House Broken (21 page)

“How come? She said yesterday she'd do my hair!”

Her mother yanked off the oven mitts and tossed them on the counter. “Your hair's the least of my concerns.” She strode across to the refrigerator and Geneva jumped out of the way. “Don't get underfoot.”

“But where is she?”

“How should I know? Your father's fired her and fifty people are coming through that door in an hour. Do something with your hair, then come down and give me a hand.”

She hadn't seen Louisa since.

Across the dining table, Helen turned back to her plate. Geneva remembered Dublin postulating that if their father had molested Paris, Louisa would probably have known, and thought it a remarkable coincidence her mother had mentioned her on this particular day.

HELEN

E
ustace took his time dying, as if he meant to punish her. Didn't matter he didn't know she was there. A week after he'd been admitted to the hospital, he mumbled what she took to be his last words. She wasn't there every minute, and couldn't be 100 percent certain he didn't say anything else, but from what she could tell, that was it. His lips parted, gray and cracked, and he puffed it out, like a weak kiss: “Paris.”

She snatched up her handbag and left, nearly colliding with the nurse in the hallway. She desperately wanted to get revenge for that, but there was nothing she could do to a man nearly dead. A gesture would have been a start, but everything that came to mind—ramming her car into his, telling his parents what a monster they'd created, boycotting his funeral—only left her exposed.
She hoped she would feel better once the bastard was good and dead.

Paris was with him when his body followed the lead of his liver and quit for good. Helen expected her to carry on something fierce, but when she came home from the hospital and let her mother know he was gone, she was unnaturally calm.

“I'll pack now. I'm leaving in the morning.”

“But what about the funeral?”

“That's a performance you can manage without me. I've said good-bye to Daddy.”

She left in a hurry, with only a quick hug for Florence. Helen asked her to say good-bye to Geneva and Dublin before she left.

“I can't find them, and I'll miss my bus.”

After the folks from the funeral parlor left, Helen went looking. She found them huddled at the bottom of their closet clinging to each other like baby monkeys, and wondered what in God's name she had done.

• • •

Because Eustace had been the mayor, Helen was required to grieve in the public eye more than she'd have preferred. She couldn't step out the front door without running into someone leaving a bouquet or a note. The mayor's office let a few days go by, then consulted her concerning each and every detail of the elaborate memorial service a man of Eustace's stature deserved. She pleaded overwhelming grief and referred them to Eustace's family, whom she knew would be only too happy to oblige. Luckily for Helen, people saw what they expected to see. She was remorseful for killing her children's daddy—and the man she had once loved—without absolute proof of his guilt, and feared she might be found
out. But to the people of Aliceville, she was shocked and heartbroken.

Every day for a week, dozens of letters of condolence tumbled through the mail slot. She dutifully opened and read each one, then made a check next to the name in her address book or, if it was a business colleague, Eustace's. Using ivory cards bordered with black she had printed for the occasion, she penned her replies in a timely manner, making special note of gifts of flowers or food. Her handwriting was a bit shaky, but they'd expect that from a young widow.

One note was conspicuous in its absence: Louisa's. Desperate as Helen was to ask Louisa what she had witnessed, she knew better than to stick her neck out. Asking Louisa meant she was suspicious of Eustace and that gave her motive to kill him. If she had to bet, she'd wager Louisa wouldn't turn her in for meting out justice, but she wasn't taking any chances. She knew better than anyone a moral compass was a wobbly instrument.

• • •

After the trip to the hospital, Helen settled back in at Geneva's house, but she didn't feel settled. If the psychologist at the hospital had known how confused she was, she might not have let her go. Helen couldn't sort out her feelings, only that she was frightened. She had told the psychologist she hadn't tried to kill herself because it was the easiest thing to say. In truth, she wasn't certain. Or maybe she didn't care. But that didn't seem right somehow, because if she didn't care whether she lived or died, why was she so scared?

Lying in that hospital bed next to the memories of Eustace's demise didn't help matters. All the questions she'd never laid to
rest were eating away at her, like rats in the dark. Whoever said time heals all wounds was full of baloney, and never had a daughter like Geneva, who wouldn't let the past rest. No, that girl had to dig up the yard until she found every single bone buried deep and long since picked clean. She was on a foolish mission to save them all. But, as Helen had discovered, while you were digging and inspecting and putting the pieces together, the past could eat you up and spit you out. Especially if you had plenty to hide.

She wondered about the pills she'd collected, which she'd told herself were emergency rations when booze got scarce. And the gun, which she'd told herself was for self-protection. Since she left the hospital, another thought had occurred to her: Both were self-protection, as in protection against herself, against the threat of living a minute more of her life. She'd been spending thirty years with her hand on the door handle. If things got really bad, she could leave.

Now that she saw what she'd been doing, she was sadder than ever. Because people with one hand on the door handle aren't living. They're biding their time, weighing each moment, daring it to be the one that tips the scales and sends them out of this life for good.

The gun and the pills and the vodka made a disgrace of hope. Helen had enough sense to see that. Problem was, she couldn't see any way around it. The past wasn't a guest you could ask to leave when you tired of its company. No, the past put up its feet and meant to stay.

GENEVA

W
hile Ella and Charlie put away what remained of Juliana's Italian feast, Geneva googled Louisa. She didn't have to pause to remember her last name. When she was little, she made a birthday card for Louisa each year, and insisted on writing her full name on the outside, even though her mother said “Louisa” or “Miss Louisa” was sufficient. Geneva thought both names made the card more professional.

The unusual spelling of Louisa's last name—McCutchion—made her easy to find. Geneva was not surprised Louisa still lived near Aliceville, at an address she quickly determined was an assisted living facility. She didn't know Louisa's exact age, but she was older than Helen by at least ten years, maybe twenty. Even if Louisa had known about Paris and her father, her memory might be failing or
she might not be willing to tell Geneva, a virtual stranger. Still, her instincts told her an inquiry was worth a shot. She sent an email to the contact listed on the facility's Web site, explaining who she was, and asked if Louisa could email or phone her.

• • •

The next day, Geneva awoke to a dawn muted by heavy clouds. Tom's pillow covered his head. She crept out of bed, pulled on a fleece jacket, and let Diesel into the backyard, where he sniffed the moist air for clues left by nighttime intruders into his domain.

Geneva retrieved her laptop from her bag by the front door and crossed to the living room couch. She scanned the list of new emails, all work-related except the last from [email protected], sent that morning. She held her breath and clicked it open.

Dearest Geneva,

How happy I was to get your message after all these years! Naturally, I'm itching to talk to you. I use Skype to keep up with my grandchildren. (God blessed me with nine little angels.) I'd love to see your face—I can picture you as a little girl before me now—so please find me there. I'm granny.mccutchion.

Hope to see you soon, dear one.

Louisa

Geneva let Diesel inside and carried her laptop to the barn for privacy. She stood at the workbench and sent a request to Louisa's Skype account. While she waited for her to accept, she selected a handful of family photos and forwarded them to Louisa, knowing she would ask. Ten minutes later, the video call notice chimed. She clicked Accept, and Louisa appeared. Her short hair had turned
white and her face was lined, but when she smiled Geneva would have known her anywhere.

“Look at you!” Louisa said.

They talked for a while. Geneva walked her through the photos of her family. As Louisa inquired about her husband and children, she felt a stab of regret for not including this woman in her life. Louisa had held her when she was ill, read her to sleep, and played Go Fish with her for hours at a time.

“What about Dublin, and your sisters?”

“If you don't mind waiting a minute, I'll send another batch of photos.”

“Mind? I loved all of you like family.”

She showed her Dublin's family, and Florence and Renaldo engaged in various sporting activities. Louisa chuckled. “Same as always.” The last photo was of Geneva, Dublin, and Paris, taken by Whit at the Paleolithic Garden in L.A. the previous Tuesday. Louisa frowned as she examined the photo.

“We don't see Paris often,” Geneva said.

“Don't you?”

“No.” She waited for Louisa to turn back to the camera. When she did, her face was soft. “I was hoping you might know why. My mother and Paris haven't spoken in thirty years. My mother told me she suspected something, well, something terrible was going on between Paris and my father.”

Louisa leaned back in her chair and gazed away. “I expected there was a reason you decided to look for me, after all this time.”

“I don't mean to upset you. I know it's not right, bringing this up out of the blue. I'm sorry.”

Louisa looked at the screen, presumably at the photo of Paris. “How is your mama?”

“Not so well, I'm afraid. She drinks too much. Last month she got into a serious car accident.”

“That's a shame, a real shame. I always liked your mama. She's not fifteen years younger, but she was a daughter to me.”

Geneva was surprised. “Then why didn't you stay in touch?”

“I couldn't say. I more or less expected to hear from her after your daddy died. He fired me, you know.”

The barn was cool, but she felt a trickle of sweat run down her spine. “Why? Can you tell me?”

Louisa sighed. “All this time I thought your mama knew what he'd done. I reckoned she kept away from me because she didn't want reminding of it.”

The bottom dropped out of Geneva's stomach, and her hand felt slick against the surface of the bench. She wanted to run for the door, but willed herself to stay. Louisa's face was full of concern.

“Oh, you poor thing. I know you loved your daddy. But you came here asking questions, so I figured you wanted answers.”

“I did. I do.” She rolled her shoulders up and back, and exhaled. “Louisa, if you saw anything, can you tell me?”

“I haven't told a soul.”

“I don't want to know for me. I want to know for my mother.”

“If you're sure.”

Geneva nodded.

She shifted in her chair. “Well, it was the day before the Christmas party and your mama was in town, fetching the last few things. Your daddy asked Florence to take you and Dublin to the park, to keep you two out of the way. I'd gone around the back of the house with the trash and seen the back door wasn't shut properly. Figured it was Dublin, as that boy never could shut a door, even if you paid him.

“So I come through the back, and remembered I hadn't ironed Paris's dress like I was supposed to, so I went to get it. Of course, I usually knocked if a door was closed, but my head was spinning with all the things I still had to do before I left. It was my husband's birthday that day, and family was coming over, so you might say I was preoccupied. Anyway, the door wasn't locked—couldn't have been because it used to be the maid's room and they never had locks on them—and I went straight in.”

Geneva was staring out the window beside the barn door. Louisa said, “You all right?”

“Yes. Please go on.”

“I'm not telling anything I don't need to. I just want to make sure you know that I know what I saw. And there was no doubt about it. Not in the act, but Paris had her clothes off. She pulled the sheet over herself in a hurry, but didn't even blush.” Louisa shook her head in dismay.

“And my father?”

“Had his hands on her, is all I'm saying. I'm not painting pictures for you. Then he looked me straight in the eye, and I was more afraid than I've ever been in my life, before or since.”

Geneva stared at Louisa and saw the fear alive in her face. “What did he say?”

“He said if I breathed a word, he would ruin me. Not just me, my whole family. I believed him, too.”

“What could he do?”

She lifted her hands as if the answer was obvious. “He ran that town, and his family ran the county. What couldn't he do?” She shook her head. “Didn't matter anyway. Because of Paris. She stared me down—the girl I helped raise—and said no one would believe me over her. When she said it, I knew it was God's honest truth.

“Lord knows I wanted to help her, but I couldn't see how. I suppose your mama was in the same position. Terrible as it was, I figured in a few months she'd be off to college, and it'd all be over.”

Geneva's mouth went dry. Her gaze moved from Louisa to the far wall lined with oak cabinets. The grooved fronts shimmered, like a mirage. Time lurched backward for an instant, then jumped forward again, leaving her queasy.

Louisa continued. “Then, of course, your daddy died, and it was.”

• • •

Tom and Geneva had set aside time for later that day to discuss what to do about Charlie's and Ella's transgressions. After everyone had showered and eaten, they went to their bedroom and closed the door. She told Tom what Louisa had said.

“So our take on the letter was right after all,” Tom said.

“Unfortunately.”

“It must have been hard to hear her talk about it.”

“It was, and hard for her to tell me. But I was prepared for it. Mostly.”

“Are you going to tell Helen?”

“I think so. At least she'll know she wasn't imagining it. But something's still bothering me.”

“Really?” He grinned at her. “I thought all your detective work was done.”

“I don't know. I have a feeling I still don't understand everything.”

“I always have that feeling. I just go with it.”

Geneva laughed a little. “Okay, let's talk about the kids.”

After a long discussion, they decided Charlie would sell his purchases on eBay, or wherever he could get a good price, and give Helen the proceeds. Then he would have to earn the same amount over the summer and donate it to charity. They would take away his phone, Xbox, iPod and other toys, and require him to earn them back gradually. Ella would work to cover the truck repairs and missed SAT session. If she wanted to use a car during the summer, she'd have to do extra chores, including chauffeuring her brother. Finally, they would assess whether Charlie had in fact learned anything during the school year and arrange tutoring if necessary.

“They're going to be thrilled,” Geneva said.

“Now, what about the possibility that Charlie's smoking pot?”

“Or Ella.”

“Right. I did check his backpack and didn't find anything.”

“Short of turning their rooms upside down or a home drug test, I guess all we can do is ask. And remind them of the consequences.”

They left the bedroom and found Helen, Ella, and Charlie playing hearts in the living room.

Tom said, “Don't you two have finals starting tomorrow?”

“Study break,” Ella said, scooping up an all-diamond hand.

“I swear she cheats,” Charlie said.

“You can't cheat at hearts. Take it from me.” Helen nodded toward the kitchen. “Juliana came by with more food.”

“Why didn't anyone tell us she was here?”

Charlie said, “We would've, but when we said you were in the bedroom with the door closed, she said she'd catch you later.” He raised his eyebrows theatrically.

Helen played a low heart, then held her cards to her chest. “I think Juliana brought supper again because she feels bad about
that crazy dog of hers. Maybe she realizes now the only choice was to put it down.”

Geneva wondered if this might be true. She inspected the containers on the counter: chicken curry, saffron rice, cucumber salad, and banana cream pie. If Juliana's guilt trip continued, they were all going to get fat. She opened the fridge and made space for the containers.

A creeping sensation ascended her spine. Unbidden, she heard the words her mother had said when she asked her what she had done to alienate Paris.
Not enough, and too much, all at the same time
. She saw the letter before her, and read the passage in which Paris noted the irony in her mother claiming to be a victim. Geneva's mind spun around and around like a flywheel. If not the victim, then the culprit. The perpetrator. The one who did the only thing she could to stop her husband, and the only thing Paris would never forgive.

She put him down.

The glass dish of cucumber salad slipped from her hand and smashed on the floor.

Tom was at her side. “Are you all right?”

“Yes.” She closed the refrigerator, gripping the handle hard to steady herself. “What a mess.”

Ella knelt behind her and picked up the shards.

“Don't cut yourself. I'll get a broom.”

Tom gave her a worried look. “No, I'll take care of this. Why don't you lie down?”

“I do feel a little wobbly.”

“Did you eat lunch?”

“No, I guess not.”

“How about some cucumber salad?” Charlie said.

• • •

Geneva sat in the chair by the window, and finished the sandwich Ella had brought her. She put the plate on the floor. Rocking slowly, she watched a robin probe its way across the lawn.

She imagined being poor and sixteen, and falling in love with a tall, confident man from an important family. She imagined marrying him, and being afraid. She imagined easily her joy at the birth of her first child.

She imagined three more children, then the first again, becoming her husband's favorite. She imagined the first pinch of jealousy, then the growing concern, then the disheartening thought that because her concern was unfounded, she must be mad.

She imagined wanting to tell someone, but having no one to tell and nothing to tell them. She imagined appealing to her daughter, perhaps more than once, and feeling the burn of shame and scorn. She imagined the inevitable confrontation with her husband, the cold power of the stone wall he erected, the sting of his hand on her face.

She imagined wishing it would end, then realizing it would not, and fearing in either case it would begin again with another daughter she had given him. And another.

She imagined hoping he would die, then praying.

She imagined an opportunity. And she imagined taking it.

• • •

She found Tom alone in the barn, running his hand over a baluster carved with vines. He did this, she knew, not only to detect rough spots, but to feel how the design melded with the grain of the
wood. The gesture was at once sensual and intellectual. She waited at the door until he set the piece down and beckoned her inside.

“I didn't mean to interrupt.”

“That's okay. You look better.”

“Yes. Remember I said a piece was still missing? I found it.”

“Tell me.”

She brushed the dog hair off Ella's chair, and sank into it. Tom pulled over a crate.