown.
“Mother! We need to go to the doctor’s office.”
“I’m not going. It’s a foolish waste of money. I know what’s wrong with me.”
“What?” the daughter asked.
“I’m not telling you.”
I kept silent through this exchange, but because I’d told Sheila about making her an appointment, without her permission, she had an extra weapon in her arsenal. “Well, I have to see the doctor too, and I want you there for moral support.”
“You? What’s wrong with you?”
“I’ve been feeling sick for days now. Kelly’s been babying me with chicken soup. I think it’s some kind of flu, but Kelly points out that no one else has gotten sick, and it’s better to be safe than sorry. I’m going to see the doctor, and you can too. She’s set aside a long appointment for you.”
“I didn’t ask her to.”
“No,” Sheila said softly, “Kelly asked her—because I asked Kelly to. We’re both worried about you.”
Ms. Stony Face’s expression softened just a bit, and she turned to look at us.
“Keisha’s worried too. She’s the one who told us first that you talk like you don’t expect to be around long.”
“If she’s so worried, where is she?”
“Minding my office, so I can take you to the doctor,” I said.
“Mother, for heaven’s sake. Quit stalling. You’re going, if I have to drag you in that dressing gown.”
“I will not leave this house in these clothes.” She stood and swept by us to the staircase, refusing to look at either of us.
Sheila was not one bit intimidated. Guess she was getting to know her mother.
“Hurry, or I’ll come up and help you.”
With a snort, Ms. Lorna walked up the stairs, stately as ever. She was back in what I considered a remarkably short time. We made it to the doctor’s office on time but barely.
Ms. Lorna was called right in to see Dr. Goodwin, and after a bit, Sheila went in to see a physician’s assistant. I would of course not be privy to what was said in either office unless the patient told me, and curiosity ate at me, along with a bit of worry.
Sheila came back first, looking slightly shell-shocked. After talking with the checkout nurse, she sat next to me and reached for my hand, which she clutched like it was a lifeline. I just sat and waited.
“Why didn’t they find this out after the accident?” she asked softly, not wanting others to overhear.
“They weren’t looking for it,” I said. “They were worrying about your shoulder and your scrapes and bruises.”
“Didn’t they do blood work?”
I was out of the depth of my dim medical knowledge. “I don’t know. Maybe there are certain tests to look for this, and they didn’t order those.”
“You know, don’t you?” Her eyes were wide with wonder. “It’s what I always wanted, but what awful timing.” She stared into space for a moment, then tugged at the binding on her shoulder and said, “The doctor says I’m what they call a ‘high-risk’ patient because of my age.”
I nodded. I knew that much ahead too. “We’ll take care of you,” I said, thinking she could walk Gus because walking is good for pregnant women. And then, of course, I realized she couldn’t walk alone, even in Fairmount.
To our surprise Dr. Goodwin’s nurse opened the door of the waiting room and said, “Kelly? Sheila? Ms. Lorna would like you to come to the doctor’s office.”
We looked at each other in surprise and then followed. Sherry Goodwin rose from behind her desk to greet each of us. “Sheila, I’m sorry I couldn’t see you personally this morning. I thought your mother needed my full attention. After this, I’ll follow up myself. Your file is right here”—she tapped the stack of file folders on her desk—”and I’ll be reviewing it. I think meanwhile the nurse gave you some instructions about exercise, blood pressure, and vitamin supplements.”
