For All Their Lives (35 page)

Mac looked at the clock on the mantel. It was two minutes past midnight. “You got it. I'll meet you at Sadie's at five-thirty.”

“I'll be the guy in the flowered shirt.” Benny cackled gleefully.

“Good night, Benny.”

It was the first day, Mac thought, of his
new
life.

T
HE KITCHEN WAS
flooded with sunshine. The dogs lay in the biggest patch of light forcing Yody to step over them. She smiled indulgently when she set down plates of scrambled eggs and Canadian bacon next to each of them. “If it's good enough for me, it's good enough for them, eh?” Mac laughed.

“That's what you said, Señor Mac. You said they were to eat what you eat. It is good nutrition. Your father called while you were in the shower. He said it is,” she had to think about the word she wanted for a moment, finally coming up with, “
crucial
that you call him as soon as you can.”

As he ate his breakfast, Mac thought about all the
crucial
times he'd waited for his father to get back to him. One time it had taken him three months, and even then there had been no apology.

“Señor Mac, I won't be here all day. Today is—”

“Bingo day. I know. We'll manage.” He reached into his pocket and peeled off a ten-dollar bill. “Play the round-robin for me, and if I win, you get half.”

Yody giggled. He'd never heard her giggle before. It was a wonderful sound. Marathon Bingo, Yody's reason for living.

“
Do
you ever win, Yody?” Mac asked curiously.

“Sometimes. If no one wins today, the jackpot next week will be one thousand dollars. I think, Señor Mac, next week I will be lucky.”

“Good luck, I'll clean up here. You don't want to be late.”

Yody threw her arms around Mac. As one, the dogs stood up, their ears alert, their eyes curious. “You do not mind that you will have to eat leftovers?”

“I won't be home for dinner. Don't worry. The dogs will be fine. Go get 'em, Yody!” He felt indulgent, as though he was sending off his mother, instead of his housekeeper, to play Bingo.

Mac decided that he liked this kitchen. It was quiet and bright. He barely heard the radio playing softly on the counter, the radio Yody kept on twenty-four hours a day. Everything was old: the refrigerator with the big cooler on top, the stove with legs, the chipped porcelain sink. Even the tables and chairs were old, from his mother's time. He liked the curtains with their red tie-back bows, which allowed a breeze when the windows were open. The little pots of chili peppers, mint, and thyme on the white windowsills added a certain homeyness, as did the braided Mexican rug in front of the sink. The rug was Yody's. It pleased him that she would bring something of her own into his house.
His
house. How good it sounded.

Mac looked down at the scattered granules he'd spilled when he spooned sugar into his coffee. He was attempting to count them with the tip of his knife when the phone next to the refrigerator rang. His father, of course. He continued to count the granules of sugar. He was on 125, and the phone was on the fourteenth ring, when he picked up.

The judge didn't identify himself; he never did. “All right, Malcolm, enough is enough. We need to talk. You can't hide forever behind that Prussian general you call a housekeeper. If you don't want me in your . . . in the guest house, I'll meet you out by the stable. I'd like to remind you that I deeded that house to you, so technically it's still mine, and you have no right to bar me from the . . . guest house.”

“The law says it's mine. A man's home is his castle. This is my castle. If you aren't invited, you don't cross my threshold. You can move into the main house if you want, but you don't come here.” He was losing patience, Mac thought. In his life no one had ever talked to Marcus Carlin the way he was talking to him. How long, Mac wondered, before the arrogant, austere judge lost control? Not long, he decided.

“You are your mother's son.” It was not a compliment. “I'll be there by noon. Don't keep me waiting, Malcolm. I won't tolerate it.” The connection was broken before Mac could respond.

It was amazing, Mac thought irritably, as he made his way to the stable, that his father could still get under his skin. He'd thought he was past all the hatred, but obviously he wasn't. The first goddamn thing he was going to do was to take his father to task over his uncle Harry. He should have made a list to wave under his father's nose. He didn't feel childish or superior in any way with what he was about to do. Long ago he'd learned that anger wasn't his answer, but anger was all he had to strike back with. Now he knew where to hurt the old man: in his pride. No man liked to be made a fool of.

It wasn't until he was racing across the field on Jeopardy that he realized he was acting just like his father. He laughed, the sound carrying across the barren fields.

Mac didn't time his ride; in fact, he lost all track of time as Jeopardy streaked across the fields, but some inner mechanism brought him back to the stable at five minutes before noon. His father was waiting in a Savile Row suit, Bally shoes, and Rolex watch.

“At least you're punctual,” the elder Carlin snapped irritably, then added disapprovingly, “You look like a ranch hand.”

Mac chose to ignore the remark. He concentrated on the gelding's sweating flanks. The dogs, he noticed, had created a perimeter and were stalking the judge, their tails between their legs, their silky ears flat against their heads. They didn't like him.

“You're here, I'm here, so let's get to it, Father,” Mac said quietly.

His eyes on the circling dogs, the judge drew himself to his full height. He felt out of his depth. He felt at a disadvantage, and he didn't like the feeling. “This is ridiculous,” he snapped. “We should be sitting down in an atmosphere conducive to serious talk, with a drink in our hands. What the hell's gotten into you, Malcolm? I've taken everything into consideration—the war, what you've gone through—but it's all behind you. You're home now with your family. Life goes on.”

“It doesn't work that way,” Mac said coolly.

“It does if you work at it. I didn't say it would be easy. You have a family, commitments, and I expect you to honor them. I want to know why you're living here in this guest house instead of in the main house with your wife. And before you can say it's none of my business, it is my business. You asked me to look after your wife while you were gone, and I did as you asked. Now you come home and refuse to live in the same house with her, not to mention the daughter whom you refused even to see when you arrived. You forbid either Alice or me entry to the . . . the abode you're living in, and you refuse to tell us why. This is not the behavior of a rational man, Malcolm. I want an explanation and I want it now. In the meantime, call off these dogs.”

“That sounds to me like an order,” Mac said, rubbing industriously at the horse's sweating back. “I'm a civilian now. I don't take orders. Since I'm over twenty-one, I don't have to give you or anyone else an explanation of how or why I do things.” His nonchalant voice was in direct odds with his churning stomach and the tremor he felt running through his body. “As for the dogs, they know you don't belong here.”

“Then I have to assume by your attitude that things are not right between you and Alice. Well, Malcolm, you will have to make them right. We can't have you running for governor with a sour-faced wife and retarded child, although Jenny will give us a lot of media attention. There are no divorces in the Carlin family, as you well know, so don't start down that road,” the judge said ominously, his eyes on the dogs.

“I've changed my mind about running for governor. I'm sorry if this upsets your plans. I told you when I left that we would discuss politics when I got back. I promised you ten years in the army, and I delivered. You demanded I come back a hero, and I did that too, according to the army. The way I see it, I don't owe you anything. I'm a free agent now. Thanks to Mother's side of the family, I don't ever have to lift a finger again, except to write the checks to pay Alice's bills. That's a feat in itself,
sir
.”

“Now, just a damn minute,” the judge blustered, then thought better of it when the circling dogs moved closer, so close he could feel their breath on his legs. “It's all set. Everything is ready to go. We have tremendous support. I've been lining up that support since the day you left for Vietnam. We're ready to announce! You cannot do this, Malcolm!” The edge in the judge's voice was so sharp, the dogs stopped in their tracks, their eyes glued to his tall, imposing figure.

“You acted prematurely, Father. It's not what I want. I'm sorry, I can't help you. As far as I'm concerned, the issue is history. But there's another issue that needs to be cleared up. Why didn't you tell me Uncle Harry died? I had to find out from my lawyer. That's a hell of a thing. You could have had your secretary type the letter, for Christ's sake. I can't forgive you for that.”

“Alice said she would write you. I thought she had. I'm not her keeper. You can't blame me for that. Harry was an old man, it was his time to die. What could you have done? Nothing.”

“That wasn't for you to decide. In fact, you will never make another decision for me. I don't like you, Father, and you don't like me. We tolerate one another. What you
do
like is what you think I can do for you. Even you should know you can't live through me, but then that's not what you had in mind, is it? If I won, you'd be ‘the man' behind the man. All your cronies would know it, and I'd be your puppet. The answer is an unequivocal no! If there's nothing else, Father, I have things to do.”

The judge changed his tone to the one he used when he wanted a favor from one of his powerful friends. “What changed you, son? Was it all the killing? Maybe you should talk to a psychiatrist. There's a very competent fellow at Georgetown. No one need know.”

Mac laughed bitterly, harshly. “If I do that, I'll have to dig way back in my childhood; you know the way head doctors love to blame their patients' problems on their parents. Aunt Margaret will come out, and so will the way you treated Mother. Uncle Harry figures in this someplace, so I'll have to talk about him. The doctor is going to want to know why Mother is buried in Charleston and why you have a plot here in Virginia. And of course he'll ask me what kind of a relationship we had. You know, did we play ball, did we go fishing, did you tuck me in, did you ever clap me on the back? You know, the bullshit stuff.”

The judge's face blossomed with color. The dogs continued to stalk him. “That sounds rather like a threat. I suggest you tread very carefully. I can be a terrible enemy; I think you already know that, Malcolm.”

Mac pretended to think about his father's remark, to the judge's annoyance. “I think, Father, in one way or another, you've always been my enemy. Or do you mean something different?”

The dogs were still completing their dizzying circle, to the judge's dismay. He was furious, but he was also afraid, Mac noticed. He felt a momentary pang of guilt at the way he was acting toward his father.

“It means you are making a fool of me. We had a deal, Malcolm, and you are reneging. Carlins don't renege.”

“I gave you my answer. I won't change my mind. So what will it be? Enemies? Or just plain father and son?”

“We're past that stage, Malcolm. We're equals. We could eventually control Washington, you and I. It was not in my plan to have you stay on as governor forever. You could be another Jack Kennedy. I can have all those stories squelched. Alice and Jenny. The public will eat that up. It's all there, Malcolm.”

“What stories?” Mac asked in a dangerous voice. The dogs stopped their frantic circling, Fred in front of the judge, Gus in back.

“Do you take me for a fool, Malcolm? As soon as you started writing all those letters, making all those phone calls about that Vietnamese woman and her son, word got back to me. I can cover that up. There's a lid on it right now. If you back out of our deal, that lid isn't just going to come off. It's going to explode in your face.”

Mac's jaw dropped, his eyes almost bugged out of his head. Surely he wasn't hearing his father correctly. “Are you talking about Lily Gia?”

“If she's the one whose child you've been trying to bring over here, then yes, that's the one. I thought more of you, Malcolm. First you father a retarded child, and then you . . . you shacked up with some . . . and weren't smart enough to use a condom. I can put two and two together. There are times, and this is one of those times, when it does not pay to be noble. There will be no slant-eyed children in this family. One retard is enough. What were you going to do, bring the boy over here and you and Alice and the Mongoloid live happily ever after?”

Mac's face drained of all its color. How stupid he'd been. Of course his father would find out about all the inquiries he'd made. He hadn't tried to keep it a secret. Now he wished he had. He looked at his father and stared him down. Any feelings he might have had for him died in front of his eyes.

“I will not discuss this with you except to tell you you are all wrong. I think you should leave now, Father, and please, don't come back,” Mac said hoarsely.

Judge Carlin stared at Mac's balled fists, then met his eyes one last time before he walked over to his car. Mac watched till it was out of sight, then led Jeopardy into the dim barn, the dogs at his heels.

The barn felt like a sanctuary, with its warm, pungent, earthy smells. For a few moments he was reminded of Vietnam. He allowed himself to shake and tremble, for tears to burn his eyes. He felt more alone than he'd ever felt in his life. He likened it to his devastated feeling when his mother left him, or when he had to accept Casey's death. He'd been a little soldier the first time, a grown-up soldier the second. Now he was a big ex-soldier, and it hurt in the same way. He'd almost struck his father, actually meant to strike him, and would have, but the dogs would have joined in and he hadn't wanted that to happen. The intent was bad enough, something he was going to have to live with.