Cruel Justice

31

AFTER DINNER THAT NIGHT, Joey emphatically reminded Ben and his mother that he had not eaten for at least three hours. Mrs. Kincaid prepared a bottle of formula and administered it to her grandson. Against his mother’s protestations, Ben prepared a sleeping bag for himself in the living room, as he had the night before, so his mother could take the bed.

Once Joey finished the bottle, Mrs. Kincaid tried to rock him to sleep. While she did, she sang to him. Ben was surprised; he didn’t recall ever hearing her sing before, except maybe in church. She had a charming, melodic voice.

“He doesn’t seem to be dropping off,” Mrs. Kincaid whispered. “Maybe you could play something on the piano.”

“You’re doing just fine,” Ben said. “I bombed out with lullabies last night.”

Mrs. Kincaid tried a few more tunes. Ben leaned against the sofa and savored her soothing recital. After several choruses of ‘Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star,” however, he was astonished to hear her break into a slow rendition of …

“Flintstones … meet the Flintstones … they’re the modern Stone Age fa-mi-lyyy. …”

Ben listened in amazement. By the final note, Joey’s eyelids were closed. Mrs. Kincaid rocked him a bit longer, then lowered him into his makeshift crib.

“This has to be the most astonishing coincidence of all time,” Ben said when she returned. “The first night I had Joey, I was having trouble getting him to sleep, and he wasn’t responding to any of my lullabies, so I started singing the Flintstones song. I don’t know why I thought of that; it just popped into my head.”

Mrs. Kincaid smiled.

“I can’t believe we both thought of the same song,” Ben continued. “In fact, I can’t believe you even know the Flintstones song.”

Mrs. Kincaid began thumbing through a decorating magazine she had brought with her. “It’s not a coincidence.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you remember anything? I used to sing that song to you when you were just a babe.”

Ben didn’t bother protesting. Even if he didn’t remember, it had to be true. Some neural synapse in the inner catacombs of his subconscious classified this unlikely song as a lullaby. “Why on earth would you sing—”

“You were a horrible baby to put to sleep. Not that you were a horrible baby. On the contrary, everyone adored you. So bright, so funny. But you never wanted to sleep. After all, if you went to sleep, you might miss out on something. You couldn’t imagine the tricks I used to get your little eyes closed.”

“But—why the Flintstones?”

“I don’t even remember. Probably just something I resorted to in desperation one night that worked. Of course, anything that worked I would never forget. Remember, this was back in the early Sixties. The Flintstones were all the rage. Your father and I used to watch it every Friday night.”

“My father! The Flintstones!”

“Oh, he loved that show. Especially the pet—what was his name? Dino. Dino would ran in and tackle Fred and your father would just become hysterical. And he loved the song. Sang it all the time.”

“My father—sang?”

“Oh yes. And I believed he played it on the piano.”

Ben stared at her. “My father played the piano?”

“Of course he did. Played a little guitar, too. He was never as accomplished as you—never had the time. But he loved it. Why do you think we had that lovely grand piano?”

“This can’t be true.”

Mrs. Kincaid rolled her eyes. It was an expression that really annoyed Ben, principally because he recognized it as an expression he frequently used himself. “I know. I’m just a coldhearted society matron who only cares about appearances. And your father was just a hard-hearted right-brained arch-conservative who only cared about his pocketbook. Well, Benjamin, we all have to grow up sometime.”

This was the third time Ben had been told that in as many days, and he didn’t like it any more now than he had before. “I don’t recall my father ever showing the remotest interest in music.”

“Your father loved music. But he had a keen sense of responsibility, too. After all, he had a wife and two children who depended on him. Not to mention parents who had rather demanding expectations.”

Ben didn’t recall his grandparents, either. They were all dead before he turned ten. “The way I remember it, every time I sat down to listen to a record or play the piano, my father gave me some stupid chore so I wouldn’t be ‘wasting my time.’ And he just about blew a gasket when I told him I was going to be a music major.”

“He was afraid that you wouldn’t be able to make a living. That you’d never accomplish anything and boomerang back to us every time we turned around. You certainly wouldn’t be the first rich kid who didn’t turn out well.”

“So all those angry lectures and slaps up the side of the head were for my own good, is that it?”

“As a matter of fact, yes.” She paused thoughtfully. “You have to understand, Benjamin—your gifts were so great, your father couldn’t stand to see them go to waste. You know, your father had quite a struggle to become a success in his medical practice. Just between you and me, he wasn’t half as smart as you are, but he made up for it with hard work. He wanted to make sure you didn’t fail to realize your potential because you never learned how to work, never learned how to accomplish anything. And he wanted to make sure you’d be able to support yourself. He wanted to make sure you wouldn’t be left wanting.”

“That’s pretty ironic,” Ben said bitterly. “Given what he did in his will.”

Mrs. Kincaid’s back stiffened. “That, of course, resulted from an entirely unrelated matter. As well you know.”

Ben’s face tightened. “My father couldn’t abide my decision to pursue law instead of medicine. He couldn’t abide my not following in his exalted footsteps.”

‘That’s so foolish. Your bitterness is blinding you.”

“It’s true, and you know it.”

“It’s true that your father wasn’t pleased with your career choice. He didn’t consider law a particularly honorable profession. But that played no part in his decision to change his will.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.” Ben pushed himself to his feet. “I can’t believe my father played the piano. And I never even knew.”

“You knew once. You used to sit on his lap and sing songs with him. Don’t you remember? What were your favorites? ‘This Old Man.’ ‘Three Blind Mice.’ ‘Pease Porridge Hot.’ I can’t remember them all.” Her eyes closed, and a warm smile emerged. “You were the happiest little boy in the world when your father sang and played with you.”

“I don’t recall him ever playing—anything—with me.”

She shook her head. “More’s the pity. That’s when you fell in love with music, Benjamin. It was a gift your father gave you.”

Ben didn’t know what to say. This didn’t accord with his memory at all. But he knew his mother wouldn’t lie to him. “For instance … what else did we sing?”

“Oh, you name it. Hundreds of songs. Nursery rhymes. And your father loved all the old standards.”

Ben felt his chest tighten, like fingers clutching at his heart. Or was it his memory? “What was his favorite?”

Mrs. Kincaid looked at him with genuine surprise. “Don’t you remember? It’s such a silly song. ‘Polka Dots and Moonbeams.’ ”