Mother (13 page)

“Hair?”

“Yep. That’s what all of these are.” She pointed to a stack next to the desk.

“Whose hair?”

“Some of it’s hers. Some of it belongs to friends -
 
after all, what’s a better gift than a necklace or bracelet made out of your own hair? And most of it - like this - belonged to Tim.”

Jason cringed. “Oh, my God. You’re pulling my leg.”

Claire shook her head.

“But how did she-”

“She had his hair cut short for the funeral. She said he looked like a hippie. He wasn’t even safe from her criticism in death.” She took a bracelet with turquoise stones off the desk and held it up. “Anyway, this is what she did with it.” She handed him the accessory and he inspected it, shuddering when he realized the beads and stones were strung together with hair.
 

“She likes to keep him with her at all times. She always wears one of his hair necklaces. Always.”

Bile rose in Jason’s stomach as he recalled Prissy leaning over at dinner to pass him a dish and the necklace had dipped into the Alfredo.
“This necklace is very precious to me,”
she’d said. He remembered her sucking the cheese off the hair necklace. Queasy, he told himself that grief was a powerful emotion and had strange effects on people.
But the guy’s been dead for years.
“You knew and you brought the Alfredo back to the apartment?”

Claire shrugged. “It went down the garbage disposal. Now, let me show you her bedroom.”
 

“May I come in, Father Andrew?” Priscilla Martin smiled at him and he could’ve sworn she batted her eyelashes, but that was probably just the dregs of his headache, dull now, soothed with Guinness and Excedrin and a nap; a nap cut far too short.
 

“Uh, yes.” He stepped back and she entered, her soft lavender skirt swirling gracefully around her knees. The matching jacket was unbuttoned now, and the ivory shell beneath it revealed her horrid hair necklace and more cleavage than he was comfortable with. It wasn’t at all outrageous, though, and in fact, he was pretty sure his reaction was all about that Guinness and the headache. He felt groggy, a little stupid.

She turned to face him and held up a bottle of Merlot. “This vintage is guaranteed to cure headaches.”

“That’s very kind of you, Priscilla, but I’m afraid wine disagrees with me.”

“This won’t.” With her free hand, she touched the hair necklace. Its golden beads shone in the lamplight. It held an amber pendant that matched her disturbingly pale eyes.
 

“Reds are particularly hard on my system,” he told her. “I’m sorry. It’s very thoughtful of you.”

“Well then, I’ll have a glass if you don’t mind.”

“Um, if you want.”

“And I’ll give you this.” She brought a small plastic pill case out of her purse and opened one compartment. “This is a very mild painkiller - just a little acetaminophen with a teensy dash of codeine. It will fix you right up.”

“That’s a prescription drug.”

She smiled. “And I’m here to prescribe it for you.” She paused. “My dear boy, you do know I’m a nurse, don’t you?”

“Uh, I thought you were retired.”

She laughed. “I keep my license up to date because I’m my poor husband’s full-time nurse. Now, you go ahead and take this.”

“I just drank a beer, so I don’t think I should.”

“Nonsense. It’s fine. You’re a strapping young man. It’ll make you feel better.”

“No, really, it’s okay. The headache is almost gone. Excedrin worked just fine.”

“You know that has caffeine in it, don’t you?” Priscilla lifted the amber pendant and let it drop inside her blouse, against skin.

“Yes, I do.”

Her eyebrow arched. “That can make your heart race.”

He forced a smile. “I rely on coffee to do that every morning.” He saw annoyance flash in her eyes and he nearly accepted the pill, not to swallow, just to please her, but decided against it. “I’ll get you your glass of wine.”

“And I don’t want to drink alone, Father.” Priscilla practically purred. “I want you to have a beer with me, at least.”
 

In the kitchen, he poured a modest glass of wine, then opened the fridge and started to take out a Guinness.
Wait a minute. I really don’t want this
. He put it back and withdrew a can of Orange Crush instead.
 

Returning, he handed the wine glass to Priscilla Martin, who had perched on his sofa. He returned to his easy chair.
 

“Cheers,” said Priscilla, saluting him with the Merlot.
 

“Cheers,” he replied, hefting the orange soda.
 

She looked shocked and truly irritated when he popped the top. “Seriously, Father? Soda?”

“It’s my favorite. I only allow myself one soda a day. This is my second, so it’s a rare treat.”

“Very well, Father.” Priscilla Martin crossed her ankles and fingered the amber pendant through her blouse. “Now, let’s talk about the homeless situation and how we can most painlessly deal with it.”

Father Andy groaned.

Star-Spangled Angel

“Mother’s bedroom,” Claire said, opening a door directly across the hall from the craft room. This one sported a massive pink hydrangea wreath that matched the oversized bouquet on the side table. Unlike the other arrangements, these were dust-free. “Gentlemen first.”

Jason walked in and stopped cold. “Holy crap! There are dogs on her bed! One’s looking at me! I didn’t know she had dogs.” He hesitated. “Hey guys… girls, good dogs …”

“Don’t bother, Jason. They’re dead.” Claire walked to the foot of the bed. “That was Chopsticks,” she said, pointing to a brown and white shih tzu nestled on the left-hand pillow. “The one looking at you was General Tso, and the black and white one on the right was Wonton.”

Jason couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d heard of people stuffing pets, but having them on her bed was the most morbid thing he’d ever seen. “They have names?”
 

“Of course. These were her beloved pets.” Claire grinned. “Mother never lets go of anything.”

“Tell me she doesn’t sleep with them. Please.”

Claire patted Wonton’s head. “I don’t know for sure, but probably. She did when I was a kid. But there were only two then. The third one was living and he wasn’t allowed to sleep on the bed until after she had him freeze-dried.”

“That’s too creepy, Claire.” He shuddered.

Her smile could fracture glass. “Tell me about it.”

Jason made himself step closer and inspected the blank marble eyes and glazed noses.
 

“They gave me nightmares when I was little.” By her tone, he wondered if the bad dreams had ever stopped.

“How old are they?”

“I only remember Wonton. I grew up with him. General Tso died right before I was born, and Chopsticks, his replacement, was hit by a car when I was only three.”

“She must have really loved those dogs.” He was trying hard to put a good spin on it.

“She still does, obviously.” Claire looked at him. “You want to hear about the quilt? She made it herself.”

The quilt had a lot of colors and appeared to be made of all kinds of materials, with a lot of blue denim stars sewn into it. It was well-made but odd, and old-looking. “Um, do I want to know?”

Claire barked a laugh. “It’s her own design. She calls it ‘Star-Spangled Angel.’”

“Okay… And … What-”

“After my brother died, she cut up his clothes and made the quilt out of them.”

“That’s a little creepy-”

“Oh, there’s more, Jason. There’s more.”

“I can’t even guess …”

“Most of the quilt squares and stars are made of the clothing he was wearing when he died. She added a few other things - some material from his childhood pajamas - see the blue flannel with the little rabbits and the yellow with red fire engines?”

Jason nodded.

“Mother likes lots of color. Now, most of the denim stars are from his death jeans, and the pale blue squares are from the shirt he was wearing - good thing it had long sleeves, huh? And see this white stretchy cloth? T-Shirt.” She bent over and pointed at a square that had an odd overlaid stitching across it that looked vaguely familiar. “I kid you not, tighty-whities - nothing went to waste.” Claire looked ill behind her hard expression.
 

Jason touched one of the white ribbed squares crossed by red stripes. “Socks?”

Claire nodded.

“And she told you all this?”

“I watched her make it. She treats it like it’s a holy relic. I was never allowed to touch it.”

“That is the creepiest thing I’ve ever heard.”

“No it isn’t. There’s more.”

He raised his brows.

“She made it without washing the clothes first. She never washes the quilt. That’s why Wonton wasn’t allowed on it until he died. She wanted to preserve - and I’m using her words, ‘Timothy’s essence.’”

“She wanted to be able to smell him?”

“I believe so. That’s why it’s a little yellowed, too. She only vacuums it. With a special vacuum.” She moved toward the head of the bed and pointed out a discolored blue square. “Vomit,” she said, her voice just short of shaking. “Enough of this. Come over here.”

He followed her to a long desk that held a closed laptop and a small printer. Above it, the wall was filled with evenly spaced framed photographs, all surrounding a flat-screen TV. He looked them over: there was Tim Martin, about ten years old, in his baseball uniform. Another one showed him a few years later, grinning as a giraffe ate something from his palm at a zoo. Next to that, Timothy held a swaddled baby - Claire, he assumed - and Jason realized with a deep sadness for his wife that this was the only picture that included her. Scanning, hoping to see at least one more, he saw Tim as a young man, his golden hair flowing over his shoulders or in a ponytail, photos of Tim in a suit with Prissy on his arm dressed in her Easter finest, photos of him in shorts sunning himself in the back yard. Then Jason’s eyes stopped. He gasped. The picture he stared at was centered in a thick gold frame edged with crosses. It was a close-up of Timothy’s face, eyes closed, his features clearly painted to create a life-like appearance. “Oh, my God. Is he …”

“Dead. Yes.” Claire pointed to a desk against another wall. “She has an entire album of his death portraits in there. She switches them out every so often. Or at least, she used to.”

Jason’s eyes returned to the picture of the dead man, his gaze riveted as he made out a small amount of flesh-colored dust that had flecked the short blond hair, the powdery over-pinkness of the cheeks and lips, and even some tiny pieces of glue at the corners of the straight, grim mouth. “I can’t believe it,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me about this before?”

Claire shrugged. “I don’t like talking about it. I don’t like talking about
her
. Do you want to see Tim’s room?”

Jason hesitated.

“It’s not as bad as this one, I promise.”

He swallowed around the lump in his throat. Following her out, he noticed a framed five by seven atop the dresser in which a young man stood smiling in front of a shiny black classic Mustang. He looked a little like Timothy, but Jason was sure it wasn’t him.

“That’s our cousin, Justin,” explained Claire. “From Madelyn. He died in that car just a few months after that photo was taken. He was street racing.”

“Jesus Christ, Almighty.” Jason’s voice was a hoarse whisper. “I’m so sorry, Claire. Now I understand why you didn’t want to come here.”

She smiled, but it didn’t reach her eyes. “Oh, there’s more,” she said.

The lump in Jason’s throat swelled.

Father Andy’s headache had made a comeback - a drum solo behind his eyelids that would have made Mick Fleetwood proud. It was strong enough he felt it in his teeth. Priscilla Martin was determined to sway him to her belief that every homeless person had to work in exchange for basic shelter. The longer she talked - she was finishing her third glass of wine - the more strident she became. It wasn’t attractive. He understood clearly now that Priscilla Martin’s main motive was to remove the homeless from view. That’s why she insisted they be moved to a camp - she actually said “encampment” during the second glass of wine. Her unchristian belief was that they were an eyesore, and she simply wanted to tuck them neatly away where no “self-respecting citizen of Snapdragon” would ever have to be “subjected” to them.
 

He was very glad he’d skipped the second Guinness - he would have lost his temper and argued with her instead of trying politely to reason. But by her third glass, there was no reasoning at all. He stood up. “It’s getting late and I have an early Mass. May I call you a taxi?”

She fluttered her eyelashes. “Oh, Father Andrew, I’m perfectly capable of driving myself home.”

He almost argued, but held his tongue, telling himself it was pointless because no one ever won an argument with Priscilla Martin. But secretly, he questioned his motives - perhaps he was taking too much delight in the thought of her being arrested and hauled into jail for a DUI.
Priests are only human, after all …
 

She made no move to rise until he crossed to the door and held it open. “I’ll see you at church Sunday morning,” he said.

She stood and came to face him, her scent arousing his already-thudding headache. “Bright and early,” she said, then her hand snaked, and she snatched at his face. “Got’cher nose!” She grinned at him, her Merlot breath competing with her perfume.
 

Andy cringed at her touch. She’d been fingering that hair necklace all night.

She giggled, then turned and walked briskly down the sidewalk to her car with no trace of a drunken stagger. Andy closed the door. Sighing, he returned to his easy chair and closed his eyes.

Priscilla was a good woman in many ways, and good for the church. She was industrious and indefatigable, a strong speaker, able to inspire the other ladies to greater heights. She was a powerful leader. Perhaps, Andy thought, a little too powerful. Her tendency to steamroll might get her thrown out of office as president of the Auxiliary someday soon, and he dreaded that day. Even if she was a bit of a tyrant, he was convinced nothing would go right without her. When Father Dave Flannigan had turned over the reins of Holy Sacramental to him, he’d said as much. Andy wondered what Flannigan really thought of Priscilla Martin.