The Virgin of Small Plains (35 page)

Chapter Thirty

Mitch spent the day distracting himself in every way he could think of to take his mind off Abby. He finished cleaning the ranch house and drove to another town to do more shopping that would make it possible to stay awhile. He spent the hours planning what he was going to do next, and considering the consequences of those plans. He drove into Small Plains only once, toward the close of the business day, to conduct some business of his own, parking on backstreets, wearing his baseball cap, lying low, avoiding eye contact on the streets.

Everywhere he went, people were sweeping up after the storm.

Storm…

He heard the word in his brain, and felt a wry, unhappy laugh rising inside of him at the sound of it. He’d been inside of a storm, all right. He’d been swept up in a tornado of sex and memory, naked regret and short-lived ecstasy. Now he felt tossed out of it onto the hard, prickly ground. He felt bruised and used. It was, he decided, as the rueful, bitter feelings rose higher, an altogether appropriate way to feel as he worked up to the moment when he would walk back into his parents’ home for the first time in seventeen years.

And then he thought, as he had many times over the preceding years, “Nobody loves a martyr. You lost. Get over it.” And
then
he thought, with a certain hard, delicious energy that wiped out everything else, “Get even.”

It felt like history repeating itself.

Early that evening, as twilight turned the prairie lavender, Mitch used his old keys to let himself into the big house at the top of the long driveway. He stepped inside, without knocking or ringing the bell, because…
the hell with it, I’m his son, I won’t fucking knock first.
Then, just like the last time, he closed the front door behind him and before he could take another step, there was the judge emerging from his office.

“Hello, Dad.”

“My God! Mitch!”

His father looked him up and down, while Mitch stared back. He had expected to feel shocked at how his father had shrunk over time, but now he found it had not happened. The old man was still taller than he was. The hair was thinner, but not much, and still more brown than gray. His father had the same ramrod-straight posture that had always intimidated some defense attorneys in his courtroom. Reading glasses were perched halfway down his nose, as he stared over the tops of them. Mitch realized he had been picturing his father as aged, as if he were ninety-three, instead of merely sixty-seven, which was relatively young as such things went these days.

It wasn’t true that Mitch had never seen his parents since he left. They had come to his college graduation. But they had not attended his wedding, because Mitch had not invited them. They had not seen his son, their only grandchild, though Mitch’s former wife had softened and sneaked some photos to them. He’d been furious at her for doing that, but then she had never really understood the depth of his feelings of betrayal and abandonment. Mitch had always had the feeling that she’d secretly believed he must have done something to deserve it, that there must be another side to the story, because he wasn’t always easy for her to live with, and because surely no parents would ever treat their son like that. But then, as Mitch had reminded her more than once, she had never met his parents. If she had, she might have understood how rigid and unforgiving they could be. Although—what was there for them to forgive? That was the question that Mitch always came back to, the point he kept trying to make to his wife—that he hadn’t done anything wrong and yet they had behaved as if he had committed some kind of awful crime, as if they were ashamed of him, as if they were doing him a favor by spiriting him away from everything he knew and loved. They had never visited any of the places he had lived in Kansas City. He wasn’t sure his father knew what he did for a living. There had come a point at which they had all stopped trying.

After his wife sent the photos of their grandchild, there was no response.

That, at last, had convinced her that maybe he was telling the truth.

“I’m here,” Mitch said evenly. “You may as well invite me in.”

The judge shook his head, as if chasing away cobwebs.

“
Why
are you here?”

“I came to see Mother’s grave.”

“A little late, aren’t you?”

Mitch felt his face twitch with anger before he could control it.

“There’s coffee,” his father said, abruptly. He turned his back and led the way into the kitchen as if expecting Mitch to follow after him.

After a moment of inner debate in which he seriously considered stalking out and slamming the door, Mitch took a step forward and then kept going into the kitchen.

“House looks mostly the same,” Mitch observed, over a cup of the atrocious instant coffee that his father still seemed to prefer. “So do you.”

“Yes. It was your mother who changed.”

Mitch’s hackles started to rise, he started to snap out something argumentative, but then he realized his father had said it in a neutral tone and that he was only talking about her illness. If the old man so much as hinted it was Mitch’s fault, that she had got sick because of him, Mitch was going to tell him to go to hell. But so far, everything was diplomatic, safe. Instead of cursing his father, Mitch reached for a sugar bowl in a futile attempt to improve the coffee. When he had left home, he wasn’t a coffee drinker. Now he was. Now he was many things that were different from the way he’d been before. Being a coffee addict was probably one of the more benign of them, he thought.

“Was it Alzheimer’s, for sure?”

“Don’t know. I wouldn’t let them do an autopsy on her.”

Mitch didn’t know much about the disease, but he did know that it took a brain dissection to find the telltale plaques that screamed “Alzheimer’s!”

“Why not?”

“What would be the point?”

“I guess.” Mitch stirred his coffee. Seated across from him at the kitchen table, his dad wiped an invisible spill with a napkin. “Was it hard? Her illness?”

“What do you think? It wasn’t easy.”

“How bad did she get in the end?”

“Some days she knew me, some days she didn’t.”

“What was it like for her?”

His father frowned slightly, as if Mitch had thrown him a curve, a question whose answer he had not previously considered. “How would
I
know?”

Mitch supposed it was a fair answer. But he thought there were other ways his father might have answered it. He could have said she didn’t suffer. He could have said she suffered all the time. He could have found a million different ways to describe the daily life of a sharp-witted woman who was losing her mind. But Mitch noted, like a doctor picking up clues to a diagnosis, that his father’s first answer to the question, “How bad did she get in the end?” had been purely solipsistic. It was all about him, not about her. As would his mother’s answer have been, Mitch thought, if their roles had been reversed. Two more self-absorbed people he did not think he had ever met. He suspected they had been perfect for each other, existing in one intimate world on parallel tracks.

“She lived in hallucinations and the past,” his father said, in the same neutral tone, “but at least she always knew who Jeff was.”

For a second, Mitch didn’t know who he was talking about. Then he remembered, with a start of rueful realization that left him feeling stupid and foolish and even jealous: his brother, the adopted son who had come to take his place in the strange scheme of things in his so-called family. They had brought four-year-old Jeff to Mitch’s graduation. His own son had an uncle, Mitch thought, whom he might never meet. For a moment, it rushed over him that an entire family life that he didn’t know anything about had unfolded in this kitchen in his absence.

“I’d like to see him,” he said, though he wasn’t sure that was true.

For the first time, his father looked unsure, too. “He’s not here right now.”

“Okay. Some other time. Can he drive?”

“He’s seventeen.”

“That’s a yes?” Mitch regretted his sarcasm the minute it appeared. He wanted information, and getting the old man’s back up too far wasn’t going to accomplish that aim. “The reason I asked is, I thought he might drive out to see me if he wants to. I’m staying at the ranch, Dad.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I let myself into the ranch house and I’m staying there.”

His father’s eyes narrowed as he took this in. “You might have asked permission first.”

“I might have, yes, but I didn’t, and now I’m there.”

“For how long?”

Mitch bit back the bitter retort on the tip of his tongue. “As long as it takes to straighten some things out, Dad.”

His father reared back in his seat, instantly getting the point. “You leave it alone.”

“Leave what alone?” Mitch asked with a softness that only barely hid the venom beneath it, and with every subsequent sentence he spoke, his voice rose and the poison leaked out. “Leave her name off her grave? Leave people thinking nobody around here has any idea what happened to her or who she was? Leave people wondering why the hell I left like that and never came back until now? Is that what you think I should leave alone, Dad?”

His fury didn’t move his father, who was accustomed to passion—both real and phony—in the courtroom. “You’ve intelligently left it alone for all these years.”

“So why mess with success?” Mitch’s laugh was bitter.

“That’s one way to put it, yes.”

“Jesus, you’re a cold bastard!”

“And you’re an ungrateful son,” his father shot back at him.

“Ungrateful?” Mitch stared at him.

“I protected you!” his father roared, suddenly as furious and animated as his son.

“You never believed me!”

“Don’t you get it, son? All these years and you still don’t understand it?”

“What? What don’t I understand?”

“Of course I believed you! Your mother and I both believed you. She did to the day she stopped remembering anything, and I still do. My God, of course I do. But
that doesn’t make any difference,
because nobody else will believe you. It was a teenager’s word against two of the most respected men in this state and it still is.
It still is,
Mitch.”

“You’ve never heard of lie detector tests?”

“Inadmissible in court,” his father said, with a dismissive wave of one hand. “Good God, Mitch, you’re a lawyer, you know that. And just what other evidence do you think you would have anyway? If Quentin and Nathan did what you said they did, there is no way in hell you will ever prove it. Nathan was the sheriff! Do you think he hung on to evidence? Quentin was the doctor, do you think
he
did? And even if you had evidence that they covered up her identity, what would you have then? No evidence about how she died or who killed her. You don’t have
anything
except your own wounded ego, Mitchell, and it is seventeen years past the time for you to force yourself to get over that, because there is absolutely nothing that you, or even I, can do to change things.”

Mitch stared at him and for a long time his father stared back at him.