Rated: G

Feedback:  Comments appreciated at: tunecedemalis@yahoo.com

Author’s notes: Once again the folks at the Gull’s Way Board provided my muse with a critical bit of input.

Thank you, Cheri and Susan, for finding innumerable errors.

Hardcastle put the package (dinosaur wrapping paper and a purple bow) down on the front seat and climbed into the truck. He was calculating to arrive a little early. Despite Kathy’s protests to the contrary, he saw himself more as additional security detail than a guest. He’d been to Matt’s preschool on Grandparent’s Day; he thought this might be a tough crowd.

‘Low key’ had been Kathy’s mantra the past couple of weeks. She’d turned down Hardcastle’s offer of the estate for a pool party. “He’s only turning five, “she explained reasonably as they’d sat visiting on the patio the Saturday before. “Family, friends, some games for the kids, and cake and ice cream.”

And if there was any heavier burden of expectation hanging on the upcoming day, he hadn’t seen it. Just then Mark and Matt had appeared up the path from the beach, Matt holding onto his father’s hand, saying something to his father, Mark smiling. Hardcastle thought he’d never seen the younger man any happier than he was that day. I wonder if anybody else knows how hard he works at making it look easy. Kathy, no doubt. She seemed to understand how much the casual normality of family life meant to McCormick.

“And maybe a piñata,” she added, breaking into his thought. Then a brief frown crossed her face, as though she was reconsidering the wisdom of arming five-year-olds with a stick.

“A dinosaur one!” Matt had let loose of his father and clambered into her lap. From the grin on Mark’s face, the judge knew the piñata was already a done deal.

So he was expecting not much more than the controlled chaos of last-minute preparations when he pulled up to the McCormick home the following Saturday. He parked on the street, noting that he was not the first arrival; that was Kathy’s mom’s car in the drive. When the kid became president, there’d be no lack of childhood photos and videos for his biographers, thanks to his maternal grandmother. He carried his package round the back and let himself through the gate.

Kathy was leaning over the picnic table, arranging a cluster of balloons. Hearing his ‘Hi’ she turned, and for a split second he saw the tension that she quickly covered over with a smile.

“Oh, Judge,” the smile was broader now, “I’m so glad you’re here.” And he sensed at once that there was more to the greeting than routine politeness. “Mark’s inside.”

Hardcastle nodded once. “Everything under control here?” he asked as he put the gift down on a smaller table at the edge of the patio. “Where’s Matt?”

“Upstairs with my mom, pretending to take a nap.” She smiled again, then suddenly the pretense collapsed and her face was all concern. “Oh, Milt, will you go talk to him?” And it was obvious that the ‘him’ in question was Mark. “Everything was fine yesterday. He went out to pick up a few last minute things. He came home. He went in the study, and when he came out a little later, he was different.”  She pulled a folding chair out from the table and sat down, looking up at him, bewildered.

Hardcastle took the next chair and said, “Different, how?”

“That’s just it,” she shook her head. “Something’s upset him; he’s not angry. Sad, maybe. I ought to be able to tell why, you’d think. But it was just so sudden.”

“Did you ask him?” Hardcastle asked gently.

“I wanted to,” she hesitated, “You know how it is when . . . when all of a sudden there’s this wall.” She looked at him pleadingly, as if she hoped she wasn’t the only one who’d seen it. The judge nodded his understanding. She went on, more slowly “It doesn’t happen very often, hardly at all since Matt. But today, I don’t know why, unless . . .”

Hardcastle didn’t think he had to tell Kathy about Mark’s own fifth birthday, but he said, “You know- -”

“Oh, yes,” she answered, impatient with anxiety. “I know. He told me all about everything, before we even had Matt. He was so worried he’d be like him.” Hardcastle smiled at her slight negative emphasis on the word. He knew she’d never met Sonny Daye, and apparently couldn’t even bring herself to call him ‘Mark’s father’. “But how can he even think that now? He loves Matt and Matt loves him. And he’s here for him.”

Hardcastle looked over his shoulder at the house, then back at Kathy, consideringly. “You know, maybe it’s hard work trying to be perfect.”

“Well, he does yell once in a while,” she smiled. “Last week he caught Matt getting ready to gas up the Coyote with Kool-aid. Now that was a major time-out.” Hardcastle stifled a chuckle. He’d already heard about that incident from Mark himself. It had been red Kool-aid, Matt’s favorite. But Kathy’s smile was gone again, replaced by a pensive look. “Please? He’ll talk to you, if there’s anything to talk about.”

“I can try,” he said quietly, “but some of that stuff, he just doesn’t want to discuss.” Then he pointed questioningly toward the house.

“Yeah, I think in the study. He was going to fill the piñata.”

Hardcastle nodded. He reached over and patted Kathy’s hand as he got up.

He let himself in the back and walked down the familiar hallway to the study. The door was slightly ajar. He gave it two quick taps but didn’t wait for an invitation. Mark was sitting at the desk, purple dinosaur piñata on its side in front of him. He hadn’t gotten much further than cutting the flap in the bottom. But the judge’s entry seemed to bring him back from wherever his mind had wandered off to, and reminded him he had a job to do.

“Hi,” he smiled, not much better at it than his wife had been. “I hope you’re early.”

“A little. Need help?”

“Nah. Open bags, insert candy. This is the easy part. Getting it out again is where it gets tricky.” He kept his eyes on the project at hand. Hardcastle sat down in the chair across from the desk and said nothing.

A few moments of silence passed, as Mark shoveled the contents of the bags into the paper mache creature, then finished by taping it closed. “There,” he grimaced, not lifting his eyes, “greed and violence. Heaven help us.”

“Well, it’s good for working out aggression,” the judge added pointedly.

Mark lifted his head and gazed distractedly at the judge. There was a long pause before he answered, “Don’t worry, I already did that.” He flexed his right hand a couple of times experimentally. “Leather chair. Years of experience.” He brought his eyes to focus on Hardcastle’s and smiled sadly. “Kath sent you in here, didn’t she? Would you tell her I’m okay? Really.”

“Well, why don’t you tell her?”

“Because,” Mark rubbed the bridge of his nose and then gestured with his hand, “I’m not. But once things get started . . . I’ll be okay; everything will be fine.”

“Okay, well, then tell me. Because I’m thinking if you don’t, that piñata isn’t the only thing around here that’s gonna explode.”

Mark said nothing for a moment, then reached down to the bottom drawer and pulled it open, taking out a bulky manila envelope. He studied it for a second, and then tossed it casually onto the judge’s side of the desk.

He gritted his teeth and shook his head angrily. “That man had the worst sense of timing I have ever known in any person, anywhere.” He sat back in his chair heavily as the judge reached to pick up the envelope. “It came in yesterday’s mail.”

It was addressed to McCormick and postmarked three days earlier. The return address was in New Jersey, “St. Martha’s Home”. He glanced up at Mark. Turning it over he undid the clasp, and slid the contents out onto the desk. There was a cover letter, neatly typed in the business format. The administrator’s name was Rose Arnand, and she apologized for the delay but their resident, Mr. Daye, had not formally listed any next-of-kin and it was only when she was sorting through his effects that she came across the letters and the will.

She assured him the death had been an easy one. “He simply went to sleep one night and was found the next morning.” That had been five days before, nine days now. “He had made arrangements which were carried out.” A cremation. It was possible that the ashes could be sent to him if he wished.

“Whaddaya think, Judge?” McCormick said, seeing he had reached the bottom of the letter. “Maybe a tasteful urn on the mantle?” Hardcastle looked up sharply. McCormick dropped his eyes again and put his hand wearily to his forehead. “Sorry,” he said, then he muttered, “No. No I’m not.”

The judge looked over the rest of the envelope’s contents, a handful of letters from Mark, mostly postmarked ’85 and ’86, the demographic papers from the nursing home, proving indeed that the man had claimed no next-of-kin, the will, short and handwritten, leaving all his personal effects to “Mark McCormick” without any mention of why, and finally, a copy of the death certificate.

“He kept your letters,” the judge pointed out, not really wanting to add that the few he’d sent himself, to inform Sonny of his son’s progress, had been returned unopened.

“Kept, but never answered,” Mark added glumly.

There was nothing to say  to that. The judge picked the pieces up one at a time and slipped them back into the envelope. The will was last. He looked down at it, and then at the envelope itself. “Well, he knew your address.”

McCormick shrugged. “Yeah, I figure- -”

“Nah, they didn’t get it from me. It was here in the will. You didn’t look at it, huh?” He handed it over.

Mark looked at it and then up at him, frowning slightly.

Hardcastle took the will back and stuffed it into the envelope with the rest of the papers. “I’m not going to cut Sonny any slack,” he said, closing the clasp, then setting the whole thing back down on the desk and pushing it gently toward McCormick. “You know I never thought he gave you anything except a good hairline and a light touch on the tumblers . . . but he must have at least been watching from a distance these past few years.”

Mark didn’t reach for the envelope. He looked down at it as though it were poison. Finally he said, quietly, “I really thought I had written him off ten years ago; he never came back, he never answered my letters. I convinced myself that I didn’t care, that it didn’t matter, that it was his loss that he never knew about Matt.” Mark stopped, running his fingers back through his hair and holding his head for a moment, wearily. He looked up at the judge again. “You were the one who was there on Grandparent’s Day. You’re the one with the crayon drawings on the fridge. Hell, doesn’t it bother you that this bothers me so much?”

“I’m not- -”

“I know, I know you’re not- -”

“It’s like I said,” the judge held up one hand to stop him, “you don’t get to pick your parents.”

Mark’s eyebrows lifted sharply. He looked puzzled for a moment. There was another moment of considering silence. Then he replied, with surprising lightness. “I don’t think I got to pick you either, Hardcase.”

Hardcastle laughed. “Well, maybe not at first.”

There was a squeal of laughter and the sound of running feet from the hallway. The door opened with a bang and in came Matt, looking very un-napped and practically singing, “Grandpa Milt!” The boy raced in and got his hug, “Come on, come on! It’s almost time. Mommy says they’re coming very soon.” And then he was back around the desk scrambling up onto Mark and reaching out for the dinosaur. “It’s purple!”

“Uh-huh. They didn’t have red. Sorry kiddo.” His father pulled it closer to be inspected.

“I like purple,” Matt replied with immense satisfaction. “Purple is my favorite color.”

Mark scooped him up as he stood. Matt’s arms clung to his neck. “Okay, remind me to keep the door of the garage locked; I don’t want a custom paint job. Judge, you ready?”

“As I’ll ever be.” And he stood slowly, smiling, and followed them out.






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