Little Gale Gumbo (45 page)

An hour later, Dahlia stood in her living room, looking up.

Selling the Perez was the only way to be rid of Charles this time, and she knew it. Sure, she could call Jack, have him follow her to the mainland and see to it that Charles was escorted back to Louisiana in handcuffs, but then what? Word would get back to Josie that he was released, and Charles would just try again when he cleared himself, which he would. But with money, he'd leave them alone. At least long enough to find himself in another mess.

But God, it was a beautiful painting. Camille had said it was Lionel and Roman's way of watching over them from far away. Their mother had cried sometimes when she looked up at it. Now Dahlia did the same. But as she lowered it carefully to the floor and began to wrap it in layers of padding, she told herself Lionel and Roman would have understood.

Martin Abrahams from the gallery on Exchange Street would give her a fair price for it. She remembered when Camille had asked him to appraise it a few years back. His eyes had grown huge, but Camille had sworn she'd never sell it, no matter how desperate things got, which, of course, they had.

When Dahlia arrived at the gallery shortly before six, Martin's face lit up all over again.

“What made you finally decide to sell, hon?”

“Lots of things,” Dahlia said.

Martin sighed. “The best I can do today is ten. But I'm not going to lie to you. It's worth twice that.”

“I know,” she said, just as she knew he'd price it accordingly when he set it in his shop window as soon as she left. She'd never have the money to buy it back. But she couldn't worry about that now. It would be a small price to spare Josie the pain of their father's return. Dahlia owed her sister that.

Martin looked at her over the top of his reading glasses.

“You're sure about this?” he asked gently.

Dahlia looked one last time at her mother's favorite painting, swallowing back tears.

“I've never been more sure of anything.”

 

Thursday arrived with a cool breeze. Dahlia watched clocks all day long, seeing them everywhere she went. She canceled her appointments, too anxious to do more than pace the house and wander the yard, chewing at her nails, imagining Charles racing up the coast like a storm. She had decided to take an earlier ferry when Josie stopped by at six with a stack of gardening books.

“I found these at Fern and Clyde's yard sale this morning. Most of them are older than dirt, but some of the plates are really beautiful.” She set them down on the coffee table. “I thought you were going over to the Pollard place today.”

“I changed my mind,” Dahlia said. “It looked like rain earlier.”

Josie frowned. “When? There hasn't been a cloud in the sky all day.”

“Really?” Dahlia glanced out the window, pretending to be surprised. “I could have sworn it got really dark a few hours ago.”

“Liar.” Josie grinned. “You just don't want to hear about Madeline's latest diet.”

Dahlia forced a smile. “God, am I that transparent?”

“Only to me.” Josie paused, her gaze catching on the wall. “Where's the Perez?”

“Oh, it's . . . it's upstairs.” Dahlia waved her hand uselessly, wishing she'd thought up a lie earlier. She should have known Josie would ask. “I thought it was getting too much sun on that wall, so I moved it.”

“Oh.”

Dahlia watched her sister's face, nervous that she'd press it, unconvinced, but Josie seemed contented with the answer.

“Well, anyway,” Josie said, “Wayne and I are on our way over to Jack's for dinner. He's grilling fish. You should come.”

“I can't. I told Ginny Hobart I'd come over and look at their rose garden.”

“All the way over to Cape Elizabeth?”

“The roses are overrun with cuckoo spit and they've got some big to-do on Sunday, so . . .”

Josie smiled gently. “She's not coming, you know.”

“Who?”

“The Realtor. Jack said she was out of town. If that's what you're worried about.”

Dahlia only wished that being a fifth wheel was what was worrying her.

“No, sweetie,” she said. “That's not it.”

Josie studied her sister's face, her eyes so searching that Dahlia pulled Josie into her arms and hugged her fiercely, afraid she'd start to cry if she didn't.

It was almost seven, when Dahlia had finally been sure it was safe to make her way down to the ferry, that she saw him mounting the porch stairs, his red hair streaked white, wound around his scalp like cotton candy.

Charles saw her too, his smile spreading, teeth once as white as a row of chalk now yellowed like old piano keys.

“You gonna invite your daddy in, or what?”

 

“We had a deal,” Dahlia said, following him inside. “You were supposed to wait for me on the mainland.”

“Sure,” Charles said over his shoulder. “So you could send the cops to come pick me up for violatin' my parole? Shit, how dumb you think I am, girl?”

“Why would I call the cops? I don't want anyone to know you're here.”

“So you say now.” Charles glanced around, his fingers kneading the green polyester of his jacket. “So where is it?”

Dahlia glanced reflexively to the kitchen.

He smiled. “Go get it.”

“Don't sit down,” she said, seeing him eye the love seat. “You're not staying. I'm driving you back to the landing and you're getting on the next boat.”

“The hell I am.”

Dahlia watched, chilled, as he settled into the worn velvet cushions and stretched his legs out in front of him, kicking off his shoes, just like the first time he'd come to Little Gale, the first time he'd sneaked up on them in their safe new home. She'd been so sure that would be the only time he'd have the upper hand.

“Girl, I been on a goddamned bus for three days. I ain't about to turn around and get back on one.” Charles reached his arms out over the back of the love seat, his shirt pulled taut over his belly, the buttons straining the shiny mustard knit. “You and me gonna get a few things straight now, so go get your daddy his money and somethin' strong to drink while ya in there. And don't tell me you ain't got nothin'. I know you too well.”

Dahlia walked numbly into the kitchen, fists clenched at her sides. It was no different from any night in his company, she told herself as she took the envelope out of the drawer, then pulled the bourbon down from the cabinet. How many times had she and Josie watched their mother soften the thorns of their father's prickly coat with the smooth amber of alcohol? Dahlia had learned early and well how to temper the beast of Charles Bergeron.

She returned with the bottle and set the glass and the envelope in front of him on the coffee table. He took up the envelope first. She watched him nervously as he fanned out the bills, hoping he wouldn't count it. She'd emptied her own account to make up the difference and was still almost a thousand short.

When he folded the envelope and slid it inside his jacket, she released a relieved breath.

“Sit down,” he ordered. “You look like one of them fuckin' prison guards standin' there like that.”

Dahlia took a seat across from him, watching as he reached for his glass. He took it and paused.

“Ain't you drinkin'?”

“I'm not in the mood for a toast just now,” she said.

His eyes narrowed. “You gonna poison me. That it?”

“And have you stuck dead on my couch? No, thanks.”

Charles chuckled, finally bringing the glass to his lips. Dahlia knew that even if he didn't trust her, he couldn't wait to taste it. She watched him take his first sip, slow and careful, then a second one, longer. The pleasure of it was bald on his face. He grinned foolishly. “God, that's good.”

He glanced around the room.

“Sure is weird, though, bein' back here without your momma around. Broke my heart not gettin' to give her a proper good-bye. She never stopped bein' my wife, you know. Don't matter what that asshole Haskell believed.” Charles took another sip. “Ain't right,” he muttered as he studied the glass. “Ain't right.”

He sat back on the love seat, swirling the liquid in the glass. “Whew,” he said. “Amazin' what a few years without the good stuff will do to ya.”

It wouldn't take long, Dahlia thought. Not long at all to get him drunk enough to be agreeable to leaving. He was already tipsy, she realized. Tipsy and road-weary. She knew too how she could speed it along. It might just kill her to do it, but she knew a surefire way to keep him calm, agreeable, sedentary.

“I've been thinking,” she said.

“Oh, yeah?” He snorted, drained his glass, and reached for the bottle. “No shit.”

She watched him pour himself another, splashing it over the side.

“I'm sorry for what happened,” she said. “I was wrong to attack you.”

Charles raised his full glass, looked at her over the rim. “
Now
you're sorry, huh? Ain't that convenient.” He patted his pocket with his free hand. “You hopin' to borrow some of this money. That it?”

Dahlia kept her eyes even with his as he drained another full pour, watching his lids grow heavy.

“Yeah, you treated me bad, all right,” he mumbled, slouching deeper. “Ain't all your fault, though. Got your mother's Voodoo blood in ya. All that dark, crazy shit.”

The glass tilted in his hand.

Dahlia gripped the edge of her chair.

She didn't know how much longer she could keep this up.

 

Thirty minutes later, he was out. Dahlia waited until his fingers loosened around the base of the glass and it slipped into his lap before she knew it was safe to move.

She walked to the phone. Ben answered on the fourth ring.

“Can you come over?” She glanced back at the love seat. “Charles is here.”

 

She waited by the door, swigging what Charles had left of the bottle. When Ben pulled into the driveway, she rushed out to meet him on the porch. He took the stairs two at a time.

“Where is he?”

“In the living room. Passed out.”

Ben moved around her and came inside the house. Dahlia followed, watching his expression when Charles came into view. The wrinkles around his eyes pleated instantly, clenching like fists.

“Does Josie know?”

“No,” Dahlia said. “Nobody knows. He said he went to see Josie first but nobody was home.”

Ben wiped his upper lip. “Thank God for that.”

“What are we gonna do?”

“We'll take him back to the house.”

“And do what with him?”

“I don't know just yet.” Ben looked at the empty glass on the table. “How much did he have?”

“Probably three-quarters of the bottle.”

“He'll be out for a while then.” He glanced to Dahlia. “You should have called me right away.”

She said nothing, feeling sixteen again, as if he'd caught her smoking pot.

She bit her lip to keep from crying. Ben moved to her and cradled her cheek in his moist palm. “Let's get him in the car, all right?”

She nodded. “All right.”

 

Charles was heavier than she'd expected. She'd taken the envelope out of his jacket pocket before Ben had arrived, had stashed the money in her vegetable drawer, because God knew it never had any vegetables in it, and she was glad she did. If she'd left it to hang out of his lining, Ben would have seen it and would have counted it and he would have figured it all out. As it was, Ben suspected nothing. Dahlia watched him furtively as they took the short drive to the house, her eyes darting back and forth from Ben's determined profile to the side mirror, where she could make out Charles's slumped figure in the backseat. She felt as if her heart would charge out of her chest, just burst through her ribs and land in her lap. “We'll put him in the apartment,” Ben said, glancing into his rearview. “The dead bolt only opens with a key. That way I can lock him in there and keep an eye on him until he comes to.”

“Then what?”

Ben shrugged, his tired eyes fixed on the road ahead. “Then we'll see.”

“I don't want Josie to know he's here, Ben. She'll just die.”

“She won't,” he said firmly.

 

Ben balanced Charles against his hip while Dahlia opened the apartment door. Getting him up the stairs was slow. Ben grew flushed quickly, his breathing so labored that Dahlia looked over several times, concerned.