House Broken (9 page)

HELEN

T
ired of talk shows and the travel channel, Helen asked the girl—Ella—to bring her some books from the town library.

“What kind?”

“When I was your age I liked romances, fool that I was. Then I got a taste for mysteries.”

“Murder mysteries?”

“Oh, any kind. But a murder or two doesn't hurt.”

Back in Aliceville, Helen chose her first mystery by accident. Hurrying to get home before Eustace, she dashed into the library and grabbed Agatha Christie's
The Mysterious Affair at Styles
, thinking it was about a love affair. The cover showed a balding man with a red bow tie touching his forehead like he was thinking hard. She stuffed the book into her shopping bag and hoped that
peculiar man would not turn out to be the love interest. That afternoon she learned he was Hercule Poirot. Helen would come to read all of Agatha's books she could get her hands on. Poirot was her favorite, despite his high-and-mighty attitude. She didn't care two beans for Miss Marple, the nosy little old gossip. Put her in mind of her mama. Once she finished all of Agatha's, she branched out to other mysteries. Did her mind good to think about something other than her family and their never-ending wants and desires.

She hadn't done much reading since she moved to California. Books were for when it was too hot to bother breathing, or when the rain ran down the windows and the wind rattled the shutters. Or when a person was laid up.

Ella brought her a half dozen books. Helen picked out a romance, for old times' sake, and read the first chapter. She laughed out loud, the first good belly laugh she'd had in ages. How did she ever fall for this nonsense?

• • •

For the first few years of married life, Eustace was on her every night like a boy with a new pogo stick. She assumed this was normal, especially as it lined up with the way folks behaved in the romances. Besides, he treated her fine, calling her “my pretty princess” and buying her dresses and shoes in the latest styles. Took him years before he trusted her to pick out her own clothes, worried most likely she'd come home with a faded housedress and never-white-again apron like her mama's. She never thought to complain about Eustace, not that she had a soul to do any complaining to. What friends she did have—all from the other side of town—went scarce as soon as she got married.

The babies came one after another, but that didn't slow Eustace down. Didn't care if they hollered away in the nursery while he sweated and grunted on top of her. The sound of her babies crying pained her. She had a book by Dr. Spock the library lady pushed on her. He said babies needed affection, and she should trust her instincts. When she informed Eustace of this, he laughed and said Dr. Spock could have as many spoiled children as he pleased, but there would be none in his house. So Helen closed her ears to the crying and waited for him to finish, roll off her, and fall asleep. The whole procedure took minutes. Then she'd sneak out, soothe the children, and slip back into bed. Finally, she slept.

By 1971, they had four children. Eustace wanted more, but Helen, at twenty-four, was done making babies. She was exhausted, despite Louisa's help. Louisa told her she ate like a bird, and a small one at that, but Helen was worried that if she lost her figure she'd lose her husband along with it. So she pushed her plate away and lit a cigarette instead. At Louisa's roundabout suggestion, she took to tracking her monthlies. When she reckoned she was ripe, she fell ill with various maladies, or, for variety, picked an argument with Eustace of sufficient ferocity that he escaped to the local watering hole or his daddy's hunting cabin. It wasn't a card she played often, though. He was too powerful a man to tolerate her yanking his chain.

Unlike Helen's, Eustace's energy—and his ambition—appeared unbounded. He was on the board of this and that, and fished, hunted, and golfed. Then, in 1972, he got it in his head to try politics. He ran for town council and won handily. Two years later, when Paris was nine and Geneva nearly three, he got himself elected mayor. Teaching that man the ways of politics was near to teaching a hog to wallow. Aliceville didn't have more than eight thousand souls, but a
mayor was a mayor. The social gatherings outnumbered the meetings, if anyone could tell the difference. Eustace kept his law practice going, too, and was regularly called away to the county seat or to Columbia. Times he came home from a night away right cheerful. Helen wasn't stupid, but she knew better than to make a noise. She had her house, her children, and her help. She had the ladies' club, if she wanted it (and she generally did not), and the church group, which she tolerated. What she did not have was time to worry about everything Eustace might or mightn't be up to. She couldn't summon the enthusiasm.

But knowing is one thing and seeing is another subject entirely. One Fourth of July they asked Louisa to look after the children and drove to the country club. Eustace had taken up golf to get in on the betting and make certain he didn't miss any goings-on. The club was set on a hillside overlooking Lake Prospect. Torches lined the lakeshore, and red, white, and blue bunting hung from the roof edge and porch railings. Round the back, Japanese lanterns and more torches lit tables draped in white. Red, white, and blue bows decorated each seat. Like a spread in a magazine. Eustace steered her to some acquaintances and left to get drinks.

The bartender had a heavy hand. Helen ate a few hors d'oeuvres to soak up the liquor, but it wasn't twenty minutes before Eustace handed her another drink. Then he disappeared. She didn't realize it right off, busy as she was chatting with Reba and Suzanne from the ladies' club. Might have been the drinks, but she'd forgotten how much fun the two of them could be. When Reba did her impression of her girl—a sweet but daft thing—trying to work out how to use the new washing machine, Helen nearly spilled her julep.

She excused herself to go to the restroom, walking on her toes
to keep her heels from sinking into the lawn. Been months since she was last at the club and got herself turned around, heading left instead of right through the lobby. On her way past the kitchen she heard Eustace's voice. Nearly called out to him before she saw his silhouette in the hall shadows. He was turned a little away from her and had his hands on the hip of a woman—a girl—she couldn't see well enough to place.

“Come on,” Eustace said to the girl. “Give me some sugar.” He pulled her toward him. She giggled loosely—she was drunk.

The girl twisted in his grasp and her skirt fanned into a slice of light from the kitchen. Yellow. Daisy yellow.

Helen stepped back and took a deep breath. Then she returned the way she'd come, found the restroom, and spent several minutes collecting herself. She put on more lipstick and took a good long look in the mirror. Skin smooth, hair blond and silky, figure trim. Not quite twenty-eight and already yesterday's news. How was that for a sermon on vanity?

When a serving boy offered her another drink, she took it and rejoined her friends. After a time, the girl in the yellow dress appeared on the lawn. Helen watched her take the arm of a hunting friend of Eustace's, and realized the man was the girl's daddy. He and his wife had been around to their house a month before, asking if they might borrow Louisa for their daughter's seventeenth birthday party.

• • •

Such recollections were among the ill effects of sobriety. Helen had had enough of it. Since the accident, the medication had taken the edge off her cravings for liquor, but now Geneva had weaned her off most of it, saying it was habit-forming. What's wrong with a
habit? Gives a person something to look forward to, something to take away the ache. The first vodka of the day was the best, with the next one a close second. She recalled how it gave her another layer, a thick one. The world kept spinning, but she cared a whole lot less. If she kept adding to the layer, drink by drink, she'd disappear without a sound, like a stone headed to the bottom of a lake. No one had a right to take it from her. Geneva's determination reminded Helen of Eustace. Another inheritance from that man.

Her shoulder had improved to the point where she could use a walker. The leg she broke and the artificial knee still pained her, mostly at night. She blamed the dampness and the lack of booze. At least her nose had healed, and she could go out in public without getting strange looks.

She missed her apartment where she could do as she pleased: play bridge, go to the movies, go shopping, sit by the pool with her neighbors—the ones without loud children. More, she pined for her car, a light blue Mustang convertible, now crumpled beyond redemption. Five years ago, she had ignored her children's prophecies of doom, and driven the Mustang clear across the country. Wouldn't have minded to keep right on driving except she ran out of road. And driving, although a heck of a lot of fun, was lonely business. Nothing worse than being alone. Except being alone without a drink.

When she visited Dublin's house, she had felt more at ease, despite the unceasing commotion from the boys—especially Jack. But their lives spilled over the edges and the spotlight rarely shone on her. Nothing like busy people to make a person feel useless. If only they had a bigger house, she could've moved in with them. It occurred to her that Dublin and Talia, especially Talia, might've hung on to the little bungalow for exactly that reason.

Here at Geneva's place, tall, heavy trees surrounded the house and fog hugged the ground at night like in a horror movie. Everything a hush. Dog didn't even bark, except when deer stood in the yard. The girl kept to her room and Tom to his workshop. Geneva worked most days. When she was home, the way she studied Helen unnerved her—as if Helen had a bomb inside her. Maybe she did. One thing she knew for sure: Without a steady soaking of alcohol, whatever lay ticking inside her was primed to go off.

She couldn't very well waltz out of the house and get her own supply. She needed a conspirator, a rumrunner. Charlie had potential, but she couldn't just ask her fourteen-year-old grandson to buy alcohol for her. Not without a foolproof plan.

• • •

Charlie was standing at the kitchen counter dressed in his baseball uniform and eating the first of two enormous sandwiches when Helen clunked in with her walker.

“Hey, Nana. You're getting good with that.”

“A new trick for an old dog.”

“You're not old.”

“I knew I liked you.”

Charlie chewed and gazed into the middle distance. “Can I ask you a favor, Nana?”

Helen brightened. “Why, I'd be delighted to help.”

“I want to get Dad something special for his birthday, only I don't want him to see it.”

“His birthday's not for a month.”

“No time like the present.”

“I suppose not. So what do you need from me?”

“I want to order it online and have it delivered to my friend's house so Dad won't know.”

She scooted a little closer. “May I ask what it is?”

Charlie hesitated.

“I see.” She smiled at him. “Never mind. Where do I come in?”

“I don't have a credit card. But I can pay you back, no problem.”

“Oh, don't worry about it.” A shady deal, no question. And there was more than one way to even a score.

“Thanks, Nana. You're the best.” He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottled drink. “You want one of these? It's iced tea.”

“Is it flavored?”

“Yeah. There's peach, my favorite. And green tea, which only my mom drinks. Dad likes the lemon, which explains why there aren't any.” He pushed a bottle aside. “And pomegranate. Mom bought that one by mistake.”

“Isn't it any good?”

“Try it. If you like it, there're a few more in the garage.”

“Which kind does Ella drink?”

“I don't think she likes any of them.”

The stars had aligned. “I'll be brave and try the pomegranate, thank you.” She motioned to the nearby couch. “And let's sit here a minute. I have a proposition for you.”

GENEVA

G
eneva tied off the last suture on the cat she had spayed and changed out of her scrubs. On the way to her office she ran into Rosa the intern, who said the Kahnemanns were in the waiting room with Trixie, their cocker spaniel.

A thin, dark blanket of dread fell over her. “Please tell them I need five minutes.”

“Room Two is open.”

“Okay. I'll meet them there.”

She continued to her office and opened Trixie's file on the computer. Seven months ago, Geneva had removed a section of the dog's small intestine because of an obstructive tumor. She scanned the pathology report to remind herself of what she already knew: The growth had been malignant. At the time, she
estimated Trixie might survive a year. And now the Kahnemanns had returned. She closed the file.

Trixie lifted her head when Geneva entered the room but stayed at the Kahnemanns' feet. The couple, in their early fifties, described the dog's symptoms. The woman's voice trembled. Geneva spoke to Trixie in a low voice and gently examined her. When she palpated the abdomen, the dog flinched.

“From what you've described and what I can tell from my exam, I'm afraid there's been a recurrence. It's blocking the bowel.”

Mr. Kahnemann said, “That's what we figured. What can we do?”

“First I'll want to confirm my suspicions with an X-ray and maybe an ultrasound.” She went on to explain their treatment options, which included another surgery and an experimental chemotherapy drug. “But this type of cancer almost always recurs, even after aggressive treatment.”

“And if we do nothing?” he asked.

His wife turned to him. “She's in pain. We can't do nothing.” She bent to stroke the dog.

“I'm just making sure we consider everything.”

Geneva nodded and said they could treat the pain but the obstruction would still be there.

Mrs. Kahnemann sat up. “What do you recommend, then? We want to do the right thing. Trixie's been such a good dog.”

Geneva had long ago come to terms with her inability to save every pet. But she struggled when asked her opinion on such decisions because most people didn't reason the way she did.

“I can't make the decision for you. I can only give you the best information I have.”

“But what if Trixie were your dog?”

She knew exactly what she would do. The dog was suffering and the odds of any treatment adding more than a few months to her life were minuscule. She would put the dog to sleep immediately. But she would not lead the Kahnemanns down that path. Early in her career, she voiced her opinions more openly. She was shocked at the lengths to which owners would go to forestall the inevitable, with too little concern for the animal's quality of life. But her colleagues, Stan in particular, cautioned her to allow clients control over treatment decisions. On bad days Geneva viewed this stance as less philosophical than mercenary, as delaying euthanasia always increased the bottom line of the veterinary practice.

“I could guess what I would do, but I can't give you a definitive answer because Trixie's not my dog. That changes everything.” Mr. Kahnemann gave her a look of frustration. Geneva suspected he had already decided the dog should be put down and hoped for her support. “I would only encourage you to think about this from Trixie's point of view.”

Tears fell down Mrs. Kahnemann's cheeks. “I don't want her to suffer.”

“Of course not. She's had a wonderful life with you. You've taken such good care of her.” She bent down and scratched Trixie behind the ears. “I'll take her for an X-ray. Please take some time to talk it over.”

She encouraged the dog to its feet and led it into the treatment room. As she prepped Trixie for the procedure, she mused that dogs rarely knew what people had planned for them. And that, when it came to death, counted as a mercy.

• • •

The laughter of her husband and son met Geneva at the front door. When she entered the house, Diesel bounded over and sat, his haunches twitching with the thrill of her homecoming. Charlie's books lay open on the counter in front of him, but his body was twisted toward the television in the living room. Tom stood in front of the television and shaped a disc of ground meat with his hands.

“Hey, there.”

“Hi. Sounds like a celebration.”

“Hey, Momster. Giants just scored on an error. The outfielder did the funniest dance under a pop fly. Then the ball landed on his head.”

Humiliation plus pain equals delight for the home team. Humans are strange animals. “Did you two have a good day?”

“Yeah, we're great.” Tom picked up another ball of meat. Diesel's gaze followed Tom's movements, and he whined softly.

“Diesel . . .” Geneva said.

The dog looked over his shoulder at her, walked slowly to his mat by the door, and collapsed onto it like a bag of rocks.

“Good boy.” She turned to her husband. “Where's Mom?”

“Sleeping, I think.”

“At six thirty?”

“Said she had a hard physio session. I didn't see much of her this afternoon because the rain forest guy was here.”

“Should I check on her?”

Charlie leaned over his books and rested his forehead on one hand. “She was fine when I came home from school. Pretty happy, actually.”

Happy? Something in her son's tone struck her as odd, but she couldn't see his face.

“I've got an idea,” Tom said. “Since our patient is resting, let's have a glass of wine from the secret stash.”

Geneva opened her mouth to protest, but then realized a glass of wine sounded perfect. “Good thought. And while I'm getting it, perhaps you, Charlie, could take Diesel for a short walk, then give him a biscuit. The hamburger is torturing him.”

“But what about the game?”

Tom washed his hands. “Hit record on your way out.”

• • •

Geneva carried a tray into the backyard and set the table. The bright yellow and orange place mats set off the turquoise-rimmed plates beautifully. She laid yellow napkins on top of the plates and lined up the bottom edges of the forks and knives. As she tossed the salad, Tom took the burgers off the grill, then went inside to call the children to dinner. Geneva sipped the last of her wine, an earthy Sonoma Pinot, and sat down. The evening air was fresh. She relaxed into the chair. A jay squawked and she tipped back her head to follow its flight from the roof to a tree.

As she straightened her neck again, the movement reminded her of riding on her father's shoulders when she was small. If she was tired of walking, or simply bored, she would stand in front of him, her arms stretched high, and he would swing her up onto his shoulders. She remembered wondering if adults were thrilled every second of their lives seeing the world from such heights. Sometimes she would arch her back and look to the sky. He would tighten his grip on her ankles, and she would arch farther and farther, until the world was upside down and receding, and no longer boring.

The back door slammed and startled her.

Ella stomped down the steps and threw herself into a chair. She pulled the cuffs of her long-sleeve gray T-shirt over her hands and tucked them between her legs. “It's freezing out here!”

“Maybe you need a sweater.”

“Maybe I'll eat inside.”

“I'd like us all to eat together. I haven't seen you all day.”

Ella shivered theatrically.

“What've you been up to?”

Her daughter ignored her.

Charlie threw open the door, which Tom caught before it hit the side of the house. “Easy, easy. You're like a gorilla.”

Charlie gave a gorilla grunt, sat down, grabbed a burger from the platter, and put it to his mouth.

“Charlie . . .” Geneva warned.

Tom tapped him on the head. “Wait for everyone, okay?”

“Pig.” Ella pulled her knees to her chest and yanked her shirt over them. “It's freezing!”

Charlie said, “Want Marcus to come warm you up?”

Geneva selected a burger and passed the plate to Ella, who made no move to accept it. Geneva put it on the table in front of her. “Who's Marcus?”

“No one!”

Geneva looked at Tom, who shrugged. “Ella, aren't you going to eat?”

Two fingers emerged from the shirt cuff and lifted the edge of the bun. “It's burnt.”

Tom lifted his plate. “Trade?”

“Or you can have mine,” her brother said around an enormous mouthful. He pointed to a nearly empty plate.

Ella scowled at him and switched plates with her father. She
applied copious quantities of ketchup, mustard, and relish, pushed up her sleeves, and ate.

The jay squawked again from a nearby branch. Geneva watched as it held an acorn in its feet and hammered it to pieces.

Ella finished her burger. “Okay, I ate. Can I go now?”

Geneva didn't look up. “Sure. Please take your plate in.”

“Like I'd forget after years of boot camp.”

Perhaps this was what had happened between her mother and Paris. It didn't matter that their personalities were different from Geneva's and Ella's. A teenager pushing hard enough and a mother too baffled and hurt to know how to respond could conceivably add up to a lifelong estrangement. Look at how distant she herself felt from her mother, twenty-five years after becoming a teenager. She'd always attributed that to her mother's drinking and the disastrous consequences, but maybe the drinking was a red herring. Maybe one day your children are teenagers who won't talk to you, and the next they are adults who don't want you in their home.

The situation with Ella wasn't catastrophic; she knew other parents had dealt with far worse. Drea's son had been suspended for being stoned at school—and neither Drea nor her husband had any idea their child smoked at all, much less during school. But although her problems with Ella didn't appear serious, Geneva worried about where they were headed. She didn't want things to spiral out of control, to get blindsided and realize too late she could have prevented a serious problem if only she had intervened earlier. Tom said she worried too much, but his reassurances had come to mean little to her.

She admitted her pride was at stake. Geneva thought she knew her daughter and believed she understood her. Hadn't she held her in her arms countless times after some mishap, listened to
her fears and anxieties, and counseled her in her relationships with her friends, teachers, and family? Geneva knew when Ella wanted a hug (the tiniest of pouts gave it away) and when she only wanted to vent (her hands twitched at her sides). To other people, Ella probably appeared the same when she was tired, bored, or nursing an emotional hurt, but Geneva could readily discriminate these states. She had been a conscientious student of her daughter's behavior for sixteen years. It was at the core of being a good mother. Or so she thought. Trying to understand Ella's behavior now was like trying to listen to a recording of a symphony whose volume vacillated unpredictably from barely audible to deafening. She couldn't hear the music, and all she wanted to do was leave the room.

Wasn't that what Paris had done, moving to another continent? And maybe that's what her mother's drinking did, transport her to another room where there was no music at all. Geneva didn't recall Paris and her mother fighting often, but conflict could stop well short of mudslinging and fisticuffs and still cause damage. Over the years she'd asked Dublin several times about why Paris had excommunicated herself. He didn't know any more than she did. He was, after all, only a year older than Geneva, and perhaps, as a young boy, was not tuned in to the wavelengths of female discord. Florence ought to know more. Geneva had little history of discussing emotional matters with her, but resolved to ask her about their mother's relationship with Paris—and with her. And if she could get Paris on the phone, she might ask her directly. In the past, Paris had been clear that any discussion of their mother was off-limits. But Geneva wasn't prepared to let the issue rest, not with her mother under her roof and the fear of losing her own daughter prickling under her skin.