The Equalizer (10 page)

“My mom,” I said after reentering the building.

Naomi smiled and handed me the paper. “This is what you need.”

We walked back outside and to the truck, and she unlocked the driver’s door. I called Ronny’s number again so we could locate the phone faster. It was down between the driver’s seat and the center counsel. I put on a glove to pull out and dropped it in an evidence bag.

“I find it odd it’s in this particular truck,” she said.

“Maybe it fell out of his pocket sometime Thursday and he didn’t know it,” I said. “Wouldn’t he have missed it?”

“You’d think.”

“Well, thanks for helping me out this morning.”

“Happy to help. Want to grab a bite to eat?” she asked.

“Can’t. I just agreed to go to my mom’s.”

She looked disappointed. “Okay. See you soon?”

“I’ll call you.”

“You’d better,” she said with a sexy smile.

I dropped off the phone
at the evidence desk then sent an email to Betty to check it for fingerprints. After I picked up Bullet, I took off for Gull Lake where my mom and Grandma Dee live together. When I was six, Mom and I and my baby brother moved in with my grandparents, Grandpa Arnie and Grandma Dee Riggens, after my dad left us. They also worked together at their gift shop, North Country Gifts
,
in Nisswa
.
The two were polar opposites in every way and seem to tolerate each other views and ways, except Grandma Dee put her foot down and refused to ride in my mother’s white ’98 Dodge van not because it was an old, rusty heap, but because it still had
GORE/LIEBERMAN
and
OBAMA/BIDEN
bumper stickers.

Both grandfathers tried hard to be a father to me. The two men were friends and often the three of us would hunt and fish together. They died within a year of each other.

Mom’s dad, Grandpa Arnie, had been in the Marines. He taught me how to defend myself and how to kill a man before the police academy did. He was drafted after high school and when he got out of the service, he worked as a carpenter. He made me wood toys: trains, trucks, and marble runs. He was a good man but every couple years he went on a drinking binge and morphed from a likeable character into a verbally abusive man. Once when I was about seven, I heard him tell my Grandma Dee to “go piss up a rope.” The next day she caught me trying to pee
up
a rope that Grandpa had hanging in the garage. Naturally, she had asked why, so I told her. That rope disappeared and I never heard him use that expression again. Ten years later, he got plastered at the municipal liquor store, came home, fell down the basement stairs and broke his neck dieing instantly.

My other Grandparents, Sylvia and Gordy Sheehan, lived on the northwest edge of town where I’d spend most summer days and school vacations while my mom and Grandma Dee worked in their shop. Grandma Sylvia still worked out of her home as a seamstress, and Grandpa Sheehan worked for the County Highway Department. He taught me how to play poker and drive a car when I was twelve. I remember his one-liners like, “If God is watching us the least we can do is be entertaining,” and “Going to church doesn’t make you a Christian any more than standing in a garage makes you a car.” Grandpa Sheehan died of a massive heart attack, sitting in his recliner watching TV. I missed both men. Their sudden deaths took a toll on me as much as my little brother Hank’s death did.

Walking into the Gull Lake house
, smelling the food cooking, always made me feel like a kid again. The three women in my family had always doted on me, and it was carried over to my adulthood. Bullet trotted right up to Grandma Dee to receive his dog biscuit. She said, “Bullet, when is your dad going to get married and make me a great-grandma?”

I ignored all such comments.

“Oh, I’m so glad you could get away from that big case! How’s it going?” Mom crowed as she hugged me tightly.

“Just getting started.”

It obviously was some kind of special occasion because she was wearing lipstick and her dress-up hippie clothes: suede boots, long colorful skirt, and fringed calfskin suede jacket. Today she wore her hair down in soft curls, more gray creeping into the brown.

“Who’s minding the store?” I asked.

“Crystal, our new girl we hired last summer,” Grandma Dee said.

At fifty something, Crystal was hardly
a girl
. In my opinion, she was scary—like a gypsy medium with her big hair, heavy make-up, abundance of bangles and flowing garments.

As my two grandmothers moved in for hugs, I noticed a tall man dressed in khaki pants and a blue shirt, standing against the kitchen counter. At first, I thought this whole thing was about mom wanting me to meet a new boyfriend, but then I realized
who
he was—Patrick Sheehan—my adoptive father the man who abandoned us. I did the math . . .twenty-six years ago.

“You remember your dad?” my mom said. Her absurd question made me laugh.

I looked at the man with salt-and-pepper hair and a smile that didn’t match his sad eyes. Patrick apprehensively moved toward me, arms extended expecting a hug I couldn’t give. He withdrew his arms.

My shock was quickly replaced with anger. I turned to my mom. “You totally blindsided me. How could you not tell me Patrick was going to be here?”

Her mouth opened as if to speak but no words came out.

I glared at Patrick. “So, after twenty-six years, what the hell are you doing here?”

He looked like he was going to cry.

“He’s visiting your Grandma Sylvia,” Grandma Dee said, obviously trying to be helpful.

“It was time,” Patrick said.

I laughed. “For what? To make sure you get your inheritance?”

All three women gasped. Mom turned her back to me and placed her fingers to her temples.

Patrick said, “I told them you should have the choice whether I join you for dinner or not.”

“Yeah, well, they knew what I’d say. And personally, I can’t imagine why my mother would even let you in the door.”

After a few seconds of awkward silence he said, “I don’t blame you for your feelings, Cal, but I do want you to know I’ve loved you all these years.”

I had to laugh again at the ludicrous statement. “Fine way to show it, Patrick.”

Grandma Sylvia put her hands on her hips. “Oh, my gads, I thought you’d be happy to see your dad.”

“Whatever made you think so? He deserted us. Now, he’s standing here like he’s done nothing wrong, and you’re all cheery and weird.”

“He’s my son!” Grandma Sylvia shouted.

I glared at her. “When was the last time you’ve heard from him?”

She shuffled her feet. “We’ve been talking.”

“Really? Nice if someone would have let me in on it,” I said.

“I’m sorry, dear. I realize now we shouldn’t have surprised you.” Grandma Sylvia said.

“Ya think?” I said.

My mother turned around. Her face was crimson and tight. “Can we all agree that this is a difficult situation for
everyone
and just try to be civil and have a nice meal together?”

“You have got to be kidding me. No, if you want to have a nice chummy meal with Patrick, go right ahead,” I said and called for Bullet.

“No, no. I’ll go,” Patrick said, grabbing his jacket from the hook bar by the back door. He picked up a briefcase from the floor and said, “See you later, Mom.”

After Patrick left—came the silence. The women stood motionless until my mother went for the wine.

“What the hell did you all expect?” I asked.

“I asked Patrick to be here when I talked to you,” she said.

“About what?” I asked.

“There are some things you don’t know and I wanted you to hear the truth from both of us together,” she said.

“Yeah well, it’s all yours now.” If I were a cartoon, smoke would be coming out of my ears. It took everything I had not to put a fist through something.

Just then the doorbell rang. “Oh, that’s just George,” Grandma Dee said as she hustled to answer it.

“Just
George
?” I asked.

“George Dobowitz, her new boyfriend.”

What the fuck?
“Boyfriend?”

Grandma Dee walked back arm in arm with a man who could be her male twin—a slender, silver-haired man. They were about the same height and build, even wearing similar clothing—dark slacks and sweaters over white shirts. She introduced us. We shook hands. Firm grip.

“Wine?” she asked, as she poured several glasses of red. She handed me one.

“What’s this? Liquid courage?” I asked.

“I definitely need it,” my mother said picking up her glass and chugging it.

“What the heck is going on?” I asked.

Grandma Sylvia gestured with her hand to move. “Go talk! We’ll get the dinner on.”

When Mom and I made our way into the living room, I was shocked to see the beige walls had been painted dark red.

“Don’t you just
love
the new color?” mom asked.

“What’s not to love about the color of blood?” I asked.

“So warm, don’t you think? What about the new vertical blinds? And try out the new cream leather couch and matching chair. They are real comfy,” my mother said chirpily.

“Yeah, yeah—everything looks great. Now, quit stalling. Tell me what I
need
to know,” I said. I took a big gulp of wine and quickly realized it was a cheap vintage but not terrible. I sat in the new chair—surprisingly comfortable. Bullet, sensing something was going on, lay down at my feet.

Mom took another gulp of wine then sighed deeply before she began. “You know some of this. When your Aunt Grace finished her senior year of high school, she was just eighteen and six months pregnant with you, but what you may not know is that . . . Patrick . . . is your
biological
father.”

“Oh, Christ.”

“Why don’t I start at the beginning?”

“Why don’t you?” The anger began to seep into every fiber of my being. I took a big breath and counted backwards from ten, trying to transfer the rage to the cognitive centers of my brain. “That means your husband screwed your sister when she was underage.”

Mom bobbed her head back and forth a few times. “Well, yes. Can I just tell the story?”

“By story, I suppose you mean the long version?”

She ignored my comment. “Grace wasn’t really dating anyone at the time and wouldn’t tell us who your biological father was, so I had no idea it was Patrick and when he insisted Grace move in with us until she delivered, I thought he was the most
sensitive
and
supportive
husband in the world, taking in my little sister like that.” She took a quick breath and another sip of wine. “The plan was she’d put you up for adoption, but she couldn’t do it. She wanted to take care of you. When it was time for her to start classes at the State University, we moved you both into a small apartment in St. Cloud. About two weeks later, she called, sobbing. Patrick
insisted
we drive right down and talk to her. Grace was hysterical because she said she couldn’t be a good mother and a college student at the same time. When he suggested we adopt you and raise you as our own, Grace agreed, and I was delighted.”

“And why in hell did you wait until now to tell me all this?”

“Can I finish my story?”

“Go ahead.” I couldn’t imagine being any more pissed off, but hey, who knew.

“Around that time, Mom and I had opened our shop, and your dad was teaching biology at Prairie Falls High School and because he worked summers as a house painter, we paid Grace to be your nanny so she could earn money for college. Well, by then Hank came along, Grace graduated that spring and hadn’t found a job, so she continued to nanny for us during the day, but lived with my folks. One day when I was making supper, you told me that your daddy and auntie took naps together.”

“You got mad at me and stopped cooking my macaroni and cheese.”

“Oh, sweetheart, is that how you remember it? Of course, I wasn’t mad at you. Well anyway, when I called Grace and told her what you said, she told me everything—that Patrick was your father. When he walked in the door that night I immediately confronted him—he couldn’t even look at me. I told him to get out. He went over to my parents to try and talk to them about Grace, but by that time mom and I had already talked. Dad threatened Patrick with statutory rape . . . told him if he ever saw him near either of his girls or grandkids he would have him arrested, and if that didn’t work, he’d kill him. Next thing I knew, he resigned and moved to California. Dad never figured on Grace leaving with him.

“Anyway, Grace would call every so often and want to talk to you, but because it was upsetting, Dad put his foot down and told her not to call again.”

“So, grandpa disowned Grace.”

“Well, yes. Cal, there were so many times when I almost told you the truth. But at first, you were just too young to understand, then the longer I waited, the more awkward it became. I know it was wrong not to tell you,” she said.

“Ya think?”

As Mom started to cry, she wiped her tears with her sleeve. The only times I’ve witnessed her crying was the first day of kindergarten, when Hank and my Grandpas died, and right then.

“Grace died a short time ago from cancer. She left you an inheritance.”

“I don’t fuckin’ want it,” I said.

“Don’t be so hasty. It’s quite a sum.”

“They never contacted me in all those years. Screw it. I don’t want their money.”

She put her fingers to her mouth. “Well, that’s not exactly correct.”

“What do you mean?”

“They sent you letters,” she said.

My mouth dropped open.

“I saved them all for you,” she said.

“Why would you hold back letters?”

“Because I was afraid they’d entice you with Disneyland and you’d want to go live with them and the court would agree—There, I said it. I was afraid of losing you, too.” By this time she was sobbing.

I didn’t react for a while—maybe as long as a minute or two.

“I’m absolutely stunned to find out you’re not who I thought you were.”

“I’m so sorry. Can you ever forgive me?”