Mother (5 page)

The Dunworth sisters lived next to the Crockers and their yard could have used some of Bettyanne’s green thumb
. Nice ladies, the Dunworths. And such sweet voices, too.
He saw Nelly Dunworth - a medically obese woman in her forties at least once a day as she rode her scooter around the cul-de-sac; it was nice she could get out.
 

Next to the Dunworths lived his own next-door neighbors, Earl Dean and his wife Earlene, and their twin daughters, Daphene and Delphine. “The Shining Twins,” Morning Glory Circle called them. Privately, of course. Earl might be the best chocolatier this side of the Rockies - his candy shop, The Fudge Depot, had been written up as a must-visit in
Westways
- but he wasn’t a terribly likable fellow. Not only was Earl a grouch, but on more than one occasion, Stan had seen him relieving himself against the wall that separated their yards. Earl had caught Stan staring once and the man didn’t even have the courtesy to look embarrassed - he just kept on urinating, whistling
Row, Row, Row Your Boat,
as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
 

It was a matter of time before poor Aida witnessed Earl’s acts of indecency. She’d be scandalized.
My how my girl has changed!
She used to love peeing in the woods and he couldn’t help smiling to himself at the thought of her catching Earl hosing down the hedges. All of Morning Glory Circle would know within the hour, of that he was certain.
And that’s karma for you.
 

Just then, the Deans’ side gate opened and the twins came out, holding hands. In their free hands, each clutched a melting hunk of fudge. Daphi and Delphi Dean, in matching white shirts, plaid skirts, and shiny Mary Janes, stared vacantly as Stan strolled past, their cottage-cheese complexions glowing in the afternoon sun.
 

“Hello, girls.”

“Do you like fudge, Mister?” One of them asked.

The other one giggled.

“Why, sure,” said Stan. “Everyone likes fudge.”

Their smiles fell, their too-close eyes appraising him as if he’d failed to get whatever joke they’d been trying to tell.

The one on the left whispered to the one on the right, and together, they turned and fled.

Sweet girls. Strange, but sweet. Odd little things.

As Stan approached his own home - a nice yellow Colonial - he saw Aida staring at him from the living room window. Once he entered, she wasted no time.

“Did you see Prissy’s flowerbeds?” She plunked her binoculars down on the foyer table. Their miniature collie, Pookie Bear, barked and wagged his tail as if Stan had been gone for hours.

Aida followed Stan into the living room. He took the paper off the side table, and settled into his brown leather La-Z-Boy. “Nope.”

“Where’s Waldo?” Aida demanded. “Is he locked up?”

“I didn’t see him, Aida-honey.”

“Well, did you see any dog poop on any of the other lawns? Was any of it pale, like Waldo’s?”

“Didn’t see a thing.”
 

Aida returned to her post at the window. “I just know it was Waldo.” She paused. “Stanny, can you smell it? I’m making your very favorite dinner tonight. Beef stew with little red potatoes and baby carrots and okra, just the way you like it.”

“That’s great, Aida-honey. Thank you.” Stan opened the paper to the sports section, his mouth watering. Prissy Martin might have the best snapdragons, but Aida, he was sure, was the best cook on the sac.
 

Run For Your Life

“That was the best ice cream soda I’ve ever had.” Jason signaled and pulled back onto Main Street.
 

“It was almost as good as the burger. I won’t eat again for a week!” Claire glanced at the clock on the dashboard. “Oh crap, it’s past four.”

“So?”

“Mother.”

“What about her?”

“She’ll be making dinner - and she insists five o’clock is the dinner hour. I didn’t even think about that.”

“Maybe we can talk her into holding off until seven or eight. You’re pregnant. You’ll be able to eat again by then.”

Claire gave Jason a grave look. “Mother serves dinner at five, and there are no exceptions. It’s been that way as far back as I can remember. And woe unto anyone who dares challenge Mother’s laws.”

Jason gave her a sidelong glance and a skeptical smile. “You’re a grown woman now. I can’t imagine she’ll be that uncompromising.”

Claire snorted. “You haven’t met her yet.” She felt better than she had all day. The food had given her a big boost.

“Well, if she is, just tell her to fuck off.”

Claire laughed. “Jason! You
do
understand how I feel!”

“I’ll support you all the way. You know that.” He gave her the sly, sexy grin she’d fallen in love with - the one that still made her heart beat faster. She decided it was good that some things never changed. Claire glanced at the clock again and then out the window.
 

“You need to give me directions now, sweetheart,” Jason said.

“Turn around, get back on the highway, and head for San Francisco.”

“Very funny.”

“Okay, okay. Stay on Main for another mile. We have to head for the ‘new’ part of town.”

“New? There’s something new here?” Jason grinned.

“We’re going out to the 1970s new, Mother’s neighborhood.” She grimaced. “I can’t believe you talked me into this.” Her mood threatened to go dark, but she steadfastly refused to allow it. “When you see Chrysanthemum Avenue, turn left. It’ll wind around; just follow it until we reach the four-way signal. Then turn right on Petunia.”

“Jeez, what’s with all the flowers?”

“You ask that in a town named Snapdragon? Listen, babe, this place is all about the flowers. They have snapdragon-growing contests on individual streets. Mother always wins. Then they have the Snapdragon Festival. You’ll love that. She’ll try to make us go because she always enters the town-wide contest too.”

“She ever win?”

“Every fucking year.”

Jason burst into laughter and Claire joined in until she had to wipe away tears.

“And what happens if she doesn’t win?”

“We don’t know. We’ve never seen that. But it would be bad. Apocalypse-bad. There’s Chrysanthemum. Make the turn.” Her laughter died and the queasiness returned.

Little had changed. The huge old university stood in stateliness in the middle of a massive park full of naked oaks and green pines. Claire remembered the huge white columns fronting the building - and a new memory floated to the surface: Mother telling her they used to tie bad people to the pillars and whip them. This was always followed by a warning to behave. “
Monster,
” she muttered.

“What?”

“Nothing.”
 

“Is that a courthouse?”

“No. It’s Langhorne University.”

“Wow, that’s a pretty big deal - I didn’t realize Langhorne was in Snapdragon.
 
A lot of famous people have gone there.”

“Yeah, it’s known for its writers’ residency programs. And its art, drama and music colleges are the best. They used to have art shows on the grounds a couple weekends every month. I bet they still do. Snapdragon is a big old artist colony at heart.”

“It’s beautiful. We should picnic there - look at all the benches.” He smiled. “We could feed the squirrels.”

“Maybe. Careful, the road’s going to narrow and get really curvy in a second.”

They left Old Downtown. The neighborhood around the courthouse was still full of the huge Victorians that had fascinated her as a child. She’d begged Mother to let her sketch them, but Mother hated the area and wouldn’t take her. It was jealousy, Claire knew. Mother wanted to live there, in a fine mansion, but couldn’t afford it - and she hated what she couldn’t have.

They drove the winding road through more modest neighborhoods, from smaller Victorians to California Bungalows and then simpler newer homes of stucco or clapboard. Claire closed her eyes, taking deep breaths.
I hope Jason’s right. I hope she’s changed. Please let her be different.
Finally, they arrived at a four-way signal. “Here’s Petunia.” She wished she hadn’t eaten the ice cream. “Turn right.” They were almost there.
Oh God … I don’t think I can do it.
She steeled herself and stared out the window.

Petunia was mostly countryside, dotted with ranch-style homes and small farmhouses spaced far apart. Many had signs advertising fresh eggs or apples and pears for sale. Finally, they came to Daisy Drive. Claire cringed, her panic burgeoning.

“Are you all right?”
 

She hadn’t realized he’d been watching her. “I’m fine.” But her hands were tight, white fists in her lap.
What are we doing?
The feeling of dread was overwhelming.

“It’s just a few months,” said Jason. “I promise.”

Claire closed her eyes.
This is a mistake.
She flipped the radio on, countering the heavy silence.
Run for Your Life,
sang the Beatles.

You’ve got to be kidding me.
Claire shut the radio off.

Think Of This As Revenge

The instant Jason turned on to Morning Glory Circle, he wanted to hum
Pleasant Valley Sunday
. He cruised the cul-de-sac slowly, heading toward the big white house presiding over the rest of the street. Claire said nothing, but her knuckles were bloodless.
 

As they approached her mother’s house, he saw a portly woman hoeing a huge flower bed where most people kept lawns. He glanced at Claire, then sang, “There’s Mrs. Green, she’s serene because her roses aren’t in bloom. Yet.”

Claire didn’t crack a smile. Her face was paper-white. He squeezed her hand. “Anticipation is the worst, sweetheart, and the worst is almost over.”

She nodded, barely, but said nothing. That was a bad sign. He wanted her to say something caustic about her mother, to come out swinging. When Claire didn’t rise to a remark, it meant something was truly bothering her.

“After we get on our feet, you’ll never see the woman again if you don’t want to. And she’ll never lay eyes on our baby. I give you my word.”

Claire nodded.

They passed a house the color of bread mold and he began pulling over in front of a dark pumpkin-colored one, then stopped directly in front of Priscilla Martin’s stately black-shuttered beast of a home and shut off the engine. “Think of this as revenge,” he told his wife, praying for a response.
 

“What?” she asked. “What do you mean, revenge?”

“We’re using her, then we’re leaving. That’s all this is.”

Slowly, her mouth rose in a half-assed smile. She looked him in the eye. “I love you. You always know what to say.”

He leaned across and kissed her.
 

Claire straightened her spine and opened the car door.

The first thing he noticed was the lawn. It was as green as shamrocks.
 

“It’s AstroTurf. It’ll really skin your knees,” she said, her tone was flat and dry. She wavered and steadied herself against the car.

“Are you okay?”

“It’s just the pregnancy. It always happens when I stand too fast.”

“Low blood pressure?”

She nodded, got her bearings, and squared her shoulders.

As they walked toward the house, Jason put a hand to her back. She was rigid, her eyes fixed and her chin raised. Passing a freshly painted lawn jockey, they ascended several broad cement stairs. Jason gave her a reassuring look.

At the door, Claire thunked the golden eagle knocker down hard. Jason wasn’t sure she was breathing. Despite all his efforts to assure Claire that they were doing the right thing, it occurred to him now that perhaps they weren’t, that Priscilla Martin might be a monster after all … that they might be making a grave mistake.

When the door opened, Claire stiffened.

Priscilla Martin stood, eyes wide, hands raised to her mouth. She was much smaller than Jason had expected; maybe five-feet four-inches, with coiffed black hair, flawless makeup, eyes wet with tears, and smooth pale skin like Claire’s. In her powder blue blouse and matching pants, she didn’t
look
like a monster.
 

“Oh, Carlene.” Priscilla stepped onto the porch and embraced her daughter, tears rolling. “Carlene, oh, Carlene. My baby.”

Claire was as rigid as a metal beam. “It’s Claire now, Mother.”

Priscilla nodded. “Yes. Of course.” She squeezed her daughter hard. “I promise I’ll do my best to respect your wishes. You never did like the name I gave you. I wish I’d made a better choice.”

To Jason’s surprise, Claire gave her mother an awkward pat on the back before breaking the embrace. Priscilla appraised her daughter, and in the strained silence, Jason heard
Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree
playing softly within the house.

Priscilla turned soft, watery eyes to Jason. They were a disturbingly pale shade of amber. Despite them, the woman had surely been a beautiful young girl. Priscilla opened her arms. “Jason,” she said. He hesitated, then stepped into her hug and she embraced him. The powerful smell of
Opium
perfume overwhelmed him. “It’s so nice to finally meet you in person. You’re as handsome as you sounded on the phone.” Priscilla patted his back then stepped aside. “Come in, come in.”
 

Claire and Jason stepped into Priscilla Martin’s living room.

And the Oscar goes to Priscilla Martin for best use of waterproof mascara in her flawless performance of The Saccharine Symphony for a Son-in-Law.
Claire watched Mother flutter around Jason - the way Tinkerbell fluttered around Peter Pan - then looked over the big living room. It hadn’t changed any more than Mother had, though it was obvious that the cornflower-colored rug had been upgraded, the creamy walls kept freshly painted, and the furniture - stark 1970s-style couches and chairs she remembered from her earliest days - had been reupholstered with fabrics and colors matching the originals. From Mother’s record player, the Andrews Sisters droned on and on.
Claire had forgotten that staple of her childhood.
 

The same Colonial maple coffee and end tables gleamed with lemony polish that vied for dominance with Mother’s perfume, and the table and pole lamps were pristine with the same plastic-covered ballerina-ruffled shades that were popular generations ago. The shades were many and all were yellow, cornflower, or cotton-candy pink, just like the furniture. The walls were covered with paintings and needlework featuring snapdragons in colors as pastel as the lampshades and rug. Bouquets of silk snapdragons were placed wherever there was space. It looked like a clown had thrown up in the living room.