Bones and Roses (24 page)

“Actually, I was going to say it makes you look more—” I break off before I can say the word
human,
finishing instead with, “like yourself.”

“Coming from you, I'm not sure I should take that as a compliment.”

“I meant it as one. It's a good look for you.”

“I'll like it better when the new glasses I ordered are ready.” He massages the bridge of his nose as if his eyes are bothering him. Which makes him seem more vulnerable as well as human. This is more than I can handle in my present state, so I make a wisecrack to get back on familiar ground.

“So I guess this is it for you and Thelma, huh? Or is it Louise? I always get the two mixed up. The movie,” I prompt at the blank look he gives me. “Brad Pitt's breakout role?”

“Keep talking and I'll find something to charge you with,” he growls.

“I have a better idea. You play nice, in exchange for which I'll put in a good word with the DA.”

“What makes you think I need you to put in a good word?”

“Well, you did get shown up by a rank amateur. The fact is, I smelled a rat and you didn't.”

“If by that you mean, during the course of my investigation, I found no evidence to substantiate Mrs. Trousdale's allegations against Mr. Trousdale, then yes, that's an accurate statement.”

“Well, when you put it that way …”

“Also, it seems I wasn't the only one who was misled,” he reminds me.

“Okay, so I didn't know she was lying. But he's far from innocent. He knew about those other victims.”

Spence's gaze locks onto mine. “Hold on. You're saying there were other victims?”

“Hector and Martina. And my mom.” My voice quavers. I'm starting to come down from the shock-induced high I was on, my calm demeanor cracking as I rapidly lose altitude.

“Let's back up and start from the beginning.” Spence speaks in the calm voice of air traffic control. I focus on his Hawaiian-print shirt, a bright splash against the beige curtain behind him.

I draw a shaky breath. “You'd better pull up a chair. This may take a while.”

It's almost three by the time Ivy turns into the driveway of my Craftsman bungalow after we've dropped off McGee. The moon is on the wane. The other houses on the block are dark and all is quiet. It seems as though an age of mankind has passed since we set out on our expedition. “I'm staying over,” Ivy announces as she cuts the engine. “You shouldn't be alone tonight.”

“Technically it's morning,” I point out. “Go home. You must be exhausted.”

“Which means I won't notice I'm sleeping on the world's lumpiest sofa.” She fails to appreciate that the sleeper sofa in my living room is a genuine Morris. Whenever I remind her of its value as an antique, she says, “There's a reason they don't make them anymore.”

I'm too tired to argue. I'm also glad she insisted. I'd never admit it, but I'm scared to be alone. When I was a kid, I watched this horror movie on TV about aliens who invade Earth by taking human form. I know now there's no such thing, but Joan's morphing from lady of the manor to psycho bitch from hell was close enough to make me fearful of what might be out there. “Fine,” I say, “but may I remind you my cat is known to mistake prone figures for scratching posts.”

Ivy shrugs. “As long as he doesn't mistake me for a mouse and try to chew off my face.” Though she probably wouldn't have noticed that, either. Within minutes of making up the sofa bed (admittedly not the most comfortable to sleep on), she's dead to the world. I can hear her snoring as I limp down the hallway toward my own bed, where, minutes later, I fall asleep almost before my head hits the pillow.

I wake to daylight streaming through the blinds and my cat curled next to me. Hercules slits open his yellow eyes to fix me with his unblinkingly stare, then, after a leisurely stretch, springs onto the floor. He streaks down the hallway as I make my way to the bathroom, where I pee and down a couple aspirin before hobbling into the kitchen. Ivy is seated at the table drinking coffee and reading the morning paper, wearing my blue terry cloth bathrobe that looks like a man's on her.

“The good news is you aren't mentioned by name,” she says, gesturing toward the front page spread open on my red Formica-and-chrome table. “You're referred to as the ‘alleged victim.'”

I'd asked Spence not to disclose my name to the reporter from the
Sentinel
who'd covered the story of Joan's arrest. I needed at least a day to recover before all hell broke loose. It seems he kept his word. “I won't be anonymous for long. The DA is holding a press conference after I meet with him today.” The meeting is scheduled for this afternoon. My stomach twists at the prospect. “Then I'll have to wade through reporters and camera crews to get to work in the mornings.”

“Yeah, but you're a hero.” She gets up to pop a couple of split bagels in the toaster oven while I pour myself a cup of coffee.

“Tell that to Bradley Trousdale.” I can only imagine what he's going through right now. How cruelly ironic that, after the mayhem of the Middle East, he should come home to the equivalent in his personal life. I'm also selfishly thinking about what it will mean for us. Or, to be more accurate, what it
won't
mean. I hoped we could become more than friends, but that's not going to happen.

“He can't blame you. You're the victim,” Ivy points out.

“True.” I sit down at the table. “But I'm tainted by association.”

“It wasn't your fault,” she insists.

“He had a bomb dropped on him. And I was the one flying the Enola Gray.”

“He won't let that get in the way.”

“Of what? Sending me hate mail?”

“I was thinking of something a little more romantic.”

“Romantic? Please. I'm a walking reminder of the worst thing that's ever happened to him.”

“Give it time. Once the dust settles …”

I stare at her. Sometimes I wonder who's weirder, my brother or my best friend. Right now the prize would have to go to Ivy. “Not happening. How can you even think that?”

“I saw the way he was looking at you the night of the gala. I'm pretty sure his girlfriend noticed, too.” The toaster pings, and she grabs a couple plates and the tub of cream cheese from the fridge.

“Genevieve? No way.”

“Way.”

“Why was she being so nice to me then?”

“‘Keep your friends close and your enemies closer,'” she quotes.

“She knew I had a boyfriend.”

“Who you weren't in love with. Let's face it, your breaking up with Daniel was long overdue.”

I sigh at the reminder. “He's still hoping we can work it out.”

“What do
you
want?” She holds my gaze.

I sip my coffee, watching while she slathers the toasted bagels with cream cheese. “I think it's time to move on.” I feel a dull throb as I say this. Not so much because it's over between us, but because I don't feel as bad about it as I should, which is sadder to me than the breakup itself.

“You made the right decision.”

“Of course you would think that.”

“I never said I didn't like him. What's not to like? He's kind and smart and environmentally conscious. I'd totally vote for him if he ever decided to run for office. But he isn't for you.”

“That doesn't make it suck any less.”

“For him no,” she agrees. “For you it could be the start of something great.”

I consider this as I nibble my bagel. I know Bradley is attracted to me. There's too much heat between us for it to be one-sided. But what could possibly come of it? The obstacles are too great. I'm giving evidence against his mom and pointing a finger at his dad. Needless to say Bradley won't be bringing me home for Thanksgiving anytime soon. Or ever. Also, there's Genevieve, who will undoubtedly resurface to lend support, and show what she has to offer besides beauty, brains, and the culinary chops to compete on
Top Chef,
while I have nothing to offer but headaches.

Not exactly the makings of a storybook romance.

CHAPTER TWENTY

Three weeks later, I'm headed out to sea to scatter my mother's ashes. It's the first clear morning we've seen since the fogs of summer rolled in with the tourists that flock to our shores in equal number each season. The sun is posing for its glamour shot on the red carpet that's rolled out along the horizon above the hills to the east, and a cool sea breeze is blowing from the west. The boat we're on is an old rust bucket of a fishing trawler belonging to a friend of Stan Cruikshank, who was introduced simply as “Captain Jack.” I stand at the helm, flanked by Arthur and Ivy, keeping a firm grip on the railing as we ride the swells. I'm thinking about how my mom loved the ocean. When my brother and I were little, she'd take us to the beach on her days off from work, weather permitting. Or she'd go on solitary walks along the shore, collecting her thoughts, I imagine, along with the seashells she gathered. It's fitting that it be her final resting place.

It's fitting, too, that Stan be here. Mom would've wanted it. Whatever else he was or wasn't, I know in my heart he was the only man she ever truly loved. And he felt the same way about her—she was the love of his life. As for McGee, I asked him along because I know Mom would've been grateful to him—if not for him, the ashes about to be scattered might have been mine.

When we're a few miles out to sea, the sun riding the hilltops and casting a golden glow over the shoreline with its cluster of buildings that from this distance look like Monopoly hotels, Captain Jack pulls back on the throttle. The trawler, like a rambunctious dog brought to heel, stops its bouncing and settles into a sedate bobbing. I retrieve the urn containing my mother's ashes from the duffel bag at my feet and straighten to find my brother peering at me anxiously through the ocean spray that coats his Clark Kent glasses. Standing tall, with his dark hair slicked back and an errant lock forming a comma on his forehead, he could be Superman himself in disguise.

His gaze drops to the urn. “Um. Should we say something?”

“That's the idea. Why don't you go first?”

He takes a step back, looking slightly panicky. “Me? No. I wouldn't know what to … that is, what I meant was … a prayer. We could say a prayer. Like in church.” Arthur hates being the center of attention, which is more than a little ironic considering that's usually where you'll find him. I take it as a positive sign that he's feeling self-conscious. He doesn't notice other people staring when he's in what our grandma used to call a “state.” It seems his stay at the “puff” did him some good.

“It doesn't have to be a speech,” I tell him. “Just say whatever's in your heart.” I realize I'm asking for trouble in encouraging my brother to speak freely—it can be like opening an unmarked package of suspicious origin. But he should be allowed to express himself as he sees fit.

He looks dignified in his suit and tie, his wool overcoat draped over his shoulders like a cape. Earlier, when I arrived to pick him up and found him dressed as if for a church service, I didn't suggest he change into attire more appropriate for an outdoor ceremony. I think it's nice that he wanted to look his best. The last time he wore that particular suit was in court, two years ago when he was up on an assault charge (he thought he was defending himself against an attack by a Greenpeace activist who'd buttonholed him, wanting him to sign a petition), and I like to think he's in a better place now than he was then. He has his ups and downs, but I see signs of improvement.

Captain Jack thrusts his grizzled head from the cabin just then. He looks like the guys you see in AA meetings who took their sweet time getting sober, his ruddy cheeks and bulbous nose a roadmap of broken capillaries. “Want me to take her out a bit farther, or will this do?” he bellows at me over the throaty chortling of the engine and sound of waves slapping the side of the boat.

“This is good!” I call to him. To Arthur I murmur encouragingly, “Whenever you're ready.”

He draws a breath, straightens his shoulders, and with his eyes shut, begins, “Mom, it's me, Arthur. I don't know if you're listening or if there's even such a thing as an afterlife—personally I have my doubts—but if you are, I guess what I want to say is … thanks. You were a good mom, even though I know I wasn't the easiest kid. Oh, and if you're worried about us, don't be. Tish almost got killed, but that's a whole other story—and you probably know it, anyway—and apart from that, we're okay. She looks out for me. She's bossy, but she's a good sister. She doesn't let the bad guys get us.” He cuts me a sidelong glance, a corner of his mouth turned downward in the faintest hint of a smile that lets me know he's rooted in reality. For the moment, at least.

I wipe moisture from my cheeks that isn't just from the salt spray. Then it's my turn. “Mom, we miss you. A lot. It was never the same after you went away, but I know now you didn't mean to leave us. That you would have come back for us if you could have.” I pause to clear my throat, glancing over at Stan who has his head bowed as if in prayer. He cuts a striking figure with his thick, silvery hair scuffed into peaks by the wind, his blue eyes squinted in a show of manly restraint. Like my brother he's wearing a coat and tie, though his jacket is made of leather and the tie is a silver-and-turquoise bolo. Spaghetti-western Clint sporting his Sunday best.

“Anyway,” I go on, “now you can finally rest in peace. We have Stan to thank for that. He took his time and picked a funny way of making it happen …” He lifts his head to give me a chastened look. “But I know his heart was in the right place, and it was a good thing in the end because it led to …” I catch myself. “Like Arthur said, that's a whole other story. And we're here to say good-bye.”

Ivy takes my free hand, lacing her fingers through mine. She's a bit green around the gills—she's prone to seasickness—but, true to form, she's hanging in there. I look past the choppy waters off the bow to where the sun has beaten a golden path over the whitecaps. Closer to shore, the distant figures of surfers, seal-like in their wetsuits, paddle on their boards or ride the swells.

“Amen,” murmurs Stan in a voice husky with emotion.

When I glance over at McGee, his eyes are bloodshot. I choose to believe it's not solely due to the fact that he's hung over, if the odor of stale beer emanating from him is any indication.

Arthur and I take turns scattering ashes before I pass the urn to Stan. As I watch the last of my mother's earthly remains swirl like smoke over the water, I think of the line from the poem,
Gather ye rosebuds while ye may.
In my mind I see the bouquet of roses, that Stan had placed inside her makeshift coffin, crumbling to dust. What seemed a macabre touch I now know to have been a last, romantic gesture. At least Mom knew true love in her lifetime, which is more than I can say for myself. My relationship with Daniel ended much the way it began: amicably and with little in the way of fireworks. It was sad, of course, and he was hurt, though at the same time I sensed a certain relief. The media blitz sparked by the Trousdale scandal was more than he could handle. It hasn't been easy for me, either. I've been fielding calls from reporters and talk-show producers, and I had TV news crews and tabloid stringers camped outside my house for the first week or so, until they moved on to another story. One morning, as I was leaving for work, I found one of the more enterprising stringers pawing through my garbage cans, looking for God knows what—evidence that I cheated on my taxes? I almost pitched my travel mug of coffee at him.

I'm told Douglas Trousdale is cooperating with the authorities. It's doubtful he'll ever be charged in connection with his father's crimes much less be sent to prison—he retained Grant Weathers as his criminal defense attorney—but he'll be tried and hung in the court of public opinion, which, for a guy like him, is punishment enough. As for Joan Trousdale, who's currently under house arrest, it's only a question of whether she'll be wearing orange or a strait jacket. The charges she faces include kidnapping, attempted homicide, and assault with a deadly weapon. I could almost feel sorry for her, except that it's people like her who give the mentally ill a bad rap.

I haven't seen or spoken to Bradley since the story broke. I left a couple messages on his voicemail, which he didn't return. I wish now I'd acted on my impulses when I had the chance and carpe-diemed the hell out of him in the sack, instead of dragging my heels in breaking up with Daniel and letting my inferiority complex where Genevieve was concerned get in the way. Who knows what might have come of it? Maybe we would have weathered this storm together.

By the time the trawler pulls into its slip at the marina minutes later, we're all starving, having skipped breakfast to get an early start. We jump in our respective vehicles and head over to the Bluejay, where we consume a gallon of coffee and mountains of food: pancakes and waffles, scrambled eggs and house-made sausage, the chicory beignets for which the café is renowned both locally and throughout the foodie blogosphere. A little known fact about funerals that no one will ever admit to: They leave you ravenous. I have yet to attend a wake at which deli platters weren't demolished like pizzas at a football team's post-game bash. I think it must derive from the primitive need we all have to be reassured in the face of death that life goes on. For me, at one time, it was also an excuse to drink, though today I'm content to drown my sorrows in maple syrup.

At one point Arthur looks up from plowing his way through a stack of blueberry-cornmeal pancakes to ask of Stan, as he's regaling us with tales of his travels, “What was the worst place you ever lived in?”

Stan doesn't miss a beat. “Coyote, Texas. Hands down the meanest place on Earth. Ain't nothin' there but dirt, flies, and rattlesnakes.”

“Ever kill a rattlesnake?” My brother eyes him with interest.

“More'n one,” he says darkly, and I wonder if that includes the two-legged kind.

“What was the worst job you ever had?”

“Claims adjustor for an insurance company. I'd sooner muck out stalls for a living than cheat honest folks outta what they got coming when they're looking at a pile of sticks that used to be their home.”

“Did you love my mother?”

This last question comes out of the blue. Stan looks a bit startled, but to his credit, he doesn't hesitate. “Yeah, I did,” he answers softly.

Arthur nods, satisfied.

When the table is cleared and the bill settled—Stan insisted on picking up the tab—we exchange good-byes before going our separate ways. Ivy and Stan both head to work, as will I as soon as I've dropped Arthur off at the senior center on Fredericks, where he's now a part-time volunteer, teaching computer skills to seniors. It was Dr. Sandefur's idea, and to my surprise and delight, Arthur not only agreed to it but has embraced his new role. You'd think it was an executive position at a Fortune 500 company from how proudly he carries himself walking through that door. He even has his own set of gray-haired groupies in the older ladies who flock around him.

“Will you stay on at the ranch?” I ask of Stan as we're strolling to where our vehicles are parked, Arthur lagging behind while he texts his friend, Ray.

“For the time being. Who knows where I'll be this time next year?” he answers, with the ease of someone who's comfortable living out of his suitcase. “Colorado, or maybe South Dakota. I hear there's good money to be made in the oil fields.”

“It's not about the money, though, is it?”

“No.” A pained expression scuds like a low cloud across the rugged terrain of his face. “Which is why it wouldn't have worked out with your mom and me. I never could stay put for very long.”

“I have a feeling she'd have followed you anywhere.”

“I used to think that. But whenever I picture her, she's right here.” He pauses, pointing toward the ground next to where I'm standing. I feel my throat tighten. “Thanks for today—it meant a lot,” he says in a gruff voice when we reach my Explorer where we part ways. My hand is engulfed in his manly grip, then he turns to continue on. I watch him round the corner and disappear from view. I wonder if we'll ever meet again. Probably not, though he promised to stay in touch.

Ten minutes later, I'm pulling up in front of the modern blue-and-white frame building that houses the Trousdale Senior Center (named after its founder Leon Trousdale—the final twist of irony for me) and is conveniently located next to a multi-storied medical complex. “You don't mind that it's not Microsoft?” I ask as Arthur's getting out. I worried at first he would miss his old job.

He pauses to consider this. “No. It's nice helping people instead of always being the one who needs helps.” He smiles crookedly. “Also, it's kind of nice not always being the craziest person in the room.” He's talking about the seniors in the early stages of dementia.

“Well, there is that.”

“‘Things don't have to change the world to be important.'”

“Steve Jobs, right?” He's fond of quoting his idol.

He nods. When I reach over to straighten the knot in his tie, he pulls away, saying impatiently, the busy executive running late for a board meeting, “Tish, I have to go. I can't keep them waiting.”

It's standing room only when I arrive at St. Anthony's for my AA meeting on Thursday evening. Every chair is filled, and I see a lot of new faces in amongst the usual suspects. Before I can wonder about this sudden outbreak in sobriety or the curious looks I'm getting, I'm distracted by someone motioning to me from the last row. McGee. I slide into the empty seat next to him as he retrieves the jacket folded over it. He smirks as he states the obvious. “Saved you a chair.”

“Thanks. I wasn't expecting to see you here.” Except for the bit of tissue stuck to his cheek where he nicked himself shaving, he looks presentable for a change, wearing clothes that aren't rumpled and fit properly—tan chinos and a striped button-down shirt that covers the tattoos on his forearms. “To what do we owe the pleasure? Don't tell me you finally recognized the pitiful and incomprehensible depths to which you have sunk?” I paraphrase from the Big Book.