Bad Things (10 page)

 

“Ricky? Ricky, is that really you?” said the voice on the telephone.

“Yes, it's really me.” Rick stood at his bedroom window or his office window, depending on the time of day—and squinted into the afternoon glare. After a moment, he turned the wand controlling the heavy vertical blinds and watched the slats of sunlight grow narrower and narrower. “It's been a long time, Carmen.” This morning he'd told the boys at KBUK he was leaving the show, and now there was no backing out. He had a stomach full of butterflies as he sat down in his chair, leaned back, and put his feet on the desktop.

“Say something so I know it's you,” Carmen ordered.

“What? Why?” Her request made him nervous. When Robin was alive, there had been good reason, but now . . .

“Please.”

“Is something wrong?”

“No. No. Just tell me something only you could know.”

“Okay.” He smiled to himself as a memory came. “You and I shaved Jade's poodle after it crapped on the couch. You told her the vet did it because it had lice.”

“Ricky, it's so good to hear your voice.”

“Carmen, why did we have to do that?”

She hesitated before she answered. “I'm getting to be a superstitious old woman, Ricky. I'm scared of ghosts, that's all. Mr. McCall told me you'd be phoning. How are you?”

“I'm fine.”
She's afraid I'm Robin, back from the dead,
he realized. Had she always been so superstitious? Yes, maybe she had. Perhaps this woman, the only person he trusted after his parents were killed, had unwittingly helped him become the nervous wreck he was today. “I have kids,” he added.

“Kids? More than one?”

She knew about Shelly. He'd sent her a Christmas card the year his daughter was born, but he was pretty sure that was the last time he'd been in contact with her. “I have a son, too. Cody. He's five.”

“How is your wife, Laura?”

“She died four years ago.”

“Oh, Ricky, I'm sorry.”

“Me too,” he said simply. “Carmen? Did George tell you why I'm calling?”

“Yes, Ricky. You're coming home. Hector and I are so happy!”

“I'm glad,” he said uncomfortably. “Uh, Carmen, what's the situation with Jade? Is she as eccentric as ever?”

“Madre de Dios,
that woman. She's still crazy, and she's still got those stinking little dogs.”

As her poodles had died—they seemed to meet with more accidents than anything else on earth—she had had each one stuffed. By the time Rick had left for Las Vegas, there must have been more than a dozen of them holding their various eternal positions around the house. “Does she have a living one now?” Rick asked.

“Two,” Carmen said sourly.

“That's too bad,” he said, thinking that Quint would have a great time terrorizing the creatures.

“You're telling me.” Carmen paused. “Miz Jade's getting a little senile, too. She's supposed to keep those damn stuffed dogs in her apartment, but I keep finding them all over the house. She claims she isn't responsible.” She snorted. “She's never been responsible, that one. Butter wouldn't melt in her mouth, and she's crazy as a loon.”

“Apartment?” Rick asked hopefully. “Do you mean she's living in the cottage now?”

“No. We still live there. Miz Jade doesn't climb the stairs so well anymore. Remember how the downstairs is built in a circle, you know, the kitchen, dining room, living room, and then you go through the wide archway into the family room, past the bathroom and laundry room, and back into the kitchen, right by the back stairs?”

“I remember.”

“Hector put folding doors on the arch between the living room and family room, and another door between the bathroom and laundry room so that your aunt has her own apartment. Remember that little room at the back of the family room?”

“Mom's sewing room?”

“Yeah. That's her bedroom.”

The idea of having that woman and her dogs so close was revolting. “Carmen, how would you and Hector like to live in the main house? We can put Jade in the cottage.”

“No, Ricky. She'd have a fit, and I don't think I can live in that big house. I'm sorry.”

“I understand,” he told her, deciding not to pursue it any further until he saw what conditions were like for himself. Chances were, he'd have the horrid old woman put in a rest home. “Carmen? Can you do me a favor?”

“You name it, Ricky.”

“If I can tell you exactly when we're arriving, could you make sure Aunt Jade isn't home? Keep her away for a few hours?”

Carmen's laugh was hearty. “Sure. Are you afraid she'll scare your children?”

He smiled. Carmen always knew him so well. “Cody can probably handle her,” he said, thinking of his unflinching acceptance of Mrs. Poom, “but my daughter . . . well, I want her to see the place first. She's very unhappy about leaving her friends.”

“I understand. I think that's a good idea.”

They talked awhile longer, making plans and arrangements. Finally Carmen announced that she would take Jade to the Melrose District in L.A., let her get her hair done, then turn her loose in the Poodle Peddler, an overpriced purveyor of useless doggie products. All he had to do was give her the high sign.

Hanging up, Rick realized his butterflies were gone and that he honestly felt good about the plans he was making. He'd thought about it for a week after the binge with Dakota, then called George McCall and told Cody and Shelly. Shelly had a temper tantrum and threatened to run away, but fortunately she ran in Dakota's direction, and he extolled the virtues of California boys, or something along those lines. At least that had turned her from teenage histrionics to accusatory glares and calm, sullen acceptance.

He'd leave the childhood fears behind and concentrate on learning to be a homeowner. His only problems would be those of the real world. He'd get a couple years worth of columns out of it, on everything from putty knives to paint to lawn sprinklers. And if Jade was too weird, he could afford to put her in a retirement home, or even rent her a small house and caretaker. He leaned back in the desk chair and put his feet up. Twining his fingers into a pillow for his head, he felt that he'd done the right thing.

He just wished the goose bumps would go away.

 

“No! I won't have it!” A queen on her throne, Jade Ewebean stomped her foot so hard that the two white poodles at her feet yelped and shook in doggy terror. “If he thinks he can just move in here like he owns the place, then he's very mistaken. This is
my
house.
I
live here!” She looked down, saw the poodles watching her, and instantly her expression metamorphosed from beetle-browed fury to sappy adoration.

She patted her lap. “Come here, my widdle wuvems. Come here, Mister Poo; you, too, Stinkums.” The poodles danced on their hind legs, each pawing at one knee. “Oh, what sweet wittle poodley-pies.” The dogs went nuts with joy as she scooped them into her bony lap. “Is you my babies? Is you? Oh yes, you is! Kiss mama now! Kiss mama!”

Eagerly they licked their mistress's withered, rouge-stained cheeks while Jade giggled and cooed like the nasty old lady that she was. Carmen Zapata felt the urge to puke as she watched the disgusting display.

She disliked the dogs almost as much as she despised Jade Ewebean herself. It had been bad enough back when Jade had kept only one dog, but for the last two decades, it had been double the puddles, double the crap, and double the whining and yapping. In a way, Carmen didn't blame her: The animals died so regularly that the old
puta
almost needed a spare.

Dios Mio,
but she hated coming into Jade's quarters. It smelled of moldy poodle fur and old-lady sweat, and it made Carmen sick to see all those horrible dead dogs. All of them were some shade of white, ranging from ancient yellow to moth-eaten gray. One, its fur slowly tearing away in hideous clumps, reclined on top of the old Zenith TV, its glass eyes catching and reflecting the light cast by the lamp on the table by Jade's padded rocking chair. Carmen didn't remember its name any more than she remembered the names of two dozen other dead dogs that filled the apartment, but Jade knew all of them. Carmen suspected she identified them by the “lifelike” poses the taxidermist had tortured them into for all eternity. It was a sin against God.

The woman went through more poodles than ever should have been allowed into the world to begin with. They all died in strange accidents, and Carmen held the secret belief that crazy old Jade did them in when the mood struck, then forgot all about it. The last death, a little less than six months ago, nearly proved it. The dog had peed all over Jade's bedspread only hours before Carmen had opened the dryer and found its stiff, dead body, along with half a roll of fabric softener sheets.

Horrified, she'd put the carcass in a garbage bag outside the back door, intending to have Hector dispose of it, but before long she saw Jade handing it over to the kid from Seymour Taxidermy. A month later, the creature reappeared, its leg in an eternal lift. When Jade was mad at her, Carmen would find it poised over the pair of slippers she kept by the back kitchen door. Normally, though, the old woman liked to have it stand over a bowl of dusty silk philodendrons she had in her bathroom.

Tired of listening to Jade's incessant baby talk, Carmen cleared her throat. “We have to talk about Ricky and his family,” she said sternly.

“It's my house.” She sniffed. “Richard wasn't nice to his aunt Jade, so he can't visit. You can tell him that for me.”

“Listen, Mrs. Ewebean, this isn't your house. It belongs to Ricky. He's just been kind enough to let you live here, so if you want to stay, you better treat him nice. Otherwise
he'll
send
you
away.” Saying those last words felt so good that Carmen had to bite her tongue to keep from listing off all the reasons Ricky might kick her out. “Do you understand what I'm saying?”

“Ooh, Mister Poo is kissing his mommy, yes he is!” She kissed the dog back, square on the muzzle, then put her nose against the other one's face. “Stinkums, Stinkums, Stinkums, that's your name, uh-huh, yes it is. And do you know why, Stinkum-winkum, do you know why? Because you used to poot so bad when you was just a wittle bitty boy. Cute wittle puppy poots, that was you.”

Carmen crossed her arms, thoroughly sick of the senile old crone.
Why don't you die? Put me out of your misery!
“Jade Ewebean!”

That got the
puta
's attention. Her nostrils flared and her watery green eyes flashed as she glared at Carmen, her hands stiff in the poodles' fur. “How dare you talk to me in that tone of voice!”

Carmen stepped forward until she was looming over Jade, her stare so fierce that the old bitch didn't say a word. “Now, you listen good, because I'm only gonna tell you this once more. This house is Ricky's. If you're not nice to him, he'll send you away, and I'll say good riddance.”

“Well, I nev—”

“Be quiet.” Madre de Dios,
help me. before I strangle her with my bare hands!
“Listen. He's gonna have his two kids with him. His teenage daughter is going to be sad about leaving her friends, and his little boy is gonna feel lost in this big old house. So you're gonna be just as nice to them as you are to Ricky.” She paused, savoring the bomb she was about to drop. “And you're gonna be nice to his cat, too.”

Jade's nose curled as if she were smelling something bad. “Cat?” She stood, sending squealing poodles tumbling to the floor. “Cat?” Her voice rose an octave.

Carmen smiled like the Madonna herself. “A nice cat,” she said serenely. “Maybe it will catch some of the mice we got running around in the walls.”

“He can't bring a cat in here. Who does he think he is?” Jade sputtered with anger, little flecks of foam at the sides of her mouth.

“He's your landlord, that's who he is, and if those nasty little dogs of yours chase that cat even once, you'll be very,
very
sorry.” Placing her hands on her hips, she added, “I always protected Ricky from you, and now I'm gonna protect his whole family from you. And that includes his cat.”

“He can't—”

“Yes he can. He can do whatever he wants, and you better give him some respect. You remember how you treated him? Always teasing him, always making fun of him? Punishing him for being afraid? You remember that,
Tia Puta?”
Carmen felt like she might be foaming a little herself. She'd held this back for years, and now it poured out like water. “You remember how mean you were to him? Well, you better hope he's nicer to you than you were to him.”

“Get out,” Jade said without much fire. “Get out.”

Carmen turned on her heel and walked through the archway into the living room, then pulled the triple-fold birch doors closed behind her.

She moved quickly through the dining room, pausing to flick a speck of dust from a blue vase in the center of the table. Tomorrow, before Ricky's arrival, she'd fill it with giant marigolds from the garden, his favorite flower ever since she'd explained to him that in Mexico, people believed that the flower could keep them safe on
El Día de los Muertos,
when spirits roamed the world. “Ricky.” She whispered the name with fondness and dread, and wondered how he'd changed over the years.

In the kitchen, Carmen poured herself a cup of coffee and sat heavily at the kitchen table, her thoughts turning back to Jade Ewebean. It had been a month since she'd told Jade about Ricky coming home, but the old woman acted like she didn't remember. Carmen suspected that the forgetfulness was an act, an excuse to fly into a rage every time her nephew was mentioned. Jade feigned senility and helplessness whenever the mood struck, but in truth, the woman forgot nothing. That wasn't to say Jade wasn't crazy as a loon, because she was, and had been for years. Living in this house with nothing but poodles and ghosts to talk to had taken its toll.

It all served to make the woman impossible, and Carmen hoped Ricky would remove her immediately. Her and her dogs, living and dead. She hoped Jade wouldn't upset Ricky too much.

He'd always been such a timid boy, and she hoped he had found his courage in the years away from the house. On the phone he sounded like a fine, strong man, though she thought she detected a telltale trace of hesitation when he spoke of the house.

To be honest, Carmen was surprised he was coming back at all.

Something skittered in the wall, a chipmunk or perhaps a rat. The sounds always chilled her and made her think of the way Robin would race through the secret passages on his hands.

The door separating Jade's apartment from the laundry room and kitchen was ajar, and Carmen could hear her talking to herself. She did that frequently. Carmen crossed herself and whispered a spell her uncle had taught her—one that, like marigolds, protected you from the spirit world.

It wasn't regular old-lady talk, not senile ramblings, but insane babbling that was always the same. She talked to Ricky's dead twin, saying obscene things, dirty things, sometimes moaning and giggling like a schoolgirl. Sounding as if she were having sex. Hearing that over and over was what made Carmen nervous. Robin was dead, but she thought that perhaps his spirit continued to walk the halls and roam the passages within the house.
“Madre de Dios.”
She crossed herself again.