The Tolling of Mercedes Bell: A Novel (50 page)

“Did you lose your diamond ring?”

He examined his hands, squinted, and frowned. “What diamond ring?”

“The fat one you just bought yourself the other day.”

He didn’t know what she was talking about.

“Never mind,” she said and laughed to herself.
What were a few thousand more dollars of someone else’s money?

He sat down at the dining room table. She knew what he was doing. Instead of cooking dinner, though, she had other plans. She poured them each a glass of water and sat down. He stared at the glass and then at her.

“Expecting dinner?” she asked.

He nodded. “You always cook it.”

“Well, there are going to be a few changes around here. You’d best hire yourself a new cook. This one is quitting.” She took a long drink.

“What?”

“You heard me. No more cooking. And you’d better find another housekeeper, too. I’ve resigned that job as well.” She waved her arm at the living room, covered with the papers, clothes and clutter that follow in the wake of a demented mind.

His eyes followed her gestures, and he glowered.

“You’re going to face the future without me. I know you had a different plan in mind, but things don’t always work out the way we plan, do they? Sometimes life gives us surprises. Just like when we met. That was a surprise for both of us—one that you tried to make the most of, didn’t you?”

He stared at her in disbelief.

“You were so sure I’d stay that you confessed everything to me last night. You thought I’d stick around no matter what. That took some nerve, I’ll give you that. But I do have one question.”

“What?”

“Just
how
stupid do you think I am?”

“You don’t understand.” He was beginning to get worried. First no dinner, and now she was mad.

“Oh, I think I do. I understand plenty. I don’t want any part of your lying and stealing from Janine, your cheating on taxes, and whatever you’ve been doing to your clients. I don’t want another cent of your filthy money. It’s over.”

She had not raised her voice, but the intensity of her glare was frightful. He’d never seen her like this. She got up from the table, feeling lighter still, and went into the kitchen to make herself a sandwich. While in there, she opened the cabinets to determine what needed to be packed. When Jack got up to leave the table, she ignored him.

T
HE NEXT MORNING HE WAS
already up when she got out of the shower. By the time she was ready to leave for work, he’d shaved and dressed and was reading the newspaper. She wondered how much he remembered from the night before.

She sat down across from him just long enough to fasten the buckles on her sling-back heels.

“You know,” she began, “of all the people you could have picked to marry, it’s pretty ironic you picked me.”

“How so?”

“You could have told me everything and I would have understood. I would have helped you. You could have admitted you owed Janine money and I would have helped you pay it back. You could have admitted you were behind on your property taxes, and I would have stood by you while you made amends. Of all the people you could have chosen, you chose someone you could have leveled with. If you’d just been honest, Jack, I could have loved you until the end and helped you make things right.”

He listened with mild concern.

“You could have told me you were bisexual and HIV positive, and I would have loved you anyway. I might not have married you, but I would have helped you when you got sick, which is really why you married me anyway. But you miscalculated. I’m leaving you and filing for divorce.”

“Aren’t you forgetting a few things?” he asked.

“No, I don’t think so. It’s all pretty clear.”

“You’ll be getting sick and you won’t have any disability insurance. You won’t be able to get it once you test positive, and you won’t have the means to get help at home.”

“That’s not your concern anymore. I have insurance at work—or did you forget that I support myself?”

“I’ll be getting ten thousand dollars a month, tax-free. I can take care of you if you stay.”

“Oh, like you’ve been taking care of me these past two months?”

“You know what I mean—financially. If you leave, I’ll cut you both out of my estate plan.”

“This isn’t about money, Jack. Don’t you get it? You’ve knowingly exposed me to HIV for several years now. You planned for Germaine to be an orphan without batting an eye. You’ve been stealing from Janine even longer, although she’s both your client and the closest thing you have to a mother. Yet apparently you don’t see anything wrong with what you’ve done.”

He was quiet.

“Those are grounds for disbarment, civil and criminal prosecution, and imprisonment. No amount of money is going to make any of it palatable to me. You’ll be lucky if I don’t sue you myself. I’m not afraid of you. You’re pathetic. There’s nothing you can get from me any longer because it’s over.”

Without hesitation he said, “We’ll see how pathetic you think I am when you’re sick and you can’t work and you’re broke. You’ll be begging for help.”

“You’ll be dead, and I’ll have a clean conscience. What could be better?”

With that, she got up and walked out.

A
chill wind rattled leaves from the aged sycamores, sending them down on Mercedes and Germaine in a fluttering shower of bronze and gold. They worked ankle-deep in the crunchy drifts that had fallen since they last raked the yard. Six full leaf bags sat near the back gate. Germaine was cheerfully chattering away about the upcoming holiday break from school and the pending visit of her grandparents. She held the bag’s mouth open for her mother, who scooped great piles into it. Their cheeks were red from the cold and their exertions.

Mercedes grinned at Germaine, whose speech was altered ever so slightly by her mouthful of silver braces. Seeing her so excited cheered Mercedes, even if it meant spending a few days under Eleanor’s microscope. Eleanor
was
the only mother she had, and this might be their last healthy Christmas together, so she’d invited her parents to share it with them. Awareness of her mortality had softened her. Eleanor had taught her many things about being the queen of her own realm, and those had served her well these past few months.

Germaine cinched the top of the black plastic bag and applied a twist tie. She hauled the big bag over to the others. Storm clouds were gathering, and they hoped to clear the yard before the rains began. Mercedes wiped her calloused hands against her fleece jacket and renewed her efforts with the rake. She remembered the previous Christmas with Janine, watching Jack dote over the old lady when all the while he was stealing from her. A shiver went up her spine. She wondered how Janine was and who was looking after her, but let the thought go with the strong breeze that was scattering the final pile of leaves.

Germaine returned with a broom and began sweeping piles of pine needles and debris from the patio. She loved the fragrances of fall nearly as much as those of spring. Since they’d moved into the new house, she had many more chores to do, but she didn’t mind. They worked in harmony, and the time passed quickly. Home was peaceful again, despite Jack’s calls and the long rambling messages he left on the answering machine.

She hated how he upset her mother, although Mercedes tried to conceal it. Germaine could see the strain wearing on her, but it did nothing to undermine her mother’s resolve. She looked at her mom working across the yard, her long braid moving this way and that, her eyes dark with private sorrows she did not share.

The pale sun slipped behind thick gray clouds and the temperature continued its steady decline. Just as the last bag was filled, the rain began, dotting the concrete patio with black circles. Mercedes piled dry firewood near the back door, then pulled the tarp over the wood pile. No sooner were they inside than the heavens opened up and let loose a steady, driving rain that pounded against the skylight in the kitchen.

“I call that perfect timing,” announced Mercedes. The house smelled of the smoked ham shank flavoring the split pea soup in the
Crock Pot, and of bread rising in a bowl on top of the stove. Germaine’s stomach growled. Mercedes cooked a lot of food on the weekends to carry them through the workweek, and Saturdays were notoriously mouthwatering.

The rain intensified, soaking the ground and washing down the empty patio. The red light of the answering machine blinked sleepily. They stared at each other, knowing it was probably another message from Jack. Since they’d left, he called often, usually under some pretext related to the divorce proceedings, the division of property, or an imagined wrong. The messages ranged from whiny and petulant to threatening and angry. They were a source of misery for Mercedes and anger for Germaine. Anyone who hurt her mother was her sworn enemy, especially someone who had pretended to be so nice when, in hindsight, he so obviously was not.

Mercedes’s arms were full of firewood, so she stepped carefully past the answering machine into the living room and gently laid the wood on the hearth, brushing the splinters off her jacket. She pulled aside the screen and laid a fire for later that evening, wadding up newspaper and nestling kindling and small logs on top. As soon as the newspaper noise subsided, Germaine punched the playback button and waited with her arms crossed in front of her, glaring at the machine.

“Bella,” Jack began in a whine, “please call me when you get this. I really
need
to talk to you”—Germaine sniffed her disapproval—“about visitation rights with Germaine. I’ve been talking to Caroline and there must be some mistake. I’m willing to stipulate to your terms, but not unless I get my own time with Germaine. I’ll be home all afternoon, then I’m going
out,”
he stressed, as if to inform her that a retinue awaited him.

“Mom!” Germaine protested.

“I know, I heard. You have nothing to worry about, Sweetness.”

“Why does he think he can see me?”

“God only knows.”

“Eeeuuuw! He makes me so mad! Who does he think he is?”

“Someone he isn’t. Now, young miss, how about finishing up the chores before dinner? As I recall, you’re losing at Scrabble, so if you want to regain your former glory, I suggest you get on with the housework.”

There was no reply. Instead, Mercedes heard the touch-tone keys of the telephone clicking as a call was being placed.

“Jack, it’s Germaine. My mom and I just got your message. I am
not
going to spend time with you
ever.
You’re not the boss of me and you have no right to me! You’re not my dad, okay? You can’t make me come see you! Even if my mom were okay with it, WHICH SHE’S NOT, I REFUSE!! So stop calling here and stop bugging us! If you call here again, I’m calling the police
and
Caroline. Good-bye!” She slammed down the receiver and put her hands firmly on her hips. Her eyes were fierce with anger.

Seeing her mother standing in the doorway to the kitchen, Germaine shook her head and proclaimed, “He just makes me so mad. I’m sick of him!”

“So I noticed.”

T
HE NEXT DAY THEY CAME
home from the store to find Jack sitting on the step by the front door. He was growing a beard, which was white and gray. He reminded Mercedes of Ichabod Crane with his gauntness, rounding shoulders, and sunken eyes. His hand trembled as he stroked his whiskers. She parked their Jeep, which she’d bought after selling the engagement ring.

“Wait here,” she instructed Germaine. “I’ll deal with this.”

Germaine stared in horror at Jack, whom she had not seen since
going to camp. He looked like one of the homeless men in San Francisco, but with clean clothes. His eyes had a wild expression that she could never have imagined on her stepfather. It scared her to think that someone could change so much.

“Hi, Jack,” Mercedes said as she strode toward her front door.

“Bella,” he stood up on uncertain feet, holding onto one of the posts that supported the portico. He took a step toward her. “I think there’s some misunderstanding.” She took a step back.