The Bad Lady (Novel) (4 page)

“I wonder how long he’ll stick around.”

“Who knows? Probably not long.”

“What does the guy do for a living?” Mrs. Bailey asked. I had no idea why she needed to know all this stuff. I never heard my mother talk about Mrs. Bailey ever.

“He’s a mechanic.”

“A grease monkey?”

“Yup. He’s a regular oil rag man.”

I wanted to scream. Run into the Keller’s kitchen and tell these loudmouth women to shut up. To stop spreading gossip. Somehow, though, I managed to maintain my cool, even though, as I had already mentioned, Mrs. Keller and her nosy neighbor caused me to shed tears.

Finally, for a minute, I did not hear a peep. Relieved, I thought they were done stomping my mother and her boyfriend Rudy Knorr’s name through the mud.

Nope.

I was wrong.

Without warning, over the chinking of silverware being banged around, Mrs. Keller says. “People say that kid Billy Hall’s mother is a modern-day witch.”

That was a lie. It had to be. I associated witches with the devil; my mom and I were Catholic.

“Really?” Mrs. Bailey acted surprised. “Is that what’s been circulating through the neighborhood rumor mill?”

“That‘s right.”

“Stacie, you‘re pulling my leg.”

“No. Seriously, Barb, I heard, this spring, somewhere here in northeastern Ohio, Billy Hall’s mother attended an open ritual at a pagan federation. Supposedly she befriended several witches, who invited her to join their Wicca coven run by a high priestess.”

I did not know what any of that meant, pagan federation, Wicca coven, high priestess, but knew it had to be another made up story.

“Did she join?”

“I’m pretty sure I heard that she did.”

“Christ! Whoa! So your son’s friend in the other room, really has a mom who is a bona fide witch. That’s unbelievable. How can that freak raise a child when she’s clearly not in her proper mind?”

“You‘ve got me,” said Mrs. Keller, rattling more silverware.

“Ssh!”

“Huh?”

“Maybe we should speak a little softer,” Mrs. Bailey suggested, “so that her kid doesn’t hear us.”

“Oh. Don’t worry about Billy,” Mrs. Keller made clear. “That young boy can’t put two and two together. Actually, just between you and me Barb, I think that kid might have a learning disability.”

What? How could she say something like that about me? If not getting straight A‘s on my report card like Mrs. Keller’s son Andrew constituted me as having a learning disability, then I surely had one. Otherwise, I was as normal as any other child.

When Andrew returned to the parlor from outside, I whispered to him heatedly, “Dude, why does your mother always have to bad mouth me and my mom? Every time I come over here it’s the same thing.”

He shrugged. “Billy, I never even listen to what my mom says.”

“You should. She’s always saying mean things.”

“Ah, she just says stuff like that, but she doesn’t mean anything by it.”

“Yes she does. She hates my mom. And she hates me too.”

Andrew did not want to fight. “Billy, can’t we just go back to playing video games, and forget about that?”

“No. I can’t stand you mom. And I can’t stand your bigmouth neighbor Mrs. Bailey either.”

CHAPTER 4

Suddenly Mrs. Keller came into the parlor.

“Billy,” she says, “would you like to stay for dinner? I‘m making chicken.” Sure, now she was being friendly. What a hypocrite.

“Yes,” I replied with a counterfeit smile. “Except I’ll have to call home first to see if I‘m allowed.”

“All right. You do that. Come on in the kitchen.”

I got up and followed her in. Evidently, Mrs. Bailey had departed. I noticed her empty teacup on the table. What a nice person, that Mrs. Bailey, she slipped out the back door without saying goodbye. Not even to Andrew, the straight ‘A’ student.

Mrs. Keller grabbed the phone. “Billy, would you like me to dial your number?”

“No I can do it.” With my index finger, I punched in the digits.

On the second ring, my mother picked up. “Where are you, Billy?” she asked.

“I’m over at Andrew’s house playing video games.” Beside me Mrs. Keller, who had an apron on that had a goofy cartoon chef on the front of it, brushed barbeque sauce onto numerous pieces of chicken breast, which were spread out efficiently on a huge metal pan. On the counter, wrapped in tinfoil, a few Idaho potatoes were also ready to go into the hot oven. “Am I allowed to eat over?”

“Eat over; you’re supposed to be home to set the table. I told you Rudy is coming over. He‘ll be here shortly.”

“I know, but Mrs. Keller wanted to know if I could eat dinner here.” I did not see why my mother would object, since often, when her boyfriend came by; she wanted to be alone with him. In addition, she usually sent me to my room.

“What are they having?”

“Barbeque chicken.”

“Poultry,” she says, thinking it over. “Okay, Billy, if you want to eat over that’s fine with me. Let me speak to Mrs. Keller.”

“Hold on.”

“Yes,” I heard Andrew’s mom utter into the phone. “Absolutely. We’ll have him home by seven . . . Great Mrs. Hall. I’m glad to hear that . . . Dessert? Boston Crème pie. Sure, if you want. I’ll put a slice on a paper plate for you. No. Got it from the bakery up the street . . . Okay. I’ll talk to you soon. It’s a pleasure to hear from you as well.” She hung up.

Strange how Mrs. Keller was polite on the phone, when a few minutes ago she had essentially said that she disliked my mother and had accused her of being a devil worshiper.

***

By the time, the meal had been placed on the dining room table Andrew’s father had returned from work. I did not exactly know what Mr. Keller did for a living, only that he had to climb down into dirty, smelly sewer holes and fix pipes or something.

“What do we have here?” he asks his wife courteously, while staring at me. Mr. Keller removed his muddy boots and left them on the mat near the screen door.

“Mrs. Hall said Billy could stay for supper.”

“Is that so?”

“Yupper,” I declared, smiling. “How you doing Mr. Keller?”

“Hello Billy.” Andrew’s father was a big man. He almost had to duck in order to step through the doorway. His hands were the size of baseball mitts. On this day, he wore a sleeveless white t-shirt, stained with sweat and muck. His baggy pants were also blemished, maybe even more so. On his partially baldhead, Mr. Keller had a disorganized mop of black, graying hair, which was in dire need of a quality shampoo and conditioner. “Where’s Andrew?”

“In the living room,” I answered.

“Billy, could you tell my son to wash his hands for dinner?”

“Yes sir.” I hurried into the parlor where I tapped Andrew on the shoulder. “Yo bud, you’re pop said he wants you to get cleaned up for dinner.”

Still focused on the video monitor, Andrew sat up. I heard his knees crack. “All right. Hey Billy, are you allowed to eat over?”

“Uh huh.”

“What is my mom making, what’s that smell?”

“Chicken.”

“Fried?”

“No. Even better than that, barbeque.”

“Umn. That sounds great. I’m starving.”

“Me too. Anyway Andy, you had better get washed up.”

Without further delay, he went into the bathroom at the end of the hallway, and clicked on the light. I soaped my hands in the kitchen sink and then dried them with a paper towel.

At the dining room table, Mrs. Keller humanely passed me the square platter of barbeque chicken. I used a long fork to put one of the breasts on my plate. The food smelled pleasantly spicy. Aside from the baked Idaho potatoes, she had also prepared another vegetable, a bowl of steaming green beans.

“So Billy,” she says, while loading her plate. “Has your mother written any interesting new greeting cards lately?” That’s what my mom did for a living, wrote greeting cards. She had a natural flair for poetry.

“Yes,” I said. “She usually writes a couple of new greeting cards every week.”

“I hear she makes good money.”

“I guess so.”

“She must,” said Andrew’s father, passing me the plastic tub of butter. “You’re walking around, Billy, with brand new sneakers. Nikes. I like those.”

“I like them too,” Andrew said, while sipping his cold milk. “Dad can you buy me a pair of those?”

“Not until the summer is over.”

“Why?”

“You just got new sneakers last month. What’s wrong with Converse?”

Disappointed, Andrew glanced down at his feet. The beige Converse he had on were scuffed and from an overall standpoint, the shoes were worn out. “Nothing. It’s just-”

“It’s just what?” Mr. Keller wanted to know.

“I don’t know.”

“There’s nothing wrong with the sneakers you have now.”

“I didn’t say there was anything wrong with them.”

“Your father is right Andrew. Just because Billy‘s sneaker were more expensive than yours doesn‘t make them better.”

Andrew pouted. He liked to have his way and when his folks would not give in; he often made his famous, what I call ‘sour-puss face’.

Without warning, Mrs. Keller caught me off guard. She passed me a napkin and asked, “So Billy, tell us, we’re all wondering how did you end up becoming the Good Humor employee’s co-pilot?”

I dropped my fork. It clanked against my plate. “Who Nancy?”

“Yes. Why did she choose you?”

I have to confess Mrs. Keller’s question made me tremendously nervous. Somehow, it felt as if Andrew’s parents knew that Nancy and me had touched one another. Therefore, I did not want to answer. Mrs. Keller, however, always the type of person who needed to learn things, pressed the issue. I knew she would not leave me alone until I said something.

“Nancy is my friend.”

“I know she’s your friend. We were just wondering how that came to be.”

Just then, a very mysterious thing occurred. I suddenly saw a ghost-like vision of Nancy standing behind Mrs. Keller‘s chair. She had her finger up to her red puckered lips. Nancy was urging me to shush.

“I don’t actually remember,” I answered. I had to blink a couple of times to make the haunting image disappear. “Starting this summer, Nancy just started driving by my house a lot, smiling, always waving to me. At first, my mom would keep giving me money for ice cream. Usually a big handful of dimes and quarters. Then eventually Nancy, being as nice as she is, told me to keep the money, and started to give me the ice cream for free.”

Andrew sighed. “I wish she would give me free ice cream,” he says, crestfallen. “It’s not fair that Nancy gives you free ice cream Billy, and none to me and the other kids in the neighborhood.”

“Billy’s a lucky boy,” Mr. Keller declares, while greedily woofing down his chicken, potato, and beans. He was hungry. He ate faster than everyone did.

“And,” Mrs. Keller threw in, “I can’t believe Nancy Sutcliffe even let you sit on her lap today and drive the truck.”

“Yup.”

“That must make you feel important.”

“Yes. I had a blast. Except I could only steer. My legs weren’t long enough to reach the gas pedal or brake.”

Mr. Keller put a scorching hot baked potato on my plate. “Be careful,” he warned. “Let that cool off a little before you bite into it.”

“Okay.”

“Billy, is your mother eating dinner alone tonight?” Mrs. Keller asked. She washed her meal down with a glass of sparkling white wine.

“No. Her boyfriend Rudy is coming over.”

“And how long has she been with him?”

I dipped my fork into the potato. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“How long has your mother been dating this new boyfriend of hers?”

“For a few weeks. Almost a month.”

“I doubt it will last,” Mrs. Keller whispered in her husband‘s ear. “Donald, as I was telling Barbara earlier no men seem to want to stick around in Miss Hall’s life. And that’s too bad. Poor Billy here could sure use a father figure.”

“Who’s dumping who?” Andrew’s father whispered back, as if I wasn‘t sitting there next to them. “Her or the men?”

“Oh come on, the men must be leaving Miss Hall.”

“How can you be so sure?”

“Would you stay with someone who converses with her house plants as though the plants were actual living breathing people?”

“No. I guess you have a legitimate point there.”

Although I did not appreciate the wisecrack, Mrs. Keller was right. My mom, ever since I could remember, had been with one guy after another. The relationships never lasted long, usually only a few weeks, or on rare occasions, the relationships might maintain in tact for a few months.

To me it seemed that my mother found it difficult getting close to people, perhaps because of what happened between her and my father, the divorce and all that. Therefore, I’d have to say she was probably the one who walked out on most of her boyfriends, and not the other way around. Mrs. Keller had to be wrong about that. I swear I felt sorry for my friend Andrew. I really did. I would have hated having Mrs. Keller for a parent. After all, I only had to put up with her annoying bull crap some of the time, Andrew had to put up with her annoying bull crap all of the time.

“Andrew,” Mrs. Keller scolded. “Stop using your fork to push your food around your plate. If you don’t finish your green beans and baked potato you won’t get dessert.”

Andrew pouted. “Mom, I only wanted the barbeque chicken. I don‘t feel like eating beans a potato.”

“That’s tough.” She slapped his hand to make him stop pushing his food around. “I want you to devour everything on your plate.”

“Do what your mother says Andrew,” his father reprimanded. “Eat your vegetables . . . Look at Billy. He’s almost done. He’ll grow up to be big and strong. Do you want to grow up to be a weakling?”

“No.”

“Then finish your meal.”

As much as I tried to focus on what was going on around me, I kept thinking of Nancy. And I couldn’t help but contemplate whether I might have been the only boy my age that had had a sexual experience with someone so old. In fact, I doubted that there were many kids my age that had had a sexual experience period. Even with someone their own age.