Mother (48 page)

The Oriental boy - she’d heard he was thirty-five, but you just couldn’t be sure with those people - stared at her, and not in a friendly way. “We won’t be participating this year,” he said. “Obviously.” The word was a coda, cold and unpleasant. He started to shut the door.
 

“Wait.”

He stared at her with suspicious eyes. “What do you want?”

“Is Duane here?”

“He’s at work. So am I.”

“Oh, how nice. You work from home?”

“Yes. What do you want?”

“What do you do for a living?” She cracked a friendly smile. “I’ve always assumed you just take care of the house, and cook, and things.”

“We both work,” the Oriental said, and closed the door right in her face! Fury heated her cheeks and she almost knocked again, but decided it wasn’t worth it. This afternoon, she’d spend a little time researching Duane Pruitt’s boy toy. She didn’t care for the rude little man, not one bit. Not one iota.

She passed the empty Collins house. At least the crime tape had been removed, and she’d seen a van load of Spaniards go in with cleaning tools the other day. Hopefully, it would go up for sale soon and some nice family with a little class would move in.

She swept past Barbara’s house without even looking at the snapdragon garden.
Ungrateful woman.
Prissy couldn’t believe her behavior.
After all I’ve done for her, how could she turn on me like that?
Maybe she’d apologize before the potluck, but Prissy was prepared to make do without her and her hot dogs.
She’ll come to her senses sooner or later.
Barbara had shocked her with talk of running against her for president, but it was talk and nothing more. Barbara didn’t have that kind of backbone.

Young snapdragons shot up around a tree on Lance Etheridge’s front lawn. Nothing special, but an attempt, no doubt by Iris. She left a note instructing them to supply pizzas and a warming tray, then crossed the street and left a note for the Crockers, telling them to bring a three-bean salad. She noticed that Bettyanne had done a pretty good job with her snapdragons. Even if she was a klepto, she was good in the garden.
 

Something tickled Claire’s nose. She batted it away and turned her face deep into her pillow.
What is that
awful
smell?
She opened her eyes and gasped.

Eyes, glossy and black, like pools of motor oil, stared back at her. She recoiled, shot up and instinctively pulled the bed sheets tight. The stuffed shih tzu - Chopsticks - tumbled off the bed. Placid and freeze-dried in their eternal positions, the other two dogs rested at her feet.
Why? Why are they here?
 

Her eyes darted across the room.
Mother? Did she bring them? She must have. But why?
It seemed unlikely. Dead or alive, no one was allowed to touch those dogs. Claire couldn’t imagine Mother doing this.
But who?

She glared at the dead pets. Both faced her, positioned so the marble eyes could pin her in their vacant, glassy, black stares. “Fuck you.” She kicked and both fell to the floor.
 

What’s that god-awful smell?
It hung in the air, thick and cloying, the chemical fumes burning her nose and making her eyes water. She got out of bed, stared at the stuffed dogs scattered on the floor, and headed toward the door, toward the source of the sharp smell. She peered out. There was no sign of Mother, but the scent was stronger here. It wafted from Timothy’s old room.
 

She looked both ways, then tried the knob, turning it with care. It moved a fraction of an inch and stopped.
Locked. Of course Mother locked it.
Claire jiggled the knob, then knocked, lightly at first, then harder. “Hello? Is anyone in there?” Tim’s room, like her own and the bathroom, had an old-fashioned skeleton key lock, so she balanced carefully and bent to look through the keyhole. She saw nothing - Mother had covered the opening.
To keep me from looking inside!
 

Only silence from within.

She stood there, enveloped in the fumes wafting from the locked room, trying to make sense of the smell, the dogs. It was useless. In order to complete a puzzle, you had to start with the pieces. But the pieces of this one were blank and held no discernible shape. There wasn’t even a starting point.
 

I’m losing my mind.
The recurring thought was a hot spark from a popping fire, and she recoiled from it, pushed it away.
No. I am not going crazy. I am not!

 
She returned to her room, half expecting the stuffed dogs to have mysteriously disappeared, but they remained. There was bittersweet comfort in that, and it occurred to Claire that this was a strange thing to take relief in; a signal of how abnormal her life had become.
 

She sat at the edge of the bed, trying to think; but no matter what route she took, her mind kept bumping into the same thought:
I’m losing it.
Like bumper cars in an overcrowded rink, bumping and colliding into the same horrible thought:

I’mlosingmymindI’mlosingmymindI’mlosingmymind.
   

She needed to keep herself busy. Though Jason probably hadn’t even landed in Denver yet, she felt his absence - a sense of being alone, exposed, unsafe. It bothered her that she’d become so vulnerable, so … weak.
 

She gathered the dogs and carried them back to Mother’s room, no easy feat with crutches. She placed them carefully on the bed in the same positions she’d seen them the first time. After that, she returned to her room. Deciding to throw herself into work, she opened her laptop and booted up.

I am not going crazy and I won’t check to see if Timothy has reappeared on Facebook.
 

The Dunworth sisters were obviously home. Priscilla surveyed their property with distaste. They had a pot of snapdragons near their front porch, but they hadn’t planted a thing in the soil. Their yard was stark with bald patches on the winter-yellow lawn. Only a few juniper hedges under their picture window graced the house, which was badly in need of paint. She’d have to talk to them about that, but not today. Instead, she left a note asking them to bring cases of water and soda pop. Surely, they could afford that.

Next door, she saw Earlene Dean’s Range Rover in the driveway. Glancing across at Duane’s house, knowing it was unlikely he’d do his part, Prissy walked to the Deans’ front door and rang the bell. She could hear a TV babbling. There were no snapdragons anywhere to be seen, but that was typical. She knocked and waited.
Enough’s enough! They shouldn’t live on Morning Glory Circle if they can’t participate in our events.
She would ask them to donate some cookies and candy to the potluck. She knocked again and the television snapped off. She waited.

No one came to the door.
Is she trying to pretend she’s not there? Is she really that stupid?
Tapping her foot, Prissy rang the bell twice more, then heard a door opening and closing at the rear of the house and the beeps of a car door being unlocked. Earlene, in her Fudge Depot uniform, stepped into the vehicle, not even bothering to look her way.
 

Prissy went down the walk and blocked the driveway. Earlene backed toward her, and laid on the horn until Prissy stepped aside. When Earlene was even with her, she put her hand on the open window ledge. “Did you not hear the bell, Mrs. Dean? Or my knocking?”

“I don’t ansswer the door,” the woman said, her odd brown eyes not quite looking in the same direction. “I have to get to work.” She tapped the gas, but Prissy hung tight.

“This weekend is the spring potluck block party.”

Earlene stared at her. “What’sss your point?”

“We would appreciate it if you would contribute something to the event.”

Earlene stared hard then finally spoke. “We don’t have time for that. Sssaturday is our busiessst day.” She sounded like a tire losing air.
 

“You live here and-”

“Yesss, we do. And we pay our taxess and mow our lawn, ssso leave usss alone.” She revved the engine and started backing again.
 

Prissy stepped back and spoke under her breath. “I know all about you and your husband and those kids of yours, you filthy depraved abomination. You’ll change your tune, or
everyone
will know.” Earlene only blinked at her like a placid cow and pulled onto the street. Prissy watched the SUV turn onto Daisy Drive, then moved on.

Aida Portendorfer’s snapdragon garden was Prissy’s only real competition, but as she approached the front door, she didn’t worry about it - she would win. Mayor McDonald would see to it. Smiling, she knocked on the door and after a moment, Stan opened it. He smiled but the dog, Poopie-Head or something, started barking. “Hello, Prissy,” Stan said. “Aida’s in the shower. What can I do for you?”

“Two things. Our little spring potluck is this weekend and I wanted to remind you that if you’re inviting extra guests, make sure each one brings something to share. I also wanted to confirm that Aida’s making her famous chili. And cornbread, of course.”

“I think she’s planning on it,” Stan said.

“Planning on what?” Aida, her hair wrapped in a towel, shushed Poopie-Head -
thank heaven!
- then joined Stan.
 

“Chili and cornbread for Saturday?” Prissy asked.

“Of course, wouldn’t miss it. Prissy?”

“Yes?”

“Is your daughter alright?”

“Of course. Why do you ask?”

“I ran into Babs yesterday, and she was worried about her.”

Prissy saw red, but bit it back. “Carlene is fine. I think Barbara is having a little trouble with the change of life. It’s affecting her judgement. Don’t take her too seriously; I’m sure it will pass, the poor dear.”

“Good. She’s such a sweet soul, isn’t she? I hope she’s not having the night sweats.”

Prissy nodded. “I need to get home and see how Carlene’s doing. Talk to you later.”

She turned and headed to the Stine home. Phyllis’ car was in the driveway, but she didn’t even want to look at Phyllis with her stretched-out mummy skin. Instead she left a note asking for an extra-large lasagne.

The Halloween house was the last one. She couldn’t stand the Lowells. They were slippery and ugly and had motorcycles. Their flowerbeds were blooming as well as Prissy’s and Aida’s, but that didn’t mean much when people lacked class. She put a note in their box asking for an assortment of chips and cupcakes, then returned home.

Prissy poured a big glass of icy cold milk, then headed upstairs with it. Carlene had napped after breakfast, and mentioned she might nap again after lunch. Prissy knew that such exhaustion was normal during pregnancy. Sleep was important, but so was her afternoon milk.
 

Upstairs, she tapped on Carlene’s door.

“Come in.” Her voice was clipped and when Priscilla entered she realized her daughter was hard at work - and that, indeed, she did not look well.
Too thin. And her pallor is disturbing.
 

“I hope I didn’t interrupt you, dear. I just wanted to bring you your milk. I’ll be back with a snack as soon as you tell me what you’d like me to make.” She set the milk down on the desk beside Carlene, who kept her eyes on her computer screen.

“I’m not hungry, Mother. But thank you.”

“You have to
eat,
Car-Claire. You-”

“I said I’m fine.” Carlene turned and met her eyes for the first time and Priscilla saw something in them: a spark of anxiety. “Do you smell that, Mother?”

Prissy frowned. “Smell what, dear?”

“I don’t know. I’ve smelled it all morning. It comes and goes before I can identify it.”

Prissy sniffed the air. “No, honey. I don’t smell anything unusual at all. Tell me, dear, are you … smelling anything
else
? Oranges?”
 

Carlene shook her head. “I’m not having a seizure, Mother. You’re confusing me with Jason.”
 

“Well, there are a lot of things that can cause this kind of-”

“I’m fine, Mother. I need to keep working. I’m sorry, but I’m on a deadline. Thank you for the milk.”

Prissy watched her daughter a moment, but when she sensed Carlene growing impatient, she left the room. She stood in the hall, straightened the wreath - dried white roses - on Carlene’s door, then took a few steps and paused to straighten a framed photograph of Timothy’s graduation that had been knocked askew. She
tsk
ed, kissed her fingertip and touched her son’s handsome smile, then headed into her bedroom where she got out a change of clothes. That’s when she noticed the dogs.

General Tso, Chopsticks, and Won Ton were right where they belonged, but something wasn’t right, and as she neared, she realized the problem. Chopsticks
always
faced the closet. Now he faced the dresser.
 

Claire turned in her desk chair when the door opened. Mother, face red, nostrils flaring, stared at her.
 

“You forgot to knock.” Claire kept her voice steady, neutral, just like her gaze. She would not let her mother see the anxiety that was eating at her like a cancer.

Mother opened her mouth, then shut it. Long seconds passed before she spoke. “Why were you in my bedroom, Claire?”

Mother’s voice was calm, but Claire knew it was an act. It had to be. “I was returning the stuffed dogs that, for reasons I
cannot
comprehend, you brought into my room.” Worry tightened its metal bands around her skull. She felt dizzy.

Mother blinked. “Excuse me?
What
are you talking about?”

“Those damned stuffed shih tzus. They were here when I woke up, so I think the real question is why did
you
come into
my
room?”

The hard glint in Mother’s eyes dimmed and turned into something worse: concern.

“Oh, Claire, darling.” She wrung her hands. “Why don’t you take a break from work and tell me what happened? I think you’re overdo-”

“Do you mean to tell me you’re going to
deny
it, Mother?” Her thoughts raced. This couldn’t be happening.
Is she lying to me? She has to be lying!