The Marriage Agreement. Christine Rimmer

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      “Heart attack,” Blake whispered in that snake-hiss voice of his. “A bad one. And another one coming on soon. I can feel it. I know it—but I told you that, didn’t I?”

      “Yes. On the phone.”

      “I’m slipping. Repeating myself.”

      Marsh shrugged. “It’s all right.”

      “The hell it is.”

      They looked at each other, a long look, a look with challenge in it. And stubbornness—coming from both sides.

      Then Blake spoke again. “It’s my heart that’s failing me. But my brother died of a stroke. Massive cerebral hemorrhage. It’ll be thirty years ago come November. Thirty years…” The low rasp faded off. Blake sucked in a breath through the oxygen tube and went on, “He was only thirty-three, can you believe it?” He arched a gray and grizzled brow. “Freak thing, really. He’d been…how should I put it? Under a hell of a lot of stress in the months right before his…unfortunate demise.”

      Marsh still said nothing. What good would it do? He knew his father’s sick games. Let the old man play it out by himself this time.

      Blake wheezed. “Have a little trouble…getting air.” Then he prodded, “Well. Don’t you want to know about your uncle?”

      Marsh didn’t. Why should he? He doubted there even was an uncle. “You’ll say what you want to say—whatever it is I guess you got me here to say. No point in my interrupting.”

      There was more chuckling. The low laughter made Blake cough. The cough had an ugly sound. It also dislodged the oxygen tube, which Blake slowly and wearily hooked back in place.

      “Ugh,” he said, when the thing was anchored in his nose again. “Disgusting, this dying…” He shot his son another look. “Admit it. You never knew I had a brother, did you?”

      “You’re right. I didn’t know you had a brother.”

      “There are lots of things you don’t know.”

      “I’m sure you’re right about that, too, Dad.”

      “Damn right, I’m right.” Blake wheezed some more. He closed his eyes.

      The room was silent again. Marsh watched the clear liquid drip from the IV bag into the tube hooked to the back of his father’s hand. Out in the hall he heard someone with squeaky shoes striding by.

      “So damn tired,” said the old man on the bed. “And the meds they give me mess with my mind. And you…you’re slowing me down, Mr. Big Shot. You’re not asking the questions.”

      Marsh almost smiled at that, though it would have been a smile completely lacking in warmth. And then he let the dying man have what he wanted. “All right, Dad. Why did you ask me to come here?”

      “I didn’t ask.”

      “You’re right. You’re always right. Why did you demand that I come here?”

      Blake’s lip curled again, in a smirk of weary amusement. “Dying’s expensive. Somebody’s got to pay the damn hospital bill.”

      “No problem. I’ll cover it.”

      “It’s nothing to you, huh? Big shot like you?”

      “I said, I’ll cover it.” Marsh spoke with more irritation than he meant to.

      “Well, well,” said his father. “All got up in a pricey suit. But you’re not so changed, after all. You never did like me calling you big shot. You still don’t like it, do you?”

      Marsh decided to ignore that question. “So that’s all? You needed someone to pick up the tab.”

      “You wish.”

      “Why am I here, Dad?”

      “That’s the third time you’ve asked.” The pale eyes gleamed at the petty triumph. “And I was just razzing you about the bill. I can cover it. You’ll find out. I have…various hidden assets, shall we say?”

      Marsh could believe that. When he was growing up, his father had never held a job that Marsh could remember. Sometimes Blake would disappear for months on end. Maybe he worked then, though he never said anything about a job. Marsh’s mother was the one who worked. Tammy Rae Sandovich Bravo had labored long and hard at an endless string of dead-end jobs, in order to support her family. Marsh had assumed that his mother earned what little they had. But then she died when he was sixteen. And somehow there was still food in the rundown shack where they lived. Somehow the electric bill always got paid before OG&E cut off their service.

      His father was still talking, the snake-hiss voice weighted now with self-satisfaction. “Uh-huh. Hidden assets. Assets safely tucked away, you might say. And as my son and chosen heir, it’ll all be yours when I go.”

      Marsh went ahead and asked, though he knew he wouldn’t get an answer. “What’ll be mine, Dad?”

      “You’ll find out. Soon enough. You have a big, glittery surprise in store, I’ll tell you that much. A girl’s best friend, as they say. But in this case, it’s a boy’s best friend, a big shot’s best friend, now isn’t it?”

      Marsh only looked at him.

      Blake grinned his death’s head grin. “You haven’t got a clue, have you? And I like that. You know I like that. That’s where the fun is. Thirty years’ worth of fun—and they’ll never catch me now. They’d have to track me down in hell.” He started to laugh, but didn’t have the strength for it. The laugh became little more than an exhausted, wheezing sigh. “Damn. Tired…” He swore, low and crudely. “Always tired now…”

      The mad eyes drooped shut—then popped opened again. “So that’s why you’re here—or at least half of it. Your big surprise. Your…legacy, why don’t we call it? But you can’t have that till I’m gone.”

      Marsh could feel his patience giving way. “Leave it to charity, whatever it is. I don’t want it.”

      Blake clucked his tongue. “Always the big shot. Never needed a damn thing from your dear old dad…. Just remember, when the time comes. Start where I never let you go. I’ve made it easy for you, once you start looking.”

      Marsh said nothing. He didn’t like what he was feeling. He’d spent ten years recreating himself. And all it took was ten minutes of conversation with his father and he was eighteen again, his hands balling into fists.

      “Suck up your guts, Mr. Big Shot,” Blake taunted. “Hold that killer instinct in check.” He lifted his right hand, the one free of IV lines, and raked the lank, thinning gray hair off his heavily lined forehead. Marsh saw it then: a small white starburst of scar tissue right over where the blue pulse throbbed at his father’s temple.

      “See that?” the old man hissed. “Were you wondering? Well, there it is, what you did to your dear old dad that last time.”

      Marsh stared at the scar, remembering things he’d just as soon have forgotten. He breathed deeply, ordered his fists to relax, reminded СКАЧАТЬ