For Every Evil (6 page)

“Hush, Ethel. Rudy, is that you?” Sophie glanced at the crackling fire. It was a bitter night. She knew her son had a late class, but for some reason he was later than normal. The clock on the mantel said nearly midnight. Bram had hit the sack more than an hour ago.

Ethel cast a baleful gaze toward the kitchen as Rudy entered the room and dumped his books on the coffee table. “Sorry,” he said, moving to the fireplace and warming his hands. “I hope you didn’t wait up.”

Sophie couldn’t help but notice the dejection in his voice. Mothers were supposed to notice things like that.

Not that she’d had much of a chance to be a mother to him — at least not since he was a little boy.

“Want some chocolate milk?”

“Oh, Mom. You think I’m still ten years old.”

“No, I don’t,” she said indignantly. “I think I am.” She got up and crossed into the kitchen, calling over her shoulder, “Humor me.” She got out two mugs and the half-empty quart from the refrigerator. Then, returning to the sofa, she asked, “What’s up?”

Rudy gave a deep sigh and dumped himself into a chair.

Ethel decided to show her overwhelming delight in his company by heaving herself up and lurching over to where he sat. She plopped down heavily on his right foot. Absently Rudy reached down and gave her a pat on the head. Ethel smacked her lips in complete contentment. Life was indeed good.

“It’s John,” said Rudy, raking a hand through his hair. “I ran into him after class. I’d gone over to that new coffeehouse on West Bank with some friends, and as we were going in, he was coming out. I talked him into staying.” He took a sip of the milk. “You know, not to change the subject, but Dad would never have let me drink something like this when I was a kid. We ate virtually nothing with refined sugar in it.”

Sophie turned up her nose. “Thank God for the revolution.”

“You’re so different from the way I remembered you.”

“I am?”

“I have all these pictures of you in my mind. You always seemed so uptight. And you never smiled much.”

Sophie took a small sip. “I was pretty unhappy when I was married to your father. You know,” she said cautiously, setting her mug down, “I haven’t wanted to pry, but I’m curious. Have you called your dad since you’ve been here?”

Rudy shook his head.

She took another chance. “Did you have a falling out or something before you came to stay with Bram and me last fall?”

Most of the time, Rudy sidestepped questions about his past. But tonight, he just sat back and let his eyes wander to the fireplace as a shifting log threw a spray of sparks against the screen. “Sort of. He wanted me to go to that Bible college in California. The one where you two met.”

“And you didn’t want to?”

He shrugged. “You know Dad. He commanded me to go. He told me I had to resist the devil or he’d swallow me whole. My soul was resting in the balance.”

Sophie could feel the old acid begin to churn. Inside her head she heard Norm’s voice, remembered how it deepened when he wanted to exert his authority. “And what did you say?”

Rudy kept his eyes on the fire. ‘That I was going to Minnesota to live with you. That I wanted to attend the university — wanted to get a degree in theatre arts. And then I suppose I ducked, waiting for the explosion.”

“And?”

He ruffled his reddish-blond hair, sitting up a bit. “I packed my bags and left. I’d decided not to tell him until two hours before my plane was due to take off. I had a friend drive me to the airport.”

“And you haven’t talked to him since that day?”

“Nope.”

Even though Rudy was her son, Sophie didn’t know him very well. Since his arrival in September, she’d tried many times to get him to open up to her. There had been a definite thaw in their somewhat stilted relationship, but Rudy was still closed-mouthed about his feelings and his personal life. Sophie had so many questions. What had the years been like living with his father and stepmother in Montana? Where did religion fit into his life now? She knew answers would come in time. Early on she’d discovered that pushing him to talk only made him more reticent. It drove her crazy, this getting to know her son in small fits and starts, but that was simply the way it was going to be. Sometimes, late at night, he did open up a bit more easily and talk about what he was thinking. She waited for those moments like a starving woman, happy for the smallest crumb.

Rudy sipped his milk. “You know, this stuff isn’t bad.”

Sophie grinned. “Stick around. Wait till you try the pastry cart at the Maxfield Plaza. You know, your grandmother and grandfather want you to come by there whenever you want. All meals are on the house.”

“It’s kind of nice having a famous hotel and a four-star restaurant in the family. I’ll make it a point to stop by more often.”

She smiled as she watched him, thinking he looked so much like she had when she was younger. Perhaps his hair was a bit more red, his eyes a tad more deep-set and dreamy, but no one would dispute they were mother and son. The only attribute that seemed to come directly from his father was the lovely, deep voice. That was all right, she guessed, especially since Rudy didn’t use it to command and manipulate. He was much too gentle about the way he lived in the world. That was the quality she admired most about him. He was an easy young man to love.

She watched his smile fade. “You’re still thinking about your friend John, aren’t you? So, what happened after you bumped into him at the coffeehouse?”

Rudy shook his head, his expression turning angry. “It’s Hale Micklenberg. John stopped by the gallery this afternoon. Kate mentioned that Micklenberg had been in to see his work. I guess John had just missed him.”

“And?”

“Hale hated it. Called it amateurish. Lacking depth. A bunch of other things.”

Sophie pulled her flannel bathrobe more snugly around her body. “I suppose John was pretty depressed.”

“Depressed? He was furious! When I ran into him, he was on his way over to Micklenberg’s house to nail the guy’s knees to the floor. I was afraid he was actually going to hurt him.”

Sophie was surprised by the intensity of John’s reaction. “But you talked him out of it?”

“I think so. He just needed some perspective. Someone to listen. He’d been driving around since early afternoon. And he hadn’t eaten.”

Sophie gave him a tender smile. “You’re a good friend.”

“Yeah.” He looked away.

At that moment, Bram shambled into the living room, stretching his hands above his head and yawning. He glanced at the carton of chocolate milk. “Am I missing a party?”

Sophie took a long sip. “The world is passing you by.”

“I was afraid of that.” He groped his way to the coffee table and grabbed the carton. “Hey. You drank it all.”

Rudy stood. “You know, you two are like nothing I’ve ever experienced before.”

“Really?” Bram was intrigued.

Ethel wasn’t. With a low groan, she pushed her aging bones upward and wobbled sleepily into Bram’s study. There, she would snooze in his easy chair until daylight, when she would drag herself back into the kitchen and resume her slumber in front of the refrigerator. All life, as they say, was a struggle.

“I’m going to bed,” said Rudy.

“All right.” Sophie tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice. Bram hadn’t plotted to interrupt them. He just had. “See you in the morning. Oh, by the way, will you be having breakfast with us?”

Rudy picked up his textbooks and tucked them under his arm. “I have to be at the gallery by eight. I think I’ll just grab something on my way out the door.”

“Okay. Sleep well.”

“Yeah. ‘Night.”

Sophie finished her milk and then set the empty mug on the coffee table. If only they’d had a chance to talk longer. If only she knew Rudy better.
If only.
It might as well be her mantra. As she watched him climb the stairs, she did know one thing. There was something he wasn’t telling her. Something important. If she’d ever wished for the power to read minds, it was tonight.

“I don’t suppose you need anything from Manning’s Farm Supply?…” Bram sat sprawled on the couch, reading the Sunday paper and sipping his morning orange juice. George Will huffed at Sam Donaldson on the TV set in the corner.

Sophie raised an eyebrow at him as she stood in front of the dining room table, her briefcase open in front of her. She was trying to find the article she was supposed to have finished editing by Monday morning, hoping beyond hope that she hadn’t left it on her desk at the office.

“They’re having a great sale. It just seems a shame we can’t take advantage of it.”

In her mind’s eye, Sophie flashed to the garage. The rafters were already stuffed to the gills with all the wonderful sale items Bram simply couldn’t pass up. Farm supplies, however, were a new low. “Well, maybe we could stock up on some tractor lubricant. Or get a couple of extra salt licks for the pigs.”

“Pigs don’t use salt licks.”

“Mine do.”

He let the flyer drop to the floor. “Is that some kind of veiled comment on my buying habits?”

“I’d hardly call it
veiled.”

He gave her a smirk as he picked up the next section of the paper.

Ethel announced her entrance into the living room with a muffled groan. She held a green tennis ball snugly in her mouth. Eyeing Sophie and Bram somewhat lethargically, she dragged herself over to a rug in front of the fireplace and plopped down. She released the ball and waited as it rolled about three inches from her nose. Then, her head sinking to the floor, she watched it. Suspiciously.

“Soph, did you see this?”

“See what?”

“This review of John Jacobi’s work.”

“Hale’s review?”

“It’s got his name on it.”

Sophie couldn’t help but cringe. “Pretty bad, huh?”

Bram got up and walked toward her, folding the paper to the exact spot. “Read.”

Sophie adjusted her glasses as she quoted out loud, “‘If you haven’t been to the Chappeldine Gallery to see the newest drawings by local artist, John Jacobi, take the first bus, cab, or horse cart! Rarely have I been more impressed by a body of work.’ “ Sophie looked up. “I don’t believe this.”

“It gets even better.”

She continued. “‘Jacobi’s raison d’être seems driven less by linear development than by successive explorations of variations. The incredible accumulation of detail creates an irresistible sense of energy and animation in essentially inanimate objects. This is a rare tour de force.’ “

“All I can say,” said Bram, “is that someone must have slipped Hale the bribe or the threat of the century. When I was at the gallery Friday afternoon, he could barely bring himself to look at the stuff.”

“Don’t call artwork
stuff”

“Sorry. I meant to say
doodlings.”

Sophie grimaced.

“See. I can learn.”

“Only marginally.” She finished the article, shaking her head in disbelief. “I don’t get it. This is absolutely glowing. Both John and Kate will be thrilled.”

“Ours is not to reason why.” Bram took the paper from her hand, closed her briefcase, and removed her glasses. Then, putting his arms around her waist, he whispered in her ear, “As I see it, my options are either you or more of David Brinkley.”

“David will be heartbroken.”

He nuzzled her hair. “Life is hard.”

“I know,” she said, wishing her briefcase would disappear in a puff of smoke.

Across the Mississippi River at the Micklenberg residence, Ivy was in the midst of a morning bubble bath. She hadn’t really relaxed since the night of the shooting. And that call Louie had taken — a young boy’s voice reciting a nursery rhyme. What did it mean? Was it just a joke? Last night she’d finally removed the bandages from her arm, seeing once again the tiny marks the exploding glass had made as it cut into her skin. The whole situation was intolerable. She felt angry and frustrated, and at the same time, strangely apprehensive. Something had gone awry.

Suddenly the bedroom door slammed. She fluffed some soapsuds over her breasts and waited for the inevitable.

“I want an explanation, goddamn it!” thundered Hale as he burst into the bathroom. He waved the Sunday newspaper threateningly under her nose.

“Calm down. You’re going to have a coronary.”

“And,” he added, his voice deadly serious, “if that explanation doesn’t furnish a damn good reason for this atrocity, you’re the one who’ll have to worry about an early grave. I mean it, Ivy!”

She could see his fists tighten. For an instant, she was almost afraid of him. “I did it because I wanted to. You’re wrong about John Jacobi. His work is wonderful. I refuse to let you ruin the man’s reputation in his own town.”