The Serpent's Bite (19 page)

His father's comment recalled his sister's remarks earlier and sent a cold chill through Scott.

Despite the fact that he had not fathered a child, he could understand the depth of his father's feelings. He might have been easier on himself if his father had been more indifferent to his children, less loving, less devoted.

In the silence that followed his father's words, Scott could hear only the crackling of the fire fed by a new log piled on by Tomas and, beyond, the wind rustling through the top branches of the trees.

“Funny how the memories roar back in a foreign environment, especially in the wilderness,” their father said, breaking the quiet. “Do you guys remember what we talked about around the fire that first time? I do. Did I ever tell you how I met your mother?”

Many times, Scott wanted to say, but held back. It was important to let his father continue without interruption. He was moving back in time, getting in touch with their past. Scott glanced toward Courtney who had raised her eyes in a gesture of exasperation.

“Actually I picked her up on Jones Beach,” their father said, needing no permission. “She was this lovely, slender, dark-haired girl lying there sunning herself at the edge of the ocean. It was a hot day, and she had brought her blanket to the water's edge. I stood watching her for a long time. The water kept edging up as I watched her, and just as a foamy wave threatened to roll over her, I woke her up. And she opened her beautiful brown eyes, and that was that. I was hooked. Hooked for a lifetime. Her lifetime.”

He shook his head. “Damn. Damn. Why did she have to go first? It just wasn't fair.” He stopped for a moment as if holding back a sob. He did not seem interested in a dialogue but only in the monologue of his life, as if he was compelled to tell this story and had deliberately chosen this most basic unspoiled spot where only nature reigned, raw and pure.

He went through the events of his courtship with their mother, how they had gone down to city hall to get married because she had not wanted to embarrass her parents, who could hardly afford even the most modest of weddings and would not accept any stipend from the better-fixed Temples.

As his father talked, Scott glanced periodically toward Courtney, certain that her reaction to their father's monologue was nothing more than patient toleration. Of course, they had heard it all before.

At the same time, he felt his own childhood feelings toward his father reasserting themselves, opening again, the firewall of adult indifference crumbling. He was a child again, before life and all its mysteries and complications intervened. His gaze met Courtney's, opening up yet again all the old wounds of chronic, despairing, unrequited love.

“I guess I'm boring you both with all this memory stuff,” their father said abruptly.

“We're still your kids, Dad,” Courtney said.

Scott was certain the words did not reflect her sincerity.

“And you'll always be our loving father,” Courtney added, pausing for a moment. “No matter what our differences.”

He knew she was acting, plying her trade. She reached out and took her father's hand, bringing it up to her lips. “We love you, Dad. Don't we, Scott?”

“Of course, we do.” From his vantage it was an honest acknowledgement.

“We must never forget we're a family,” she continued. “A loving family. Connected by blood and history. Right, Dad?”

“Blood and history,” their father mused. “I like that.”

“There is something I'd like to say, Dad,” Scott began, searching for the clear outlines of his father's face, difficult to discern now in the growing darkness. He felt compelled to articulate his genuine feelings. It had been many years since such sentiment had surfaced.

“You've been wonderful, Dad. Nobody could ever fault you for your decency and generosity.” He looked toward Courtney, knowing that he was speaking only for himself, but that circumstances meant he would think he was speaking for his sister as well.

“We are a family, Dad. We could never ever forget that. Granted, we haven't lived up to the promise, but we're still out there trying, Dad. Who else can we turn to for help? I know we're not kids anymore, and sometimes we do appear…well…too materialistic. I've had nothing but lousy luck, and Courtney, well, sometimes it takes a long time to weather the bumps in her business. The point is, Dad, we're still trying to make something of ourselves on our own. Sure, we'd love to have your continuing support financially, but I just wanted you to know that whatever you decide won't change the fact that you're our father.”

He felt a well of emotion inhibit his speech and grew silent, berating himself for expressing himself badly. Yet he was conscious of having made the point.

“The whole concept of family is one for all and all for one. That's what family means, Dad,” Courtney interjected, obviously taking her cue from him. Instantly, Scott knew she was summoning up everything she had ever learned about drama. “I've been awful. I know it. I should never have done what I did at Mom's funeral. It was wrong. Unfeeling. I've been so terribly embarrassed about my conduct and how it must have hurt you. How can I make amends, Dad? ”

She paused, wiping away tears that had suddenly appeared.

“I can make it, Dad. I can. Sure I've made mistakes, and God knows I've wasted a lot of your money. I know that. But I believe
in my talents. I can make it, Dad. Just give me the opportunity to focus exclusively on my art, my talent.”

Listening to her confession, Scott felt carried away on the tide of emotion, even knowing it was false. She was really, really good at her craft. She had convinced him, but then she had always convinced him.

“Sometimes life takes you on a journey you didn't expect,” Scott said. “Here I am. Call it whatever you want. My timing is impeccably bad, but I think I've learned a great deal about business, basic industry is where it's at. No wild speculations in technology. Hell, it's not my forte. I know this is my moment, Dad. I can make it big in the food business.”

“Yes, he can, Dad.”

“And so can she. Your little girl is one talented woman. We just need that little bit of help to make the difference.”

Their father remained silent.

“Look, Dad, all we're asking you is just to think about it. That's all we can ask. Mull it over. Don't make any commitments now.”

He felt strange. They were both working the same ploy but at different sides of the street, each soliciting him with a different pitch. Above all, despite all his misgivings, he felt his own sincerity. Apparently they had both picked the time of his deepest vulnerability, out here in the isolation of the wilderness, where human beings were strangers.

Their attention was diverted suddenly by Tomas, who had returned from the stream and was fussing with the details of securing the campsite for the night. The fire had died down, and a deep chill began to permeate the air.

“Guess we've talked enough for one night,” their father said. They all rose in tandem, and he embraced them both.

“You've both been wonderful. God, how I love you both.”

“And we love you, Dad,” Courtney said, as they hugged. Scott too returned his father's embrace.

“You're the best, Dad,” he said.

“‘Night, kids,” he said, as he moved to his tent and crawled inside.

Courtney and Scott sat watching the dying embers of the fire as Tomas continued his work. Finally without a word of goodnight, Tomas went to his tent, which was pitched farthest away from theirs, and disappeared inside.

“I just don't trust that man,” Scott said, his attention diverted suddenly by imagined consequences.

“What can he do?”

“I don't know, but he knows something he shouldn't.”

He felt the sudden pressure of wild speculation. Tomas could tell their father what he saw. Would he be believed? And if he did believe it, what then? Was Tomas smart enough to understand the implications for blackmail? Paranoia! He rebuked himself for the absurdity of the ideas.

“Looks like the old man is primed and ready,” Courtney whispered.

Her remark filled him with disgust, and he did not comment. They grew silent again, lost in their own thoughts.

“I don't like this business with that woman,” Courtney said, revealing her concerns.

“It's his life. Mom is dead.”

“She's got her hooks into him. In time, she'll take over. Hell, he's going to put her in the business.”

Her vehemence was undisguised, the words emerging as a hiss.

“She has kids. She'll have his ear. Pillow talk. Our drill is to persuade him to cough up now. I think he might be ready for that.”

She grew silent, nodding as if she were debating with herself.

“We're on the verge of being fucked,” she persisted.

“Dark thoughts,” Scott mused. “Leading to someplace I don't wish to go.”

“You're being squeamish,” she said.

“And you, Courtney, are being malignant.”

“Don't you get it? We need to save ourselves, protect our interests. Self-interest is no sin. Hell, you did pretty good tonight yourself.”

“I meant every word.

Reaching out, she caressed his thigh. His reaction was instant.

“You were great tonight, brother. You deserve an award.”

She started to unzip him, but he pushed her away.

“No, Courtney. Never again.”

He looked toward Tomas's tent. She stood up and looked down at him and shook her head.

“Nighty night,” she said. She stretched and went into her tent.

For a few moments, Scott watched the still glowing ashes of the fire, then moved into his tent, and without undressing slipped into his sleeping bag. But the events of the day crowded into his thoughts. His mind churned with anxious and terrible scenarios. Sleep would not come.

At some point, he heard movement, reached over to the tent flap, and peered out through a crack. Logic told him it could be an animal foraging around the camp, maybe a grizzly.

He saw a human figure skulking in the darkness. Curious, he crawled out of the tent and crept stealthily in the direction of the moving figure.

At the edge of the clearing, he stopped and saw Tomas clearly. He was digging with a small shovel at the base of a tree. Lying supine on the ground, Scott watched. After a while, Tomas stopped the process and removed something from the hole he had made. It had the shape of a bottle.

He lay there for a long time watching Tomas cover the hole. Through the trees he saw him open the flap of Harry's tent, put in the bottle, then move back into his own tent. When Scott was certain the camp was quiet again, he crawled back to his tent and slipped back into his sleeping bag.

How clever and resourceful they were: Tomas, the trapped retainer, Harry, the cagey alcoholic and martinet. Slave and master. After a while, admiration turned to fear, and Scott shivered but not from the cold.

T
hey moved along the trail in the crisp morning air. Temple's horse was the last in the line, following Courtney. Ahead of him was Scott, and leading the group was Harry, his complexion pasty, his eyes bloodshot, obviously nursing a profound hangover. He was slumped in his saddle. From time to time, he unscrewed his canteen and took deep sips.

Temple was discomfited but not yet panicked. He'd given Tomas the benefit of the doubt. Perhaps he had been right, and Harry could handle things. He hoped so. At some point, despite Courtney's warning about angering an addict who didn't believe he was addicted, he promised himself that he would talk to him, approach him diplomatically.

Temple had felt great after a good night's sleep, and he was determined not to let the anxiety he felt last night disturb his thoughts. He was bonding with his children, and this seemed more important than worrying about Harry's drinking problem.

He greeted Courtney with a kiss, and they eagerly attacked Tomas's breakfast of bacon and eggs, hot cowboy coffee, and fresh biscuits and jam. The eggs were made to order, and Tomas fixed them with perfect efficiency, handing them their metal plates as each order was completed.

Soon Scott joined them, looking slightly rumpled and bleary-eyed. Temple noted patches of grey in his son's sprouting beard, yet another sign of his family's aging. The burst of nostalgia he had articulated the night before had comforted
him, helping to vent any residual hostility and disappointment he might have harbored about his children.

Perhaps, he acknowledged, he was wrong to withhold his largesse from his children, despite his belief that they were dogged by failure and false hopes. Maybe he was the one at fault, going from generous and supportive to what they perceived as an unyielding and stubborn miser.

It was too late for any attempt at behavior modification. He had to accept reality. So what if they continued to fail and waste more money? They were his kids for God's sake, his progeny; and he loved them.