Kill Me If You Can

9

I hummed and boogied and did my hair in the bathroom mirror while I waited for five o’clock to roll around. I couldn’t believe I was finally going to meet the aunts and uncles and cousins that comprised the “everyone” my grandfather said wanted to meet me. For the first time in years, I had family.

“Fam–i–ly,” I sang at the top of my lungs. I barely heard my cell phone ringing from its place on the kitchen counter. I raced down the hall.

I flipped it open, so rushed to make the connection I didn’t even glance at the caller ID. “Hello?”

The other end was silent for a beat. Then he spoke. “Tish.”

I almost choked at the sound of his voice. “Brad?” I slumped to the floor and leaned against a cupboard. “How are you? I’m so surprised to hear from you.”

Silence again. “I guess I thought I’d be hearing from you. What happened? Why didn’t you call me?”

I scanned the specks on the floor for some valid excuse. “It’s been hectic. New house, new grocery store, new church. I guess I’m just getting settled in.” How could I tell him the truth—that we were just too different, that things could never work out between us? Or was it simply that I was too afraid to enter uncharted territory?

He delayed his answer. “I’ve been worried about you. I know you don’t want a relationship right now. You made that plain enough. But, Tish, I thought we were friends. Friends call each other to say they made it to their new house. They call each other to ask how the ski trip went. They call each other just because.” His voice dropped off. “I guess I thought you’d call me.”

My throat knotted up. “It goes both ways, you know. You should have called me last week if you were so worried.”

Silence.

“I’m glad you’re all right,” he said at last. “Did you find what you’re looking for?”

I rubbed my face. What was I looking for? Oh yeah, just trying to figure out who I was by figuring out my mother. But she was dead. It seemed her trail had been washed away by the years. And really, what difference would it make to know whether she liked dark chocolate or milk chocolate best? Would it change the fact that I would always prefer dark? I stared at the perforations in the ceiling squares. Maybe it was all just an excuse not to get involved in a relationship. Who could understand it? I’d have to be crazy not to return Brad’s love.

I sighed into the receiver. “I’m just starting to figure things out.”

“Gonna take awhile, huh?” Brad’s voice was little more than a whisper.

“Yeah. Pretty sure it is. Hey, I’m going to my grandfather’s tonight. I get to meet my dad’s side of the family.”

“That’s great.”

“Yeah. I bumped into Puppa by accident. Kind of funny how it happened.” I looked at the stove clock. “In fact, I have to get going soon if I’m going to get to supper on time.”

“Well, enjoy yourself. I hope it’s everything you thought it would be.”

“Thanks. Thank you a lot.” I cleared my throat. “Well, I guess I’ll talk to you later.”

“Sure. Yeah. Call me sometime.”

“Okay then. Bye.”

“Bye.”

The phone went silent.

I flipped it closed and stared at it for a while. I just wanted Brad here. I wanted him with me. I wanted things to be like they were in Rawlings. Phone calls, walks, supper together four nights a week, and church on Sundays. But I’d left him. I’d moved away from all that. And now it was a phone call once a week, walks on my own, and meals all alone.

I stood up and put on my jacket. I stuffed the cell into my pocket. Why’d Brad have to call me anyway? I’d been doing great without him. I’d hardly given him a thought. He’d nearly been relegated to that distant place called the Past. And I would have been fine without him.

The kitchen door slammed behind me, a little harder than I intended. I was fine without him. I didn’t need his “Boo hoo hoo, why didn’t you call me” pressure in my life. I had another mission to focus on. Maybe I’d get back to him when it was completed, or maybe not. Only time would tell.

I drove through Port Silvan, taking the curve past town and heading out along Lake Michigan. Silvan Bay, a once thriving harbor in the now defunct port town, was covered over with ice. Fishing shanties dotted the white expanse. A snowmobile, nothing more than a black speck, made its way to shore.

I passed the sign to the public boat launch, right where my grandfather said it would be. A line of white fences cropped up, barely visible against the mounds of snow. Puppa’s house. I turned into the driveway and slowed, stunned by the view ahead. A quarter mile down, across the serene, snow-covered lawn, rose a massive lake house. A pillared porch wrapped the front and sides. Weathered gray shakes covered the exterior. Bright white trim and shutters provided relief from the dreary color. Above, third-story dormers broke up the vastness of the charcoal roof. A fieldstone chimney topped the structure. Just beyond the house lay the icy harbor.

I blew out a breath of anxiety and pressed on the gas.

I parked along the circle drive that flanked the sweeping front stair. A red four-wheeler was parked to one side. Those things must be a dime a dozen up here. I tucked my keys into my pocket, took a deep breath, and headed toward the door. I took a closer look at the dwelling as I walked up crimson steps. The canopy of the porch dwarfed me with its ten-foot height. The width was at least ten feet as well, providing plenty of space for outdoor furniture, which was now covered in cheerful striped tarps and clumps of snow. The front door itself was double-wide with a transom above. Stained glass in a colorful red and green tulip pattern trumped the overbearing gray shakes to extend a belated welcome.

I pressed the bell.

Deep inside the walls, I heard a bing bong bing. The notes sounded rich, an upper-class interpretation of the boring, traditional ding dong.

A shadow approached the door. The handle turned. The white wood swung open. I put on my happy face, expecting my grandfather.

I got the man from the bluff instead. The one on the red four-wheeler. Candice’s accusations about my grandfather being a bad apple appeared to be dead-on.

I wiped off my smile and squinted at the doorman. He was handsome in an overactive testosterone gland sort of way. Dark whiskers gave the hint of a beard without him actually having one, as if his watch read five o’clock perpetually. Black hair, blue eyes, more bulk under his plaid flannel shirt than seemed natural. He reminded me how Brad had looked that day on the porch when he’d opened his door in just his sweats and tank.

I cleared my throat. “Please tell me I’m not related to you.”

A grin broke out on his face. “You want me that bad, huh?”

I sputtered, indignant. “Pardon me? I do not want you.” My arm muscles twitched as I contemplated whether to strangle him. “What I meant was, I hope I’m not related to the maniac who stood there on the bluff and watched me nearly plummet to my death.”

“I saw you get up. You looked okay to me. You’ll probably stay clear of the bluff from now on, huh?” He stepped to one side. “Come on in. I’ll tell Papa B you’re here.”

I glared at him as I entered the foyer. Who was he, anyway? The right-hand man of the local godfather? Next to me, a grand stairway shot straight up to the second floor. Dark cherry floors and woodwork against a backdrop of bare, white walls gave the interior a clean, uncluttered feel. The Spartan approach to decorating made me wonder if the house was just some elaborate bachelor pad. How could a woman resist a throw rug at the front door or a plant in the corner?

“Well, are you coming?” he said over his shoulder.

I hurried to keep up. We stepped out of the hall and into a room that stretched the entire width of the house. One end served as a dining area, the other the living room. Wall-to-wall windows framed the view of the bay. On the opposite shore, a row of historic buildings made the snowy scene look like a Currier and Ives rendering.

“Patricia.”

I turned at the sound of my grandfather’s voice. The attractive seventy-ish man approached me with a smile and held me in a gentle embrace. He stepped back and looked toward the plaid-shirt guy.

“You’ve met Gerard, my brother Sid’s oldest boy Owen’s son.”

His attempt at explaining the relationship left me dizzy. I looked toward Gerard. He gave me a mischievous double eyebrows-up as if letting me know I was eligible to be on his radar.

I rolled my eyes.

“Joel,” my grandfather called over his shoulder. “Get in here and meet Patricia.”

A man entered from the front of the house, wiping his hands on a dishtowel.

Gerard dropped into a lounge chair. “My derelict little brother.”

I had no doubt which side of the family my height came from. Cousin Joel towered as tall as the other two Russo men. His light brown hair was disheveled. His moustache made him seem a younger copy of his great-uncle Bernard. A black sweatshirt and blue jeans showed traces of flour.

He nodded. “Patricia.”

“Hi.” My smile must have stretched from ear to ear. I was so excited to have cousins—boy cousins. Finally, the playmates I never had. I wanted to run outside and throw a football or something.

I looked at the strapping men. “You know, that Patricia stuff is a little too formal for family. I think you guys qualify to call me Tish.”

“Sounds like a sneeze,” Gerard said in his dry, cynical way.

My grandfather glowered in his direction. Puppa turned back to me. “Patricia is a lovely name. I wouldn’t dream of shortening it.”

“Uh . . .” I squirmed. “I kind of like the name Tish better. Do you mind?”

“Of course he minds,” the brash Gerard piped up. “That’s the name Eva and Beth called you. He wouldn’t be caught dead using that name for his little princess.”

My eyes dropped to the floor at the mention of my mother and grandmother. Besides, me a princess? Maybe in some other life. I glanced up. The clouds had thickened as they moved across the bay. The room darkened with their approach.

Joel wadded up his towel. “Supper’s almost ready.” He left the room.

“Need any help?” I tossed my coat onto a nearby chair and ran after him. He seemed by far the least volatile of the Russo clan. I skirted the dining table and pushed through a swinging door into the kitchen.

The room had a long chopping board island down the center. Chunks of lettuce, shreds of carrots, and evidence of broccoli lay scattered on the surface. Worn cupboards in the same dark wood as the rest of the house circled the perimeter. A fry pan on the oversized gas stove sent up a cloud of meat-scented steam.

“That smells delicious.” I poked my nose in the air and gave a whiff. “What is it?”

“Tenderloin.”

He lifted the lid and stirred the contents.

“Mmm. Thanks for having me down tonight,” I said, hoping to break the ice.

“Wasn’t my idea.” He put the lid back on, set down the spatula, and wiped his hands on the front of his sweatshirt.

“O-kay.” I blew off the comment. “So, when is everyone else getting here?”

“Everyone else, like who?”

“Like all the people Puppa said couldn’t wait to meet me. You know, all the aunts and uncles and cousins that live around here.”

Joel shook his head. “I’ve got news for you. There are no other relatives. Me and Gerard are it, little cousin.”

I crossed my arms. He might be taller than me by several inches, but I had to be older than him by at least two years. Who did he think he was calling “little cousin”?

“What about Olivia?” I asked. Jim Hawley had mentioned the matriarch of the Russo clan.

“She’s in her room. Says she won’t come out to meet you.”

“Won’t come out to meet me?” I stared at the gaps in the chopping block. Hurt oozed from some long-healed wound on my heart. “Can’t be anything I did, right?”

Joel shook his head. “You want the sugarcoated version or the straight version?”

I gulped. “Sugarcoated, please.”

He pulled a bowl of lettuce topped with shredded carrots from the fridge.

“She didn’t like your mom.”

“That’s it? So now she doesn’t want to meet me?”

“You said you wanted it sugarcoated. Put this on the table, please.” He passed the salad to me. I staggered through the swinging door and placed the bowl on one end of the stretched-out dining set. Even though the table could seat about twelve people, there were only four of us tonight.

I looked at the far end of the room. Cousin Gerard and my grandfather sat in flavorless brown upholstery, watching me. Gerard leaned forward with his elbows on his knees. He rubbed his hands together as if he couldn’t wait to get his fingers on a fork. Puppa’s hands gripped the ends of his recliner as if reluctant to ever get out of it.

Well, he had to face me sometime. And so did Olivia. She wasn’t getting off the hook so easily. I didn’t care what she thought of my mother. It was probably some inane gripe, anyway.

I scooted back into the kitchen. “So,” I said to Joel, “if that’s the sugarcoated version, what’s the straight version?”

He gave me a look that asked if I really wanted to know. I gave him a look that said lay it on me.

He walked to the sink and started banging around some dirty pans. “The straight version is that Olivia blames your mother for the death of her son, my grandpa Sid. And when you get to be ninety-three years old, I suppose if you want to hold a grudge against someone, who’s going to stop you?”

I sputtered. “What do you mean, she blames my mother? Mom would never have killed anybody. She didn’t have it in her.”

He gave me a look that asked if I really wanted to go down that path. I blinked. I’d killed somebody, hadn’t I? And I’d done it because I’d been sure my mother would have done the same thing. Maybe I didn’t want to go down that road just yet.

“Truce,” I said and raised my hands in the air in mock surrender. “Olivia can have her grudge for now.”

Joel excused himself to deliver a tray of food to the stubborn woman. When he returned, we sat at the dinner table, the four of us, in near silence as we ate.

I looked at the strong faces that surrounded me and wondered what events had shaped their lives the past three decades. How had they all ended up living in the same house? Where were the wives and the children? Where were all the aunts and uncles and cousins? The three of them seemed like star-crossed heroes from some skewed Greek tragedy. The sad thing was, I fit right in.

I couldn’t take the silence anymore. “The tenderloin is delicious,” I said.

Gerard answered. “Shot it opening day. Big eight-pointer.”

These guys even spoke Greek. “What do you mean?” I asked. “This is beef, right?” My stomach clenched while I waited for affirmation.

“Venison. Joel makes it better than anybody I know.” Gerard dug in for another bite.

I set my fork down and reached for the water glass in front of me, hoping to wash down the taste. Deer meat? I couldn’t eat a deer. I pictured the beautiful doe I’d encountered on my walk the other day. How could anyone shoot such a lovely creature?

I stuck to the salad and rice and bread for the remainder of the meal. Afterward, the men worked together to clean up the kitchen while I spun in useless circles trying to figure out their system.

Joel threw a washcloth in my direction. “Go wipe off the table, Tish.”

“Yes, Patricia,” my grandfather reiterated, “please wipe off the table.”

Joel rolled his eyes and I tried not to laugh as I headed to the dining room. I had a feeling my grandfather should give up trying to put polish on those two boys.

With the kitchen spic and span, we all got a cup of coffee and sat in the living room. A million questions flitted through my mind. I decided to start with the most basic ones.

“So how’d you all end up living here together?”

Gerard spoke first. “I wouldn’t be caught dead living with these meatheads. I live in the village. Orchard Street.”

His reference to the village reminded me that I had to fulfill my obligation to Melissa Belmont. I’d do it later, when I could get my grandfather alone.

Joel leaned back in his chair. “If it weren’t for me living here, this place would fall apart at the seams. And I’m not about to let my inheritance go to shreds.” He gave my grandfather a long look. I could feel the tension rising.

“This is the Russo homestead,” my grandfather said without breaking eye contact with Joel. “It belongs to Patricia as well as you two.”

“Only after you’re dead,” Joel replied.

All eyes in the room narrowed. Except mine, which grew huge at the thought of a fistfight breaking out.

“Don’t worry about me,” I threw in. “I don’t need any homestead. I’ve got too much gypsy in me.”

My grandfather took a deep breath. “I’d say you got that from your father.”

The three men relaxed now that they had a new target for their bottled-up rage.

I bristled at the shot. “So where is dear old Dad, anyway?”

“Hopefully as far from Port Silvan as he can get,” Gerard piped up.

My eyes started to water. I blinked fast. There was no way these big buffoons were going to see me cry.

“Gerard.” My grandfather jerked in his grand-nephew’s direction. His tone was sharp. “Watch your manners.”

Gerard looked to the floor. “Yes, sir.”

The tears weren’t going away. One escaped and landed on the back of my hand.

I stood up. “Well, this was so much fun”—I grabbed for my coat—“I hope we can do it again sometime.”

I was at the end of the hallway before my grandfather made a halfhearted attempt to stop my hasty departure.

“Patricia! Patri—”

His voice disappeared when I slammed the front door behind me.