Chapter 10: WHEN THE CHICKENS COME HOME TO ROOST
Steve remained in his study for several hours thereafter, alternately pondering his predicament, raging at the fates that had dropped this unsavory development in his lap, despairing of an equitable solution, and praying for a heavenly intervention. One by one he called up the documents detailing the results of his youthful transgression, scouring each one for an obvious falsehood, any hint of forgery, some reasonable doubt that would point the finger of guilt elsewhere. They appeared to be quite genuine—in any case there were too many of them to disregard as a practical joke.
Among them was a Word file labeled 'Read Me!' which turned out to be a message from his daughter-in-law Yvonne explaining that she would be bringing the certified and/or notarized hardcopies of everything available from the hospital and social services in Truro, but that backup duplicates existed in digital format in several places. She would not be offended if he wished to verify their authenticity on his own, and here she had provided contact names, phone numbers and email addresses.
Steve returned to the images folder and revisited the damning pictures. There was no denying the family resemblance. He tried to envision what sort of a person his 'American' son would be... very much alike—or very much different—from his other four children? Despite his earlier knee-jerk rejection, Steve found himself Googling himselfRobert Ross Cameron. He didn't get very far at first—all three names being fairly common. But by adding 'cultural anthropologist' to the search field he began making headway.
On the University of California's official website Steve found a bio for Doctor Cameron with an impressive curriculum vitae and links to publications to which Robert Cameron regularly contributed articles. Several YouTube interviews revealed an erudite, articulate scholar with a wry sense of humor. Doctor Cameron was a published author with four books to his credit, a regular contributor to journals of both the Society of Cultural Anthropology and the Anthropological Society of Oxford as well as National Geographic magazine, and had served as commentator on several televised documentaries produced by the Discovery and History channels. The more Steve looked, the more difficult it became to wrap his mind around the fact that this middle-aged man could be—was—his own flesh and blood.
Returning to the flash drive window, another folder caught Steve's eye—Video Timeline. The first item within featured a child seated at a Yamaha C3 baby grand piano, determinedly picking his way through what he recognized, even without the caption, as Bach's Prelude in C Major from The Well-Tempered Clavier. Steve had never been exposed to classical music as a youngster and was almost out of his teens when he was introduced to the wonders of the master composers by way of transistor radio. He was well into his mid-twenties when he had accompanied Dora to his first live classical music concert and had been a devotee ever since.
Steve skimmed through the dozens of subsequent clips, obviously taped in a home environment and captioned in chronological order. It was like fast-forwarding a filmstrip documenting Rowan's metamorphosis from small boy to young adult along with increasing skill at the keyboard.
The next folder—entitled Glacier Institute—held videos produced by the Department of Music & Drama in various practice rooms and on stage. Uploaded only two weeks previously, the last clip brought home with finality Steve's newly revealed status... and predicament. The caption read: Voice Recital - Rowan Cameron and Pallas Ross sing 'If I Loved You' from 'Carousel' (Rodgers & Hammerstein).'
Pallas' pure crystalline voice was no surprise—Steve had of course heard her sing many times before... but to hear it blending so perfectly in duet with Rowan's strong, clear tenor raised goose bumps. It also brought on a flashback... albeit a minor one... of a magical evening long ago with himself, Dora, Ron and Slugger gathered in the old family room at Hollin Hall, listening to someone else playing and singing in that same voice. Steve could only speculate that such talent must have come down from Rowan's mother's side of the family as, aside from Pallas, there were no musical abilities on the Ross side.
One of the few items Dora had insisted on moving from the farmhouse to Follymoor was the battered upright piano that had originally graced a corner of the kitchen between the doors to the scullery and stairwell. All four children had been unwillingly subjected to piano lessons but none had ever really taken to the instrument. Though mostly untouched in years, it'd been refinished and occupied an honored space in the greatroom and Dora had it tuned regularly in memoriam to her late uncle. Had it been—all these years—a talisman of things to come?
Moving away from the computer, Steve freshened his drink and stood looking out the window... how in hell was he going to approach his wife with this mind-blowing alteration in the fabric of their family? Unlike Jesse, Steve wasn't so confident of a rational response. Dora'd always disliked change... unless she was the one initiating it. With maturity she'd become better at adapting to change coming at her from outside her comfort zone, so long as it arrived in small easily-absorbed increments over a structured period of time. She hated big changes, big surprises, and more often than not would lash out in anger and irrationality. He had to come up with a way to introduce the subject without immediately provoking such a backlash.
And I still don't know what's been bugging her lately! Prior to Jesse's dropping his bombshell, Steve'd been morosely contemplating Dora's recent distress and the unknown causes thereof. As does any husband faced with an unhappy wife and no earthly idea what she's so upset about or why he might be at fault, Steve knew better than to ask Dora outright. To do so would be to run the risk of having his head bitten off ('If you don't know, I'm not going to tell you!'). Conversely, feigning obliviousness would incur an equally painful outpouring of wrath ('You just don't care!'). Either way, he was firmly lodged between a rock and a hard spot. It was almost easier to first tackle this new, unwelcome problem... almost. At least I know where I stand in relation to the facts!
Steve'd always diagrammed his lectures prior to fleshing them out, so he started his presentation in the same fashion. Returning to the computer, he opened an Excel spreadsheet containing two columns: Column A: positives, Column B: negatives. After a half hour Column B was ahead by many entries while Column A reflected only one, his trump card—acquisition of a grandson. Of course, it wasn't quite the same as anticipating the arrival of a newborn with a shock of dark hair, to cuddle and spoil and celebrate life's milestones with. No... this one was fully grown and not even biologically hers... but perhaps she could be deluded into overlooking those minor details. Fat chance of that.
Outside the closed door to the chamber of desperation, household activities were proceeding apace. Miz Bee and the maid had returned from town with a bootful of groceries, which Jesse unloaded for them and helped put away before offering his services as auxiliary kitchen skivvy. For once Miz Bee took him up on it and set him to work alongside Denise, peeling and chopping. Dottie'd emerged from her afternoon siesta and was pitching in by hulling strawberries.
Michael and Trini turned up with carrier bags filled with newspaper-wrapped parcels, including a pair of delicate porcelain teacups with matching saucers—each in a different pattern—for Martha Barton who collected them, and two Staffordshire china dog figurines for Vera Barton. Blatant bribery, Jesse accused his brother and got a wicked grin in return. By the time they were joined by Ian and Jason, with Ron on their heels, Miz Bee'd had quite enough of men in her kitchen and booted them all out.
Realizing the pool enclosure was for once blessedly clear of women and children, the men decided that beers at poolside would constitute a pleasant conclusion to the afternoon while waiting for their better halves. Miz Bee sent out a foam cooler with cans on ice. When met with the complaint that they preferred bottles, she frostily reminded them that glassware was verboten on the pool deck.
"I'll go get Dad," Michael announced, only to be forestalled by Jesse.
"Dad's not having a good day... let's not bother him right now. If he comes out of his cave, Miz Bee'll send him along." Michael raised an eyebrow but didn't argue, respecting that his elder brother generally had a better assessment than he did of their father's mood at any given moment.
An hour later, Denise was fetching something from one of the storerooms in the hall when she thought to check on the pool party to see if they needed anything. To her surprise the glass door was locked from the outside. There was too much condensation on the glass to get a clear view outwards... but clear enough to catch a glimpse of someone's pale, unclothed buttocks. Her face afire, the girl scuttled back to the kitchen gasping, "They're all... nekkid!"
Miz Bee took one look at Denise's face and released one of her rare grunts of amusement.
"We should have warned her, Martha..." Dottie snickered. "Boys plus beer... if I was fifty years younger I'd be out there with them!"
"You and me both!" the usually staid housekeeper retorted.
Denise was mortified.
Afternoon lengthened into early evening and the female constituents straggled home, footsore and burdened with carrier bags. Ever prudent Miz Bee got on the intercom and told the pool partiers in no uncertain terms to make themselves decent. Last to arrive were Callie and the two younger Stryker girls who were quickly taken in charge by Denise, to be fed in the breakfast nook and temporarily bedded downstairs until their parents were ready to leave.
With fourteen at the dinner table, conversation flowed freely and no one paid much attention when Steve excused himself early on the grounds of headache. Miz Bee offered to stay past her usual quitting time but Dora shooed her out along with Denise and Violet, who were catching rides back to their digs. Callie, the Strykers and Doyles were next to depart, leaving Dora and Julia to load the dishwasher as Michael and Trini bussed the table. Brandishing a spray bottle of all-purpose cleaner, Jesse went around with a rag and a roll of paper towels, wiping down countertops. The dogs were doing their part as well, quartering the carpeting under the table and the kitchen floor, ensuring no errant crumb went unnoticed.
Unlike most mothers of her era, Dora had never categorized domestic chores by gender. In the Ross home, everyone had to take his or her turn at performing them... thus, one was just as likely to find the two boys helping clean up the kitchen and emptying waste baskets as encounter one of the girls washing a car while the other pushed a lawnmower. Both boys knew their way around a needle and thread and a sewing machine—not well enough to assemble a garment but able to sew on a button or effect minor repairs. Both girls could rewire a table lamp or change out a flat tire without breaking a sweat. And everyone did his or her share of stable chores.
When all was quiet, Dora retreated to her study to chip away at the party plans. By the time she finally staggered upstairs, everyone else had already wandered off to their respective bedrooms. Steve was sound asleep—or at least appeared to be. After completing her nightly ablutions and sliding into the bed beside him, it crossed her mind that they hadn't exchanged a private word the entire day.
FROM NEW YORK TO LONDON
Cruising at 35,000 feet above the Atlantic Ocean... in bulkhead Seats A-1 and A-2 in the first-class section of a London-bound British Airways Boeing 747-400, aunt and niece emerged from the alcohol-induced stupor into which they had fallen directly upon takeoff. Sally was startled into full wakefulness by Elayne's emitting an eardrum-piercing whistle that caused the attendant in the galley on the other side of the hatch to drop an empty carafe with a clang and come rushing out.
"Yo, garçon! How 'bout a Bloody Mary over here s'il vous plaît!"
Checking the time—they'd been aloft only a little over an hour, Sally hissed, "Aunt Elayne... really! Don't you think you've had enough?"
"Speak for yerself, babydoll! Hair a the dog an' all that."
The flustered attendant delivered the drink promptly and began distributing snacks and menu cards preparatory to taking their dinner orders. Soon, activity in the galley indicated the evening repast was about to be served. As their meals were set before them, Elayne glanced at the dainty brace of parsley-and lemon-garnished lamb chops decorating the Royal Doulton china on Sally's tray. "Uck. I'd just as soon gnaw on a candle. Want me to change that into a nice little filet mignon like mine? Wouldn't be no trouble."
"Don't even think about it!" Sally warned sternly. "Not in public... and certainly not on an airplane. And would it kill you to speak like an educated person... not to mention act like the cultured lady you're supposed to be instead of some bayou peckerhead?"
"Like I give a flyin' flip!" Elayne humphed, turning her attention to her own meal.
They ate quickly with little talk. An attendant came to whisk away their trays. Bobbing in her wake a second one dispensed moist wipes in foil packets and warm fluffy hand towels. A third brought them their Palo Cortado sherry digestifs. As the passengers in first class gradually settled in to enjoy their various forms of entertainment with earphones or noise-cancelling headsets firmly in place, the two witches were free to converse more openly.
Twirling her goblet between thumb and forefinger, Sally said, "You know, even if we're successful in countering the effects of your failed spell, this new development could blow us out of the water if Steve and Dora end up in a big fight over it."
"Don't be such a pessimist! Dora ain't unreasonable... even she hasta admit what a man does afore he marries don't count."
"Except when there's long-term consequences... and now that the cat's out of the bag..."
"Listen... when push comes to shove, Dora's tough as ole shoe leather... and you could never hope to meet a more forgiving soul."
"I hope you're right about that."
"I am. You'll see. No... it's Steve we gotta worry about."
"According to Madeleine, Jesse's not the confrontational type. Are you sure he was the right choice for the job?"
"He was the only choice, an' don't underestimate him... he's got his momma's stubborn streak an' his daughter's future happiness is at stake here."
"You do know them better than I do," Sally conceded.