Jane
She’s barely more than a waif, and I ponder if there’s enough meat on her bones to allow her to float in a swimming pool, or would she sink like a lithe pebble. I never doubted that Ron would find someone easy to maneuver—someone he might rein in with a simple tug—but I did have faith he’d try to make more of an effort to withstand appearances. This girl is barely grown. She’s shaky and nervous and on those itty-bitty, lanky legs. She’s like a shivering Chihuahua, yapping at my heels with all her ineffective might. I’m certain she was everything Ron wanted her to be. Everything it wasn’t possible for me to be. Or any woman over thirty to be. Ron always did see women like a fine, grapevine—train them as they grow.
He purchased her allegiance, and it was money well-spent, as her adherence to his rules seems unflappable. He said she was tall, and she is that, but her length is lost in the fact that she’s so insanely skinny. Muy flaco, as we would say at home. In Mexico, the men like their women with a little meat on their bones. A little junk in the trunk, as my friends would say. This emaciated look is unknown, unless someone has a tapeworm, and it’s certainly not celebrated like here in Los Angeles. It’s funny how times change. A suntan used to be the sign of a field hand; now it’s a sign of leisure. The bony look was used to advertise feeding the hungry; today, it’s hard to tell the difference between a World Vision ad and a copy of Vogue.
The last time my thighs were as small as hers…scratch that, I don’t think my thighs were ever that small. The last time my arms were as slender as her thighs was back sometime near the era of John Travolta’s Stayin’ Alive.
I don’t know what Lindsay has to be upset about. She’s the one who looks like a million and probably inherited many more with Ron’s estate. So she had to wait a year for me to get here. No doubt she can postpone her spa treatments and shopping as we get this taken care of. I’m just the ex doing all the work so she won’t get her precious, manicured hands dirty and if she were more than a child, she could appreciate that fact. But I refuse to sink to her adolescent ways. It’s clear I’m going to have to be the adult here.
“I’m the resident artist in Campeche.” She looks at me questioningly. “Campeche, Mexico.”
“I don’t understand. They don’t have mail in Mexico?”
“I’ve been on sabbatical. I take tourists on hiking and painting excursions. Somehow, this information and I kept missing each other. You have a right to question my presence, but I can assure you, I barely understand it myself.”
“We had to hire an investigator to find you.” She thins her eyes warily. It’s like having Shirley Temple stare threateningly, and the desired effect is lost.
I can’t help myself as a snicker bubbles over. I never was good in decent society, and apparently that hasn’t changed. Being an artist, I’m loved for being quirky in Mexico. Here, it’s viewed as a transmittable disease.
“Like I said, I’d been on sabbatical.”
“From what? I thought you lived in the middle of nowhere. Is something funny?” Lindsay asks.
I flatten my lips and bite on them to keep another inappropriate grin from growing. “Nervous energy. Terribly sorry. It’s been a long trip and—”
Ron Brindle made half my life miserable by “rescuing” me, and now he’s determined to put a serious crimp in the second half. These are supposed to be my golden years—the self-indulgent, lacking-in-serious-responsibility age. Executor of a trust is a serious responsibility, especially when there’s a nipping, yappy widow at my heels. I rub my temples, not really having the energy to explain my presence in full to this blond child. I never understood Ron in life—why would death make him more reasonable to me?
Lindsay knows a different Ron than I did, and I have to be careful how I frame this, so as not to harm his carefully constructed legacy. No sense in ruining her memories of a man she clearly adores and is now dead, but whoever said, “Dead men tell no tales,” didn’t know my ex-husband. Ron took a lot with him to the grave, and it’s up to me to keep it buried, I would guess. Otherwise, why leave me with the burden of his will?
“I shouldn’t be in California but maybe two weeks, Lindsay. That should give me time to clear everything up, and then you can move forward with life. It’s just my signature needed on a few things, I’m certain.” But as I think about the bulging envelope given to me by the lawyer’s office, I’m sure Ron probably made things more difficult than they needed to be. He had his motive, after all.
Saving his brother from life’s consequences probably seemed a good idea at the time, as did rescuing his current wife from doing the hard work. Neither rescue attempt worked—that’s the irony of it all. Ron and his Superman complex.
Lindsay blinks those wide, blue eyes at me, giving me more power than I deserve. I’m telling you, I could kill him. It’s a good thing he’s already dead.
“Hamilton told you I was coming, I assume?” I ask her.
“Hamilton?” the other blonde perks up.
“Haley is marrying Hamilton,” Lindsay explains. “We were just on our way out to shop for her wedding dress. Another two minutes and you might have missed us.”
Interesting. I’ve been gone for nearly two decades and not a thing changes. There’s an endless supply of new blondes and lots of tired, old men waiting to rescue them. Although I’ve never met Hamilton in person, maybe he’s an exception. I highly doubt that, though.
“In any event,” Lindsay says with a set chin, as if she’s channeling her mature self, “Hamilton didn’t tell me you were coming. He told me only that he’d made contact with the executor through the investigator, and now, here you are with a suitcase. And a cat.” She says the last word with an emphasis on the vowel. A long emphasis that makes no bones about her thoughts on felines. “I’ll just call him.” She whips out a cell phone and hands it to Haley, who punches in the number. Old moves from their cheerleading days obviously coming in handy.
“Hamilton? Hi, baby, it’s me. Lindsay has a question for you…I know, I love you, too, sweetie…Yes, we’re going shopping soon. I will. I’ll pick the most beautiful dress ever…”
Lindsay grabs the phone, and I think she’s more perturbed by the sickening conversation than I am. “Hamilton, there’s someone here saying they’re the executor of Ron’s will…yes…uh-huh…no…all right, thanks.” She narrows her eyes again, not unlike a Gila monster back home. “He says you were expected, and his secretary gave you what you needed. He got busy on a case and forgot to call.” She looks down and then back up to meet my eyes. “Do what you have to do. Haley and I are going shopping.”
No doubt what they do best.
I feel the walls closing in on me. Being in America is hard enough. Being in L.A. is enough to drive anyone insane. “I take it you’re not a big fan?”
“Of you or the cat?” she asks, and I see a little of her claws. She probably held herself fairly well against Ron, but she’s got no beef with me. I wish I could make her understand that. I want out of here probably worse than she wants me out of here.
“I’ll just go straight to the hotel.”
“Just stay here. Honestly, what hotel in L.A. is going to take the cat, anyway?” Lindsay offers and I can tell there isn’t a sincere syllable in her invitation, but she’s obviously been taught her role of hostess and does as she is supposed to, without regards for her true feelings. I remember when I was just like her.
“Lindsay, that’s very sweet of you, but I’m perfectly comfortable in a hotel, and there are many that are animal-friendly these days.”
“They’re dog-friendly,” Lindsay says. “No one likes cats.”
“Perhaps you’ll let me peruse a phone book then, and I’ll find her a kitty hotel. Many vets have them on-site.”
She rolls her eyes and walks to the kitchen. Soon, she comes back with a telephone book the size of a Mayan temple. She slams it on the table, but as I reach for it, she picks it up again.
“No. I can’t let you stay in a hotel. Ron wouldn’t have appreciated that. The guest bedroom is down the hall, and the quicker this is over, the better.”
“I know my presence can’t be the best way to start your day and I appreciate not having to schlep around for a hotel.” I smile at her. She’s too young and naïve to know the gift she’s been given—the second chance at life. I want to gift wrap her future, tie it with a nice, pretty bow, and push her out onto the doorstep: Off with you now. Fly. Be free! “My goal is to get out of your way as soon as possible and let you move on with your future. It’s open to you now.”
She plunks a fist where her hip should be. “I’m a thirty-five-year-old widow. I live with eighty-year-old women and four hundred cats. My future isn’t looking extremely bright at the moment. You’ll forgive me if I lack enthusiasm,” she snaps.
“No, of course it isn’t.” I offer gently, but inwardly, I think, Great, a drama queen. Just what I need to make things easy. Is it really possible for a man’s first wife to say something that the second wife will be happy with? Women are odd creatures. I imagine that’s why I spent most of my life around men. She’s determined to get into some competitive battle with me, and there’s no making her see I’m not even in the race. I pull in my suitcase and the cat into the foyer. “This is Kulkucan.” The both stare at me open-eyed, obviously unfamiliar with Mexican history. “He’s named after the Mayan god.” Again with the empty stares. This city has absolutely no culture beyond what Entertainment Tonight features. “Quetzalcoatl?” I ask, hoping to see something register.
Lindsay shakes her head. “Whatever. It’s a cat. It can stay in the laundry room down the hall. Your room is that way, too, though I haven’t made the beds. I wasn’t expecting houseguests.”
“That’s fine. Before you go, I just need a few things from Ron’s desk. If you’ll just point me in the right direction.” I pull out the folder. “It says here in the attic storage above his office.”
“His office was at the other house, but the desk isn’t there.”
“Ron said in his letter he has something to leave to Ron Jr. in his desk. If you’ll just tell me where that is, I’ll be out of here when I have all the paperwork in one place.” I hold up the key that Hamilton’s office sent with the letter.
“Ron Jr.?” Lindsay sputters.
Uh-oh. Open mouth, insert foot. “It’s not what you think.” Both of them start to walk toward me, and I feel the hair on the back of my neck bristle.
She blanches as easily as white asparagus. “It sounds like Ron had a son I never knew about. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“No, that’s not what I’m telling you. It’s a complicated story, but it’s not what you think.” I say nothing more. I could kill Ron for his stupid suggestion, and why I didn’t change my son’s name in Mexico is beyond me. I suppose because he’s not a cat—once his name was set, I could hardly go calling him Barney now, could I? Hindsight is, in fact, twenty-twenty. Ron did have a powerful way of getting exactly what he wanted, and—here’s the beauty part—he made you believe it was your idea all along. He wore charm like a silk shirt.
Lindsay’s face contorts, and it’s clear her loyalty to Ron is more tentative than she lets on. “Then who is Ron Jr.?” She doesn’t even try to hide the animosity from me. There is so much venom, I fear she might snap at me like a provoked, eyelash pit viper. Incidentally, they don’t need much provocation.
“He’s my son,” I repeat. “Just let it lie.”
“Your son alone? How is that possible, exactly, that another man lets you name his son after someone else?”
“Ron protected my son and me. You haven’t heard this story?”
She shakes her head.
I let my eyes wither shut at the admission. How could I just blurt that out? I’ve spent thirty years hiding this secret with absolutely no issues. I come in here, and it’s as though I’m in a Catholic confessional, looking for absolution. “I’d appreciate it, Lindsay, if we could respect each other’s privacy. You don’t have to know everything. This isn’t about you. I’m sure you have secrets of your own that you’d just as soon keep to yourself.”
Haley walks toward me, giving me her best, tough-blond look—which is more comical than Lindsay’s. “Listen, this is hard on Lindsay, and I don’t want her hurt anymore. Where is your son?”
Their blue-eyed gazes would bore a hole in me if I stayed put, so I start to pace. “He’s my son.” I look up to see a well of tears in Lindsay’s eyes. “Only my son. I’ve given you more explanation than anyone else in my life has ever asked for, including my mother! He lives here in L.A. and he’s comfortable with the notion that his father isn’t in his life.” They both want more, but what am I supposed to say? Oh, back in the day…it was after the sixties, what can I say? Free love—and then, the harsh realization that there ain’t no such thing. “Ron Jr. just assumes his father and I did what was best for him. Which I did, so if you ever meet Ron Jr., I would appreciate it if you allowed him to—”
“You want me to lie for you?” Lindsay asks.
Already, I am stone-cold tired of how much work a conversation in this forsaken place is. No one takes you at your word; no one thinks anything about barging into your personal business. This is a town raised on tabloids, and it shows!
“No, let’s forget we had this conversation. You two run along and go about your business. I’ve probably upset your whole day. If you direct me to the desk, I’ll be out of your way.” She’s right, of course. Pixie thing that she is. She knows it’s wrong to lie for a stranger. She’s not stupid, but then I guess she thinks I have some kind of power over her, and she’s going to do her best to exert what she’s got. But asking a complete stranger to lie for me in the first five minutes I’ve met her—it’s just not like me, and I add one more reason I can’t stand the States. I am someone else here. Someone I don’t like at all. But there’s one thing I did right in my life and that’s Ron Jr. and he is worth every continuous battle. I’ll just have to make certain that Lindsay and Ron, Jr. never meet.
“The desk is gone.”
“Gone?”
“I gave it to an after-school club.”
“Where is it?”
“It’s on the south side.”
“You gave Ron’s desk to a southside after-school club?” Couldn’t she have just gone to Ikea and donated three hundred desks for the price of Ron’s? “It was an antique, wasn’t it? He had that desk before either of us.”
“It’s not for the after-school club. They are going to auction it off for cash.”
“Lindsay,” I say calmly. “I need to find that desk.”
“I’ll give you the number of the club when I get back. We’re shopping for a wedding gown today, and we’re in sort of a hurry. If you’d called and said you were coming…”
He found a way to control me beyond the grave. Somehow, I knew he would. “Did he ask you to give away the desk?”
“I didn’t have any use for it, so I got rid of it, Jane. It was my way of telling myself he wasn’t coming back, and it didn’t go with the decor he’d picked for his own office. Now, here you are looking for it. Why didn’t he tell me to keep it?”
“I don’t know. Maybe he thought you’d respect it and keep it in his house?” I feel my heart pounding and try to remain cool, but the tension between the two of us fills me with angst. I try to take a few deep breaths and focus on the sound of my exhaling to find a centering place. “I’m sorry, you’re right. It’s my fault for being lost in the mountains so long.”
It’s hard to have pity for Lindsay. She can haul her size-zero frame out and find herself a new Ron. One who will support her very expensive shopping habits and lead her like a horse with reins. I’m haunted by the old Ron for the rest of my days. Him and his constant quest for me to forgive. “It will free you, Jane. You must do this!” he would say. I wouldn’t even be here if her dead husband—our dead husband—hadn’t had to be such a martyr. Why couldn’t he just let things be? I screwed up, yes, but I moved on. Isn’t that what we’re supposed to do in life? Not wallow in the old cesspool that is your past?
Lindsay straightens up, and her hard expression melts into a smile. She’s suddenly insanely unruffled, which naturally makes me nervous.
“So you may as well make yourself comfortable. It sounds like there’s a lot of unfinished business to be done,” she coos. “I’ll find the receipt for the desk when I get back. Hopefully, they haven’t sold it yet, or Hamilton has a copy of what you need.”
Nice Lindsay is far more frightening than Threatening Lindsay, but this condo offers me the best hope of an escape route. I have access to the lawyer through the other blonde and access to Ron’s quest through the papers in the house—if she didn’t get rid of them all.
“His filing cabinet is in the guest room. You should be able to find it all there.” Her voice is wearing with fatigue.
“If you’ll just let me know where the sheets are, I’ll make up the bed myself and get started. You two go on about your business. I’ll be fine.” But that’s a lie. One mistake and it seems as though there is no end in sight. I can’t ever seem to get past it. Not even after thirty years of trying to bury it.
Lindsay blinks quickly but can’t stop a single tear that escapes down her cheek. She’s softer than the schemer I originally took her for, but this is why I fell for Ron in the first place—the mother in me wants to embrace her and tell her it will be all right. I’m a caretaker. Always did think I could fix whatever was broken. Had to get the house that needed the most work, the man who needed the most coddling. I’ve tried to shake this personality downfall, but it bobs to the surface continuously. It’s all that Catholic guilt.
“I don’t understand,” she squeaks. “Why didn’t Ron let me handle it? I was a good wife to him, Jane.”
Ron, how could you do this to me? You marry someone young enough to be your daughter and leave me to mother her? Life isn’t fair.
I rub her shoulder. “I know you were, Lindsay. Ron had only wonderful things to say about you. He worshipped you, really.”
“Why you? Why are you here?” A touch of the sharpness in her voice returns. “If he didn’t trust me, he could have found anyone to have done this. Hamilton could have done this.”
“I’m here for me. I left unfinished business the first time, and Ron wants me to finish it. He wasn’t a man to let sleeping dogs lie, and you know how he felt about his newfound religion. He wrote to me before his death, but you have to understand, I had no idea he was anywhere near the end. I just thought it was more nagging on his part to get me to come back here.”
“It wasn’t all that new. His religion,” she tells me. “What did Ron write to you? May I see it?”
I clutch the blue envelope from the manila packet and extend my arm to Lindsay. “I hope this answers some questions for you. Let’s just get through this, all right?”
She nods.
“If you read the letter, I think you’ll see where his loyalties were.” I wink at her and take the cat out of his cage. Haley retreats to the kitchen like I’ve just let loose a rattlesnake.
“Lindsay’s allergic to cats.”
“I thought it was you who was allergic to cats.”
“We’re both allergic.”
“Not liking them is not an allergy.”
“It’s not?” Haley asks.
The two of them make me feel so old. Don’t get me wrong, I wouldn’t go back to being worried about my image for all the gold in the Sierra Madre, but neither one of them is old enough to be nursing the wounds of a deceased husband. Naturally, Ron made sure Lindsay wouldn’t be burdened with the reality of a widow. He left all that red tape for me.
To have their bodies with my brain—I’d be unstoppable. But as they say, youth is wasted on the young. I’m an artist, a gypsy by nature. To be in civilization is bad enough, but to be in L.A. with my former life barreling down on me is like an Aztec sacrifice. Maybe it is time I faced the music. The thought flitters only briefly before I realize running is the only life I know. The faster I move, the happier I am.
I lift Kulkucan from the tile floor and cuddle my cheek into his fur. He purrs and for the moment, all is right in the world.
“Go ahead—you two were going out, weren’t you?” I ask.
They look to one another, clearly mistrusting my presence, but decide they’re more anxious to get away from me. “I’ll leave my cell phone number in case you need anything while we’re out.” Lindsay scribbles down her number, and Haley has to tug at her to get toward the door. They finally leave, and I collapse onto the couch with Kuku on my lap.
Once again, Ron’s left a giant mess for me to clean up. And this time, someone is bound to get hurt.