U Is for Undertow

jag.”
    “Poor judgment.”
    “Very poor. I can’t tell you the money he’s gone through. What scares me is thinking about what’ll happen when he’s emptied all his bank accounts. He’s never really worked. He’s held jobs, but none for long. The money he inherited is the only thing keeping him afloat. Once that’s gone, he’ll end up on my doorstep, begging for help. What’s my choice then? I take him in or he ends up living on the street.”
    “You’re not obligated.”
    “That’s what my brothers tell me.”
    “Why do it then?”
    “I guess I feel guilty because he’s such a mess and the rest of us are okay . . .”
    As she went on, I could hear my own story echoed in hers. My grievances, my determination to hang on to everything that seemed unfeeling or unfair. Her complaints were legitimate, but so what? The recital of her woes only made matters worse, keeping the pain alive when it should have been laid to rest.
    Diana must have realized I’d clocked out. “Why are you looking at me that way?”
    “I have family issues of my own and they sound just like yours. Different scenario, but the angst is the same. Personally, I’m getting tired of hearing myself whine. And if I’m tired, what about the people around me who have to put up with my shit?”
    “It’s not the same.”
    “Sure it is. What’s the point in going over and over it? I’ll bet you’ve told the same story a hundred times. Why don’t you give it a rest?”
    “If I give it up, Michael wins. Bad behavior triumphs over good yet again. Well, I’m sick of it. After the havoc he’s wreaked, why should I let him off the hook?”
    I could feel myself getting irritated. I understood where she was coming from, but the events she’d described were years in the past. Waltzing into my office to unload it all on me was out of line. She’d turned venom into a lifestyle and it wasn’t attractive. On first meeting, I’d been put off by her aggressiveness. Now I was put off by her attempt to rope me into Sutton bashing.
    “What hook, Diana? He’s not on the hook except in your mind. He’s living his own life and if he’s screwing up right and left, what’s it to you?”
    Her smile was tight. “You say that now, but you’re not done with him. Trust me. You gave him credence which has been in short supply of late. He’ll come back. Some new crisis will emerge, some disturbing turn of events . . .”
    “That’s my lookout, don’t you think?”
    “You really don’t believe me, do you?”
    “I’ve heard every word. I understand why you’re pissed off at him, but I take offense at the wholesale condemnation. Give the kid a break. You came here to warn me. You’ve done that and I thank you. I’m on red alert.”
    That shut her down. She withdrew as though I’d slapped her.
    She snatched up her shoulder bag and took out a business card. “Here’s my number if you should ever need to get in touch. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your time.”
    As she reached the door, she paused. “You want to hear the best part?”
    I was going to fire off a smart remark, but I held my tongue.
    “Six days after Daddy died, Michael saw the light. He became a retractor. He disavowed his claims about the sexual abuse. He said he realized Marty Osborne had planted all those memories. Oops. Big mistake. He took it all back. So that’s who you’re dealing with. Have a nice day.”
    She left the office, banging the door shut behind her.

11

    I had dinner that night at Rosie’s, the tavern located half a block from my apartment. It’s the perfect setting for the neighborhood drinking crowd and serves as a ready substitute for my nonexistent social life. In the summer months the softball rowdies dominate the bar, celebrating victories so minor they scarcely warrant column space in the local sports pages. From time to time they put together touch-football teams, the losers paying off the winners with a pony keg. Prior to the Super Bowl, there are endless noisy debates, arguments, and wagers, which are finally settled by pitching in ten bucks each and drawing names from an oversized beer stein Rosie keeps behind the bar.
    Rosie is Hungarian by birth and though she’s been in Santa Teresa most of her life, she refuses to give up her accent or her tortured sentence structure. She and Henry’s brother William were married Thanksgiving Day three and a half years ago. It’s an unlikely match, but one that’s turned out to be good