House Broken (14 page)

GENEVA

O
n the Monday after Geneva's confrontation with her mother, she drove into Mill Valley to meet Drea for lunch. She bought a salad at the café counter, found her friend at a table by the window, and apologized for being late.

“Forget about it. It's my day off.” Drea smiled broadly. “I could sit here all day.”

The café bordered a park. Dappled light played across the cheerfully painted wooden tables. Geneva wondered if she or Drea had ever whiled away an entire day in a café.

“But you won't. Knowing you, you've got a list of errands as long as your arm.”

“Longer. But a girl can dream.”

They started on their lunches. Drea filled her in on shelter
news, and said she had placed the retriever Geneva had evaluated with a childless couple with a large backyard.

“I love happy endings,” Geneva said.

“Hey, what happened with your sister-in-law's Dobie?”

Geneva put down her fork. “Not a happy ending. Juliana asked me not to file a report. What was I supposed to do? Plus, the doctor filed one.”

“She shouldn't have put you on the spot.”

“Oh, she did better than that. It was my fault because I opened the garage door.”

“Yeah, that was irresponsible of you.”

“Wasn't it? And if she and Jon break up, I may lose my honorary status as a Novak.”

“I'm guessing the dog had to be put down.”

“Sadly, yes.”

“Where's Tom in all of this?”

“Officially neutral. But he witnessed the whole thing, and was bitten, too, so as much as he would have liked to sweep the snarling Doberman under the rug, he couldn't. But I was hoping for more than neutrality.”

“Poor you.”

Geneva nodded, grateful for her friend's acknowledgment. What a relief not to have to explain she was trying to behave with integrity. She'd been doing a lot of explaining lately. Her chest tightened with emotion.

“You okay?”

“Yes. There's just a lot going on.” She told her about Ella drinking the vodka-laced iced tea, and about her ambivalence around allowing her mother to continue to stay with her.

Drea listened, then said, “Neither of your options sound very
good. You'd feel guilty if you dumped her. But it's not as if your mother meant harm, and you've put her on notice. How much longer does she need?”

“I don't know. Three weeks, maybe longer. She wasn't strong to begin with, which doesn't help.”

“She's already been here three weeks, hasn't she?”

“Four.”

“So you're probably more than halfway.”

“You're right.” Geneva picked at her salad, then stared out the window.

Drea put her hand on Geneva's arm. “What else is going on?”

Geneva turned to face her. “When Josh got suspended, did you and Bill really have no clue? Not the slightest hunch?”

“Yeah, we had a hunch, but doesn't every parent? I mean, you hear stories all the time about kids doing dumb things and their parents being completely in the dark. How can every parent not think it could happen to them?”

“But nothing specific.”

“No. We thought he was squeaky clean. Thank God it was only a little weed.”

“And he's okay now?”

Drea laughed. “According to the clueless parent, yes. He's earned back some privileges, so we'll see.” She paused. “You got a hunch?”

Geneva nodded.

“Charlie?”

“Yes. Well, maybe both.”

“Both?”

“I'm probably wrong, and it's probably because of my mother. I'm seeing conniving addicts everywhere.”

“Maybe. And maybe you're a teensy bit stressed.”

“You think?”

They both laughed.

“Then again,” Drea said, “a hunch is more than we had.”

• • •

On her way back to the clinic, Geneva stopped at Ella's favorite bakery and picked up an assortment of cookies and muffins. Ella deserved some recognition of what she'd been put through. Geneva planned to talk with her that evening about Helen's role in making her ill. Yesterday she had asked her mother to be part of the discussion—the first words she spoke to her after their argument—but Helen refused, just as she refused to admit anything of consequence had happened.

She was carrying the bakery box to the car when Dublin called.

“Hey! Guess what.”

“What?”

“No, really. Guess.”

“No hints?”

“Nope.”

From his tone, this was more than a typical Dublin joke. He had news. But Geneva, buoyed from seeing her friend, played along. “Mom got drunk and crashed her car.”

“You're almost as funny as I am. Guess again. Think improbable.”

“You won the lottery and will pay for a nurse so Mom can go home.”

“Nope. Something that hasn't happened in ten years.”

Geneva got behind the wheel and glanced at the dashboard clock. “As much fun as this is, I've got to go to work.”

“Okay, okay. You're such a good sport, you get a hint. Say it's June, which it is, and you want to go to Europe's most famous city, but instead it comes to you. Or, rather, me.”

She was sliding the key into the ignition and froze. “Dub, you're kidding, right?”

“Nope. She's in town for some aid conference. Called me an hour ago and said she's got time midday tomorrow.”

“How did she sound?”

“Remote. Awkward. You know, the same.”

The same. A decade had passed and Paris hadn't changed. Neither had she changed during whatever interval had passed between visits before then. Five years? But in that moment, Geneva realized that while Paris may not have changed, she had. She was no longer content to be the baby sister who watched everything and understood nothing.

Her brother was still talking. “I'm taking the kids out of school. They've never met her. They think I've made her up.”

“That's understandable. Sometimes I don't think she's real. And you do have a casual relationship with the truth.”

“I prefer to think of it as a fertile imagination. But if I was making up a sister, I'd pick a more interesting name. Aunt Helsinki. Aunt Budapest. Aunt . . .”

“I'm coming to see her.”

“You are?”

“Yes. Is she staying with you?”

“No way. A hotel and a couple of hours of family time, tops.”

“I'll only be there for the day.”

“Pity! You know how I love sleepovers.”

“I'll email you the details.”

“It'll be a party.”

• • •

It was only a short drive from the bakery to the clinic, but in that time Geneva made two decisions. First, she was not going to tell Tom she was flying to L.A. tomorrow to see Paris. Although reluctant to keep secrets from him, she felt distanced recently. His fence-sitting concerning the behavior of both Juliana and Helen smacked of disloyalty to her. Not taking sides was his default stance, but she was nevertheless hurt. And the last thing she wanted was to defend her motives for the trip to him—or to anyone. She wasn't certain of her motives herself, but knew she had to go. She'd be there and back before anyone missed her.

The second decision was to ask Paris the hard questions and not let her off the hook. Geneva hadn't seen her sister in ten years. Who knew how long it would be until she saw her again? Ten years ago, Helen was still in South Carolina, and Geneva was buffered by distance from her mother's behavior. Most of the drunken phone calls went to Florence and Dublin, and all Geneva had been required to do was show up periodically at holidays and limit the damage. But now Helen was too close. And although her siblings seemed to accept Paris's decision to opt out, Geneva did not. She wasn't willing to give up a sister—even one she barely knew—without a reasonable explanation any more than she would accept that her mother's drinking was without cause. She had gone out on a limb to do the right thing by her mother and, in return, she hoped to get some straight answers.

• • •

Geneva thought her talk with her daughter went well. She'd kept it short, not wanting it to devolve into a lecture, and tried not to
be overly critical of her mother. Ella didn't say much, but she seemed to be listening. The pastries were a hit.

After dinner, while Tom finished up some work in the barn, Geneva retrieved the old photo album and leafed through it while sitting on her bed. She compared features, expressions and postures at various ages, and tried to reconstruct how she and her siblings had related to one another. Florence told her Paris had always been different. Geneva had her memories of Paris as aloof and detached, but did not trust them. She knew that people often remembered what they wanted to believe, and she'd had little chance to gather new data over the last three decades. The photos were hard evidence, if she could study them dispassionately.

She understood genetic recombination, and knew siblings could get any mixture of traits from their parents. She could see, for instance, that she was a version of Florence, with a lighter build, wider eyes, and a more reflective, less competitive nature. She and Dublin were also versions of each other, but mirror reflections, opposites that nevertheless betrayed a common origin. Dublin and Florence also shared features, and their smiles were identical. As Geneva studied the photos more closely, the familiar backdrops of backyards, swimming pools, and holiday tables receded, leaving only disembodied figures. Paris was obviously the only blond, the only petite one, but other than that, she looked like one of four siblings. Her eyes, though blue, were the same shape as Geneva's, and the look of surprise captured in one grade-school photo was pure Dublin. Photos didn't lie. In group photographs, Paris stood, perhaps, a little farther away from her siblings. Then again, Geneva herself could also be singled out for directing her gaze at the others, rather than at the camera. A stranger shown this album
and asked, “Who's different?” would not, she wagered, have necessarily selected Paris. Only the last several photos, particularly the one of Florence and Paris sitting on Paris's bed, would have drawn comment, due to the contrast in their poses, and Paris's solemn, almost regal, poise.

“What's so captivating?”

Startled, Geneva fumbled the album in her lap and raised her head. Her mother stood at the end of the bed.

“I didn't hear you come in.”

Helen stared at the open album. “Walking down memory lane?”

“I suppose.” Geneva thought of her trip the next day. “How many years has it been since you've seen Paris?”

Her mother didn't hesitate. “Just gone twenty-seven years.”

“And you don't want to see her?”

“I never said that. It's her that wants nothing to do with me. Although by now I've laid it to rest.”

She examined her mother's face to see if this could possibly be true. Her blue eyes gave nothing away. “Mom, what if you stopped drinking, if you tried a program? Do you think Paris would be more amenable to mending bridges then?”

Helen laughed. “It's you that would please, not Paris.”

“But the reason Paris won't see you . . .”

“Isn't drinking.”

“But if she thought you were making changes . . .”

“She wouldn't care.” Helen sighed as if she hated air. “Honestly, I can't blame her.”

The room darkened around the edges. Geneva's head felt light. She rested a hand on the bed to steady herself.

“Mom,” she said, her voice a whisper. “What did you do?”

Helen looked straight through her. “Not enough and too much, all at the same time.”

She swung the walker around a quarter turn, then another, and left.

ELLA

W
hen Ella saw the pink box from Brioche, she knew her mom was prepping her for A Talk. She came through big-time. Turns out she's the only teenager in history to get drunk for the first time this way: accidentally, on the morning of the SAT, and at the hands of her grandmother. Her mom was all apologetic and told her it was okay to be angry with Nana, which she guessed she was. But it's not like everyone didn't know Nana was an alcoholic. Did they all think she'd just lie there and detox quietly? That obviously wasn't her style.

Her mom said Nana brought the vodka home from Grandpa Novak's party, but Ella knew damn well she didn't. She thought about telling her mom about what she almost knew for certain about the Prince—that he was Nana's connection—but decided
against it. First, her evidence was all—what was that
Law & Order
word?—circumstantial. Her mom wasn't going to believe the Prince was up to no good without cold, hard facts. Second, from what she could see, one more piece of bad news and her mom was going to need to be fitted for a straitjacket. Nana should be spiking
her
drinks to chill her out a little. So because the mother-daughter heart-to-heart seemed to be making her happy, Ella left it alone. It was all ammo for another day, when the hammer would finally come down on the Prince. Or not. He'd gotten away with a lot so far.

While her mom talked, Ella stayed quiet. Because if you can't say anything nice, don't say anything at all, right? Even though Nana was the alcoholic and the one who messed up her SATs, it was her mom who invited her to their house in the first place. So, if her mom asked, which she didn't, Ella would say it was her mom who messed up. Just saying.

HELEN

H
elen knew something was wrong as soon as she picked up her handbag. It was too light. She'd gone to get one of the pills she'd stashed in there, after getting—temporarily, she hoped—cut off from her vodka supply. Saturday Ella had drunk her iced tea, and Sunday Helen finished off the emergency vodka she hid in the closet inside Charlie's rain boot. She did feel sorry about the girl getting sick and missing her test, although she considered it the unfortunate consequence of making an elderly woman who ought to be treated with respect sneak around like a low-life junkie. Here it was Monday and she was left with pills.

She hobbled over to her nightstand for some water to get the pill down with. Maybe once the medicine took hold she could
think straight and remember where she'd put the confounded gun. She could see it now—triangular hard case, pale blue. For the life of her, she couldn't recall ever taking it out of her bag. But she must have done it, because it wasn't there.

She prided herself in being careful with the weapon. All her life, she'd been around guns. She knew what to do and what not to do, not that her daddy had been a paragon of safety. Helen bought the predecessor to the missing gun shortly after Geneva went to college and left her alone in that big house. But it wasn't the house that got to her; it was the nightmares. How she thought a gun could protect her from the inside of her own head, she didn't know, but the gun did provide a measure of comfort. In case the dreams turned real, she supposed. Before she moved to California, she'd treated herself to a new one, with a blue pearled handle and matching case. She cleaned it from time to time, but otherwise it stayed in her bedside drawer—until she was dragged up here. Good thing she managed to sneak it into her purse while Geneva was getting the suitcase from under the bed. And it stayed a good thing right up until it went missing.

A gun was a darn sight more dangerous than an iced tea and vodka, but what could Helen do? Say to Geneva, “Have you seen my gun anywhere? It's light blue and loaded”? Maybe in L.A. she'd have some sympathy, but not up here with the granola people. The way she saw it, a gun in your purse was no different from a pack of tissues. You don't often need one, but if you do, it comes in handy. Helen imagined Geneva and the rest of them would just as soon carry a rattlesnake around. No, it was a nuisance she'd misplaced the gun, but she'd have to figure out where it wandered off to herself. She'd probably taken it out when she'd had a drink or two, just to feel the cool of the metal in her hand. Then she'd
hidden it somewhere better than her purse. The only question was where that might be.

• • •

That night she was feeling lower than a doodlebug, on account of the gun, the iced tea, and those lousy pills. The kids were in their rooms with their homework and their gadgets, and she could hear Tom sawing away in the barn. The dog wasn't talking either, so she went hunting for Geneva. Should've stayed where she was, as it turned out, because that girl started asking questions about Paris again. Helen could see how she'd wonder about a long-lost sister, but this was yesterday's news. Been thirty years, give or take. But Geneva was Geneva. Once she got an idea in her head, she was dug in like an Appalachian tick.

Not that Helen spilled any beans. Thirty years of stonewalling and deflecting had given her plenty of practice. The only unfortunate happenstance was that once she was in her room again, all she could think about was Eustace and Paris.

Paris turned sixteen in October of 1981. Eustace wanted to throw her a big party at the club, but she wasn't keen on it. Truth was, the girl didn't have any friends her age, only admirers, meaning they'd just as soon stab her in the back as say how do you do. She wasn't the socializing type, and at a party in her honor she would've been obliged to shine her light on everyone. Instead, Helen arranged a special supper at home, with her best linens and silver, and the wedding china. Louisa made Paris's favorites, ribs and banana cream pie, and even though Helen didn't think ribs belonged on her wedding china, she held her tongue.

Everyone was in a fine mood that evening, once Dublin got over having his hair slicked down. Paris managed to be gracious
about her gifts, right down to the hummingbird's nest Geneva gave her. Using two fingers, Paris lifted it out of the box by the stick it was attached to. Helen thought it was some tiny dead thing and gasped. Paris was dumbstruck until Geneva, usually quiet as a church mouse, explained in elaborate detail where she'd found it, and how carefully the birds had constructed it—covering the outside with lichen for camouflage—and how many eggs fit into it and so on. She believed, God love her, she'd chosen her gift wisely and no one, not even Paris, had the heart to set her straight.

The last gift was from her father, a small blue box wrapped in white ribbon that Helen and the rest of the civilized world recognized as Tiffany.

“For my princess,” Eustace said, bowing as he handed Paris the box.

She pulled on the bow slowly, like she was teasing a kitten, then opened the lid and held up a gold necklace with an open heart pendant.

“Oh, Daddy!”

“May I?” He took the necklace from her and placed it around her neck from behind.

When Paris lifted her hair off her neck so he could do up the clasp, Helen turned away.

After Florence and Geneva helped Helen tidy up from dinner, the girls went to find their brother for a board game, and she went to lock the back door. Halfway down the hall she heard laughter emanating from Paris's room. The door was closed, but she went right in.

Paris sat up against the pillows, the covers over her legs. Her nightgown was open at the neck, the heart necklace on display. Eustace sat on the bed facing her. Paris let go another giggle, then
covered her mouth with her hand. Her cheeks were red, and her breath came quick.

Eustace turned his head like an eagle. He smiled, but his eyes were black ice. “What is it, Helen?”

“I heard laughing. Why on earth was the door closed?”

“Wind must have blown it.”

Paris broke out in a fit of giggles. Eustace laughed, too.

“Daddy was tickling me.”

He made a grab for her waist and she shrieked and fell sideways.

Helen could see she had nothing but a camisole under her nightgown. “Paris is too old for tickling, Eustace.”

“Oh, no, she isn't.” He lunged at her again and wriggled his fingers into her armpit.

“Eustace!”

He leaned over his daughter, one hand on either side of her, his face inches from her lips, full and parted, releasing small gasps. Then he sat up and ran both hands over his hair. Paris righted herself and caught her breath. She gave her mother an appraising look.

“There's only one of us that's too old for tickling, Mama.”

Eustace smiled, his gaze locked on his daughter.

Helen felt blood rush to her face. She turned on her heels, leaving the door open and forgetting entirely to lock the back door.

• • •

Over the next few days, she endeavored to sort out her feelings about what she had witnessed. They never did settle out. She was angry, that was certain, at Eustace in particular, but Paris, too, for making her feel like yesterday's news—or last year's. She was
hurt, because she couldn't think of anything she'd done to either Eustace or Paris to deserve it, except maybe being as vain and self-centered as the both of them. And she was scared. Boy, was she scared. Because sure as eggs is eggs Paris had not the foggiest idea what she was getting herself into. And worse—much worse—Eustace most certainly did.

Naturally, it was her duty to warn her daughter, to educate her on the desires of men. She'd had a talk with Paris two years before, when she'd started her monthlies, and had laid out—pretty clearly, she thought—what the whole mess was about. Paris had sat with her hands in her lap, like she was in church, and let her mother talk her way through it.

“That all, Mama?”

“I believe it is. In a nutshell.”

“Can I go now?”

“Sure you can. Unless you want to ask me a question.”

“Not really. I learned all that in school, and from general talk.”

Helen's eyes widened. “General talk?”

“It's 1979, Mama.”

“Yes, but . . .” She stopped, suddenly embarrassed. “Well, why'd you let me go on about it then?”

A sly smile played on her daughter's lips. “I wanted to hear you tell it.”

Young girls were mouthy back then, same as now, but she wasn't fooled. Naive as she had been, even sixteen-year-old Helen had knowledge of the facts of life, and had nevertheless been swept off her feet by a man's charms. She didn't know exactly what Eustace was up to, or how far he meant to go, but she did know that, whatever it was, Paris wasn't prepared for it.

So a few weeks after Paris's birthday, Helen sat her down for another talk. Not about her father in particular, but about men generally, and made sure to impress upon the girl that men were more alike than not when it came to their base natures. It was a woman's responsibility to stop advances before things got out of hand because, after a certain point, a man had to wrestle with the devil to stay in control. The devil almost always won, so a smart girl didn't allow herself to be led down the garden path. Paris put on her church face, and when Helen asked if she understood, she said she did, and got up and left.

Helen had been careful with her words, but Paris must've reported back to her father. He came into bed that night, his skin burning through his pajamas with rage, and forced himself on her like he aimed to kill her with it. When she cried afterward, he slapped her cheek and told her to shut up.

“And if you ever insinuate again that my daughter is a whore, you can expect far worse.”

• • •

Helen began to keep a closer eye on Paris and, without getting caught at it, tried to interfere with the time she spent with her father. But as Eustace did and went as he pleased, and Paris wanted to be with him, her efforts amounted mostly to worry with no reward. She stood at the window, waiting for Paris to come up the walk, smiling and unharmed, while her other children went short of attention. That's the way it had to be. If Dublin broke his arm falling out of a tree, it could be fixed. You couldn't put a splint on what might happen to Paris. As far as Helen could tell, there had been no more tickling sessions. She agonized day and night what
might be going on elsewhere, but in their house, she hoped her watchful eye was keeping Eustace's mischief at bay.

Louisa still worked for the family, though she was getting on in years and didn't come but once a week. Helen had a young girl come in to do the heavy cleaning, so all that was left for Louisa was a bit of dusting, linen-changing, and cooking. Helen couldn't do without Louisa's cooking. Everything she made tasted better than what Helen could produce, even using Louisa's recipes. Louisa teased her and said it was because Helen always added lazy to everything, and it soured the taste. That made them both laugh.

Louisa came three days in a row in the second week of December to get ready for the Christmas party Eustace had decided to throw. He had invited all the local mucky-mucks, his buddies from the club, and his entire family. It was enough to make Helen a nervous wreck. But Louisa took it all in hand and together they checked off each item on a list running four pages. Luckily, Eustace wasn't bothered about the expense, so Helen hired folks to string the lights, decorate the house, set up the tables and chairs, and run the bar. She and Louisa did most of the cooking, and at the end of the three days the refrigerator would not have accommodated another meatball.

The evening before the party, Helen came downstairs to find Louisa rushing for the door, her coat and bag in hand. When she saw Louisa's face, she put her hand on the woman's arm.

“What ever is the matter?”

“I've got to leave.”

“What for? We've still got things to do.”

Louisa looked at her feet. “Mr. Riley has let me go.”

“Let you go! That can't be right.”

Louisa put her hand on the doorknob. “I need to be going, Helen.”

She stood in front of her. “What's the hurry? Come in the kitchen a minute and talk to me. I'll sort it out with Eustace. You know I will.”

“There's nothing to sort out. Not after . . .” Louisa's voice trailed off. She glanced across the room, toward the hall leading to the back door.

“What? You've got to tell me.”

Louisa's face was a hodgepodge of fear and sympathy. “I can't tell you anything.”

“Paris?” It was more of a plea than a question.

Louisa's eyes brimmed with tears. Her jaw was set, like she was acting against her nature but about to do it all the same. Whatever Eustace said to her had made an impression, because Louisa opened the door and ran down the steps, not bothering to put on her coat against the cold. Helen called after her, yelling her name and not caring who heard, but Louisa put her head down and hurried around the corner as if someone was chasing her.

• • •

Neither Eustace nor Paris seemed any different from usual at supper that night. Paris talked about her new dress for the party and offered to help Florence with her hair. Dublin lobbied his father for special dispensation to stay up late the next night on account of the party. Everything was so normal, in fact, that Helen felt disoriented. So she pleaded exhaustion, asked Florence and Paris to take care of the supper dishes, and excused herself. She went upstairs to her bedroom and sat by the window, considering what to say to Eustace. Of course she wished she knew the particulars
of what Louisa had seen. Was it a kiss? Or something more? A wave of nausea reached up her throat at the thought. She fought it off—she shouldn't let her imagination run off with her sense—and resolved to call Louisa the next day. After a night's reflection, she might be more amenable to talk. And Helen wanted to talk to her because Louisa was the nearest thing to a friend she had.