Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017
- Автор: Фузилли Джим, Харрис Шарлин
- Год: 2017
- Язык: английский
- Год: Dell Magazines
- ISBN: 0013-6328
- Жанр: Другие детективы
Электронная книга - «Ellery Queen’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 150, Nos. 5 & 6. Whole Nos. 914 & 915, November/December 2017». Краткое содержание книги:
Dad and I start up the aisle, but Anne rushes up behind us, grabs the back of his shirt, and spins him around so fast that he loses his grip on the cane and it clatters to the floor. He stumbles, I steady him, then scoop the cane off the floor and point it at her. “Back off, Anne. Your stuff will be in the driveway by this evening.”
“Jo... c’mon... please,” Dad stutters.
“See?” Anne says. “See that? You’re meddling, Jo. You’ve always meddled, you’ve never liked me, you’ve always tried to come between Max and me.”
I hook my arm through Dad’s and we head for the front door. I pass him the cane and he clutches it as though it’s his last best hope and my heart bleeds for him, for the tangled mess of his life. He has always been my biggest supporter, has always been there for me. Now he needs me the way I needed him when I was learning to ride a bike and lost control of it, when I was bullied in middle school, when I got stood up for my high-school prom, when my marriage fell apart, when Mom died, when he threw himself between me and a car that nearly hit me. Always, the look on his face was, I’m here. Now I’m throwing myself between him and Anne. Our roles are reversed.
Customers stare at us. I hear Anne’s sandals slapping the floor as she hurries after us, and Barb at the counter shouts, “Don’t you dare come back in here, Anne!”
Witnesses. There are witnesses to what Anne did, grabbing the back of Dad’s shirt, spinning him around so fast that he lost hold of his cane and would have pitched forward if I hadn’t caught him. Elder abuse. The courts in Florida take it seriously, even here in the laid-back Keys.
Once we’re outside, I walk Dad over to a bench on the porch and he sits down, rubs his hands over his face, looks at me with haunted eyes. “Not good,” he murmurs.
“Dad, do you want her gone or not?” I ask.
“Yes,” he whispers. “Yes.”
Anne barrels through the door, rage radiating from her in waves. I can smell it, a scorched-earth stink, and I taste its burn inside my mouth and hear its bellowing voice in my head. I turn to face her, this woman with more issues than I could ever treat, and she stops dead. She slowly raises her arm, a Shakespearean gesture, and stabs her red-painted nail at me.
“You’re to blame for all of this, Jo.”
“You’re just an observer?”
“I’m a victim of... of your hatred... for me.” She moves tentatively toward Dad. “Do you want me gone, Max?”
Her voice is soft, sensuous, perhaps even a little seductive. The idea of the two of them making love sort of grosses me out, my being the daughter and all. But that’s what I hear in her voice.
Dad doesn’t raise his head. He rubs his hands over his thighs, fast, as if to tame his trembling fingers. The scraping sound of skin against fabric is so irritating I want to punch Anne for causing his hands to move like that. Her soft question triggered it.
“Dad? Anne asked you an honest question.”
Honest is the operative word here.
Now he raises his eyes and meets Anne’s glare. If he says no, I will try to honor that. If he says yes, I’ll hire an attorney to handle the divorce, shuffle around nearly every facet of my life, and her stuff will be in the driveway by nightfall.
“Do you really want me gone, Max?” Anne asks.
He starts shaking, his tongue darts along his lower lip, his glazed eyes drift to me, back to her. His shoulders stoop with exhaustion. “You hate me. I want you gone.” He presses his hands over his face and begins to weep.
3
The lawyer is on the divorce angle. I’ve called my boss, told him I have a family emergency, and he said I should take all the time I need. I feel like I’m letting my kids down, the ones I see week after week, the ones from dysfunctional families or families so poor the kids can’t afford lunch in the cafeteria. But I can’t allow Dad’s situation with Anne to continue.
I’m now hauling some of Anne’s stuff into the driveway, as promised. The problem is the furniture. I’m strong, but I’m not strong enough to carry a dresser down two flights of stairs and across the front yard to the curb. I can drag a queen mattress, but not the frame. I can’t handle a mahogany nightstand even with the drawers out, the couch in the living room is a sectional, and each separate piece is way too big for me. I call my neighbor on Islamorada and offer to pay her twin sons to help me out.
The strapping sixteen-year-olds are dropped off by a friend awhile later and the three of us start moving the rest of Anne’s stuff to the curb. An hour into it, I take a break to check on Dad. He’s nodding off at the kitchen table, the salmon dinner I cooked half eaten. His lotto tickets are on the fridge, held in place by magnets, and I know he’ll want to be up at eleven for the drawing, so I help him into his room. He yawns and flops back on his bed. I lift his legs onto the mattress, remove his shoes and socks, cover him with the sheet. “Dad, I’ll be back in a while. I have to give these kids a ride home.”
“Remind me to check for the winning numbers at eleven.”
“I will. I’ll be back in time for the drawing.”
He grasps my hands and pulls himself up against the pillow. “I’m sorry you saw that. I’m sorry you saw how weak I am against her. I just want to read and fish and be left alone.”
“I know.” I urge him back against the bed, fluff up his pillows. “This is going to work out. I love you, Dad.”
I want to strangle the bitch.
4
I wait in a heavily wooded lot across the street from Max’s house, seething as I watch Jo and two young men hauling my stuff to the curb. As soon as they’re gone, I intend to go through it all and take what I can fit in the back of my truck. What a meddling bitch. She doesn’t have any idea what it’s like living with him.
He twitches and shakes constantly, drives his wheelchair into the walls and door frames, needs help to get to the bathroom, falls frequently, forgets to take his meds, and can’t even boil an egg without making a mess. All I do when I get home from work is tend to his needs. So, yes, I’ve borrowed liberally from his financial accounts. I’m entitled. I’m going to miss that additional income, but I’m glad to be rid of him. Jo will discover soon enough what she’s signing up for, the endless annoying details involved with caring for a seventy-four-year-old man with Parkinson’s.
There goes my sectional couch, my bed — mattress, frame, springs, and all — and now my dresser. How am I going to get that into my truck by myself? Any decent person would give me the option of moving my stuff. But Jo isn’t a decent person. She has disliked me from the day she met me, always thought I was after Max’s money or something. I’ve got news for her about Max’s money. Except for Social Security, he’ll be broke soon and then on top of caring for him, she’ll have to support him. Karma, baby.
It looks as if they have finished cleaning out my belongings. The three suitcases at the curb probably contain my clothes. I can get those into the truck easily enough but I may have to write off most of the furniture. Some of that stuff was expensive, from Pier 1 in Key West, and the bitch should be reimbursing me for it. But I think I’ve still got one of the checks from our joint checking account, so first thing tomorrow I’ll be writing a check for about five grand and will deposit it in my own account. Good riddance, Max.
My phone vibrates, a text from Sam, the guy I sleep with from time to time. You free tonite?
No.
Isn’t the old dude in bed by now?