Cry Uncle (21 page)

As soon as the thought took shape in Pamela’s
mind, it self-destructed. Joe deserved Lizard because he’d raised
the child for three long, difficult years, because he’d rearranged
his entire life around her, because he’d sold his houseboat for
her. Because he kept her drawings on permanent exhibit in his
living room. Because he’d taught a stubborn little girl that before
she left the table she had to ask to be excused. Because he loved
Lizard as much as any parent had ever loved a child.

Because he was either stupid enough or noble
enough to have given his hand, his name and his protection to
Pamela, knowing the threat she was living under.

For that noble stupidity—or stupid
nobility—Pamela would deal with the social worker. With or without
her husband by her side, she would convince the court official that
Lizard belonged in Key West with her uncle.

Sighing, Pamela U-turned and stalked back
down the hall to the stairway. At the bottom of the stairs she saw
that the note she’d left for Joe last night was gone. Evidently
he’d read it and didn’t care, or slept through his alarm, or had an
unjustifiable degree of faith in her ability to handle the social
worker without his assistance.

She herself had no faith in her ability. What
did she know about children and custody claims?

She located Lizard in the den, seated on the
floor in front of the television, gaping at a cartoon program and
shoving fistfuls of dry cereal into her mouth. A feather protruded
from the back pocket of her shorts.

“
No feathers today,” Pamela
announced briskly.

“
Huh?”

“
No feathers. Plus,” she
added, recalling news stories from a few years back that had
revealed a relationship between sugar consumption and hyperactivity
in children, “you’re going to have a healthy breakfast this
morning.”

Whatever peace she and Lizard might have
negotiated yesterday was dashed by Pamela’s announcement. “I’m not
eating anything healthy!” the kid shrieked. “I’m already healthy!
And I’m strong, too. I bet I’m stronger’n you. I bet I could beat
you up.”

That was a bet Pamela wasn’t foolish enough
to take. Pamela decided to rely on her superior intellect, plus
what few scraps of control she still had left.

She strode into the den, plucked the feather
from Lizard’s pocket and spoke before Lizard could protest. “Have
you ever eaten pink grapefruit?”

Hearing the word pink gave Lizard pause. She
eyed Pamela dubiously, obviously searching for a trap.
“Grapefruit’s yellow,” she finally said. “And it’s yucky.”

“
Pink grapefruit is sweet. I
think Uncle Joe has some in the refrigerator.”

“
I won’t like it,” Lizard
predicted, although she sounded tentative.

“
It’s pink,” Pamela crooned.
“Pink, pink, pink. Come on, let’s have some pink, pink
grapefruit.”

Lizard’s expression changed from skeptical to
incredulous. “You’re gonna eat some, too?”

“
If you’re willing to share
it. Once you taste it, though, you may wind up wanting the whole
thing for yourself. Come on.” Not waiting to see if Lizard was
following her, she strolled into the kitchen, swung open the
refrigerator door, and pulled a pink grapefruit from the bottom
shelf.

Lizard might be stronger than Pamela, but she
was only five years old, and incurably curious. Sure enough, she
trailed Pamela into the kitchen and hovered at her elbow, observing
as Pamela cut the fruit in half. “That’s not pink,” she scoffed,
sounding less than surprised at Pamela’s lame attempt to trick her.
“It’s orange, like that icky fish you made me eat.” She reached
around Pamela for her cereal box.

Pamela swiftly lifted the box and set it on a
high shelf in one of the cabinets. She didn’t care whether Lizard
ate a healthy breakfast of any color. The brat could eat refined
sugar straight from the bowl like a dog, as far as Pamela was
concerned. But if the social worker arrived while Lizard was
stuffing her face with junk, she might decide Joe’s house wasn’t
wholesome, and Lizard would wind up with the Prescotts.

“
Pink grapefruit is very
sweet,” Pamela said, stretching the truth as much as she dared.
“Try it, and I’ll make you some whole-wheat toast. With strawberry
jam.”

“
Strawberry jam’s red, not
pink,” Lizard muttered, scowling at the fruit.

“
Just try it.”

“
I don’t want it. It’s
yucky.”

“
Try it.” Pamela carried the
plate to the table. “It’s pink. Try it.” Refusing Lizard the chance
to argue further, she turned her back on the child and slid two
slices of whole-wheat bread into the toaster.

Behind her she heard a slurping noise—and
then a gagging noise. “It’s disgusting!” Lizard whined.

“
It’s delicious.”

“
It’s poison! I hate you!”
Lizard dragged her chair across the room, used it to climb onto the
counter, and pulled her beloved box of cereal from its high
shelf.

If Pamela weren’t so anxious about the social
worker’s visit, she would have yielded. But she was in no mood for
Lizard’s shenanigans. “You can’t have cereal today,” she said,
wrapping her arms around Lizard’s knees to keep her from falling
off the counter. “And you shouldn’t climb up there. It’s
dangerous.”

“
I climb all the time,”
Lizard retorted, popping open the flaps of the cereal
box.

“
Lizard, I’m warning you—put
that cereal away and let me get you down.”

“
I’m getting down,” Lizard
acquiesced, kicking free of Pamela’s loose hold on her legs. But
she didn’t get down, and she didn’t put the cereal away. Instead,
she dug into the box and pulled out a handful of sugary pink
puffs.

Pamela reached for the box. Lizard gave a war
whoop and hurled it into the air. The box overturned, spilling
granular pink nuggets across the floor. Lizard leaped from the
counter, knocking the chair on its side with her foot and letting
out a howl of pain. “My toes! Ow! I think they’re broke!”

Pamela didn’t agree with Lizard’s
diagnosis—especially after Lizard managed to run across the room
when Pamela tried to catch her. “I told you climbing up there was
dangerous,” she scolded, righting the box of cereal and glowering
at the kid.

“
Climbing wasn’t dangerous.
Coming down was dangerous. I hate you! You wanna poison me and kill
me, too! And the house is on fire, too!”

As soon as Lizard mentioned the word fire,
Pamela smelled something burning. Spinning around, she saw a plume
of smoke rise out of the toaster. Cursing under her breath, she
yanked the plug from the socket and peered grimly into the slots,
almost expecting to see flames. All she saw, however, were black
crusts and more smoke.

“
You’re trying to kill me,”
Lizard declared, then squatted on the floor, gathered the cereal
near her feet into a small mound, and scooped it into her mouth.
“When Uncle Joe wakes up I’m gonna tell him you’re a
murderer.”

“
You do that,” Pamela
snapped, jiggling a knife into the toaster slots until the two
charred slices of bread emerged. “I’ll defend myself by saying it
was justifiable homicide. I bet he’ll believe me, too.”

“
I hate you, I hate you, I
hate you!” Lizard hollered.

The doorbell rang.

“
Oh, God.” Pamela stared in
dismay at the cereal-covered floor and inhaled the stench of
incinerated crumbs. In a firm voice, she said, “Clean up this mess
right now, young lady.”

“
I’m not a young lady! I’m a
Boo Doo chief.”

“
Not at the moment, you’re
not. Sweep up the mess. There’s a broom and a dustpan in that
cupboard.” She pointed to the broom closet.

“
It’s your mess,” Lizard
retorted. “You grabbed the box. You made me spill it. You clean it
up.”

“
Clean it,” Pamela spat
out.

“
I don’t got to. The
doorbell’s ringing. I bet it’s Birdie. She lets me eat anything I
want!” With that, Lizard flounced out of the kitchen, Pamela at her
heels.

Her heart was racing, her eyes stinging with
tears of anger and frustration. Hadn’t there been a time, not so
terribly long ago, when she’d been in complete control of her life?
Hadn’t there been a time when her daily existence was calm and
orderly?

Lizard’s words echoed in her
skull:
It’s your mess
. That said it all, the ultimate truth. This was Pamela’s
mess.

Lizard was already swinging open the inner
door when Pamela reached the front hall. She smoothed her shirt
into the waistband of the neat denim skirt she’d chosen to wear,
and arranged her face into a polite smile for her visitor.

The social worker appeared as calm and
orderly as Pamela’s life used to be. On the far side of middle age,
the woman was slim and well groomed in a cotton sheath, a stylish
linen blazer and stack-heeled sandals. In her left hand she gripped
a thick leather briefcase; in her right she held a business
card.

Pamela ran her fingers through her disheveled
hair, discreetly unraveling a piece of cereal from the strands
behind her ear. “Hi,” she said to the woman, whom Lizard was
regarding with blatant distrust. “I’m Pamela Brenner.” Thank
heavens she’d practiced saying her married name often enough that
it glided naturally off her tongue.

“
I’m Mona Whitley from the
Department of Social Services,” the woman introduced herself. “I’m
here at the behest of Judge Roger Ephraim, who’s going to be
presiding at the custody hearing—”

“
Yes, I know,” Pamela said
hastily, shooting a quick look at Lizard. She didn’t want the
social worker discussing the custody fight in front of the
child.

Mona Whitley smiled and nodded, apparently
understanding Pamela’s desire to protect Lizard. “May I come
in?”

“
Of course.” Pamela nudged
Lizard out of the way and held open the screen door. “I was just
making some coffee. As a matter of fact, we’ve just barely gotten
out of bed—”

“
I’ve been up for hours,”
Lizard declared. “And I’m starving.”

Great, Pamela thought—Mona Whitley was going
to think Pamela and Joe weren’t feeding her. “Anyway,” Pamela went
on breezily, accepting Ms. Whitley’s card, “the kitchen is a little
bit messy at the moment—”

“
A little bit?” Lizard
hooted. “It’s a
lot
messy. Remember the hurricane?”

“
Indeed I do,” Ms. Whitley
said, her eyes narrowing on Lizard. “You must be
Elizabeth.”

“
I’m Lizard,” Lizard said
petulantly. “Nobody calls me Elizabeth. I’m Lizard, and I’m a Boo
Doo chief, and I can eat whatever I want.” With that, she swiveled
on her bare foot and stomped back to the kitchen.

Pamela’s spirits plummeted.
“Elizabeth is always a little cranky in the morning,” she fibbed,
gesturing toward Lizard’s retreating form. “Perhaps I could get you
a cup of coffee. If you’d like to have a seat in the living
room...”
Which I spent last night dusting
and polishing so it would pass muster with you
, she wanted to add. At the moment, the living room was in
better shape than she herself was.

“
You don’t have to entertain
me,” Ms. Whitley said. Her smile revealed too many teeth, like a
shark’s. “What I’d really like is for you to let me just fade into
the background while you go about your usual routines.”

“
I see. Well. As I said, we
just had a spill in the kitchen, and I’m in the middle of getting
breakfast for Liz—” she silenced herself before adding -zard. “And
I’m afraid my husband is—”

“
Right here,” Joe’s voice
came from the stairway. “Good morning. Glad you could stop
by.”

If hearing Joe awake and coherent surprised
her, seeing him absolutely astonished her. She turned and glanced
toward the stairs in time to see him descend the last few steps.
Clean-shaven, his hair parted and damp, he had on a fresh shirt and
untorn, unfrayed jeans. His ear was decorated with a gold dot so
discreet she almost didn’t notice it

Reaching the bottom step, he extended his
right hand toward Mona Whitley. His smile was as cool and confident
as hers. “I’m Jonas Brenner,” he said.

Maybe it was because Pamela hadn’t seen him
for the past couple of days. Maybe it was because she felt
overwhelmed by the social worker’s visit and her own overwrought
mental state. Maybe it was just that, with his riveting blue eyes,
his thick, tawny hair, his tall, lean physique and that smile,
announcing that he had nothing to fear, nothing to hide, nothing to
worry about.... Joe was like the morning sun, bright and steady and
dependable.

Or maybe the emotion she experienced at his
arrival was simply a result of being his wife. Because as she gazed
at him, she felt exactly what a wife was supposed to feel when she
saw her husband: Comfort. Relief. Joy.

***

HE’D MEANT TO make it downstairs earlier, but
it was hard to get your ass in gear when you’d been tending bar
till two a.m. Sure, he could have gotten home earlier—Brick would
have taken the closing shift—but Joe was so freaking busy avoiding
his wife that he’d turned down Brick’s offer and waited until the
last patron had departed before locking up and rolling home.

He’d been exhausted, and he’d had a few spots
of blood on his shirt from that asshole who’d cut his chin. But
carting an inebriated yahoo to the hospital had seemed easy
compared to the test of facing Pamela without desiring her.