Twilight (24 page)

“I know, honey.”

“No, you don’t!” His face reddened. It was so unusual for Luke to carry on that Laurie stood without speaking. “Why don’t you like Daddy?”

Maddie’s head perked up, and she headed back from the porch. Laurie’s pulse raced with visions of broken glass, a shimmering knife blade, blood smeared all over the kitchen, horrible red words—last warning. What could she tell him? Your father does illegal things? And now he’s crossed over to madness? How could she say, I need to protect you from the man you miss so much? “Luke, you don’t understand. Some things are too big for little boys.”

“I’m five.”

She stooped down in front of him. “I’ll call your daddy and see if he can come.” That would tell her what she needed to know as well. Maybe they could talk it out, and Brian would call off the dogs he’d sent to frighten her. It seemed logical in the daylight.

“Call him now?”

Laurie shrugged. “Okay.” She caught Luke’s face between her palms and kissed his forehead. His pleasure seared her. How could he be so devoted to a man who hardly cared that he existed? They went inside, and Laurie shooed them to the bathroom to wash up while she checked the kitchen. It was dim with the corkboard over the window, but clean and empty. She expelled her breath and reached for the phone.

She hesitated only a minute before punching in the numbers. Gail answered. Laurie forced her voice to sound normal, the tone of a separated wife calling her estranged husband. “Hello, Gail. Is Brian home?” It was Saturday, after all.

“I’m sorry, Laurie, he’s out of town.”

She should have expected it. But the words sent that same plummeting thump inside her. “Do you know where?” Brian always left a forwarding number, though he was scarcely available on it.

“I’m sorry, I don’t.”

Laurie’s mind clicked into excuse mode. He wouldn’t need to leave it with Gail. She wasn’t his family. “When do you expect him?”

“He didn’t say.”

Laurie sighed. By Gail’s tone, Brian had painted her as the deserting wife and won full allegiance. But that didn’t matter as much as Luke’s disappointment. She could forget her hopeful sunlight solution to her own trouble. “Thank you.” She hung up. It didn’t prove Brian was in Montrose—he traveled all the time, gone more than home— but it proved he could be.

She opened her purse, took out the gun, and loaded it the way the clerk had shown her. Then she slipped it into the cabinet over the refrigerator, out of the children’s reach, just as Luke bounced into the room.

“Did you ask him?”

She turned to her son. “Honey, Daddy’s on a trip. I don’t know when he’ll be back.”

Luke studied her face, his eyes darkening. Then he turned and ran out. His feet thumped up the stairs and his door slammed.

“Mommy!” Maddie ran into her arms, tears brimming.

“It’s all right, baby. Luke’s just sad.”

Maddie started to cry, and Laurie sank to the floor, pulling her close and shedding tears of her own. She would have to go up to Luke, but how could she ease his terrible hurt? How could she help him understand what she couldn’t fathom? Why had Brian done this to them? And was it somehow her fault?

Maddie was tired, crying just long enough to wear away the last of her resistance, before dozing off in Laurie’s arms. Maybe she hadn’t slept well at Mother’s house. Big surprise. Laurie carried her up to her bed, looked at Luke’s closed door, and decided to give him a little longer. He was one child who worked things through better on his own. Maybe that was a male characteristic.

She went back down and slid the contents of the envelope onto her kitchen table. One by one, she looked again at the drawings, mostly dated between her firstand fifth-grade years. They weren’t all centered around her lost siblings, but none of them showed her with either parent. Some featured herself with any number of pets, none of which she’d ever had.

Her style was imaginative. She might have gone far with the right training. She read a cute story about a Christmas stocking, a fourthgrade effort. Nothing brilliant, but again the illustration was clever. Hadn’t Mother realized she had talent? But artistic ability wasn’t something they valued. Laurie laid the paper down.

Had she ever pleased them? Ever satisfied anyone? She closed her eyes, rubbed her temples with her fingertips. Luke had been given long enough. She stood up, looked down one more time at the scattering of pictures. Drawing a sharp breath, she jutted her chin. Wherever Luke and Maddie excelled—even if they didn’t excel— whatever pleased them, made their little hearts sing, she would support it if it took every ounce of energy and every resource she had.

She went up to make peace with her son. Tapping at the door, she let herself in. He stood at the window, dropping the baseball into his glove, tipping it back into his hand, then dropping it again.

He turned to look over his shoulder. “It isn’t you, Mommy.”

“What do you mean, Luke?”

He looked down at the glove, then tipped it so that the ball rolled out onto the floor. It hit with a thud and rolled along the floorboard to the heating vent, where it wobbled to a stop. “Daddy doesn’t want me.”

She wanted to cry, knowing firsthand the pain of believing what he did. And a lie from her would change nothing. Children knew. They knew. She walked in and sat on the side of his bed. “Come here, Luke.”

He came and stood between her knees.

She wrapped her hands around his waist, looked into his face. “Your daddy loves you more than anyone in the world.” Except himself, and maybe that wasn’t even his fault. He’d never been expected to consider anyone but himself, anything but his own needs and desires. “He just doesn’t know how to do it very well. He would try harder if he could.”

“I could help him.”

Smiling, she stroked Luke’s cheek. “If anyone can teach someone to love, it’s you, sweetie. You taught me.” She flicked the tip of his nose with her finger.

His eyes teared. “Why can’t we try?”

She swallowed every one of the reasons that leapt to mind. “Maybe we can. Someday.” For Luke’s sake, if she believed it was best for the children, she would face even that. “But right now, Daddy’s making some choices that mean we can’t be with him.”

“Like training camp?”

She shook her head. “No. Bad choices.” She held a finger to his lips. “Please don’t ask me to explain. Do you believe that I’m doing the best I can for us?”

He nodded.

“And you know I love you.”

He reached around her neck and rested his head against her. “I love you too.”

She closed her eyes against the tears that burned to the surface. She had wanted the perfect life for them. Perfect. Her mother’s words chilled her,
“two perfect children.”
No, she didn’t want perfection. What then?

Cal reached into the jeep and slid the crate of clown paraphernalia off the seat. It was a sure bet no one in the department would take over that job. Well, that couldn’t be helped. It wasn’t his problem anymore. He wouldn’t think about the sea of little faces that might not learn the message he’d tried so hard to get across. Someone else would have to teach them.

He started across the yard, saw Ray attacking Mildred’s rugs with a broom. It was a toss-up whether the rugs hanging on the line or the broom was getting the worst of it as straw snapped and flew with each whap. Cal paused. “You might try that with a shovel, Ray. Packs a better wallop.”

Ray stopped and looked at the broom bristles standing out like a bad hair day. Cissy would be hard-pressed to ferret out the dust bunnies with it after this beating. Ray turned it upside down. “I guess a shovel might work. What’s all that?” He nodded toward the box Cal held.

“Clown gear. Puppets.”

Ray grinned. “Is Rocky in there?”

Cal nodded. “Come see him sometime. He’ll be rooming with me now.”

“I will. Maybe I’ll have him over for a cold one.” Ray laughed.

“Better than he’ll get at my place. He’s already complaining.”

Still laughing, Ray looked at the broom in his hand. “Guess I’ll try the shovel.”

“Better ditch that broom where Mildred won’t see it.”

Ray sobered. “You think?”

“Nah.” Cal shook his head. “Just needs a little trim around the ears.”

Ray looked up quizzically, then guffawed. “Yeah. Around the ears.” He plucked off the worst of the broken straws.

Cal headed up to his room, stowed the crate on his kitchen table, and took a Coke from the refrigerator. Ray’s mention of a cold one resonated inside. He popped open the soda with a
fiss
and a thin wisp of mist, hoping the caffeine would kill the craving. He chugged until he had to come up for air, but he still missed the bite and malt of a long-necked Budweiser.

A heavy step creaked up the stairs outside, Ray coming for Rocky already? But he opened to Reggie. Had the man divined his immediate struggle? Or did he intend to lay in as Rob had?

“Yo, Cal. I got a function I’d like to take you to.”

“Function?” Cal pulled the wig from the crate. “Do I come in costume?”

Reggie grinned, and despite his best efforts, Cal couldn’t help but return it.

“No. You just come as you are.”

Cal’s antennae went up. “Would this be a church function, Reggie?”

He nodded his big head. “Yup. And I got word you’re supposed to be there.”

“Let me guess. The big man, right?” Cal quirked an eyebrow.

“That’s right. And when He speaks, His saints listen.”

“Well, I’m no saint. Sorry to disappoint you.” He reached into the crate and held out the jar of peanuts. “Help yourself.”

Reggie pulled open the lid and a spring snake leapt out. Reggie flung it, both arms flailing, then scowled. “That one’s so old, it’s not funny.”

“Wanna bet? Wish I had a Polaroid.” Cal retrieved the snake.

“Ha, ha.”

Cal stuffed the snake back into the jar. “What did you think of Laurie?”

“I thought she was lovely. ’Course, I prefer a little more fluff …”

“Did Rita say anything?” He glanced up, watched Reggie’s face.

Reggie shook his head. “Mum’s the word. You coming tonight?”

“If I do?”

This time Reggie swung his head with meaning. “Don’t expect me to pump Dr. James. You want her to play, you gotta handle that yourself.”

Cal expelled his breath. “All right, I’ll come. But don’t expect much.”

“You don’t know the Big Man if you can say that.” Reggie grinned, waved, and headed out the door. The stairs creaked and moaned as he descended.

Cal stared at the door.
No, Reg, I don’t know the Big Man. And I can’t say I want to
. He wiped his hands dry and shoved them into his pockets.

Four hours later, Reggie returned, and Cal met him at the base of the stairs. Banging his arms against the cold, Cal slid into the seat beside him. “You know, Reg, I’m only doing this because you’re a friend. I slept through enough services as a kid.”

“This isn’t a service as such.”

“What is it?”

“A prayer meeting.”

“You didn’t say anything about people laying hands and rolling in the aisle.” He’d seen that on TV, rows of people laid out at the sweep of the evangelist’s hand. No thanks.

Reggie laughed his deep, belly-rolling laugh. “Relax, bro. You’re in the hands of the Master.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Cal dropped his head back against the seat. He should never have agreed to this.

Reggie pulled up to a small frame house with a couple of seedy willows at either side. Cal got out and trod the crumbly walkway reluctantly. Reggie hallooed at the door, then pulled it open and waved Cal in.

Cal stepped inside a room crammed with furniture—definite violation of fire codes. On one wall was posted the Ten Commandments. Across from that was the Twenty-third Psalm complete with pastoral scene. A bent and grizzled black man shuffled into the room from what Cal guessed was the kitchen.

“Brother Reginald,” the man boomed with a voice larger than himself.

Oh boy. Here we go. Guess I’m Brother Calvert. Hallelujah
.

“Brought a friend, Brother Lucas. This is Cal.”

Cal shook the wrinkled hand. Did the bathroom have a window? Why hadn’t he brought his ax? Four more people came to the door. All black, all large, three women and a young man.