Getting Sassy (28 page)

She gave first me and then my mother a pointed look.

“I am very good at what I do. I will not risk that by having you two conducting your personal vendettas when spirits are present. They deserve better than that.” She paused. “Especially this one.”

Then she looked at me and said, “One of you will have to leave the room.”

“I’m not leaving,” my mother said.

“Robyn,” Erika’s eyes were hard, black steel, “you must leave the room.”

“No.”

“Then this session will have to end.”

“Robyn, please.” It was my mother, and I could hear the tears in her words.

“Okay,” I finally said, standing. Then I turned to my mother. “When you finish here we’ve got some talking to do.”

My mother bowed her head. “I know.”

“None of this ‘oh, I can’t remember’ stuff.”

She wagged her head back and forth. “Yes, dear.”

“I’ll wait right outside the door.”

I stood and skirted the space my father occupied in his disembodied way.

I had the door halfway open when Erika said, “Robyn...”

I stopped, looked back at her as she nodded toward the floor. “You forgot your handbag.”

“Oh,” I said, noting the smug aura rising off of the medium. I had no choice but to scoop up my purse and take it out with me. So much for my pathetic attempt at subterfuge. I doubted she knew for sure that I’d had the recorder going during the last séance. It was probably a lucky guess, but it was a smart one, and I reminded myself that no matter how phony a medium Erika Starwise was, she wasn’t stupid.

The air in the hall was cooler and all I could smell were the candles and incense for sale in her shop. At first I paced outside the door, but I couldn’t hear anything. I didn’t trust Erika. She’d led me into this. Why, I wasn’t sure, but I knew better than to be flattered anymore. And while I knew it was easy enough to make up stuff that some spirit was saying, in order to do that she must have done her homework. And if she did do her homework on my mother, I needed to know why. After several minutes with no psychic energy seeping out from under the door, I went to the outer office to pace and fume. I had learned enough in there to make me angry, confused and curious. I wasn’t sure which emotion prevailed. Who the hell was Robert Savage? Other than my real father. Or was he? My head spun. So much of my life had been spent remembering a guy who died before I was born. Now, I just learned that this man—Robert Guthrie—was some guy my mother married to make me legitimate. I kicked the doorjamb. Well, Mom, it never took. My head spun like a bad hangover.

Savage. Shit. I wasn’t even Scottish.

I was dying to know what was being said. And without my recorder working for me in there, I had no way of knowing how much truth I’d get out of my mother. And I saw no reason, after all these years, for her to start telling the truth now.

After fifteen more minutes of pacing, my mother came out from the back. She was smiling, chatting with Erika like they were old friends.

“Thank you so much, Erika.” My mother took Erika’s hand. “This has been a most amazing experience.”

“I’ll make an appointment for you for Monday.”

All I said to my mother was, “You’ve got some explaining to do.”

“I know.” She sighed, but she didn’t slip into her cowering puppy pose.

“I’d like a drink, if I may,” my mother said to me as we walked out of the Psychic Place. The way she spoke, she sounded like she was making her last request. As in:
May I have a blindfold, please.

I relented, but only because I needed a drink at least as bad as she did. Fortunately, in Fowler you’re never more than a few doors away from a drinking establishment. I directed her into the Depot and then to a corner booth. I didn’t see anyone resembling a waitress, so I left my mother and went to the bar where I placed our order. The bartender said he’d bring it to me, so I was able to return to the table before my mother had a chance to escape.

I scooted into the booth across from her, my hands folded on the pitted surface of the wooden slab of a table, and watched my mother squirm. I was going to wait until we had our drinks, but wanted to see if she’d blurt something out before I brought it up. I doubted she would. My mother could hold her silence better than Marcel Marceau. She busied herself examining the contents of her purse, withdrawing an embroidered handkerchief and dabbing her mouth with it, finger combing her soft, white hair. She gave me a pleasant smile.

I kept my jaws clenched, afraid of what I might say if I were to unleash my tongue. Acid burned in the hollow pit in my stomach. It was a mixture of anger, sadness and confusion. I could not believe
that my father had been alive all these years, and I didn’t know about him until after he died. Did she have any idea what that meant to me?

“Are you working on a book now?” she asked.

Unfortunately, the bartender arrived with our drinks before my mother could fully appreciate the depth of my glare.

“Famous Grouse,” he said, setting the amber on the rocks in front of me. And then he said, “and a Chablis.” Actually, it was Chardonnay. They didn’t have Chablis so I asked him to fib a little. I sighed. Now I was asking other people to lie for me.

“What’s Famous Grouse?” my mother asked as if she cared.

“Scotch.”

“I didn’t know you drank scotch.” She’d taken on that disapproving tone. “It’s hardly a social drink.”

“I’ve been drinking it for years.”

“Hmph,” she said, sipping her wine. “Famous Grouse. What an odd name.”

“As a matter of fact,” I said, getting comfortable, “it’s what the crown prince of Nepal was drinking the night he murdered his family.”

Her eyes widened and she swallowed.

“Let’s cut the crap,” I said.

“Your mouth, Robyn,” she murmured.

“It’s time for you to tell me everything. And I mean
everything.”

She used her handkerchief to dab at the damp spot on the table where her glass had left a wet ring. “I don’t know where to start.”

“The beginning is such a good place.”

When she hesitated, I could see the anguish in her features—her tucked brows, the way her eyes looked like pools of blue. The lines on either side of her mouth had deepened, giving her face a grayish cast.

“Let me ask you this,” I said. “Were you married to a guy named Robert Guthrie just before you had me?”

She seemed shocked that I’d ask such a thing. “Of course I was married.”

“Was Robert Guthrie my father?”

She cocked her head to one side as though to bend the answer. “No, he wasn’t.”

“My father was also named Robert. Robert Savage.”

She finally nodded. “Yes.”

“Tell me about him.”

She placed both hand hands on the table, palms down and leaned toward me. “You have to understand. You weren’t supposed to know anything about this until...”

“Until?”

“Well, until after I died. I was going to leave you a letter.” She didn’t give me a chance to comment before continuing. “You see, I had to give you a name.”

As stunning as this deception was, it made perfect sense in my mother’s world.

“Did you intentionally marry a guy named Robert?”

“No,” she smiled. “But it was convenient, wasn’t it?”

“Tell me about my father.”

She smiled. “He was a wonderful man. I met him in Los Angeles in the early sixties.”

“Why were you in Los Angeles?” It was one place my mother had never said she wanted to go.

“I wanted to be an actress.”

I had to bite my tongue.

“Hollywood was an exciting place then. I moved out there and waited tables in a coffee shop while I auditioned for movie roles. Had a couple of bit parts. But then I took a job as a production assistant to a film director. He was demanding and a tough boss, but I learned a great deal from him. I learned I was better at that job than acting. It paid better too.”

“Was that my father?”

“Oh, no, the director was, well, a homosexual.” She whispered the word. “But we were working on a film that was being produced by a couple of men, and they would show up on the set every now and
then. Made Larry nervous,” she added. “Felt like they were looking over his shoulder. But then it became clear that it wasn’t Larry’s shoulder one of those men was looking over. It was mine.” She nearly blushed at the memory and I got a glimpse of my mother at that age. “The one man—Robert—was very kind. Charming. I had an easy time talking to him. When he asked me out for coffee, I really believed it was just that.”

I gave her a look.

“I know,” she sighed. “And, you know, I think I’d still have gone even if I’d known exactly what he wanted.”

I almost smiled.

She swallowed some wine. “We began seeing each other then.”

“Was he married?”

“Yes. She was...” She paused. “She wasn’t a nice woman.”

I nodded. Sure. They never are.

“No, I know what you’re thinking, but she really was a horrible person. Drank too much, was rude to people. Had a yappy little poodle she took with her everywhere.”

Dear God, she sounded like me. “Why didn’t he divorce her?”

Her jaw hardened as she swallowed. “Well, she was the sister of a rather powerful man. He was, um, with the mafioso.”

“Oh.”

“Robbie couldn’t divorce her.”

“But if she found out he was cheating on her that was okay?”

“I don’t know if she ever did find out. I don’t think so. But I also don’t think she would have cared.”

She swallowed again. “It was nice for a while. We went lovely places. He gave me beautiful gifts... my ring.” She reached across the table for my hand, and I let her examine the ring. “It looks very nice on your hand.”

“It’s a beautiful ring.”

“What’s that style called?”

“Art deco.”

“Yes, that’s it. He loved old things, you know. Collected all kinds of things from the first part of the century. Wines, coins, jewelry. He thought they carried stories.”

Yeah, sure, I thought, not thinking many kind thoughts about any of my fathers at this point. I pulled my hand away.

“And then I got pregnant.” She shook her head. “I was so careful. We were so careful, but, well, some children just want to be born.”

“Yeah, that’s me.”

“We talked about... what to do. He said he’d pay... for whatever. He’d take care of me... us. But I knew that wouldn’t work. I told him I’d go away and he’d never hear from me again.”

“Did he believe you?”

“I think he did. I asked him for some money to get me started in a job and get an apartment—”

“How much?”

“Not very. I think it was ten thousand.”

I waited.

“But his advisors were afraid I’d blackmail him later.” She shook her head. “I’d never have done that to Robbie.”

“So what happened?”

“I left town. Without the money. Without telling him where I was going.” She sipped more wine. “He never found me. At least I didn’t think he had. Not until that woman came.”

“Mary Waltner?”

“That’s right.”

“She didn’t come to see you about Robert Guthrie.”

“No.”

“Is he still alive?”

“I have no idea,” she said and from her tone implied that she didn’t care.

I tended to think that the hundred and fifty dollars in the canister had also been part of the myth, but I didn’t want to sidetrack her. “Why did Mary Waltner come to see you?”

Her features clouded. “What was it that happened to her?”

“She died, Mother.”

“Oh, my. That’s right. That’s what that policeman said. I don’t know if I had anything to do with that.”

“You didn’t, Mother,” I said, not certain that was the case anymore.

“He’d known my whereabouts for years, but he understood it was best keeping me a secret. At least while that horrible wife of his was alive.” She smiled a little. “But then she died.” She scowled. “Eighty-nine years old.”

“Only the good die young,” I offered.

She looked at me. “I’m going to live a very long time, aren’t I?”

“You won’t die of natural causes soon,” I said.

She wouldn’t meet my eyes. I kept going. “If he knew where you were, why didn’t he come out here after his wife died?”

“She died less than a year ago. And then Robbie’s health was failing.” She paused. “At least that’s what the letter said.”

“What about me? Did he know about me? Did he know I was here—with you?”

“He did.” She straightened her napkin and continued. “He wrote me this letter. Oh, Robyn, it’s the most beautiful, loving letter. He mentioned you. And in it he says he had provided for me.”

“Really? How?”

“I-I’m not sure.” Her brows tightened. “There was something that woman said about it, and I can’t remember what that was. It was just too much at once.”

“Was it something he said in the letter?”

“Why, yes, I think there must have been something in there.”

“A check?”

“No. Nothing like that.” Her face screwed up and she pressed a fist to her forehead. “Oh, Robyn, why can’t I remember these things?”

“It’s okay, Mom. Maybe if you let me see the letter.”

“Well, yes, I suppose I could do that.”

“Do you have it?”

“It’s in my room.”