Safe from Harm (9781101619629) (14 page)

“We were afraid the holdback would put paid to her dreams of going to the Air Force Academy, but it turns out that should have been the very least of our worries.” Phoebe had told me about the Air Force Academy, and I hadn't believed her.

Tears fell. “I wish we'd taken her in ourselves—we only have the one bedroom and Mark has this big old house and we thought it was best for her to be with her daddy—there had been some hard feelings when . . . but there never would have been drugs if she'd been living with us!”

Mr. Pickersley said, “We don't believe it, you know. That she committed suicide. That's what they're hinting around, asking those questions like was she depressed and all. But Phoebe would never have done away with herself. She was so strong. She stayed at her momma's side nearly a whole year, and she must have known it might mean they wouldn't take her at the Air Force.”

“She was such a good girl,” Mrs. Pickersley said. “We will never believe our snowdrop killed herself.”

DeWitt had lowered himself into the chair next to me. “Not one thing went right for Phoebe after your Mark left my Jenny. Mark has brought this all down on hisself. I lost my daughter and now he's lost his, too.”

Chet Pickersley gathered himself and with great dignity he said, “Mitch, you have had three wives that I know of and two of those were common-law. Constance and I won't argue with you that Mark has made some mistakes, but it won't be up to you and me to be pointing them out. We are sinners, all.”

Mitch pinched the tip of his cigarette out and stuck it back in the pack he kept in his shirt pocket. Without a word, he got up and left the room.

Mr. Pickersley trumpeted his nose and wadded the handkerchief. “Give Mitch his due, it was hard on Phoebe when her daddy took up with Liz. But if things had been that bad, she would have come to us. She knew we would always be here for her. She knew she could count on us if things weren't working out for her here.”

Mrs. Pickersley shook her head, determined to be fair. “Now, Chet, I'm not sure she would have, either. There had been a rift, you know there was. When Mark left Jenny . . . Phoebe wanted us to take a hard stand. She wanted us to cut our boy off—bring him to his senses.” To me she said, “Now, we didn't approve of what all Mark and Liz got up to, but I told Phoebe, I said, ‘Phoebe, in our family we don't cut people off because they don't behave the way we want them to.' It's not Christian. But I don't appreciate Mitch DeWitt coming over all holier than thou.

“He's living in that practically new trailer, too! It's a very nice trailer and Mark is still paying for the space it sits on even though he gave it to Jenny after the divorce.”

A
trailer
? Another surprise. If I had it right, that meant Phoebe Pickersley had been living in a
trailer park
while her dad was living among the multi-million dollar homes of Sweetwater. See, it's not that a trailer park is such a terrible place to live—I wouldn't want to be in one during a Houston hurricane or one of our rare tornados—but you can be happy most places if you put your mind to it. It's the contrast that got to me. I had been thinking Phoebe and Jenny were living middle class; now it sounded more like borderline poverty.

“Are Mark's parents here?” I asked.

“On their way,” said Mr. Pickersley. “Jimmy is working construction over in New Orleans. There's work there and he and Lou like it. Jimmy said he had to take care of some loose ends and then they'll pack up and head this way.

“They wanted Mark and Jenny to join them out there, you know. After Hurricane Katrina? There was so much construction work available, and even though Mark had been working machines for several years, he still knew his way around a construction site. Jimmy said with Mark's looks and brains, he would have made foreman in no time. Mark and Jenny and Phoebe could have hitched the old trailer to the truck and made a new start in New Orleans. Jimmy said there was plenty of work.” He was silent, thinking about this lost possibility. Then he said what I knew he was thinking. “Wish he had. Might none of this happened.” He shook his head in regret.

A hand topped up the still-full cup of coffee on the table in front of me, and then filled the Pickersleys' cups. Lizabeth wore a tight smile

“We sure are proud of those two little boys!” Mrs. Pickersley added hurriedly.

“We sure are!” Mr. Pickersley said.

Liz put a hand on my shoulder. “Could I have a word, Bear?”

I stood up with my cup of coffee. Susan and Sue Ellen were looking daggers at the old couple sharing the farmhouse table with them.

Liz led me to the empty study where Wanderley and I had torn Mark's life apart the night before. She gestured to a chair and after I'd sat, balancing my cup on my knee, she sat down across from me.

It had been a rough night for Liz, too. Her face looked puffy and her color wasn't good. Dark circles ringed her eyes. Her clothes were perfect, though. Tailored slacks and a neat, fitted blouse.

“You have to help us, Bear.”

Before I could respond, there was a shriek from upstairs and then an avalanche of small sneakers hurrying down the stairs. The fast clip of a woman's shoes followed after.

“Doggy! Doggy!”

“Boys, stop! No! That's a strange doggy, we don't—Mrs. Pickersley-Smythe!” That had to be Mrs. Holsapple, the boys', what? Nanny?

I set my cup down and caught up to the twins right at the kitchen door.

“Hey, there, fellas, hold on and I'll introduce you.” I grabbed their hands. Mrs. Holsapple appeared at my side, an attractive woman of fifty or so. I said, “Mrs. Holsapple? Sorry. I'm Walker Wells. That's Baby Bear. He's a Newfoundland and they're great with kids. He wouldn't hurt them, but come outside and I'll introduce you all.”

I opened up the door and the boys screamed again, beside themselves with delight. Baby Bear saw me and lumbered out of the pool where he'd been taking a refreshing dip. Like I said, that dog only listens to me when he wants to.

The boys dragged me forward and I opened my mouth to yell “No shaking!” just as Baby Bear shook himself, liberally sprinkling us with pool water. The boys laughed their heads off.

Mrs. Holsapple didn't laugh. I made the introductions and left her to it. I hoped Liz paid her well.

I patted myself down with a dish towel and rejoined Liz in the study, making my apologies as I passed through the kitchen again.

Liz took up where she'd left off. “Mark won't come out of his study, Bear.”

“What's this room?” I asked, confused.

“Why, this is the library. Mark's study is upstairs.”

They had to be running out of names to call their living spaces. “He probably needs some time to himself, Liz, after last night—”

“Excuse me, Bear. What about me?” she asked, putting a hand on her collarbone. “I have all these people here and he won't even come out and say hello and listen to them tell him they're sorry for our loss!”

“Liz,” I said, finally understanding her concern, “don't give it another thought. Nobody is expecting Mark to play the host. He's in pieces. No one here is going to think badly about—”

“He's in pieces?
He's
in pieces? What about
me
? This is
my
loss, too. I, I'm
very
upset that Phoebe is dead. How do you think this looks to everyone? And the boys,” she added them as a second thought, “the boys are just
devastated
.”

They hadn't seemed devastated two minutes ago.

“Mark should be out here with his
family
.
We're
his family—me and the boys! We
need
Mark. After all I've done for him, wouldn't you think he'd have some consideration for
us
?”

I sat there, looking at her. Was Liz trying to tell me that Mark should get out of that room and come take care of
her
? She couldn't be. No one could be
that
self-centered. I must have misunderstood.

I tried again. “Liz, Mark's daughter, his sixteen . . . eighteen-year-old daughter is dead”—I found myself speaking unnaturally slowly and clearly—“and Mark has a hole in his heart that he can never fill—”

“That's nonsense,” she said.

I kept going. “—that he can't ever fill and it's going to be a long time—”

“
No!
”

I said, “No what?”

Liz's eyes were filled not just with tears, but with near panic. Her reaction baffled me. She got up to sit next to me on the sofa and took my hand in both of hers. Her hands were trembling.

“We don't
have
a long time, Bear. It took me twenty-four years . . .” She closed her eyes and tears slid down her cheeks. She took a breath, wiped her eyes with her cuff and went on. “It took me twenty-four years to get Mark to notice me. Those weren't easy years. Everything you see here?” She made a head-to-toe gesture, taking in her body, her clothes. “I created all this.” Her arm swept around the room. “I created all
this
. My work. My money.”

I nodded. It was an accomplishment. Her mom and sister weren't anything like Liz. It was hard to believe they were related. If that was where she had come from, then Liz had traveled a long way up.

“I was . . . who I used to be . . . that was someone Mark couldn't see. It wasn't that he didn't like me—he couldn't
see
me. I have
always
loved Mark. We were
always
meant for each other—but I was invisible to him. Do you understand? I waited
so long . . .
”

There were twenty-four years of aching loneliness in those two words.

“. . . to have Mark to myself and I only had him four years before that girl moved in and did everything in her power to take him away from me. And now she's dead, and even
dead
, she's taking him away from me. I won't allow it, Bear. I can't wait another
long time
for him to come around.” She shook her head. She sniffed, blinked, and with an effort, brought back her CEO persona, the one I was used to.

“Now, I know he's sad and all that, but he has two
perfect
boys to make up for that disturbed girl who didn't have a grateful bone in her body.”

I tried to stop her. “Liz—”

“No. That sounds harsh, but that girl was hell-bent on destroying what I . . . what Mark and I had created here. You know she did, Bear.”

Liz waited for me to acknowledge what she had said.

What Liz said was true. Phoebe
had
wanted to destroy what Liz had with Mark.

Ten

I
stared at the woman who sat across from me. Yes. Phoebe had wanted to tear down Liz's world. Because the way Phoebe saw it, Liz had torn down Phoebe's.

“You know I'm right, Bear. Now, Mark needs to be a man, and come down here—”

“Liz—”

“—and thank my mother and sister for making the drive, and tell his grand—”

“
Liz
—” I put the untasted coffee down.

“—parents that if they don't stop insulting me in my own house—my house that I bought with my money and no help
ever
from
anyone
—” The tears were back and Liz didn't wipe them away this time. “—then Hell will freeze rock solid right down to the ninth circle before they see Toby and Tanner again. I want you to go get Mark out of there—his grandfather is useless. I've asked him five times and he won't do a
thing
.”

I slapped my hands on my thighs and stood up. “All right.”

“You'll go get him out of there?”

“I'll go talk to him.” I started for the hall.

“Good. I'm going to go get a hammer and chisel in case you need to take the door off its hinges.” She headed toward the garage. Was she for real?

“I don't need a hammer and chisel,” I said.

“I don't think you can get the door off its hinges without a hammer and chisel,” she called over her shoulder.

“I'm not taking the door off its hinges, Liz!”

“I'll put them at the foot of the stairs just in case you change your mind.”

Halfway up the stairs I stopped and went back down to the kitchen. “Mr. Pickersley, will you come with me?” I asked Mark's grandfather.

“I am not taking that door off its hinges, Mr. Wells.”

“Me, either.”

“No?”

“No.”

“I will!” said Sue Ellen, holding a highball of ice and something golden that I would have bet was not apple juice. Clearly, we had moved on from coffee.

“Sit down!” said Mr. Pickersley and her mother. And me.

Mr. Pickersley scooted his chair back and got to his feet. He kissed his wife's forehead and she patted the hand on her shoulder. “Tell him his grammy loves him,” she whispered.

“I will, Constance, and he knows it.”

We climbed the stairs together. I said, “Are you praying people, Mr. Pickersley?”

“We are.”

“This is a good time to start praying, then.”

“Do you think we've stopped since hearing this news?”

Good. I felt fortified.

The boys' door was open. The master bedroom door was open. I tried a handle and it opened onto a closet filled with out-of-season clothes, including a full-length fur. Mr. Pickersley looked at me.

“Down here,” he said, and followed the hall down to a spiral staircase.

We climbed the twisty metal staircase to a small landing.

“He's got a bathroom in there. A small fridge, too. I figure he can stay there awhile.”

“Good,” I said.

“You want to pray out loud?” he asked me.

“You say it,” I said. Liz was a terribly unhappy woman, and I felt for her. She'd had a hard time getting to where she was and I admired the work she had put into it. Nevertheless, I was having un-Christian thoughts about Lizabeth Pickersley-Smythe. It might be better if the prayer came from Mr. Pickersley.

Mr. Pickersley got down on his knees. There was hardly any room on the tiny landing, but I got on mine, too. My knees cracked but not Mr. Pickersley's, who had to be thirty years older than I am. Part of the price I paid for playing college ball. He blew his nose in his handkerchief before beginning.

“Our Holy Father, You know the pain my grandson is in. You know he's made some mistakes, but that's no reason to forget the boy. I know You've got our girl there with You. I know she's fine in Your care, but we're all broken up down here. Now, Mark is in a fix, and I'll tell You straight, Lord, I don't see how he can make the way clear. He's going to need You with him every step of the way. I'm counting on You. You and me, we've always been good together, right? So I'm calling You on that Psalm one-oh-three. ‘Their children's children.' That means Mark, Lord. Don't let me down. In Jesus' name, amen.”

Psalm 103 is where God promises His love is with those who fear Him, and his righteousness with their children's children.

I said, “Amen.”

From inside the study we heard a faint, “Amen.”

Mr. Pickersley used the banister to get back on his feet.

I leaned against the door and said, “How ya doin', Mark?”

A raspy chuckle. “Not so good, Bear. My daughter is . . . Phoebe is gone. And I'm married to a hellhound from Mars.”

“Umm, I think that's Venus, Mark.”

“No, Bear, this one is from Mars.”

“Ahh.”

“Yeah.”

“Well, she's certainly not at her best right now.”

Another laugh.

Neither of us said anything for a minute.

“Granddad?”

“Yes, son.”

“I didn't do a very good job, Granddad.” Mark's voice caught.

Mr. Pickersley mopped his eyes. “We know it, son. We love you anyway. Grammy said to make sure you know she loves you.”

More silence.

“Bear, did Liz send you up here to make me get out?”

“She's pretty exercised about it.”

“Do you think I should come down?”

“Heck, no. I'd stay in there as long as I could, if I were you. Best place for you. The twins are fine. I don't think they understand what has happened. Can I bring you anything?”

“No. If I need something, Granddad will get it for me.”

“Yes, I will,” Mr. Pickersley said.

“Is there anything I can do, Mark?” I asked.

“That Detective Wanderley is a friend of yours, isn't he?”

“Well . . . sort of. We have a relationship.”

“Do you know why my daughter died, Bear?”

“I think it will be Monday or Tuesday before we hear anything, Mark, and I know Wanderley will call you first. He won't call me.”

“Not how. I meant do you know
why
she died?”

Ahh. “No, Mark.”

Long silence.

“Thanks for coming, Bear. I'll call you if I need you. Would you go now and let me have a minute with Granddad?”

“I'm on my way. God be with you, Mark. You're in my prayers.”

I was nearly to the bottom of the stairs when I heard the doorknob turn and the door open.

“Granddad?”

If Mark wasn't in the arms of his Lord, he was at least in the arms of God's emissary.

•   •   •

After nearly tripping over the hammer and chisel that had been left smack-dab in the middle of the bottom stair, I walked into the kitchen to hear, “Why can't I have that trailer, now? It's not like you or Mark would be caught dead in a trailer, and
Phoebe
has obviously decided she won't need it for
her
plans anymore—”

That was Sue Ellen haranguing Lizabeth. They saw me standing there. I'm hard to miss at six three. But they didn't seem embarrassed to have me in on this argument.

Constance Pickersley had gone off somewhere and the rest of the crowd was gathered around the sink or scattered about the house. Liz's mother Susan had backed a kitchen chair into a corner and had it tilted back onto two legs. Her own legs were splayed, an ankle twisted around the chair rung. Susan had joined Sue Ellen in the pre-lunch tipple but was not engaging in the conversation. The too-tight pumps had been abandoned under the kitchen table.

“Did you just hear me say Phoebe's grandfather is living in that trailer?” said Liz. “Can't you at least wait until after the funeral? And I guess you know you're asking me to make you a gift of thirty-four thousand dollars, because that's what that trailer cost me—that's what it cost me to get Jenny to quit dragging her feet about the divorce. I should be glad that's all it cost me. There are a couple of trailers in that park that would sell for more than seventy. What if one of those had come up for sale?”

“Sure, it's all about you and your needs, ‘What's it gonna look like? What'll people say?'” Sue Ellen mocked. “It's not enough you live the ‘lifestyle of the rich and famous,' you got to hang on to every measly nickel you ever—”

“Earned. That's the word you were looking for, Sue Ellen. I
earned
every nickel I have and God knows no one lifted a finger to help me—”

“I don't need your help. I don't even want your filthy money. I don't want a penny of it. I only want that old trashy trailer you don't have any use at all for, and then a little help getting it outfitted so I can start grooming dogs professionally, but you can't bear the idea of someone else being successful, so—”

“You don't want, you don't want—who is making the payments on that brand-new Ford Fiesta? That wouldn't be me and my filthy money?” Liz swung around on her mother. “And what about yours?”

Susan belched loudly and with as little self-consciousness as a child, caught her youngest daughter's eyes on her and struggled to get all four legs of the chair back on the floor. She belatedly covered her mouth and said, “Beg pardon,” as she refilled her glass from the bottle of Johnnie Walker Black that sat on the kitchen table (neat, no ice). Susan put one hand up but kept the other securely clasped around her full glass. “You girls settle your squabbles on your own—don't drag me into it.”

Mitch slouched in. He had a chicken-eating-hound look on his face—one part guilty, two parts satisfied. I didn't know what was coming but I didn't want to share the moment with Liz and her family.

“Liz? I'm going to—”

“Heard you talking about that trailer,” said Mitch DeWitt. “What're you going to be doing with it? Well, you don't need to bother about that. It's mine, now. Phoebe left it to me.” He picked up a glass, walked to the table and poured himself three fingers of scotch. He took a long drink.

Liz stared at him. Sue Ellen put her scotch on the table with a thump, thrust her shoulders back and her chin forward and got close enough to Mitch's face that if she'd been a man, he would have been obliged to knock her down.

“How do you work that out?”

I said, “Liz—”

“You heard what your sister said. She gave it to Jenny as some sort of measly compensation for breaking up a happy home—”

Liz said, “Happy home?”

“—and Jenny left it to Phoebe and Phoebe left it to me.”

Sue Ellen turned an outraged face to her sister. “Can she do that?”

Liz ignored her sister, walked over to the window overlooking the backyard and stood there, watching Baby Bear romp with her sons, with Mrs. Canning and Constance Pickersley watching on. DeWitt shifted his weight but didn't budge. Liz said, her back to us, “You're telling me Phoebe made a will?”

DeWitt said, “She did.” Levelly.

Still facing the window Liz said, “And she left what she had to you? Not her dad? Not her little brothers? I guess you get the insurance money, too?”

“You'd be guessing right.” You could practically see the feathers around his mouth.

“Hah!” It was a bark of laughter. Liz spun around and her mouth was as thin-lipped as a cat's. “I knew it. That girl had no more feeling for him than her mother did. You know what? I'm not sorry for any of it. You can have that trailer, Mitch DeWitt. And you can get your butt out of my kitchen and out of my house. I don't want to see you ever again. Don't come to the funeral, not unless you want to pay for it yourself. You won't be welcome.”

DeWitt tossed back the rest of his drink, set the glass down hard on the countertop. He paused at the door.

“I'll be at my granddaughter's funeral. You see if I won't.” And exit stage right.

“You're busy,” I said to Liz. “We'll talk later. I'm just going to slip out so y'all can—”

Liz swiveled around to me like a gunner in a turret. “So where is he?”

I said, “Liz, Mark needs some more time alone. He'll—”

She put her hands on her hips and advanced on me. “You go back up there and tell Mark—”

She was two inches from my nose, which was about a foot and a half too close. I
know
what I
should
have done. I
should
have backed down. What I
did
do was to put my index finger on her nose and push, the tiniest little bit.

I said, “Back off, Lizabeth. You aren't my mother and I'm not five years old. If you'll take the time to notice, you'll find that Mark isn't five years old, either. He'll come out when he's ready to. Right now it's all about what Mark needs, Liz. It's not about you.”

Liz's mouth fell open.

I hesitated. “Liz, I know you're hurting. I know you need Mark, and if you'll be patient, he'll be there for you. But give him some time, okay?”

I gave her shoulders a squeeze and stepped around her. “It was a pleasure to meet you, Mrs. Smythe, Miss Smythe,” I lied.

“It's ‘Smith,'” hissed Sue Ellen.

Whatever.

I was halfway out the back door when Lizabeth said, “I hope you don't think
you'll
be doing the funeral,
Mr. Wells
.” She said my name like she was spitting a curse.

Outside, Mrs. Pickersley was sitting next to Mrs. Holsapple, watching the twins play with Baby Bear.

“He's very good with children, Mr. Wells,” said Mrs. Holsapple. I agreed that he was. Newfoundlands are famously agreeable with both people and other animals. They were bred as rescue dogs, not hunting dogs.

“We'll see you at the funeral, Mr. Wells,” said an exhausted-looking Mrs. Pickersley, and I agreed that she would—even if I wouldn't be handling the funeral, I'd certainly be attending it.