The Sanctity of Sloth Page 11

  "Sight for sore eyes," her father said as soon as the house came into view.

  "Wait until you get inside. I spent the weekend cleaning and cooking."

  "It needed it?" His eyes squeezed into tiny smile-shaped arcs. He knew very well it had. He reached over the center console of the car and patted her thigh. "You're a good kid."

  "Are you hungry?" Abby turned off the engine.

  "Nope. I already ate lunch, remember? But I could do with a cup of coffee."

  "Can you have coffee with those meds you're on?"

  "They didn't say I couldn't."

  Abby helped her dad, who was still walking stiffly, to the front door. "Smells good in here," he said as soon as he entered.

  "It's amazing what happens when you take out the trash."

  "I take out the trash, but it never makes the house smell like cookies. Chocolate chip?"

  Abby agreed—she had made several batches on Sunday. "And Tallulah dropped off molasses. I'll give you some of both with your coffee. Let's get you settled in bed first."

  "I'm not getting in bed in the middle of the day." His voice took on a stubborn edge.

  "But the doctor said—"

  "I don't care what the doctor said. I don't see what difference it makes if I'm in bed, or I'm in my recliner."

  "Maybe she wants you to lie flat. Your ribs and all."

  "I wasn't flat in the hospital bed."

  Abby couldn't argue with that. He'd been pretty handy with the buttons that controlled the bed angles. "How about the couch?" she said aiming for a compromise.

  "No, ma'am. I've been dreaming about my chair since Saturday." He collapsed into it with a groan and a sigh. "Now stop fussing over me, and hand me the TV remote."

  Abby smiled despite her worry for him. Her father was on his second recliner, but this spot, in front and just to the right of the TV and to the left of the big picture window, had been his for as long as she could remember.

  After delivering the coffee and cookies, she went out to the car to retrieve his bag. Two figures were walking up the long gravel drive. One was taller than the other, but both displayed the slenderness and loose stride of youth. They must be Mimi's sons. She'd mentioned she had children.

  Abby waited by the car, deciding to introduce herself. She wasn't gregarious. What she wanted to do was ignore them. Based on what she knew about high school students from working at a school, that would be their preference too. But she'd decided to make friends with the neighbors for her father's sake. The more people keeping an eye on him, aware of his presence in the house, the better.

  As the boys drew closer, a pebble of anxiety plunked into her chest. Not because of her general anti-social nature, but because there was something familiar about the oldest. Something she couldn't put her finger on. Something that brought with it the miasma of a memory. A bad one.

  A jolt of recognition snapped up her spine. Could he be? No, she dismissed the idea. But the eyes. The cheekbones. "Hello," she said when they were only a few yards away. "You must be Mimi's boys." She wanted to hear his voice.

  The oldest looked at her with suspicion, but the younger smiled brightly. "I'm Evan," he said and held out a hand.

  "Abby. I'm Mr. Travers's daughter. I'm going to be staying with him for a while." After shaking Evan's hand, she turned to his brother and examined him. The night had been so dark, and the boy had been in the shadows, but the eyes were the same—dark and exotic.

  "Chad," he mumbled and shook her outstretched hand.

  "Just getting home from school?" Abby addressed the question to him, but Evan answered.

  "Yup. We go to Capo Valley. I'm a freshman, but Chad is a senior."

  "Good for you. Do you like it there?"

  "It's great. Much better than our old school. Or, at least, better than my old school. Chad liked his okay."

  Evan obviously handled communication for the both of them, but she wanted to get Chad talking. "So you're graduating this year? Do you have college plans?"

  Chad stared at his shoes. Evan said, "Chad's good at math. He's probably going to go to UC Irvine next year."

  "Really? UCI is a great school for the sciences."

  The scratch of a screen door interrupted the conversation. Mimi called to them from her front porch. "You boys bothering Ms. Travers?"

  "She said we could call her Abby," Evan said.

  "Absolutely," Abby said.

  Chad was already halfway across the yard when his mother said, "Well, come on in and let her get back to whatever she was doing. Evan will talk your ear off." Evan gave Abby a lopsided grin and loped off after his brother.

  "How's your father doing, Abby?" Mimi said after the boys disappeared through the door she held open.

  "He's being very stubborn."

  "That's usually a good sign."

  They said their goodbyes and Mimi promised to stop by with chicken soup soon. Frustration followed Abby inside the house. She'd wanted to hear Chad speak. This is stupid. That's all she'd heard the boy at the Mission say, but it was something. If the eyes and the voice matched. . .

  So what if they did? It didn't mean anything. There were probably dozens of dark-haired young men with exotic shaped eyes and sullen voices. Didn't most high school males have sullen voices?

  She couldn't go to the police based on a vague resemblance, with eyes, cheekbones, and a sullen voice. Carlos was right, it was better for her to stay with her father, take care of him, protect him, than get both of them in trouble. If she had something definitive, something that cast real suspicion on someone it would be worth it. And solid information would most likely soften the investigator's attitude toward them.

  But this wasn't definitive. She was being yanked around by her expectations, seeing what she wanted to see. What was the likelihood that the first boy the right age, with the right coloring she bumped into was the one she'd seen at the Mission? The truth was she wanted so badly to find the men who'd abandoned that girl, who may have tried to kill her father, she was superimposing her desire on the circumstances.

  Worse still, she was falling victim to The Other-Race Effect. Most people had a hard time distinguishing the subtle differences in appearance between people of other races. They all look alike, right? It sounded so racist, but like it or not, and she didn't like it, it was true. Abby was Dutch and British. She was fair and had light brown hair and eyes. Mimi's son was Chinese and Caucasian, but he wasn't her culprit. Abby put that notion out of her head as the back door slapped shut behind her.

  "Abby." Her father's voice rang out. She closed the back door and locked it before running to the living room. She'd check the windows as soon as she had a minute. They'd never been vigilant about buttoning up the house. They'd never had to. That was about to change.

  Her father's face had taken on a gray tinge since she'd left him. "Maybe I was overly optimistic."

  "What's wrong?"

  "I'm not feeling too good. Can you help me get into bed? I need to rest."

  She walked him to his bed, put his pajamas out, and closed the door. The afternoon and evening were spent running back and forth between his room and the kitchen. Caring for her father drove all other thoughts from her mind.

  ***

  After his dinner, her father finally fell into a fitful sleep. Abby turned off his bedside table lamp, walked straight into the kitchen and poured herself the last glass of Red Ravish. She took it out to the small porch that faced the Jacksons’ house and collapsed into the old rocker.

  The Jackson house She didn't know if she'd ever get used to calling it that. Her whole life it had been "Sage's place" or the "Hartman house". The home had been in Sage's family for several generations and was famous in these parts for its garden. The cloying scent of angel's trumpet blew across the yellowed grass and wrapped around her head now.

  Sage's grandmother had been San Juan Capistrano's medicine woman, and had made herbal remedies for everything from the common cold to postpartum depression. In her day, many p
eople believed she was a witch. Today, some thought she haunted the garden and the house. Abby had never seen her. She believed the house was haunted, but not by a ghost. By memories. The past shrouded the place like a thick fog.

  The year after Scottie died, Sage's husband, Doug, died. Abby's family had nothing to do with the man after he tried to poison their dog, Pepe, but it wasn't until the day of his funeral that Abby learned her mother blamed him for Scottie's death as well. It was terrible. And the first time she saw the bitterness that ended up consuming her mother like rust corrodes a tin roof.

  Abby's mother had worn her favorite yellow dress that day. Usually, she saved it for parties and special occasions. The first thing Dad said when she came out of the bedroom in it was, "Molly, don't you think that's disrespectful?"

  Abby didn't know why wearing the yellow dress was disrespectful, or why her father was so upset. She loved the dress. The yellow was such a happy color.

  "What?" Mom opened her brown eyes wide.

  "His family is grieving."

  Mom shrugged and waltzed into the kitchen swinging the skirt around her legs. A little bit later she called them in for breakfast. She'd made pancakes and bacon and gave Dad orange juice with bubbly wine in it. It was like Christmas morning, except Dad didn't look very merry. His mouth was tight and pinched.

  Mom hummed as she set the plates of food on the table. She was happier than Abby had seen her since Scottie's death. Abby poured extra syrup on her food and watched from the corner of her eye to see if her hand was going to get slapped, but her mother didn't seem to notice. Dad was busy pushing his food around with a fork.

  Mom's cheerful mood didn't last long.

  That afternoon, Abby sat in the sun on the back porch and watched cars park all along one side of their long driveway and down on the road. People, in groups of twos and threes, women in black dresses, men in black suits, trooped up to Sage's house carrying platters of food. The ladies wobbled on the gravel in their high heels. The men's shoes crunched loudly.

  Her mother came outside, threw herself into the rocker and began to rock, hard and fast. Abby didn't turn around, but she could feel the change in temperature like when a storm cloud covers the sun.

  "Emma," Mom called out to one of the women walking up the drive. Emma Williams gave Mom a quick glance from under the brim of her hat.

  "Molly," she said so softly Abby almost missed the word.

  After Emma Williams came the Carrillos, husband, wife, and two teenage daughters. Mom called out to them too, but not in the friendly, easy way she usually did. The Carrillos nodded, looked at their feet and walked faster. After the Carrillos came Mr. and Mrs. Dempsey, then the Fields family. Mom said hello to all of them in the disappointed voice she used when Dad came home late and smelled like beer, or when Abby got an “Unsatisfactory” on her report card.

  She didn't understand why her mother was mad at them. Those people were their friends. They saw them in church. They saw them at school events. But she didn't ask. She didn't want to hear what her mother would say. Somewhere in her seven-year-old mind she understood the answer would change everything.

  The screen door slapped open. Dad walked out. "That's enough, Molly."

  "I'm just greeting our friends, Paul. It's the neighborly thing to do."

  "I said, that's enough." Dad's voice was so cold it could freeze water. Abby had never heard him talk like that to Mom before.

  "Get in the house," he said to Abby, his tone softer. She knew better than to argue. She darted inside, but stayed close to the door so she could hear the rest of their conversation.

  "You're making a spectacle of yourself," her father said.

  "If by spectacle you mean I'm setting an example for these hypocrites, then I agree."

  "I haven't said much, because I know what you believe, and I didn't want to upset you. But this has to stop now. The police said it was an accident. The medical examiner said it was an accident. There's no proof Doug had anything to do with it."

  Mom's voice raised. "Hey there, Scarlet. Hey, Greg. If you're bringing that pasta salad you brought over when my boy died, Sage is going to be real pleased. Wonderful salad. I love those artichoke hearts you put in it."

  "You're shaming our family." Dad's words came out in a hiss.

  "They're the ones who should feel ashamed, Paul. Paying respects to a man who doesn't deserve any."

  "Let it go, Molly." Dad's voice was pleading now. "Think of Sage and the kids. They haven't done anything wrong, and it's them you're punishing. Doug is gone. He's in God's hands now. If he's guilty, he'll pay. Sins that aren't punished in this world are punished in the next."

  "Then I guess I'm going to have to go to hell, so I can watch." And in many ways, Molly Travers had done just that.

  The porch door across the grass opened, and a woman stepped out. Abby couldn't see her face. Mimi leaned from the doorway. "I'll see you later in the week, then?"

  "Absolutely. I'll bring the tile samples by as soon as I get them. What day is good for you?" The woman's alto voice rang a familiar chord.

  "Thursday?"

  "Okay. I'll call."

  "Goodnight, Rosie." Mimi disappeared into her home, and Rosie walked along the path to the driveway. When she reached her vehicle, Abby recognized her. She was the wedding planner from the Mission who'd walked by her squint with Tallulah. Rosie was the name Tallulah had used too. Abby remembered because it had seemed funny Rosie was interested in flowers. She'd mentioned a client who was considering becoming a garden volunteer. It must have been Mimi. Small world.

  Abby drained the last of her wine, and looked at the empty glass. She should get herself something to eat. Put something inane on the television. Rid her mind of morose memories.

  The only thing she could do to right the wrongs of the past was to get back to work on her book. Tomorrow, hopefully, her father would be more comfortable and she'd be able to. She'd written a lot in her journal while she was in the anchorhold. She wanted to get those notes onto the computer and fleshed out while the experience was still fresh in her mind.

  It was already fading. Why was it so hard to forget the things you wanted to forget, while good memories evanesced? Perhaps if she went to the Mission next week and sat on the bench between the restrooms and her cell, remembrances of her days there would revive the way older, darker times had revived sitting on this porch.

  She stood and stretched. Imagining that small bit of world visible from her squint comforted her. She walked into the kitchen and began reheating spaghetti left over from her father's dinner. Now that she was clean, had slept in a soft bed for a couple of nights, and eaten some hot meals, she missed her hidden life. She'd had nobody to please, no decisions to make, no knotty relationships to untangle. Things were so much less complicated in the anchorhold.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  TUESDAY, MARCH 20, 10:35 AM

  ABBY SAT AT the kitchen table, laptop in front of her, journal at her right hand. She’d been at it for nearly two hours and she'd only transcribed three or four pages so far. Her father was feeling better today. Consequently he'd wanted coffee, breakfast, help dressing, and assistance to his chair. He was there now, remote in hand, watching an old Turner Classic movie. She hoped, with a guilty twinge, it would keep him busy for a while. She sipped from a fresh cup of coffee, and dove in.

  Often the decision to become an anchorite had traumatic roots. Julian of Norwich, 1342 - 1416, survived an attack of the plague, while her family died. At thirty, Julian got very sick. She was near death. When the priest came to administer last rites, she had a vision. As the priest raised the crucifix, she saw the figure of Jesus. He was bleeding. This event was followed by sixteen separate visions of Jesus. They are recorded—

  A knock at the door interrupted her. Really? Was she ever going to get anything done? If it wasn't her father, it was the phone, or someone selling solar panels. "Abby," her father called from the living room. "Door."

  "Got it," she said on her
way past the living room. She swung the door open and the we're-not-interested expression she'd donned slid from her face. It was Detective Sylla. "Oh."

  "Sorry for the surprise visit," Sylla said and flashed a set of very white teeth. Clearly, she wasn't.

  "Can I help you?" Abby said.

  "Can I come in?"

  "Oh," Abby said again, suddenly aware of her rudeness. "Of course." She stepped aside and the investigator entered.

  "How's your father doing?"

  "Much better, thank you."

  "Who is it?" her father yelled, as if on cue.

  "The police. Detective Sylla." Abby led the woman into the living room. "She wants to know how you're doing."

  He flipped off the TV, disguising his disappointment with a smile. "A bit sore and slow moving, but I'm not at death's door. Nice of you to check on me, Detective."

  "Glad to hear it." She walked to a chair opposite Abby's dad's, but didn't sit. "I was hoping you could answer a few more questions for me, now that you're on the mend."

  "I'm afraid I told you everything I remember about the accident while I was in the hospital."

  "Do you mind if we run over it one more time?"

  He sighed and nodded.

  "Can I get you a cup of coffee?" Abby asked. She ought to be polite.

  "That would be lovely," Sylla said.

  "Refill, Dad?" He handed her his mug.

  "Going back to the day of the accident. You headed to your favorite coffee shop at about three."

  "It's not my favorite, but it's the closest to work."

  "Right, well. You're walking across El Camino Real. . ."

  The conversation became a muffle of voices as Abby entered the kitchen. The coffee pot was all but empty. She dumped the remainder, rinsed the carafe, and set up a fresh pot. She thought about returning to the living room, but decided to wait until the pot brewed. She'd heard the story of the accident more times than she could count. Instead, she sat at her laptop and typed another paragraph from her journal into her manuscript, editing as she did.