The Servants of Twilight (10 page)
“Two can handle it. They’re well trained. However, this can all get pretty expensive. If—”
“I can afford it,” she said.
“My secretary can give you a fee sheet—”
“Whatever’s needed. I can pay.”
“What about your husband?”
“What about him?”
“Well, what’s he think about all this?”
“I don’t have a husband.”
“Oh. I’m sorry if—”
“No need for sympathy. I’m not a widow, and I wasn’t divorced, either.” Here was the forthrightness he had seen in her; this refusal to be evasive was refreshing. “I’ve never been married.”
“Ah,” he said.
Although Charlie was sure his voice contained not the slightest note of disapproval, Christine stiffened as if he had insulted her. With a sudden, irrational, quiet yet steel-hard anger that startled him, she said, “What’re you trying to tell me? That you’ve got to approve of your client’s morality before you accept a case?”
He gaped at her, astonished and confused by her abrupt change of attitude. “Well of course not! I only—”
“Because I’m not about to sit here like a criminal on trial—”
“Wait, wait, wait. What’s wrong? Huh? What’d I say? Good heavens, why should I care if you’ve been married or not?”
“Fine. Glad you feel that way. Now, how are you going to track down that old woman?”
Anger, like a smouldering fire, remained in her eyes and voice.
Charlie couldn’t understand why she was so sensitive and defensive about her son’s lack of a legal father. It was unfortunate, yes, and she probably wished the situation were otherwise. But it really wasn’t a terrible social stigma these days. She acted as if she were living in the 1940s instead of the ’80s.
“I really mean it,” he said. “I don’t care.”
“Terrific. Congratulations on your open-mindedness. If it was up to me, you’d get a Nobel Prize for humanitarianism. Now can we drop the subject?”
What the hell is
wrong
with her? he wondered. He was
glad
there was no husband. Couldn’t she sense his interest in her? Couldn’t she see through his tissue-thin professional demeanor? Couldn’t she see how she got to him? Most women had a sixth sense for that sort of thing.
wrong
with her? he wondered. He was
glad
there was no husband. Couldn’t she sense his interest in her? Couldn’t she see through his tissue-thin professional demeanor? Couldn’t she see how she got to him? Most women had a sixth sense for that sort of thing.
He said, “If I rub you the wrong way or something, I can turn this case over to one of my junior men—”
“No, I—”
“They’re all quite reliable, capable. But I assure you I didn’t mean to disparage or ridicule you—or whatever the heck you think I did. I’m not like that cop this morning, the one who chewed you out about using four-letter words.”
“Officer Wilford.”
“I’m not like Wilford. I’m easy. Okay? Truce?”
She hesitated, then nodded. The stiffness left her. The anger faded and was replaced by embarrassment.
She said, “Sorry I snapped at you, Mr. Harrison—”
“Call me Charlie. And you can snap at me anytime.” He smiled. “But we have to talk about Joey’s father because maybe he’s connected with this.”
“With the old woman?”
“Maybe.”
“Oh, I doubt it.”
“Maybe he wants custody of his son.”
“Then why not just come and ask?”
Charlie shrugged. “People don’t always approach a problem from a logical point of view.”
She shook her head. “No. It’s not Joey’s . . . father. As far as I know, he isn’t even aware that Joey exists. Besides, that old woman was saying Joey had to
die
.”
die
.”
“I still think we have to consider the possibility and talk about his father, even if that’s painful for you. We can’t leave any possibility unexplored.”
She nodded. “It’s just that . . . when I got pregnant with Joey, it nearly destroyed Evelyn . . . my mother. She had expected so much of me . . . She made me feel terribly guilty, made me wallow in guilt.” She sighed. “I guess, because of the way my mother treated me, I’m still overly sensitive about Joey’s . . . illegitimacy.”
“I understand.”
“No. You don’t. You can’t.”
He waited and listened. He was a good and patient listener. It was part of his job.
She said, “Evelyn . . . Mother . . . doesn’t like Joey much. Won’t have much to do with him. She blames
him
for his illegitimacy. She sometimes even treats him as if . . . as if he’s wicked or evil or something. It’s wrong, it’s sick, it doesn’t make sense, but it’s so much like Mother to blame
him
because
my
life didn’t turn out exactly the way she planned it for me.”
him
for his illegitimacy. She sometimes even treats him as if . . . as if he’s wicked or evil or something. It’s wrong, it’s sick, it doesn’t make sense, but it’s so much like Mother to blame
him
because
my
life didn’t turn out exactly the way she planned it for me.”
“If she actively dislikes Joey, is it possible that your mother might be behind this thing with the old woman?” he asked.
That thought clearly startled her. But she shook her head. “No. Surely not. It isn’t Evelyn’s style. She’s direct. She tells you what she thinks, even if she knows she’s going to hurt you, even if she knows every word she speaks is going to be like a nail going into you. She wouldn’t be asking her friends to harass my boy. That’s ludicrous.”
“She might not be involved directly. But maybe she’s talked about you and Joey to other people, and maybe this old woman at the mall was one of those people. Maybe your mother said intemperate things about the boy, not realizing this old woman was unbalanced, not realizing the old woman would take what your mother said the wrong way, take it too literally and actually act upon it.”
Scowling, Christine said, “Maybe . . .”
“I know it’s far-fetched, but it
is
possible.”
is
possible.”
“Okay. Yeah. I suppose so.”
“So tell me about your mother.”
“I assure you, she couldn’t be involved with this.”
“Tell me anyway,” he coaxed.
She sighed and said, “She’s a dragon lady, my mother. You can’t understand, and I can’t really make you understand, because you had to live with her to know what she’s like. She kept me under her thumb . . . intimidated . . . browbeaten . . . all those years . . .”
. . . all those years.
Her mind drifted back, against her will, and she became aware of a pressure on her chest and began to have some difficulty drawing her breath, for the predominant feeling associated with her childhood was one of suffocation.
She saw the rambling Victorian house in Pomona that had been passed from her Grandma Giavetti to Evelyn, where they had lived from the time Christine was a year old, where Evelyn still lived, and the memory of it was an unwelcome weight. Although she knew it to be a white house with pale yellow trim and awnings, with charming gingerbread ornamentation and many windows to admit the sun, in her mind’s eye she always saw it crouched in shadows, with Halloween-bare trees crowding close to it, beneath a threatening gray-black sky. She could hear the grandfather clock ticking monotonously in the parlor, an ever-present sound that in those days had seemed always to be mocking her with its constant reminder that the misery of her childhood stretched almost to eternity and would be counted out in millions and millions of leaden seconds. She could see again, in every room, heavy overstuffed pieces of furniture pressed too close to one another, and she supposed that her memory made the ticking clock louder and more maddeningly intrusive than it had actually been, and that in reality the furniture hadn’t been quite so large and clunky and ugly and dark as it was in recollection.
Her father, Vincent Scavello, had found that house, that life, as oppressive as it was in Christine’s memory, and he had left them when she was four and her brother, Tony, was eleven. He never came back, and she never saw him again. He was a weak man with an inferiority complex, and Evelyn made him feel even more inadequate because she set such high standards for everyone. Nothing he did could satisfy her. Nothing
anyone
did—especially not Christine or Tony—was half as good as Evelyn expected of them. Because he couldn’t measure up to her expectations, Vincent developed a drinking problem, and that only made her nag him more, and finally he just left. Two years later, he was dead. In a way he committed suicide, though not with a gun—nothing so dramatic as that; it was just a case of drunken driving; he ran head-on into a bridge abutment at seventy miles an hour.
anyone
did—especially not Christine or Tony—was half as good as Evelyn expected of them. Because he couldn’t measure up to her expectations, Vincent developed a drinking problem, and that only made her nag him more, and finally he just left. Two years later, he was dead. In a way he committed suicide, though not with a gun—nothing so dramatic as that; it was just a case of drunken driving; he ran head-on into a bridge abutment at seventy miles an hour.
Evelyn went to work the day after Vincent walked out, not only supported her family but did a good job of it, living up to her own high standards. That made things even worse for Christine and Tony. “You’ve got to be the best at what you do, and if you aren’t the best there’s no use doing it at all,” Evelyn said—at least a thousand times.
Christine had one especially clear memory of an entire, tense evening spent at the kitchen table, after Tony brought home a report card with a D in math, a failure that, in Evelyn’s eyes, was in no way mitigated by the fact that he had received an A in every other subject. This would have been bad enough, but that same day he had been mildly reprimanded by the school principal for smoking in the boys’ washroom. It was the first time he tried a cigarette, and he didn’t like it and didn’t intend to smoke again; it was just an experiment, hardly unusual for a fourteen-year-old boy, but Evelyn was furious. That night the lecture had gone on for almost three hours, with Evelyn alternately pacing, sitting at the table with her head in her hands, shouting, weeping, pleading, pounding the table. “You’re a Giavetti, Tony, more of a Giavetti than a Scavello. You might carry your father’s name, but by God, there’s more of
my
blood in you; there must be. I couldn’t bear to think half your blood is poor weak Vincent’s, because if that was true, God knows what would become of you. I won’t have it! I won’t! I work my fingers to the bone to give you every chance, every opportunity, and I won’t have you spitting in my face, which is what this is, goofing off in school, goofing off in math class—it’s just the same as spitting in my face!” The anger gave way to tears, and she got up from the table, pulled a handful of Kleenex from the box on the kitchen counter, noisily blew her nose. “What good does it do for me to worry about you, to care what happens to you?
You
don’t care. There’s that few drops of your father’s blood in you, that loafer’s blood, and it only takes a few drops to contaminate you. Like a disease. Scavello Disease. But you’re also a Giavetti, and Giavettis always work harder and study harder, which is only right, only fitting, because God didn’t intend for us to loaf and drink our lives away, like some I could mention. You’ve got to get As in school, and even if you don’t like math, you’ve got to just work harder until you’re perfect in it, because you
need
math in this world, and your father, God pity him, was lousy with figures, and I won’t have you being like poor weak Vincent; that scares me. I don’t want my son being a bum, and I’m afraid I see a bum in you, just like your father, weakness in you. Now, you’re also a
Giavetti
, and don’t you forget it. Giavettis always do their best, and their best is always as good as
anyone
could do, and don’t you tell me that you’re already spending most of your time studying, and don’t tell me about your weekend job at the grocery store. Work is good for you. I got you that job because you show me a teenage boy who
doesn’t
have a part-time job and I’ll show you a future bum. Why, even with your job and your studying and the things you do around here, you should still have plenty of free time, too much, way too much. You should maybe even be working a night or two during the week at the market. There’s
always
more time if you want to find it; God made the whole world in six days, and don’t tell me you aren’t God because if you listened to your catechism lessons you’d know you were made in His image, and remember you’re a Giavetti, which means you were made in His image just a little more than some other people I could name, like Vincent Scavello, but I won’t. Look at
me
! I work all day, but I cook good meals for you, too, and with Christine I keep this big house immaculate, absolutely immaculate, God as my witness, and though I may be tired sometimes and feel like I just can’t go on, I
do
go on, for you, for
you
I go on, and your clothes are always nicely pressed—Aren’t they?—and your socks are always mended—Tell me
once
you ever had to wear a sock with a hole in it!—so if I do all this and not drop dead and not even
complain
, then you can be the kind of son to make me proud, and by God you’re
going
to be! And as for
you
, Christine . . .”
my
blood in you; there must be. I couldn’t bear to think half your blood is poor weak Vincent’s, because if that was true, God knows what would become of you. I won’t have it! I won’t! I work my fingers to the bone to give you every chance, every opportunity, and I won’t have you spitting in my face, which is what this is, goofing off in school, goofing off in math class—it’s just the same as spitting in my face!” The anger gave way to tears, and she got up from the table, pulled a handful of Kleenex from the box on the kitchen counter, noisily blew her nose. “What good does it do for me to worry about you, to care what happens to you?
You
don’t care. There’s that few drops of your father’s blood in you, that loafer’s blood, and it only takes a few drops to contaminate you. Like a disease. Scavello Disease. But you’re also a Giavetti, and Giavettis always work harder and study harder, which is only right, only fitting, because God didn’t intend for us to loaf and drink our lives away, like some I could mention. You’ve got to get As in school, and even if you don’t like math, you’ve got to just work harder until you’re perfect in it, because you
need
math in this world, and your father, God pity him, was lousy with figures, and I won’t have you being like poor weak Vincent; that scares me. I don’t want my son being a bum, and I’m afraid I see a bum in you, just like your father, weakness in you. Now, you’re also a
Giavetti
, and don’t you forget it. Giavettis always do their best, and their best is always as good as
anyone
could do, and don’t you tell me that you’re already spending most of your time studying, and don’t tell me about your weekend job at the grocery store. Work is good for you. I got you that job because you show me a teenage boy who
doesn’t
have a part-time job and I’ll show you a future bum. Why, even with your job and your studying and the things you do around here, you should still have plenty of free time, too much, way too much. You should maybe even be working a night or two during the week at the market. There’s
always
more time if you want to find it; God made the whole world in six days, and don’t tell me you aren’t God because if you listened to your catechism lessons you’d know you were made in His image, and remember you’re a Giavetti, which means you were made in His image just a little more than some other people I could name, like Vincent Scavello, but I won’t. Look at
me
! I work all day, but I cook good meals for you, too, and with Christine I keep this big house immaculate, absolutely immaculate, God as my witness, and though I may be tired sometimes and feel like I just can’t go on, I
do
go on, for you, for
you
I go on, and your clothes are always nicely pressed—Aren’t they?—and your socks are always mended—Tell me
once
you ever had to wear a sock with a hole in it!—so if I do all this and not drop dead and not even
complain
, then you can be the kind of son to make me proud, and by God you’re
going
to be! And as for
you
, Christine . . .”
Evelyn never ceased lecturing them. Always, every day, holidays, birthdays—there was no day free of her lectures. Christine and Tony sat captive, not daring to answer back because that brought the most withering scorn and the worst punishment—and encouraged even
more
lecturing. She pushed them relentlessly, demanded the greatest possible accomplishments in everything they did, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; it might even have been good for them. However, when they
did
achieve the best grade possible, win the highest award being given, move up to the first seats in their sections of the school orchestra, when they did all that and more, much more, it never satisfied their mother. The best wasn’t good enough for Evelyn. When they achieved the best, reached the pinnacle, she chastised them for not having gotten there sooner, set new goals for them, and suggested they were trying her patience and running out of time in which to make her proud of them.
more
lecturing. She pushed them relentlessly, demanded the greatest possible accomplishments in everything they did, which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing; it might even have been good for them. However, when they
did
achieve the best grade possible, win the highest award being given, move up to the first seats in their sections of the school orchestra, when they did all that and more, much more, it never satisfied their mother. The best wasn’t good enough for Evelyn. When they achieved the best, reached the pinnacle, she chastised them for not having gotten there sooner, set new goals for them, and suggested they were trying her patience and running out of time in which to make her proud of them.
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