Read THREE TIMES A LADY Online
Authors: Jon Osborne
THREE TIMES A LADY
THREE TIMES A LADY
BY JON OSBORNE
PUBLISHED BY JON OSBORNE BOOKS
COPYRIGHT © 2013
COVER BY LAURA MICHELE (
[email protected]
)
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TABLE OF CONTENTS
PART I: CLEANING UP AFTER THE STORM
PART III: SOMETHING WICKED THIS WAY COMES
PROLOGUE
Chicago, Illinois – 17 July 1971 – 9:04 a.m.
A dull-yellow stain spread slowly across Nicholas Preston’s crotch. His mother, Annabeth, watched it seep into the fabric of his underwear for a second or two before lifting her paralysing cobra stare and trapping her son completely in her unrelenting gaze. Bright green eyes that sparkled like heated emeralds burned matching, dime-sized holes through Nicholas’s skull.
‘Disgusting, foul little creature…’ she began, but Nicholas already knew the rest before the words were all the way out of her pretty mouth. They were the same words she spoke every time, delivered in the same condescending tone she always used, a tone that had always set Nicholas’s teeth on edge and made his brain want to explode inside his skull (as opposed to, thankfully, the
outside
of it). Honestly, though, what was new about any of this? It might have been a different day, sure, but it was still the same old crap – with the same crazy old woman who’d lost her mind
years
ago. The same crazy old woman whom the state had recently decided was a fit parent after all, even after the horrible thing she’d done.
Annabeth Preston lowered her gaze and studied Nicholas’s underwear some more, simultaneously wrinkling up her slender nose in revulsion, which somehow only made her look even
prettier
. ‘You’re almost nine years old already, for Christ’s sake,’ she continued. ‘When are you ever going to learn, boy?’
She paused and returned her stare to his. ‘You
do
know what this means, don’t you?’
Nicholas’s heart flipped over in his chest at his mother’s words.
Of course
he knew what it meant. Didn’t mean he had to like it, though. Closing his eyes tight, he breathed in deeply through his nostrils and wished like hell that he were somewhere else in the world other than in his bedroom right now.
Anywhere
else. In his mind’s eye, he floated away to his safe place: a beautiful forest clearing deep in the verdant woods where he could sit Indian-style on the ground beside a babbling brook and let the calming sounds of nature wash over him and soothe his soul. In this imaginary world of his – a world he’d created with the sole purpose of escaping the hellish reality of his everyday life – songbirds whistled their beautiful melodies in the swaying tree branches all around him while playful beavers splashed gleefully through the frothing white-capped waters, merrily going about their day’s work. More than anything else, this imaginary world of his was a
nice
place. A
safe
place.
But Annabeth Preston didn’t like nice or safe places. Never had and never would. To prove this point, she stepped forward quickly and jerked Nicholas physically out of his reverie, grabbing him roughly by the scruff of his scrawny neck and squeezing hard. ‘I asked you a question, son,’ she hissed at him through clenched teeth. ‘
Answer
me. You
do
know what this means, don’t you?’
Nicholas looked up at his mother with pleading eyes filled with tears while her sharp red fingernails dug even deeper into his tender skin and left half moon-shaped marks that wouldn’t disappear for at least an hour, trying his best to connect with his mother on some sort of soul-to-soul level but not having especially high hopes that it would work. Still, who knew? Maybe this time he could warm her heart and avoid the consequences. Maybe this time they could make a new start and try to love each other again. Stop being lunatics for a little while and start living normal lives again for a change. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?
The cold, hard look of detachment in Annabeth Preston’s burning green eyes disabused Nicholas of this silly notion at once. Silly notions – among many other things in the house – were luxuries his mother never allowed. ‘It means a trip to the butcher’s shop,’ she went on sharply when Nicholas wasn’t quite able to make his swollen tongue work properly enough to form words. ‘Now get dressed.’
Finally released from her viselike grip, Nicholas rubbed at his throbbing neck where his mother’s fingernails had been just a moment before and did as he’d been instructed while five feet away Annabeth Preston tapped a high-heeled foot impatiently against the wooden floorboards in his bedroom – the same bedroom Nicholas had
used
to share with Timmy, though each and every last trace of his little brother had been erased now. No more of Timmy’s clothes or toys or bedding lying around. No toothbrush of his positioned next to Nicholas’s on the cracked bathroom sink. Not so much as a
hint
that the little boy who’d starred in no fewer than three-dozen national television commercials when he’d been alive had ever been there at all. Because the same day Timmy had died had been the same day that Annabeth Preston had sanitized their bedroom completely, along with the rest of their house, save for a single lonely picture that she’d slipped into a gilded silver frame and which now sat on a living-room end table with a long-ago-wilted solitary black rose stationed in front of it on a piece of her very best china. Where the videotapes of Timmy had gone was a complete mystery to Nicholas. Would probably
always
be a complete mystery to him. Who knew? Maybe she’d destroyed them. Just like she’d destroyed Timmy. Nicholas wouldn’t put it past her. Just like she’d undoubtedly destroy
him
too someday.
Like, maybe even today.
Walking over to the corner of his bedroom on shaking legs, Nicholas slid open the top drawer of his scarred oaken bureau and reached in before selecting a fresh pair of Hanes, at the same time drifting back mentally to the day of the ‘accident’. That’s what they called it, if the subject was ever spoken of at all, which, truth be told, didn’t happen very often these days.
The
accident
.
A funny way to describe bashing the front of your youngest child’s skull into the sharp edge of a porcelain bathroom sink and cracking it open like a ripe watermelon in a sickening explosion of red.
Nicholas shook his head to banish the unsettling memory to the special place inside his brain that he reserved for such things, knowing that it simply wouldn’t do to think about that horrible day right now, not with his mother standing so close. She’d
sense
it, like a rabid dog that had glimpsed a flash of bright red blood at a child’s pale white throat before succumbing to the overwhelming, inbred instinct to attack. Still, had he been older at the time, Nicholas might have laughed at the absurdity of it all. Decades before the empty political slogan had first been posited,
he
was the child who’d been left behind, both literally and figuratively. And he’d been left behind with a living, breathing monster. A monster with an almost-too-perfect body, a breathtaking face that could stop traffic clean in the middle of a New York City rush-hour and crystal-clear green eyes that could see right through his soul and recognise that
he
was a monster too.
Nicholas had one leg out of his soiled underwear when his mother corrected him for the first time that day.
‘No, keep those ones on,’ she said, clucking her small pink tongue against her perfect white teeth in exasperation. ‘It’ll remind you of the filthy little boy you’ve been here today and of the terrible sin that you’ve committed in the eyes of God. I’ll be waiting for you out in the car. Don’t make me wait long.’
With that, his mother pivoted on her well-turned ankles smartly enough to put a
Waffen SS
soldier to shame and marched out of his room. The gunshot sounds of her footsteps fading away down the long hallway were followed a moment later by the slamming of the front door in the distance, giving Nicholas’s heart a terrible start. Ten seconds later, he heard the car engine roar to life noisily out in the driveway.
When he felt absolutely
certain
she’d exited the house, Nicholas lifted his left wrist and checked his
Mickey Mouse
wristwatch. Never could be too safe about these sorts of the things, after all. Ever since the very beginning, ever since as far back as he could remember, his mother had always been the type of person who liked to
watch
others. To track their movements. To catch them off-guard whenever possible.
The type of person who liked to
fuck
with others.
Nicholas stared down at his watch and felt his chest constrict with an overpowering mixture of rage and shame. He hated the mere
sight
of the thing, of course, but he knew that he could never take it off. Not while his mother was still alive, at least. That would just be
asking
for it. Because the watch had been a gift from Annabeth on his eighth birthday and she insisted that he wear it at all times. A little something to prove to the people from the state how much she truly
cared
about him. How she’d never intentionally hurt him. How she’d rather
die
than lose another child.
Nicholas laughed despite the circumstances. He just couldn’t help himself. What a joke
that
was, though. Because if the tens of thousands of dollars from companies such as Kraft and Kellogg’s and Pine-Sol hadn’t been enough to keep Timmy alive despite all the money that had been rolling in, what in the hell were
Nicholas’
s chances? Not good, to say the least. Like Annabeth Preston had always told him,
Nicholas
wasn’t worth one thin dime. Never had been and never would be.
Refocusing his vision on Mickey Mouse’s arms (which were cleverly pointing out the hour and minute) Nicholas realised that he’d better get a move on. And fast. He figured he had about thirty seconds left now if he was lucky before Annabeth Preston
really
blew her top. Patience might have been a virtue in the bible – which his mother read and quoted incessantly – but it sure as hell didn’t have any place in her personal psychological inventory. Then again, where lay the great surprise in that?
All
religious people hypocrites, weren’t they? Do-as-I-say-and-not-as-I-do types? Sure as hell seemed like it to him.
