He drank a quarter of the drink, then topped off the glass with more Jim Beam.
Joe was not much of a drinker anymore, although he'd done more than his share in college and when he worked with Vern. But his intake of alcohol always increased proportionately when his mother-in-law was around.
He came into the living room and sat down. Marybeth had just come from tucking in Lucy. She frowned at Joe, and then smiled at her mother. She offered to get her mother something to drink, and Joe realized he was being scolded for not asking her himself.
"Do you have any red wine? That would be nice."
"Joe, would you open a bottle?" Marybeth asked.
"Where is it?"
"In the pantry," Marybeth said. "And I'd like a glass also."
Joe found the wine on a shelf in the pantry. There were a half dozen bottles to choose from. All must have been purchased within the last couple of days, anticipating her mother's visit, because normally the only thing on that shelf were boxes of breakfast cereal.
Marybeth, Joe grumbled to himself as he located the corkscrew, was a wonderful strong woman with strong opinions .. . except when her mother was present. When Missy flew in to visit, Marybeth shifted from being Joe's wife and partner to Missy's daughter, the one with unrealized potential, according to Missy. Her favorite child, according to Missy. Marybeth's older brother, Rob, was a loner who failed to keep in touch, and her younger sister, Ellen, had devoted her life to following the alternative rock band Phish on their never-ending concert tour.
Marybeth was the one, Missy had once said while she was drunk and sobbing, who married too early and too low (she may have forgotten about those comments by now, but Joe hadn't). Rather than being the welldressed, wealthy corporate lawyer she should have been, Marybeth was the wife of a game warden in the middle of Wyoming who made less than $30,000 a year. But, Missy no doubt felt, it still may not be too late. At least that's what Joe read into many of the things Missy said and did.
They had discussed all this before, and Marybeth thought Joe was too hard on her mother. Marybeth said that yes, she did sometimes assume the role of daughter when Missy was around, but after all she was Missy's daughter. Her mother just wanted the best for her, which was what mothers did. And Missy was proud of Joe in a way, Marybeth had said. Joe appeared to be faithful and a good father.
Marybeth could have done much worse, Missy felt.
Joe's mood was sour when Marybeth came into the kitchen. He poured two glasses and handed them to her.
"Cheer up," Marybeth said. "She's trying to be pleasant." Joe grunted.
"I thought I was being the model of propriety."
"You're not being very accommodating," Marybeth said, her eyes flashing. Joe stepped up close to Marybeth, so that what he had to say couldn't be heard in the next room. He had just been through three of the strangest days of his life, he told her, from finding Ote's body, to the shoot-out at the outfitters' camp, the finding of the mutilated bodies, to the barrage of questions afterward, to the hospital. His mind was reeling, and he was beyond tired. The last thing he needed upon finally getting home was Missy Vankeuren. The Missy Vankeuren who at one time resented the hell out of her daughter for having the gall to make her a grandmother, of all things.
Real anger flashed in Marybeth's face.
"It's not her fault all of this happened," Marybeth said. "She's just here to visit her granddaughters. She had nothing to do with a man dying in our backyard. She has a right to visit me and her
granddaughters, who think she's wonderful."
"But why does it have to be now?" Joe asked lamely.
"Thomas Joseph Pickett," Marybeth said sharply, "go to bed. You're tired and disagreeable, and we can discuss this tomorrow."
Joe started to say something, then caught himself. Her tone was similar to what he heard when she was mad at the children and used their formal names. It was fortunate she was right because Joe didn't have the energy for an argument.
Joe entered the living room, and Missy looked up from her magazine. Her eyebrows were arched in an expectant way. Joe found this annoying. She obviously knew there had been words in the kitchen.
"I'm going to bed," Joe declared. He knew he sounded simple.
"You should do that," Missy said, purring. "You are probably just dead with all you've gone through."
"Yup."
"Good night, Joe. Sweet dreams." Missy dropped her eyes back to her magazine and, with that gesture, dismissed him.
When Marybeth came into the bedroom later, Joe woke up with a start. He had been dreaming he was back in the mountains, back at the elk camp, reliving what had happened. In the aftershock of the shooting, time had become fluid, and Joe had drifted with it, like a raft on a river. The bodies of the outfitters were still in their tent where they had been found. Clyde Lidgard was still wrapped in the folds of the tent. He was moaning. They covered him with blankets. Pink bubbles formed and popped from a hole in his chest as he breathed. Deputy McLanahan was getting violently sick in the bushes from the tension and the release. The stench from the tent drifted to Joe and Wacey when the wind shifted.
In his dream, they were still waiting on the helicopter to arrive. They were all hungry.
"What time is it?" Joe asked. Marybeth was scrubbing her makeup off in the bathroom adjacent to the bedroom.
She was scrubbing hard. She was still mad.
"Midnight," she said. "Mom and I were visiting. I didn't realize how late it was getting."
"Honey, I'm sorry," Joe said. "I just need sleep."
"So sleep."
"I will, if you'll get me that bottle of pills from the counter."
Marybeth brought him a glass of water and the bottle of painkillers and returned to the sink. She had stripped to her bra and panties to scrub her face. Joe thought she looked good standing there. She stood on her toes to get her face closer to the mirror, and he admired her legs. Marybeth was not extremely thin, but she was firm and still looked athletic. The only place she looked pregnant was her belly. Marybeth carried her babies high and straight out as if she were already proud of them. She looked perfect as far as Joe was concerned. She could be fun in bed, and Joe suddenly wanted her there.
"What are you thinking?" she asked, looking at him from the mirror.
"I'm thinking you look pretty good."
"And .. ." Marybeth said, "aren't you too tired?"
"And I want you."
Marybeth stopped scrubbing and turned toward him. "Honey ..." she said, almost pleading and gesturing toward the closed bedroom door.
"She can't hear us," Joe replied dryly. "I'll make a point not to shout."
Marybeth glared at him. "It's not that. You know I don't like to do anything when my mother is in the house."
Joe knew. They had had this discussion before, many times. But he continued, "Do you think she thinks the kids were conceived by divine intervention?"
"No," Marybeth said, "but I'm just not comfortable when I know she's in the house, under the same roof. If I'm not comfortable, how fun can it be?"
Joe conceded the point, as he had conceded the point before.
"Okay," he said, covering up. "No hard feelings."
"Good," she said. "I'm glad you understand. I know it's irrational, but it's the case here."
When she came to bed, he was still awake. "Do you want to know who came in and saw me last night in the hospital?" Joe asked as she snuggled into him.
"Wacey."
"Well, him, too," Joe said. "But after Wacey, Vern Dunnegan came to call."
He felt her stiffen.
"I really hate hospitals," Joe said.