Getting New Mexico
Getting New Mexico
Rhenna St. Clair
Pace Press
Fresno, California
Getting New Mexico
Copyright © 2019 by Rhenna St. Clair. All rights reserved.
Published by Pace Press
An imprint of Linden Publishing
2006 South Mary Street, Fresno, California 93721
(559) 233-6633 / (800) 345-4447
QuillDriverBooks.com
Pace Press and Colophon are trademarks of Linden Publishing, Inc.
ISBN 978-1-61035-344-1
135798642
Printed in the United States of America on acid-free paper.
This is a work of fiction. The names, places, characters, and incidents in this book are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual people, places, or events is coincidental. Whenever real celebrities, places, or businesses have been mentioned or appear in this novel, they have been used fictitiously.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Names: St. Clair, Rhenna, author.
Title: Getting New Mexico / Rhenna St. Clair.
Description: Fresno, California : Pace Press, [2019]
Identifiers: LCCN 2019039228 (print) | LCCN 2019039229 (ebook) | ISBN 9781610353441 (trade paperback ; acid-free paper) | ISBN 9781610353632 (kindle edition) | ISBN 9781610353632 (epub)
Subjects: LCSH: Redemption--Fiction | New Mexico--Fiction
Classification: LCC PS3619.T2329 G38 2019 (print) | LCC PS3619. T2329 (ebook) | DDC 813/.6--dc23
LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019039228
LC ebook record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2019039229
Contents
Chapter 1: Clementine Atwater
Chapter 2: Akron, Ohio
Chapter 3: Funerals
Chapter 4: Uncle Harry’s Memorial
Chapter 5: Aftermath
Chapter 6: Tom Jannssen
Chapter 7: Sam’s Club
Chapter 8: Reflections
Chapter 9: Hugh Leigh
Chapter 10: Walmart
Chapter 11: The Dog
Chapter 12: Flashback
Chapter 13: On the Dock
Chapter 14: Days at Sam’s Club
Chapter 15: In Jail
Chapter 16: Flashback
Chapter 17: Hugh and Harry
Chapter 18: Performance Review
Chapter 19: Ms. Chatterjee’s Dilemma
Chapter 20: The Dinner
Chapter 21: Days of Note
Chapter 22: Perspectives
Chapter 23: Plain Speaking
Chapter 24: Reflections
Chapter 25: The Big Day
Chapter 26: Just Married
Chapter 27: The Last Diary Entry
This book is dedicated to all the employees of Sam’s Club New Mexico
CHAPTER 1
Clementine Atwater
“Should I bail him out one last time, Winston? Just once more?”
Clementine Atwater knew any answer to her simple question would be complex. That was a given. Anything concerning her son, Aaron Schuyler, was complicated because his personal history resembled a cesspool. Schuyler had been unfaithful to his wife, neglected his children, cheated his business clients, slept with his partner’s wife, and was now living like a bum.
Only an unorthodox solution could resolve such a knotty problem—the question of whether Aaron deserved another bailout—but Clementine was confident such a solution existed. Her deity was no novice at cleaning up messes, and his advice was ever flawless. Clasping her hands in expectation, she shifted on her knees and waited. Winston had never yet failed her, and he did not now.
“Make the effort,” came the forceful response of a male voice with an upper-class British accent. “As do you, I recognize his latent goodness. But that weighty core of character and virtue are useless if he does not recognize what virtue lies within himself.”
“We agree, then?” Clementine whispered. “We’ll give him one more chance. Just one. I have a plan in mind.”
“Then trust yourself. Press on, for you know best what to do.”
Crossing herself, pushing a silvered strand off her forehead, Clementine rose from where she knelt beside her bed. “Thank you, Winston. Thank you.”
When it came to beseeching favors from divinity, Clementine Atwater had no use for a disembodied spirit supported by clouds. Her god was a real person, the hero of her childhood during the dark days of World War II. Her hero was the most important person of the twentieth century. This was the man who saved England from destruction, Europe from tyranny, and brought peace to a war-torn and devastated world.
Oh, how she adored him.
Born in Leeds, England, in 1940, Clementine Neville was christened in honor of Winston Churchill’s beloved wife. Her parents, Mary and Francis Neville, ardent admirers of the Churchills, doted on their tiny daughter. They were delighted when the first word she spoke wasn’t “mama” or “dada” but “Chuh-Chuh.” No childhood idiosyncrasy could have pleased them more than her infant version of the name ever on her father’s lips.
Even as a toddler in nappies, little Clementine observed how her mother’s anxious brow relaxed and softened when the family listened to the prime minister’s bracing radio broadcasts. Mary Neville would be painting another of the many watercolors displayed within their home. Francis would be furiously copying as many of the PM’s words as he could into his broadcast diary. Yet both were listening keenly for, in those dark days, Churchill was the one to whom the island nation’s citizens looked to for guidance, leadership, hope, and salvation. Churchill, endangering his personal safety to roam London’s streets during the horrors of the Blitz, was everything, to every Briton.
Or, at least, most of them.
Little Clementine Neville was a deep thinker, even at an early age. When only five years old she pointed out to her parents that god was dog spelled backward. Mary and Francis were somewhat taken aback, but pleased by their daughter’s precocity. They indulged her with a smile. And, when she thereafter poured out her prayers by rote each night to the great man they said nothing, confident she would outgrow her youthful spiritual perspective and embrace the tenets of the Anglican Church.
Not so.
Throughout her early childhood, her teenage years, and into adulthood, Clementine remained the prime minister’s faithful petitioner. When asked what sort of gift she would like for birthdays, Christmas, and Boxing Day, her parents guessed her answer before she gave it. Her inevitable choice was whatever new biography of Churchill they could find, or books about British military action during the Second World War. In this she was like her younger brother, Harry, also an aficionado of British history.
January 24, 1965, was the saddest day of Clementine’s young life. Winston Churchill died, and his wife for whom she was named was by his side. Now Mrs. Daniel Schuyler, married to an American citizen and living in New York City, Clementine, heavy with child, flew to Heathrow from LaGuardia. She was among the thousands who traveled to London and lined the streets leading to St. Paul’s Cathedral on January 30th, the day of Churchill’s funeral.
Her sorrow as the solemn cortege passed by on that frigid London day was almost beyond containment. She pulled her plaid woolen coat as tightly closed as possible, patted her swollen belly, and assured its occupant they were still in good hands. Churchill’s spirit would prevail. It would guide her through the struggles of marriage and motherhood, and mold her into the valiant and stalwart woman she was meant to be. Of that, she was convinced.
Winston Churchill was the rock upon which Clementine built her church.
Her son, Aaron Schuyler, then nestled safely within her womb, was the cross upon which she hung herself, time after time, for more than fifty years. He was her living altar of self-sacrifice.
Clementine Atwater was a vigorous and sturdy seventy-seven years old, determined to rectify her middle-aged son’s ways and fix his footsteps on a nobler path, when she received Winston’s answer to her latest prayer.
CHAPTER 2
Akron, Ohio
Aaron Schuyler was only too happy to admit he owed everything to his mother and, in so saying, he didn’t mean a smooth glide down the birth canal into the big wide world. His mother, Clementine Atwater, hadn’t just given him life. She deserved far more credit than that. In an endless round-robin of give-and-take, when he needed bailing out from debt, she was the one who granted him salvation and restored his credibility. She gave, and he took.
Schuyler was now fifty-two years old. His temples were graying and there were flecks of white visible in his head of thick brown hair. There were creases around his eyes and deep lines traversed the gap between his nose and mouth. Daily, he checked out the slight sag in the skin covering his jaw. Not too bad. No double chin. So far.
Considering his dissolute lifestyle, he was far better-looking than he had any right to be.
“Mom, I promise. I’ll never ask again.” Shameless, he had knelt before his mother during their last encounter in her New York City high-rise flat, just after her most recent marriage. All the while, conscious of the stress to his knees, he wondered why Clementine had sold her lush Axminster carpet. The highly polished hardwood floors now in vogue had their drawbacks.
“This is the last time, Mom. Please help me out. I’m so sorry.”
Clementine had promised to consider his request. “I’ll get back to you, Aaron. Truly, I will, but I need a few days to consider this. Right now, I’m focu
sed on helping poor Harry. He’s failing fast, you know.”
Schuyler did know. The agony of his Uncle Harry’s struggle with cancer had them both in a holding pattern, wondering when Harry might breathe his last. Clementine’s anguish at her brother’s losing battle was all-consuming. Schuyler knew further wheedling on his part would be counterproductive, and only serve to irritate his mother. All he could do was wait.
When Harry’s health took a slight turn for the better, Clementine felt it safe to leave New York and return to Akron, Ohio, the home of her new bridegroom. The steely verbiage of the text she soon sent her son, requesting he join her there and outlining her terms of financial assistance, was an unexpected game changer.
Schuyler sat up and took notice. Forewarned, is forearmed.
Heretofore, Clementine had dispensed forgiveness and cash in equal measure whenever her son declared repentance. And, although she never asked for much in return, Schuyler hadn’t missed the fact that her recent bailouts demanded greater amounts of penance from him. The things she now expected him to do, however, were more like revenge, in his book. But—who was he to quibble? His mother had again girded her loins and come to his rescue even if, this time, her quid-pro-quo requirement was ridiculous. Excessive. Painful.
Had she finally wised up?
“You’re making this really hard, Mom,” Schuyler argued, having phoned her at once to see if he could negotiate a better deal. “What you’re asking me to do is intolerable. I don’t know how you justify yourself. Why do I have to move to New Mexico?”
This strange injunction alarmed him. Live in the desert? Really? He put up a half-hearted fuss, hoping to secure more agreeable terms. “This was Winston’s idea, wasn’t it?” he challenged, aware of his mother’s fantasy fixation.
On meeting Clementine’s rigid resistance, however, Schuyler gave in. He acquiesced to his mother’s demands—wishes, as she referred to them—for one reason only: To receive the first payment of the amount she agreed to pay him each month if, and only if, he removed himself to the Southwest. What she offered wasn’t that hard to take. She was saving his skin again and that’s what mattered. Wasn’t it?
It behooved him to appear grateful and repentant, although, this time, the realization her threats weren’t idle was a nasty wake-up call. Clementine had belatedly developed a stiff backbone and he was being carted off to Santa Fe. Not even Santa Fe, but to some place north of that city called Nambé.
A savage wilderness.
Thus resigned, he packed up his few belongings, snuck out of his Bronx apartment, and drove his battered Ford Fiesta toward Akron where Clementine was, at least temporarily, installed in her new husband’s home.
So what if his mother wanted him gone and out of her life, Schuyler reasoned. He could worm his way back into her good graces later. Her second motive for insisting he visit Akron was pretty obvious. Clementine wanted him to meet her new husband, Stan—Atwater? Was that it? Her list of surnames, including one remarriage to the same man, was a blur to him but this new guy, the Midwest jerk, deserved some respect. Atwater had managed to detach his mother from New York City and remove her to what Schuyler considered a backwater. Akron. That was no simple task. Must have taken some sweet argument.
The more Schuyler considered it, the more the goodly distance between her home in Akron and his exile in New Mexico seemed like a fine idea. She wouldn’t always be in his face.
This was Schuyler’s thought process only until he arrived in Fairlawn Heights, Akron, and stopped the Fiesta in front of an iron-fenced and gated compound covering about two acres. Holy buckaroos. Atwater had done all right for himself, and so had his mother in snagging him. It was obvious Atwater wasn’t a fortune hunter, and Clementine didn’t need a penny of his money. A marriage made in heaven.
Schuyler exited the car and pressed the buzzer. When the gate opened he steered along the curves of a chestnut tree-lined drive until he reached the mansion’s entrance, where he parked the Fiesta. A woman dressed in jeans and a T-shirt opened the door and greeted him with, “Hi there. I’m Sally, the estate manager. You must be Clementine’s son. Make yourself at home. We’re casual here.”
So I see, was Schuyler’s unspoken thought as he followed Sally’s denim backside into the house. And what did Clementine think of Miss Casual, Miss Not-New-York-By-a-Longshot? Since his mother at once emerged into the foyer wearing slacks and a pullover sweater, he guessed she’d adjusted just fine to the culture shock. Schuyler had never seen her wearing such a getup.
No pearls.
“Hello, Mom.” He greeted her with a peck on the cheek. “Good to see you.” And, for some reason he meant it. He’d never seen her looking better. Her long gray hair was dressed in a bun and the effect was smashing. Her skin looked good. Glowing. Better than he’d ever seen it, and he knew she’d given up face-lifts years ago. He even admired the ruby-red cashmere pullover, a startling addition to his mother’s wardrobe, as he’d previously known it.
“Good to see you, too, Aaron.” Clementine’s expression was stony, but to him her fierce hug felt like it would never terminate. This told him, despite her quirky and dictatorial demands, just how much she loved him.
“I have everything ready for you in the library,” Clementine pronounced as she took off down the hallway with a purposeful stride.
His mother might love him, and she might be needy, but she was anxious to get down to business. As they passed through what would have been termed a “drawing room” in the good old days, Schuyler quickly assessed what its Louis Quinze furnishings were worth. The huge library they next entered was just as impressive, with bookshelf-lined walls, comfortable chairs with footstools, and massive desks. Two of them. His and hers? Anyway, their classic Hepplewhite styling took his breath away. Schuyler knew quality when he saw it, and these desks were authentic. With provenance, to boot. Atwater knew how to spend the bucks.
“I’m making a fresh start with Stan.” Clementine wasted no time on small talk. She sat down behind one of the desks and motioned her son to sit opposite her. “I’ve had it up to here with you, Aaron. It’s taken quite a while for me to make these arrangements, so take note. I mean everything I say. This time, there aren’t any loopholes for you to take advantage of. You’re not getting this check for nothing.”
She slapped a leather-bound executive-sized checkbook down on the top of her desk, opened it, filled in the blanks on a check, and, with care, freed it along its lines of perforation. This was placed in a Vuitton briefcase along with several other documents.
“Now, we’re going to the bank. Together,” she finished with a grim set to her lips and a firmer grip on the negotiables. “You’ll sign these papers in front of a notary.”
More or less sign my life away, was Schuyler’s take. He followed his mother through the library, the drawing room, down the hallway and into the foyer, then out onto the porch just as a chauffeured vintage Jaguar, pale yellow in color, slowed to a stop in front of the steps. A willowy older man a little more than six feet tall emerged from the back seat. Schuyler, who had expected an entirely different personage—some flabby, cigar-smoking rubber tire magnate, but not this suave but menacing gentleman in a hand-tailored suit—was surprised.
“Darling!” Clementine hailed the newcomer. “You’re just in time. We’re leaving for the bank. Stan, this is my son, Aaron. Aaron, I’d like you to meet my husband, Stan.”
“How do you do?”
As Atwater extended his hand, Schuyler hesitated. His new stepfather’s terse greeting was laden with frost. Schuyler could only conclude his mother had given her husband an earful about her wayward son. Said husband had, thereupon, drawn his own erroneous conclusions. The last thing in the world he’d want to do was meet his wife’s wayward son.
Uh-oh.
Schuyler seethed. Oh, yeah. Atwater’s rigid smile said it all. The man was no doubt thinking he’d rather deal with a rambunctious teenager than this mooching reprobate who, according to Clementine, had broken his mother’s heart many times over. Beyond that, Atwater must be wondering, based on Clementine’s revelations, why his middle-aged stepson had made nothing of himself in life and hadn’t a cent to his name.
“I’m well. And, yourself?” he responded, startled by his new stepfather’s crushing grip. To judge by Atwater’s lined face, thin hair, and stooped shoulders he must be near Clementine’s age, in his seventies, yet the animal power he radiated was downright scary. Something Schuyler had only experienced with bad people. Very bad people. Atwater’s steel-gray eyes burned a hole right through Aaron. The set of his chin said, “Go ahead. Try to land one.”