Bones of Contention (9 page)

Chapter Sixteen

“Settle down, y’all. I want to make a toast.”

They had assembled around the dining room table in their same seats as the night before. Cleon had asked Mack to display the Homers on the sideboard. Small as they were, their stormy waters gave the room an unstable, billowy feel. Neesha looked as if she were fighting off seasickness and Lucien wore a faraway, absent expression. When Mack popped the champagne cork, he flinched.

“Daddy, may I have a glass of champagne for the toast?” asked K.D.

Cleon chuckled. “Mack, pour K.D. and Thadeus a glass of bubbly. This is a momentous occasion.”

Mack poured all around and when everyone was seated, Cleon lifted his glass. “First and foremost, to my beautiful wife, Neesha, for keepin’ her chin up and puttin’ on such a brave face.”

Neesha frowned and fidgeted with her ring.

“Next up, to my long-sufferin’ ex-wife, Margaret, for forgivin’ me my scoundrelly ways and comin’ so far to commemorate my passin’.”

Margaret’s eyes held about as much forgiveness as a rockslide.

He turned a doting smile on K.D. “To my gorgeous and brainy daughter, K.D., the writer. She’s gonna give us all literary aliases and divulge our deep dark secrets. Y’all best beware.”

“You’ll always be my inspiration, Daddy.” K.D.’s brattiness melted away in the warmth of her father’s praise and she looked almost lovable.

“And last but not least, to my true-blue niece, Dinah. When it’s crunch time, she turns on her siren and comes runnin’. To all my fair ladies, let’s drink.”

Everyone drank, but K.D. was the only one who appeared to enjoy it.

Cleon made a wry face. “Tastes kinda limp to me. Of course, I’m partial to the kick of gin.” He peered over the rim of his glass at Eddie. “You’re the highbrow, Eduardo. Is this French fizz worth the exorbitant price Neesha paid for it?”

Eddie’s eyes narrowed. “I hardly think my opinion is the one you want.”

“Sure, it is. You’re too ticklish, Eduardo. Aw, hell, it don’t matter. I’m rich as Croesus. We’d be lappin’ liquid gold if it complemented the viands. Right, Neesha girl?”

Neesha’s cheeks blazed. “I never knew you to be such a tiger for thrift, Cleon. Quite the contrary.”

Everyone but Cleon and Thad looked ill at ease. Mack brushed imaginary crumbs off the tablecloth. Wendell dropped his eyes and picked at a hangnail. K.D.’s eyes washed back and forth inquiringly from Cleon to Neesha, but neither took note.

Cleon laughed. “Darlin’, I’m full of contradictions. It’s what gives me my edge.”

There was an uncomfortable silence during which Dinah noticed that the chairs on Mack’s side of the table had been moved closer together to make room for a chair to his left. Had somebody miscounted or was Neesha incorporating a spiritual element into tonight’s proceedings, setting a place for the prophet Elijah or something?

Cleon lifted his glass again. “And now a toast to the gents. To my old huntin’ buddy Dez Fisher for bein’ here in my hour of need and helpin’ me dodge around his country’s boneheaded laws. To old times, Dez.”

“Maybe I’ll run for Parliament,” said Dez. “Change the bloody law from inside.”

“You’d never be elected, Dez. Your platform’s too morbid.” Cleon drew out the last word as if he were pulling taffy.

“Maw-bid.” Fisher’s braying laugh reverberated off the rafters. “Mawbid.”

“To Ian Mackenzie,” continued Cleon. “For your hospitality, good sir, which under the law amounts to aidin’ and abettin’ but it’s in a good cause and we’ll soon be outa your hair.”

“I wish you could be here next year,” said Mack, “to see all the upgrades and changes I have planned.”

“Maybe I’ll come back as a ghost. Swan’s a great believer in ghosts and hauntin’ and such. We’ll soon know if she’s onto something.”

Wendell said, “We’d rather have you alive, Dad. If you underwent another few months of chemo, you might beat this thing. Other people have.”

“That train’s left the station, I reckon. But I raise my glass to you, Wendell. No matter how harsh a view your mama took of my philanderin’, no matter how many of your ballgames I missed or how many birthdays I forgot, you stood up for your old man, loyal to a fault, and here you are standin’ by me at the end.”

Wendell’s face softened and he seemed sincerely moved. “You’ve always been a larger-than-life figure to me.”

“Larger than life.” Cleon guffawed. “I like it. Reckon I can be larger than death, Thadeus?”

Thad flipped his hair out of his eyes. “You’re no Bionic Commando.”

Cleon’s shoulders shimmied with mirth. “I’m sorry I ain’t gonna see you grow up, Thadeus. You’re a right interestin’ boy with more candlepower than you let on. That ain’t a bad thing. Keep ’em guessin’.

“And now to Lucien. What can I say about my second son?”

“Isn’t ‘second’ enough of a testimonial?” asked Lucien.

Cleon’s eyes danced with amusement. “To Lucien. A gifted artist, a freethinker, a wonderful human bein’ and a straight arrow in most every way but Nature’s Way.”

“Couldn’t pass up the cheap shot, could you? Couldn’t miss an opportunity to tell me how short of your Southern ideal of manhood I fall.”

“That dog won’t hunt, Lucien. You can romance the front line of the Pittsburgh Steelers for all I care so long as you play straight with me. Straight, as in on the level, in case you forgot the alternate meanin’.” He gave Lucien’s shoulder a conciliatory shake. “Why’s everybody so touchy? What we all need is a good laugh. Like Swan says, if it’s somethin’ you’ll laugh about later, you may as well laugh now. Enough of this fizz. Pour us a splash of still wine, Mack. Nothin’ like a few bottles of wine to wash away a man’s sorrows and start him to thinkin’ maybe that woeful prognosis the specialists handed him is hogwash and there’s no such thing as death.”

“Wishful thinking, Cleon.” The mention of death was catnip to the doctor. “When the quality of life’s gone, there’s no point holding on. No sense prolonging…”

“Oh, look,” cried Neesha. “Our first course.”

Tanya scudded into the room like a thundercloud and wrestled her squeaky serving cart toward the head of the table.

Neesha said, “The first course is minted English pea soup with lobster and orange. It’s a Martha Stewart recipe.”

Tanya snorted. “Cost more than a week’s tucker for some.”

Mack ahemmed uncomfortably. He didn’t seem to know whether to reprimand her and risk her leaving him in the lurch or let someone else assume the risk. He got up and went to the sideboard. After a rather fussy show of cork sniffing, he selected one of the open bottles of white wine and engrossed himself with pouring a perfect two inches for all of the adults.

Tanya ladled the green soup from a tureen into double-handled white bowls and garnished each with a bit of lobster. She plunked a bowl down at every place, threw a basket of biscuits on the table and rolled her trolley back toward the kitchen.

Mack finished his wine service and sat down. “Tanya’s new to the service industry. I hope you’ll excuse her outspokenness.”

Cleon gave the matter the back of his hand. “There’s no call to excuse honesty. It’s too seldom heard as it is.”

Dinah’s toes prickled. Why was Cleon so hipped on straightness and honesty and why had Tanya set a bowl in front of the empty chair? The missing diner must be expected momentarily. Maybe Cleon wanted his investigator, Kellerman, on deck when he dropped the paternity bomb. Or maybe he’d asked a local acquaintance to dinner.

“Incidentally,” said Mack, “Tanya came across a Gympie-Gympie tree in that row of taller trees behind the lodge. She says it has heart-shaped leaves and is very poisonous. Anyone walking out back should stay clear of it.”

“I wouldn’t leave the veranda without a hazmat suit,” twitted Eduardo.

The doctor said, “If you’re ever stung by a Gympie-Gympie, you’ll wish you were dead. It has tiny, hair-like spines that slide under the skin and start to release a neurotoxin. A man will feel like he’s on fire for days, sometimes weeks or even months afterward. But when the poison wears off, there’s no lasting damage.”

“Unless in his pain,” said Cleon, “he’d asked you to put him out of his misery.” His eyes were teasing.

“I’d do that with steroids,” riposted Fisher. “Suicide is a last resort of the terminally ill.” He climbed back on his soapbox. “In ninety-five, physician-assisted suicide was legal here in the Top End. Then the churches complained and the Aborigines chimed into the debate. Kill doctors, that’s what they call doctors who assist a suicide. They say they’ll run a spear through anybody who helps one of their own to die.”

“Did you ever get speared?” asked Thad.

“I’ve not assisted an Aboriginal suicide, so I haven’t run afoul of the taboo.”

“It’s called payback law,” said Mack. “But the Aborigines have never made any threats against doctors.”

“Balls.” Fisher patted his pockets and stood up. “I need a fag.” He threw Mack a contemptuous look and walked out of the room.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to the Australian patois,” said Eduardo.

“The main concern about the euthanasia law,” said Mack, rather starchily, “was that Aboriginal people would be afraid to seek medical help of any kind. After the inhumane treatment they’ve received at the hands of Westerners, they have cause for mistrust.”

Who doesn’t, thought Dinah. Her eyes kept returning to the empty chair. Maybe Mack had invited one of the Aboriginal artists he’d been hyping and the guy had missed the turn-off. Or maybe Cleon had located Mack’s mother. She nudged Eduardo under the table with her foot. “Who else is coming?”

“Je ne sais pas. There’s no place card.”

Margaret rested her elbows on the table and steepled her fingers under her chin. “You’ve promised to allocate the estate fairly, Cleon, and I believe you. But handing out the goodies piecemeal is a cop-out. If we don’t talk about the terms of your will while you’re alive, there’ll be nothing but hard feelings and lawsuits when you’re gone.”

“Talking money is so tacky,” said Neesha. “How common can you be, Margaret?”

Cleon held up a hand. “Feelings may run high, but there’ll be no grounds to contest my will, Maggie. I’m gonna elaborate the whys and wherefores on videotape so as to demonstrate my sound reasoning and steel-trap mind.”

“If a man’s not careful,” said Margaret, “the old bones he leaves to rot in that steel trap of his will be his undoing.”

Cleon held her eyes for a long, loaded moment. She had obviously struck a nerve. Finally, he threw back his head and laughed. “All right, Maggie. I’m on a tight schedule for hearin’ y’all’s gripes and I want everybody to have their say. How do you think I should divvy up my money?”

“K.D. and Thad are too young to manage their inheritance and their mother, no offense intended Neesha, is too extravagant to manage it for them.”

Neesha flushed. “Why, you insulting old…”

“Shush,” ordered Cleon. “What is it you’re proposin’, Maggie?”

“Put their share of the estate and Lucien’s in a trust and name Wendell the executor. He’ll administer it fairly and prevent Lucien and Neesha from frittering it all away on fine art and bric-à-brac before they’re forty.”

Lucien jeered. “You’re out of your tree if you think I’d go groveling to Wendell for my allowance.”

“No one questions Wen’s fairness,” said Neesha, “but I can manage my own money and I’ll thank you not to intrude in matters that don’t concern you, Margaret.”

“It concerns my only son. Let’s be blunt, people. Cleon’s decision to change his will has made you all adversaries.”

“We’re not adversaries,” said Wendell. “There’s more than enough money to go around. He’s just given me a yacht, for heaven’s sake. And anyway, money’s not the important thing. It’s not why we’re here.”

“Ha!” said Eduardo and everyone stared at him as if he’d broken wind.

“Don’t be naïve,” scoffed Margaret. “He’s pledged to be fair, but what does that mean precisely? Cleon Dobbs is scheming at something. Just look at his face.”

Dinah looked. He was grinning like the Cheshire cat, the one whose grin remained after the rest of him had vanished.

No one had the temerity to agree with Margaret or to disagree. After a longish interlude of soup and silence, she said, “This suspense over the will can only cause dissension, Cleon. You want us to be straight with you? You be straight with us.”

“She has a point,” said the doctor, returning with a bottle of Scotch. “No cause to be so tight-lipped about it, mate. Your legatees have a right to know where they stand.”

“I ain’t dead yet and my legatees can cool their jets and wait ’til I am.”

Fisher sat down and poured himself a tumbler of Scotch. “It won’t be long now.”

“Oh, splendid,” said Mack, jumping up as Tanya trundled her squeaky cart in from the kitchen. “The fish this evening is barramundi.”

Thad perked up. “Like the tribe on ‘Survivor?’”

Mack looked blank.

K. D. elucidated. “‘Survivor’ is an American television show about people stranded in a horrible place.”

Thad sniggered. “Like us.”

“Don’t be rude, Thadeus.” Neesha darted a skittish glance at Cleon.

“Barra is a prize catch in the Top End,” said Mack. “It puts up a tenacious fight.”

“Fitting fare for this family,” quipped Lucien.

Mack brought another bottle of wine to the table and replenished everyone’s glass. Tanya cleared away the empty soup bowls and began serving the fillets of barra on individual plates. Dinah frowned as she set a plate in front of the empty chair. Was she being perverse? If she was so conscientious about the cost of food, why did she persist in serving a guest who wasn’t there? Why did no one ask who was expected?

“The fish is sauced with my special remoulade,” said Neesha. “I hope we got it right this time, Tanya.”

Tanya humphed. “Barra should be steamed in paperbark and gum leaves.”

Mack’s brow furrowed. “It’s not your place to critique the food, Tanya.”

“Hmmph.” She served the doctor last, a different fish in a different dish.

“Black cod,” said Fisher. “Good for the hepatic system. I have a liver condition.”

“Lot of extra work,” said Tanya. “Too many things to remember.”