The Girl Who Ran Off With Daddy Read online

  It was airtight, provided no one at Debbie’s recognized Clethra and notified the media. But I was willing to take that chance—Sunday mornings in Essex nearly everyone was in church or hung over or both.

  The deception didn’t end there, though. Because there was Thor to consider. And Arvin did not, repeat not, want to see Thor. So we’d needed a credible reason for taking Clethra with us and leaving Thor behind. Merilee came up with it: Clethra had volunteered to look after the baby for us. Feeb city, but Thor bought it. Mostly because he was up for some solitude. Said he wanted to go for a swim in Crescent Moon Pond and do some meditating and communing with his wild self.

  Me, I envied him.

  Debbie’s Diner was attached to a drugstore directly across the road from E. E. Dickinson, where they’ve been making witch hazel since 1866. Barry’s canary-yellow bug-eyed Sprite was parked out front with its top down and no one in it. Clethra took a deep breath, hopped out and started inside. Through the plate glass window I could see Arvin jump up from a table and run toward her. They hugged tightly next to the muffin case. She gave Barry a hug, too, and then she and Arvin sat together and Barry came sauntering out, looking a bit frail and worn. He had on a baggy navy blue turtleneck, stained white duck trousers and tattered deck shoes. He paused at the Sprite to recover a beer mug that was half full of what looked to be a Bloody Mary. He came over to us, swigging from it.

  “I’m soo glad we decided to do this thing, Hoagy,” he purred, after he’d said hullo-hullo-hullo to Merilee and given me a dead fish handshake, along with a whiff of his morning breath. A Bloody, all right. “I’m driving over to the Black Seal now to chat up a fellow who’s interested in the Sprite.” He arched an eyebrow at me, or tried to. “Shall we synchronize our watches?”

  “Let’s not,” I replied. “And say we did.”

  We drove on, the Woody heavy and smooth, Lulu grunting at me from the back. She wanted to ride shotgun now that Clethra had split. But we weren’t going far.

  They were living that season in a two-bedroom condo in Essex Meadows, an ultra-posh Q-Tip colony tucked discreetly into several hundred acres of woods off Bokum Road. You could mistake Essex Meadows for a country club if you didn’t know better. There was a nine-hole golf course. There were tennis courts, indoor and outdoor pools, a health spa, an elegant dining room, library, billiard room. There were 189 luxury apartment units with gourmet kitchens and air-conditioning, a full-time staff of gardeners, plumbers and electricians all of whom were polite and efficient and spoke English. It cost several hundred thousand to get in. And there was a hell of a waiting list, too. You could mistake it for a country club, like I said. Except for this one dirty little secret—no one got out of Essex Meadows alive. They’d all been tried, convicted and sentenced, with no hope of a reprieve. This was death row with white shag carpeting, complete with twenty-four-hour nursing care. Exit Meadows, I called it. And, personally, I’d rather get run over by a bus tomorrow than end up there thirty years from now.

  Mother was gamely digging away in the narrow flower bed that edged their patio, a brave smile set firmly on her face despite all the pain and the fear. Or maybe because of it. This was her role, after all—to be cheerful and supportive and to let no one know what she was really feeling. They had taught it to her at Miss Porter’s School, just as they had taught it to Merilee a generation later. Although Merilee, I’m happy to say, had rebelled in her own quiet, tasteful way. Mother was seventy now, still straight and trim and vigorous. Swam for an hour every day. She’d broken down only once so far—in front of Merilee, not me. Never in front of me.

  He sat under the overhang in his wheelchair with his nurse next to him and a blanket over him, his long, narrow face as familiar as my own. In fact, it was my own. Except the nose seemed longer and bonier now. The teeth stuck out more, his dry, chalky lips pulling back from them in a grimace. And his expression was different, too. It was as if the muscles had been pulled and stretched like soft, wet clay.

  Plus somebody had turned out the light in his eyes.

  He sat there staring straight ahead like he had ever since it happened—the stroke, that is. A right hemiplegia, they called it. His right arm and leg were paralyzed, his memory was like Swiss cheese. He could see some, though he had double vision, and he could speak, only it was slow and halting, as if he were trying to communicate in some new, unfamiliar language. Sometimes he was with you. Sometimes he was unreachable. Sometimes he’d start sobbing weakly and for no apparent reason, aside from the most obvious one.

  This was not my father. My father had been icy and rigid and dictatorial. My father had been decisive and strong. He had inspired terror in me and he had inspired hate. This man I didn’t know. This man was a stranger.

  Mother made a big fuss over Tracy and hugged Merilee and oohed and aahed over the black hollyhock she’d brought her from her garden. She paid zero attention to Lulu, which peeved Lulu to no end.

  Actually, I thought she’d forgotten about me, too, until she finally came into my arms and kissed me. “Thank you so much for coming, Stewart,” Mother murmured softly in my ear, the way she used to when I’d come running to her after some bully had knocked me off my bicycle. “Seeing you, even for a little while, makes his day so special.”

  “Now there’s a depressing thought.”

  “Don’t you be churlish,” she commanded sternly. “You’re his only child, Stewart. He has no one else he cares about. And very little to look forward to.”

  Just his own exit, which might come tomorrow or in a few months or even a few years. No one knew. In the meantime he was on blood thinners and physical therapy. In the meantime he was a turnip in a wheelchair. He wasn’t even aware that we were there.

  Mother tilted her head at me. “What happened to your nose?”

  “Merilee hit me. She’s a big meanie.”

  “I know why you haven’t been coming, Stewart.”

  “Do you?”

  “It pains him greatly.”

  I said nothing.

  “Are you ready to say hello?”

  “Yes, Mother. I’m ready to say hello.”

  She took my arm, and steered me over to him. His nurse smiled up at us. He continued to stare straight ahead.

  Mother mustered a smile. “Look who’s here, Monty,” she said, raising her voice. “It’s Stewart. And Merilee. And your granddaughter, Tracy.” And Lulu, who was sitting out in the grass all by herself getting really pissed.

  “Hello, Father,” I said, hearing the strain in my voice—and hating it. “How are you doing today?”

  He moistened his lips with his tongue but didn’t respond. Or blink.

  “We’re doing fine,” his nurse assured me. She was plump and hearty and really upbeat. I hated her. “We ate all of our oatmeal today. We watched some television. We—”

  “Who’s this we you keep talking about?” I snapped at her.

  She recoiled as if I’d slapped her, then got up and marched inside. Merilee shot me her warning look. I breathed in and out slowly. I sat down next to him. I patted his bony knee. He gave off a sickly sweet aroma, like rotting flesh. I smiled at him.

  Abruptly, he turned and nodded hello to me as if I’d just been away a few minutes, not many, many weeks. “Why d-don’t you … you bring Stink around anymore?” he said. His voice was different, hollow and trembly.

  Stink had been my best friend in elementary school until he and his family moved away. That was in 1961. I hadn’t seen or heard from him since.

  I glanced up at Mother. She smiled at me encouragingly. She wanted me to humor him, to say something, anything. This part I found difficult. This part I found excruciating.

  “Always l-liked … Stink,” Father went on, grinning crookedly. “Good little p-pal for you, Bucky.”

  That was my childhood nickname, Bucky. He’d taken to calling me by it again. I’d taken to letting him.

  The invasion was under way now—the widows from the neighboring apartments inching toward Me
rilee, fluttering excitedly. The widows loved to get their picture taken with her, to coo over the baby. Merilee was gracious about it. She’s always gracious with her fans. Within moments they surrounded the patio, a dithering cloud of blue hair and fruity perfume. Mother suggested I take Father for a walk.

  I did, wheeling him slowly along the cart path to the golf course, Lulu trailing us forlornly. I wheeled him like he’d once wheeled me back when I was vulnerable and afraid and needed him. Now he needed me. All part of the big cycle, I suppose. Only nobody warns you about it and they sure as hell don’t give you lessons. They ought to give proper lessons, goddamnit.

  There was a faint drizzle in the air. I pulled up by a bench next to the putting green, tucked his blanket around him against the damp and sat there with him, thinking what a shame it was we’d never had the chance to be adults at the same time. We’d never been men together. Men who listened to each other, learned from each other. Men who didn’t hate each other. And we never would be. That was never going to happen. Not now. Not ever. And I knew, way down deep inside, that this would be one of the biggest regrets in my life until the day I died.

  “Bucky?”

  “Yes, Father?”

  “When are you going to g-get … ?” He trailed off, trying to remember the word. “Get … married?”

  “Married?”

  “You and M-Merilee. You have the baby now. Should b-be married.”

  Well, well. Here was clarity, briefly.

  “We were married once before, Father, and it didn’t work out. We like it better this way.”

  “Should be a … big wedding,” he said stubbornly. “In a-a church.”

  “We’d rather keep it a small, quiet affair.”

  “You’re g-getting married at the house?”

  “No, we’re having a small, quiet affair.”

  “But you have T-Tracy n-n-now,” he sputtered, frustrated by his impaired speech. And possibly by his impaired son. “What happens when she … g-gets older?”

  “We’ll have to buy her bigger clothes.”

  “I m-mean, what’ll she tell her … friends?”

  “That she has really weird parents. But I’m fairly certain they will have already figured that out for themselves.”

  “You never could make a c-c-commitment.” His voice was heavy with reproach. “That’s always b-been your … problem. Always.”

  “So that’s it,” I said sharply. “I always wondered.”

  We sat there in brittle silence for a moment. Something we were both used to.

  “G-Got some numbers in the mail from Gene,” he mentioned offhandedly, meaning his accountant. “One of my CDs … it’s a-about to roll over. He’s got … other options. Can’t m-make head nor tail of them. Mother … n-never could.”

  “Only because you never let her learn how.”

  “Gibberish. All of it’s g-gibberish.”

  I said nothing more. I knew what he wanted. He wanted me to take a look at it for him, tell him what to do. But I wasn’t going to. Not until he said the words. He didn’t have to beg me. All he had to say was: “What should I do?” A small thing, I suppose. But it meant a lot to me. And until he said it, until he admitted out loud to me that he valued my opinion, I would be goddamned if I was going to help him. I was not proud of this. It gave me no satisfaction or pleasure. But I couldn’t help how I felt.

  We sat there in silence some more, until I realized he was sobbing.

  I knelt before him, dabbing at his eyes with my white linen handkerchief. “What is it, Father?”

  “I don’t w-want to go!” he wailed, clutching at my arm with his good hand. “Don’t let them t-take me away, Bucky! P-Promise me … you won’t! I don’t w-want to die!”

  “I know you don’t,” I said, between gritted teeth. “I know.”

  He calmed down after a moment. Stared out at the golf course—at least that’s where his eyes were. I had no idea where his head was. Not until he said, “I-I always liked Stink. B-Bring him around again. We’ll … play some … touch out in the yard, okay? W-Will you do that, Bucky? Will you b-bring Stink around?”

  “Of course, Father,” I replied, my voice husky. “I’ll bring Stink around.”

  Clethra was sitting there smoking a cigarette on the bench out in front of Debbie’s Diner, ultra-impatient.

  “Like, I’ve been waiting forever,” she informed us with supreme annoyance.

  “Like, we got here as fast as we could,” I informed her back. “Barry picked up Arvin?”

  “Half a fucking hour ago.” She climbed into the front seat next to me.

  “And how did it go between you two?” I steered us back toward the farm.

  She shrugged her shoulders, looking out her window. “He’s so mixed up. Like, he’s convinced it’s somehow all his fault. Y’know, like somehow he drove Thor and Mom apart.”

  “That kind of reaction is typical when parents split up,” Merilee put in from the backseat.

  “God, I’d give anything to get him away from her,” Clethra said angrily. “The three of us belong together—Thor, me and Arvy. We could really have something together, y’know? If we could only get that bitch out of our lives.”

  “She’s your mother, Clethra,” I reminded her.

  “She’s a bitch.”

  “Did you have any breakfast?”

  “Breakfast?” She frowned at me, perplexed. “Like, no. Why?”

  “It’s not good, the way you eat.”

  “It’s bad for you,” Merilee chimed in.

  Clethra heaved her chest. “Who are you guys, the food police?”

  “It’s bad for you,” Merilee repeated. “Your system can’t tolerate it.”

  “So what, y’know? So fucking what?”

  “Fine, whatever,” I snapped. I’d had more than enough of her. She was hard and she was unyielding. A chip off the old block. Whether she knew it or not.

  “Arvy said you were real nice to him,” she said, her eyes back out on the road.

  “I’m nice to everyone—just as long as they aren’t related to me.” I glanced at Merilee in the rearview mirror. She was sticking her tongue out at me.

  “Well, thanks,” Clethra said grudgingly. “I mean it.”

  “Careful, I may faint and drive us right off the road.”

  “Why are you being such a shit today?” she demanded.

  “I always let my guard down on Sundays. Say hello to the real me.”

  A light, steady rain was falling by the time we got back. The gravel drive up to the house was shiny and wet. I parked the Woody next to Thor’s motorcycle and let Lulu out the back. Merilee went into the house with Tracy. Clethra went into the chapel to see if Thor had returned from getting in touch with his wild self. As for poor unloved Lulu, she decided to set off on another of her death marches. I called to her but there was no stopping her. She was on her way out to the middle of the pond again, so as to end it all. Cursing, I tore off my shoes and socks, rolled up my trousers and went wading in after her, sending the ducks scurrying for cover in the marsh, quacking at me furiously. Just as I reached her I tripped over something solid there on the bottom. Solid and large. I reached down and tugged at it.

  And raised up an arm. It was Thor’s arm.

  He was down there getting in touch with his dead self.

  Six

  “UH-HUH. YOU AGAIN. SOMEHOW, I ain’t surprised.”

  “Real nice to see you again, too, Trooper.”

  I was still trying to pull Thor out of the pond. I couldn’t lift him out—he’d been weighted down with something—so I had the Rover backed up to the edge of the water with a heavy chain hooked to its bumper. I was just about to tow him out when Resident Trooper Slawski came driving up in his Crown Victoria and jumped out and told me to cool it.

  “Don’t you be messing with this here scene,” he ordered me sternly. “Not until we’re able to ascertain if this was an accidental drowning or perhaps—”

  “It was murder, Trooper
. And there’s no perhaps about it.”

  He stood there in the rain with his arms crossed, scowling at me. He had a slicker on over his uniform, and wore a clear plastic thing that looked like a shower cap over his broad-brimmed trooper hat. Klaus was watching us from the backseat of the cruiser, dry and cozy. Merilee and Clethra were watching us from the kitchen porch. Grief etched Clethra’s soft young face. “Why you so sure?” Slawski demanded.

  “A man like Thor Gibbs doesn’t drown in three feet of water.”

  “Man maybe had a heart attack,” Slawski stated. “Or got drunk and passed out. I seen it happen, I’m saying it.”

  “A man doesn’t die elsewhere and then dump his own body in the pond, Trooper.” I showed him the cart tracks that cut deep into the soft, wet earth between the gravel drive and the edge of the pond. Then I showed him the second, shallower set. Both belonged to our garden cart. “Someone killed him elsewhere and wheeled him down to the pond. Those would be your deep tracks. The shallow ones are from when they wheeled the cart back, empty. It’s standing up over against the carriage barn, where it usually is. There are shoe prints, too.”

  Lots of shoe prints, none very distinct. There were too damned many of them one on top of the other in the squishy mud.

  He looked down at them, then up at me. “Who you be—Mr. Bob Shapiro?”

  “You’ll want to check the cart’s handles for prints, of course. Lulu’s searching for the murder site as we speak. I’m quite certain she’ll—”

  “She better not be tampering with no physical evidence.”

  “If you’ll toss me that chain we can get the body out,” I said, wading back in.

  “Don’t you be telling me my business!” Slawski snarled. “This is my ’hood!”