Night Fever

She hoped Clay would do what the juvenile officer had told him to. She hoped that being arrested had scared him. Maybe it would keep him straight.

She didn’t know what to do. Life had become too complicated. She wanted to run away.

“What are you thinking?” Clay asked with dark perception.

“I was thinking about the chocolate cake I’m going to bake for supper,” she hedged, and smiled at him. The smile took more effort than Clay would ever know.

Chapter Three

Granddad took the news of Clay’s arrest better than Becky had expected him to. It was a blessing that Clay had been arrested in town, and not at home. To his credit, he didn’t balk at going to school, for once. He got on the bus without an argument, with Mack right behind him.

Becky settled Granddad in his armchair in the living room, concerned at his silence.

“Are you going to be all right?” she asked after she’d given him his pill. “Should I ask Mrs. White to come and sit with you?”

“I don’t need fussing over,” he muttered. His thin shoulders lifted and fell. “Where did I fail your father, Becky?” he asked miserably. “And where did I fail Clay? My son and my grandson in trouble with the law, and that Kilpatrick man won’t stop until he’s got them both in jail. I’ve heard all about him. He’s a barracuda.”

“He’s a prosecuting attorney,” she corrected. “And he’s only doing his job. He just does it passionately, that’s all. Mr. Malcolm likes him.”

Her grandfather narrowed one eye and looked up at her. “Do you?”

She stood up. “Don’t be silly. He’s the enemy.”

“You remember that,” he said firmly, his stubborn chin jutting. “Don’t go getting soft on him. He’s no friend to this family. He did everything in his power to put Scott away.”

“You knew about that?” she asked.

He sat up straighter. “I knew. Saw no reason to tell you or the boys. It wouldn’t have helped things. Anyway, Scott beat the rap. The witness changed his mind.”

“Did he change it—or did Dad change it for him?”

He wouldn’t look at her. “Scott wasn’t a bad boy. He was just different; had a different way of looking at things. It wasn’t his fault that the law kept hounding him, no more than it’s Clay’s. That Kilpatrick man has it in for us.”

Becky started to speak and stopped. Granddad couldn’t admit that he’d made a mistake with Scott, so he certainly wasn’t going to admit that he’d made one with Clay. It wouldn’t do any good to have an argument with him over it, but it left her holding the bag and Clay’s future in her own hands. She could see that she’d get little help from Granddad now.

“Becky, whatever your father did or didn’t do, he’s still my son,” he said suddenly, clenching the chair hard with his lean old hands. “I love him. I love Clay, too.”

“I know that,” she said gently. She bent down and kissed his leathery cheek. “We’ll take care of Clay. They’re going to give him some counseling and help him,” she said, hoping she could make Clay go to the sessions without too much browbeating. “He’ll come through. He’s a Cullen.”

“That’s right. He’s a Cullen.” He smiled up at her. “You’re one, yourself. Have I ever told you how proud I am of you?”

“Frequently,” she said, and grinned. “When I get rich and famous, I’ll remember you.”

“We’ll never get rich, and Clay’s likely to be the only famous one of us—infamous, most likely.” He sighed. “But you’re the heart of the whole outfit. Don’t let this get you down. Life can get hard sometimes. But if you see through your troubles, think past them to better times, it helps. Always helped me.”

“I’ll remember that. I’d better get to work,” she added. “Be good. I’ll see you later.”

She drove to the office, inwardly cringing at the thought of the ordeal ahead. She had to talk to Kilpatrick. What Clay had said about Kilpatrick trying to put him in reform school frightened her. Kilpatrick might decide to pursue it, and she had to stop him from doing that. She was going to have to bury her pride and tell him the real situation at home, and she dreaded it.

Her boss gave her an hour off. She phoned the district attorney’s office on the seventh floor and asked to see the man himself. She was told that he was on his way down, to meet him at the elevator and they could talk while he got his coffee in the drugstore.

Elated that he’d deigned to at least speak to her, she grabbed her purse, straightened her flowery skirt and white blouse, and rushed out of the office.

Fortunately, the elevator was empty except for the cold-eyed Mr. Kilpatrick in his long overcoat, his thick black hair ruffled, and that eternal, infernal choking cigar in one hand. He gave her a cursory going-over that wasn’t flattering.

“You wanted to talk,” he said. “Let’s go.” He pushed the ground floor button and didn’t say a word until they walked into the small coffee shop in the drugstore. He bought her a cup of black coffee, one for himself, and a doughnut. He offered her one. But she was too sick to accept it.

They sat down at a corner table and he studied her quietly while he sipped his coffee. Her hair was in its usual bun, her face devoid of makeup. She looked as she felt—washed out and depressed.

“No cutting remarks about my cigar?” he prompted with a raised eyebrow. “No running commentary on my manners?”

She lifted her wan face and stared at him as if she’d never seen him before. “Mr. Kilpatrick, my life is falling apart, and I don’t care very much about your cigar smoke or your manners or anything else.”

“What did your father say when you told him about your brother?”

She was tired of the pretense. It was time to lay her cards on the table. “I haven’t seen or heard from my father in two years.”

He frowned. “What about your mother?”

“She died when the boys were young, when I was sixteen.”

“Who takes care of them?” he persisted. “Your grandfather?”

“Our grandfather has a bad heart,” she said. “He isn’t able to take care of himself, much less anyone else. We live with him and take care of him as best we can.”

His big hand hit the table, shaking it. “Are you telling me that you’re taking care of the three of them by yourself?!” he demanded.

She didn’t like the look on his dark face. She moved back a little. “Yes.”

“My God! On your salary?”

“Granddad has a farm,” she told him. “We grow our own vegetables and I put them up in the freezer and can some. We usually raise a beef steer, too, and Granddad gets a pension from the railroad and his social security. We get by.”

“How old are you?”

She glared at him. “That’s none of your business.”

“You’ve just made it my business. How old?”

“Twenty-four.”

“You were how old when your mother died?”

“Sixteen.”

He took a draw from the cigar and turned his head to blow it out. His dark eyes cut into hers, and she knew now exactly how it felt to sit on the witness stand and be grilled by him. It was impossible not to tell him what he wanted to know. That piercing stare and cold voice full of authority would have extracted information from a garden vegetable. “Why isn’t your father taking care of his own family?”

“I wish I knew,” she replied. “But he never has. He only comes around when he runs out of money. I guess he’s got enough; we haven’t seen him since he moved to Alabama.”