Pick Your Poison

tenuous.

He lifted my chin. “I think that’s a first. You said four words I never thought I’d hear from you.”

“Four words?”

“ ‘I made a mistake.’ ”

He kissed me then, with all the passion I remembered, and it was the best thing that could have happened.

There were no lights, no sirens, no stomach flip-flops. None of the things I had dreaded for months happened. Could this be the beginning of the real end to my wanting him? I drew back and rubbed my knuckles against the stubble on his cheek. “We can be friends, Steven. I know we can. That’s all I can handle.”

He released his grip on my arms and stepped back. “Whatever you say, Abby. But I’ve changed. Changed because... Never mind.”

I turned to leave.

But as I walked to the door, I noticed a pair of shoes tucked under the coffee table, a name brand I recognized, Pappagallo. I could never wear a pair of those shoes in a million years. They were designed for tall, skinny women with matching long, thin feet. One shoe had a pair of black panty hose stuffed in the toe.

I didn’t say anything. If a woman had left her entire wardrobe at his apartment, it meant nothing to me, because I no longer felt the presence of that maddeningly ambivalent voice saying, I want you, Steven; I hate you, Steven.

Tonight I neither wanted him nor hated him. And maybe, just maybe, I could simply accept him for the flawed, overgrown boy I had lusted for but never truly loved.

Back home half an hour later, I found Diva sitting on the counter awaiting my arrival, her amber eyes matching the light on the answering machine as it flashed eerily in the darkness of the kitchen.

Kate had left me a message on the two-way memo telling me Terry had called with information about Feldman.

My hand hovered over the phone; then I glanced at my watch. Past midnight. “Come on, Diva; let’s go to bed. It’s too late for phone calls.”

18

The next day, Terry wouldn’t reveal what he’d learned over the phone, but rather asked me to meet him at his office. As I sat by his desk around nine A.M., I recalled how I had keyed on his computer right after Ben’s death, determined to discover the truth—something that had proved far easier said than done. But Daddy always said that lick by lick, any old cow can polish off a grindstone.

Terry, wearing a soft green shirt and lightweight sports jacket, had a gleam in his eye. A good sign. After our meeting with Hamilton, he had seemed almost as interested in this case as I was, so maybe he’d caught the detecting bug, too.

He opened a manila folder and said, “I haven’t located Feldman, so no address. But an old desk sergeant named Grant, who started out as a bailiff at the Galveston County Courthouse years ago, remembers a lawyer named Feldman who made regular appearances in family court for his adoption business.”

“You’re kidding. This is fantastic, Terry.”

“Grant says Feldman was a shady baby broker linked to hints of a judicial scandal. A judge named Hayes left the bench after being tied to Feldman and some questionable adoptions.” Terry leaned back and smiled.

The rush of pleasure I felt at finally getting a solid lead surprised me with its intensity. “We could search back,” I said, “and if Feldman has a record, maybe Jeff Kline will help me locate him.”

“Hold on. I said there were hints of a scandal. When Hayes left the bench, the investigation ended. Apparently lots of wheeling and dealing went on behind closed doors. She resigned and everything quieted down. Feldman wasn’t seen around the courthouse much after she left.”

“Did Grant tell you anything else?”

“He remembers the judge better than he remembers Feldman. Quite a few of the ‘good ol’ boys,’ Grant included, said they knew she played dirty. Their take was that if she wanted to make it in a man’s world, she had to cheat.”

“How typically Texan of the boys. Is Judge Hayes still around?”

“I don’t know, but her son is a big-time real estate salesman in Galveston. Here’s his number.” He handed me a piece of paper. “If Mr. Hayes isn’t happy that you’re resurrecting unpleasant rumors about his mother, do me a favor and don’t tell him who sent you.”

Several hours later I was cruising toward Galveston for the umpteenth time in a week, excited at the prospect of following this lead. David Hayes, the judge’s son, had been more than cooperative. He gave me Eugenia Hayes’s address with his blessing, as well as directions so I could visit her. I didn’t mention her past indiscretions and he didn’t either. I simply told him I was a reporter writing a story about pioneering women in the judicial field. If he knew anything questionable about her past, he made no mention. But then, she probably didn’t share the bedtime story of how she nearly got kicked off the bench. David Hayes might not have a clue about her questionable past.

The fact she now resided in a nursing home might present a few problems. Not to mention her Alzheimer’s disease. But I wasn’t discouraged. In fact, I hummed the Beatles’ “Here Comes the Sun” as I followed the brick- lined path leading to the front door of Faircrest Haven.

A kind-looking woman, with tight salt-and-pepper curls and wearing a name tag with Lorna printed in giant letters, greeted me from behind a U-shaped desk several feet beyond the entrance of the two-story building. She abandoned her People magazine to offer a friendly smile.

“I’m here to visit Judge Hayes,” I said.

Her face clouded as she flipped through a Rolodex of laminated plastic cards.

“Judge Hayes?” questioned the woman. “Is he in-patient care or a day resident?”

“I think he is a she, if that helps any,” I said, peering over the desk and wondering if they’d ever considered indexing the patients on a computer.

“Oh, my goodness.” Her eyes widened and she shook her head. “You must have the wrong facility. They do those surgeries down at the University Hospital. We only have old people here, not any of those sex-change folks.” She pointed back out the front door over my shoulder. “To get over there, you go back to Seawall Boulevard and turn—”

“No, you misunderstood,” I said with laugh. “Judge Eugenia Hayes,” I clarified. Or so I thought.

“You’re telling me our Eugenia used to be a man? Doesn’t that pop the wax out of your ears? You know, she doesn’t make sense half the time, so that explains her problems. It’s hard enough making it in this world, and then you go switching your body parts and—”

“I’m really in a rush,” I interrupted. “Could you tell me her room number?” I realized I wouldn’t straighten this out in Lorna’s mind, now or in the future.

“She’s in two-thirty-one. Take the elevator to the second floor and turn left. You know, I always thought Eugenia was a weird name, but now I understand. She used to be Eugene, didn’t she?” She smiled and gave me a conspiratorial wink.

There was a good reason for Lorna to use laminated cards. Trusting her with technology would have been far too risky.

When I exited the elevator on the second floor, an overpowering blend of disinfectant and room deodorizer greeted me. I followed the signs and was soon tapping tentatively on the door of two-thirty-one, not sure what I’d find. I’d never visited a nursing home before.

“Come in,” commanded a woman from within.

I opened the door and paused, surprised at the size of the voice coming from the tiny person propped up in bed.

“Shut the door!” boomed the gray-headed lady, her frame nearly lost in the swath of white sheets and pillows surrounding her. “It smells like a goddamn nursing home in that hallway!”