antique store in south Eugene where he considered a table for a long time and then shook his head. On Sunday, just as fruitless as Saturday had been, he said he might as well bring his own couch and other things from the Turner’s Point house.
He couldn’t sit on foam, he explained, made his butt sore; his couch had inner springs, the way God intended.
She nodded gravely. Then they went to a garden shop, where he seemed to go on a buying hinge-garden implements, gloves, a straw hat, even a tiller.
“Couldn’t you just have someone come in and till up garden space?” she asked.
“Could. But I want to do it.”
There had always been a garden when she was growing up; her mother and father had tended it together most of the time. After her death he had
sold the house, got rid of all the garden equipment, moved out to Turner Point, and he had not gardened since; Barbara never had gardened after her one childhood attempt at weeding, when she had hoed out every seedling carrot.
She experienced a stabbing jolt of memory: how they had laughed, holding each other helplessly. Not right away, but later that evening. And she, Barbara, had marched off indignantly. No jealousy flared with the memory, although in the not too distant past it would have done so; now she felt only a sadness for him, pity for his loss. She turned away before he could look up and decipher the expression on her face. He would take a lot from her, she knew, but not pity. Never that.
While he discussed tillers and delivery, she bought a potted red geranium to put on her porch to keep her visitors company if they got there when she was away.
He brought up the copyright case only twice, adding details each time, still pot asking her directly to take it She played innocent.
He was excited about the house, she thought fondly when he dropped her off Sunday afternoon. She was happy for him, and still undecided about moving in. After he got settled down again with his own familiar furniture and his garden out back, maybe then he would realize he really didn’t need her. He still was denying it, but she bet herself that within a year he would sell his house out on the river. And the garden would be his excuse He would say no one can tend a garden with a forty-mile-long hoe.
She went to bed early that night, but was still groggy with sleep when her doorbell jolted her awake the next morning. Eight o’clock, she groaned, and started to turn over when the bell shrilled again.
She tied her robe belt as she made her way to the door; when she lifted the corner of the blind she saw her father. He jabbed the bell again as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
He pushed his way in, slamming a rolled-up newspaper against his palm.
“You tell me. Barbara, are you mixed up in that Kennerman case?”
“What’s this all about?” she demanded.
“What’s that paper you’re mutilating?”
He thrust it at her.
“You were in Lewis Paltz’s chambers on Friday, weren’t you? That was your afternoon in court. Messing around with that baby killer’s case.”
“I’m not ‘messing around’ with anything.” When she opened the paper, a tabloid she never had seen before, the banner headline leaped at her: baby killer judge unfit I The story lead-in was in bold print: Baby Killer Kennerman, on the verge of confession, was put on hold as Judge Paltz and an old friend swapped fish stories in the judge’s chambers Friday.
“Oh no!” Barbara breathed.
“Christ on a mountain! You are involved!”
Barbara moved past him and put the paper on the kitchen table. Her hands were shaking.
“Go shower or wash your face or something,” Prank snapped.
“I’ll put on coffee.”
She stumbled from the room into the shower and let the water beat on her in full force for a long time. Why did he do it? she asked over and over. Why did Spassero do it?
Frank was at the back door facing out when she returned to the kitchen and
He couldn’t sit on foam, he explained, made his butt sore; his couch had inner springs, the way God intended.
She nodded gravely. Then they went to a garden shop, where he seemed to go on a buying hinge-garden implements, gloves, a straw hat, even a tiller.
“Couldn’t you just have someone come in and till up garden space?” she asked.
“Could. But I want to do it.”
There had always been a garden when she was growing up; her mother and father had tended it together most of the time. After her death he had
sold the house, got rid of all the garden equipment, moved out to Turner Point, and he had not gardened since; Barbara never had gardened after her one childhood attempt at weeding, when she had hoed out every seedling carrot.
She experienced a stabbing jolt of memory: how they had laughed, holding each other helplessly. Not right away, but later that evening. And she, Barbara, had marched off indignantly. No jealousy flared with the memory, although in the not too distant past it would have done so; now she felt only a sadness for him, pity for his loss. She turned away before he could look up and decipher the expression on her face. He would take a lot from her, she knew, but not pity. Never that.
While he discussed tillers and delivery, she bought a potted red geranium to put on her porch to keep her visitors company if they got there when she was away.
He brought up the copyright case only twice, adding details each time, still pot asking her directly to take it She played innocent.
He was excited about the house, she thought fondly when he dropped her off Sunday afternoon. She was happy for him, and still undecided about moving in. After he got settled down again with his own familiar furniture and his garden out back, maybe then he would realize he really didn’t need her. He still was denying it, but she bet herself that within a year he would sell his house out on the river. And the garden would be his excuse He would say no one can tend a garden with a forty-mile-long hoe.
She went to bed early that night, but was still groggy with sleep when her doorbell jolted her awake the next morning. Eight o’clock, she groaned, and started to turn over when the bell shrilled again.
She tied her robe belt as she made her way to the door; when she lifted the corner of the blind she saw her father. He jabbed the bell again as she unlocked the door and pulled it open.
“What’s wrong? What happened?”
He pushed his way in, slamming a rolled-up newspaper against his palm.
“You tell me. Barbara, are you mixed up in that Kennerman case?”
“What’s this all about?” she demanded.
“What’s that paper you’re mutilating?”
He thrust it at her.
“You were in Lewis Paltz’s chambers on Friday, weren’t you? That was your afternoon in court. Messing around with that baby killer’s case.”
“I’m not ‘messing around’ with anything.” When she opened the paper, a tabloid she never had seen before, the banner headline leaped at her: baby killer judge unfit I The story lead-in was in bold print: Baby Killer Kennerman, on the verge of confession, was put on hold as Judge Paltz and an old friend swapped fish stories in the judge’s chambers Friday.
“Oh no!” Barbara breathed.
“Christ on a mountain! You are involved!”
Barbara moved past him and put the paper on the kitchen table. Her hands were shaking.
“Go shower or wash your face or something,” Prank snapped.
“I’ll put on coffee.”
She stumbled from the room into the shower and let the water beat on her in full force for a long time. Why did he do it? she asked over and over. Why did Spassero do it?
Frank was at the back door facing out when she returned to the kitchen and
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