The Last Day For Rob Rhino

by Kathleen O'Donnell

  Her pills were neatly boxed as promised. She opened them. Three full bottles. Enough to kill a horse or make this trip palatable. Guillermo knew where to go on vacation.

  A manila envelope of mail. She dumped it out on the bed. This month’s Vogue (surprised Annabelle didn’t snag it) a handwritten note from Conchita letting her know that she’d kept all the bills. A brochure from Inner Peace Palace in Hawaii, junk from AAA, a subscription reminder from Bon Appétit, and a letter from Ellen’s attorney.

  A letter from Ellen’s attorney. One.

  Claire held the manila envelope upside down and shook it. Where was the other one? There should be two. When she spoke to Annabelle yesterday, she’d said there was another one. Where was it?

  Claire looked at the postmark. It was dated just a few days ago so it was the most recent. The first letter was missing. Annabelle. She picked up the phone and dialed. Her own voice on her answering machine greeted her. She dialed Annabelle’s cell. It rang once and went to her voicemail. Even Claire knew that meant it was turned off.

  Goddammit.

  Claire’s panic began its insidious takeover. Calm down and think. Maybe it’s lost. Got thrown away by accident. Any number of things could’ve happened, none of them bad. Maybe it fell out the envelope and into the box. She hopped off the bed and searched. Didn’t take long since the box was empty. Nothing. Not on the floor either. Maybe Conchita’d kept it. After all, she knew about the whole mess. Conchita knew everything. Perhaps she didn’t want Claire to get upset while she dealt with Liam’s family. Annabelle’d intercepted the second letter before Conchita could see it and keep it too. That explained it.

  Whew. She’d feel better if she could talk to Conchita to confirm. She looked around for her cell phone where she kept Conchita’s home number stored. Where is it? It used to be on the TV. Not anymore. It wasn’t next to Liam either. Just the bottle of vodka. The phone was dead anyway. She’d have to wait until tomorrow, call the house.

  She opened the latest from Ellen’s attorney. Andrew said it was too early to hear anything about their offer. She scanned it. Same illegitimate son, different day. Must’ve sent it before Andrew made their offer. She tossed it in her open suitcase that’d sat on the floor since she got there and lay back down on the bed.

  She’d been too preoccupied to give tonight’s dinner much thought. Best probably. All things Rob Rhino took up the space in her brain. Claire’s lids felt weighed down. She gave in, closed her eyes.

  ****

  The incessant ringing in her ears woke her up. Damn it. She stretched out across the bed and snatched the receiver.

  “Are you all right?” Jordan said. “We just got in. Annabelle left a couple messages. Hard to know if she’s just her usual slightly hysterical self or what.”

  “What are you talking about, Jordan?” Claire closed her eyes again.

  “She thinks you’re off the deep end. More than usual.”

  Don’t start.

  “Is that so? Speaking of, where’ve you been?”

  “Do you really want to talk about that?”

  Yeah, on the twelfth. Of never.

  “Not now.”

  “You sound terrible. How much crap are you taking?”

  “I just woke up. What did you need Jordan?”

  “Need? Nothing. Just wanted to make sure you were okay.”

  Claire could hear commotion in the background.

  “I’m fine. What’s all that noise?”

  “Steven. He’s cleaning around me.”

  Steven. Great. Change the subject.

  “Hey, didn’t you say you had more Rob Rhino info?”

  “Oh yeah. Still hot and heavy? Don’t tell me. Let’s see... let me find it, I printed it.”

  She could hear drawers opening, Jordan shuffling things around.

  “Oh here we go. You’ll never believe this. He was a history professor.”

  “Crazy, right?”

  “You knew that already?”

  “He told me.”

  “You saw him again?”

  “Yeah, never mind go on.”

  “Every time I talk to you the tale gets more lurid. Where was I? Oh right, his wife died of a drug overdose in nineteen... wow... how long ago was that?” He paused to calculate. “Thirty-five years. So you’re probably right, the guy’s a wasted druggie.”

  Claire’s eyes snapped back open. “It says drug overdose?”

  “It says... let’s see... actually it says drug related. That’s code for she was a junkie.”

  “Yeah, probably right.”

  “Anyway, thought this was interesting, he’s made most of his money producing and distributing.”

  “Producing and distributing what?”

  “Films. Porn. Amateur mostly.”

  “Really? He never mentioned that.”

  “Lover boy’s holding out on you.”

  “Go on. Is there more?”

  “He’s a partner in the company.”

  “Did you say amateur porn?”

  “That’s what it says.”

  “What’s the difference?”

  “Seriously?”

  Rob Rhino and a nurse zipped through her mind. “Seems to me they all look pretty amateurish.”

  “And you’d know this how? No that’s okay. I’d guess amateur porn doesn’t use contract actors or scripts, no real production value. Just weirdos off the street filming in the garage.”

  “Oh you’d guess huh?

  “You asked.”

  “Why would Rob Rhino produce a film with no production? How is that possible?”

  “Well, maybe he’d wrangle the weirdos. Run the handheld. I dunno. He was a teacher, maybe he taught—”

  “Stop. Ick. What a bizarre world.”

  “Now all of a sudden you’re a prude? Well, you’ll love the name of his production company.”

  “Can’t wait.”

  “Fresh Flesh Films.”

  Chapter Thirty-One

  “Your face is still pretty. Around the edges.” Deborah smiled, patted Claire on the leg.

  Claire looked around for help. None came. Connor gazed at his wife with indulgent adoration. Grace sat huddled in the corner with Elizabeth. Elizabeth’s husband William sat next to Claire observing her head like a mutant germ in a Petri dish. They’d finished Deborah’s mother’s recipe for Yankee pot roast with all the fixins and moved from the mauve painted dining room to the dusky blue painted living room (it worked in the eighties) for... for what? Who cared? No liquor at dinner. Claire didn’t hold out hope for any after.

  “Raquel Welch has a line of wigs that look just like real hair. She’s on QVC all the time.” Deborah blathered on, so helpful. “I almost bought one myself just to change it up, didn’t I sweetie?”

  She nodded her round head with its own Curl Up and Dye bad perm at Connor who agreed with enthusiasm. “She did. Honest.”

  “Doesn’t it get chilly in winter?” William found his tongue. Too bad.

  “California is mild,” Claire assured him. She had to hand it to these people, they could get down to it.

  “Oh right,” he said.

  William then went off on a tangent about temperature and weather patterns while Claire tried to absorb her surroundings. The farm was QVC and Franklin Mint purgatory. No doubt Deborah planned to keep the whole living room in its original wrapping along with the certificate of authenticity to cash in for their early retirement.

  Claire’d arrived fashionably late. Deborah clucked and fussed over her like the terminally ill prodigal daughter. She and Connor seemed a good match—Eager and Beaver.

  Right after Claire made her entrance she zipped into the restroom. Eager and Beaver’s happiness at her presence made her want to induce her own coma. Elizabeth and Grace’s disdain for her offered a welcome balance. Claire hung by William—the family’s Switzerland.

  Dinner passed with small talk. It occurred to her not one person asked about Annabelle since she’d arrived in town. Nor h
ad they mentioned any other children. She hadn’t seen any photos of any either. She guessed they assumed or didn’t care whether or not she and Liam had any children together.

  She looked at the grim faces around the table. If anyone wanted to talk about Annabelle, or Liam for that matter, they weren’t going to do it here. She thought Grace might ask again about Liam’s ashes. Not a peep. She showed no interest in Liam dead any more than alive. None of them did. They didn’t ask a single question about his life. Deborah shuffled them all out to the living room.

  Claire needed to get her business settled and out of this snake pit.

  “Isn’t that right, Claire?”

  “Hmm? Sorry... I—” She fantasized about all of them in drawers in the mausoleum.

  “I said you haven’t spent much time on the East Coast? Isn’t that right?” William said.

  “No, that isn’t right. We own an apartment in Manhattan.”

  “That’s only two hours from here.” Elizabeth looked like she’d taken a swig of sour milk with lumps in it.

  “Yes it is.” Claire nodded.

  Was this a geography lesson?

  “Well, it’s nice you’re here. No matter what anyone says.” William looked in his wife’s direction, sheepish, like a kid who’d just peed his pants. If she heard him she pretended not to.

  “Well, now that you mention it.” Claire wanted to get out of there. “We should discuss Liam’s memorial service, the family crypt and everything.”

  With bat radar Grace and Elizabeth moved in closer. So far Grace’d shed no tears, no Kleenex turned up wadded and torn in her hands. She appeared made of sterner stuff this evening perhaps fortified by the group. Strength in numbers.

  “You know what I’d like to do.” Claire rubbed her head in case they forgot she was bald. “I’d like to lay the past to rest, bury Liam with his father and eventually the family.”

  “And we don’t even know her.” Elizabeth’s voice climbed on Claire’s last nerve.

  Claire went on. “I’m sure you know by now I made a significant donation to purchase the newest addition to the university cemetery. As you also know it’s a requirement.” Claire stared at Grace looking for a sign that she knew Claire just got a dig in. Nope. Talk about a death mask. “There’ll be a lot of local press about the gift. Of course, I’d like it to be from all of us. The whole family.”

  “What do you mean from all of us?” William said.

  “The press release will say the gift is from the Corrigan family and will spell out everyone’s—all of your—names. As well as mine equally.”

  “How much is the gift?” Only Elizabeth would ask that question. Claire counted on it.

  “Five million dollars.”

  “Merciful father in heaven.” Grace fanned herself with an invisible fan.

  “What sort of press?” The second question only Elizabeth would ask.

  “Newspaper, radio, TV.”

  “We’ll be famous.” William smacked Elizabeth on the back and she flew forward. “William really. Have some class.” Elizabeth righted herself on her chair.

  “My goodness, five million dollars. I’ve never known anybody with that kind of money,” Deborah said.

  “There’s a couple things I’d like to ask you to do for me, Elizabeth.” Claire met her sister-in-law’s swooning eyes. “I’ve been asked to sit on the board of the university. I can’t. Or I should say I won’t, because I don’t live here. I’d like you to do it for me. As the family representative.”

  Elizabeth’s head swelled to twice its size. “Me? A board member? There?”

  “Who better? If anyone’ll fit right in it’s you. When I told Joe Lansing, you remember Joe, that I wouldn’t consider it he thought of you immediately. Said you were the perfect choice. I agreed, of course.” Claire felt her nose to see if it’d grown a few feet.

  “Well, I do know how to conduct myself in any situation. I did attend the DeVry secretarial course that one year.” Elizabeth’s nearly nonexistent lips pursed and her sparse lashes batted like a coquette’s. She fluffed her bad perm with one man-hand. “You said there’re two things?”

  “Yes. The interview.”

  Grace sat up along with her daughter. “Interview?”

  “TV interview. I’d like Elizabeth to do it since she’ll sit on the board, family rep and all. Probably this week.”

  Elizabeth’s head nearly blew off her neck. “What? Television? William did you hear that?” She popped his leg so hard he yelped.

  “My goodness this is really something.” Deborah rubbed her chapped hands together.

  “This is assuming we go forward as I suggest, of course,” Claire said.

  Elizabeth looked stunned. “I wouldn’t hear of doing it any other way.”

  Game, set, match.

  A hard tap on her shoulder jerked her head around.

  “Are you feeling all right?” Connor said offering up her purse.

  ****

  Claire left Elizabeth and Deborah in the living room yapping about what Elizabeth should wear for her fifteen minutes. All bodies accounted for, if not quite dead yet. Too bad the sweating and the palpitations put a cramp in her victory. She needed to duck into the bathroom then hit the road back to relative civilization. She trooped down the hallway, this season’s It bag in a hopeful grip. The devil really did wear Prada. Whispered voices as she passed the kitchen alerted her, drew her in.

  “Are you sure she’s not sick?” Claire couldn’t see from her spot in the dark hall but it had to be William.

  “She’s not. Unless you count dope addict as sick.”

  Was that Grace? Dope addict—what did she know? Who said dope anymore?

  “That’d explain the way she looks.”

  Claire clung to the wall, stiff, straight, a cigarette and blindfold away from an execution.

  “Connor said she’ll probably croak soon.” Grace didn’t bother to lower her voice.

  Claire felt her mouth and eyes drop open like trap doors.

  “I don’t doubt it. I’ve seen concentration camp victims better lookin’ than her.”

  What was the jerk formerly-known-as-William talking about? This outfit cost more than he made in six months. Big talk from a doofus wearing short sleeves and a bow tie.

  “Those black circles under her eyes. Jesus, she weighs like, what, eighty pounds soakin’ wet? And she’s tall,” jerk William continued.

  Claire’s fingertips went to the puffy bags under her eyes.

  “You can see her collarbone from a mile away,” Grace said. “And talk about soaking wet. She sweats like a teamster.”

  “Yeah, I noticed that. Blech. And it’s cold in here with the refrigeration on.” William coughed as if to make a point.

  Claire dropped her head, humiliation too heavy to keep it up.

  “Liam always did like the fragile ones. Like Bonnie. He sure could pick ’em,” Grace said. “She liked her pills too remember?”

  “She used to call Elizabeth when we lived in that apartment over on Center Street when they first moved to California, crying, high as a kite,” William reminisced.

  “Here too.” Grace sighed. “She always wanted to talk to Emmet. Not that she did.” Grace made a sharp snort sound. “Like I ever knew where Emmet was. Bonnie didn’t like me. Neither did her parents. Especially after. They blamed all of us for her slittin’ her wrists.”

  “This one doesn’t like you much either looks to me.” William chuckled. “What’s the deal with the hair again?”

  “Says it fell out. But you never know with those California weirdos. She could be one of those Scientolo—”

  Claire hurried down the hall, hand over her mouth. She got to the bathroom door but it was closed. Goddammit. Tears pooled in her eyes.

  Who did these yokels think they were talking about?

  She raised both fists to bang on the door when flickering lights and the unmistakable smell of hot wax caught her attention. On a low table at the end of the hall candles
burned. She walked toward them mesmerized. Who lit the candles? They weren’t lit before were they? She hadn’t noticed any of this when she’d used the bathroom earlier.

  In smoky silhouette, like some voodoo sacrifice, three framed photographs stared down at Claire from the wall. Shadows jumped across them, candle wicks dripped and hissed. Up close the acrid smell stung Claire’s nose. One black and white photo looked like young Liam, a graduation picture, maybe college. Another of an older man who bore a strong resemblance to Liam in a suit with a flower in his lapel. Emmet—she bet. Maybe at someone’s wedding. The last one in color. A white-faced Deborah, young, cradling a newborn wrapped in a lamb-covered blanket, tight, cocoon-like, its eyes closed. Was it sleeping or dead? Claire could see her grimace reflected back in the glass.

  So Connor and Deborah had a child. No one mentioned it during all the talk about the family crypt. The colors in the baby’s photo had faded with time. How much time was hard to tell. Ten, fifteen years? She looked down at the blazing candles. At least twenty votives in glass jars alongside a two-foot statue of the Virgin Mary.

  Hail Mary, full of grace.

  Holy Mary, Mother of God,

  pray for us sinners, now and at the hour of our death.

  A shrine at the end of the hall of tears.

  Claire’s false peacemaking mission gave her a feeling of crushing sadness. And guilt. Her stomach hurt. Her eyes traveled from Liam’s picture back to Emmet’s. What was it like for the two of them before it went bad? Were they ever close? If they could speak now what would they say? Grace said Emmet would want to be with Liam in death. Would he? Claire knew what Liam would say. This particular road to retribution was paved with Liam’s protests.

  Maybe Rob Rhino got it right. Revenge was wasted on the dead.

  Claire’s tears finally ran over. She brushed them away. The last thing she needed this late in the game was second thoughts. Or a conscience. She looked again at the baby. Just an infant, never lived at all. She reached up and touched the small glass-covered face. Claire covered her eyes like she’d seen an eclipse unprotected. She didn’t want to know about anyone else’s loss but her own.