Roadblock XIII
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.
“Andrew, stop pacing!” I ordered, but my son kept moving, ranting as he did. “I begged father to send me away,” he rumbled, frowning severely. “Anything would have been better than having to fight children twice my size, children taunting me and calling me ‘Ghouler Euler’.” He looked to be on the brink of tears, and I was embarrassed on his account and worried too that he would hold this episode of acute candor against me once he’d gotten it out of his system. “And I had to defend you and father,” he went on. “They had names for you, you know, and Morticia was the mildest of them. Was it any wonder that I came home every day with black eyes and bruises and that the school called you in regularly when I was only in kindergarten? The principal was upset about my getting into fights. Well, who wouldn’t have gotten into fights under those circumstances?”
“So Lawrence sent you and James to military school,” I said softly. “And you, unlike James, thrived there. Andrew, these experiences are far in the past. Don’t you think it’s time you stopped letting them control you?”
He shook his head violently. “Do you think I like feeling this way?” he demanded.
“No, I’m sure you don’t. But my selling off the mortuary won’t change it.”
“Yes, it will,” he replied. “I’d be free of seeing my name on that monstrosity every time I come back to this town.”
Which is not all that often, I thought, but I said nothing.
“Maybe we shouldn’t talk about this now,” he suggested in a low voice. “Perhaps we should wait until we can schedule a meeting with Miss Carswell.” He finally made eye contact with me. “Do you want to arrange it, or shall I?”
“Either way is fine with me,” I replied. “Of course, we’ll have to wait until Anita has finished up with Laurel’s and Handsome’s mediation hearing. And we’ll want to wait until James and Phoebe are available for their input. Phoebe and Steven will be back in two weeks, and I think they, or at least Phoebe, ought to be present at any discussion of the future of the family business. James can’t be present, of course, but if we wait until he’s back from British Columbia, he could perhaps participate by phone.”
As I spoke I watched Andrew’s facial expressions and body position. My mention of Phoebe evoked tooth grinding, a look of intense disgust, and balled fists. I was not in the least surprised and deliberately chose to act as if I hadn’t noticed. However, when I made my comment about James, Andrew merely looked perplexed. After a few seconds, he asked, “Is James in British Columbia?”
I nodded.
“Whatever for? He’s hardly in a position to take a vacation. That farm of his is barely keeping him fed.” He glared at me accusingly. “You didn’t send him and that castrating wife of his off on vacation, did you?”
I bristled and took a deep breath. “No, I didn’t send James and Patricia anywhere. They won a musical competition and have gone to Vancouver to accept their prize. That is, I think they’ve already left. I’m not sure.”
I was gratified that I knew about the prize and Andrew didn’t. Of course, that was childish, but it was nonetheless the case.
“A musical composition? For what? ‘Rhapsody in Rutabaga’? An ‘Onion Overture’?” He chuckled, enjoying his own humor. “Good heavens, I hope he doesn’t have to deliver an acceptance speech. He’ll probably proclaim that a clove of garlic dictated the melody.”
It was my turn to glare. “Don’t be absurd, Andrew,” I scolded. “He’ll do no such thing.”
Andrew’s chuckle died. “I’m not the one who’s absurd,” he said petulantly. “You’re always defending him.”
I was sorry I’d ruined his good humor, even if it came at James’ expense. “Well, I admit that he did say something about having been inspired by a fig tree.”
Andrew shook his head and laughed. “At least it didn’t speak to him. Other than metaphorically, that is.”
“I’m not worried. Patricia won’t let him say anything too outrageous. She has good sense about such things,” I said and immediately regretted it.
“Damn that woman! She dominates him,” Andrew snarled. “I never did like Artemisia. She has all the charm of a snarling dog and looks like a horse.”
I’d had enough. “Patricia! Her name is Patricia, just like the young woman who runs Mirabelle!”
Andrew stared at me. “What are you yelling about, Mother? You get upset so easily and about the most inconsequential things.”
“Your brother’s wife’s name is Patricia, not Artemisia. And she is a woman with good sense and a rather practical turn of mind. If not for her, I don’t know where James would be.”
“Exactly where he is, running a small organic farm that barely keeps him alive. James is closer to insane than he is to eccentric, Mother, and that woman doesn’t help. Women like Artemisia give the whole sex a bad name.”
I sighed in exasperation, but he ignored me.
“My brother is a weakling who’ll never amount to anything,” he announced. “His wife is a domineering witch who’s named herself after a plant.” He shrugged his shoulders. “And you defend them.”
“Those remarks are ridiculous, Andrew,” I replied, “and your attitude toward women is medieval.”
“Nonsense,” he boomed at me. “Total nonsense. My attitude toward women is chivalrous. Just ask Laurel.”
I rolled my eyes. “Your attitude does not bode well for the future of your relationship with Laurel. She is very dependent and vulnerable right now, but that will not always be the case.”
Andrew raised his eyebrows. “You, Mother, have no idea what Laurel is really like, so I suggest you not hold forth on the subject.” He cleared his throat. “I think you ought to arrange our meeting with Miss Carswell since you are the one hedging it about with so many time constraints.”
He turned and took a couple of steps towards the door. “Do you really want me to wait until it’s all set up to bring over the kitten?” he asked in parting.
I sighed. “Bring it over whenever you like.”
“It’s a female,” he said, opening the door. “Miss Carswell took the other female. I have the boy.” He flashed a rather smug smile. “You’ll both have to get your animals spayed.” And with that, he was, much to my relief, gone.
I felt fortunate that Andrew had not launched into a lengthy and vituperative disquisition on Phoebe’s right or lack of right to be included in the discussion of the future of the Euler funeral home. I suspected that his disapproval of her, for all that it was real enough, was not so deeply felt as James’ absolute dislike. Maybe the idea of including all three of them in the meeting was unwise, I thought, as I prepared for sleep. It occurred to me to phone Anita for advice, but since I was to spend Saturday evening with her, I decided that a call was unnecessary. So I read until sleep came upon me.
The next morning I mailed my letter to James on the way to my office. Then I stopped in to see William, who offered me coffee and listened to my detailed rendering of my dilemma.
“I don’t know, Mrs. E.,” he said. “I hope that your son doesn’t see your agreeing to reconsider the future of this enterprise as a sign of weakness.”
“It doesn’t matter if he does,” I replied. “What matter is that we get some peace and clarity at the end of the mediation process.”
He sighed. “I don’t agree,” he said, smiling a bit sadly, I thought. “But then it’s your business to do with as you will.”
“I asked your opinion, and I’m glad to have it, William, “ I told him. “I have great confidence in Anita.”
He shrugged his shoulders. “Well, I don’t know her as well as you do,” he said. “But from what I’ve seen, she’d be up to the task of unraveling the threads of the conflict. It’s just that I’m not sure that even she can make Andrew, James, and Phoebe like each other or even get along.”
“They don’t have to like each other or get along,” I said. “All I want is a little peace.”
He shook his head. “Good luck, Mrs. E. You’ll need it.”
I retreated to my office and did paperwork for a few hours. When lunchtime came, I realized I had been pushing papers around on my desk for the past hour. My conversation with William had depressed me enough that I could not concentrate. So I drove home. And after a sandwich and a cup of coffee, I phoned Anita.
She picked up on the second ring but told me she had a visitor and couldn’t talk to me at that moment.
“When can I call you back?” she asked.
“At any time today,” I replied. “I left work early and expect to be home for the rest of the day.”
“Are you all right, Marian?” she asked, sounding concerned. “It’s not like you to leave work early.”
“I’m fine,” I replied. “Or I will be once I talk with you.”
“I’ll finish up with my visit as soon as I can, Marian,” she replied and hung up.
I spent the next half-hour wondering what was taking Anita so long and who her visitor could possibly be. She really lives out in the boondocks, and the only people who ever make their way out there are her pen-collecting cronies. Of course, some of them live out in the boonies as well. I racked my brains trying to think of any connection I could come up with between collecting outdated writing instruments and living out in the country, but none came to me right away. I was sure that a connection existed and would occur to me eventually, but before it did, the phone rang.
“Well, that took you long enough,” I said as soon as I was sure my caller was Anita.
“Dr. Watkins was here to check out the kitten. I noticed she was scratching her ear more than I thought was healthy. And sure enough, she did have ear mites.”
“Dr. Watkins had ear mites?”
Anita snorted. “No, Marian, Molly did.”
“Molly?”
“Laurel brought me the kitten early this morning. She didn’t have to be at work until noon.”
“What is Molly like?”
“Adorable, of course,” Anita replied. “Long-haired, black and white with tabby markings. And very energetic. That’s why I was so worried by the scratching. It looked like she was going to scratch her ear off.”
“I wonder if all the kittens are black and white,” I said.
“Not likely,” Anita replied. “Laurel said that Andrew initially argued with her neighbor, insisting that only the kittens resembling Roadblock were his offspring and Laurel’s responsibility. So obviously they don’t all look like Roadblock.” I heard a soft mew in the background and chuckled.
“But you didn’t phone to get the kitten update, did you Marian?” she said. “What’s going on?”
“Well, in a sense what I want to talk with you about does have to do with the kittens, or at least with the one I agreed to take if Andrew agreed to counseling.”
“Yes? Do go on,” Anita encouraged me.
“He wouldn’t agree to counseling, but he did agree to mediation. If you’re willing, of course,” I added as an afterthought.
Anita was silent for a few moments. “Of course, I’m willing,” she said finally, sounding very dubious, “but I’m not at all convinced that a mediator is what you need.”
“Andrew won’t consider a counselor,” I said. “And he insisted that the future of the Euler funeral home be included in the mediation hearing.”
“Well, he is consistent,” Anita replied tersely, “and greedy.”
“He claims that growing up as the son of undertakers traumatized him,” I explained. “He doesn’t to have his name associated with a mortuary.”
Anita snorted. “Well, we’ll find out if that’s really what’s troubling him when we meet for mediation, I suppose.”
“So you’ll do it?”
“Yes,” she replied. “I have grave doubts about the wisdom of doing so, but I will do it.” She sighed. “Can it wait until after the conflict between Dennison and Laurel is resolved?” she asked.
“Of course,” I replied. “It would have to wait in any case, as Phoebe and James are not available to participate right now.”
Anita fell silent again.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t think it’s a good idea to get Phoebe involved in this altercation,” Anita replied.
“Don’t be ridiculous!” I snapped. “How could she not be involved? The business will pass to her once I’m gone.”
“But you’re not gone yet, Marian,” she replied in a reasonable voice, “and until you are, the business is yours to do with as you wish.”
“And I wish to leave it Phoebe,” I replied in just as reasonable a voice. “She’s the only one who has any real interest in it. Andrew just wants to sell it off, and James…well, who knows what James wants?” I shook my head violently even though Anita couldn’t see me. “He has always had some bizarre moral objection to mortuary science. I suppose he thinks that dead bodies ought to be turned into fertilizer or left out for the buzzards the way they were in Tibet.”
I heard Anita take a deep breath as I finished my rant. “You know very well, Marian, that James’ childhood objection was to your seeming to benefit from death and grief. I am not at all sure that he has the same attitude today. In fact, I’d be most surprised if he did.”
“Perhaps you’re right about James,” I conceded, “but that still doesn’t mean Phoebe ought to be excluded from the mediation process.”
Anita didn’t say anything for a long time.
“Aren’t you going to argue with me?” I demanded.
“Not at the moment,” she replied. “Molly is getting herself stuck, and I will need to use both hands to release her. Let’s continue this discussion when we are face to face on Saturday.”
“Oh, all right,” I agreed ungraciously. “Shall I bring anything? Dessert?”
I heard her chuckle. “If you wish, you can bring a cheesecake from Mirabelle,” she replied.
“I hoped you’d say that, Anita. Sometimes you can be so agreeable.” (I adore Mirabelle’s cheesecake, and Anita knows it.) “Why you are sometimes so difficult escapes me entirely.”
Her chuckle expanded into a guffaw. “Because someone has to make sure you remain sensible, Marian,” she replied. “I’ll see you on Saturday.”
“What time?”
“Lisa and Andy will be over in the afternoon,” she said. “Sometimes he’s hard to get rid of, but if I threaten to put him to work cleaning, he’ll be out of here in a flash.” She stopped for a second, and I could distinctly hear the sound of paper tearing, followed by mewing and the scraping of kitty claws.
“How about six?” she finally suggested. “That will give me time to cook.”
I heard a crash as she said good-bye and hung up the phone. It was only later that I realized I’d still not told her about my conversation with James.