Mother (24 page)

“Whatever. Go, Car-laire. Be a good girl.”

Claire nodded and let herself out the front door, looking none too happy.
 

Priscilla turned to Andy. “Please excuse Carlene’s manners. She’s going to have a baby and you know how that plays with the emotions.”
 

He didn’t know, nor did he think Claire was irritable because of her pregnancy. Priscilla had a way of making everybody irritable. Even priests. “Let’s forgo the tea, Priscilla. I’d like to pay my respects to a few of your neighbors. I just couldn’t get here any earlier. I’m sorry.”

“I can guess who you’re going to visit. You needn’t bother with Barbara. She has a lot of work to do and shouldn’t be disturbed; she’s been in quite a mood today and, trust me, you want no part of that. As for Phyllis, she’ll still be out there after dark - she’s not very good at putting things away, you know. So you have plenty of time to see her.” She sighed. “And poor Geneva-Marie, I suppose you intend to see her as well? I’m afraid she’s had to stop work early today due to her husband’s indiscretion.” She lowered her voice. “As I’m sure you know, Burke drinks quite a bit.”
 

Andy didn’t know, and it wasn’t Priscilla’s place to tell him. He wanted to say so, but held his tongue. “I’m sorry to hear that. I trust Geneva-Marie is safe and sound?”

“She can take care of herself.” Priscilla paused, her face darkening. “It’s difficult when you’ve been humiliated in public, you know. Very difficult. I should know.”
 

Apple Tree
ended and immediately restarted, reminding Andy Pike once again of the invasive nightmare. He shuddered.
 

“Is something wrong, Father?”

“Just a little chill.”

“Well, let me get us our tea. We’ll be naughty and have cannoli with it.” She fished the necklace out of her blouse and rubbed the amber pendant it held. He cringed, seeing the golden hair of her dead son strung between the beads and resolved to call Dave Flannigan when he got home. He would buy his old mentor a steak and a beer and find out what he could about Priscilla Martin.
 

He waited while Priscilla bustled around in the kitchen. Five minutes passed then she came out with a silver tray holding a steaming white teapot, cannoli, and all the accoutrements. Placing it on the coffee table, she sat down and patted a spot by her on the sofa. “Do join me, Father.” She smiled with her lips but not her eyes. In the background, the Andrews Sisters kept telling him with whom he was allowed to sit under the apple tree.

Reluctantly, feeling pushed around, he moved to the pastel sofa. Priscilla handed him a cannoli on a silver doily on a bone china plate.
Straight from Bartoli’s.
 

“Sugar?”

“Yes, please.”

She picked up tiny silver tongs. “One lump or two, Father?”

Her hairy necklace drooped as she bent forward, brushing over the sugar cubes. “You know, I think I’ll stick with black, today.”
 

“I guess you’re just sweet enough on your own, aren’t you Father?” She batted her lashes.

He tried to smile, but couldn’t take his eyes off the corpse-hair necklace. He wished she’d slip it back inside her blouse.

“I wanted to talk to you about moving the homeless shelter-”

“I’m sorry, I’m not comfortable talking about it without the rest of the Auxiliary present. Especially since it looks like we’re going to have an actual election this year.” With very little difficulty, he met Priscilla’s gaze and held it. “Do you have campaign plans?”
 

Priscilla didn’t miss a beat. “Of course I do. Don’t I always campaign?”

“Surely you do, but in the time I’ve been here, you’ve never had an opponent. Will that influence your campaign?”

Priscilla affected a little “O” with her lips. “I see you’ve heard the rumors as well.” She smiled and sipped her tea. “I can assure you, Father, that after today’s scandal, there will be no opponent. Geneva-Marie will be in no mood to run.” Her eyes twinkled. “And even if she did, the earlier spectacle will certainly sway the voters’ opinions. This church relies on the strength and stability of its leaders and I trust the ladies to make the right choice.” She took another dainty sip of tea, pinkie erect, her eyes fixed on Andy.

He lifted his cup and sipped. The tea was acrid and unpleasant, but he didn’t show his distaste.
 

“Well, how is it?” she asked.

Andy made a noncommittal noise. “Well, Priscilla, may the best woman win-”

From outside, there came a scream. A terrible, blood-chilling, frantic scream that brought Andy to his feet.

Priscilla gasped and set her tea down.

Andy was already out the door.

Claire froze as Phyllis Stine’s scream rent the air. Registering the panic, she leapt from her chair and gasped when she saw Jason - he lay in a heap on the lawn, his head bent hard to one side. Claire ran to him.

“One minute we were talking and the next -” Phyllis’ fingers tap-danced around her mouth. “He just … collapsed!” Blue eye shadow streamed down her face, making her look like an extra from
Braveheart
.

“He’s had a seizure!” Claire reached for him, feeling for breath. She gasped when Jason blinked at her. He struggled to sit up. Claire helped.

A crowd had gathered. Phyllis wept into Babs Vandercooth’s shoulder as the priest rounded the corner, out of breath. Mother stalked out behind him.
 

“Call 911!” Babs ordered, steadying Phyllis, who flailed and teetered and bawled.

Jason held up his hand. “No. Don’t.” His voice was clear and firm.

“But-” Claire began.

“No. I’m fine.” He got to his feet, his movements steady.

The priest, Father Andy, made a move to help him, but Jason waved him off.

“I’m okay, everyone. Please, I’m fine.”

Claire wrapped an arm around his torso. “I know you hate a scene, Jason,” she said under her breath, “but we need to get you to the hospital. You need to be checked out.”

“Fine,” he said.
 

Mother stepped forward. “Oh! Jason honey, are you sure I shouldn’t call an ambulance? I really think you need medical atten-”

“No.” Jason’s tone left no room for argument. “No ambulance.”

Mother worried her necklace. “Well, at least let me drive you to the hosp-”

“Claire’s taking me, thank you.”

Claire caught the look Mother flashed her. She hated not having the spotlight.

Father Andy cleared his throat. “I’ll follow you there. It’s on my way-”

Mother stepped forward. “I’m sure that’s not necessary, Fath-”

“Thank you, Father,” said Claire. “We appreciate it.”

Mother let go of her necklace, her eyes hard and cold.

They made their way to the car, the entire neighborhood staring after them in silence, except Phyllis, who still wept as if it were her tragedy.
 

Mother stood stock-still, hands on hips, glaring as Father Andy got into his little blue Honda.
 

New Disgusting Things

“Botox,” Claire said. “This vial had Botox in it.” She glanced at Jason who was resting in his recliner after the blessedly uneventful hospital trip. They’d been home for hours, and keeping Jason still had been difficult - he was fine, but the doctor had prescribed rest for the evening. The TV still wasn’t connected to the satellite dish, so they had the radio on. Classic rock and the crazy DJ named Coastal Eddie poured in from KNDL Radio across the state. As always, the music was good and Jason kept chuckling over the DJ’s dire pronouncements about various apocalypses and alien invasions - and vampires of all things - but Claire felt like punching the jock in the neck.
People are such fools sometimes. I bet a lot of listeners actually buy that horseshit he’s selling.
She glanced at Jason. He had his hands behind his head and a relaxed smile on his face. The doctor had given him a Xanax.
 

Coastal Eddie’s voice startled Claire. “That was Gracie Slick and Jefferson Airplane performing
White Rabbit.
One pill makes you larger, and one makes you small. But remember, kiddies, the ones that Mother gives you don’t do anything at all. But the ones Uncle Harold has are killer.”

Claire glanced at the radio and rolled her eyes. “Jase?”

“Um hmm?”

“Why would a Botox vial be in Dad’s trash can?”

Jason sat up. “Your mother uses Botox, that’s pretty obvious by that smooth forehead of hers. Maybe she shoots herself up in there?”

“Do people give themselves Botox injections?” Claire asked.

“I don’t know, but she’s a nurse, right?”

“Right.” Claire turned back to the computer and read a moment. “Apparently, medical types giving themselves injections is common enough.” She paused. “But why does she do it in Dad’s room?”

“Well, he has that big magnifying lamp in there by the mirror. She probably uses it for accuracy.”

Claire nodded. “Makes sense. I’ve heard a badly placed injection can really screw up your face.” She stifled her amusement. “You know, she’s so vain that I’m surprised she would do it herself.”

Jason padded into the kitchen. “Maybe she doesn’t even want the doctor to see her wrinkles. Do you want hot cocoa?”

“Sure, with whipped cream on top. And sprinkles. If we don’t have any sprinkles we need to get some. Oh! And get those cupcakes out that Candy gave us, too. I can’t stop thinking about them!”

“You’re not eating for two or anything, are you?” Jason brought the gift bag of cupcakes to the table and kissed the top of Claire’s head. She looked up and kissed his chin. “I feel like I’m eating for three.” Or four, if she were completely honest.

She’d saved the cupcakes for last. Since getting home from the hospital three hours earlier, they’d had tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches, put away an entire half gallon of milk - well, Jason only had one big glass - then eaten almost a full dozen of Babs’ fruit and chocolate bars. Well, Jason had eaten three; she’d had seven.
I’m going to have to watch what I eat.
She smiled to herself.
I’ll start tomorrow.

Jason brought the hot chocolate and asked, “So, the empty pill bottle - what was it for?”

Claire’s thoughts returned to her father. “Blood pressure pills, nothing too interesting. Mild dose.” She sipped hot chocolate. “Mmm. You know, now I can’t stop seeing Mother sitting in that room under the lamp shooting her forehead up. That’s a creepy image, isn’t it?”

Jason laughed. “You’re thinking about this way too much.” He smiled. “To be honest, I don’t really care what she does to herself up there.”

“I
do
care about what happens to Dad, though.”

“He’s survived this long alone with her.”

Her husband was right. She snuggled close to him, successfully fighting the urge to argue. “I’m so glad you’re okay, Jason.”

“Me, too.” He kissed her cheek.

“I wonder where your seizure pills went?”

“They’re probably in plain sight. When your mother called this morning, I rushed downstairs. I didn’t even think about taking one.” He grinned. “Of course I forgot my underwear, too.”

“Well, never miss a dose again, okay?” She looked at him. “Promise me.”

“You think I
like
having seizures?” He laughed. “I won’t forget.”

After getting home, they’d searched for his pills but couldn’t find them. Claire didn’t say it - she had the feeling Jason was tiring of the topic - but it occurred to her that perhaps Mother had taken the pills. They had yet to change the door locks, so she could let herself in if no one was home.
But why? ... Then again, why does Mother do anything?

Geneva-Marie Collins rolled over. It was too hot, and Burke was snoring too loud. It might not have been so disruptive if the man could saw logs with any kind of consistency, but instead he oinked, breathed steadily for a few seconds, and then oinked again. At times, he even stopped breathing altogether. Geneva-Marie realized with a deep sadness that, while this used to worry her, Burke’s sleep apnea no longer concerned her at all. Because she didn’t love him, not even with the generic love you felt for someone you’d known for so many years. She had no feelings left for him, and if it happened that he stopped breathing permanently, her only concern would be the creepy-crawly feeling of waking next to a cold corpse.
And it will be his own fault if that happens anyway.
Sleep apnea and alcoholism weren’t pals.

But Burke’s guttural noises weren’t the only thing keeping Geneva-Marie awake. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Priscilla Martin’s face -
that pinched, superior mouth; those cold, piercing, soulless eyes; that ridiculously perfect ball of tar-colored hair
- and it wouldn’t allow her to relax.

The woman had gotten under Geneva-Marie’s skin. With the failing business, the crumbling marriage, and two sons growing further away from her with each passing day, Geneva-Marie had drawn the conclusion that her only option was simply to stop caring. About anything. This new philosophy was part of why she was running for President of the Auxiliary. Whereas her fear of losing had always prevented her from taking such chances in the past, the Geneva-Marie of today would refuse to care.

Oh, you care plenty.
She thought of the humiliation Burke had rained down on her - and the boys - this afternoon. She’d been mortified. Humiliated down to her toes. She closed her eyes against the memory and shuddered at the thought of what Priscilla Martin must have seen.
And heard.
And what has she told people?
The burn of the earlier embarrassment warmed her cheeks even now.
 

Geneva-Marie was certain of one thing. She was going to stop Priscilla Martin from moving that damned homeless shelter out to the fields by the airport. It was crass to treat the homeless as if they were eyesores, cluttering Prissy’s perfect town. It was heartless, and it wasn’t right. Homeless people weren’t usually homeless by choice, and if the shelter was so far out of town, it would only make finding employment that much more difficult for them. There was nothing noble about Prissy’s idea; it was, as usual, all about Prissy. Though, thanks to Burke, she might not win the presidential campaign, she resolved to stop Priscilla Martin from taking control of even more territory.
She’s already got the whole goddamn neighborhood dancing on puppet strings. I’ll be damned if she’s going to start dictating what happens throughout the
rest
of the town.