Grave Concern (46 page)

“What, what is it?” said Kate, panicked.

Mary leaned in and touched Kate's eyebrow. Another yank.

“Yow! What is this, the torture chamber?” Kate cried.

But Mary was lost in examination of the hair that lay on her fingertip. And now Kate looked too. “It was longer than the others,” said Mary. “Kind of curled.”

And definitely red. Rosy. Rust.

Mary looked up at Kate. “I was going to ask what's the meaning of this, but I think maybe I'm after figuring it out. Not a parentage problem, then, is it dear?”

Kate's whole body began to shake. A heaviness clutched at her throat. “Oh, Mary. My dad's not my real dad. Old man — oh, God,
John Marcotte
is. And that means …”

“That Adonis druggie is your half-brother.”

“I'll ignore that. And Raw-Raw's probably a third cousin once removed!” Kate couldn't hold the line anymore and dissolved in tears.

There in the little white windowless room, she blubbered out everything, all the worries and lies and clues she had unearthed or perpetuated or been ignorant of. It was as if every word spawned two or more, like a cancer cell gone crazy.

Mary stood up. “You all done?”

Kate, only half-hearing, nodded.

“I'm going to give you a shot of something very mild, just to take the edge off,” she said, “and to get you the hell of out of here, which is the last place you want to be in a state like this.” She began scribbling madly on a prescription pad. “I want you to follow this to the letter.”

Kate, who had gone limp, nodded her assent. Mary held the door open for her. But just as Kate passed through she felt it coming. “Mary! Mary, I — I'mgoingtabesick.”

Mary grabbed a metal kidney dish from the counter.

“Ah,” said Kate. “That feels better. I'd call that an emergency, wouldn't you?”

They cleaned Kate up, and Mary gave her a quick hug, while at the same time fitting something over Kate's confused head. “I'll give you a call later,” she whispered. “I'm off in three hours, unless something major comes in. And remember,
no car
. The first thing I've written down there is for you to
walk
home.”

Kate wandered home on foot. Black pavement, grey sidewalk, dusty ditch. She remembered to stop at each of the intervening three corners and check for traffic, of which there was none. After twenty minutes or so, standing at her front door, Kate noticed the empty driveway and wondered vaguely if her car shouldn't be there. She looked down at her chest and saw a huge, luminescent, green “X.” She was wearing some kind of safety bib, like you saw on road workers or cyclists. Reaching out to open the door, she became aware of something in her hand — a crumpled-up, soggy piece of paper. She opened it and read:

Mary would be coming by a little later. But there was something Kate had to do first.

She stormed across the cemetery to her parents' grave, with every intention of confronting Molly. But as Kate approached the stone, saw again the familiar names, the finality of the dates, the bobbing Shasta daisies she herself had placed just the other day, her anger dissipated. For the first time ever, as she stood at her parents' grave, Kate felt profoundly shy. She couldn't find a single word to say. In any case, what she said to one, the other would overhear. Kate stood rooted to the spot a long time, glaring at the black granite through a blur of tears. With sudden purpose, she knelt down, and with one finger traced the words in the cold stone.
Death, be not proud.
Even as she traced, her eye moved up.
MOLLY ANNE (NEE BOYNTON).

Kate:
(whispering)
Who were you, Mom? Who are you? Why won't you let me in?

Molly
: What's that, dear? Speak up.

And wasn't that just like Molly to fall into the dotty, distracted thing? It drove Kate crazy when her mother was alive and hadn't changed since. Kate had always seen that act for what it was. Avoidance. Of Kate and her uncomfortable questions. But now, for the first time, Kate saw more. The proper, schoolmarmish Molly, the Molly who shushed family swears and swiped Kate's shoes on the way into Marcotte's shop, had been similarly infuriating. So
what was
she avoiding?

Kate
: Okay, I'll spell it out. Ten years, Mom.
Ten years
after you were married. Was Dad infertile? Impotent? Is that why?

Molly
: Well, well. Seems like you've answered your own question. You're here, aren't you? You're alive and kicking.

Kate
: But, Mom, that's the point.

Molly
: I'm not following, dear.

Kate
: Do I have to say it outright? Dad's right here.
Listening.

Molly
: To what?

Kate was coming all over with that distinct dead-parrot feeling again.

Kate
: I know, Mom. I know about what happened. Or at least the result.

Molly
: Kate, can this wait? We're finally into a rubber of bridge. You can't believe how long it took to get organized. Your father's just opened bidding with four hearts, and you know what
that
means.

Kate
: Uh. I can't actually believe my ears.

Molly
: Believe it. Four hearts. He's looking for something more from me. You know how he always likes to go no trump if he can. Never likes to let the opposition play the hand.

Kate
: So doesn't that make you Dummy? When you lay down your hand, can we talk?

Molly
: Could be a while, dear. Things move at a snail's pace down here.

Kate
:
Mom
. This is important!

Molly
: Important! Run along now, dear, I'm busy.

Kate
: But —

Molly
: Go ask your father, then.

Busy? Ask your father? In a nanosecond, Kate's earlier rage returned. Maybe she just would. Maybe she just would ask Dean. That would fix Molly all right. But first something needed doing. Kate stood up and kicked the tombstone as hard as she could. An electric pain shot straight up her shin, through her pelvis and spine, jarring the still-delicate ribs. She grabbed the daisies out of their container and pitched them as far as her flabby, half century-old triceps would allow, which turned out to be only as far as Millie Osborne's, the school librarian, two graves down.

When Mary arrived around noon, Kate was ready. “What the hell kind of poison did you give me? I musta slept fourteen hours!”

“Saline, dear,” said Mary. “You looked a bit dried out.”

“No, really,” said Kate.

“Really,” Mary said. “Your system looked to be doing the work of ten drugs all by itself.”

“And the bib? What kind of doctoring is that?”

“Ground guy uses it when the chopper brings an emergency in. Once in a blue moon. It was just after lying there on the counter, doing nothing useful. Better give it back, by the way.” Mary bent down and pulled a bottle out of her bag. “So I've been saving this, for a critical case such as this,” she said.

Kate looked at the label. Some unpronounceable type of scotch with a name full of
p
and
h
and
g
.

Mary handed Kate a full-ish glass. “Cheers,” she said. “Now, tell me,” she said. “How're things between you and Leonard?”

“Good,” said Kate, taken aback. “Great, actually.” Kate felt more tired than ever in her life. The adrenaline she'd worked up at the graveyard had drained away and left her, as Gladys would say, “bereft.”

“Glad to hear it,” said Mary. “You know, dear, I've got a little something going myself.”

Kate could hardly believe her ears. “Aren't we supposed to be discussing my identity crisis? You realize I'm still in shock. As a doctor, aren't you supposed to worry about that?”

“You not shut of that yet?” said Mary. “It's just a biological father, dear. They're running amok all over this world, they are. Don't give a damn who they spawned. If you'll pardon my French.”

Kate looked at Mary in horror. How could she be so cavalier? Just because it wasn't
Mary's
whole life, everything she thought she was, crumbling down about her ears. Could this lazy procreation really be as common as Mary claimed?

Mary raised an eyebrow. “Kate, all this doesn't mean you gotta like the guy, let alone
love
him. Dance with the one who brung ya, I'm sayin'. It's your own Da brought you up all those years.”

Kate was hit with a sudden affinity for Jacob, biblically wrestling with his angel. She herself was gagging on disaffection — for Mary (what arrogance!); for Marcotte, the opportunist; for Dean, the dad who was
not
her father; for Molly, the Grand Equivocator.

Mary softened. “Kate, honey, don't let this get you all confused.”

What had Jacob wanted? To be given a new name. “I don't actively
dislike
Marcotte,” said Kate.

“Speak up, dear, you're all froggy. I can hardly hear ya.”

Kate refused to repeat herself, but went on more or less talking to herself. “There's things about him, I see now, we have in common. We have a similar way of thinking, for instance.”

“Excellent, dear, good. Whatever. Just don't go trying to make more of Marcotte than what's there, is all I'm sayin'. You're sure to be disappointed.”

“And what about J.P.?” Kate broke down now in abject sorrow. Not only had she lost a lover, but now a brother, the only sibling she never had. “Isn't that kind of weird, me falling in love with my own half-brother? All those stupid years …”

Mary said nothing, and the continuing echo of Kate's words spoke all anyone needed to say.

“Does that make me an incest-u-izer? Oh Mary, how'm I gonna live with myself?”

“Just be glad it's all long ago and forgotten and no one knows or cares anymore.”

“
I
know,” said Kate. “And
you
know, even if you don't care very much. Oh God, what about Marcotte? Do you think he knows?”

Mary shrugged. “Hard to say. But dear, there
is
likely at least one other person who knows. I mean besides you and me and Adele Niedmeyer.”

“Who's that?” Kate's face was crimson now, with mounting anger and dread.

“Well, I've been thinking about our discussion way back when — it makes perfect sense. Who was beating up on J.P.? Whatsisname, the brother.”

“Guy. The bugger. Ran off to Australia.”

“Yeah, him. Somehow he must've known the score, pardon the pun. He was trying to keep his little brother from doing something dumb, without telling him why.”

“Or,” said Kate slowly, “
telling
him why and keeping him under threat of abuse if he told
me
,” Kate said.