A Deep and Dark December(42)
Left holding the platter, Graham looked to his father. Ham shrugged.
Ham cleared his throat, a sure sign he was settling in for a lecture. “Dorans have been sheriffs in San Rey for—”
“I know, Pop.”
“Here it is.” Catherine came in waving a carved wooden disc. She put it on the table. “Okay, now you can set it down. Peas! I made peas.” She dashed out of the room again.
“I don’t think you do,” Ham said. “And neither does the mayor.”
Graham could feel the anger crawling up his throat. He started to lower the platter, then pulled it back up again. “Where did you get that wood thing?” he asked Ham.
“The trivet? I made it in that wood working club the doctor made me join to lower my stress. It was either that or yoga.” Ham jabbed his finger at Graham. “Don’t change the subject.”
“What’s it made of?”
“Some exotic wood called Purple Heart. What’s all the interest?”
Graham set the platter down. “I found some purple sawdust in the kitchen at the Lasiter house. It was the same color as this Purple Heart wood. Who else is in this woodworking club?”
“Let me see.” Ham settled back in his chair and dabbed at his forehead. “Ray Fine of Fine’s Hardware teaches the class. Then there’s Chris and Nick Farnsworth, Bill Nater, Mayer Behre, Donald December, Keith Collins, and Greg Lasiter.”
“So nearly half the town, including one of my victims. Damn. I was hoping it would’ve been the piece of evidence that blew open the case.”
“I told you to watch your mouth in my house.”
“Sorry, Pop.”
Catherine came in with a cake and stopped abruptly, staring down at the pot roast with a frown. Her gaze bounced back and forth between the cake and pot roast. “I made a carrot cake,” she finally said, her brows drawn together.
Graham stood and took the plate from her. “Come and sit down, Mom.” He helped her into her chair and poured her a glass of wine. “Let me know what you think of the wine I brought. I’ll go and grab the peas for you.”
She blinked up at him. “Peas? I always make carrots and potatoes with a roast. You know that.”
“Oh, good. I don’t like peas.” Graham patted his mother’s thin shoulder and escaped into the kitchen.
He found the oven still on so he switched it off. No carrots and potatoes inside. He lifted the lid off the steaming pot on the stove and found nothing but boiling water. After a quick riffle through the freezer he found some lima beans, so he dumped them in the water to cook. The evidence of his mother’s illness was everywhere in the kitchen. A misplaced item here, a task half done there. Little things that added up, forcing Graham to confront the fact that his mother was slipping away from him one oven mitt in the refrigerator at a time.
He stirred the lima beans, remembering the time when his mom had taught him to make grilled cheese sandwiches on this very stove. She’d been patient and had ignored his teenage protest that he didn’t need to learn how to cook when there was fast food.
“Fast food is expensive,” she’d said. “And I want to know my boys are going to eat more than cheap ramen and microwaved dinners.”
Graham had made countless grilled cheese sandwiches since then and every time he’d mentally thanked his mother’s determination. To see her now so unsure of herself, so scattered, shook him. He stared down into the pan, watching the water bubble around the beans, knowing he’d been away from home too long. He wanted to leave again, at the same time he knew he couldn’t. The thought of his father, shrunken and gray looking as he was tonight, standing on the porch with his mother, her brow pinched in confusion, waving goodbye as Graham drove away… hell.
Damn it to all hell.
Switching off the burner, he knew he couldn’t leave. Not like this. Not with both his parents the way they were. He bent over, leaning on the counter for support. Just the thought of staying in this town twisted his gut into knots. He saw himself eating lunch at the Do or Dine every Friday, cracking jokes with the old timers who hung out at Fine’s Hardware, and tipping his hat to the Ladies Auxiliary as he passed the VFW hall the same as his father had done and his father before him and so on. Having to hear, practically every day, how he didn’t live up to the Doran legacy. Everything he’d gone off to Los Angeles to avoid. And then he’d screwed things up there.
Maybe he could get them a live-in nurse. As soon as he had the thought, he knew his pop would never go for it. Ham would see through it for the cop out it was and would never accept the help. He’d insist they could take care of themselves. Damn, Adam, for leaving him to handle all this by himself.
“Graham?” His mother padded into the kitchen. “Come and eat. Dinner’s getting cold.”
“Sure, Mom. Just grabbing the lima beans.”
“Lima beans?” She glanced around the kitchen as though she was looking for something.
“Thanks for making them for me instead of potatoes and carrots. You know how much I love lima beans.”
She tilted her head and her expression cleared as she took the foothold he offered her. “Anything for you, honey.”
He followed his mother out of the kitchen, noticing how stooped she’d become, how thin her hair was, and how she’d forgotten to do the buttons of her blouse at the nape. Ham straightened in his seat and swiped the handkerchief across his forehead as they re-entered the dining room, pretending he hadn’t been hunched over in pain.