'I could run up to Arby's, get her a roast beef,' her father said helpfully. He still had on his summer work clothes, a short-sleeved white shirt and clip-on blue tie, a shade lighter than his eyes. He also had his summer sunburn, one shade lighter than his hair.
Tess thought if someone was going to escape on her account, it should be her. 'Or maybe I could just go get takeout from Mr. G's, or the Chinese place over on Ingleside, the one with the dancing cow. That's it, I'll get some dumplings, maybe an order of spare ribs.'
'No!' Judith screamed, in a voice so shrill and hysterical that it stopped them both in their tracks as they edged toward the kitchen door. But no one looked more surprised than Judith at the strangled sound that had come out of her.
'I mean-don't leave me. I need you both here. If you get me through this, Pat, I'll go down to the ocean with your family in August, stay in that horrid little condo of theirs, and never say a word.'
Tess exchanged a look with her father. This was a serious concession indeed. Judith insisted on staying in a separate hotel when the Monaghans staged their August reunion and usually came up with a reason to leave two days into the week-long vacation.
'Okay, hon,' he said. 'I won't leave, and neither will Tess. She'll just have to dig up something around here she can eat.' He opened his arms and Judith allowed herself to be embraced. As they snuggled, Tess was reminded of the chemistry that had sizzled between her parents all these years, the one constant in their marriage. They had thrown in their lot with one another less than two weeks after Donald Weinstein had introduced his kid sister to this up-and-coming Monaghan kid in the West Side Democratic Club. Both families had predicted, hoped, prayed, that the union would founder. But here it was, thirty-plus years later, and there was still a glimmer of whatever had passed between them at that first meeting. Tess would have found her parents' relationship inspiring if she didn't happen to believe it had warped her for life. Hadn't she sent her last boyfriend packing for the simple crime of being too nice, too easy-going?
'I'll go put the newspapers down,' Tess said. 'Should I tape them or just weigh them down with dishes?'
'Tape the first layer,' Judith said, her words muffled by Patrick's shoulder. 'Then spread another over the top, so we can gather them up as the tables get full and put them straight into the garbage bags.'
Within an hour, the paper-covered picnic tables in the backyard were full and bits of crab shell flew through the air with each swing of a crab mallet. Even crab-aversant Tess couldn't help being impressed by the professional skills her relatives brought to the dismemberment of this non-kosher delicacy. Uncle Jules and Aunt Sylvie had special mallets, of course, wooden heads on sterling silver handles, their monogram engraved along the shaft. They were messy types, sacrificing large pieces of crab meat to greedy haste. Cousin Deborah was neat, but prone to tiny cuts along her manicured nails, painful when the Old Bay seasoning rubbed against them. Little Samuel sat between his grandparents, pounding on the table with his own monogrammed mallet, as if practicing for the day when he could eat more than Saltines and corn sliced from the cob.
Uncle Donald dissected his crab with a knife and was expert at extracting large pieces of back fin, the best part of the crab. But Gramma was the fastest, cleanest picker of all. She had once won a crab-picking contest for local celebrities, thirty years back, when the proprietess of Weinstein's was considered a certain local celebrity. She told the story at every family crab feast. She was telling it now.
'The second-place winner, the woman from the little ice cream store, what's her name, she wasn't even close. Her wrists were strong, from all those years of scooping, but her skin was soft, and she was squeamish.' Gramma rotated her wrist, as if scooping something hard from a carton, chocolate chip or Rocky Road. 'But that little ice cream business was bought out by Beatrice Foods last year, so I guess she had the last laugh. Her husband knew how to manage a business. She could afford to have soft hands.'
Tess, munching unenthusiastically on her butter-and-guava jelly sandwich, studied her grandmother. She understood Gramma's bitterness now, these repeated jabs about Poppa's failures as a breadwinner. Gramma must have known, or guessed, of his betrayal. Then again, Gramma had always been a sour, unhappy person. There was no Jackie around in the early years, when she was monitoring Tess's time on the flying rabbit. Or was there? Was Jackie a one-time thing, or one in a string? She put down her sandwich, what little appetite she had gone.
She got it back quickly enough when she saw Aunt Sylvie bringing out her homemade German chocolate cake. Whatever her other failings, Aunt Sylvie made good cakes. Gramma was standing at the head of the table, tapping her fork on the side of her glass, while Samuel continued to pound at the table with his mallet. Gramma gave him a look. She didn't like to be upstaged, even by the two-year-old great-grandapple of her eye. Both lost their audience when a police car pulled up in the driveway.
'Someone probably complained about all the cars parked out front,' Patrick grumbled, getting up to go to the gate.
But it was a county cop car, not a city one, and the two officers seemed tentative and embarrassed.
'Is there a Miss Tess Monaghan here?'
Everyone in the family turned to look at her, their eyes so accusing, so ready to believe the worst of her, that Tess felt just the tiniest bit affronted.
'That's me,' she said, putting down the garbage bag of crab shells she had been tying up, brushing her hands off on her jeans.
'You don't have to say anything to them,' her father assured her. 'Let me go call our lawyer.'
'You want I should call the chief of the state police, or Arnold Weiner even?' Uncle Donald asked. 'I don't see how the county cops have jurisdiction here.'
'How can I help you, officers?'
'We found someone,' said the taller cop, a strapping near-giant, his name plate at Tess's eye level. Officer Buske. With his broad chest and shiny black hair, he reminded Tess of the smiling boy in red-and-white checked overalls, hawking burgers at Shoney's Big Boys.
'Is he dead?' she asked.
The big cop, Buske, looked at her strangely. 'Dead? He? No, it's a she and she says she's not going anywhere until she talks to you. We found her walking barefoot along the Hanover Pike, up toward the state line. She said she had been kidnapped, but she didn't want to press charges, that you would take care of it. She had your business card in her pocket. We took her down to your office, and when you weren't there, we went over to your apartment. Your aunt said we'd find you here.' Buske suddenly blushed. 'She sure is pretty, your aunt.'
Tess couldn't help imagining this broad-shouldered lad sitting at the breakfast table, wearing the flannel robe that Kitty kept for all her gentlemen callers. Husky Buske.
'Back up a minute,' she said. 'You found
The smaller cop-actually, he was almost six feet, but Buske Big Boy dwarfed him-opened the back door of the patrol car and Willa Mott limped out, her bare feet as red as her perpetually stuffed-up nose, but much more painful looking.
'Willa?'
'I told them you'd take care of me,' she said stiffly. 'That you worked for my lawyer.'
Tess decided to play along, even if she wasn't quite sure just what game was afoot. 'Of course. Tyner will be so upset when he hears what happened. Your ex-husband again? Are you finally ready to press charges?'
'I think we should talk about this in private,' she said, stumbling forward. Not only where her feet raw and swollen, but her ankles were criss-crossed with tiny scratches and insect bites.
The big cop lowered his voice. 'Truthfully, ma'am, we think she ought to go in for psychiatric observation. She was muttering to beat the band the whole time she was riding around in the back seat, using every curse word in the book.'
'She has problems, but she's okay as long as she takes her medication,' Tess said. 'It's the same old story. She starts feeling good, then decides she doesn't need to take the lithium any more. This happens every six months or so.'
Willa glowered, but didn't dare contradict her. The officers retreated to the car somewhat reluctantly, called in
