Keeping Council Part 35

"Race you to the door." The lift whirred and Ben was lowered. Tara was waiting for him when he rolled around the side.

Ben took the lead, his beautifully engineered wheels moving over the uneven ground without so much as a shimmy. Instinctively Tara reached out for the handles on back of Ben's chair to help him over the lip of the porch, but he was too quick. Throwing his body weight, he balanced on the back wheels until the front cleared the few inches between porch and ground. He was on the wooden slats at the same time Tara stepped up.

"Nice moves," she said.

"You ain't seen nothin' yet," he shot back.

"Why do I have the feeling that's a prophetic statement?"

She knocked on the door. He straightened out the chair. Eyes forward, they waited, giving no indication that they were aware of what was going on inside.

Furtive steps could be heard headed their way, only to stop at the door. They could sense the person inside tiptoe to look through the dusty peephole.

The footfall sounded again, this time in retreat. A curtain swayed. There was a face behind it, unidentifiable regarding s.e.x, age, or intent. Tara slid her eyes toward Ben. He didn't acknowledge her. The curtain fluttered again. Tara could have sworn she heard someone inside thinking. In the extended silence the only sound worth listening to was the slam of a door somewhere far down the road. The desert was a wonder of acoustical engineering, something Tara was sure the person inside the trailer wasn't aware of.

Tara bided her time, letting whoever watched feel at least complacent, if not comfortable, regarding their presence. She knocked once more. This time the footsteps they heard were slower, heavier, and resigned. The door opened wider than Tara would have expected. A woman stood behind it, head and shoulders showing. She stared through the ripped screen a.s.suredly as if it afforded some protection. She didn't speak, but watched with the look of someone for whom wariness was a way of life and the unexpected never brought good news.

"Mrs. Hamilton? Vera Hamilton?" Tara asked gently, to put the woman at ease.

The woman wasn't fooled. There wasn't even the hint of an acknowledging smile. Just a twitch so deep down in her jaw Tara wondered if she really saw it, or was simply desperate for a sign of confirmation. Ben sat quietly, comfortably beside her, impatience not in his repertoire.

"Mrs. Hamilton, I'm Tara Limey, your son's attorney."

It was a nice introduction, Tara thought, but the lady inside had a different take. She sagged like a rag doll. Her face turned into the door as if the wood were comforting. She made a noise, sort of a sigh and sort of a hiccup. Maybe she was crying.

Tara didn't know.

"They got him then," she whispered.

"They got him and you have to help him. Boy, oh boy. They got him."

Tara moved forward. Gently she opened the screen door frame and pa.s.sed it to Ben, who held it open as Tara put a hand on the older woman's thin shoulder. It should have been frail. Instead it felt hard, all bone and muscle. It was her demeanor that was brittle.

"Mrs. Hamilton, I'm trying to help your son, but no one has him. He isn't in jail. Don't worry about that. We're going to try to keep him out," Tara rea.s.sured her softly.

Suddenly Vera Hamilton was all arms and hands and voice. She pushed at Tara, shoving her back out the door, open palms slapping against any part of Tara's body she could find. Instinctively Tara raised her hands to ward off the blows as she jumped away. But the doorway was narrow and unfamiliar and she backed into the jamb, caught between wood and a crazy woman.

"No!" Vera Hamilton shrieked.

"Get out of my house. Get out now if you don't have him in jail, behind bars where he belongs. Don't tell me you brought him with you. Oh, d.a.m.n, you didn't, did you?" She half hopped, trying to look through the window to the left of the door as she pushed and pummeled Tara.

"Don't tell me you brought him here. I don't want him. I finally found a place to escape from him. Don't tell me you don't want him in jail. Don't*" Vera's tirade was silenced as quickly as it had started. Ben had flipped and maneuvered his chair so rapidly that Vera jumped back in alarm. He was almost between the two women in the cramped doorway, his hand held high, Vera's arm clasped in a viselike hold. Stunned, the older woman looked at him fearfully. A man, no matter how he was incapacitated, was capable of many fearful things.

"Mrs. Hamilton," Ben said quietly, "please listen to Ms. Limey.

Please."

In slow motion he lowered Vera Hamilton's hand, still holding longer than he should to make sure it would stay where he put it. She lowered her other one without being asked. In Ben's eyes there was enough power or goodness or common sense to convince the woman to move away. As she did, Tara stepped cautiously over the threshold into Vera Hamilton's world.

The place had a closed-up feeling and was uncomfortably warm despite the cold outside. The air was oppressive and stale, not with the odors of cooking, but the scent of old tobacco and perfume.

Tara noted the perfume wasn't cheap and that, in itself, was curious. There was, or had been, a cat in residence, but no litter box was evident.

Two sofas upholstered in a lovely spring green print, three needlepoint chairs, and a plethora of knitted afghans decorated the living room. Vera Hamilton had a penchant for green and apricot roses crocheted in 3-D. On the couch was another work in progress, the crochet hook still laced with her last st.i.tch. In the corner was a console television and a basket full of beauty magazines. An enormous crucifix was on the north wall. Crazily, Tara thought to ask where the garlic necklace was kept, for Vera Hamilton didn't strike her as one of the faithful. Frightened, yes. Religious, no.

From where she stood Tara saw into the kitchen and a small eating area beyond. The table was of good wood, surrounded by four chairs painted bright white. She doubted any had been pulled out for a friend of late. This wasn't a home that carried the spirit of neighborliness even if there had been anyone to entertain. A coffee cup with a red lipstick stain sat on a saucer, obviously left over from the morning. Now Vera Hamilton's lips were colorless. The whole thing was odd. Lovely furniture pushed into a mobile home in the desert far from what Tara considered civilization.

She walked a few steps farther into the living room and sat down. Ben settled himself opposite Tara. Together they waited for Vera Hamilton, who still clung to the door. Finally, disgusted by their tenacity and her own impotence, she closed the door and faced the inevitable. She sat on one of the sofas and pulled an afghan over her, holding it close to her chest like a shield.

"Mrs. Hamilton," Tara said, "I apologize for surprising you the way we did. I should have called." And you would have bolted. Good decision, Tara.

"But we're here on urgent business. As I said, I'm your son's attorney. This is Dr. Ben Crawford. He's a psychologist. Hopefully, at my request. Dr. Crawford will evaluate Bill's mental state."

"Fat chance," the woman muttered, pulling her lips tight. Vertical lines were etched into them. Lipstick would bleed right through the little ca.n.a.ls.

Her skin was sallow; around her eyes, deep wrinkles.

A smoker's face. Yet beneath it all, there was a remnant of beauty. Tara could see Bill there. The high cheekbones, the clipped jaw, the confident dp of the head. He was his mother's son, and Tara wondered if the resemblance was only skin-deep.

"I'm sorry, I didn't hear you."

"Fat chance Bill would let you near him, much less treat him. He won't have anything to do with psychiatrists anymore," the woman grumbled.

"I'm a psychologist, Mrs. Hamilton. I can't prescribe medication and, from what I hear. Bill objects to medication, not to talking." Ben rested his elbows on the chair arms and opened his hands, a sign of hope and friendship. Vera Hamilton tensed, arms clenched across her chest.

"No," she sighed.

"He doesn't object to talking.

How could he? It's the thing he does best. If nothing else, Bill likes to show off what he does best."

She rearranged the afghan. It was beautifully constructed but didn't seem as if it would keep a body warm. It would be a long haul with Vera unless Tara found some way to lighten her up.

"Mrs. Hamilton, perhaps it would be better if your husband was here while we talked. When do you expect him?" Tara asked, and Vera Hamilton actually smiled.

"Who told you about my husband?"

"Bill."

"Still spinning tales, is he? Everyone believes him. Even you, a lawyer and a doctor." Vera sighed and set aside the afghan in favor of a pack of cigarettes from the end table. Taking her time, she lit one, sat back, and crossed her legs. She was ready to settle in for a chat.

"There is no Mr. Hamilton.

In fact, it's amazing I had Bill at all considering how long his father and I were together. Must have been a virgin birth," she chuckled sadly.

Surprised, but far from stunned, Tara asked, "Has there ever been a man in the home?"

"None to speak of." She raised a shoulder, shrugging off her love life as if it were an unimportant thing.

"I was married for a few years, but Bill didn't like him."

Ben sat forward.

"Did you divorce because Bill didn't like your husband?" In Vera's eyes there was venom. Bingo. He smiled at her.

"Did you do everything Bill wanted you to do when he was small?"

"You watch out for your kid," Vera said, and took a long drag off her cigarette, her eyes never leaving Ben's. He could figure it out and she was going to let him. But it was Tara's turn to tug the leash. She pulled Vera's attention her way, anxious to peel away the layers and find out exactly who Bill Hamilton was.

"Mrs. Hamilton, why were you so relieved when you thought he was in jail? Have you been in touch with Bill? Are you aware of the crime he says he committed?"

Sliding her eyes toward Tara, she stared at the younger woman. The change in Vera was incredible.

She filled out, or up, with her importance.

She smiled, sucking on the cigarette and blowing out her information with the smoke.

"Which one? Burning down Mr. Taylor's shed in the back of the house when we lived in Albuquerque?

Chasing after that other woman when she didn't want anything to do with him, scaring her half to death? Scaring me half to death? Killing animals and driving like a madman? Talking like a madman? Staring at you, putting his arm around you, whispering things? Which crime are you talking about? He's a criminal no matter what you're talking about, and I'd be the first one to turn the key in the lock if you could get him near a cell."

Tara's eyes flicked toward Ben, who looked back expressionless. Vera Hamilton saw it all and it pleased her to no end to have them looking so hungrily at the carrot she dangled. She narrowed her eyes and warned, "I don't want him back. I'll tell you what you need to know, but I don't want him. Do you understand? I had to pick up and move because I was afraid he'd come back."

Tara gestured toward Ben and included herself.

"If you're afraid of Bill, arrangements can be made to help protect you."

"Hah!" Vera was getting c.o.c.ky now. c.o.c.ky and nervous and neither Ben nor Tara missed the last inflection. Uncomfortable in the silence, Vera talked.

"I'm afraid of Bill. He's got a mean streak in him. But I'm more afraid of him because he can make me do anything. I can't help that. I don't want to see him because of it. I'm tapped out. There's nothing left." She looked from Ben to Tara, received no pity, and let out a deep sigh.

"Oh h.e.l.l, what's the use. What do you want to know?"

"We want to know your impressions of your son, some factual details about work, education, friends.

Fill us in on his mental state. Diagnosis. Times he's most vulnerable to violence. Things he dislikes.

Anything."

Vera's eyes flashed and behind them, behind the gray eyes so like her son's, were memories that obviously had been wrestled with. She began slowly.

"He's a creature. That's what he is," she said quietly.

"I don't think he's even human. He's handsome.

d.a.m.n, he's handsome. But then you've seen that for yourself."

Vera Hamilton bowed her head as if mourning, before raising it slightly so her eyes found a midpoint between Ben's feet and his face. Maybe if he'd been a priest, there would have been solace in this confession, some peace gained by looking him in the eye.

"I loved that boy like nothing you've ever seen.

Having him was the best thing I ever did. It was a good pregnancy. An easy birth. I held him in my arms and it didn't matter if he had a father or not." She sighed.

"I guess that's why his father didn't stay around too long. When you're that crazy in love with your baby, there isn't a whole lot of room for a real man."

The cigarette had burned down to her fingertips. Vera stubbed it out and lit another.

"Women would come up to me in the grocery store and tell me what a heartbreaker Bill was going to be. Even then he'd smile so prettily. Those women would swoon over a little boy: five, six, seven. Just a kid, and he had power over them."

Vera's head was shaking again. She took a drag and blew a perfect smoke ring.

"I swear I didn't know how I got so lucky. His father wasn't any great shakes in the looks department." She looked at Ben, needing to tell someone. Then she decided Tara was the one who would understand.

"One day, when he was bigger, everything changed. I didn't love my son anymore. I was in love with him, and the worst part was he knew it.

When Bill figured that out, he used me for target practice. The way he talked. The way he touched. I gave him everything he wanted. All my money, everything. I was so taken with him. For a while I thought I was just being a good mother. But when he was twelve, maybe thirteen, I figured out something was wrong with us. That's when I sent him to therapy."

She smoked faster, but talked slower now.

"I thought if he could learn to control himself, then maybe I could get back to being a regular woman, get rid of all those weird feelings. It worked for a while, but then he'd come up and put his hand on my hair or look at me with those eyes just like a movie, for goodness' sake. You know where two people just fall into each other's arms, all hot and bothered. But this was my kid."

She put her free hand to her breast and pounded lightly for emphasis.

"My son. How could I ever have felt any of that?" Her hand went down, and when the smoke cleared, Vera Hamilton showed them a face full of pain. Tara wanted to look away.

She didn't.

"Was there anyone to help you?" Tara asked.

Vera rolled her eyes, "Please. Who'd help with something like that?

Who would I tell?"

Tara had no answer. The shame this woman felt plainly consumed her.

Vera talked to Ben.

"We never did anything. I want you to know that. And for a long time the pills helped. Then, out of the blue, he'd be strange again, like he was trying to seduce me." Vera smiled.

"I used to be an executive secretary, you know.

Fabulous job. Benefits, everything." The smile was gone as quickly as it had come.

"Then Bill started hanging around work. He hung around the boss's wife, and I got jealous. Lord." Her head fell back, snapped forward almost immediately, and she reached for another cigarette.

"He banged the boss's wife. I made a scene like a jealous lover. Got another job; it happened again. Let me tell you, don't believe a thing he says. Don't do anything for him except put him in jail. Don't talk to him, or he'll convince you he's something he isn't.

Don't let him touch you," she spoke to Tara now, "or you'll be the same as every other woman he ever touched. You'll be lost."