Mourning Dove (17 page)

Be careful, Mom.  I love
you.

One hundred-fifty-two new
e-mail messages! It was going to be a long Monday morning.

“Hi boss, can I buy you a
cup of coffee?” Steve stood in Sara’s office doorway with two mugs in his hand.

“What’s up, Steve?”

“I might ask you the same
thing. My computer’s blacked out, so is Louise’s.”

“Call IT.” She continued
to scan the contents of the first email; then hit the delete key.

“I did, they said they’re
working on it. I thought I’d check yours.”

He walked in and set a
steaming cup on her desk. She looked up. “Hazelnut? What’s the occasion?”

“The rumor this morning
is that Ross is dead. I thought I would try bribery to get confirmation.”

“This time the grapevine
is correct. It appears Ross’s brakes failed on a winding coastal road. He went
over the edge and the car ignited on impact. I have another
one-hundred-forty-eight messages to scan. There may be further updates.”

“I’ll get out of your
hair then. Can I do anything for you while I’m waiting for the computers to
come up?”

“Organize a meeting in
the conference room for eleven o’clock, all accounting staff. We’ll get a link
to include Jonathon in California.”

“What’s the topic?”

“Temporary changes in financial
coverage and reporting, security leaks, PR damage control, and the office rumor
mill.”

***

“Take one step at a time,
Ron. If you fall, I can’t pick you up.” She stood behind her husband’s wobbly
length at the foot of his front steps. He was juggling two crutches and his
keys, his cast-covered right foot and lower leg bent behind him.

“I want to get into the
house,” he demanded. “Mrs. Murphy is watching out her front door. There’s no
way I’m providing the old busybody with more entertainment than necessary.”

Sara turned and saw a
shadow pull back from a white lace curtain. Allen pulled up behind Sara’s car
and she thanked God for little blessings.

“Need some help there,
old man?”

“Allen, go through the
garage and get this door open.”

“You could say please,
Ron.”

“Stuff it, Sara. Just get
me in the house.”

“Does Allen have keys to
the kitchen door?”

“He knows where I keep
the spare.”

And I don’t, that’s
interesting.
A few minutes later they stood in the middle of the front room
surrounded by sound equipment boxes, painter tarps and Ron’s black leather
recliner. “Ron, do you want to maneuver the stairs now or later?”

“I just want to sit.”
And, he did, plopping down on the recliner, creating a plume of dust.

“When is the last time
you cleaned in here?” Sara coughed from a cloud of white and waved her hands to
clear the air in front of her.

“That’s just sheetrock
dust,” Ron said. The walls are ready to paint, if you’ll notice.”

She spun around glancing
at the gobs of spackling stuck to the floor and the white smooth surface
covering seams and nail marks. “Well, I guess you’ve been busy, but we’re going
to have to get the dust up first. And, no I am not doing it; you can hire it
out. The next decision you have to make is where you’re going to convalesce, upstairs
or down? I would suggest the second floor since it has a bathroom and a bed.”

Allen started lugging in
the mail and Ron’s things from the hospital when Ron asked, “How am I going to
cook?”

“You’re not. Your friends
are delivering food.”

“I’m going to need a
place to work; I don’t want people coming through the house.”

“Stop whining, Ron. The
simple truth is you’re off your feet for the next two weeks. You can work from
your bed for the duration. Let people with two working feet maneuver the
stairs. You barely managed the three steps into the house. Get practical here.”

“How am I going to get up
those steps, now?”

“Allen will help you out
of the chair, when you get to the bottom of the steps, turn around and ease
yourself down to sit. Then, scoot yourself up the stairs, one at a time. When
you get to the top, we’ll help you stand and you can hobble off to bed. Allen
can bring your laptop and cell phone up.”

“I get lousy reception
here. I’ll have to use the landline. Do you have the pain pills the doc prescribed?”

“When we get you up the
stairs, I’ll give them to you. I don’t want you getting woozy on the steps.”

“You just like to see me
in pain.”

“Stop being cranky and
ease to the front of the chair so we can lift you.”

“Ron, you should get a
bathroom installed on the first floor. Then you wouldn’t have to scoot up the
stairs on your ass,” Allen laughed as they followed behind the invalid and his
backward crab-walk up the stairs.

“I have plans for one;
just haven’t gotten to it, yet. For now I guess I’ll just stay upstairs. Sara
will be here.”

“Sara will only be here
today,” she reminded him. “Then you will see me first thing in the morning and
late in the evening when I get back from work.”

“I thought you were
staying two weeks?”

“I am, but I have to work.
I rarely get home before seven, usually much later than that. Allen will be
here at lunch. You told me your friends have set up a schedule to bring over
dinner. So you have coverage there. I’ll be here in the evening to make sure
everything is set for the night.”

“You could work in the
den. It’s in better repair than the front room,” Ron said.

“Trust me I plan to. But,
I still have to go into the office. I don’t have a choice.”

***

Sara put away two
casseroles and covered a chocolate cake. As usual, she ended up vacuuming up
the dust. With two cups of tea in hand, she climbed the stairs for what seemed
like the hundredth time that day.

“Sara!”

She walked into his room.
“I’m changing my name. You wore it out today. 
And
, I can tell you the
nurses on the orthopedic floor are celebrating that you’ve finally gone home!
Here’s your tea.”

“Thanks. I’m sorry I’ve
been such a burden on you. I hate being incapacitated.”

“I know. How’s the pain?”

“The throbbing stopped.
Have you settled in downstairs?”

“I’ve taken over your den
for the duration.”

“You could still sleep
here with me. There’s plenty of room; it’s more comfortable than the couch in
the den.”

Sara ignored his offer.
“Were you able to get any work done on your laptop?”

“Some. I had a lot of
distractions with the comings and goings around here.”

“Well, you have a fridge
full of casseroles, half an apple pie left, and a chocolate cake.”

“Where did the chocolate
cake come from?”

“Mrs. Murphy brought it
over. She made it for you as soon as she saw you hobbling up the walk.” And,
she thinks we’re getting back together. But, you don’t need to know that.

“Come and sit, talk to
me.” He patted the side of the bed.

“Just for a minute.” Sara
eased down into the opposite corner at the foot of the bed and leaned back against
the mahogany post. “What do you want to talk about?”

“What’s your job like?
Are you happy there?”

“It’s busy and dynamic.
Hasn’t had an ounce of routine since I started. Everything is urgent,
everything is challenging.” She looked up. “I almost never have nightmares any
more.”

“That’s a good thing.
Making new friends?”

“Meaning?”

“No inference intended,
just asking.”

“Most are easy to work
with. One of the staff accountants has become a friend. We swim during lunch
break. The company has a fitness club with a large pool on the ninth floor.”

“What’s his name?”

“
Her
name is
Louise.”

“You always liked
swimming. It’s probably helping eliminate the nightmares. You’re working on
this art foundation, too?”

“It’s just getting
started. You met Elaina Starr at the exhibit; it’s her baby. Her effervescence
makes me smile. She has a very southern way of getting what she wants.”

“What about your boss?”

“Jonathon is a piece of
work, a Texas cowboy. He’s in California at the moment, putting out fires. I’ve
been covering for him. That’s why I can’t take the time off.”

“I haven’t met him. I was
talking about the guy at the exhibit.” He took a sip of his hot tea and ran a
finger over the rim of the cup.

“Robert Starr is my boss
above Jonathon and the owner of the company. He reminds me of an elder
statesman.  He can charm the spots off a leopard and dispatch it the next
moment with a single shot. I wouldn’t ever want to cross him. Then again, I
have no reason to. He’s cordial, serious about business, and oozes southern charm.”

“And, the other one?”

“I knew you’d get around
to him. His name is Matthew Farrell. He’s a government liaison to the company.
He’s also something of an art connoisseur. We’ve both been asked to work on the
foundation in different capacities.”

“Do you work close to
him?”

“He’s temporarily in the
next office.”

“That’s not what I’m
asking.”

            Matthew would
have said, ‘Bloody hell, don’t be obtuse, Sara, you know what I’m asking.’ She
looked up from her tea and watched the serious concern in Ron’s eyes. “I don’t
know what to say.”

“Is there more to your
relationship with this man than work?”

“Who is the woman that
filled in the negligee in your bathroom?”

“No one special,” he
blushed at the admission. “Is he important to you?”

“Trying to have your cake
and frosting, too?”

“What?”

“Ignore that, I heard the
phrase a while ago. Who is she?”

“It’s over. The nightgown
is gone.”

“I know, I checked.”

“Is there a masculine
robe on the back of your bathroom door?”

“I live with Leonardo, no
one else.”

“
Who
is Leonardo?”

“Stacey’s cat.”

“I wondered where he got
to. Jordie said he created quite a mess at his studio.”

“Well, for the next two
weeks he’s keeping you company.”

“No way!”

“Yes, way, I can’t leave
him alone for that length of time. Before you ask, Cass owns an alpha male. It
would be impossible for the two of them to share the same quarters while she’s
at work.”

“Where is this monster
now?”

“Leonardo is in the den,
sleeping in a kitty tote. He’s not used to stairs, but I suspect he will come
up to see you sometime in the night. Try not to scare him.”

“Oh, goodie!”

“You want my help; you
got him. Take it or leave it.”

“All right, I’ll cope…somehow.”

“I’m going downstairs and
try to catch up on my reading. Anything else you need before I go?”

“I’ll holler if I need
you.”

“That’s what I’m afraid
of.” She left the room and headed down the stairs just as Leonardo was climbing
up.  “Hello, pretty boy.” She reached down to pet his head.  He passed her full
of feline arrogance.

Just as Sara got to the
doorway of the den she heard, “Oh my God! Sara, get this monster off my bed!”

“Ron, make friends!” There
was a God, after all.

***

Sara was more exhausted
than she’d been in a very long time. Before she could rest though, she began
clearing space to work, organizing the mountain of paper on Ron’s desk. After
an hour of sorting and stacking, she was finally down to the keyboard and the
desktop. Sliding the monitor to one corner, she pushed the keyboard back
against it. It was as wobbly as a three-legged table. She lifted it to collapse
the back feet and found a brass key ring with a single small key and oval
medallion attached. Two rows of raised letters were embossed across it with a
small rectangle below them. She pulled the desk lamp forward and tilted the
medallion into the light. The language wasn’t English. It was German. GEHEIME
STAATSPOLIZEI, then the number 84.060 etched into the raised rectangle below
the words. She’d read that phrase before, old German secret state police. She
flipped the medallion over.

Bile filled the back of
her throat.  A roaring surf surged inside her head, her heart pounded against
her ribcage. She placed the medallion back on the desk and pushed back. God
have mercy. The sign of evil incarnate was emblazoned on the backside of the
piece of brass. An eagle, wings stretched the length of the metal disk, held a
wreath in its talons. The symbol that terrorized Europe sixty years ago
screamed back at her, pulsing in her brain. For a moment she stopped breathing.
Then her nostrils flared and she inhaled. It even smelled of death. How did it
get here? What did it mean? Sara moved it around with the tip of a pen, loathe
to touch it again. The lettering below the swastika was M 9/99, a membership
date?

“Ron!” she looped a pen
through the key ring as if touching it again could contaminate her.

“Ron!” she shouted again,
walking up the stairs with the symbol of her grandparents’ and great
grandparents’ torture and destruction dangling before her. She remembered
stories told to her when she turned twelve, stories of medical experiments on
Aunt Sophie and Grandma Sara, her namesake, screams coming from the surgical
building, the scent of burning flesh and decaying feces that haunted her
grandmother until her death.

“Ron!” Again Sara shouted
his name. “I want answers! I want them now!” The hysteria penetrated every
fiber of her being. Not since Carl’s death had she felt this unhinging. She
turned into Ron’s bedroom. He was struggling to maneuver past the bed covers
with his crutches.

“What is it? What’s
wrong?” He looked down at the object dangling from the black and white
papermate pen in her hand and closed his eyes.