Occasion of Revenge

by Marcia Talley

  “What if Daddy’s lying in a ditch somewhere?” Ruth worried.

  “In that case, somebody would have called.”

  “Should I check the hospitals?”

  “Don’t be silly.” I thought for a minute. “He did have his wallet with him, didn’t he?”

  “I assume so, but I don’t know for sure. It isn’t on his dresser, anyway. I checked.”

  I felt the mattress heave as Paul slid out of bed. “Coffee?” he pantomimed. I nodded and watched with affection as he padded toward the hallway in his bare feet.

  “When he gets home, I’m going to kill him,” Ruth grumped.

  “Killing would be too quick. Why don’t you tie him to a chair until he promises to keep you posted on his whereabouts?”

  Ruth snorted. “He has no consideration. No consideration at all.” The rant continued. “I have to open up the store in a couple of hours.”

  “Today’s Sunday, Ruth. You don’t open up until noon on Sunday. And if you’re a little late, people will just have to wait for their aromatherapy kits. Nobody ever died from running out of patchouli.”

  “Maybe I’ll feel better after I have my coffee.” I heard the sound of running water. Ruth must have been calling from the kitchen. “Wait a minute!”

  “What? What?”

  “Why, the old devil!” Ruth whispered. “He’s tiptoeing up the driveway now! I can see him out the kitchen window. Must have parked his car out front. Ha! Old tomcat probably thinks he can sneak in and climb into bed without me being any the wiser. Well, do I have a surprise for him!”

  I took a deep breath. “Don’t do anything stupid now, Ruth.”

  “Nothing he doesn’t deserve for making me worry like this. I don’t need any more gray hairs, thank you very much.”

  With a half-smile on my lips, I imagined the scene. “Call me later.”

  “And he’ll probably be wanting breakfast, too.”

  Just before the telephone clicked into silence, I heard Ruth drawl, “Well, good morning, Casanova.”

  I waited a good ten minutes for Ruth to cool her jets, staring straight up, watching slivers of early morning sunlight creep across the ceiling. Then I called back.

  Ruth answered on the first ring. “Plato’s Ethical Culture Parlor.”

  “Oh, har de har har. What if I’d been somebody important?”

  “I knew it was you.”

  “Oh?”

  “Who else would be calling at this hour?”

  I directed a raspberry into the receiver. “Don’t forget who woke up who, Ruth. Or is it whom?”

  “Well, I wasn’t sleeping, so I figured I’d share the joy.”

  “Thoughtful of you.” In the background I could hear the high-pitched squeal of the coffee grinder. I could almost smell the aroma of fresh-brewed Starbucks breakfast blend wafting down the telephone lines. Then I had to laugh. Paul was coming through the bedroom door holding a mug of steaming coffee in each hand.

  I blew him a kiss, reached for my mug, and sipped at it gratefully. “So, what’s his story, Ruth?”

  “He spent the night in Chestertown with You Know Who, just like you said.”

  “Sometimes I hate to be right.”

  Ruth sighed heavily. “I don’t know what he sees in her.”

  “She makes me laugh.” It was Daddy’s military voice, crisp and clean-cut. I imagined him leaning over Ruth’s shoulder, addressing the receiver as if it were a raw recruit.

  “Keep that up, and I’ll go deaf.” Ruth’s voice gradually faded. “Excuse me, Hannah, while I go repair my eardrum.”

  “You should have called home, Daddy,” I said when my father took control of the telephone.

  “Sorry, dear. I didn’t think.”

  “Ruth was worried sick.”

  “I said I’m sorry.”

  “So, Darlene makes you laugh, huh? So do Laurel and Hardy movies, but you don’t have to buy them dinner.”

  “You know what I mean, Hannah. Since your mother died …” He paused. “Well, I have needs, dear.”

  In the uncomfortable silence that followed, I realized that this was the closest my father had ever come to discussing sex with me. He quickly changed the subject. “Look, why don’t you and Paul come over for dinner tonight? Bring everybody.”

  “Dante’s gone back to Virginia,” I said. “He has to be at work this morning.”

  “Tonight?” That was from Ruth. Daddy must have covered the receiver with his hand because there was a muffled discussion before Ruth came back on the line, sounding exasperated. “Well, don’t expect Julia Child,” she snapped.

  “When did I ever?” Ruth could arrange your kitchen according to the principles of feng shui, but ask her to put seven basic ingredients into a harmonious casserole and you’d be out of luck. “I’ll bring bread and a salad,” I reassured her.

  “Great! If Georgina brings dessert, I think I can manage.”

  “Georgina, Scott …” I did a quick mental head count. “With you, Dad, us, and all the kids, that makes eleven.”

  “Twelve,” she corrected.

  “Twelve?”

  “Don’t forget Darlene.”

  Indeed, from that day forward, there’d be very little danger that I’d ever forget Darlene.

  chapter

  3

  She arrived late. Fashionably late. Claudia Schiffer on a Versace runway couldn’t have done it with more style. From the moment she glided over the threshold of my father’s house and into the entrance hall, Darlene was in control, keenly aware that all eyes were on her. A cold front had moved across Maryland overnight, and against the unseasonably chilly weather she wore a red wool cloak, which she unbuttoned and swirled off her shoulders like a matador, launching it in my general direction. Perversely, I just missed catching it.

  “Here, allow me.” Emily bent to retrieve the cloak, knocking heads with Darlene in the process.

  “Ouch!” Vigorously rubbing her head, Darlene straightened to her full five foot two plus at least three inches of trendy stacked heels. Above them, she wore sleek black capri pants and a sweater the color of bubblegum. I had read that capri pants were back in style, but I couldn’t help thinking that she looked like a refugee from the old Dick Van Dyke Show.

  “I’m so sorry!” Emily’s face wore a look of genuine concern. “Are you all right?”

  Darlene handed my daughter the cloak. “I guess I’ll live.” She looked over Emily’s shoulder, one pale eyebrow raised. “Where’s your grandfather?”

  “In the kitchen.”

  “This way?” she asked, taking a tentative step down the hall. When Emily pointed, she sailed off in that direction, the neck of a paper-bag-encased wine bottle clutched in her hand. “Georgie!”

  I glanced at Emily, who had covered her mouth with her hand to keep from laughing. “Georgie?” I mouthed. For a weird moment I thought Darlene was calling for Georgina.

  Emily waggled her index finger. “Pink is definitely her color.” She scooped up Chloe, who had been sitting on the carpet experimenting with her shoelaces, trying to determine if they were edible, and we followed our guest, arriving in time to observe Darlene plant a wet kiss squarely on Daddy’s mouth. My stomach lurched.

  Fortunately, Ruth’s back was turned. A storm cloud still hovered over her, and I didn’t think she’d be in the mood to watch the opening round of the Nookie Olympics, Senior Division. Ruth stood at the stove tending a pot of steaming water. On the counter next to it were two one-pound boxes of pasta. “This is for you.” Darlene thrust the wine in Ruth’s direction.

  Ruth turned. A strand of silver hair had escaped from her leather headband to dangle in a corkscrew over her forehead. She swiped at it with the back of a hand which held a large wooden spoon. “Uh, thanks,” she mumbled. “Red or white?”

  “Georgie said we were having spaghetti. So red.”

  “Just put it on the counter, OK?”

  Daddy reached over, took the bag from Darlene’s hand, slipped the bottl
e out, and stared at it as if committing every word printed on the label to memory. “Turning Leaf,” he said. “A fine, fine wine.” He kissed Darlene’s cheek. “Thank you.”

  Ruth rolled her eyes ceilingward, turned back to the stove, and began punishing the sauce.

  Darlene inhaled deeply. “Ah! Homemade spaghetti sauce!” She stepped toward the stove, until Ruth stopped her with a look that would have turned Mother Teresa to stone. Homemade? I had seen four empty jars of Prego in the kitchen trash can, but I’d never tell.

  “Thank you.” Ruth managed a smile, but I hoped none of the saccharine in her voice would drip into the spaghetti.

  “Here,” I said, taking the wine from my father. “Let’s open it and let it breathe.”

  While I coaxed a stubborn cork out of the bottle, Ruth bent over, turned the heat down under the sauce, then wiped her hands on a towel which had been tucked into the waistband of her slacks. “May I fix you a drink, Darlene? Peppermint schnapps?” I’d seen more convincing smiles on guests of honor at funeral homes.

  Darlene had been standing next to my father, gazing up at him as if he were the learned professor and she were an infatuated student. “Hmmm?”

  “A drink. Schnapps?”

  “No, thanks.” She wandered toward the refrigerator, her hand running along the countertop as if checking it for dust. “That’s only for special occasions.”

  So what is this? I wanted to yell. A tax audit?

  Ruth recoiled as if she had been slapped. In a just world she would have upended the pot of sauce over Darlene’s head.

  I set the wine on the counter and stepped between the stove and the fridge, effectively blocking Darlene’s view of my older sister who was coming to a boil almost as quickly as the pasta. “Would you like to see the house, Darlene?” I gave my father a straight-mouthed look. “Daddy, why don’t you show Darlene the house.”

  But before anybody could move, the doorbell rang. Daddy turned his head, whether in response to the doorbell or to my question it was impossible to tell.

  “I’ll get it!” Emily leapt at the opportunity to get out of Dodge. She breezed down the narrow hallway, her skirt a bright patchwork quilt floating a few inches above her Birkenstocks. When she opened the door, Sean, Dylan, and Julie tumbled in, red-cheeked, followed by a blast of cold air, my sister, and her husband. Sean and Dylan made a beeline for the pool table in the basement, passing me with a perfunctory “Hi, Aunt Hannah!” before disappearing down the stairs. Julie remained in the hallway where she patiently peeled off her jacket, one sleeve at a time, and handed it to Emily.

  His hand cupping her elbow, Daddy and Darlene passed by, headed toward the living room.

  “Who are you?” asked Julie, who stood blocking the doorway, a bedraggled Abigail rabbit clutched under one arm.

  Darlene stooped to Julie’s eye level. “My name is Darlene,” she cooed. “And isn’t that a lovely teddy!”

  Julie twisted her body sideways until Abby was safely out of the stranger’s reach. “Abby is a rabbit!”

  “So she is.” Darlene reached out to pat Julie’s copper curls but missed as Julie turned and darted away, leaving our guest squatting unsteadily next to Mother’s Oriental umbrella stand. Figuring Daddy would sort it out, I threw an arm around Georgina and kissed the air next to Scott’s cheek. “So glad you could come,” I whispered as I relieved Georgina of a double-stacked pie carrier. I jerked my head toward the living room door through which Darlene had just disappeared. “Ruth’s already in a snit. This could get ugly.”

  Emily had been hanging up coats, but she turned on me then. “Honestly, Mother. Give Granddaddy a break. Darlene’s not so bad.”

  “How do you know?” Scott asked as he helped Georgina remove her coat and hat.

  “Well, I don’t, really, but at least Gramps isn’t mooning around the house all day.”

  Georgina combed her long, copper-colored hair with her fingers. “Hat hair,” she said. “I hate it.” Then she turned to Emily. “That’s one point in Darlene’s favor, then. Keeping Daddy occupied.”

  Scott laughed. “Well, I for one am looking forward to seeing more of this paragon of virtue.”

  Thinking about the low-cut sweater Darlene had chosen for the evening, I said, “Then you won’t have long to wait. The paragon has taken Daddy and her ample bosom into the living room.”

  “What’s a pair of gones?” piped up Julie who had appeared, unaccountably, on the other side of the accordion gate that kept Chloe from crawling upstairs.

  “Paragon,” corrected Emily. “It means super-special, like Abby.”

  “Can Chloe play?” Julie asked.

  Emily gave her cousin’s ponytail a playful tug. “Sure, squirt. Let’s take the baby and go down and see what the boys are up to.”

  Thank God for Emily! While the grown-ups spent the cocktail hour do-si-do-ing about the kitchen and living room, she kept the children occupied downstairs with popcorn and Coca-Cola, watching, from the periodic roar wafting up from the family room and from Julie’s delighted squeal—“Ooooh! Flying cows!”—the Twister video. I thought Twister was a bit intense for little kids—it had scared me spitless—but they’d seen it seven or eight times already so it was probably a little late for me to object.

  Meanwhile, Darlene and Daddy had migrated to the kitchen. Spreading a cracker with brie, she extended it toward my father, who was noisily lobbing ice cubes into a shaker. “Now, George, you’ve already had one martini!”

  Was she some sort of fool? Everybody knew that the drink he was fixing had to be his third or fourth, at least.

  Daddy added a splash of vermouth to the vodka already in the shaker and shook the nasty mixture vigorously. He took the cracker from Darlene’s fingers and popped it into his mouth whole. “Just cleansing my palate.” He poured his drink, sipped it experimentally, then turned to Ruth. “When’s dinner?”

  Ruth scowled over her shoulder. Some of the water from the pasta pot she was emptying into a colander in the sink slopped over onto the counter. “Five-minute warning. Tell everybody to wash their hands and come to the table.”

  After the rocky start, I was determined that the dinner would proceed pleasantly. Sitting on my father’s left, I told Darlene about the St. John’s College library where I was cataloging the collection of L.K. Bromley, the famous American mystery writer. I brought everyone up to date on my volunteer work for the Susan G. Komen Breast Cancer Foundation. Somewhere in the middle of asking Scott a question about the big account he had just landed, I noticed Darlene was shoving her spaghetti around on her plate, turning it over with her fork as if she were hoeing a garden. A tidy pile of mushroom bits grew to one side of her plate.

  Ruth noticed it, too. “Something wrong with your spaghetti, Darlene?”

  Darlene glanced up at Ruth. “I’m allergic to mushrooms.”

  “Oh?” By the grim set of her jaw, I could tell Ruth didn’t believe that for one minute.

  Daddy laid down his fork and patted Darlene’s hand. “Ruth will fix you something else, won’t you, Ruth?”

  Without saying a word, Ruth stood, shoved back her chair, walked around the table, and snatched Darlene’s plate. I hurriedly excused myself to see if I could help. By the time I got to the kitchen, Ruth had tipped Darlene’s dinner into the garbage disposal and flipped up the switch so violently I thought it would fall off the wall. Over the grinding she snarled, “What the hell does he think I am? A short-order cook?”

  Even though Daddy had been a bit over the line, I found myself coming to his defense. “She is his guest, Ruth. He just wants to make her happy.”

  “Well, next time he can make her happy at the Maryland Inn or Cantler’s.” She sluiced the remaining sauce off Darlene’s plate, then mounded it high with fresh pasta. “Get the butter out of the fridge for me, will you?”

  I handed Ruth the Land-o’-Lakes and said, “Look, Ruth. I don’t like Darlene much, either, but what can we do? Daddy’s a grown-up, and he’s clearly smitt
en. I keep thinking, what would I do if Daddy didn’t like Paul?”

  Ruth stared at me thoughtfully, a carving knife in her hand.

  “I’d want him to give Paul a chance. At least try to get to know him better. Wouldn’t you?”

  Ruth used the knife like a machete to hack off a chunk of butter, then she dropped the butter on top of the pasta and sprinkled it with chopped parsley, ground pepper, and a generous portion of grated cheese. “I guess so.” She passed the plate under my nose for inspection. “Voilà!”

  The aroma of freshly grated parmesan teased my nostrils. “Yum.”

  “She can like it or lump it,” Ruth shot over her shoulder on the way back to the dining room.

  I picked up the tall wooden pepper grinder and followed my obstinate sister. By the time I breezed through the door, Darlene had her new dinner and Daddy was fussing over her like a nanny. “There. Is that better?”

  “It’s fine, Georgie.” The smile she gave Ruth reminded me of the car salesman in Glen Burnie from whom I bought my used Le Baron.

  “Ah, good.” He nodded.

  “Tell me, Darlene,” Ruth asked just as Darlene had raised a full fork of spaghetti to her lips. “Where did you and Daddy meet?”

  Darlene lowered her fork and smiled. “We met at McGarvey’s. My son, Darryl, works there.”

  “Oh? Doing what?” Ruth leaned forward, her hands neatly folded on the tablecloth in front of her.

  “He’s a waiter.”

  I thought about all the times I’d eaten at McGarvey’s Saloon and tried to match my recollections of the wait staff there with the face of the woman sitting directly across from me. I couldn’t do it. I closed my eyes. If Daddy’s romance stayed on course, one of those waiters might soon be my stepbrother.

  I killed some time helping Sean grate parmesan on his pasta while I thought about it. So, Darlene had a son. Yet she wore no wedding band, just an ornate turquoise-and-silver ring on the pinky of her right hand and a plain, gold school ring of some kind on the other. Paul must have been wondering the same thing. “What happened to Darryl’s father?” he asked gently.