Caring For Carolyn a novel by Fletcher Rhoden
from Chapter Eight:
“You’ve never played helicopter? It was Daniel’s favorite.” The scent of the lemon chicken drifted in from the kitchen but Hilary figured they had time for a quick tour.
From the end table near the chair, Hilary grabbed a seven-inch porcelain figurine of a young woman in a flowing blue dress, her face and posture lonesome in an imaginary wind. She also picked up the TV remote control sitting on the coffee table.
Hilary walked over to the easy chair, sat down and patted her leg like a shopping mall Santa Claus. Justin jumped into her lap and turned to face forward. Hilary set the figurine, cold and slick in her hand, on her own left knee, and put the remote control on Justin’s right knee.
“Okay, this is the collective,” Hilary said, clutching the head of the figurine and jerking it to each side.
“What’s that?”
“It steers the helicopter. The remote is our control panel.” Hilary pushed a few buttons on the remote, then panned her hand in front of them. “All this is the windshield. Where do you wanna go?”
“I dunno. Disneyland?”
“I’m talking about anywhere in the world. The pyramids of Egypt, the Grand Canyon, Monument Valley.”
Justin looked at her, confusion tilting his head to the side.
Hilary directed his attention back to the windshield and the imaginary world that would soon stretch out in front of them. “Let’s just fly around and see what we see. Ready?”
Justin nodded, even pretending to reach around and buckle an invisible seat belt. Justin leaned back, his seventy- or eighty- pound frame pressing sweetly against her. The scent of Prell rose up from the top of Justin’s head.
Hilary made engine noises, the walls of her windpipe clamoring and quaking, sending a deep, loud rumble out of her mouth. Hilary jostled around, leaning the chair back and speaking with an almost military tone. “We gotta get airborne. Give her some gas.”
Justin grabbed the throttle and cranked it, back and then forward. Hilary rocked, leaning heavily back, then forward. In a feigned panic, Hilary said, “Try the controls, coordinates seven-niner-three!”
Justin grabbed the remote control and started pushing the buttons.
“There you go,” Hilary said, “now take us up.”
Justin grabbed the figurine again and, allowing the base to remain fixed on Hilary’s leg, expertly mimed piloting the imaginary craft.
“Nice job,” Hilary said as she leveled off the chair and let a gurgling rattle in her throat roll into a steady hum. She pointed in front of them. “Hey, isn’t that the Grand Canyon?”
“No, I don’t think it -- ” Justin stopped himself, looking forward and squinting from the glare of the imaginary sunlight. “Yep, I think it is!”
Hilary’s smile pushed across her face. “Look at those rocks.”
“Yeah, cool!” Justin’s voice soared as his finger jutted out in front of him. “Look, Native Americans!”
Hilary didn’t notice Carolyn and Mark standing in the doorway between the kitchen and the dining room, which adjoined the living room. She didn’t hear Mark say, “She’ll make a great mom.”
“You mean stepmother.”
Back in the helicopter, Justin pointed to their left. “Hey, there’s Disneyland. Can we go, please?”
Hilary didn’t have to think about it for long. “Well, since we’re right here. And Disneyland is pretty cool.”
But Disneyland wasn’t so easy to conjure in Hilary’s imagination. She was already flying over the Colorado River at Lake Havasu years earlier, and Daniel was piloting the helicopter.
“There’s London Bridge,” Hilary had said, Daniel craning his head to see into the imaginary landmark racing up to meet them. “Let’s swoop in low and scare the tourists.”
Daniel’s brown eyes lit up on his pale, freckled face. “All right!”
Hilary shifted to the side, both she and Daniel ducking their heads low. With a low roar, Hilary turned to look behind, Daniel following her lead.
“Wow, right under it,” Daniel said. “Cool!”
“Nice job, Captain.”
In the corner of Hilary’s eye, Harris watched them, a snifter of Remy Martin swirling in his palm. His creased face was bent into a warm smile, his brown eyes fixed on them with a proud glint.
Hilary turned back to Daniel. “We’re gonna need some altitude, though. You better -- ” Hilary started coughing and jostling around, making the grinding sounds of a distressed engine noises deep in her throat.
“What is it?” Daniel asked. He asked every time and the answer was always the same.
“Engine trouble,” Hilary would always say. “Better bring us down.”
Daniel grabbed the porcelain figurine and yanked it backward. With his other hand he feverishly pressed the buttons on the remote control. Hilary continued to buck, shifting out of the chair, engine noises filling her mouth.
“I can’t hold her together,” Daniel said. “She’s breaking up!”
Hilary slipped out of the chair, her arms wrapped around Daniel as they rolled forward. Hilary threw every muscle of her throat and face into the explosion; crunching metal and shattering glass, all spewing from her mouth with eager beads of spittle. It was a fleshy soundtrack of mock terror as they spilled onto the floor, splayed out on their backs.
“Woah, that was a close one!”
“Yeah,” Daniel agreed, always free to improvise the next line. “And I don’t even have insurance!”
Hilary laughed and shot her hand into Daniel’s belly, finding the tickle spot just under the ribs. His body cramped around her probing, twisting fingers, laughter rattling into the living room.
But there was no laughter now, only the tan carpet at Hilary’s feet. Hilary knew she was staring but was locked in the moment, unwilling or perhaps unable to turn away.
“Look, it’s an eagle,” Justin said, pointing to their right. But Hilary couldn’t look, as though her head were paralyzed, dead from the chest up. “It’s a bald eagle!”
His weight began to press against Hilary’s knees, almost cutting off the circulation. Hilary’s heart raced, sweat breaking out on the back of her neck. Hilary mustered all her strength and turned to look at Justin, at the room. “Justin, I don’t want to play this game anymore.”
“But what about the -- ?”
“No, Justin, just let me up!”
Hilary picked Justin up, a hand around each side of his waist, and set him on his feet. He walked away with a fast, embarrassed step to escape his burst of temper. But the heavy cloud of silence and tension told Hilary that the little guy would never make it. By the time he reached the comfort of his father’s embrace, Daniel was in tears.
“What’s the matter with you?” Mark asked Hilary, looking down at Justin and rubbed his head. “It’s okay, honey, it wasn’t your fault.”
Hilary stepped toward them, an apology on her lips, her open hand held out for Justin’s forgiveness.
The doorbell rang. Everybody froze, tension ratcheted even higher by the stretch of silence that followed Hilary’s outburst. But there was no time for an apology, as attention drifted toward the doors and to who was standing on the other side.
Hilary stopped and stepped the other direction, toward the big oak front doors. The room seemed to hold its breath, the house swelling in tense anticipation. Even the Grandfather clock seemed nervous, chiming six bells in quivering rings as Hilary reached to door.
The knob was cold in Hilary’s hand, the click loud, the door heavy as she pulled it open.
Chapter Ten
Pam entered with a smile, Jacquard jacket straight on her shoulders. She carried a bottle of wine in each hand, one a blood-dark Bolla Piave, the other a Parducci Chardonnay, yellowed by the glass.
“Carolyn, you look tremendous.”
“Thank you, Pam. I had a lot of help.”
Pam looked at Hilary with a smile that read true admiration. Hilary even thought she saw a glint in Pam’s eye, similar to Harris’. “My sister, the best there is.” Then Pam held up the two bottles. “Red or white?”
* * *
Carolyn could hardly force herself to chew the dry chicken or flavorless steamed vegetables. She’d used all her good lines, such as, “How’s the new ad campaign, Pam?” and, “What are you studying in school, Justin?” She even exhausted the b-list material, recounting stories off her fiends and of the colorful Dr. Franklin. And she wasn’t about to discuss the pending wrongful death suit.
Hilary and Pam were carrying on a conversation about some recent book they’d read, but Carolyn couldn’t follow the details. She found herself looking at Justin more and more, his little mouth chewing in a cockeyed fashion.
Pam said to Hilary, “You remember my high-school graduation dinner.” Hilary nodded. Pam turned to Mark, who looked at her with wide, curious eyes. It had never been one of Carolyn’s favorite stories. As Pam smiled and cocked her head and brows, clearly relishing the memory, Carolyn liked it even less.
“My mother died just a few months later, which I guess makes the dinner all the more special. I wasn’t used to seeing my father and mother together, laughing and talking and getting drunk. My childhood had two households, two warring parents. My father used to refer to her as the madam.” Pam said it with a low, gravely slur, snobby and contemptuous, which Carolyn had to admit was accurate.
Pam took a sip of Chardonnay. “My mother used to call my dad your father. The way she would say it,” Pam curled her upper lip, repeating with even more nasal disgust, “your faaaaaather. I swear I’ll never unload on my children like that. Never.”
“I didn’t think you planned on having kids,” Hilary said.
Pam flashed Hilary an angry look, eyes round and pushing slightly from the lids. Hilary just shrugged, her pure intentions clear even to Carolyn, if they didn’t seem to be to Pam.
“Anyway,” Pam continued, “here they were, chumming it up, getting high on ten-dollar scotches and laughing. I still can’t believe it.”
Pam sent a quick glance shooting low across the table, hitting Carolyn in the face. By the time of its arrival, Pam already turned back toward Mark. “That was the last time my family was all together like that.”
“Can I have some more mashed potatoes, please?”
Mark smiled at Justin and said, “May I -- ”
“May I have some more?” Justin said, correcting himself.
“Yes, you may.”
Carolyn looked around, wondering if the exact same scene couldn’t occur without her. A chill raced to her breast when she realized how close they all came to living that reality, her death; instead of this one, her lingering survival.
Carolyn’s own voice, years younger, rang in her head. “I may just be some broad off the street, but I’m entitled to my opinion.”
“Of course, Carolyn, you’re absolutely right.” Harris’ voice was dignified, his eyes understanding. He turned to Pam, then fourteen years old, and said, “I don’t want to hear you disrespect her anymore.”
“Okay, Daddy,” Pam said, humility forcing her eyes to her plate. “I’ll give her all the respect a broad off the street deserves.”
Harris had tried not to laugh, Carolyn not to cry.
In the present, sitting around what was left of the Harris Richards family, Justin said, “Thank you for the mashed potatoes, Daddy.”
“He’s a fine young man.” Pam winked at Justin in a way that reminded Carolyn of Dr. Lawrence. “I have had plenty of the potatoes, delicious though they were.”
Carolyn smiled, something like warmth collecting behind her ribs.
Pam added, “I will take that portrait of Tchaikovsky, however,” and the warmth turned to cold stone sinking in her belly.
* * *
Hilary was worried when Pam went into the story of her high-school graduation dinner, and not surprised when she made her play for the Tchaikovsky painting.
Carolyn said, “Excuse me?”
Pam said, “Oh, I’m sorry, didn’t I say please?”
“Pam,” Hilary said, starting a sentence that might have been impressive had she the chance to speak it.
“These are our father’s paintings, we have a right to them.” Pam looked around, raising her hands in frustration. “How long am I supposed to wait?”
Carolyn’s voice quivered with surprise and rage. “Do you really think I’m going to sit here while you strip my house?”
“Do you really expect me to leave without getting what’s rightfully mine?”
Hilary said, “Pam, this isn’t the time or place.”
“It’s here or in a lawyer’s office,” Pam said.
“Then it will be at a lawyer’s office,” Carolyn countered.
Pam looked around the house, pushed her chair away from the table and stood.
Carolyn was quick to stand, clumsy on her left leg, she reached for her nearby cane. Mark circled to help Carolyn up as Hilary followed Pam to the wall Tchaikovsky had called home for almost twenty years.
By the time Carolyn was waddling halfway from the table, Pam had both hands on the frame.
“They’re just gonna disappear one day.” Pam said to Hilary. “Just like Dad’s will.”
“What did you say?” Carolyn said.
Ignoring her, Pam said to Hilary, “Trust me. I’m older than you, I have more experience with people. You haven’t even left the playground yet.”
“You’re the one being childish,” Hilary said.
“Don’t you touch that painting!” Carolyn shouted as she arrived, reaching for Pam’s shoulders to pull her away from the wall.
“Get her off me, Hilary,” Pam said, “she’s your mother.”
Hilary pushed herself between Carolyn and Pam. “Stop it, this is horrible! Pam, I think you’re right, the paintings are as much ours as anyone’s. But this isn’t the way. I’m still here, I’ll look out for them, I promise.”
Pam’s eyes narrowed, lips small, pressed together. “You’re taking her side. Figures.”
Anger swelled in Hilary like a ruptured boiler. But she kept her focus on keeping Pam from storming out, not in attacking and driving her away. “Would Dad approve of the way you’re acting?”
“You’d use my own father’s memory against me? You, of all people?”
Carolyn leaned on her cane, Hilary leaned on Mark, and Justin watched from the quiet of the dinning room table.
Pam backed away from the painting and assumed a pained smile and opened the closet for her purse. “Looks like I spoiled your evening. My apologies.”
The tension was so thick that the front door didn’t close all the way behind Pam, as if a vacuum had filled the room. Hilary muttered, “She shouldn’t be driving,” before running for the front yard. Pam’s screeching tires told her she was too late.