The Atheist's Daughter (18 page)

Feeling his heart quicken, he picked the mail up and carried it inside. Throwing most of the collection into the trash, he placed the envelope on the polished surface of his dining table. Hesitant to read it, he left it there while he showered and shaved.

A towel over his shoulders, Martin walked barefoot into the dining room. Dressed in boxer shorts and a loose t-shirt, he checked for the envelope, suddenly and absurdly frightened it might be gone.

There it is
, he thought.
Of course, it is. What did you think? You’d imagined it?

He examined the white rectangle more closely. His name and home address was written in green letters. It was Chandra’s handwriting, as flowing and delicate as ever. She’d used a colored pen, as she often did when writing personal correspondence.

A Lincoln Memorial stamp was affixed to the envelope’s upper right-hand corner. Overlying the stamp was its postmark:
Phoenix, Arizona
, dated six days ago.  No return address was listed.

His cursory investigation finished, he returned the envelope to the dining room table. It was a little bit of Chandra, ready to be heard, and he’d let her speak. For now, it was her turn to wait.

Filling a cereal bowl with bran flakes and skim milk, he brought it to the table. Eating his breakfast, he wondered what she might have written.

Did she miss him? Did she want to return to Winterhaven? Return to their home, share his bed, build new memories?

He chewed on a mouthful of bran. This wasn’t all about Chandra, anymore. Now, what he wanted mattered, too. Did he want her back? She’d left so quickly, barely saying anything.

“I have to find myself.” All she had to do was look in a mirror. “I have to find myself.” It made no sense. It certainly wasn’t reason enough to leave a man, a husband, after forty-one years.

Did he still love her?

I do
, he decided,
but there will have to be changes.

They’d go to counseling, that was a given. There was an experienced marital counselor in Lincoln City, he’d heard some terrific things about her practice. The service was pricey but professionals didn’t come cheap. The rent from the café would help with the expense.

They’d both made mistakes. Things might never be as they once were but that didn’t mean they couldn’t have good times again.

Since she’d finally “found herself” and all.

He pushed the empty cereal bowl aside. Using the edge of his spoon handle, he slit the envelope open. There were three small pages folded inside and he shook them out.

The letter was dated from almost two weeks earlier and Chandra’s handwriting filled each page. As with the envelope, there was no return address listed.

“My dearest Martin
,
”
he read and his heart fell. He was never her “dearest Martin” unless she needed to share some bad news.

He read through the letter carefully. Chandra wasn’t returning home. She loved him and would always love him but not in the old way. They’d had some wonderful years together and she admitted things might have been different if they’d had children – but that was a joy denied them. It had always been just the two of them.

Not even that, now
, he thought.
She’s building a new life. There isn’t anyone else but she doesn’t want me, either.

It’s over. We’re over.

Everything is over.

He carefully folded the pages closed before tucking them into their sleeve. Not certain where he should store her letter, he left it on the table. He carried his dirty bowl and spoon over to the sink. Rinsing them, he placed them in the dishwasher.

Martin went into the living room and settled into his recliner. Picking up the remote control, he turned on the television. On screen instantly, a pair of talking heads chattered to one another about the previous night’s sports scores.

He heard the two men speaking but, for the life of him, he couldn’t make any sense of the words they were saying. Burying his face in his hands, he started to cry.

* * *

Mr. Brass slammed the hammer down. It struck the nail’s head, driving it through the drywall and into the stud behind it. Pinching the nail between his fingers, he checked to see if its bite felt solid. Locked in the wood, it refused to move.

Raising a mirror to the wall, he centered the teeth of its mounting bracket over the nail. Once it was flush with the wall, he released it and admired his handiwork. The mirror stayed in place, holding at face-level and perfectly square.

“Not bad,” he told himself.

Mr. Brass grinned at his reflection. He could see every wrinkle, every scar. No matter how he turned his head, he could see his flesh in every detail.

The sight of his own face was a rush.

Carrying a large stainless steel colander, Mr. Locke entered behind him. “What are you doing?”

“It’s a mirror.” Mr. Brass tugged at an ear, watching it stretch at the side of his head.

“What a waste.” Mr. Locke thumped the colander onto a prep table.

“It would be for you,” he agreed. “What would you use it for? To look at the walls behind you? To stare through your face at the walk-in refrigerator?”

He laughed. Opening his shirt, he ran a hand over the black hair on his chest. “The first few weeks always feel so good. Sometimes you forget how good it can feel.”

“Seems like you forget about the smell, too. I can smell the flesh on you. The stench of humanity. You stink like they do.”

“Hungry?” Mr. Brass remained at the mirror. It was a pleasure to watch his red lips move, to see the yellow of his teeth when they parted. “I’ll bet you are. I’ll bet you’re starving. It’s been such a long time.”

Mr. Locke remained at the table, unmoving. He stared down at the colander, hatred carved into his face.

“It’s worse when you’re new. The need is sharper. The desire to feed claws at you, doesn’t it?”

Nothing from the pupae. He refused to meet his eyes.

“You need to look at me, Mr. Locke,” he said. “Look at my mouth. I want you to see me talk. I want you to know I’m telling the truth.”

Mr. Locke lifted his head.

Mr. Brass said, “Mrs. Norton told me, we’re not in a hurry here. We’ll take our time. We want to enjoy our stay in Winterhaven.”

“That all? You done?”

“Not quite,” Mr. Brass told him. “You know what else she said?” He leaned forward. “You. Feed. Last.”

Mr. Locke slammed his fist, striking the colander. It flew from the table, tumbling across the room. By the time it struck the floor, Mr. Locke was rushing out of the building.

Mr. Brass turned to the mirror. He blew against the glass, watching it fog in front of him.

It’s a wonderful life.

* * *

Plumping the pillow under her head, Kristin rolled over on her bed.

How many worst days of your life is one person supposed to have, anyway?
she wondered.
Shouldn’t there be a limit on this kind of thing?

The first time she could remember having the worst day of her life was in the fourth grade. It was a Wednesday afternoon and the Trio of Evil chased her home, throwing rocks at her the whole way. While her neighbors delighted in the notoriety of Winterhaven’s very own town triplets, Kristin lacked their sense of civic pride. She’d never been happier than when the moving trucks arrived to carry Cindy, Carla and Cassandra Dougherty away from her elementary school and off to Wareham, Massachusetts.

Another “worst day” was the Monday she was admitted to Kendall Sanitarium. That particular day, immediately and impossibly, grew even more terrible, turning into the worst year of her life.

But I’m tired of thinking about you, Dr. Ron. Not tonight.

She’d experienced the worst evening of her life during the Junior Prom. Hawkins was her date and, modestly, she thought she looked fairly spectacular. For her, anyway, her particular kind of spectacular. But, it turned out, she’d read his signals as badly as possible. Before the end of the evening, he’d been forced to give her the Best Friends Forever speech.

He said he liked her more than any other girl he’d ever met but not in THAT way. He’d only taken her to the prom because she’d asked – and because Lisa McCarthy had broken up with him three weeks earlier. Their mutual embarrassment had been intense.

Fortunately, by the end of the evening, BFF had prevailed. When the night was over, they’d even gone bowling together. It was almost fun in a
Let’s-burn-the-prom-pictures
kind of way.

The Trio was bad, Doctor Ron was terrible, and the prom had left an emotional scar. But none of them qualified as the very worst day of her life. The absolute pinnacle of awful had arrived yesterday.

Finding Susannah’s body, almost invisible in the tub, was a horrible thing. Talking to Sheriff Archer and experiencing another vision was troubling, too. Coming home to find her mother sobbing had only deepened the tragedy.

As soon as she entered the house, her mother had clutched at her, devastated by the loss of her friend and frightened about the possible damage to Kristin’s psyche. The two of them sat together, weeping for hours. It was definitely a ten on the one to ten scale, her most terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day.

She rolled onto her side to look at the bedside alarm clock.
Almost noon.
She still felt exhausted.

She heard a noise from downstairs. It sounded like her mother and Martin Piotrowski.

Dressing quickly, she splashed water over her face before scraping a brush through her hair. In the living room, her mother was standing by the sofa, talking to a man in a black suit.

“Mister Piotrowski?”

Seeing her, he smiled wanly. Kristin felt alarmed. In the few days since they’d last met, he seemed to have aged ten years.

“I’ve been telling him about Susannah,” Becky said.

Martin raised his arms and Kristin went to him. He squeezed her tightly. Within his embrace, she heard him choke back a sob.

“And we have another visitor.” Becky stepped aside, allowing Kristin to see the glass frame of a middle-aged woman. “This is Mrs....” Her words trailed off.

“Norton,” Mrs. Norton said. “Kristin and I have met before. She came to the café.”

“Mrs. Norton. How could I forget? Mrs. Norton.” To her daughter, Becky said, “She’s been to my gallery.”

“Several times now.”

“She likes my new work. Not my landscapes, my serious work. She wants me to paint her portrait.”

Becky angled her body so only Kristin could see what was in her hands. Excitedly, she revealed a piece of paper. It was a check with a large number written in the dollar column. Mrs. Norton’s signature was at the bottom of the check.

“You should know, I’m fairly particular in my tastes,” Mrs. Norton warned. “It may take weeks and weeks for us to get things the way I like them.”

“That’s fine with me,” Becky said, creasing the check in half and half again.  “We can take as long as you like.” Sliding the square of paper into the front pocket of her jeans, she turned to her client. “Is there a Mr. Norton?”

“Not anymore.” Mrs. Norton met Kristin’s eyes. “I ate him.”

Her crystalline face never wavered. Stumbling back, Kristin collapsed onto the sofa. “She – she’s not lying.”

Becky and Martin laughed politely.

“Anyone for fresh pumpkin bread?” Becky asked, heading for the kitchen.

“Love some,” Martin said.

Mrs. Norton waited until they’d left. To Kristin, she said, “Your home suffers from a lack of style, doesn’t it? It really could use a decorator’s hand.”

Kristin remained on the sofa. “I like it.”

“It’s rude to tell others when a person is lying,” Mrs. Norton said. “You should have learned this by now.”

“I guess I’m a little slow.”

“I know, dear. I expect everyone does.” She checked to see if Becky or Martin were returning.  “I think your mother is a talented artist.”

Schhhct!
Her mouth blurred as plates of glass dropped in front of it.

“Why must you be such a bother?” Mrs. Norton asked, the words muffled behind their barrier before –
Schhhct!
– her mouth reappeared. “You come to my restaurant and worry my staff. You snoop about. You think you’re clever when, really, you’re nothing but an aggravation. Too foolish to let well enough alone.”

Kristin stayed very still upon the sofa. Her heart thumped inside her chest, beating fast.

“I came here to keep an eye on you. I thought we might come to...an accommodation. A fool’s errand, I’m afraid. You censor yourself so poorly. Just now, you didn’t have the slightest hesitation in telling the others what you’d seen. That won’t do. That won’t do at all.”

Mrs. Norton let a disappointed frown tug at her mouth. “In centuries past, the town elders would have burned your kind as a witch. I’d have helped them light the pyre.”