False Conception Page 24
Oddly enough, it wasn’t his mistress who defended him, but his wife. “If you had been in Ethan’s presence for one minute,” Opal Brennan urged with passion, “you would not need to ask that question.”
“So he really was as wonderful as people say.”
She spoke with odd gentility. “He was a matchless man—considerate, generous, tender.” She looked at the woman she lived with. “Delilah’s husband was none of those things—quite the opposite, in fact. She was needful and in distress and she turned to my husband for succor. Delilah was inexpressibly lovely in those days, bewitching to everyone but her husband. Ethan was a kind man, but he was a man. He was unable to resist her appeal.”
“That’s Ethan above the mantel; not Rutherford.” She nodded.
“Did you know about the affair at the time, Mrs. Brennan?”
“No.”
“You learned about it the day your husband died, didn’t you? He told you just before he went over to kill Rutherford Colbert.”
She lowered her head in admission.
There was still one motive that needed fixing. “I can understand why Rutherford killed your husband—because he’d just learned of the affair. I’m not sure I understand why Ethan went gunning for Rutherford.”
When Delilah Colbert finally spoke, her head was cocked and pitiable, her voice tremulous and angry. “Rutherford took a more insidious vengeance than killing Ethan—that was too easy, and too incomplete. He wanted others to suffer as well and he wanted me to be reminded of the consequences of my behavior every day for the rest of my life. He made Stuart’s life miserable, of course, but that wasn’t the only price he exacted.”
And right then I saw it, as clear as crystal, as evil as treachery. “Rutherford urged Stuart to pursue Clara and conceive a child.”
“Yes,” Delilah said.
“Knowing she was Stuart’s half-sister. Knowing they shared the same father.”
“Yes.”
“Knowing their offspring might well be malformed and retarded. Knowing that would cause heartache to the Brennans ever after.”
“Yes. Yes, yes, yes, yes.”
Both women began to weep. Sobs buffeted their bodies; all I could do was end it as quickly as I could.
“Ethan knew he had fathered both children, of course,” I said. “When his beloved Clara told him she was pregnant and who the father was, he went gunning for the man who had made it happen. But Rutherford had been warned he was coming and shot him down on the porch.”
Delilah Colbert nodded, her eyes like black blood on white marble. “He took Ethan’s life and ours as well. We have never recovered; we never shall. All we have is each other, the memory of a man we loved, and a faith that the sweet Lord will forgive us.” She tried to smile but it wasn’t enough to displace her deep despair. “Most days, it seems enough.”
“But not always,” I said.
“No,” she admitted slowly. “Not always.” She looked at me with uncertainty. “What do we do now, Mr. Tanner?”
“Nothing,” I said. “Just keep it to yourselves.”
“That’s what we’ve been doing for twenty years.”
CHAPTER 31
The lid I’d tried to put on the Colbert case must have fit, because it sat that way for six months: I didn’t hear from Stuart or Millicent, I didn’t hear from Cynthia or Russell, I didn’t hear from the Drummonds, I didn’t hear from the mothers, I didn’t hear from anybody. Somewhere a baby was growing to term, somewhere a mother was eating pickles and ice cream and wrestling with morning sickness, somewhere an obstetrician was prescribing vitamins and performing ultrasound, somewhere an enthusiastic instructor was demonstrating the Lamaze techniques of pain avoidance. But that was somewhere else.
Just before Thanksgiving, I was driving down Nineteenth Avenue on my way to a lecture at S.F. State when I decided to detour down Santa Ana Way. All the houses seemed deserted but one—as I cruised past her home, Millicent Colbert came out the front door, looked up and down the block, then meandered to the sidewalk and turned toward St. Francis Circle, taking in some afternoon air.
She looked the same, yet different. For a moment, I thought she’d gained weight, but when she turned to me to cross the street, I realized that she had a pillow stuffed under her coat and was pretending to be pregnant for the benefit of her nosy neighbors. It was the saddest sight I saw all season.
Just before Christmas, which is to say just before the loneliest day of the year, I heard from Betty Fontaine. “Howdy, stranger,” she began, an unaccustomed lilt to her words, an unusually melodic timbre in her voice.
“Hi, yourself.”
“How are you?”
“Fine. I mean satisfactory.”
She laughed. “That’s worse than fine.”
I admitted it. “You sound uncommonly peppy this evening.”
“I know. I am.”
“May I know why? Or do I have to guess?”
“Guess.”
“A man.”
“More.”
“A good man.”
“More.”
“The man.”
“Bingo. At least I think so. Guess where we’re going for Christmas.”
“Pismo Beach.”
“Farther.”
“Palm Springs.”
“Farther.”
“Puerto Villarta.”
“Farther.”
“Patagonia.”
“Calcutta.”
“Why didn’t I think of that? Christmas and Calcutta. I try to capture that scene on all my cards.”
“It’s not as nutty as it sounds.”
“It couldn’t be.”
“There are some lovely things in Calcutta, Frank says.”
“There are lots of things in Calcutta. Most of them are wearing rags and sleeping in the streets.”
“As opposed to here, I suppose.”
“Touché, Ms. Fontaine. Take lots of pictures. Bore me with a slide show. Write a travel piece for the Chronicle.”
“I don’t think I’ll have the energy.”
“Why not?”
“Guess what we’re going to do in Calcutta.”
“Play whist with Mother Teresa.”
“We’re going to make a baby.”
“Out of what?”
“Out of the usual stuff, stupid.”
“That kind of baby. Well. That’s great.”
“Thank you.” Her voice positively bubbled. “It really is, isn’t it?”
“Yes, it is. Congratulations. Who’s Frank?”
“He’s a lawyer.”
“Then let’s hope he’s like Calcutta.”
“What’s that mean?”
“It means let’s hope he’s better than he sounds.”
“Well, he is. So wish me luck.”
“Luck.”
“If it’s a boy I may name it after you, you know.”
I laughed. “You sound like Clinton before the NAFTA vote.”
“I’m serious, Marsh. You’re an important person in my life.”
“You’re important to me, too, Betty.”
“I know I am. That’s why we should talk once in a while even after Frank and I … We will, won’t we? Talk and stuff?”
“Sure.”
“So you’ll call me sometime?”
“Till the first time Frank answers the phone. Then I won’t call anymore.”
“You can call me at work,”
“Fine.”
She sniffed. “This is where I came in. See you, Marsh. Have a nice holiday.”
“See you, Betty. ‘Good screwing’ seems an appropriate send-off but it sounds sort of gauche.”
“You’ll get over me, Marsh. You really will. Just like I got over you.”
And just like that, Betty Fontaine was out of my life.
When a relationship breaks and you’re the breakee and not the breaker, a portion of the bond remains long after the termination has been announced. It lingers for years, sometimes, when there
’s been no defining incident that triggers the separation—no brutality, no betrayal, no basis for the break but cold analysis and clear-eyed projection. The persistence of the bond is not always apparent, however, and its benefits often survive unnoticed, except in retrospect. It’s only when Saturday night seems unbearably lonely, Sunday afternoon agonizingly long, Monday morning achingly pointless, that you know the link is finally severed and that you are, yet again and indisputably, physically and emotionally alone. From whence comes despair and desperation and ultimately, if you’re lucky, a quick laugh and a fresh face that looks a lot like salvation.
All of which is to say that when the phone rang one Saturday night in early February, I wasn’t in very good shape. And it only got worse when I learned who was calling.
“Are you ready?” she began without preamble, as though I’d ordered a pizza and she was down at the door to deliver it.
“Ready for what?”
“The baby, of course.”
“Ah. The elusive Miss Brennan. I’ve been wondering when I’d hear from you. When’s the blessed event?”
“Yesterday.”
My larynx double-clutched. “It’s here?”
“It’s nibbling at my breast even as we speak. You can probably relate to that, just as I can relate to the fact that the relationship is going to be temporary.”
I didn’t know how to defend myself, or even if I wanted to, so I retreated to the bloodlessness of etiquette. “How are you feeling?”
“I’m sore as hell; those Lamaze people need a reality check. It hurt like a son of a bitch.”
“I’ve heard it’s not nearly as bad as an ingrown toenail.”
“You must have heard it from a man.”
I laughed. “How’s the baby?”
“Fine. Six pounds, two ounces.”
“Small.”
“Petite.”
“You need to bone up on your nomenclature—I don’t think that’s a compliment to a boy.”
“Well, I won’t have to deal with nomenclature or diapers or anything else, will I? I’m just a brood mare in this deal. So round up the usual suspects and meet me at high noon the day after tomorrow.”
“Where?”
“The big house.”
“Rutherford’s?”
“Right.”
“Why there?”
“Why not?”
It didn’t seem wise to debate her. “Who else is invited? Stuart and Millicent, I presume.”
“Mommy and Daddy Colbert. Right.”
“Anybody else?”
“Cynthia and Russell.”
“Why them?”
“Because I said so.”
“I’ll see what I can do. How about the grandmothers—Opal and Delilah?”
“Get your facts straight, Tanner—only one of them’s a grandmother to this one.”
I was embarrassed at my confusion of provenance. “How about the Drummonds?”
“I think we can leave them out of it, don’t you? They’ve got one of my children already.”
The ice in her voice was depthless. “Should we have a doctor on hand or anything?” I asked.
“Just tell Millicent to bring whatever she needs to tote it home. I’ll provide a blanket and a carrier. Noon on Monday, Tanner.”
“Noon on Monday.” I paused and took a sudden plunge. “I’d like to talk to you afterward. Do dinner or something.”
“I think saying a permanent good-bye to the creature I just brought into the world will be enough entertainment for one day, don’t you?”
CHAPTER 32
I felt like an attendant at valet parking. Two by two, the Colbert siblings and their mates came out of their doors, looked up and down the block, saw me serving as sentinel in front of Rutherford’s homely mansion, locked their doors and then their arms, and walked my way beneath a soggy winter sky. Two by two they asked if she was here yet and two by two I told them that she wasn’t. Nervous, apprehensive, jittery, as leery of each other as they were of the bouncing baby boy the surrogate stork was bringing them, they trooped inside the elder Colbert’s castle as though they had been sentenced to hang and Rutherford was providing the gallows as a public service.
All except Millicent. Millicent Colbert was as frisky as a kid at a carnival, squirming, smiling, giggling, and grasping a pink plastic bag stuffed full of baby things as though it held the launch codes to the missiles and atomic bombs. I liked her for her ecstasy and hoped nothing I had engineered was going to dilute it.
Stuart and Millicent went inside the house, then Cynthia and Russell joined me. Cynthia didn’t greet me or even slow down, but Russell lingered to talk.
“Have you seen her?” he asked with a hint of the conspirator about him.
“No.”
“Are you sure she’s coming?”
“Reasonably.”
“Is anything else going to happen?”
“Like what?”
“Like accusations, allegations, protestations.”
“Against you?”
“Against anyone.”
I slapped him on the back, prepared to forgive his transgressions. “I can’t speak for everyone but I certainly don’t intend to be so boorish. As long as Clara gets her fee, I don’t see why she’d act up either. Do you have her check?”
He patted his breast pocket. “Postdated three days, so the child can be examined by a physician.”
“Examined for what?”
Russell indulged in lawyer’s oratory. “Health problems attributable to prenatal neglect. Nutritional deficiencies. The kind of thing that would vitiate the agreement. Since she willfully evaded the contractual safeguards, I feel it’s incumbent to make such tests.”
I laughed. “Give the role a rest, why don’t you? I don’t think there’s going to be a problem.”
“We’ll know in a few minutes, won’t we?” He looked up and down the street, then regarded me somberly. “I assume this is your final function in this matter.”
“As far as I know,” I agreed.
“Well, good.” Russell glanced at the house. “How’s the old man this morning?”
“Don’t know. Haven’t seen him.”
“A complex individual.”
“And a ruthless one.”
He started to dispute me, then stepped toward the house, then turned back. “I’m resigning from the firm,” he said.
“I thought you might be.”
“I’ll be handling Cynthia’s affairs, and a few other clients’, but I’m cutting way back. Giving up the rat race.”
“And the view.”
His smile was wan and attenuated. “And the view. I’m trying to persuade Cynthia to let Stuart have the men’s stores as well and open her own shop. Something exclusive. Something manageable.”
“Good luck,” I said.
He thanked me, then started toward the door again, then offered an addendum. “I’m sorry it got complicated, Marsh.”
“So am I, Russell.”
“And I’m sorry …” He didn’t seem to have the vocabulary to apologize more specifically. “But it looks like it’s going to work out, so no harm done. Right?”
“Right.”
“All’s well that ends well.”
“So I hear.”
“At least the sailing was fun. Right?”
“Right.”
“Let’s do it again someday.”
“Let’s.”
Russell waved awkwardly and manically, as though he was about to sail off to the Lesser Antilles, and went inside the mansion. Eight minutes later, a battered Volvo sedan turned into the street, slowed to a crawl, then parked halfway up the block. Two minutes after that, a woman got out of the driver’s side and walked to where I was standing. She was dressed in tan twill slacks and a blue cotton sweater. If there was anyone else in the car, I couldn’t see her from where I stood.
“Good morning, Ms. Webber,” I said as she approached.
She had no time for pleasantry. “Are
they there?”
“All present and accounted for. Is Greta in the car?”
Her expression shifted into neutral. “Greta isn’t here.”
I swore. “You got all these people here for nothing?”
“Not at all. Greta isn’t here, but the baby is.”
My heart jumped to double time for an instant and I glanced at the suddenly suspect vehicle down the block, complications confounding me once again. “How will they know it’s hers? I mean theirs? The one called for by the contract?”
Linda patted her purse. “I’ve got the birth certificate right here, complete with palm and foot prints, plus a Polaroid photo to match. If that’s not enough, there’s a videotape of the birth in the car.”
My heart returned to normal cadence. “I guess that’ll have to do. Shall I go get him?”
She shook her head. “I’ll do it.”
She strolled to the car as casually as a border inspector, then opened the passenger door and leaned inside. After some maneuvering and manipulating, she emerged carrying a bright white wicker basket and walked back to me down the center of the street, as if to herald the birth to the neighborhood. The basket swung loosely at her side; on occasion she glanced at its contents, which seemed to come wrapped in a fuzzy pink blanket. A wave of relief ran through me, allowing various interior knots to loosen, even though a shopping basket seemed an odd vehicle for a baby. But what did I know about it?
She brought me the basket the way she would bring me bullion and placed it on the sidewalk at my feet. I looked into the mound of covers that rose and fell beneath the arc of the braided handle. Two tiny blue eyes looked back at me from within a round red face and a shiny wide forehead. Then one pudgy little hand reached up and did something I chose to interpret as a wave.
“He likes me,” I said.
“Can we get it over with, please?”
Chastened, I stepped away from the basket and let Linda pick it up, then led her up the walk toward Rutherford’s forbidding lair.
They were all in the parlor but Rutherford. No one was saying anything; no one was looking at anything animate; no one was happy but Millicent. When Linda and I entered the room, Millicent emitted a tiny squeal, then covered her mouth with her hand, then tugged on the arm of her husband. “She got the color wrong,” she whispered nervously, halfway between laughing and crying. No one seemed to hear her; it felt like the start of high mass.