purposefully.
“Oh, come on, Mother. What’s really bothering you?”
“I don’t know. A combination of things, I suppose.”
Awkwardly, because they seldom exchanged emotional confidences, Sigrid gestured to the box Anne had laid on the futon beside her. “Is it because of Dad? Does his picture stir up a lot of memories?”
Anne hesitated, then nodded “And Mickey Cluett. Is it true he was shot?”
“How’d you hear that?”
“Wasn’t it in the paper?” Anne answered vaguely. “What happened? Will you be investigating?”
Sigrid shook her head. “It happened in Brooklyn. Probably killed for crack money. All they know right now is that he was shot on his way home from a neighborhood bar, sometime before midnight last night, I think. Did you know him very well?” she asked curiously.
“Not really. In the early days when Leif and I were first married, Mickey used to stop by the apartment occasionally.
“That’s right,” said Sigrid. “I forgot. When Dad first joined the force, he was assigned to the old One-Six and Cluett said he worked there, too.” She started to take a sip of tea and then remembered something else.
“I thought you said you were too busy today to read a paper or even listen to a weather report.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Sigrid! Are you going to cross-examine everything I say?” Her spoon clattered sharply against the silver tray as she patted the pockets of her jeans and looked around the room. “What did I do with my cigarettes?” she muttered.
Sigrid set her mug down firmly. “Okay, Mother. What’s going on?”
“There, you see?” Anne said illogically. “You made me forget that I gave up smoking a year ago. I still dream about cigarettes, did I tell you?”
Words spilled from her lips, becoming subtly more Southern in pacing and inflection the more she chattered. “I dream that I’ve rationed myself to two cigarettes a day and Lordy, Lordy, do they taste good. But at the same time, I’m sort of disappointed at my weakness, you know? Because I did take a vow never to light up another and I sort of know that in my dreams and yet—”
Her words trailed off as her eyes met Sigrid’s level gaze and she gave a rueful, hands up laugh. “Oy gevalt!” she said. In her present mood, the Yiddish phrase sounded more like ‘I give up.’ “I always start babbling when you look at me like that.”
“Mother—”
“It’s okay honey. I know you can’t help it.” She smile brightly and felt Sigrid’s cup. “It’s cold. Want me to heat this up? And what about something to eat? I have cold chicken if you’d like a sandwich or—” She ran a hand through her tangled curls. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” said Sigrid. She slipped off her boots and tucked her feet beneath her on the futon.
Anne took a deep breath. “Mac called me this afternoon.”
“Mac? Captain McKinnon?”
Her mother nodded.
It was like stepping down on a step that wasn’t there. “I didn’t realize you and he were that connected.”
“We’re not,” Anne said sharply. “When he showed up in your hospital room last fall, that was the first time I’d spoken to him since the day of your father’s funeral. Today is the second time.”
“Why?”
“I told you. He called me.”
“No, I mean why have you never talked to him since Dad was killed? They worked together every day. They must have been close. Unless . . .” For the first time since learning that her father and her boss had been partners, the thought occurred to her: “Didn’t they like each other?”
“Of course they did. They were best friends—David and Jonathan. Smith and Wesson.”
Sigrid did not consider herself very good at picking up on nuances, but she sensed something darker beneath her mother’s flippancy. She had such vague disconnected memories of her father and only one of those memories included other big tall men in uniforms like his. Yet she had grown up with no recollection
“Oh, come on, Mother. What’s really bothering you?”
“I don’t know. A combination of things, I suppose.”
Awkwardly, because they seldom exchanged emotional confidences, Sigrid gestured to the box Anne had laid on the futon beside her. “Is it because of Dad? Does his picture stir up a lot of memories?”
Anne hesitated, then nodded “And Mickey Cluett. Is it true he was shot?”
“How’d you hear that?”
“Wasn’t it in the paper?” Anne answered vaguely. “What happened? Will you be investigating?”
Sigrid shook her head. “It happened in Brooklyn. Probably killed for crack money. All they know right now is that he was shot on his way home from a neighborhood bar, sometime before midnight last night, I think. Did you know him very well?” she asked curiously.
“Not really. In the early days when Leif and I were first married, Mickey used to stop by the apartment occasionally.
“That’s right,” said Sigrid. “I forgot. When Dad first joined the force, he was assigned to the old One-Six and Cluett said he worked there, too.” She started to take a sip of tea and then remembered something else.
“I thought you said you were too busy today to read a paper or even listen to a weather report.”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Sigrid! Are you going to cross-examine everything I say?” Her spoon clattered sharply against the silver tray as she patted the pockets of her jeans and looked around the room. “What did I do with my cigarettes?” she muttered.
Sigrid set her mug down firmly. “Okay, Mother. What’s going on?”
“There, you see?” Anne said illogically. “You made me forget that I gave up smoking a year ago. I still dream about cigarettes, did I tell you?”
Words spilled from her lips, becoming subtly more Southern in pacing and inflection the more she chattered. “I dream that I’ve rationed myself to two cigarettes a day and Lordy, Lordy, do they taste good. But at the same time, I’m sort of disappointed at my weakness, you know? Because I did take a vow never to light up another and I sort of know that in my dreams and yet—”
Her words trailed off as her eyes met Sigrid’s level gaze and she gave a rueful, hands up laugh. “Oy gevalt!” she said. In her present mood, the Yiddish phrase sounded more like ‘I give up.’ “I always start babbling when you look at me like that.”
“Mother—”
“It’s okay honey. I know you can’t help it.” She smile brightly and felt Sigrid’s cup. “It’s cold. Want me to heat this up? And what about something to eat? I have cold chicken if you’d like a sandwich or—” She ran a hand through her tangled curls. “I’m doing it again, aren’t I?”
“Yes,” said Sigrid. She slipped off her boots and tucked her feet beneath her on the futon.
Anne took a deep breath. “Mac called me this afternoon.”
“Mac? Captain McKinnon?”
Her mother nodded.
It was like stepping down on a step that wasn’t there. “I didn’t realize you and he were that connected.”
“We’re not,” Anne said sharply. “When he showed up in your hospital room last fall, that was the first time I’d spoken to him since the day of your father’s funeral. Today is the second time.”
“Why?”
“I told you. He called me.”
“No, I mean why have you never talked to him since Dad was killed? They worked together every day. They must have been close. Unless . . .” For the first time since learning that her father and her boss had been partners, the thought occurred to her: “Didn’t they like each other?”
“Of course they did. They were best friends—David and Jonathan. Smith and Wesson.”
Sigrid did not consider herself very good at picking up on nuances, but she sensed something darker beneath her mother’s flippancy. She had such vague disconnected memories of her father and only one of those memories included other big tall men in uniforms like his. Yet she had grown up with no recollection
Similar Books
