Roadblock IX
Restored in October 2026 from a 2003 copy of the original PenBase page saved by the Wayback Machine; Pentrace’s own database copy had been cut short.
We had reached the halfway point in our walk around the lake when Anita stopped talking and pointed skywards. “Look,” she said. My eyes followed the path indicated by her outstretched arm and extended index finger. A large bird was flying overhead. I couldn’t really tell what kind, but Anita said, “Red-tailed hawk, I believe.”
I laughed. “Your eyesight always was better than mine. You know, if you can pick up the trajectory of a bird and know it’s a red-tailed hawk, I don’t believe you no longer see well enough to operate an automobile.”
Anita snorted. “I didn’t stop driving because of my eyes. My reflexes simply aren’t as good as they were. When a lunatic decides to make an illegal turn or run a red light, it takes me longer to hit the brake. Since I don’t want to put myself or anyone else at risk, I drive as little as is humanly possible these days.”
I nodded, but I still suspected that she’d stopped driving because she simply didn’t like to drive. That had always surprised me about her. Most people drive as easily and as thoughtlessly as they do most other tasks of daily life, but Anita treated driving as an awesome responsibility. My sons had found that very funny, and for a long time I did too. She had told me that an automobile could be and often was a lethal weapon. I suppose that’s true, but thinking about it makes me wonder if I ought to be driving, so I try not to think about it.
“Anyway,” Anita added, “you can tell a hawk by the way it flies. You don’t have to have superior vision to recognize it.”
We started walking again as the hawk passed out of sight, and Anita took up her story once more. There wasn’t, so she informed me, much more to tell.
“As you no doubt know, Marian, Paula works at the county hospital in some capacity or other. Apparently she took a shine to Dennison and he to her. She offered him sympathy and shared his outrage at Laurel and Roadblock. That was exactly what he wanted.”
Anita grinned at me. “Had he been mobile and in perfect command of his physical abilities, he would no doubt have had a fling with Paula, as he has so often done with various young women. However, philandering is harder with multiple fractures and dislocations than without, I suppose, so Dennison allowed his fantasy to get the best of him, and he decided he was in love with Paula and wished to marry her. I suppose that was as good a way as any of getting back at Laurel for what had happened to him.”
“Well, I know that if Laurel had gotten rid of or allowed him to get rid of the cat, his accident might not have occurred,” I said. “But it was an accident, and his response was surely an overreaction, wouldn’t you say?”
Anita laughed a bit ruefully. “You’re quite right, Marian, but that’s the rational response. I don’t think Dennison was capable of responding rationally right after his accident, and I don’t believe he is now. You are probably not aware of this, but his face is scarred. He plans to have plastic surgery, but I’m sure that looking at himself in the mirror is extremely traumatic. You must remember that he is a man for whom appearance is everything. His looks are, to a very great extent, both his meal ticket and his source of self-esteem. ”
“But surely one doesn’t divorce a spouse over an accident!” I exclaimed, ignoring Anita’s lengthy explanation.
Anita raised her eyebrows. “Well, you wouldn’t, Marian, but you are not Dennison. Indeed, knowing of Lawrence’s behavior and your reaction to it, I’d be inclined to say that you are at the very opposite end of the spectrum.”
I didn’t know whether to be offended or complimented by her remark, but when I looked at her, she was smiling fondly at me, so I gave her the benefit of the doubt.
“Andrew got Paula that job at the hospital, you know,” I said, glad to have some information to contribute, however insignificant. “She dropped out of nursing school when her mother and Andrew divorced. I think he felt guilty or at least responsible for Paula.”
Anita nodded. “So you are not the only one in your family with an overly active conscience.”
I shrugged. “I don’t know if it’s that exactly. Andrew certainly has no qualms about treating me very badly.”
She nodded again. “I’m aware of that. But there is probably a reason that neither you nor I know. I think you should talk with Andrew, preferably in the presence of a family therapist or at the very least a trained counselor of some sort. Do you think your minister would help out?”
I shook my head. “Andrew won’t listen to her. He thinks ministers should be men and only men.”
Anita laughed. “Not an uncommon prejudice.” She shook her head. “Well, you need to find some way to reach an understanding with Andrew.”
“Yes, and I need to find a way to end world hunger too,” I replied sarcastically. “Come, let’s go back to the car. It’s getting late.”
After I drove Anita home, I thought about stopping off at work instead of going straight home myself. It was late, and I knew the technicians would be long gone, though William might still be there. The technicians were two very competent young people who worked together wonderfully but also quarreled constantly about everything that didn’t pertain to preparing the dead for their final resting-place. I liked them, but I found them a bit much for my nerves at times. It didn’t help that both of them were named Tony. He was Anthony and she Antonia. Fortunately they were not related.
Generally Steven or William supervised the Tonys, as everyone called them. William was the one who also dealt with the mourners. By training he was a psychologist with a specialization in grief counseling, but he was also a very good mediator, almost as good as Anita. He kept the technicians from killing each other and, probably even more important, out of my hair. Steven, Phoebe’s husband, on the other hand, simply ignored the quarreling and focused on the task at hand. The young people were too intimidated by his competent manner to act out around him.
I sometimes wished they were more intimidated by me, but they both seemed to think I was a surrogate grandmother. That’s one of the perils that comes with age, I suppose. I didn’t mind too much, as long their need for sympathy and approval remained within reasonable bounds. Mostly it did. When it didn’t, I either sent them to William or went to William myself.
I pulled up to the mortuary, but all the lights were out. I knew that there were bills to be paid on my desk, along with various memos and phone messages. I thought briefly about going in and taking care of some of the tasks, but I realized I was tired. My day had been unexpectedly exhausting. With one last look at the dark windows, I turned around and headed home, anticipating with considerable pleasure the hot brandy toddy with which I planned to indulge myself. Hot brandy toddies were relatively new to me, and I owed my enjoyment of them to William, who kept a brandy bottle, sugar, and lemon hidden behind a large vase in his office. I’d have preferred to enjoy my indulgence in his company, but since he was not available, I was content to enjoy it on my own.
I had heated the water and was about to add it to the mix of brandy, sugar, and lemon when the phone rang. I didn’t expect a call, so I briefly considered just letting it ring and hoping whoever it was would not bother to leave voice mail, but at the last moment my curiosity got the better of me.
When I picked up the receiver, a barely familiar voice greeted me, “Hello, Marian, this is Patricia. How are you?”
My first thought was that Andrew was delusional, for Patricia was James’ wife and she obviously hadn’t changed her name to Artemisia. Or perhaps she had and just wasn’t telling me. Or perhaps she only used Artemisia in her religious rituals. These thoughts raced through my mind, delaying my reply to her question enough that she sounded a bit alarmed when she asked, “Marian, are you there? This is Marian Euler, isn’t it?”
“I’m fine, Patricia,” I replied. “How are you?”
I hoped she hadn’t called because something had happened to James. The last time she’d phoned me was when he’d fallen out of a tree and broken his arm. Usually he was the one who phoned on those rare occasions that I heard from them, and his wife just got on for a few minutes to exchange pleasantries at the end of the call.
“Is everything all right there?” I asked before she had time to reply to my earlier query.
I heard her somewhat throaty laugh. “Everything is fine, Marian. I wanted to share some good news with you.”
“Good news is always welcome,” I replied cautiously. “Are you and James expecting?” I asked. I almost bit my tongue, but she laughed again.
“No, but we are about to go up to Vancouver to accept a prize for a musical composition we wrote together.”
“Congratulations!” I said emphatically.
“Thank you, Marian. James would have phoned you, but he is dead tired after a day of harvesting.”
I didn’t ask what he’d been harvesting. “Well, it’s good to hear your voice, Patricia,” I said. And it was. I knew that without her James would most likely have lost contact with me.
“We wanted you to be the first to know,” she said.
“I’m honored,” I replied, wondering briefly if the purpose of the call was to solicit money for their trip.
“They’re paying our flights up and back,” she explained, as if reading my mind. All we have to do is perform the piece and sit through the awards dinner.”
“That shouldn’t be too difficult.”
“No, it should be fine,” she said.
I waited, wondering what else she was going to say. I knew there had to be more.
“Marian, it would mean a great deal to James if he knew you were impressed by this accomplishment,” she said.
“What?” I asked, completely taken aback.
“He won’t admit it, of course, but he suffers terribly from feelings of inadequacy. He started going to a therapist recently, and that’s what they talked about.”
“Well, I’d be glad to tell him I’m impressed and very happy for him,” I replied. Then suddenly an idea dawned. “Or better yet, I’ll write him a note with my fountain pen. That way we won’t have any unfortunate misunderstandings during a phone conversation and he’ll have something more permanent than the memory of a phone call.”
Patricia was silent.
“Or don’t you think that’s a good idea?” I inquired. “He and I seem to have such difficulty communicating by word of mouth, but if I wrote him a nice letter of appreciation…”
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” she replied. “I didn’t know you used a fountain pen, Marian.”
“I didn’t until recently. It’s not a fancy, but I have stiffness in my writing hand and…”
“Didn’t that math tutor collect fountain pens? James speaks of her often and with great animation. He claims she was the only adult he knew in his youth who said she actually meant.”
I sighed. “Yes, Anita does collect them.”
“She gave one to James, you know. He still has it.”
“I didn’t know,” I replied. “There seems to be a great deal I don’t know about James.”
“Well,” she said, sounding a little apologetic, “you and he haven’t spent much time together recently.”
An understatement, if ever I heard one.
“I shall certainly write him a letter with my fountain pen,” I said, wanting to end the awkward conversation as quickly as possible. “And thank you for letting me know about the prize.”
After the call I drank my toddy and thought about dinner. I wasn’t very hungry, but I knew that if I didn’t eat my stomach would hurt later on. I was too old to miss meals, I told myself, as I foraged through my half-empty refrigerator.
I found salad greens that were not yet limp and some eggs for an omelet. As I prepared my meal, I wondered what it was about Anita that made people either adore or abhor her. There seemed to be no middle ground. And I tried not to wonder what it was about her that made my sons like her so much more than they liked me, their mother. I could hear Anti’s voice telling me I was asking myself the wrong question. She often said that when I was driving myself crazy. Anita was very much in favor of reformulating unanswerable questions. But I couldn’t seem to reframe this one that troubled me so. I sighed and set the table for my dinner, hoping that Phoebe would call again on the morrow. As ate, I realized that I was still waiting to hear about how Laurel had come to fountain pen use through adversity. Though Anita had told me the story of Handsome’s accident and the break-up of the marriage, there was something about three vintage pens she’d alluded to but had never gotten around to explaining. Anita is getting forgetful and finally starting to show her age, I thought, a little more pleased with the idea than I would have been if I were not feeling so piqued at my sons’ apparent preference for her.
“Marian Euler, what’s wrong with you?” I chided myself out loud. “Anita has been a loyal and devoted friend.” I washed my dinner dishes and went to look for some reading material, wondering what the morrow would bring.