Sal hated all of this, but he told himself he couldn’t blame Helen if her parents remained important to her. He let it go on, thinking it a compromise. He was being reasonable, forgiving. It wasn’t so divisive.
Sal was wrong.
By the time Graham was old enough to notice, the difference in his parents was pronounced. Six days a week, before the sun was up, Sal was off fishing in the Signing Bonus. On Sundays he’d play some kind of sports with Graham and Georgie, except when the weather was prohibitive. On those days he’d go out to the garage and paint or drink or both.
In the meanwhile Helen had begun to see her parents more often. The clothes and other gifts had become a way of life. She would often meet her mother for lunch. Sometimes a childhood girlfriend of Helen’s would be invited – always a fashionable young woman married to her doctor or lawyer or accountant – or banker. Leland Taylor might show up and say hello, might inquire after her children.
Sal drew the line at accepting cash money from the Raesslers, but the pressure never let up. He kept thinking that if he could just get ahead on his own, he’d have the legs on which to take a stand. As it was, though, times were always tight. Proud and house poor, Sal could barely keep up with the monthly payments on the Manor.
By the time Graham was thirteen, the foundations of the marriage had begun to erode, but the collapse of the whole structure, when he was fifteen, happened with a jarring suddenness. From Graham’s perspective, one day Sal stopped going to work and the next he was gone from their lives. Completely cut off, as though he’d died.
In less than a year Helen had married again. To spare the children the trauma of another relocation, of more changes and domestic upheaval, Leland Taylor had moved into the Manor.
Perhaps finally, Graham thought, any real reconciliation between the Russo and the Raessler genes was hopeless. The schism was too profound. He was a Russo all the way, Sal’s kid. Debra and George were Helen’s.
Frustrated and angry, Graham pushed his coffee cup away from him, sharply blew out a breath. ‘I’d like a show of hands,’ he said. ‘Does anybody here care at all that Sal Russo died last Friday? That your father is dead. Has that made an impression on anybody here?’
Across the table Debra’s lip trembled at the question, while down at the far end George leaned forward. ‘Oh, please. Yeah, we’re heartbroken, can’t you see? He was such a great dad, always there when you needed him.’
‘Shut up, George,’ Debra said. ‘Don’t talk about him like that.’
‘Why not?’ He raised his voice. ‘Why the hell not?’ The younger brother stood up, nearly knocking his chair over behind him. His eyes were bright with anger. ‘You want us to feel bad that he died? I’ll tell you what – I feel good about it. Relieved. Do you have any idea the hell he’s put Mom through these last few months?’
Helen held up a hand to stop George, but nothing was stopping George, not now. ‘You don’t know anything about that, do you, Graham? All this late-in-the-day touchy-feely nonsense about dear old Dad, and you don’t have a clue the torture he was putting your own mother through.’
‘No. I didn’t know that. What-?’
Leland was firmer than Helen had been. He rapped sharply on the table. ‘We don’t need to speak of that, George. It’s over now. It did no lasting harm.’
‘What didn’t?’
George’s blood was up. He sneered at his older brother. ‘As if you care.’
‘I might if you’d tell me what it is.’
‘Dad came by here, that’s what. He was threatening Mom-’
‘I don’t believe that. That’s not true.’
Leland again. ‘George.’
But the young man couldn’t be stopped. ‘You think anybody believes this deathbed conversion of yours, Graham? You think all of us don’t see right through it?’
Leland tapped the table and said, ‘Son, please,’ but he might have saved his breath.
George was advancing toward Graham, who was out of his own chair now. ‘You know and I know – hell, we all know – he was a lousy father and husband and human being. He deserted us, Graham, all of us, maybe it slipped your mind. What happened was you found out he had some money. And after you blew off your law career, you knew you weren’t getting any more out of Leland, didn’t you? You thought you’d squeeze some cash out of old Sal. Wasn’t that it?’
George had closed to within two feet of Graham. His face had gone red. Suddenly he was on him, pushing at him, backing him up, shouting, spittle flying from his lips. ‘Tell me that wasn’t it, you lying son of bitch! Tell me it wasn’t-’
Graham pushed back, hard. His brother’s leg caught the side of a chair. Graham, pressing his advantage, pushed again, and George went down.
Everyone else was up as Graham whirled around, a hand out in warning. No one should come any closer. George was on his feet again, glaring.
Graham held them all back. His breath was coming in gasps. He took a last look around the table, at his family. Then, half running, the tears threatening to break again, he was past his mother and stepfather, up the steps through the French doors, and gone.
The Blazers had formed a line in the infield. Sarah Evans, who’d run in from left field after the last out, was at the end of the line. ‘Good game,’ she repeated as each of the Wombats came by her, slapping palms. And they said it back to her. It was a ritual, a nod to sportsmanship – they played hard, sure, but everyone realized it was just a game. You congratulated the other team on a good one and then you went home.
The dugout area was a bench behind a low fence, and the Blazers filed into it to grab their bats and equipment bags and clear out for the next team. Sarah, recounting the highlights of the game with some of the other women, suddenly stopped talking and focused on Graham Russo standing behind the fence in his Big Dog T-shirt and Giants hat. Staring at her.
Grabbing her bag – she had her gun in it – she walked out of the dugout and around the fence, up to him.
He smiled easily. ‘I thought that was you. I was pretty sure, actually.’
‘Did you follow me here?’
The question seemed to surprise him. ‘No.’
‘How did you know I was here, then?’
She wished her heart would stop its pounding. She could feel the light nylon fabric of her jersey pulsing to its rhythm.
‘I didn’t,’ he said. ‘I grabbed a burger at the beach and came here to watch a few games, take my mind off some things.’
‘Yeah, I’ll bet.’
He broke another smile. ‘I was cooped up inside most of the day, maybe you heard. It was such a nice night, I thought I’d sit outside awhile. I got a six-pack back in the stands, if you feel like a beer. Watch the late game.’
She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. I don’t think we ought to be seeing each other. If you think you’re scaring me showing up here, you’re wrong. It’s a bad idea, stalking a cop. I’ll put you back in jail so fast, you’ll forget you ever got out. I hope you’re hearing me.’
A couple of her teammates were passing them on the way to the parking lot. They heard the sharp tone and stopped. ‘Everything all right, Sarah?’
‘Sure. Fine.’ She turned back to Graham. ‘You stay away from me,’ she said quietly. Then, to her teammates, ‘Wait up, I’m coming.’
There were four softball diamonds, one in each corner of the enormous field. Sarah’s game had been on #2, closest to the parking lot, and she could sit in her car and see Graham clearly in the stands – ten rows of raised benches – behind home plate. With her windows down she watched him for twenty minutes. He appeared to be engrossed in the game, occasionally drinking from his can of beer. At least, she told herself, he hadn’t made any move to follow her out to the parking lot. She thought his plan might have been to let her get a head start, then light out after her. But he hadn’t even glanced after her when she’d left. He’d gone back to watch the next games as he’d said he was going to. Maybe he was telling the truth.