gotten the worst of it. Hell of a time explaining this to Kerry, I thought, after my promise to keep myself out of harmâs way.
But that concern became irrelevant in the next minute or so. It didnât matter what had just happened to me; it was simply no longer important.
I keep my cell phone turned off when Iâm in somebodyâs home or office; I sat there a little longer to make sure I was okay to drive before it occurred to me to check for messages. There was one on my voice mail, from Kerry. A message that slammed me harder and did more damage than Margaret Vorheesâ crystal tumbler; that really ripped the day apart, turned it dark and bleak and far more painful.
âThe on-duty doctor at Redwood Village just called,â she said. Very calm, very controlled, as if she were holding herself in rigid check. âCybil had a massive stroke this morning. She died before they could move her from the clinic to the hospital.â
Â
12
TAMARA
The first time the guy called asking for Bill, she had no idea who he was. Just an unfamiliar voice on the phone, kind of tight and demanding. She told him Bill wasnât there and probably wouldnât be available the rest of the week. He said, âI have to see him,â and she said, âIâm sorry, thatâs not possible, may I take a message?â No message. Was there something she could help him with? Evidently not. He hung up on her without giving his name.
The second call came a few minutes later, while she was taking a short break to drink her second cup of coffee and brood a little. About Bill and Kerry and the death of Kerryâs mother, mainly. Heâd called her with the news last night. She had never met Cybil Wade, but she knew how close Kerry and her mother were from the things Bill had told her. She felt bad for both of them. Old people died every day and Cybil Wade had had a good, long life, but that didnât make it any easier for her family to deal with.
Man, theyâd had so much crap in their lives, Kerry especially the past couple of years, and now this. Wasnât right that bad things kept happening to good people while the bastards in the world went right on sailing along on untroubled seas.
Thinking the word âbastardâ led her straight to thinking about Horace again, like continually picking at a splinter or a scab. He wasnât one of the worst, but he still ran with the pack. Damn the man! She couldnât make up her mind what to do about him.
Why hadnât he stayed in Philadelphia instead of coming home to the city and slithering back into her life? Well, she didnât have to have let him, never mind how contrite he was or pretended to be. Didnât have to start sleeping with him again, either, for Godâs sake. What a weak, stupid mistake thatâd been! Same old silver-tongue Horace, talk the panties right off a girl even after she vowed not to let it happen.
Never mind, either, that he was still the best lover sheâd ever had, maybe the best she would ever have. It was just sex now, wasnât it? Sure it was; she didnât love him anymore, not the way she had before he dumped her for another cellist in the Philadelphia orchestra. Served him right that Mary from Rochester dumped him for some other guy after heâd gone and put a ring on her finger.
Sex, no matter how good ⦠well, it just wasnât as important as it had been when she was living with him. She was older now, smarter (most of the time, anyway), she had responsibilities and a job she loved, she didnât need or want Horace complicating her life and maybe messing it up again. Sheâd told him that, and he swore heâd never hurt her again, he was a changed man. Maybe fact, maybe bullshit. Whatever, he wouldnât go away and leave her be. And she couldnât seem to just say no, just tell him adios, and lock the doors every time he came sucking around.â¦
This was what
But that concern became irrelevant in the next minute or so. It didnât matter what had just happened to me; it was simply no longer important.
I keep my cell phone turned off when Iâm in somebodyâs home or office; I sat there a little longer to make sure I was okay to drive before it occurred to me to check for messages. There was one on my voice mail, from Kerry. A message that slammed me harder and did more damage than Margaret Vorheesâ crystal tumbler; that really ripped the day apart, turned it dark and bleak and far more painful.
âThe on-duty doctor at Redwood Village just called,â she said. Very calm, very controlled, as if she were holding herself in rigid check. âCybil had a massive stroke this morning. She died before they could move her from the clinic to the hospital.â
Â
12
TAMARA
The first time the guy called asking for Bill, she had no idea who he was. Just an unfamiliar voice on the phone, kind of tight and demanding. She told him Bill wasnât there and probably wouldnât be available the rest of the week. He said, âI have to see him,â and she said, âIâm sorry, thatâs not possible, may I take a message?â No message. Was there something she could help him with? Evidently not. He hung up on her without giving his name.
The second call came a few minutes later, while she was taking a short break to drink her second cup of coffee and brood a little. About Bill and Kerry and the death of Kerryâs mother, mainly. Heâd called her with the news last night. She had never met Cybil Wade, but she knew how close Kerry and her mother were from the things Bill had told her. She felt bad for both of them. Old people died every day and Cybil Wade had had a good, long life, but that didnât make it any easier for her family to deal with.
Man, theyâd had so much crap in their lives, Kerry especially the past couple of years, and now this. Wasnât right that bad things kept happening to good people while the bastards in the world went right on sailing along on untroubled seas.
Thinking the word âbastardâ led her straight to thinking about Horace again, like continually picking at a splinter or a scab. He wasnât one of the worst, but he still ran with the pack. Damn the man! She couldnât make up her mind what to do about him.
Why hadnât he stayed in Philadelphia instead of coming home to the city and slithering back into her life? Well, she didnât have to have let him, never mind how contrite he was or pretended to be. Didnât have to start sleeping with him again, either, for Godâs sake. What a weak, stupid mistake thatâd been! Same old silver-tongue Horace, talk the panties right off a girl even after she vowed not to let it happen.
Never mind, either, that he was still the best lover sheâd ever had, maybe the best she would ever have. It was just sex now, wasnât it? Sure it was; she didnât love him anymore, not the way she had before he dumped her for another cellist in the Philadelphia orchestra. Served him right that Mary from Rochester dumped him for some other guy after heâd gone and put a ring on her finger.
Sex, no matter how good ⦠well, it just wasnât as important as it had been when she was living with him. She was older now, smarter (most of the time, anyway), she had responsibilities and a job she loved, she didnât need or want Horace complicating her life and maybe messing it up again. Sheâd told him that, and he swore heâd never hurt her again, he was a changed man. Maybe fact, maybe bullshit. Whatever, he wouldnât go away and leave her be. And she couldnât seem to just say no, just tell him adios, and lock the doors every time he came sucking around.â¦
This was what
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