A Month at the Shore (56 page)

Helen sighed heavily. Things would get better after April first. But tonight it was still March.

"
Mom! I
'
m home!
"

In the hal
l outside the sitting room, Helen heard the satisfying thunk of the heavy oak door falling into place. One child back, one to go.

"
How
'
re the roads?
"
she called out. Becky had
good instincts and a level head,
but her driver
'
s license was so new it still smelled of plastic.

"
No problem,
"
the girl said in a voice that Helen knew was being deliberately upbeat. Becky was as aware of March as her mother was, but she had her own system for dealing with it: she shopped.

"
Look what I found at Filene
'
s Basement.
"
The girl strode into the room, still in her black hooded trench coat, and nudged the cat off the hassock with her shopping bag.
"
Cashmere
. And dirt cheap.
"

She flipped the hood of her coat off her head, revealing straight gold hair that took its glow from the fire, and beamed at her mother.

Helen, still marveling at the whiteness and straightness of Becky
'
s teeth despite the fact that her braces had been off for over a year, frowned and said,
"
Cashmere
? Since when can you afford cashmere on a baby-sitter
'
s wages?
"

"
Well, it
'
s not all cashmere. Just twenty percent.
"

"
I hope you put gas in the car.
"

"Ten
dollars worth,
"
Becky said, wrinkling her nose.
"
I
'
ll put in another
ten
when I get paid.
"

"
Becky, this won
'
t do. You can
'
t go spending money like there
'
s no tomorr—
"
Instantly Helen regretted having said it. Who knew better than they did that sometimes there
was
no tomorrow? For Trooper Hank Evert, writing out a routine speeding ticket, there had ended up being no tomorrow.

Becky was shrugging out of her rain-spattered coat; she let it fall where she stood on the worn Oriental carpet. When she faced her mother again the look in her green eyes was as calmly agreeable as the smile on her face.
"
You
'
re right, Mom. This is the last thing I
'
ll buy for a while.
"

I
t
'
s March,
Helen reminded herself.
Let her be.

Rummaging through a wrap of tissue, Becky pulled out a smart turtleneck sweater for her mother
'
s perusal.

Helen smiled ironically.
"
Oh, good. More black. Just what you need.
"

"
It
'
s not black. It
'
s blackish charcoal.
"

"
It
'
s charcoalish black.
"

"
It
'
ll look terrific on you, too, Mom. With your black hair and gray eyes—
"

"
I
'
d look like a lump of coal. Why all the black, anyway?
"
Helen added, unable to keep the protest out of her voice. The color of mourning held no allure for her.

"
It
'
s just cool, Mom,
"
said Becky with an edge in her own voice.
"
For no other reason.
"

Helen had to leave it at that. She stood up, automatically retrieving her daughter
'
s crumpled coat from the floor. On her way out to the hall clothes tree, she asked,
"
Did your brother say when Mrs. Fitch was picking them up?
"

She heard Becky mumble something about Mrs. Fitch
'
s car being at the mechanic
'
s.

Surprised, Helen said,
"
So how are Russ and Scotty getting home?
"

She turned around in time to see Becky sprinting for the stairs. Without pausing, the girl said,
"
Russ told me a
friend of Scotty Fitch was gonna meet them at the mall and drive them both home.
"

"
Rebecca!
"
Helen said, more angry with her daughter than with her son.
"
How could you leave him to come back on his own?
"

Becky was taking the stairs two at a time.
"
We live in
Salem
,
Mom,
"
she ventured over her shoulder.
"
Not
Sarajevo
.
"

"
You know what I mean! He
'
s fourteen,
"
Helen snapped.
"
All feet! No brains! I don
'
t want him hanging around with kids who drive.
"

Turning at the top of the stairs, Becky looked down at her mother and said quietly,
"
I don
'
t see how you can stop him, Mom.
"

"
Oh, really?
"
Helen answered in a crisp, dry voice.
"
Wait till he gets home, then, and watch.
"

"
Oh-h
...
don
'
t take it out on Russell,
"
Becky pleaded.
"
It was my fault. I
'
m the one who let him.
"
In self-defense she added,
"
When I was fourteen you let
me
get chauffeured around by girls older than I was.
"

"
That was different. You were level-headed. I could trust your judgment—up until tonight, anyway,
"
Helen said with a dark look.
"
And besides, times are—
"

"
I know, I know:
totally
different,
"
Becky said with a roll of her eyes.
"
Even though it
'
s—what?—a year or two later?
"

"
You don
'
t know who
'
s out there, honey,
"
Helen said, ignoring the sarcasm.
"
There are nutcases
..
. madmen
... psychos
...."

"
Mom. Stop.
"

The expression on the girl
'
s face was wise and tender and weary all at once. She knew, and her mother knew, that the one madman who mattered most had rolled his car in a fiery, fatal end to a spectacular police chase on Route
95
.
He was out of t
he picture, out of their lives.

But that didn
'
t mean there weren
'
t other madmen out there.

"
Hey,
"
Becky said, more cheerfully.
"
I almost forgot. This is for Russ.
"
She reached into her shopping bag and pulled out a Pearl Jam baseball cap.
"
It
's wool. Ninety-
nine cents. Can you believe it?
"

She tossed the cap down to her mother with a last, quick smile and beat a retreat to her bedroom at the end of the wallpapered hall.

Helen sat the cap on the newel post and sighed. Becky was rolling through the tough teen years so painlessly that she
'
d almost managed to convince her mother that fathers weren
'
t all that critical. It was Russ who was the reality check: The boy was angry, moody; sloughing off responsibility right and left.

"
Pretty typical,
"
Helen
'
s friends all said.

But no one else could pin down, to the day, exactly when her son had begun the transformation from nice kid to beast in the jungle. Helen could. On the evening of his father
'
s funeral, Russell Evett had withdrawn into his room, and when he came out three days later he wasn
'
t Russell Evett anymore. It was as plain as that.

Helen was roused from yet another replay of that time by the piercing ring of the hall phone. The voice that answered hers was fearful and tentative and had the effect of jangling her nerves still more.

"
Mrs. Eve
tt
? You don
'
t know me—I
'
m sorry to call you at home—but I have an important request, more like a favor—no, wait, let me start over. I got your name from a friend who has a little girl
in your preschool, Candy Greene.  T
hat
'
s the mother
'
s name, not the little girl
'
s
.  The
girl is called Astra? You remember? A little blond girl, very fluent?
"

"
She
'
s not in my Tuesday-Thursday class, but may I ask who this is?
"
said Helen, impatient with the meandering voice at the other end of the line. What if Russ were trying to call?

The woman sucked in her breath in a broken gasp.
"
Oh! I
'
m sorry
...
it
'
s this vicious headache.
"
She took a deep breath, obviously trying to organize herself.

"
My name
...
is Linda Byrne,
"
she said with new deliberation.
"
I
'
ve heard such good things about your school, and I want my daughter to go there. She
'
s
so
bright. She gets along well with children and she
'
s pretty good about sharing and taking directions. She doesn
'
t bite.
"
Hurried and edgy despite herself, she added,
"
Is there anything else you need to know?
"

"
Well, yes,
"
said Helen, surprised by the woman
'
s naiveté.
"
We like to sit down with the parents and the child—
"

"
Oh, but my husband couldn
'
t possibly be available for that!
"
the woman said at once.
"
He
'
s so busy!
"

"
One parent would be fine. I
'
ll tell you what, Mrs. Byrne. Why don
'
t you come visit the school tomorrow at about five o
'
clock with your little girl, and we—
"

"
But I can
'
t. Don
'
t you see? That
'
s why I
'
m calling. From my bed. That
'
s the favor I
'
m asking. Couldn
'
t you possibly come here instead?
"

Her voice betrayed rising panic. Helen, wishing to reassure her but mostly in a hurry to get off the phone, said,
"
There
'
s no urgency, Mrs. Byrne. If you
'
re not feeling well, we can certainly meet on another day. Registration has only just opened for the next term. You have plenty of time—
"