Apprehensions and Other Delusions (16 page)

“Thank you,” said Ruth, beginning to hope that her life was at last returning to normal.

The minister bustled happily about, clearly delighted to be of help to someone. He chatted about the weather—how strange for this time of year—and cuts in the county budget (“They expect us to provide charity, but how can we? Who has the money to spare?”) and the progress his two children were making with their music lessons. It was all so wonderfully ordinary, so very predictable and sane, that Ruth felt herself smiling at her own boredom. What could be more normal? She was reassured.

“Do you take milk in your coffee?”

“No, thank you. Just black.” As she accepted the mug, Ruth asked herself if she might find the caffeine too much on so little sleep and food, but she was so eager to make herself alert that she overruled her own caution.

“I always like a little milk in mine. I guess it reminds me of being a kid, having a cup of chocolate after school.” He sat down opposite her.

Ruth smiled, recalling her mother and the many stern warnings about indulging in such treats. Her mother had had a dread of fat children, especially her own, and had instilled in Ruth a level of austerity that resulted in the lean angularity she now possessed. “This tastes very good,” she said, though the scalding liquid nearly burned her mouth.

“I’m glad you like it. My secretary brings the coffee, too.” He sipped at his cup.

“You’re lucky, I guess,” said Ruth, relaxing even more into the commonplace.

“Yes, I thank God for her often.” He beamed, to show that he had not intended for her to take his reference to God as introductory to any spur-of-the-moment sermon.

* * *

Ruth gazed at the blood on her skirt and blinked twice, as if she expected it to go away. The coppery smell was very strong in the room, along with other, less pleasant odors. Blood festooned the pantry walls and swagged along the floor toward the sanctuary.

The coffee in her mug was cold.

“What?” Ruth whispered, shaking her head slowly at the carnage she sensed lay beyond the sanctuary doors. Her wrists ached, and she saw with amazement the distinct, raw impression of ropes pressed into her skin.

Obscenities were scrawled in spray paint on the walls of the kitchen and pantry, and from the grill of the stove, George Howell’s head, gory and canted on one side, stared out at the wreckage of his church.

In her fright she fled westward, first to Stockton, and then along the narrow levee roads of Highway 4. She would pick up 580 or 680, whichever it was that would lead her back to Highway 101. All she would have to do then was to drive south.

At Oakley, she stopped and endured the sniggers of the high school boys pumping gas when she claimed that her period had started without warning and she had to wash her skirt. She had already got (another?) tank of gas in Stockton and hoped it would be enough to get her home. She considered calling her office again, but could not bring herself to attempt to explain what had happened. She was afraid that no matter what she said, it would mean her job.

Not that she would blame Randy if he did fire her after what had been going on. She asked herself if it might be best for everyone if she simply resigned, but that in itself seemed too trivial a response. She was missing bits and pieces of her life and had no means of finding out what those losses were. Not that she wished to, for the aftermath was so dreadful that she was certain the events themselves must be hideous beyond her imaginings.

At Pittsburg, she pulled off the road, feeling lightheaded from tension and hunger. She found a burger place with a drive-through window, and was horrified to discover that she had barely enough cash to pay for a frugal meal. She could not remember what had happened to her money, or even how much she had had. She noticed that she had a Visa card in her wallet, but thought that there should be a MasterCard as well. When had she lost it, if she had had one to begin with?

The food was tasteless to her, and she thought for a while that she would not be able to keep it down, but slowly she felt herself grow more calm, more
present,
less caught in the nightmare.

“It was only a nightmare, wasn’t it?” she asked the air. “I got carried away after that trouble near Marysville and I fell asleep in the car, and that disoriented me. The rest was a nightmare. That’s all.”

Somewhere in the treacherous alleys of her mind, the image of the blood on her skirt remained, but she refused to look at it, confident that if there was any explanation needed, it was that the blood had come from the unfortunate dog that had fallen onto her windshield and died there, impaled on shattered glass. There was no minister in Lodi, she had never been in Lodi, and the rest was only the distortion of her memories of that terrible incident. She kept repeating this to herself as she drove toward Con
cord
and the turnoff leading south, away from those dreadful visions.

She was southbound in little more than half an hour, and that refreshed her. The simple satisfaction of going in the right direction, of being in control, once again gave her a burst of confidence. It was a pleasure that truly delighted her. It would not be long before the entire ghastly episode was safely behind her. She would never have to endure such a thing again. She felt that her ordeal was finally over.

By three-thirty, she had reached Paso Robles, and was so near home that she was willing to get off 101 long enough to have a proper meal on her Visa card. She wanted to be refreshed when she walked back into her apartment. There were so many things to attend to once she was home—the return of her rental car, the arrangement to get her own once again, the whole business of filing necessary reports with the insurance company, they all piled up oppressively in her mind—that she decided a brief respite over an early supper or late lunch would give her the steadying influence she so truly sought.

She found a nice restaurant set back from the road, a building in a subdued Spanish style with tall willows growing around it. There were not many cars in the lot, but a discreet sign on the door assured her that the place was open.

Service was prompt and pleasant, the waitress taking her order with a smile. When she returned with the salad Ruth had ordered, she also brought a glass of wine.

“I didn’t ask for this,” Ruth said guardedly, afraid that she might have forgotten the request, or missed the order.

“No; it’s on the house,” said the waitress and set it down with the salad.

“I very much appreciate it, but since I still have a way to drive, I’d really rather have a cup of coffee, if you don’t mind.” Ruth said this politely, hoping her good manners would mask the fear that nearly choked her.

The waitress shrugged and took up the glass once more. “Suit yourself. Your broiled chicken will be ready in about ten minutes.” She turned away and went back toward the bar.

Ruth ate the salad and, when the waitress brought the coffee, made a point of thanking her for it.

* * *

The man in bed beside her rolled over and touched her arm.

Ruth almost screamed.

“Hey, did I wake you, Enid?”

“Enid?” Ruth repeated in disbelief.

“I ought to be leaving for work pretty soon. Want me to skip breakfast with you?” He smiled at her in easy familiarity, this stranger whom Ruth had never seen before.

“You feeling okay, honey? You look a little strange.” His concern was genuine, which made it worse than if he were as alien to her as she felt to him.

Ruth shook her head slowly, not daring to move too quickly, as if that might upset the precarious balance of this place. Did she dare ask the man who he was? Or how she came to be here with him? She gathered the blankets around her, making them tight and heavy, enclosing herself.

The man braced himself on his elbow and put his free hand on her shoulder. “Enid?”

Ruth turned away, knowing that she was about to cry. She was shaking, as weak as with a sudden fever. Did she have courage enough to look in the mirror? And what would she find there if she did? What place was this? Why did he call her Enid? Why had she lost herself—or was she lost at all?

“Honey?”

She flinched as he touched her.

“What’s the matter?” He sounded genuinely concerned, but then the blood had been genuine, and the dog crashing into the windshield and the empty, disorienting freeway.

“I don’t know—”

He tried to turn her toward him, but she pulled resolutely away, deep in her misery and her doubts. “You’re like a stranger again.”

Why did he say
again?

“Enid?”

At last she met his eyes, finding them completely unfamiliar, their warmth and worry all the more terrible to her because he was so completely unknown to her.

* * *

The car was hurtling toward the embankment and she screamed.

About
Lapses

When I wrote this, I made it a rule that as soon as I began to understand what was happening, I had to change it
.

“HOW
grateful
we are to have had Marjorie with us for so many years. That dear, good woman, with enduring faith and strength and purpose ...” The minister faltered at the sound from the second row of folding chairs at the graveside, something precariously close to a snort. He cleared his throat and resumed his comments. “So generous, so willing to extend herself on behalf of those less fortunate than herself. She was an example to us—”

Jessie Lealand Hart had never been so embarrassed in her life; here it was—her great-aunt’s funeral—and she was sniggering at the fond remarks as the family and friends gathered at the grave, carrying on as if she were nine or ten. But she couldn’t help it, not with what she knew. As she attempted to apologize, another snicker burst from her and she felt abashed. She did her best to shut away the memories she had of Marjorie. “Sorry,” she muttered, and ended on a cackle. Try as she would she could not stop it.

The minister made a gesture of consolation to the eighty-six people seated around the casket where it waited to be lowered into the ground. “For all her life, she was stalwart in her love of her family. She sustained the burden of sorrow more than many of us have had to, and in doing so, showed her devotion to her dear ones more truly than any more extreme demonstration would have done. Without her staunch support, what might have become of her children?” He looked at the group of middle-aged mourners nearest the coffin. “Louisa, William, Melanie, Albert. You all know how much your mother did for you.”

Jessie blurted out another clump of laughter, and reddened at the affronted stares she received. “I’m so sorry,” she murmured, trying to look properly chastened, but not succeeding.

“So those of us who were honored to know Marjorie Bateman will miss her voice of experience, and her timely wisdom, her generosity of spirit as well as her kindly example,” said Reverend Maynard, a hint of rebuke in his delivery as he stared directly at Jessie. “She was steadfast in her purpose, even in misfortune, willing to wait for God’s will to be shown to her, a reminder to us all that faith can give strength and comfort even in the most trying ordeals. Surely her strength through the losses in her life can serve as a reminder to us all that we are never given more than we can carry. The burdens she bore were many, yet she did not falter in her convictions and in her dedication to her family; she put her trust in God and persevered. She endured her years of poor health with no complaint and genuine nobility of example.”

Jessie giggled audibly, her cheeks flaming; her cousins seated near her turned toward her in dismay. She put her hands to her face as if to disappear.

Scowling, Reverend Maynard continued, “Yes. Her example of acceptance of trial during her long illness—”

Jessie strove not to guffaw.

“—and her dignity during her last days showed how much she had grown in trust of God and in understanding. How many adversities she had to overcome in her long life. A widow four times, and yet each time able to endure the portion God had given to her. She survived tragedy without loss of her belief, or hope, and those of her children who are still with us must be grateful for all she did for their benefit. Ninety-six years is a long life, and through every day of it, she thought of her children. They are where they are today in large part because of their mother’s selflessness. She dedicated herself utterly to her family. In spite of the deaths of six of them, she remained determined to be an example to the rest, and not to dwell on her losses but to be grateful to those who survived. Their interests were always uppermost in her mind.” The Reverend once again directed a piercing glance at Jessie, as if daring her to be amused. “Let us remember her now, in our thoughts.”

It was an effort for Jessie to do no more than chortle. She squirmed in her cold folding chair as if she were a child again, and not fifty-one; she had known this would be a trying day, but had not thought it would be so hard.

“Jessie, for heaven’s sake,” hissed Louisa, Marjorie’s youngest daughter, a few years older than Jessie, who was sitting nearer to her than anyone else. “Can’t you stop?”

“I think I better excuse myself,”Jessie whispered, fishing for her handbag on the ground next to her chair; it was slightly damp to the touch.

“Yes,” said Julie, her first cousin once removed. “I think you should.”

At any other time, Jessie would have been tempted to argue, but just now all she could do was nod as she grabbed her purse and got to her feet, doing her best to move away from the grave as inconspicuously as possible. To the accompaniment of the benediction, she made her way up the path, past the small chapel with a reception hall behind it, to the rest rooms and the entry to the function rooms; the larger of the two would house the wake to follow the graveside service. Jessie ducked inside the rest room and did her best to contain her consternating amusement. She tried to bring her thoughts into order, to observe the gravity of the occasion with appropriate solemnity. She jammed her knuckles into her teeth and bit down hard enough to cause pain, hoping it would put an end to her barely subdued laughter.

It didn’t work. She had to swallow hard several times to keep from being overwhelmed by whoops and chuckles. This was dreadful, she reprimanded herself inwardly even as her shoulders shook and her face colored from the effort of containing her mirth. She told herself this was a solemn occasion, one that was reserved for grief and tears. Guffaws marshaled at the back of her throat, and a few stray snickers erupted from her tightly pressed lips. Mortified, she stood still, trying to control herself. She went to the bank of sinks and wet a paper towel, thinking if she put it to her face, her laughter would stop.

“What on earth is wrong with you?” asked Jessie’s niece Deborah from the door. “What made you do that?”

“I don’t know,” said Jessie. “Stress, I suppose.” She splashed water on her face. “It’s been a hard time.”

“You’d think you were possessed,” said Deborah, trying to make light of a difficult situation. “I don’t know what the family’s going to say, considering everything.” She paused significantly. “The others may have forgotten, but I haven’t.”

Jessie looked up, meeting Deborah’s eyes in the mirror. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

“Well, mother’s very upset. She’s been beside herself today, anyway, and you only made it worse. Father said you were trying to get attention, and I think he’s probably right. Not that I think you’d want any.” Deborah went to the middle of three stalls, slipped inside, and closed the door.

“The last thing I want is attention,” said Jessie, not quite able to stop her burst of laughter. She wished now she had done what she had originally intended to do and stayed away from the funeral. But family pressure had won, and she had agreed to attend both the church service and the graveside one, for the sake of the relatives. Now she regretted it, and understood that the regret came too late.

“Father doesn’t believe you,” said Deborah. She dabbed at her eyes with a small linen handkerchief.

“He doesn’t have to; I’m not trying to convince him of anything,” said Jessie sharply, remembering how her older brother had glared at her as she left the graveside; his eyes blamed her for being disorderly and unappreciative, just as he had said to her the day before at the funeral home. “I can’t help it. I tried, but I can’t.” She pressed the wet paper towel to her mouth and then her cheeks. The laughter continued to percolate within her.

“Well, it isn’t right,” said Deborah.

“I know,” said Jessie, not quite stifling her laughter. “I know.”

“They’re
burying
her, for God’s sake,” said Deborah indignantly. “This is the last thing any of us can ever do for her.”

“I know,” Jessie repeated, and almost choked trying not to whoop. She thought she did the last thing she would ever do for Marjorie four days ago; this was just the epilogue, tacked on to make Marjorie’s life orderly.

“You should. You of all people. You lived with her,” said Deborah at her most condemning. “I should think you’d be weeping.”

“Yes, I did live with her,” said Jessie, suddenly serious. Then a chuckle burbled out. “And I do miss her. After so many years together, I’d miss anyone. Hell, I’m going to miss her insufferable little dog.” She had to clap her hands across her mouth to keep out the burst of risibility that surged through her; as soon as she dared she did her best to speak in a normal tone and almost succeeded, although she kept her hands at the ready to stop any more flare-ups. “He’s going to the kids at Saint Cecilia’s, just as Marjorie stipulated. They can deal with him now, and welcome.” Slowly she lowered her hands and said, “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.” She wished she would cry—people would understand crying.

“Jessie, stop it; stop it right now,” Deborah exclaimed as she flushed the toilet. “Great-aunt Marjorie would be—”

“Shocked,” Jessie finished for her. “So she would. And small wonder,” she added in an eerie approximation of Marjorie’s voice.

“So why don’t you stop?” Deborah came out of the stall. “You’re upsetting everyone.” She took a comb out of her purse and flicked it through her neat helmet of shining hair.

“I can’t help it,” Jessie protested; she turned helpless eyes on Deborah. “I can’t make it stop. I try. Really. I don’t want to laugh, believe me.” She took a deep breath and attempted to keep a proper demeanor. “I didn’t expect to react this way. Do you think I intended to ... to make light of her passing?” She had washed most of the make-up off in an effort to contain herself. In the mirror her face looked tired and wan, but she still had to struggle to keep from laughing. She cupped her hands and managed to drink a little water.

Deborah shook her head. “You ought to be ashamed.”

“You sound like your father,” said Jessie.

“Well, you
ought,”
Deborah insisted.

“I am, Debbie, truly I am,” Jessie promised her, adding to herself,
but not for the reasons you think.

“How long are you going to stay in here?” There was suspicion in her eyes now, and a quiet condemnation that Jessie found dismaying.

“A while.”

“Well, don’t take too much time. People will begin to ask questions.” Deborah took her lipstick out of her purse and redefined her mouth. “You ought to apologize to my father.”

“I will. And the rest of them. When I’m done here,” said Jessie.

“Well, if you stay in here, they’ll know something’s wrong,” said Deborah. “That won’t make things easier.”

“I won’t be much longer. I’ll go into the reception room. I don’t think I can go back to the grave without disgracing myself, or the rest of you.” Jessie patted her face again with a paper towel. “In any case, I’ve got some repairing to do. I look a fright.”

“You need to fix more than your face. Don’t come out until you think you can comport yourself appropriately. This is a funeral, and a wake,” said Deborah, heading toward the door in stiff abhorrence of Jessie’s conduct. Her high heels rapped out her disapproval as she went, and Jessie had to stifle snickers.

“I bet your father told you to say that,” Jessie remarked to the closing door; it was a cheap parting shot, and she told herself she was petty for using it. “You’re a good girl, aren’t you?” She wasn’t certain if she was speaking to Deborah or her own reflection; now that she had been left alone, she went and sat on the settee by the bank of mirrors. She felt weak, and loose, as if she had been on a crying jag instead of laughing. Catching sight of herself, she realized her hair was disarranged and that she would have to do something with it before she left the restroom. It all seemed too much—the grief that everyone claimed to suffer, the extravagance of the funeral, the ludicrous wake—as if anyone expected Marjorie to rise from her coffin. The whole thing was an elaborate travesty, with a choir and an extended service at the church before they all came out here to the cemetery, extravagances that would have brought Marjorie Bateman’s stiff-rumped disapproval, and the prayerful graveside rites that would have made Marjorie aggravated to the point of anger. But for Jessie, the whole event was a sham, a fantasy invented to permit the family to ignore the truth about the dead matriarch. Whomever the mourners were remembering, it wasn’t the Marjorie Mignonne Victoria Lealand Richardson Noyes Avery Bateman that Jessie had come to know so well in the nine years she had been her companion, nurse, and, ultimately, her confessor.

“Let me tell you,” Marjorie would begin, and Jessie would put aside whatever she was doing and listen to her great-aunt reminisce about the four husbands and six children who had preceded her to the grave, and the five who were still alive.

“You should have seen Lysander Richardson when he was a young man,” Marjorie had said. “So handsome, with mustaches waxed just so and his boater held as if it were made of porcelain, not straw. A little old-fashioned, and arrogant, but when I was young that appealed to me, and, of course, his fortune. Easily the best-looking of my husbands, and the most feckless, as it turned out. He quite doted on me, at first. He said I was his everything—sentimental and not very original, but he was eager and rich, and that was enough to make me think he was the rarest thing in nature. And I was only seventeen when we married; I had no more real experience than a bisque-china doll. You should have seen me. Straight out of finishing school and a year in Switzerland. Pretty and spoiled and eager to make my place in the world, which meant marrying the right man.” She had fallen silent, then added with a sly smile, “They never found out what happened, why he bled to death in the garage.”