Liar

“That was an afterthought if I’ve ever heard one.”

He laughed. “No, really. Jack’s talking about taking everyone to Catalina in a couple of weeks. You should come with us. I have the feeling your day wasn’t so relaxing.”

I shrugged.

“Tell me what happened.”

I did, but didn’t want to trouble him or bring down his mood, so I put the best face on it I could. He caught me at it. As we pulled into the driveway he said angrily, “You don’t have to treat me like I’m going to break into pieces, you know. It’s goddamned insulting. I’m tired of it. Bad enough to get it from the guys at work. Tiptoeing around me like I’m-like I’m a basket case or something.”

“Sorry,” I said. I tried to think of something else to say and only managed another lousy, “Sorry.”

He kept going on about it for another ten minutes or so, long enough for me to stop feeling apologetic. Maybe I would have kept my cool if I hadn’t spent the last two or three days looking at the ends of fingers pointed in my direction. I did manage to stay silent. At some point it must have dawned on him that I wasn’t participating in the conversation, though, because he broke off and asked, “Do you understand what I’m saying?”

“You’re treated like a leper at work and coddled at home. You want it to stop. I can’t do anything about what happens to you at work, but it will be a damned pleasure to stop coddling you. Will a bell ring at the end of this lecture period, or will you dismiss class in some other way?”

He didn’t answer, just swore under his breath and got out of the car. I sat there staring at the glove compartment as he opened the trunk, got the boxes out, and took them into the house, greeting the dogs as they ran outside. He came back out, walked over to my side of the car and lifted his hand, as if he were going to tap on the window. He hesitated, put his hand in his pocket and stood there. I went back to staring straight ahead, even when the dogs jumped up against the passenger door. I heard Frank tell them to get down, and they ran off to wrestle with one another in the front yard.

After a minute, Frank tapped his knuckles against the glass. I rolled the window down. He leaned over, so that his face was level with mine.

“Come inside,” he said.

I didn’t answer.

“Please.”

“For most of the weekend,” I said, “I’ve been doing whatever someone else wanted me to do. The results have not been great. Childish though it undoubtedly is, right now I just want to have a really terrific pout.”

He moved a short distance away, but didn’t go inside the house. He played with the dogs until they lay panting in the grass. Then he came over to the car again, but stood a few feet away. He squatted down, resting his elbows on his thighs. He plucked a piece of grass from the lawn, fiddled with it.

“Cassidy said something strange to me today,” he said.

“No kidding.”

He ignored that and said, “Yeah. He asked me if you and I had been fighting lately.”

I looked over at him.

“I told him, no, we hadn’t. He said he was sorry to hear that.”

“What did he mean by… oh,” I said.

“Right. All this peace and harmony-not exactly natural for us, is it?”

“No.”

“Not one fight. Not once since… not since the morning I was taken hostage.”

I opened the car door, rolled up the window and stepped out. He stood up and I moved closer to him.

“Put up your dukes,” I said, and he pulled me into an embrace.

We stood there together for a while, then he glanced at his watch. “There are about four hours of Saturday left,” he said. “What would you like to do?”

I told him. In detail.

I got everything I wanted, my way, and still had no reason to feel selfish.

8

I didn’t have much time to sort through Briana’s belongings on Sunday; there were household chores that couldn’t be put off, and just after one o’clock I was called into work to help write a memorial piece on a civic leader. The man had had the discourtesy to die of a heart attack after deadline on Saturday night. Having no suspicion of his health problems, the paper didn’t have one of its instant obits ready to go.

If I had only needed to write a history of his generosity to the community, it wouldn’t have been so bad, but I had to get comments. As a result, several times I was placed in the unpleasant position of being the first person to tell one of his friends that he had died. I would wait for the stu

By the time I got home, I was emotionally drained. Frank was making di

“Did you go to Mass today?” she asked.

“You’ve been hounding me about my sense of duty to my family,” I said, ready to tell her straight out that I was in no mood to talk about the dead. “Are you going to start pestering me on the subject of religion, too?”

“Hmm. I probably should. But here I’ve started out all wrong again. I called to apologize. Realized I needed to when I went to Mass this morning.”

“You don’t owe me any apologies,” I said.

“Yes, I do. Don’t interrupt. I went to Mass this morning, and afterwards, I spoke with Mr. Grady-the gentleman you met at the cemetery?”

“Yes, the one who is redesigning the grounds there for your personal comfort.”

“Now, don’t get smart with me or I’ll lose sight of my purpose. Sean-er, Mr. Grady-told me that I was cruel, and he’s right. He told me-well, I didn’t realize you had been so upset. You should have said something. Better yet, I never should have let things come to such a pass. I should have just called and asked for your help. That’s all.”

“Don’t worry about it. I’m all right,” I said. “You weren’t trying to hurt me.

“No, but I did, and I wouldn’t for the world. You know that, don’t you?

“Yes, Aunt Mary.”

Frank, who was only hearing my half of the conversation, said, “Invite her over for di

I made a face, but issued the invitation.

“Well, thank you,” she said, “but I’m already engaged for the evening.”

“Mr. Grady?” I asked.

“None of your beeswax. But you listen to me. Just enjoy your time with Frank this evening. Forget about all your horrible relatives and take care of him.”

I was happy to obey this directive.

I hadn’t been in the office long on Monday when the intercom line buzzed. John Walters, now the managing editor of the News-Express, commanded me to come into his office. The workload ahead of me was routine stuff-I knew I would be spending most of the day on the phone, trying to track down some out-of-town contributors to a local campaign fund-so I answered his summons with a sense of anticipation. Maybe he had a more exciting story in mind.

He answered my knock with a scowl and waved me in. He now had a slightly bigger office and a bigger desk and chair, but he’s a large man who seems to crowd any room he’s in.

“Shut the door,” he growled, and used his meaty fist to jab his ballpoint pen into his desk blotter.

He was pissed off. Didn’t look like I was in for anything good after all. But his usual level of sweetness is nearly that of a lemon, so the mood itself didn’t faze me. His next words did.

“I thought we agreed that since you insist on bedding a cop, Mark Baker covers crime stories around here.”

“Right,” I snapped, “whom you bed makes a difference around here- although if it’s Wrigley, you still get to write about jackasses. And did anyone question the guy who wrote about the wool-”

“Enough!” He looked away, and if I hadn’t known him for so long, I might not have understood that he was calming himself down. “One of these days, Wrigley’s going to hear what kind of remarks you make about him, and he’ll can your ass.”