Chapter Four
At Nieman’s, Glynn sat between me and Mishela. Then Dumas wedged a stool between me and Glynn. My head knew that was a good thing, but my body wanted to shoot him. Then Dumas monologued on Method acting until I wanted to shoot myself.
One drink of that was about all I could take. “I’d better get home. The store opens early.”
Glynn rose too. Maybe he was as bored with the lecture as I was.
But I was trying to keep my distance from him, so I waved him down. “I’ll walk myself home. It’s not like Meiers Corners is dangerous.”
His stance, muscular arms over jutting chest, said quite firmly we were leaving together or not at all.
Mishela rose. “Might as well give in. Glynn’s made up his mind.” As we headed out she added. “And sausage doesn’t sell itself.”
“You sound like my dad.” I’d probably be okay with Mishela chaperoning.
“No, this sounds like your dad.” Adopting a booming, jolly voice, Mishela said “Sausage doesn’t sell itself, ja?”
“Whoa. That’s uncanny.”
“Wait,” Dumas’s tenor whined from behind us. “I haven’t finished telling you about Strasberg’s students. James Dean, Marilyn Monroe—”
“Anybody in this century?” I tried to derail him. “Allison Scagliotti? Seth Green?”
Dumas sniffed. “Method acting is continuing to evolve.” He strutted east on Main.
Which wasn’t my way home, but I was curious, so I followed. “Meaning they’re not?”
“Meaning it doesn’t matter. All of today’s stars are Method’s philosophical descendants.”
We passed Bob’s Formalwear and Ritsa’s Pizzas. (The owner’s name was actually Rita, but the sign maker messed up and gave it to her for free. She liked it better and kept it.) Dumas was talking at a clip that would make any fine-print announcer proud.
I had to trot to keep up. Behind me, Glynn kept pace merely by stretching his long, muscled legs. I wished he’d lead the way so I could watch his glorious glutes, but he insisted on covering our rears—just sear me to seal the juices. What about the man made me think body parts? Rubbing, heating, damp body parts… I refocused on Dumas, expounding on how Method acting revolutionized American theater.
Mishela was trotting alongside me, her face confused. “Where are we going?”
“Otto’s B&BS, my hotel,” Dumas said. “Now the Method was actually created by Konstantin Stanislavski, who—”
“BS?” Mishela grinned. “I’ve heard of a B&B, but what’s a B&BS?”
I said, “Bed and breakfast smorgasbord. Uncle Otto runs it.”
She turned to me. “Isn’t smorgasbord Swedish?”
“Uncle Otto isn’t restricted by geopolitical boundaries. Surely you’ve heard of such traditional German favorites as dumpling pizza, sauerkraut egg rolls, sausage-fried chicken—”
Dumas gave a pointed little ahem. “Interesting tangent—if you like complete irrelevancy. As I was saying…”
He started in on sensory-memory exercises. That led into the tale of the anorexic actress, who recalled what she ate so clearly that she revomited it. Yeah, good times.
Dumas was describing the regurgitated orange juice in loving detail as we passed the stone edifice of the Sparkasse Bank, when Glynn snarled and grabbed him by the collar.
I thought maybe he’d finally had enough of Dumas’s babbling. But Glynn tossed Dumas behind us, then barred Mishela and me, his powerful arms thrust out like a special forces crossing guard. Skidding to a stop, I peeked under his jacketed arm.
Three men were running across the bridge toward us.
Nylons smashed their faces, but their eyes glowed like red coals. Two waved knives. The third brandished a black cloth bag.
They zoomed in, over the river and on us before I could even gasp.
And I thought, well hell. Meiers Corners was dangerous after all.
I considered what to do. I’m a black belt so it might seem obvious—just kick and punch my little heart out. But while Joe Shmoe could kick and punch and even scratch, my training required my response to be reasonable and appropriate. It’s counterintuitive, but the martial arts don’t train you to fight—they train you so you don’t have to fight.
If these guys were only thieves wanting my wallet, they were welcome to my buck ninety-five. I pulled my cash and tossed it onto the sidewalk, the pennies clunking like plastic.
They didn’t even look. So, not after money. Then what? Or who? Their red eyes made them look like Star Wars Jawas.
Or zombies.
Ooh. I could go all Jackie Chan on their asses if they were zombies. Zombies couldn’t sue. I bent into ready stance just as Glynn reached into his jacket and pulled something out with a menacing ka-click.
A dagger sprang into his hand, scary-long and gleaming silvery-white. He held it steady, its sharp point angled slightly up. Serious. Deadly.
I nearly peed my pants. But at least now I knew why he wore that leather jacket, even indoors.
It hid his long, elegant weapon.
Dammit, looming danger. No time for naughty thoughts.
Glynn surged forward, met the first goon. His left fist knocked the man back even as his long leg came up, snapping a kick through the goon’s head. Muscled lightning snapped back for a second hit, bam-bam. With a crack of bone the goon’s jaw sagged, white shards poking through skin and stocking. His eyes rolled back, his knees folded and he collapsed in a dead heap.
As he fell, Glynn rammed his knife straight into the second goon’s breastbone.
I froze in shock.
It was them or us, but the casual violence stunned me. Bone is the human equivalent of concrete, but the knife embedded to the hilt, goon blood blossoming. The thug fell to the pavement with a thud, a second dead heap. Glynn’s dagger stuck up from his chest like a flag planted for king and country.
The third man flashed by, a bag ready, headed straight for Dumas and Mishela. Mishela jerked Dumas away at the last instant and the bag swished air. The thug pivoted, spun in for another try.
That unfroze me. Reasonable and appropriate went poof. I snapped a roundhouse kick into the third attacker’s ribs.
And hopped back, shrieking. I’d just kicked Frankenstein. Or a flak vest, but I’d cracked my fricking toes, at least two of them. I’d broken them before, knew they’d be numb in seconds, but it hurt.
A roar split the night, louder than ten lions. I was seized by huge hands and pushed gently back. Glynn. He grabbed the goon by the neck, his long fingernails digging into goon throat, squeezing hard…the goon’s neck snapped, head flopping like a rag doll.
I sucked air.
Glynn released the attacker. The body fell to the sidewalk with a sick whump.
“Oh my God.” Dumas backed away, face sickly yellow.
I whirled toward grass. The horror…and my soda…came up in acid rivers. Glynn caught my shoulders, steadied my head until the waves of nausea passed. When I was done, he gently wiped my mouth with a soft cloth, another surprise from his jacket.
I looked up. Mishela was inspecting the bodies, going through pockets with a cool professionalism that struck me as profoundly at odds with her seventeen-year-old innocence.
“Chicago,” she said. “But we expected that.”
“Wh…what did they want?” I found myself clinging to Glynn, had to consciously release him.
“Dunno. But they tried to bag Mr. Dumas.”
And now they were dead. My eyes found the first man, his horribly mutilated jaw… The holes were still there, but I couldn’t see the shards. I tried to get a closer look. “Something’s wrong. Look at that guy’s—”
“Time to go.” Glynn grabbed my arm, hauled west.
“Come on, Mr. Dumas.” Mishela reached for the director.
A black-gloved hand got him first.
The hand was attached to a figure that materialized from a dark cleft between the bank and a yarn shop. Average height, slim, wearing a trench coat, a full mask obscured his…her—its features. It threw Dumas over its shoulder and disappeared between buildings before I was even fully aware of him/her/it.
Mishela sprang after, her face like a raptor’s.
“No.” Glynn’s voice rang with stark command. More—with mastery.
She yanked up like a puppet. Her raptor face disappeared but I’d remembered why it was familiar. It was Diana, Greek goddess of the hunt.
Demons, monsters—gods? Had Nixie soaked my reeds in vodka again? Just what was going on here?
“Mishela.” Glynn’s voice eased back to musical. “Before we pursue, we must see Junior safely home.”
“No time,” I said. “Every second counts in an abduction. We need to call the police, get them on Dumas’s trail.”
“We don’t need the police.” A smile crooked the corner of Mishela’s mouth. “Not when Glynn’s the best tracker there is.”
“Okay.” I believed her. After all, he had that whole nature’s king/druid vibe going. “But the police have equipment and manpower. And a ton of paperwork to start, so we need to let them know.”
But Mishela wasn’t listening, and Glynn was absorbed by the dark cleft between buildings where Dumas had been taken, touching the brick, sniffing it. When he moved off, Mishela followed.
If I didn’t want to be left behind with three bodies, I needed to leave too.
Normally I wouldn’t have worried about staying by myself. But we’d been attacked on Main Street—safe-as-cottonballs Main. Attacked by three thugs whom Glynn had not just fought but annihilated. Dumas had been abducted. It was a nightmare.
Hmm, we were standing one block north of Elm Street.
None of it made sense, and I needed it to. What you don’t know can hurt you—and worse, can seriously reduce your profit margin.
So when Glynn and Mishela disappeared between buildings, I ran after.
Or rather, limped. Broken bones are screamingly painful. Numb cracked toes are just awkward.
I found them behind the bank, in an employee picnic area bordering the alley. Glynn was examining the landscaping hedges, Mishela watching closely. While they were absorbed, I pulled out my phone to call the cop shop.
Glynn took off again, west down the alley. I clutched the phone and followed. Hitting sidewalk on Second, he dropped to his hands and knees and put nose to concrete.
Like a hunting dog…or wolf.
He got to his feet, brushing off his hands. “This way.” Nostrils dilated, he loped off, going north on Second.
Very cool, slightly scary and another note stacked onto the weirdness chord.
As I shuffled behind, I punched in the phone number for information and got myself routed to the cop shop. As it rang I wondered what I would say. The police needed to know, but what Glynn had done…what could I tell them?
Alice Schmidt, nightshift dispatcher since the Kennedy administration, and recipient of so many bowling 300 rings she wore them on her toes, answered immediately. I still hadn’t decided what to say so I just asked for Elena.
Maybe I’d say that it was self-defense. It had been. Mostly. Yes, Glynn had killed three goons, but they’d been trying to hurt us. I listened to the phone ring, trying not to remember Glynn’s deadly precision, his destructiveness well beyond reasonable response. With the last thug, Glynn had been almost brutal. Just after I’d cracked my toes, when I shrieked…
Hey. Glynn hadn’t thought I was in danger or hurt, had he?
“Strongwell.”
Elena Strongwell was Meiers Corners’s top detective. I took a deep breath and reported. I tried to downplay the worst, but had to tell the truth.
She seemed strangely unconcerned by the dead goons. “Junior, the important thing is that you’re safe. But I doubt Glynn actually killed those guys.”
“You didn’t see it. The embedded knife, the blood…” I lowered my voice. “Elena, they were dead.”
Glynn paused to scent the air, paying no attention to me. Beside him, Mishela closed her eyes and sniffed it too.
Elena said, “Well, I’m on-site now. You said three? Only two here, so at least one’s alive.”
“That was fast.”
“Hubby and I were in the area doing our neighborhood watch thing. Bad news, Junior.”
“What?” My fearful gaze shot to Glynn’s broad back. It had been self-defense, but did killing those men mean jail for him? Or worse? “They’re…they’re…”
“Going to be fine.”
“What?” I couldn’t help it, I squealed. Glynn gave me a brief glance. I grinned with a thumbs up. Turning, I lowered my voice. “Elena, one was knifed in the heart and the other’s neck was snapped…” I petered out as I realized just how bad that sounded.
“Choked unconscious, maybe. The guy’s neck is fine.”
“But I saw his head flop!”
“People do a rag doll when going unconscious. And really, it’s a lot harder to poke through bone than it looks on TV.”
“I know that.” Was I going insane? I’d seen three men struck with killing blows. Could I have imagined it?
“Junior, you’re a businesswoman. Practical, right? Bottom line is, these guys are going to be fine. Facing stiff charges for assault, but fine.”
Nothing had happened, just like the “wolves” last night. Good news, except now I was possibly going nuts. I clipped the phone shut and stowed it. I couldn’t go insane. If I checked in as a permanent guest of the MC hospital’s Arkham psych wing, who’d run the register?
Wait. Dumas had been kidnapped. He’d validate me.
Glynn headed east. We were nearing Settler’s Square when he said, “There he is,” and broke into a run. Mishela was right behind. I limped along, finally catching sight of the saffron, lime and pink heap on the park bench.
Dumas wasn’t moving. His face stood out white as a sheet. I said, “Is he…?”
“No, he’s breathing.” Glynn touched a hand to Dumas’s neck. “And his heart’s beating.”
At Glynn’s touch the director groaned. His eyes fluttered open, focused slowly on Glynn. Dumas smiled. “Ah, heaven.”
Glynn snorted. “Not quite. Let’s get you sitting. You’ll be fine in a moment.”
“What happened?” I asked.
Dumas opened his mouth.
“You don’t remember,” Glynn said.
Dumas frowned. “I…I don’t remember. But—”
Glynn’s tone darkened. “You’re completely unharmed.”
“Completely unharmed,” Dumas echoed, eyes blanking.
“All’s well that ends well,” Mishela added brightly.
Good old Business Truth #4. And people think only fairy tales have morals. But I wasn’t going to dismiss it that easily. “Mr. Dumas, what do you remember? The fight, the kidnapper?”
Dumas’s eyes snapped to me. “The fight. I was sick.” The frown returned. “I remember crazy bright eyes, like pinwheels, and then…nothing. The next thing I remember is—” He smiled fatuously at Glynn. “My hero.”
Crazy pinwheels. Sounded like Dumas had been hypnotized, but why? And why kidnap him just to let him go?
And why Dumas and not Mishela, who was an heiress?
I’d thought Dumas would help me understand what was going on, but instead I only had more questions.
Just then the new dancing figurine cuckoo clock in Settler’s Square (sponsored by the Volka Polka radio station, “All Polkas, All the Time”) bonked, clanged and tweeted its quaint and touristy way through twelve strokes. Midnight. It was late, and I’d had a long and tiring day. “I need to get home.”
“Me too,” Dumas said from the park bench. “But I’m too weak to walk. Carry me?” He held his hands up to Glynn.
With a sigh, Glynn picked up Dumas and strode off. From the way Dumas’s arms clasped Glynn’s neck, fingers massaging those broad, jacketed shoulders, I thought maybe Dumas was faking the too-weak-to-walk a little.
Wish I’d thought of it first.
We slogged the six blocks to the sausage shop in silence. Glynn set Dumas on his feet at the front door. “Wait here.”
“But,” Dumas started.
Glynn didn’t even bother with his death-o-matic glare. Mishela clamped the director’s wrist while Glynn escorted me to the side entrance, where I turned to say goodbye.
A round mechanical eye stared me in the face.
I exploded. “Those penis heads.”
Glynn followed my glare and saw it too. Mounted on a plastic bracket on the brick wall across from us was a webcam.
Bad enough when the Cheese Dudes were peppering us with petty harassment. This stunk, and I don’t mean Limburger.
The webcam was aimed straight at our private door, so I was sure it wasn’t for customers. No, the Dudes had graduated from petty vandalism to voyeurism. Maybe to catch me and Glynn in action and hit us with charges of public indecency. And in case you’re thinking “big deal”, in the Corners we take public indecency as seriously as murder—unless it’s stripping in Nieman’s Bar, which is recreational nudity.
Glynn’s hand flashed under his jacket. He whipped something at the camera too fast to see. Clunk-crash.
The camera, plastic bracket neatly severed, hit walkway.
“Handy,” I said as he picked up his knife. “Titanium blade?”
He just shrugged and turned to me. His face was drawn with concern. “You’re all right after what happened?”
I blew a frustrated breath. “Elena made it clear that nothing happened. She didn’t say all the death blows were my imagination but…” But she’d pretty much implied it.
Glynn took my face in his hands. “Babi, if I could remove this horrible memory from you, I would. But since I can’t…there’s nothing wrong with your perceptions.”
“It wasn’t my imagination?” I searched his warm sapphire eyes. Looking for affirmation of my sanity? For connection, comfort, closeness…all a single dictionary letter away from duty and dream, but in reality, an uncrossable chasm.
“If this were my territory…” He heaved a breath. “Junior, I’m not saying anything—except you’re the bravest woman I know. Wrap those toes.”
I blinked. I hadn’t made an issue out of it, but he’d noticed. He noticed, and hard on its heels, he cares. “I was trying to kick with the ball of my foot.”
“You did. The bastard moved last minute.” He gathered me into his arms. I let him, just for a moment, hungry for the warmth, for the simple contact. Just a moment. A moment wasn’t a lifetime.
And when he kissed me, I let him do that too.
His mouth was gentle, persuasive. His tongue was tender slipping along the seam of my lips.
A hug and a kiss. A simple connection, a bit of warmth and tenderness before I went back to duty and dreams.
My eyelids closed, drugged by soft sensation. I sighed.
At the cue, he cupped my head and his tongue stroked with more purpose, urging my mouth open. My lips parted and his tongue swept in.
He tasted fresh, exciting. Like the sweet grass of a spring field, ripe with adventure. Kissing him was like opening my mouth on a shout and swallowing fresh mountain air. Curling fingers over his shoulders, I raised myself for more.
He wrapped arms around me. His head angled sharply, mouth opening, tongue driving. His breath turned scorching.
I arched against him. His arms tightened, fusing us, his powerful pecs digging into the hollows of my shoulders, his belly rubbing mine. My breath quickened to panting, scrubbing my stomach against his abs. Excitement thrilled me to flashpoint. I tunneled my fingers into the softest, thickest hair in the world.
He raised his head and stared down at me. His pupils were black, passionate pools ringed by violet fire, riveted to my face as if gauging the smallest nuance.
I moistened my lips, an invitation.
He thrust his knee between my legs.
I clutched his thigh with a moan. He flexed his quadriceps, swelling denim, as hot and muscular as a stallion. I bit back a groan.
His head dropped and he kissed me again, hard and deep, rhythmically flexing his thigh. The thick muscle bunched and released like a living vibrator.
I started rocking against him. Caught myself. This was going way beyond a hug and kiss. I had to stop.
He grabbed my nipple and plucked.
I bowed back, groaning. His big mouth took my groan, muffled it into a whimper. His tongue thrust like fire. His fingers pinched like clamps.
He pressed my back to the door and drove his thigh against my vulva. I screamed into his mouth. He began to rock hard, fast, beating like a bass drum. I cinched his thigh between mine and rocked in answer, doubling the friction, the fire. My arms melted, hands dropping to his massive shoulders.
His kisses turned sharp. Sucking bites and nips pulled my tongue and lips. My hands slid to his biceps, my fingers clutching weakly.
A deep thrum filled my ears. His body vibrated with it; mine trembled in response.
His mouth traveled down my jaw. “Ah, Junior.” His breath caressed my throat. “Your heat inflames me, your sweet scent conquers me. Your pulse is the music that drives my soul.” He licked my skin. I shuddered at the hot swipe. “Your taste—sweet Duw, your taste drives me mad.”
I swallowed past a throat swollen with need. “Mutual, Dylan Thomas.”
“Ah, to taste you fully.” He nuzzled my neck. “For now I must settle for pleasuring you.” He lowered his leg. Air cooled my now Glynn-less crotch, making me very aware of how aroused I’d gotten.
It woke me up. “Wha…?”
He thrust a hand down the front of my black jeans, finger hitting the sweet spot. I yelped. He smiled, half-lidded and lazy.
And stroked.
It was like thumbing a lighter. I sparked instantly. A stab of pure lust cinched my hips back, rolling them—
Taking his hand with me. His finger slid into my body while the rest of his huge hand splayed over my pussy, hot, electric.
My eyes flared wide. He wiggled his finger and I gasped.
He thrust his thigh between my legs, nailing his hand to my crotch, and slammed into a kiss. And then he started thrusting that thick finger. I clutched his brawn as anything resembling sanity blew out of my skull. I rode his finger and sucked at his tongue and felt the sweet need I’d fought since meeting him come to a head.
He thumbed my clit and I cinched tighter, winding closer to the summit of sensation. His fingers rubbed faster, plunged deeper. I moaned into the hot cave of his mouth. My body stiffened, trembled. My skin flushed hot.
“My sweet babi.” Glynn lifted his head, his eyes so bright they practically glowed. “Come for me. Come hard.”
Devouring me in an open-mouthed kiss, he grabbed one breast and fondled it possessively as he plunged into me with his finger, stroked me with his thumb.
My pleasure crested. Broke over me, an ocean wave of satisfaction. I gasped through the release. Sighed into the afterglow. His hand gently wound me down.
Awareness returned and I remembered just where this sort of abandon led. It felt like heaven, but the consequences were hell. I had duty. I had dreams.
I scrabbled off his leg. At first he held on to me, but when it turned into an actual fight, he removed his hand from my pants and set me firmly on my feet, his fingers circling my upper arms until I found my balance. When he did let go, he backpedaled like I’d erupted in full-body pustules.
Which hurt, but I’d started it. Or ended it. Whatever. “That was unacceptable.”
“You seemed fine with it at the time.” The music in his voice was as tight as his expression.
“Seduction does that to a gal.” I tried to put a sneer in my own music, fell short. “Don’t do that again.” I jerked out keys, tried to stick one in the lock and was mortified when the keys jangled from my shaking.
He slid them from my hands, thrust one and opened the door. Sighed. “Junior, wait. I—”
“Don’t. Just—don’t.” I retrieved the keys and slipped into the dark hall. Closed the door by pressing my back to it. Or maybe the door was holding me up. I took a deep breath to calm my thundering heart.
A click.
The light blared on. “Do you know what time it is, young lady?”
My mother was waiting up for me.
The bright, bald glare of light burned my eyeballs. The voice glared too, pitched to scrape old guilt raw.
Great Galloping Galbraith. Must have pissed off the demons of the bottom line. I hoped like hell she hadn’t heard me orgasming against the door.
She stood before me, hair as black as mine, body as slender. My height too, but the way she stood, hands on hips, spine ominously straight, made her seem ten feet taller. The Egyptian-style headwrap straight out of Aida didn’t help.
I was the mirror image of her physically. I’d run from Glynn because I was afraid I was like her on the inside too.
No. I took a deep breath. I’d escaped the worst of the lustful urges that had been her downfall.
“Where have you been?” And when she got a look at my well-kissed mouth— “And what have you been doing?”
“Nothing.” The fallback of every child from two to sixty-two.
“Don’t take that tone with me, Gunter Marie Stieg.” She wagged one scolding finger as she spoke. Chunky gold bracelets jingled, underlining her scold. Maybe a stereotype, but my Italian mother very definitely talked with her hands, and by thunder, I’d better listen to both gesture and voice.
“It’s not what you’re thinking, Mother.” I quickly ran through the eightfold path. Used Business Truth #5, “Tell the customer, not what you want to jabber about, but what they need to hear”. “I was investigating a new sales avenue.”
Hey, I wasn’t lying, I was marketing. Besides, this was an emergency.
“New sales. After midnight?” Her flying hands shouted her disbelief.
“A business opportunity.” I added a Sales Maneuver, “Distract with any truth that’s not The Truth”. “You know how the mayor pulled in Broadway stars for the PAC opening?”
“Actors.” She sniffed, like she hadn’t been one herself. “They have no money.”
“Well, one of them does. Or rather, her guardian does. Maybe you’ve heard of him.” I paused for effect. “Kai Elias?”
My mother’s stare was an awl. She glared like I was lying so bad I wouldn’t sit down for a week. Although if Glynn was doing the spanking… She scowled. “Elias, of Steel Security. Of half a dozen more Fortune 500 companies. Billionaire recluse Kai Elias sponsors an actor.” Again she sneered the word, but it was the flicking finger that made me wince. “Next you will be telling me he lives in Nowheresville, Iowa.”
“Mom, really. His ward Mishela is Dorothy, here with one of his employees. I spent the evening with them.” No need to spell out how.
“Let’s say I believe you. What opportunity is this? Is the king of information getting into sausage now?”
Put that way, it did sound unlikely. I backpedaled. “I’m just laying the groundwork. Social connections, but who knows where it might lead?” I skimmed by her, headed upstairs to the family kitchen. A rehearsal takes a lot of calories, and all that running around after…not to mention the physical stimulation…well, I was hungry.
“A social connection.” She followed. “You’re trying to defect from the family business?”
Yeah. About that.
I have duty to family and I have dreams. My plan to go to New York with Oz, Wonderful Oz would take care of both.
My parents didn’t quite see it that way. Nobody was as loyal and hardworking as family. As the fruit of their loins, I was the epitome of family, and therefore nobody could replace me. Hiring Donald Trump wouldn’t be good enough.
Or maybe they wanted to keep me home forever.
Still, I tried. “Mom, I’m not going to leave without seeing you and Pop set up. This was just an exploratory meeting.” In the kitchen I started rummaging through cupboards. “I’m just feeling him out. Feeling them out.” I buried my sudden blush in the pantry closet. “I mean, I’m getting to know them. Mishela and her, um, companion.” I found a box of popcorn, extracted one of the bags.
“You’d better not be thinking this ‘feeling out’ will involve leaving. It would upset your father. You know he relies on you.”
The plastic-wrapped bag smashed in my clenched fist. Without turning I said, “You make sure I can’t forget.”
“You should never forget. He slaved for you. I slaved for you. I gave up my career for you,” she countered in a disagreement we’d had so often it was better rehearsed than any theater. “The least you can do is commit a few hours a week to the business your father gave his life to, the business we Stiegs have spent generations building.”
You’re not a Stieg. At least you weren’t until you married Pop.
“I do, Mom.” I stared at the popcorn, trying to work back to reasonable, to make this have a different ending. “Nine, ten hours a day, six days a week. It’s most of my waking life. I’ve earned the right to dream a little too.”
“Have you? What would you be doing with those hours if not honest work? Be grateful you are not on the streets, not starving or doing drugs or playing in a punky rock band like that Schmeling girl.”
“It’s Nixie Emerson now,” I said tiredly. Diverting this scene was like trying to turn a runaway soloist. “She married a Boston lawyer. Even by your definition of success, she’s made it.”
“I gave up my career for you,” she repeated. “A star mezzo with the Italian opera. I gave that up for our family’s business, for your heritage.”
What she meant was she and Pop had done the nasty and I came along, putting the kibosh on singing professionally.
“You must always remember, Junior. Business comes first.”
And there it was, of course. The stinger. I tried one more time. “Mom, I’m not going to run off just because I got horny and pregnant—”
She slapped me. Which I guess I deserved.
“Do not speak that way to me. Your father didn’t have to marry me. But he did the right thing by me and I have done right by him. I have loved him and honored him and the least you can do is the same. Family duty is more important than any dreams. Home is more important, because it is real.” She seared me with “The Look”, spun from me and stomped off. Each stomp rammed my conscience.
I thrust the popcorn back into the box, hunger gone, and headed upstairs. The same conversation, the same stomping, the same guilt. It only made me more determined to change the ending, at least for my own life. Mom had been trapped in the small pond of Meiers Corners by marriage. Not me.
Family duty was top priority; we agreed on that. But we had a different idea of how that duty needed to be discharged. I’d see my parents taken care of, no question. But one way or another, I was getting out. Getting my own life.
Fulfilling my own rainbow dreams.
