9
June 8
“Ricky? Ricky, is that really you?” said the voice on the telephone.
“Yes, it’s really me.” Rick stood at his bedroom window or his office window, depending on the time of day—and squinted into the afternoon glare. After a moment, he turned the wand controlling the heavy vertical blinds and watched the slats of sunlight grow narrower and narrower. “It’s been a long time, Carmen.” This morning he’d told the boys at KBUK he was leaving the show, and now there was no backing out. He had a stomach full of butterflies as he sat down in his chair, leaned back, and put his feet on the desktop.
“Say something so I know it’s you,” Carmen ordered.
“What? Why?” Her request made him nervous. When Robin was alive, there had been good reason, but now . . .
“Please.”
“Is something wrong?”
“No. No. Just tell me something only you could know.”
“Okay.” He smiled to himself as a memory came. “You and I shaved Jade’s poodle after it crapped on the couch. You told her the vet did it because it had lice.”
“Ricky, it’s so good to hear your voice.”
“Carmen, why did we have to do that?”
She hesitated before she answered. “I’m getting to be a superstitious old woman, Ricky. I’m scared of ghosts, that’s all. Mr. McCall told me you’d be phoning. How are you?”
“I’m fine.” She’s afraid I’m Robin, back from the dead, he realized. Had she always been so superstitious? Yes, maybe she had. Perhaps this woman, the only person he trusted after his parents were killed, had unwittingly helped him become the nervous wreck he was today. “I have kids,” he added.
“Kids? More than one?”
She knew about Shelly. He’d sent her a Christmas card the year his daughter was born, but he was pretty sure that was the last time he’d been in contact with her. “I have a son, too. Cody. He’s five.”
“How is your wife, Laura?”
“She died four years ago.”
“Oh, Ricky, I’m sorry.”
“Me too,” he said simply. “Carmen? Did George tell you why I’m calling?”
“Yes, Ricky. You’re coming home. Hector and I are so happy!”
“I’m glad,” he said uncomfortably. “Uh, Carmen, what’s the situation with Jade? Is she as eccentric as ever?”
“Madre de Dios, that woman. She’s still crazy, and she’s still got those stinking little dogs.”
As her poodles had died—they seemed to meet with more accidents than anything else on earth—she had had each one stuffed. By the time Rick had left for Las Vegas, there must have been more than a dozen of them holding their various eternal positions around the house. “Does she have a living one now?” Rick asked.
“Two,” Carmen said sourly.
“That’s too bad,” he said, thinking that Quint would have a great time terrorizing the creatures.
“You’re telling me.” Carmen paused. “Miz Jade’s getting a little senile, too. She’s supposed to keep those damn stuffed dogs in her apartment, but I keep finding them all over the house. She claims she isn’t responsible.” She snorted. “She’s never been responsible, that one. Butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and she’s crazy as a loon.”
“Apartment?” Rick asked hopefully. “Do you mean she’s living in the cottage now?”
“No. We still live there. Miz Jade doesn’t climb the stairs so well anymore. Remember how the downstairs is built in a circle, you know, the kitchen, dining room, living room, and then you go through the wide archway into the family room, past the bathroom and laundry room, and back into the kitchen, right by the back stairs?”
“I remember.”
“Hector put folding doors on the arch between the living room and family room, and another door between the bathroom and laundry room so that your aunt has her own apartment. Remember that little room at the back of the family room?”
“Mom’s sewing room?”
“Yeah. That’s her bedroom.”
The idea of having that woman and her dogs so close was revolting. “Carmen, how would you and Hector like to live in the main house? We can put Jade in the cottage.”
“No, Ricky. She’d have a fit, and I don’t think I can live in that big house. I’m sorry.”
“I understand,” he told her, deciding not to pursue it any further until he saw what conditions were like for himself. Chances were, he’d have the horrid old woman put in a rest home. “Carmen? Can you do me a favor?”
“You name it, Ricky.”
“If I can tell you exactly when we’re arriving, could you make sure Aunt Jade isn’t home? Keep her away for a few hours?”
Carmen’s laugh was hearty. “Sure. Are you afraid she’ll scare your children?”
He smiled. Carmen always knew him so well. “Cody can probably handle her,” he said, thinking of his unflinching acceptance of Mrs. Poom, “but my daughter . . . well, I want her to see the place first. She’s very unhappy about leaving her friends.”
“I understand. I think that’s a good idea.”
They talked awhile longer, making plans and arrangements. Finally Carmen announced that she would take Jade to the Melrose District in L.A., let her get her hair done, then turn her loose in the Poodle Peddler, an overpriced purveyor of useless doggie products. All he had to do was give her the high sign.
Hanging up, Rick realized his butterflies were gone and that he honestly felt good about the plans he was making. He’d thought about it for a week after the binge with Dakota, then called George McCall and told Cody and Shelly. Shelly had a temper tantrum and threatened to run away, but fortunately she ran in Dakota’s direction, and he extolled the virtues of California boys, or something along those lines. At least that had turned her from teenage histrionics to accusatory glares and calm, sullen acceptance.
He’d leave the childhood fears behind and concentrate on learning to be a homeowner. His only problems would be those of the real world. He’d get a couple years worth of columns out of it, on everything from putty knives to paint to lawn sprinklers. And if Jade was too weird, he could afford to put her in a retirement home, or even rent her a small house and caretaker. He leaned back in the desk chair and put his feet up. Twining his fingers into a pillow for his head, he felt that he’d done the right thing.
He just wished the goose bumps would go away.