ALL GOOD SONS 8-9

 Chapter Eight

My family knew better than to expect me to answer the phone, and I had no friends, so it was with no concerns whatsoever that I picked up the receiver. It was a telemarketer. It had to be a telemarketer. I knew how to handle telemarketers.

I was just about to use several choice Anglo-Saxon phrases, but I was beaten to the punch by the most gravel-addled voice I’d heard outside of one of those midnight horror movies Grey and I used to love.

‘You don’t scare me, bitch.’

‘That’s why you called me at eight a.m. on a Saturday?’

‘This is a warning. Next time I won’t be so nice.’

The line went dead, and I laughed. This kid was an amateur, even for his age.

It made me jump twice as high when the doorbell rang. The poor UPS guy on the other side of the door looked just as terrified as I did.

‘Uh, package for you, Ma’am.’

I signed where I needed to sign, took the package, and shut the door. I threw it on the floor as soon as I got it inside - just because it wasn’t ticking didn’t mean it wasn’t a threat. I picked up my phone and ran back outside, being sure to get at least a street away before I called Daryl.

‘Who’d you whack this time?’ He chuckled.

‘Actually, I think someone might be trying to whack me.’

He pulled up ten minutes later, right where I’d asked him to meet me, with a smile on his face.

‘How old did you say this kid was?’

‘Twenty.’

‘I’ll bet you all my autographed Zeppelin records it’s a Barbie doll stuck with pins, or a black rose…a cow’s heart at worst.’

‘What do you get if I’m wrong?’

Daryl smiled. ‘Dinner.’

I gave him a look.

‘It’s been twenty-two years. My brother knocked you up and ran, remember?’

I rolled my eyes. ‘Fine.’

We were a minute or so away when Daryl closed his eyes and held his nose in the air.

‘Ah, I can smell that steak Dianne now.’ He walked ahead of me and was halfway down the front walk when he turned around. ‘Explosives don’t have a great shelf life; if this thing was gonna go, it would’ve…’

It did go, admittedly not as loudly as I’d expected. We stayed where we were, crouched down on the pavement with our arms over our heads like kindergartners pretending to be houses for another few minutes before Daryl took me by the arm and we walked back down the street.

‘Congratulations: you were right. I’m still taking you to dinner.’

‘What do you mean?’

‘You’re not coming back here, not until I say it’s safe.’

‘So, you’re my boss now?’

We ducked into a bus shelter two blocks away to catch our breath and Daryl bowed before me.

‘Pardon me, your highness, but I think it might be prudent of you to join me as I haul-ass back to my place, that is if madam agrees?’

‘Fine,’ I said for the second time that day. This time, I meant it.

Chapter Nine

I hadn’t been to Daryl’s place in years, and the reason for that hit me in the face as soon as he opened the front door. An outsider would expect to have their eyes assaulted with wall to wall posters of naked caricatures of women, posing with bikes in positions which show that there is one other thing they can do just as well, then be completely thrown by the kind of ‘art’ that covered his walls. For me, naked chicks on Harleys would’ve been a far less jarring sight. Among the pictures of Daryl’s brothers, blood and biker, all camaraderie and guy-ness, were pictures of Grey and Lenore and I, (laughing, glaring, and smiling, respectively). I shouldn’t be too hard on Lenore – she was smiling in some of the pictures - just not the ones with me in them. Not even my mother could get Lenore to smile naturally; Daryl had a way with the kids. With all of us.

I continued down the hallway, headed for the kitchen, where there were no voices from my past to beckon me to come and play where it was nice out; I was perfectly content to live in my snow globe for the time being, wrapped up in the safety of the cold.

‘Grab a coffee and pull up a pew,’ Daryl said. ‘I gotta make a call.’

Sixty minutes later, Daryl came into the kitchen.

‘The things I do for you,’ he grinned. ‘Remember Rusty Miller?’

‘DETECTIVE SERGEANT Rusty Miller? Sure.’

Despite his outward determination to stay straight, Daryl couldn’t quite bring himself to burn his little black book of underworld besties. Rusty Miller was a decorated cop who opened his closet every night and hung his herringbone jacket next to a leather one that was covered in patches which were definitely not police-issue.

‘He’s headed to your place now. He’ll charm the unies, like he always does, get the department onside, get them out of there early and…’

‘Rusty the reprobate? Great.’

Daryl picked up my four empty beer cans and dropped them pointedly into the large container he used for recyclables.

‘Glass houses, Honey.’

‘I’m not a drunk.’

‘Course not…you’re a high-functioning alcoholic.’

‘Fuck off.’

Daryl put a hand on my shoulder. ‘There are charming drunks and there are mean drunks and then there’s you. No more beer.’

‘I’m not a fucking teenager.’

‘You’re not a fucking adult, either; not right now, anyway. My house, my rules. You’d better get used to it unless you like the idea of sleeping on crusty sheets.’

The prospect of sleeping in a motel, with the sound of half-faked ecstasy all around me was marginally more appealing than the duty and judgement that would be looking down its nose at me from every nook and cranny of my mother’s house, but neither place was really an option.

‘Fine.’

‘Great. When Lenny’s done looking around and Rusty calls and says it’s safe, you’ll go back to the house and act shocked.’

I thought of the great performances I’d put in so far – surrogate mother, blackmailer, grieving idiot.

‘I can do shocked.’

Daryl went to the fridge and got himself a beer. I gave him a look.

‘I can hold it,’ he said, ‘you can’t. My house, remember?’

Daryl wasn’t a caveman. He was a sweet guy who cared about me and, much as I tried to convince myself otherwise, I needed him. It wasn’t because he had connections and experience - I could’ve charmed any man who possessed those qualities. It was because he was the only man who had ever loved me as much as I loved him. The reason I hadn’t done anything about it wasn’t because he wasn’t good enough for me. It was quite the opposite: I was disastrous for him.

‘You still make mean nachos?’ I asked him.

‘You still make those cookies I need to adjust my shorts for?’

When the kids were little, I discovered a talent. I was never much chop in the kitchen, truth be told, but I found myself inspired when I was channel surfing one lazy Sunday afternoon and stopped on the food channel. I looked over at my children, who were fighting over a black crayon. Rather than give in to my first instinct, which was to snap the crayon in half and make them share it, I drove us all down town to the grocery store, bought everything the impossibly thin cook on TV listed, came back and prepared to show my kids (once again) that success wasn’t as important as the effort one put in. I was even more surprised than they were when the end result turned out to be twelve of the most awe-inspiring cookies I had ever tasted that didn’t come in a box with a married woman’s name on them.

‘These taste like magic!’ said Grey, shovelling two into his mouth at once.

Lenore wasn’t forthcoming with her praise.

‘What do you think…Honey?’

Lenore worked her way slowly through her third cookie, then shrugged.

‘Good.’

‘Cool.’

Daryl – or Unkie Devil, as Grey adorably mispronounced his name – came in while we were having our little tea party and grinned when he saw what was on the kitchen counter.

‘Has that hot babe Mrs Fields been over again? Damn, I love that woman.’

‘I made these, smart-ass.’

Daryl went to the utensil drawer, pulled out a pair of tongs, and gingerly picked up one of the cookies as though he were handling nuclear waste, much to the delight of his niece and nephew. His comical apprehension evaporated once he started eating.

‘Oh my ever-lovin’ God,’ he groaned. ‘I’m stirring in places I didn’t know could still stir.’

I cleared my throat and gestured toward the kids.

Daryl blushed. ‘In my tummy…Uncle Daryl’s tummy’s only used to steak and nachos, that’s why it’s stirring.’

‘I want nachos!’ Bellowed Lenore, undoubtedly dreading the lemon chicken she’d have to choke down later.

‘Well, then it’s lucky I happened to come by because I make the best nachos in the world.’

‘In the whole WORLD?’ said Grey.

‘Yup. Taco Bell have been after me for years. I can make ‘em for you guys right now, if Mommy doesn’t mind?’

I smiled. He knew I wouldn’t mind.

With Daryl’s kitchen full of the smell of nachos and chocolate chip cookies, I was taken back to a time I’d not allowed myself to revisit since Grey almost left me. I looked over at the old cow print leather sofa in the corner of the dining area, on which Grey and Lenore had fallen asleep after that first wonderful meal. The very same sofa where Daryl and I sat down after putting the kids to bed in the guest room, and for the briefest of seconds found ourselves contemplating something which ought not to have been contemplated.

‘Come back, Darlin,’ said Daryl. ‘The past’s a nice place to visit, but you don’t wanna get stuck there.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘but it’s a lovely thought.’

He gave me the smile that had netted him two ex wives, and I was glad when the phone rang.

Rusty Miller met me at the house two days later, which was now minus the front half. The single unie who’d been left to guard the place eyed me then, with just a look from Rusty, he backed off.

‘This guy’s so crooked, I’m surprised he doesn’t fall over,’ I’d said to Daryl before I left him.

‘Neither of us is exactly standing ramrod straight right now either, Vi.’

Once I got close enough to what was left of the house, my musical theatre training proved unnecessary; what the reporters camped out on my nature strip copped an eyeful of was a woman realising exactly how far up shit creek her raft had drifted - no amount of melodrama could’ve topped that. The unie lifted the do not cross tape that was decorating what used to be my living room wall, and I gave a brief hint of a stagger as I approached him. The stagger was fake; the facial expression that would appear on the six o’clock news wasn’t. All that was left of my hallway, living room, and dining room was rubble and framework. My kitchen was largely unaffected, save for my fridge and the two cases of beer therein.

Miller followed me through.

‘It was an incendiary. Pretty crudely made, but it got the job done.’

‘I see you didn’t keep up those tact injections.’

‘Allergic.’

‘No doubt.’

‘Would you like me to tell you what I know now, or do you just want to spar a little longer?’

‘Go ahead,’ I said, and went into my son’s room without thinking.

‘It was fertiliser based, with a few small projectiles…’

I turned on him as he ducked his head and entered the doorway.

‘Get out of here.’

Miller took another step forward, then brought out a warrant.

‘All access pass.’

‘Since when do you do things by the book?’

‘Since the new female captain decided she hates my ass.’

‘Nothing in here’s relevant to your case.’

‘OUR case.’

Miller turned to Grey’s dresser and picked up a picture of Grey and his gang of fiends. He pointed to Pierre.

‘Isn’t this the kid who took a swan dive off of Marlowe Bridge?’

‘Yes.’

‘Got hauled in once or twice for possession…needle freak.’ Miller shook his head. ‘Must’ve been real shook up.’

Even now, I felt the need to jump to Pierre’s defence.

‘They were close.’

‘Like brothers; that’s what his mother said. Nice lady. Seen her lately?’

‘No.’

‘That’s kinda cold, isn’t it? I mean, your boys grew up together, practically lived in each others houses; you’d think you’d have a lot to talk about, given how similarly things turned out for you and all.’

‘You were saying…about the bomb?’

Miller smiled. ‘It was designed to make a lot of noise, but that’s about it.’

‘Have you seen my house?’

‘I just meant it could’ve been a lot worse. There was no timer on it. He must’ve detonated it remotely. He must be pretty patient, our guy, or just nervous. He must’ve been watching when UPS delivered the package, so…’

‘So?’

Miller put down the picture.

‘I was just wondering why he waited so long to push the button, is all. It’s like he knew you’d be outside when it went off. Like he warned you. Either that or you’re psychic, I’m not sure yet. I always suspected my mother had a touch of the old telepathy; she did always seem to know what I was going to do before I did it. They say that the gift’s passed down from one generation to the next but I don’t know. What do you think?’

I said nothing. He didn’t need to be psychic to guess what I was thinking.

‘Okay,’ he said, clapping his hands, ‘this is where things get complicated.’ He sat down on Grey’s bed. ‘You know something I don’t, and that something is standing in the way of me catching the couch stain who put together the boom box that took half your house away, but you don’t want to share that something with me because you want to deal with said couch stain yourself, am I getting warm?’

‘You’re defrosting.’

Miller squinted. ‘Fair enough. You also know that our mutual friend Daryl knows something about me that no one else knows and you’re both hoping that because I’d like to keep it that way, I’ll let you take care of business yourself.’

He looked me up and down.

‘Think I’m about as red-hot as you are right now.’

I reached into my pocket. Miller raised his hands and got up off the bed.

‘Sorry, didn’t mean to offend. You keep your pistol in your pocket and I’ll do the same.’

He walked toward the door. I stayed back, determined not to be in front of him this time. I was still standing in the doorway when he turned back and blocked my way.

‘Everybody needs friends, Viola. Friends keep each other’s secrets. Look out for each other. Daryl and I were friends once, and I’m sure we can be, too.’

He nestled his nose into my hair, closed his eyes, and inhaled. ‘I make a real good friend…’

He opened his eyes.

‘…and a fuckin’ bad enemy.’

He stepped back.

‘Daryl shuts his mouth, I’ll shut mine.’

I stayed right where I was until I heard him drive away.