Inheritance Tax by Initial Luv

Chapter Fifteen (In which Mark takes flight, takes pills, and is taken by surprise.)

McCormick closed his eyes, and leaned his head back. He took a long breath, gritting his teeth against the nausea. He clenched and unclenched his fists repeatedly.

"First time flying?"

Mark turned his head toward the person sitting on his left: a plain-looking woman who appeared to be in her mid-forties. She was holding a book open on her tray table, but had turned from her reading to study him with a concerned expression.

"What?" he asked, in between deep breaths.

"You look like you're pretty uncomfortable. I thought maybe this was your first time flying."

"No, it's not." Mark looked around the plane briefly. "But I'd really rather be driving."

"Oh, not me," the woman disagreed. "That Los Angeles traffic is a nightmare – am I right? I was just here for a week, but I had enough of that to last me a lifetime." She laughed sheepishly. "I'm from a small town. I am not used to big-city traffic."

Mark nodded absently, not in the mood to chat. Another wave of pain crossed his back and he gasped involuntarily, again closing his eyes.

He could feel the woman shift in her seat. "Do you want me to get the stewardess?" she asked nervously.

McCormick opened his eyes and did his best to keep his voice steady. "No, it's okay. I just need to wait for the pills to kick in."

"Oh," the woman said knowingly. "Airsick? No wonder you'd rather drive." She smiled at him in sympathy.

McCormick nodded, smiling back weakly. It was easier to explain his obvious discomfort as airsickness, instead of what it really was. And what is it, really? he wondered to himself. His back had been host to varying degrees of pain once he took his seat back in the coach section, but he could be plenty uncomfortable on a plane even when perfectly healthy. There was an oppressive sense of powerlessness on a plane, and the prison-like confinement and close quarters made Mark borderline claustrophobic. On one of the first times he'd flown with the judge, Hardcastle had remarked on McCormick's "selective" claustrophobia, claiming that if the young man truly suffered from the neurosis he wouldn't have been able to race. The cavalier comment had angered Mark, and he'd defended himself by touting the differences between driving a race car and being able to make your own decisions, versus being a passenger in a plane and having no control over your fate. A safe landing sometimes seemed like a crap shoot, and McCormick's unease while flying had only worsened after he and Hardcastle had crashed up in Oregon. So, yeah, he'd much rather drive. Sure, Charlie had reservations on driving when starting a new medication, but as long as Mark didn't feel the loopy disconnection that pain pills did to him, he thought he could handle driving. Well, maybe not from coast-to-coast. He had done it before, when he'd followed the judge out to D.C. several years back, but he hadn't been experiencing random dizzy spells then.

And even though the dizziness had reduced quite a bit after that initial spell on the beach, there was also the fact that, if he'd taken off in the Coyote, the judge would have found him before he'd crossed the state line.

The woman was speaking to him again, and he realized he'd been grimacing while thinking of how he'd been forced to choose this detestable form of travel.

"Do you want to switch seats with me so you're on the aisle, in case you need to . . . leave?"

Mark was able to produce a faint grin. "Maybe. I'll think about it. Thanks, uh –"

"Cassie," she introduced herself. "And you're . . ?"

"Mark."

"Where are you headed, Mark? Detroit, or are you catching a connecting flight?"

"Yeah, connecting," he confirmed. "I'm going to New York. Some place called Tarrytown?" When McCormick had called the airlines the day before, he'd found that if he flew in to White Plains, New York, he'd be within driving distance of the small town listed on Martina's deposit slip. He was pretty sure he'd heard of the town before, but hadn't felt the need to determine why. After growing up in a neighboring state, Mark was used to having a familiarity with most things New York. A familiarity that had been increased by a few trips to New York City as a teen, as well as the brief visit to Lancaster during his racing career.

"Tarrytown?" Cassie repeated, amused. "Headless Horseman? Ichabod Crane? That Tarrytown?"

Mark looked out the window at the partially lit sky, thinking. "Sleepy Hollow," he muttered. He now knew exactly where he'd heard the name Tarrytown. He also recognized that it was likely he'd consciously ignored the familiar twinge. He'd read "The Legend of Sleepy Hollow" roughly six years ago, in prison. The story – along with "Rip Van Winkle" – had been in a Washington Irving collection that he'd grabbed off of the library cart.

Cassie was chuckling lightly, unaware of McCormick's bitter memories. "That's the best thing about small towns: the unusual histories or backgrounds they have. Take where I'm from," she continued. "Prairie du Sac, Wisconsin. Home of the Cow Chip Festival."

"The what?" Mark had initially been annoyed by the woman's chatter, but this last statement made him turn to look dubiously at his neighbor.

"The Cow Chip Festival. Every year on Labor Day weekend. It's a big thing," she said in a serious tone. "Live music, beer, tons of food. There's a big arts and crafts fair and a parade on Saturday. And of course, the Cow Chip Throw."

Mark knew he had to ask, even as he felt that the woman might be pulling his leg.

"What is a cow chip?"

Cassie stared at him as if he had asked her to identify that new-fangled contraption called a "telephone."

"It's dried cow pats."

"Pats?"

"Dung," she tried next.

Mark knew now that she had to be kidding. The whole story had the same feel as the ones Hardcastle liked to tell of his childhood growing up in Arkansas. The judge's elaborate narratives often rendered McCormick speechless in disbelief.

"Your city has a festival, based on cow poop."

She frowned a little, seeming offended. "We're not the only ones. There's a town in . . . Oklahoma, I think, that has a cow chip throw, too."

"You're kidding." When she simply shook her head, the next big question suddenly occurred to him. "Wait, you throw the cow poop?"

"Well, it's dried," Cassie answered practically. "It's not much different than throwing a Frisbee, but there's all different techniques to throwing them. There's a corporate throw, and a kids' throw, and the individual throw. Everyone gets it on it."

"Parents let their kids throw cow poop?" Mark just couldn't seem to get off of this tangent.

"It's a rite of passage for a local," she confirmed.

"Well, I'm assuming you wear gloves to do it." McCormick settled back in his seat with a distasteful look on his face. Small towns. Give him the big city any day.

Cassie began laughing again, and Mark couldn't keep himself from looking her way. Her face held a broad smile.

"Gloves? That's against the rules. But you can lick your fingers to get a better grip."

ooOoo

Once Mark resigned himself to the fact that he was sitting next to a chatterbox, he started to converse more comfortably, and the two spoke easily for a good portion of the flight. Cassie shared that she'd been in California for her nephew's wedding, and then had stayed a few days more to sight-see. McCormick hesitantly allowed that his reason for flying to New York was also family-oriented. He didn't specify, and she didn't push, but he could sense her curiosity at his non-disclosure.

Mark cast about for a way to change the subject, and decided to get the woman talking about her home state again. He confessed that the entirety of what he knew about Wisconsin was limited to the Milwaukee Mile race track, and the Green Bay Packers. He was relieved when Cassie grabbed on to the comment of the Packers and ran with it. She informed Mark that, starting in the 1930s and lasting nearly twenty years, the NFL team had actually played several games a season in the infield of the Milwaukee Mile. Warming to the discussion, McCormick teased the woman about Green Bay's poor showing the last few seasons. Cassie took the ribbing well, and even acknowledged what the problem might be. "It doesn't always work for a former player to be the head coach," she admitted. "Forrest Gregg isn't exactly Mike Ditka." Even as she praised him, Cassie spoke the name of the Chicago Bears' head coach like it left a bad taste in her mouth. "But the Packers will be fine – our time will come," she said with conviction. "You just worry about your Rams-Raiders dilemma."

Mark grinned, remembering conversations he and the judge had shared on that very issue. "Nah, I'm more of a Jets fan," he replied.

The talk of football gradually led Cassie back to her nephew, as she stated that the young groom had majored in communications, and had plans to become a sports reporter. The woman pulled an engagement photo of the now-newlyweds out of her book, where she'd been using it as a bookmark. McCormick dutifully remarked on the attractiveness of the couple, and Cassie beamed, placing the photograph back in her copy of Postcards from the Edge.

McCormick had thought his earlier brief reason for his journey had been sufficient. After all, he didn't know this woman and would probably never speak to her again once they parted ways in Detroit. But after seeing the pride Cassie felt when sharing her nephew's picture, Mark was hit with an inexplicable urge to also present a photograph, and he reached forward to retrieve his backpack. Self-consciously pushing the pill bottles to the base of the canvas bag, McCormick pulled out the envelope of photos, now creased and smudged with his frequent handling. He removed the school photo, handing it to Cassie for consideration.

The woman clucked her tongue gently. "Well, she's just a mirror image of you, isn't she? What's her name?"

"Olivia." His mouth turned upward as he spoke the name, marveling how just one word could elicit such overpowering emotion.

Cassie handed the picture back. "She's beautiful." She watched as he delicately handled the photo. "But then you already knew that."

The school portrait was wallet-sized, and on a whim, McCormick decided to liberate the photo from the rest in the envelope. Pulling out his wallet, he placed Olivia's picture carefully between the photo of his mother and the small laminated news article of his first dirt-track win.

He had another picture from that win, a larger one, in a frame on the wall in the gatehouse. In that candid shot, he was standing on the roof of the car, where he'd climbed spontaneously in an adrenaline-fueled celebration frenzy (and for which he'd been reprimanded by Flip Johnson, who had been thoroughly annoyed with his young protégé's potentially dangerous actions. Mark had listened to the scolding with a shameless grin, mentally comparing the danger of slipping and falling off the stationary car with the danger of cracking up the car during the race).

That candid picture had been taken by the wife of a guy on the pit crew, a woman who had been quite the shutterbug. Mark had actually lost the original photo somewhere in between Florida and California and prison, and had lamented the fact to Barbara Johnson (Barabara Dall, now) roughly a year ago. Barbara had gotten in touch with the woman who had taken the picture (the shutterbug was now a well-known celebrity photographer) and then had presented a reprint to Mark last Christmas. He had been honestly touched, and somewhat amazed. He still wasn't sure what mystified him more – that the photographer had still had the negatives of a picture she had taken over ten years ago, or that Barbara apparently now hobnobbed with celebrities.

"I bet she's got you wrapped around her little finger."

McCormick snapped back from his memories at Cassie's voice. He shrugged, not sure how to answer. Cassie snorted delicately, obviously taking his shrug as an affirmative. She picked up her book again, and as she read quietly, Mark wondered if someone he'd never met could already have him spellbound.

Well, look at the facts, McCormick. He was flying cross-country, possibly against his doctor's advice and definitely against Hardcastle's, on borrowed money. He hadn't made the final decision on leaving until after supper last night, when he'd at last gotten a hold of Teddy Hollins. Before his unsuccessful nap, Mark had tried Teddy at home and next at the restaurant, eventually having to leave a message for the elusive night manager. Mark's third attempt had finally reached Teddy, and he had barely started explaining the need for a short-term loan before Teddy had interrupted him. "Skid, whatever you need," his former cellmate had pledged. "Just tell me when, where, and how much."

When had been at three-thirty in the morning, the soonest Teddy could get to Gulls' Way after shutting down the bar at Jack's. Where had been a good distance away from the driveway, so the judge wouldn't hear an engine rumbling up in the pre-dawn hours. And how much had been much more than Mark had expected. When Teddy had pulled up at the airport, he'd pressed an envelope in McCormick's hand. Mark had opened it to riffle through the twenties in amazement.

"Teddy, this is too much. I have some money – I just needed maybe another hundred."

Teddy had grinned. "Hey, I know last-minute ticket prices have gotta be pretty steep. And then you gotta buy snacks or a magazine or something, right?"

"Where'd you get this, Teddy? There has to be two hundred in here."

The other man had shrugged nonchalantly. "A little from the register, a little petty cash." When Mark had stared at him in open-mouthed shock, Teddy had elaborated. "It's what I could find in the middle of the night. Don't worry – I'll go to my bank when it opens, and get out enough to replace it. It's okay, Skid."

"Teddy, I can't take this! I don't want to get you in trouble!" McCormick had started to push the envelope back to his friend.

Teddy had shaken his head adamantly, refusing to take any of the money back. But the gesture had been followed up with concern. "You're sure you can't tell Hardcase about this? He'd help you, wouldn't he? I mean, that guy's got money comin' out the wazoo, right?"

Mark had sighed, shaking his own head. "The judge and I don't really see eye-to-eye on this. If I said something about leaving to Hardcastle, he'd find a way to keep me here. He'd handcuff me to himself if he had to." He'd looked imploringly at Teddy then. "And I know he'll be looking for me, and he might come after you. You don't have to lie for me. Just stall him. Once I'm on the plane, I don't care what he knows. I just need a few hours on him, is all."

"Sure, Skid." Teddy had nodded, and then his brow had furrowed slightly. "But I don't get why the judge would want to stop you from seeing your kid. I mean, it's your kid."

McCormick had known he couldn't tell Teddy the whole story, of the possible PKD diagnosis, the new medication, and the ultrasound appointment he definitely wasn't going to keep. Teddy was softhearted to a fault, and while it meant that he would do whatever Mark needed, whether it was a ride to the airport or a considerable loan of money, it also meant that he might go directly to Hardcastle if he thought Mark's health was below par. McCormick had settled on the same word that he was unaware Martina had also used to describe the situation: "It's complicated."

Teddy had left it at that. He hadn't had a reason to doubt his friend, and he'd wished Mark well. And McCormick had entered the airport with the envelope of money, his backpack and a small duffel, and a growing sense of guilt. He'd now hoodwinked two good friends, so he could impulsively pick up and leave for New York on a six a.m. flight. To see a nine-year-old who, as he thought about it now, most likely did have him "wrapped around her little finger." Not an easy task, considering he'd never met her and she probably still knew nothing about him. But there it was.

When the plane landed in Detroit, Mark went one way to catch his flight to White Plains, and Cassie headed in the other direction, to find her connecting flight to Madison. Mark was sorry to see her go – she may have talked quite a bit, but she'd taken his mind off of both his aversion to flying and his recurrent back pain. McCormick's neighbor on the flight from Detroit to White Plains was nowhere near as friendly – a man in a suit and tie, he kept his nose buried deeply in The Wall Street Journal. He barely gave Mark a glance for the hour and a half that they rubbed elbows, even as Mark started to fidget, attempting to find a comfortable position that wouldn't aggravate his back. When the flight attendant came by with the drink cart, Mark gladly took a proffered beverage. A quick search in his backpack located the bottle of aspirin he'd purchased at the pharmacy the day before, and McCormick disposed of four of the pills with a grateful swallow of water. By the time the plane touched down in New York, his back pain had again diminished to manageable levels.

McCormick was able to procure a cab without too much of a wait, and was even able to tip the airport employee who'd called the taxi, thanks to the extra cash he had from Teddy. Sliding into the back of the cab and giving the driver Martina's address, he was soon on the last leg of his journey.

In less than a half hour, he'd meet his daughter.

McCormick paid the cabbie, then looked uncertainly at the two-story house with the gray siding and the rose-colored shutters. "Stay here a minute, okay? I just have to make sure this is the right place."

McCormick rose from the cab, hesitated for a fraction of a second, and then paced slowly up the walk. He had his backpack slung over one shoulder and his duffel bag in his hand, and he suddenly became aware of how much he resembled a teenage runaway. Okay, a well-aged teenage runaway.

He was standing at the door, vacillating between ringing the doorbell or knocking, when the door was opened from the inside. Mark found himself facing Sandra Rivera. He was immediately gratified that he had asked the cabbie to wait.

"Mark?"

He nodded silently. He was speechless, his mouth dry.

Sandra frowned, then glanced behind her. "Did Martina know you were coming? She didn't say anything."

Mark found his voice, but it was still hoarse. "Marty's . . . here? When you – when I saw you – I thought she gave me the wrong address."

"Why would it be wrong? I live here, too."

McCormick was still trying to comprehend that, and what that meant in relation to his presence, when Martina came up behind her mother. "Mark, my God!" She was staring at him in astonishment. "What are you doing here?"

Just seeing the younger woman made all of the stress and pain drop from Mark's body. He felt the hours of weary traveling disappear in response to her surprised smile of delight.

"I thought I'd return the favor. Unexpectedly show up on your doorstep."

Martina reached around her mother, grabbing Mark's arm and pulling him inside. He was able to hastily wave off the taxi before the door was shut, and then he was standing self-consciously in the entryway. The two women studied him, one with happiness, the other with suspicion.

"Um . . . I hope this is okay." Mark's eyes moved back and forth between the two women's expressions.

Martina still had a hold of his arm, and she gave it a light squeeze. "Of course it's okay. I just wish you would have called. I didn't think –" She broke off, and taking his other arm, held him at arm's length with an intent gaze. "You said you were going to the doctor," she confronted him.

"I did. See? They drew blood." He pulled his right arm free, and pushed up the sleeve to show her the bruise from the blood test. Unfortunately, Martina focused only on the other new bruises, again from Hardcastle's grip. "What happened here?" she exclaimed, and hearing the concern in her daughter's voice, Sandra moved in for a closer look. McCormick lowered his sleeve and moved back a step, bumping into the door with his back. He watched Sandra with a guarded expression.

"It's nothing important," he heard himself saying, even as he watched the older woman's eyes narrow in patent disbelief. He turned to look at Martina. "Hey, if anything was that seriously wrong, I wouldn't have been able to fly, right?"

Before Martina could answer, Sandra sighed impatiently and walked away. Mark took the opportunity to change the subject, becoming a little confrontational himself.

"You know, you could have told me she lived here with you. Given me some kind of warning."

"Why?" Martina challenged. "I didn't know you were coming. And of course she lives with us. She's raised Olivia as much as I have. I needed her, being a single parent –"

Martina fell silent. They stared at each other awkwardly. The duffel bag in Mark's hand suddenly felt very heavy, and his head began to throb. He lifted his hand to rub his head, and the backpack slipped off his shoulder. When he adjusted his stance to catch it, a spasm of pain shot through his back.

"Mark, come here. Sit down."

Martina led him into combination dining room/kitchen, and motioned him to a chair. She watched him carefully as he sunk down with a tired sigh. McCormick lowered the duffel to the floor, and dropped his backpack on top of it. After looking around cautiously for Sandra, he inquired about the one resident who had yet to make an appearance.

"Is she here?"

Martina smiled. "She's next door. The neighbor's cat just had kittens – I couldn't keep her away. But she should be back any time."

Mark felt light-headed. Now that the anticipated encounter was imminent, he was terrified. What will she be like? What will she think of me? What if she hates me? What the hell am I doing here? He swallowed audibly and dragged his fingers through his hair.

"Mark." Martina pulled out a chair, sitting next to him. She took his hands and looked at him steadily. "Take it easy. We can do this slowly. She doesn't know about you. You're my friend. Just a friend."

McCormick shook his head, disgusted. "How can I come all this way and chicken out? This is ridiculous. What am I so scared about?"

Martina laughed softly. "Well, I had nine months. You've had two days."

Mark nodded, but still looked downcast. Martina rose suddenly, then held out a hand.

"Do you want to see her room?"

ooOoo

Mark followed Martina down the hallway, to the room at which it ended. Looking around as he stepped inside, he almost tripped over a small pile of shoes near the doorway. Martina murmured a low curse. "That girl," she said next, and bent to gather up what were several pair of Chuck Taylor All Star high-tops. She continued: "She's been obsessed with these ever since she saw Back to the Future. We can't get her to wear anything else." As the woman carried the sneakers to the closet, Mark smiled faintly, recalling a similar pair of black high-tops he'd had as a kid. I wore those things into the ground, he remembered fondly.

McCormick moved to the center of the room, taking it all in. On the closet door was a movie-sized poster for The Princess Bride. Tacked up on the wall was another large poster, this one of Johnny Depp as his character in 21 Jump Street. The bed was made, but the sheets were wrinkled and haphazard. There was a desk against one wall, with a cork board above it. A variety of clippings adorned the board, mostly magazine cut-outs of celebrities and musicians. But what McCormick noticed pinned to the cork board was an assortment of hospital bracelets. Mark gravitated toward them, reaching his hand out to lightly touch the plastic bands.

Martina put a hand on his shoulder, and when he turned he saw she was tipping her head toward a small alcove located between the closet wall and the outside wall. Centered in the alcove was an armoire that held an elaborate stereo system. The stereo was flanked on both sides by wooden cases full of cassette tapes. Each case easily held fifty tapes. In addition to that, numerous compact disc cases surrounded the stereo components.

"She listens to all of these?" McCormick leaned forward, reading the names.

"If she's in here, there's music playing," Martina responded.

There were selections that he could understand a nine-year-old girl listening to. Duran Duran, George Michael, The Bangles. But then. . .

"The Who? Zeppelin? Really?" As he read farther, it seemed he was looking at his own music collection. Simon & Garfunkel. Pink Floyd. Creedence Clearwater. Queen. Talking Heads.

"Mom? Mom!"

Light footsteps came running down the hall. Mark hung back in the alcove near the stereo, barely breathing.

Olivia entered the room, her face flushed and her curls tangled. The laces of her red Chuck Taylors were undone. "Mom, you should see them! There's two orange ones, and a calico, and. . . "

"Olivia, please – you need to settle down!" Martina tried to calm her daughter, but the girl rambled on. "They are so teeny tiny – they are just adorable! Do you think Grandma would let us get one, when they're old enough? Cats are easy, you don't have to walk them and they sleep a lot. . . " Olivia trailed off as she finally noticed the stranger standing in her room. "Uh. . ." Her eyes tracked from the man to her mother.

"Olivia, this is a friend of mine. Mark." Martina moved back to take Mark's hand. "I was just showing him your music collection."

"Okay." Olivia gave the tall, curly-haired man a skeptical look. "Um, hi."

McCormick stared back silently. Martina squeezed his hand. "Breathe," she whispered.

Mark took in a deep breath. "Hi," he said, hoping that his inner trembling didn't show in his voice.

Olivia came forward, studying Mark fixedly. "Do I know you?" she asked quietly.

Mark gave an involuntary half-laugh. "No. No, I don't think so."

"Mark's from California, honey. I don't think there's any way you would know him," Martina explained.

Olivia looked suspiciously at their joined hands. "He's the friend you went to see in California? And now he's here?"

Neither Mark nor Martina had an answer for that. Martina released Mark's hand clumsily.

Olivia stepped closer to Mark, the same introspective look on her face. "You look really familiar."

"I do?" McCormick's voice cracked. He looked at Martina with a mystified expression. "I look familiar," he repeated.

"What is your name?" Olivia asked abruptly.

"Mark. Mark McCormick."

Olivia was now backing up. Her eyes had become slightly unfocused. "Skid-Mark," she said thoughtfully.

The light-headedness returned in full force. Mark grabbed onto the nearby bedpost, breathing deep as he tried to keep his head from swimming. He heard Martina ask, "How do you know that?" and then was vaguely aware of Olivia moving to her dresser.

Olivia pulled out the first drawer of her dresser far enough so she could reach her hand underneath it. Feeling around for a few moments, she finally pulled out a weathered envelope that had been taped to the bottom of the dresser drawer. Clutching the envelope tightly, she approached McCormick. Mark thought idly of all of the envelopes he'd been presented with in the last few days, and choked back a nervous laugh.

Olivia opened the envelope, taking out a small, equally weathered newspaper clipping. She held it out to Mark.

"Is this you?"

McCormick looked at the paper in the young girl's hand, and really thought he should sit down. He moved around to drop heavily on the bed.

Martina grasped her daughter's wrist, staring at the clipping. The small newspaper article was entitled "New Face to Watch - 'Skid' Mark McCormick Garners his First Win of Season." It included a headshot of the driver. The fifteen-year-old photo showed a younger version of the man seated on the bed.

"Where did you get that?" Martina demanded.

Olivia didn't respond, still waiting for confirmation from Mark. Instead of answering her question, he slowly pulled his wallet from his pocket, opening it to produce the identical newspaper clipping that Olivia was holding. "My first win," he said softly.

"So this is you."

"Olivia!" Martina's voice was sharp. "Where did you get that!"

"I gave it to her."

The trio looked to the doorway, where Sandra Rivera stood imposingly. Martina looked at her mother in amazement. "Mom?"

"It was when she started pre-school. All of the other children had fathers, even the ones whose parents had been divorced. I didn't want her to feel different, to feel less. I didn't know she still had it." Sandra gave her granddaughter a small smile. "I guess I didn't realize how much it meant to her."

Olivia inhaled shakily, and then turned back to Mark. With him seated on the bed, they were at eye level, and she stared into the blue eyes that were almost the same color as her own.

"You're my father."

Mark stared back, and a sudden feeling of pride and protection washed over him, overwhelming any fear or doubt. It was something he'd never felt before, and at the same time it seemed as natural as breathing.

"Hiya, kiddo," he said.