Flying Shoes (26 page)

“What’s the matter? Tongues all froze up?” He grinned, a substance-driven rictus of teeth and gum, and wagged his own tongue to amuse them.

Their eyes widened, and one little boy spoke up. “We . . . we’re going home. We were just looking for good places to sled tomorrow. There’s a good hill behind that house.” The boy gestured with one inflated Michelin Man arm at the party house.

“Huh,” Ernest said. “Well, maybe you guys want to come inside and get warm? There’s a party in there. There’s beer.” He laughed, a high-lonesome sort of whinny.

“Um,” the boy said. “We’ve got to go home now.”

“Well, okay then. If you’re sure.”

“Okay,” said the little boy. He swatted one of the other boys, and they began back-stepping off the sidewalk, into the brush, turning and breaking into a run, scrabbling through branches and tinkling ice.

Ernest tried to think of a cool sendoff that the boys would appreciate, coming up with “My dear penguins, we stand on a great threshold! It’s okay to be scared, many of you won’t be coming back. Thanks to Batman, the time has come to punish all God’s children!”

The boys were quickly out of sight, although he heard one screech, “Williams, wait up! Don’t ditch me!”

He didn’t really get kids. They always seemed so unsociable.

Nine

All the lights were on at her mother’s; the sunroom shone blue from the eternally-on TV. Mary Byrd’s mother’s neighborhood was exclusive but not really ritzy, but the country club and the Presbyterian church were not far, and this set the tone for the subdivision. Her mom didn’t care about all the WASPy and clubby crap, she just wanted security, a nice yard to root around in, and to be close to Nick and James. She didn’t really know her neighbors. The homely colonial-ish house had been chosen because it had a small, manageable backyard for her birding and gardening, and its rooms were small, uncomplicated boxes.

Marisa D’Abruzzi Rhinehart opened the door to her daughter with a hug and a kiss. Mary Byrd was anxious to get the inevitable beat-down over with as quickly as possible and pulled back a little. It was also a little awkward to hug her mom because she was so tiny, just under five feet and shrinking, and Mary Byrd, feeling enormous, had to bend over for the hug, sticking her butt out.

“
Eeew
,”
her mother said. “You smell like cigarettes.”

“I know,” Mary Byrd said. “I’m sorry.”

Her mother still looked beautiful, even though she insisted on so much tanning that her naturally burnished olive skin had become opaque. But her silver hair, loosely gathered into a bun, set off her pale green eyes, astonishing in such a dark face. She was wearing silky green pajamas.

The familiar scent of cat box and tuna was just discernible under the stronger aroma of garlic and olive oil. Eliza and William referred to their grandmother’s basement, where the cat box was, as “Teetee World.” Her mother’s cats weren’t allowed to go outside because “too many bad things could happen,” and they’d eat her birds. Mary Byrd set down her duffel, removed a personal-size bottle of Sutter Home cab— not the martini she craved, but thank god she had it—and went straight to the refrigerator, the age-old homecoming ritual of all children, no matter what age. Her mother followed. Mary Byrd was more desperate for a drink than for food. She looked around in the fridge, taking out a jar of pepperoncini and fishing one out with her finger.

“Did you really ride up here with a
trucker
?” her mom asked, the same contemptuous smirk on her face that she’d had the last time they had seen each other and she had plucked at Mary Byrd’s ratty Levi’s jacket, a favorite that had been Charles’s in junior high, and said, “Are you still wearing this? You might think that this jacket is cool, but it’s not.”

“
Yes
, Mama. He’s a guy we know who works for Valentine Chickens, Mann’s company. It was fine. It was actually kind of interesting.”

“I just think it’s
very weird
that you did it.”

“Ma, it’s
good
to do weird things sometimes. Besides, it didn’t cost anything, and because of the weather I never would have gotten out of Memphis if I’d tried to fly, which you know I hate anyway. And you do weird stuff all the time.” Mary Byrd was suddenly really tired.

“Not that weird. And Charles wasn’t happy about it either. I made that hummus just for you.”

“Yum. Thanks. Charles is never happy about stuff I do. How do you know? Did you talk to him?” She sank down at the table and poured the cheap red wine into a glass, restraining herself from taking a giant gulp. Her mother was a teetotaler.

“I called this morning to see when you were coming, since you hadn’t called me. You’d left
practically in the middle of the night
, Charles said.” Her mother paused for emphasis. “Here’s some wonderful olive bread. Put the hummus on that. And I made podotoli soup. Your favorite.”

“I tried to call Charles but it just rings and rings,” Mary Byrd said around a mouthful of bread and smushed chickpeas. “You know they’re having a huge ice storm down there. The phone lines are probably down.” She was glad to have the conversation change course. What she really wanted was to drink and go to sleep.

As her mother went to the stove Mary Byrd noticed that she limped a little. “What’s wrong with your leg, Ma?”

“Oh,” her mother laughed. “I have
gouty tophus
on my toe. It sounds like something out of Dickens, doesn’t it?”

Or out of William Byrd’s diary. “Does it hurt?”

“Not much; it’s just ugly,” her mother said happily, showing her the big knob. She loved medical crap.

“Yuck, Mom!”

Her mother dished up some soup and set it, a spoon, and a napkin in front of her daughter. “Here’s the grated cheese. It’s delicious.”

Meatball soup wasn’t her favorite, it was Nick’s, but she dutifully spooned up the meatballs, carrots, celery, and macaroni. It
was
super-delicious and Mary Byrd said so. Her mother was the greatest cook. “Thanks. I’m eating this and then I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted.”

“Nick and James will be over tomorrow afternoon. They didn’t know if they’d get to see much of you.” She sighed. “I wish Pete were here.” There was never any question of Pete coming. He’d been a baby, and though what had happened had clouded his life in many ways, he didn’t even remember Pop. He wanted it all behind him, and had moved far away, to Portland, as soon as he could. That Pete was probably gay—they knew so little about his life—could only have deepened his estrangement and unease within the family.

“If you’d get over that flying hang-up,” her mother went on, “you and the children could come up more often. We’re never together anymore.”

“I know, Mom,” said Mary Byrd. “I’m sorry. But I’ve got to go right back. Eliza’s in a play. She’d be really upset if I missed it. And we’ve got to do something to help Evagreen. I guess Charles told you about that.”

“Yes, it’s just terrible. I wouldn’t have thought Evagreen and her family were . . .
those types,
” her mother said. “You’re not going back in that truck, I hope.”

“
Mom,
” she warned. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Maybe I
will
fly if the Memphis airport is open.” Annoyance added a little defiance to her voice. “So how will this meeting work on Monday?”

“Who knows?” her mother said, shaking her head as she cleared up dishes. “Who knows. That’s such a shame about Evagreen. Charles said he’s going to try to find a good lawyer for her daughter.
I
told him what they need is that Johnnie Cochran guy who got that big . . .
jerk
off the hook.”

“Well, that won’t be happening unless Evagreen wins the lottery. But what about us? What about this meeting? Is this going to be over now, do you think?”

“I don’t know. They certainly seem in a hurry all of a sudden. I don’t know if it’s because of this reporter who wants to write a book about the case, or because they’ve figured out how to finally charge Ned Tuttle.”

An enormous Maine Coon cat, wide as a hassock, waddled into the room and bunted the backs of her mother’s green pjs, leaving a visible swipe of fur. “Oh, Mrs. B! There you are! Mary Byrd is here to see you!” she said in the high, enthusiastic voice she used for cat-talking. She picked up the always-open can of human-grade tuna in the sink and put some in the kitty dish.

Mary Byrd’s face flushed at the mention of Tuttle. She didn’t even know for sure if her mother had ever known what the police had suggested about her cock-teasing Tuttle. She didn’t know if her mother had seen her diaries, either. If she weren’t such a pussy, she’d ask. She got up to pet Mrs. B, who gave her an accusing look and lumbered off, probably to hide in the basement wall where she spent most of her time. “Isn’t there some sort of statute of limitations on this kind of stuff?” she asked.

“It doesn’t really matter, if what they’re worried about is this reporter scooping the story and solving it herself, which would make them look terrible. James says there’s not a statute of limitations on murder.” Her mother scraped more tuna into the cat’s dish. “I guess she was expecting ham,” she said sadly.

“They already look pretty terrible,” Mary Byrd said, stretching out her legs. “If all this time they’ve thought it was Tuttle and haven’t been able to charge him before now.” She added, “That kitty does
not
need more food, Ma.”

“But maybe that’s what’s going to happen. Maybe they can do the DNA thing or something. I hope that doesn’t mean . . . exhumation, though. And that kitty is still just a kitten. She’s growing.” Her mother huffed indignantly.

“
Jeez
, Mama, surely not!” she said.
“Do we even know who Linda Fyce is? Is she from Richmond? Do we really have to talk to
her
again, too?”

“Oh, you’d remember some of her articles—I’ve sent a few clippings to you. She wrote for the
Times-Dispatch
, then for the
New York Times.
Local color stories about, oh, you know, ‘Southern things.’”

Mary Byrd said, “Oh, I know who you mean. She’s a . . . quaint-hound—does stories on barbecue and inbreds who drive Trans Ams and handle snakes.” She pulled impatiently at her boot laces. “Stuff that people in New York and California get all excited about so they can have things to talk about at dinner parties. What Meemaw and Peepaw and them down there are up to now. That sucks.”

Her mother said, “Do you need to say that?”

“Yes, I do,” Mary Byrd said. “
Someone
needs to.”

“Well, anyway, she’s one of those Fyces from over in Fewtheyville, the ones who have that big mobile home dealership out on the highway, I think. I talked to her a little bit, although Detective Stith asked that we not talk to anybody until we’d talked to them—him—first.” Her mother thought of herself as a respecter of titles and authority as long as those people agreed with her.

Stith. So
that
was the guy’s name. Mary Byrd started peeling off her boots and socks. “That’s what he said to me, too, so
I
didn’t talk to her. So why did
you
, Mom? Do we really want this to be a book, or on TV or something?”

“Well, she called me first. And as far as I’m concerned, I don’t really care who finally figures it out and gets whoever convicted, just so someone does.” Her mother began deconstructing her hair for the night. “I think it would make an interesting book or something. She told me she’s working on that show,
Medical Detectives,
about solving crimes. I love that show. They’re filming an episode right now on the Southside Strangler. They
finally
executed that man, you know.” She put the tuna can in the trash. “But I didn’t talk to her very much.”

“But, Ma, it will
never
go away then. If it’s on TV, or whatever, it will be right in our faces all the time. We will have to be
that poor family
again. What do we have to gain by that?”

“Oh, I think the truth is always important to tell. And from my point of view, the story has an interesting psychological angle,” she said, pausing provocatively, her head down while she fiddled with her bun. A pile of hairpins had accumulated on the table.

“What do you mean?” Mary Byrd asked cautiously. A throw coated in cat fur was draped on the chair next to her and she pulled it over her. The sneezing would begin any minute. She was only allergic to her mother’s cats.

“I was . . . relieved,” her mother said, slightly rueful, but also slightly triumphant.

“What are you saying?” Mary Byrd asked. She felt the hair on the back of her neck—her hackles—rising.

“I was relieved that he was gone.” Her mother raised her head to look directly at Mary Byrd.

“Mom,
Mom
, why would you
say
that?” Mary Byrd wailed, covering her eyes with her hands.

“Because it’s true.”

“Even if it’s true, why would you
say
it?”