Wow! It wasn't until I cut and pasted this chapter into a separate file for uploading that I realized how long it was! No wonder I felt a little tired after I was done polishing it ; ) Well – hope everyone enjoys this one … because, yes things are really heating up for our favourite CIA officer – and in more ways than one…
And as always thank you so much for the kind reviews! They are truly appreciated.
Chapter Sixteen:
Thicker than Water…
At last… a cigarette. I inhale – I think I can actually feel the nicotine going to work on my jangled nerves. I'm leaning back against the cold rough brick of the diner wall with Spencer sitting next to me. Inside, Milo is saying his good-byes – and probably a couple of other things as well. I take another long drag… I have a future. And it doesn't include orange jumpsuits. That is quite possibly one of the happiest thoughts to flit through my head since… since I left Mexico…
And I'll be damned – I think a snowflake just landed on my cheek. I smile.
Behind me, the diner door opens with the clanging of a cow-bell… Milo and Eddas… she bids me a happy holiday – a sentiment I return with a little more sincerity than I think she expects (I imagine that probably scares her a little – God, I love being me) – and then I hear the sound of her high-heeled boots clicky-clacking down the sidewalk.
Milo is silent for several long moments – I just let him chew over whatever he's chewing over… I'm happy to stand here, smoking my cigarette with snow falling down around me. Milo finally locates his voice:
"I had no idea that was going to be part of the deal."
"I know."
"You didn't have to agree to being a scapegoat, Jeff."
"Honestly, if all she'd wanted was proof that I'd been set up – in return for the kind of immunity we're talking about – I would have never believed her. At least this way the deal is equitable."
"I'm glad someone thinks so."
"I'm perfectly happy with the terms of our agreement. Eddas gets what she wants – and I get what I want – what I need." I get my ass out of the sling I seem to have found it in… and I get my revenge. I also may get to have a little fun along the way – because I am so looking forward to Monday morning… but in the meantime… "Come on – I need your help with something."
"What kind of something?"
Hmmm… seems like there's something in my tone making him a wee bit nervous… or perhaps, it's just that wicked little smile I can't seem to keep off my lips….
… … … …
"Are you sure you want to do this on your own?" Milo asks me. Again.
Outside, my cab has just pulled up… I brush my hair back with one hand and settle the black cowboy hat into place. Beth. My little angel –she knows I'm the bad guy – a demon compared to her. She has no illusions… I was never in a position to hide myself from her. And yet – she wants me to come back to her… to them.
And I have a future... Oh sure, it's not going to be easy – but when has that ever stopped me? And in the meantime… just do what you would normally do… well what I might normally do would be to go to a strip joint, have a few beers and… and you can let your imagination wander to wherever you feel like letting it wander, amigos… but that just isn't what I feel like doing. I can't see anyway, so what's the point anyway?
"I can take care of myself," I tell Milo. "Besides, I have Spencer, here," I take the lead and step out into the falling snow (since I'm already pretty comfortable with his front walk, I keep the cane tucked into my coat pocket).
Milo is following close behind. Ever the gentleman, he opens the cab door for me. "Don't you think you should at least call first?"
"What – and spoil the surprise? Not a chance," I grin at him. See – it turns out my sister has moved in the last few years. No longer does she live in Roanoke (a little over four hours from here) – no, now she resides just twenty minutes away in Coral Hills, Maryland (doesn't that just sound like such a peachy keen little community?)
"Jeff – it's Thanksgiving – "
"My point exactly." I motion for Spencer to hop into the back of the waiting taxi and then slide in after him. "Besides – shouldn't you be making that run to the boarder sometime soon?" I know he's left 'his people' there – but I'll feel just that much better when Milo is back in Mexico to handle things personally.
"I'm taking the red-eye – so it really wouldn't be any trouble for me to –"
Cutting Milo off, I say a quick hello to my cabby – listen to his accent – and then in that Eastern European dialect Milo and I heard a little too much of a few years back, I assure him than I'm not going to shoot anyone, honest. I am packing heat – there are just a few too many people who want me dead for me to be walking around unarmed these days – but just because I've got it doesn't mean I'm going to use it I'm not real sure he's convinced.
"If you need me for anything –" he sounds just like a worried mother hen, I swear…
"I have you programmed on speed dial, Snookums," I smack my lips loudly, blowing him a great big kiss. "And – I promise you an evening you won't forget when I get back home." I have entirely too much fun messing with other people's heads… not Milo's – the cabby's – because I can just imagine the looks he is giving us… it's all I can do to keep a straight face.
Milo just sighs – poor guy. I really do feel sorry for him, putting up with me – but – he was the one who said he didn't want me vanishing into the woodwork when this was all over… I'm honestly still trying to digest that. I don't know why anyone would want me around.
"Here," Milo hands me the bottle of wine he filched from his beau's wine chest earlier – apparently, he thinks it would be rude of me to show up both unannounced and empty-handed.
Like my sister would expect anything other than rude from me. But to make him happy, I take it – oh Christ, he managed to wrap a bow around the bottle when I wasn't paying attention… fucking A – but I just keep on smiling. "I promise I won't stay late," I say to Milo.
"Just try to behave yourself."
"I'll be good," I tease him, pulling the door shut. "Onward, Jeeves," I say to my driver – he's Hindi, by the by. I've always been good with accents – both identifying and mimicking them. And – would you believe I picked up enough conversational Hindi just so I could converse with cabbies? I give him the address and sit back to try and enjoy the ride.
I miss driving. I miss getting behind the wheel of my car and just – going. (My car was probably been stripped for parts weeks ago – unless it was a causality of the failed coup… ah well, it led a good life. It took me all over Mexico – my beat. I don't miss Mexico – not the dust or the stench – not the people – but I think I miss the food. Pibil is far and away the best preparation of pork I've ever eaten – and I have had pork all over the world, because it truly is my favourite food. Everywhere I go, I sample the local pork recipes – and pibil knocks them all just right out of the water. Spicy – tangy – sweet – tender – just a little smoky – exotic… but not so exotic you that don't know you're eating. I think I'm going to have to find myself a shop around here that stocks the necessary ingredients and make myself some real soon. Cooking really is like fucking… and I am very good at it…)
By my reckoning, it's just past noon as we pull into the quiet suburban neighbourhood where my little sister has taken up residence. I get my cab driver to clearly identify which walk leads up to her house – and I stand for just a moment listening to the world around me. I hear a few cars – mini van – hmmm – SUV, maybe… something smaller – and further off, I can hear the highway… birds twitter – dogs bark – a couple of kids whiz by on their bikes… I even smell the scent of fireplaces going… welcome to suburbia…
I wish my cabby a good holiday (what can I say, I'm in a mood) and decide to leave the cane in my coat pocket. (I want to see how long it'll take Alison to realize I can't see…)
I give Spencer the signal to move forward and he guides me unerringly up the walk – yes, it was really hard for me to learn to trust in him at first – but like I said, I'm getting better at boldly going forth into the darkness… but – Christ – five steps up the front porch? And that third one wibbles just a little – Spencer parks his butt – and I know the door is just in front of me. I knock. And wait.
I don't have a long wait… "Can I – help you?" asks a male voice… very slight Hispanic accent (I suppose it would be rude to shoot the guy just because he's Spanish… oh who am I trying to kid? – I am seriously tempted to waste him where he stands, despite my good mood and my promise to Milo… However,this isn't Mexico and I have the feeling someone might notice the body sooner rather than later. And I'll just bet the local fuzz's response time is nothing flat…)
I force a smile, "Is this – is this the home of Alison Sands?" or perchance do I have the wrong fucking house because of course I can't really see the address for myself… I hate trusting other people to steer me in the right direction.
"Um – yes – who are you?"
So – it looks like my little sister has herself a boyfriend… how sweet… and oh yes, that is a turkey I smell singeing in the oven… that has to be Alison's handiwork. See, Mom didn't teach us to cook – so – um – let's just say that between my sister and I, I'm the one you want in your kitchen, even though I'm the one who can't see…
I hear footsteps approaching from within… "Tom is that your – oh – my - Christ!"
"Happy Thanksgiving," I thrust the bottle of wine in the direction of my sister's voice. She doesn't take it right away.
"You're – here – ?" It's now quite a question – but it isn't really a statement either… guess I've really rattled her cage this time.
"Your powers of deductive reasoning never fail to amaze and astound, Sis," I reply with a wicked grin. And – you notice that she hasn't invited me in yet? At least she finally takes the bottle from my outstretched hand – her grasp on it seems a just wee bit shaky.
"Wait – you're the brother?" Says the boyo. I definitely do not like his tone.
However, I extend my hand in the direction of his voice, and in an exaggeratedly friendly manner, "What a pleasure it is to meet you – Tom was it?" I have no doubt that my sister sees right through my congenial façade… "Sheldon – Sheldon Jeffrey Sands." I tell him, as he grips my hand firmly in his – I intentionally hold back – I prefer to be underestimated. His grip is pretty good – but – there is something to be said for being wiry, fast – and oh yeah, I always hit below the belt.
"Tom DeSantis."
Hispanic name to go with an Hispanic accent… Isn't that just ducky. Now – I know it's wrong of me to judge an entire fucking culture on the last few years of my life… but come on – couldn't she have hooked up with anyone else? Italian, German, Oriental, African… anyone but a guy who's ancestors hail from Spain…
"I got a telegram last week," Alison's voice has taken on a frosty edge. "From – your company – they said you were missing –?" her tone suggests she thought I was dead… who knows, maybe she hoped that I was…
And from her choice of words, I discern that the boyo doesn't know who I work for… well, I suppose telling one's boyfriend that your big brother is a spy isn't really the best way to open up a conversation. "Slight debacle in communications for a while, there Sweet Cakes," I say in a casual tone. "I'm afraid I wasn't getting my messages. It's been straightened out."
"Well – we have a lot to talk about," says the boyo – he sounds – yes, uncomfortable, about something…
I 'ignore' him and 'look' in my sister's direction, "We do?"
"Oh yes we do," she tells me… hmmm I'm not real sure I like her tone either…
So, without waiting for an actual invitation I step inside, brushing past the boyo (Spencer follows – when I stop, he sits). I stop right in front of my sister without any doubt that I've invaded that 'comfortable space' people aren't supposed to invade. It wasn't an accident. I favour her with a little smile – so far neither of them seems to realize I can't see a damned thing – ain't life grand? I pull off my hat, coat and gloves and hand them over to my sister.
"When did you get a dog?" Alison asks – her tone is flat.
Well, there's a bet I would have lost – I was sure her first comment was going to be the hair. See – last time we actually saw each other (well, last time she saw me, because of course, I'm not doing any actual seeing just now… but I'm still having fun) anyway, before they shipped my ass off to Mexico, my hair was a five inches shorter than it is now. I open my mouth to reply – but I am cut off…
Now – I must digress a moment here to describe something to you in its full and glorious detail. Have you ever heard a cat being strangled? Perhaps while the unfortunate feline was raking its claws across a blackboard? Maybe having it's tail pulled at the same time, because what we have going on here is sort of a – yowl, meets screech, meets – hmm… there are just no words in any of the languages I've had the privilege of learning that quite fully capture the true essence of this sound… but with any luck, you get the idea.
No, no – it isn't the sound made by any humans as a result of anything nasty I am about to do. It is, rather, a sound (because I cannot in good conscious call it 'music') that suddenly resonates through the house, originating, I do believe, somewhere above my head… although truth be told I might be hard pressed to find the source of the 'sound' simply because I really have no desire to get that close to it… "What in God's name is that?" I say just loud enough to be heard over the ruckus… I hazard the guess that someone somewhere might call it music because it does seem to be accompanied by the sound of a piano keys being struck… although the pianist has all the subtlety of a bull elephant.
"Oh that," Alison's voice takes on a painfully sweet tone – you know the one, it tells you that you are not going to like the answer you're about to receive… "That would be Emma. You know Emma, don't you, Shel?"
Oh.
Shit.
Fuck.
Damn.
Hell.
I open my mouth to say – what…? I really just don't know. I truly thought I'd been prepared for anything she could possibly throw at me… this however is the one thing that never even crossed my mind…
Alison still seems to still be speaking… "Or at least I hope one of us knew you had a daughter – because I sure as Hell didn't."
"Um – I can explain –" Right. Sure I can. Well – I mean – I'm sure she knows the basic mechanics of procreation, but…
"Emiline!" Alison bellows over the – cacophony.
Fuck.
"Al – " I try to stop her. I'm not prepared for this… I mean – really not prepared for this…
"Oh no you don't, Sheldon," her tone is one of warning. "This is not something you're going to leave in my lap – not the way you've left everything else for the last fifteen years."
"I – didn't – I never – "
"Like Hell you didn't! You went off gallivanting around the world and left me to take care of everything at home. The bills – the doctors – Mom, everything. Even after she died – you still couldn't be bothered."
"I would hardly call what I do gallivanting, Al – besides I sent you money." I sent her a lot of money… and it wasn't as if Mom didn't have insurance… I know better. Christ, why does Alison always have to be such a God damned drama queen?
"I put my life on hold to take care of Mom when she got sick, Shel – you could have sent me Fort Knox and it would never make up for you not being here when I needed you."
"You never told me she was that sick –" I say – she didn't. She never said 'Come home' – I mean, not that I would have – but – I would have sent her more money – God knows I've spent enough of my career taking other people's dough… hey, only the bad guy's, remember.
"She had a fucking heart condition – she couldn't work – she had four bypass operations – Sheldon you should have figured it out! You never even picked up a phone to call and tell her you loved her – even if it was a lie, it's something she would have liked to have heard, just once, before she died."
"Alison – you're over reacting."
"Oh, fuck you, Sheldon. And - you're going to have to deal with this because this really is all you. Emiline! "
"I'll go get her," the boyo finally says.
(I half wonder if he just doesn't want to get away from us… I knew I should've popped him when I had the chance… too late now…) I hear his footsteps retreat down the hall… up some stairs…
"Alison – you don't understand –" I begin.
"Well – you're right about that."
The shrieking and piano banging ceases.
Oh fuck – ok, I have to get out of here just long enough to pull my wits together – because getting into a screaming match with Alison over Mom hasn't helped me get a handle on this situation one bit… and I really need to get some answers to the hundred and one questions buzzing around my head… you know, like what the Hell is my offspring doing here… I slide my arm into Alison's, "We need to talk."
"We will." She assures me in that sugar sweet tone of hers.
Fuck.
I listen – footsteps above my head – and here I thought I was walking around with a rock quarry in my gut yesterday… and my sister is not budging.
"Alison – now."
"In a minute."
Two pairs of footsteps coming down the stairs… the conniving little bitch – Alison has been planning this… for – for three months (I'm guessing, but I know I'm right) she's been plotting for my inevitable return…
"This ceased to be amusing about thirty seconds ago," I warn my sister… too late.
The footsteps stop – my best guess is that they're not quite at the foot of the stairs (which are maybe five feet from where Alison and I stand, judging by the sounds of boyo's earlier retreat.) I hear a very feminine gasp – and can't quite stop myself from turning my face in that direction and forcing a smile (which probably looks pretty forced)… my kid… is less than five feet from me… only one set of footsteps crosses the distance between us – and it isn't Emma… I can't begin to imagine what she must be thinking…
"Oh my God – you're – " Em doesn't finish it – not because I specifically cut her off (in fact I'm still busy collecting my wits) – no, no I firmly suspect that Emma just doesn't know what to call me. Or at least I hope her youthful vocabulary hasn't expanded to include those sorts of words…
"Hi there – I'll be right back – promise. Spencer, come." And I give Alison a not so gentle shove to get her moving – I feel boyo's hand on my shoulder. "Alison – would you like to tell this jerk what happened to the last boyfriend who tried to get fresh with me – or shall I?" There is no mistaking my tone – I am not fucking around here. In fact, the only reason I haven't shoved a gun in the ass-wipe's face is because Emma's in the room… what an absolutely fabulous first impression I must be making… I turn my head in Emma's direction and try to smile a more real smile – I want to say something to her – but – nothing is springing to mind… oh well, hopefully someone, somewhere along the line told her what a dick her old man really is… Christ, this is too fucking surreal…
"First off, buddy, I'm her husband, not some boyfriend – and secondly – if that's some sort of threat, I should probably tell you that I'm a cop."
"Oooh – I'm so impressed." Christ, I wonder if they've spawned…
"Back off, Tom," Alison says –
He still hasn't released his grip on me – "Ally –" he begins.
Ally?
"Please," she implores – I can imagine her big brown puppy dog eyes…
He lets me go.
"Now – somewhere private if you please," I growl sweetly into my sister's ear, giving her a good shove.
Humans are funny animals – you give them a suggestion and a nice shove in any ol' direction and they'll usually take you just where you wanted to go – and in our current arrangement, Alison probably still has no idea I can't see. Spencer, true to his training walks on the side, hovering close to my legs, effectively preventing me from bumping into anything… and of course, Alison just thinks I'm being a dick, with that vice-hold I have on her arm. She takes me through what I guess is the living room (deep, soft carpet, very posh) and down a long hall – hard wood floor – no obstacles (and I remember to count my steps through both the living room and hall) before propelling us into a room and slamming the door shut.
"You have some fucking nerve, Sheldon," she seethes at me. "And you'd better have a fucking brilliant explanation this time."
(Hey, I said she'd think I was being a dick – I never thought she was afraid of me. Alison knows I would've done great bodily harm to that husband of hers without a second thought – but I've always stopped just short of actually hurting her.)
"I was a little tied up, Al." I fish my cigarettes out of my jacket pocket – I offer her the pack first.
"I quit – and can't you even come up with a new line? You're starting to sound like a broken record."
I listen as she moves around a little – opens a cupboard – and then returns – taking a stab in the dark (ha-ha – no, really, I meant that…) I reach towards her – ashtray. I nod my thanks. "Look – just tell me what Emma's doing here, alright?" By now I'm quite adept at getting a cigarette lit without being able to see what I'm doing… although the nicotine isn't doing much to settle my nerves just now.
"Three months ago this lawyer shows up on my doorstep with Emma – and who is Emma – why, she's my brother's daughter – my niece," Alison's tone is ever so sweetly acerbic. "I'll bet you can imagine my surprise, because surly I would know if my only sibling had a child. You had fifteen years to get around to mentioning her to me, Shel. And yet – you didn't."
"It's – complicated."
"It's always complicated with you. Tell me, didn't it ever occur to you – in fifteen years – that I might like to know I had a niece?"
"Eleven."
"What?"
"She was four before I knew she existed – so technically I only had eleven years to get around to mentioning her to you."
"That's still a fucking long time."
"So why exactly is Emma here? Where's Holly?"
There is a very long pause from her side of the room… I don't like very long pauses… I like them even less when my sister's tone shifts from royally pissed to something – softer.
"You mean you really did know?"
"If I knew, I wouldn't be asking, now would I?"
"Shel – she's – she died. Three months ago – something about lupus related complications – Sheldon?"
Died. I don't hear a whole lot past that… other than… lupus…?
"Sheldon?" Alison asks again.
"I'm ok," I lie. I feel like a ton of bricks has just landed in my lap… oh, wait, I'm still standing. Damn… "We – we weren't close," I tell her. "I – haven't really spoken to her since – she told me about Em."
"What happened?"
I shrug – what can I really say? "It was just one of those things – I – I had no idea she was sick. She never told me." Or at least… I don't think she told me… I haven't checked my P.O. Box in three God damned years… but… she had to have known before that… Lupus isn't like a car accident, it doesn't just hit you out of the fucking blue, there are symptoms… and… and I just cannot wrap my brain around Holly being… dead… gone. No more amongst the living…
I mean – I know death happens.
It's a part of life.
People die.
Sometimes guys like me help the process along… no regrets…
But – Holly wasn't supposed to die. Not now. I mean – I know – knew? she'd die eventually… but – but she was supposed to live happily ever after, first. She was supposed to forget all about me, get married and move to the country, have more kids – have – have the sort of happily ever after I wasn't willing to give up my goals for… and just look where that got me…
And…
Emma.
Christ.
Christ on a crutch. I'm not ready to wrap my brain around that either. Not now – not with the state my life is in. "What about Holly's family?" I ask my sister.
"I don't know – the lawyer said I was all she had. Seems he couldn't find you, either. What a shock."
"I really wasn't getting any messages." I take a long drag of my cigarette – it's just about spent. I stamp it out and hand her the ashtray – I listen carefully to where she puts it down. "Got anything to drink around here?"
"Well I see some things never change," her tone is one of exasperation.
But I hear her moving around – the familiar sound of a bottle opening…
"Do you even realize what day it is?" Alison queries.
"Thanksgiving."
"That's right – it's Thanksgiving," she shoves a glass of something into my hand.
I don't even sniff the stuff to see if she's feeding me brandy, scotch or drain cleaner… I might almost prefer the latter… but no it's – whisky? Not my favourite, but it'll do.
"It's Thanksgiving and I have Tom's family coming over in less than an hour – which is fucking stressful enough because they've never liked me. And now, now I have – that to deal with – because – well – imagine how well my ultra conservative Catholic in-laws are going to receive your charming offspring. And for crying out loud Shel, would you take off your sunglasses already? I'm getting sick of talking to my own reflection."
That… she just described my daughter as 'that'… "What's wrong with Emma?"
"What's wrong with her – are you blind, Sheldon?"
"Um – well – yes. Actually – I am."
"Oh Christ, don't be an ass."
"I'm not trying to be," this time.
"I don't have time for your fucking head games – not today, ok? Please – I'm about to have a house full of people – and half of them don't even speak English."
"I'm terribly sorry to hear your in-law troubles, dear – but – I really am quite completely blind."
"You're serious?" she doesn't sound entirely convinced.
"'Fraid so."
"What – happened – I mean – " I hear about three seconds of what might pass for compassion – then, "Sheldon Jeffrey Sands, you fucking asshole – I can't believe you would pull your shit on me – not today."
"Ahh –" is about all I get out before she explains her outburst:
"You're armed."
I can only assume she's caught a glimpse of some of that heat I'm packing, and she thinks I'm playing her… because in case you hadn't picked up on it – well, you know what kind of man I am. What makes you think my own sister was ever exempt from my machinations, just because blood happens to be thicker than water? Sure, I took care of her – I protected her – I got even for her – I even loved her (despite her accusations about my not being there with Mom) – but when it suited my needs, I used Alison without a second thought… without regard for her feelings and certainly without remorse… And… the acknowledgement of that simple truth is like a seed; I don't think much of it now or in the moments to come, but later… later it's going to come back to haunt my ass… "Alison – I'm serious this time. My shit finally caught up to me – "
"I swear one of these days your shit really is going to catch up with you – and then – "
And then fingers graze the top of my nose – I feel Spencer come between us but – I make a grab for her hand anyway – and my hand curls around thin air… and holy fuck she's managed to dislodge the glasses, yanking them right off from around my ears…
I swallow hard… but at the same time, I tilt my head in her direction so she can get the full effect… she wanted to see. Fine. Let her see...
Alison doesn't quite scream… but there is a very sharp intake of air… and – a sound escapes her lips. Shock? Disgust? Probably.
…I let my hand fall back to my side… it rests lightly Spencer's head – he tried. He did his job – she just caught us both off guard.
I listen to my sister stagger back away from me muttering something unintelligible… but her horrified dismay at my appearance is obvious even to a blind man… and it's honestly all I can do to keep the rein on my temper. I hadn't wanted Alison to see me like this… no, that's not pride, or even vanity talking. It's the fact that despite everything, she is my little sister. Up until I left to pursue my own – well, shit – I was the one who took care of her. I inspected her closet and the space under her bed for monsters. I protected her from the Chet Wheatons of the world… I protected her from all the no-good boyfriends – I just – wasn't fast enough to protect her from her own curiosity…
"Alison!" That's the boyo, banging on the door. Guess that intake of air was a little louder than I thought – or he was hovering. My money is on the latter…
"I'm fine," her voice betrays her – she is anything but fine…
"Do us both a favour, don't hurl," I say in a low, cold voice – there is a lot of bitter anger in my tone. Her reaction is really no worse than Milo's… he just managed to hold himself together a little better, but he's a God damned CIA Officer… she's just a civilian… that's why I wanted to keep this from her… (I really can quite clearly imagine the expression of revulsion on my sister's face… and that thought makes me want to hurl – or go shoot someone… and still somewhere in the back of mind there's Beth – who never reacted like this… Beth who took care of me and held me in the dark… My angel… ) "Think I could have those back now?" I ask, without bothering to mask how I feel (hurt and angry – but mostly angry), "Or do you need to gawk a little longer just to be sure you're seeing what you think you're seeing?"
"What – what happened?"
"I would think that was reasonably obvious, there Sweet Cakes." I reach out – yes – she puts the glasses back into my hand. She's trembling.
"Alison!" Boyo again. This time he opens the door… (I turn my back to it – and him.) And my little baby sister surprises me…
"I said I'm fine," she tells the boyo in a tone that could put the chill in ol' Jack Frost's bones.
"Alison?" he asks, clearly perplexed by her tone.
"Get out, Tom. Now."
I hear his silent – swift – retreat – well, at least he isn't a moron. Even I wouldn't have argued with a demand in that tone of voice.
There is a long, cold silence – then: "Sheldon – I – I don't know what to say."
"So don't say anything." I feel around and find a chair in which to park my ass. I feel – dragged out. I light up another cigarette – even though she said she quit, I offer the pack to Alison again – and I'm not entirely surprised when she accepts one. "Sorry, I know you hate these," I mutter – and ever the gentleman, I hold the lighter for her. I listen as she gets her cigarette let – then put the lighter back in my pocket.
"That's – I never would have guessed – " She sits in a chair – or at least I guess it's a chair – a few feet to my left – apparently there's a table between us – I hear her shift the ash tray to it – glass on glass. "Shel – was it – was it some kind of – accident?"
My snort of cold hard laughter should enough to answer her question – but – that question just strikes me as so stupid that I have to answer it anyway, because really, does this look like an accident to you? "I saw too much," I tell her; my tone is acrimonious. "Someone wanted to make sure that didn't ever happen again."
"I – I don't understand."
"Think about it."
I listen to her swallow – I can imagine the gears turning. "Who – would – do something like that?"
"Do you really want the details, Alison?" Because I'm just about angry enough to give them to her.
"I – no."
"I didn't think so."
"But – you're armed."
"Yep, I still have those," I wiggle my hands at her – no response – she's apparently not in the mood for one of my stupid jokes. "Yes – I'm armed. I'm always armed."
"Are you still – with – the CIA?"
"That's a long story. I just got back into the country. How about another drink?" Because my glass has been empty for quite a long time…
She takes the glass – refills it – I'm pretty sure she's pouring one for herself as well. I seem to have that affect on people…
I fish my new ID out and pass it over to her when she hands me my drink.
"DOJ?" Alison questions.
"Yeah – funny, ain't it?"
"I – no. No, it isn't funny, Sheldon. Look – I'm sorry – it's just – you show up on my doorstep without warning after four years of silence – not that you were around much before that – but – but it's been Hell around here for the last three months."
"My life hasn't exactly been a church picnic either, there Sugar."
"No – no I guess not. When – when did it happen?"
"La Dia de los Muertos – November second."
"My God – that's – less than a month ago – you're ok?"
"As ok as I'm going to be. So – about the last three months?" Because it hasn't escaped my notice that Emma's been here three months…
"Well – I guess – I guess you really didn't see her–"
Alison's voice catches – which doesn't spare her from a sarcastic, "Gee, ya think?" out of me.
"Sorry."
I wave her apology aside; I'm pretty sure she's just having a hard time wrapping her brain around what she saw when she ripped the glasses away from my face… "You were about to tell me about the fruit of my loom –?" I prompt.
"Emma is fifteen. She wears spray-painted combat boots – striped socks, fishnets – a lot of black – flannel – ripped denim – her hair is – short – mostly. Black – but with – long pieces just sort of sticking out here and there – they're dyed dark purple and blue. Since today is a special occasion, she's graciously given in to my request to dress up – although I suppose I should tell you that your daughter's idea of a dress is what most of the rest of us call a slip – literally. Satin, knee length – spaghetti straps – dark purple. But at least she's wearing it with a jacket – the thing looks like it came out of someone's old hippy closet – lace, velvet, fringe. You with me so far?"
"I – think so." My brain is trying to assemble the picture… it doesn't mesh with anything I had ever imagined…
I know that a lot can happen in three years, but the last letter I read – the last picture I saw – Emma was this beautiful little girl with long blond hair and big brown eyes. She was getting straight A's and was a pleasure to have in class. Holly included a little note to tell me that Em was in soccer, taking martial arts – and that she was still in ballet (that would have been her fifth year – and all I could think of at the were broken toes… I've had my toes broken… it is no fun, let me tell you. I came very close to writing Holly back asking her to dissuade our daughter from going any further – but I stopped myself. I mean – what little girl doesn't dream of growing up to be a ballerina? Who was I to tell her no? I survived having my toes smacked by a ball pin hammer… I'm none the worse for wear… at least any breaks Emma sustained would be in the course of something she obviously enjoyed... and I trusted Holly's judgment…)
I listen to Alison put out her cigarette – and offer her another – which she accepts, before going on. "Emma wears more eyeliner than Siosxie Sioux and her favourite shade of lipstick is black – although dark reds, purple and blue seem to have their place too – same with the nail polish. Her eyebrow, belly button, lip and tongue are pierced – if there's any more, I don't want to know about it. Oh and that's two piercings in the eyebrow – the left one. The lip thing is in the dead centre of her lower lip – just below the lip – I don't know what they call those things. And if there are any tattoos, I haven't seen them – but I'm not discounting the possibility."
My Christ. I trusted Holly's judgment… "Ears?" I inquire, just out of curiosity.
"Oh, those are pierced too – it's just that that's so tame compared to the rest of the package. And – honestly, Shel, I could ignore the package if I could find any way to like what's inside."
"What does that mean?"
"Sheldon – Emma is – disruptive – rude – she's – she's impossible to live with – we can't control her – she wants nothing to do with us. I don't trust her around my children."
"You have children?"
"Don't sound so shocked."
"I just – you never struck me as the motherly type."
Her laugh is cold – hard. Yeah, like I've got a lot of room to talk…
"What exactly do you mean about not trusting Em around your children?" I ask.
"I mean – I don't think she'd hurt them – but Tom isn't so sure. She has a couple of knives – I suppose that doesn't sound like much to you – but – but – I'm at the end of my rope, too." I can hear the exhaustion in my sister's voice… "I've got a two year old and an infant – Jocelyn is barely a month old. She was born almost four weeks premature – which could have been worse – but – it's been Hell – and – Emma has been a big part of that Hell."
"That's why you've been trying to get a hold of me." My brain is trying to wrap itself around what went wrong… three years ago Emma was going to be a ballerina… and now…?
"Sheldon – I – I am sorry, but she cannot stay here."
Oh – fuck me – not a chance…
"I – I – hadn't expected – what happened to you – but – that still doesn't change the fact that she's your daughter – your responsibility. And – I mean – it's not like you're going back into the field. So – I don't know – maybe it's – I mean, this way you won't be alone."
"I can't."
"Bull shit."
"I am in some serious shit over here, Alison. Maybe in a few months, once things have settled down –"
"No. She's your kid – your responsibility. I – I put my life on hold once already – but – that was for Mom. I towed my half of the line and yours too – but this – this is all you. She cannot stay with me – I have my own family to take care of."
"For Christ's sake, I lost my eyes – do you think you could give me six months to pull my shit together –" cut me just a little slack… I light up another cigarette.
"You know – if it were anyone but you – maybe I could. But I know you too well. In six months you'll have vanished off the face of the earth again – maybe with some story about how you're up to your neck in some new shit, because with you it's always something – or maybe you'll just vanish without any word at all. Neither would surprise me."
"Alison – I can't take her – not right now. Not won't – can't."
Silence. Then, "Fine."
"Fine?" I really don't like the way she just said that – I take a very long drag off my smoke.
"Fine. You're here – you can sigh the paperwork."
"What paperwork?"
"Tom and I have discussed this. We cannot keep her. There is no other family. You do the math."
"No." She can't be serious…
"You have two choices, Shel. You take her. Or the state does – because I have tried. This isn't some sort of creative revenge," she adds – Alison knows how I think. "This is me telling you that I can't handle that child. My husband is a police officer – and he can't handle her."
"She's fifteen – how fucking hard can she be to handle?"
"Emma is failing almost every one of her classes and not because she's dumb. She just won't go to school – we put her on the bus – we've tried dropping her off – bodily – in her first-hour class. I've tried to be her friend – tried to be 'the adult' – tried everything there is to try. Short of sitting on her all day, every day – actually going to school with her – there's nothing we can do to keep her there. Her teachers don't know what to do with her – her councilors don't know what to do with her – her principal doesn't know what to do with her. I don't know what to do with her. And it wasn't like we didn't try, Shel. It was a Hell of a shock – but – Tom and I both tried to – to make her feel – welcome, at home. We let her have the room we were going to put the baby in – let her re-decorate because no fifteen year old is going to want to live in a pink room with My Little Pony curtains – and I honestly didn't know how long it was going to take to get through to you. And – the poor kid was literally dumped on our doorstep with nothing but a lap top – two cats – the bird – and a duffle bag full of cloths I'd be ashamed to donate to the Salvation Army."
"'The' bird?" I ask – just the way she said that… should I call it El… and Rod Serling is lurking around here somewhere, right…?
"I think it's a raven. Big black ugly thing – at any rate, we know she didn't get it from a pet store. Tom is a cop – but – I talked him into letting her keep it – and the cats – he hates cats. But – she'd just lost her mother – and Jesus, she has you for a father – I felt sorry for her."
Guess having me for a father makes Emma the charity case of the century... "Look – I'll talk to her – get her to straighten her shit out – just give me six months –"
"No, Sheldon. I don't trust you. You have two choices. Period."
Fuck me. But good. "Give me five minutes. Alone."
"I should go tell Tom – what should I tell my husband about you?"
"That I'm staying for dinner." I light up another cigarette…
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Emma was listening to (and making sure the rest of the house heard) Diamada Galas – who's musical style is truly difficult to describe. The description Sands gives is pretty much what ever member of my family has to say about it…
Although Sands will never see him, I've cast Benjamin Bratt in the role of Tom DeSantis…