I phoned my publishers in the afternoon about the books and was promised instant shipment. I talked with the lecture bureau and they'd had good reports but we agreed that my schedule had been very stiff and that next year's would be arranged with more regard for breathing spaces. I did not mention the Case to them but I did to my agent. As I expected, Sam remarked that all publicity was useful but could I please make a practice of avoiding any future mur… sorry, manslaughter suspects?
The five o'clock news on TV brought the good word that the Midwest was again blanketed in snow. I'd got out of Denver in good time.
At dinner I gave Tim the whole story of my involvement with manslaughter. I emphasised that distinction. I didn't tell Tim the whole story, but Tim was not naive and I wanted him to know that I had a very good opinion of Daniel Jerome despite his circumstantial guilt. I could quite understand why Tim might be jaundiced about a man who'd got his mother messed up in a mur… manslaughter charge. Tim swore at women like Noreen Sue who'd neglect a child. Tim was gripping my hand firmly at that point and I looked up with throat-jamming gratitude at the bony broad shoulders of my offspring, the strong but unmarked face and the keen eyes behind the glasses. I'd made enough money to afford contact lenses for him and the glasses hid his best feature, very clear green eyes, but he kept wanting useful things like microscopes and telescopes and SR-50s.
Now that my budget of news was over, I realised that he had something of moment to tell me. 'She' was a Cedar Crest student, with a really lovely singing voice who didn't mind that he couldn't carry a tune so long as he knew how to appreciate decent music. Her name was Patricia Newlands and her nickname was Trish. Would I be staying long enough in town to meet her or did I have to fly back to Denver right away? The next day was Saturday and he had no classes but she did until one. Would I like to meet her?
I had some difficulty remaining calm, cool and collected I was so pleased. Tim, wrapped up in what was his first serious girl, mistook my dignity for hurt feelings.
'Hey, Mom, you'll always be my best girl. You don't have to worry.'
'Not now, I don't.'
'Huh? You weren't worried about me, were you?'
In point of fact, I had had several twinges. I was absolutely certain Tim was completely masculine but we'd had such a close relationship, such a fine understanding, that I had had some misgivings about dominant female-mothers and lack of male-father-figures and that sort of go-round. At the time when I thought he should be going with one girl, he was still part of his special group of boy friends who seemed to date a corresponding group of girl friends. Tim had seemed to specialise in giving considered advice to both girls and boys as if being an American, with an American mother, gave him special insight. Which it probably did since sex education in Ireland is a no-no.
'Well..,' I began, temporising,
'Mom!' Tim was shocked, annoyed, disappointed and disgusted.
'Well, I tried not to be the heavy mother…'
'Ah, no way. Mom. It's just, well… I didn't find someone I felt you'd like… You knew all the girls in Blackrock. And I always had someone about…'
I was properly abashed and asked about Trish. I had built one picture which dissolved the moment I met Trish in the flesh the next day. She was exceedingly feminine (Tim had said she could cycle all day without complaining), with close cropped black curls (natural, Tim had told me) and an 'interesting' face. (I am not being snide but Trish had the type of looks which mature, not a transient prettiness that so often fades into discontent in an older personality.) She was so lively, so natural that you forgot her appearance in the glow other warm merriness.
Tim had brought his guitar (he can't sing but he does play) and when he asked her to sing for me in the hotel room, she obliged without simpering disclaimers. She asked me what sort of songs I liked best and, when Tim said I was a folk song freak, she sang several which Joan Baez had made popular. She had a lovely voice, warm and true and though she didn't need much volume to carry in the hotel room, I sensed a strength. Certainly she sounded better than some of the singers I'd endured recently on TV programs.
We had dinner and she told me that she had no intentions of settling down but she rather doubted her chances of making a name for herself. She'd be quite happy to find a good church or school job since such employment was secure and she liked working with children and chorale groups. Musical training was an ace in the hole, she felt, and it was so 'iffy' to set your sights on the Met or City Centre when there were so many other satisfying careers available in music.
Inadvertently I found myself comparing Trish with my young nephew's Linda: and Sam with Tim. Then I decided that there was no comparison in temperament and character. And none, I hoped, in situation.
As I drove the car to Cedar Crest to get Trish in on time, she asked me if I'd like to listen to the school church choir the next morning.
'Mom's very tired, Trish,' Tim said hastily, knowing how I felt about organised religions.
'I should have thought of that, Mrs. Lovell. Tim told me what a heavy schedule you've had. How many miles in how many days?'
'Tim can figure it out on the SR-50.'
'I'm awfully glad I had a chance to meet you, Mrs. Lovell, without having to come all the way to Ireland, that is.' She gave Tim a look and then thanked me again for dinner. I wished her luck and turned the car about as Tim walked her to the dormitory door.
Tim had something on his mind when he got back into the car but I didn't question him. I didn't want to answer any more and if he had something to say, I knew of old that it'd come out when he felt the time was right. The Denver business obviously upset him and he had obviously not mentioned it to Trish. He kissed me good night when I delivered him to his dorm door and warned me to drive home carefully, to sleep late and he'd phone around noon-time.
I was pleasantly tired when I parked the car in the hotel lot. However, no sooner had I got settled in bed and closed my eyes, than the old brain spun 'round and 'round. I wished I'd asked Tim for another capsule.
Generally I do a lot of constructive thinking on my insomniac nights: it's the only way to cope with them. In my own home, I'm apt to get up and go to the typewriter and see what'll happen. Here I tossed and turned, wrestling with the problems of returning to Denver and all that could happen nasty.
I envisioned myself superbly poised while the D.A. ruthlessly cross-examined me with all the rapier wit and studied contempt of the TV prototype. I, like the suave polished barrister of JUSTICE, a veritable Margaret Lockwood in bag wig, replied with cool candour and resilience. I thought up ninety-two euphemisms for not admitting Dan and I had had sexual relations. Then my errant mind reviewed those passages at arms.
Nothing turns me off quicker than the mawkish sight of a middle-aged woman besotted with a younger man.. Daniel Jerome was 42, so he wasn't that much younger than I. But 42 does not look up the scale towards 50; he roguishly turns his eyes down to the 30s or the 20s or if he's a damned fool, the late teens.
Besides the age factor, I was inextricably linked with what was probably one of the most unpleasant periods of his life. I couldn't imagine him wanting a permanent reminder. What had we in common, besides a son apiece, a wacky sense of humour, twenty laps of a pool before puffing, and, I sighed fretfully, a rather unusual sexual rapport.
That happy sympathy had been compounded by the romantic situation of snow-boundery, appetite and opportunity. At that point, not only was I handy and agreeable, I probably struck him (an image I generally present) as a [sensible woman, quite unlikely to cause scenes and raise hell; if disappointed / dismissed / disillusioned. I had also been, at. the moment of our bedding, completely divorced from his situation - which he had taken pains not to discuss with me - and therefore impartial and impersonal.