Mother (56 page)

Phyllis Stine lay shaking in bed, listening to Clyde grumble and snore. Sleep evaded her. She couldn’t get her mind off the letter she’d received today:

I know what you and your husband do when you think no one sees you. I see everything, Ms. Stine, including the years you’ve tried to hide beneath all that expensive plastic surgery.
 

There was no threat, and no demand, but it made Phyllis uneasy, nonetheless. It wasn’t the first anonymous letter she’d received that boasted knowledge of Clyde’s cross-dressing habits, but it
was
the first one that mentioned her age.
Nobody knows how old I am. Nobody.
She’d ransacked her memory and come up blank.
I’ve never told a soul.
And she knew Clyde wouldn’t. He of all people would not have bragged that his wife was nearly old enough to be his mother.

It ate at her.
 

She prided herself on her beauty. Natural or not, beauty was beauty, and up until six months ago, she could have easily passed for a woman of fifty instead of seventy.
I need to have Dr. Loopus tighten up my eye bags.
Yes. That would help a lot. Things were getting a little loose around her mouth, too.
 

She rolled over.
So help me God, if I ever find out who’s writing these letters, I’m going to kill them with my bare hands.
She closed her eyes, finally stopped shaking, and fell asleep.

Nelly and Bertie Dunworth had received a letter as well. Unlike Phyllis Stine, however, neither lost a wink of sleep over it. The letter, in short, had announced knowledge of their secret professions as phone-sex operators. The sender also called them cheap dime-store hussies and threatened to expose them if they didn’t fix up their yard.

Neither sister gave a squat about any secrets getting out. If the Almighty hadn’t wanted them to get men off over the phone for a living, He wouldn’t have given them such sultry, feathery voices. And they’d manage their yard however they saw fit, thank you very much. If they wanted to have old tires, rusted soup cans, and fifteen cat bowls on the porch for strays, then by God, they would. In fact, before retiring for the night, they’d talked about doing just that. It had given them quite a good giggle.
 

Tonight, the Dunworth sisters slept in peace.

Friday night at the Dean house meant one thing: passion.
 

Due to Delphi and Daphie’s clarinet practice, chess tournaments, and piano lessons, Friday was the only night Earl and his beloved Earlene could engage in intimacies. Consequently, Friday nights went long and late. He thanked heaven for his little blue pills: after all these years, he could finally keep up with Earlene’s voracious appetites - and they were definitely worth losing a night’s sleep over.

He knelt behind her as the strains of
White Wedding
played in the background -
“Hey, little sister …”
- Billy Idol’s gruff voice turned Earlene into a maniac.
 

Earl clutched a handful of each of her buttocks, shaking them about, and enjoying the show as her flesh rippled and rolled.
 

“Ohhh … Earl …” cooed Earlene, wagging her backside, begging him to enter.

“Are you ready, baby doll?”

“Yessss. Pleasssee. Yessss.”

Earl entered her, and not conventionally -
They don’t call me the Fudge King for nothing!
- and continued slapping Earlene’s backside as she huffed and puffed.

Every time with Earlene was like the first time - exciting, frightening, taboo.
That first time had been so long ago, and they’d been so very, very young. Not many couples had as much passion after all these years as the Deans did, but then again, few couples dared to travel down such forbidden roads.

“It’s ssso exciting!” cried Earlene. “Harder!”

Earl plowed into her, deep and unforgiving.
 

She took him like a champ and begged for more.

“I’m going to be up all night if we drink any more hot cocoa,” Paul told Steffie Banks. He’d landed at the shiny new Brimstone Airport at five p.m. and Stephanie had been there to pick him up in her red Land Rover. Her hug had thrilled him.

After a sublime dinner in the restaurant at the Brimstone Grand, she’d taken him back to her neat, modern adobe home. The Saltillo tile floors were softened with southwestern-style throw rugs and the rocky fireplace crackled and kept the place warm. Her furniture and decor were earthy browns and greens. Paul thought it was the coziest, most welcoming home he’d ever stepped into. Only Steffie herself was more welcoming.

“It’s late,” she said. “I guess you’re right - we should stop with the cocoa.”
 

“Probably. And if we’re leaving for Snapdragon in the morning, we’d better get our beauty sleep.”

“We don’t have much time, but we’ll get up early and see a few things before the flight.” She paused. “We haven’t talked too much about the situation in Snapdragon.”

“We will tomorrow,” Paul said, not wanting the evening to end. He and Steffie had taken up as if twenty-plus years hadn’t passed. Conversation flowed, so did laughter. Paul felt selfish, deflecting questions about Priscilla Martin, but he needed a few hours without worry. “There’s plenty of time on the flight home to discuss everything.” He paused. “I know I’m being selfish.”

“No, you’re not. There’s no point in dwelling. We’ll deal with it when the time is right.”

“Sounds good,” he said thinking of Jason’s last phone call.
 

“Something wrong?” Steffie set her mug down.

“I’m hoping that storm doesn’t hit Denver. Jason is frantic to get home to Claire.”

She nodded. “I think it was really nice of you to offer to take her to your place. I wish she’d taken you up on it.”

“Yeah, me too, but like I said, there are neighbors ready to get her out of there if necessary. One’s a cop.”

Steffie nodded and rose. “I’m glad they’re there for her. And I’m glad Jason’s listening to Claire with an open mind now.”

Paul stood up. “What time are we getting up?”

“Meet me in the kitchen for breakfast at 5:30.”

“In the morning?” He followed her upstairs. They paused in front of the guest room.
 

“Yes, in the morning. I have my reasons.” Stephanie smiled. “I’m glad you’re here.”

“So am I.” He held her gaze. “I can’t believe it’s been so many years.”

“Way too many.” She came closer and he leaned in, his eyes closing, his heart beating like a teenager’s.

She kissed him on the cheek. “See you bright and early.”

Candy had gone to bed hours ago, but Milton Sachs couldn’t sleep. He sat at his desk staring at the latest anonymous letter. It had arrived in their mailbox today and Candy had, as usual, left it unopened on the hall table with the other deliveries. She was happy to have Milton handle the mail, and he was grateful because she didn’t need to know that, once or twice a year, some reprobate threatened to spill Candy’s secret. He himself had no problem with her past, but he wanted to spare her worry and possible humiliation, so he’d never said a word.

The thing was, the sender of the typed letters didn’t make threats or try to extort money, and as long as that was the case, Milton preferred not to bring the law into it. That would humiliate Candy even more. Their friends were fellow attorneys and people involved in the city government, not to mention the country club crowd, and Candy loved the socializing and the parties. Sometimes, over the years, on other nights like this one, he’d considered telling her. He stared at the paper a long moment before putting it through the shredder. Then he went upstairs to join his wife in bed.
The most beautiful woman on the sac. Maybe even in the entire town.
 

Aida listened to Stan’s soft, rhythmic breathing and wished she could fall asleep that easily, simply turn off worry like he did, but it wasn’t to be.

She couldn’t stop thinking about the threatening letter they’d received. Aida’s heart had nearly stopped when she’d drawn it from the mailbox and seen the nondescript envelope with the equally non-descript typed address.

The sender never named their crime, only claimed to know what they’d done and said they should pay for their sins. Of course, they wouldn’t go to the police, and Stan no longer got excited - it had gone on so many years he felt it was a paper tiger, somebody’s idea of a joke.
 

She wanted to believe that, to be like Stan, but she couldn’t help worrying. She lay in the dark and stared at the ceiling, her stomach sour and knotted.
 

Duane Pruitt’s dreams were little more than fractured images that haunted him between bouts of consciousness. He could hear Geneva-Marie’s soft voice whispering unintelligible words. He saw images of her smiling, laughing, touching his chin the way she had when they were alone together. And then he saw the blood.

It was everywhere. On his clothes, in his hair, on the walls … and on his hands. Upon waking, he knew blood on his hands was surely symbolic of guilt, but didn’t understand the reference.
Do I feel guilty about her murder? Why would I feel guilty?
The answer came easily: If not for his relationship with her, Burke never would have lost his temper and done what he did.
He found out. He had to have found out, or he wouldn’t have come here after shooting the boys and Geneva.

The knowledge burrowed into the pit of his stomach, twisting like a rusty corkscrew, niggling its way into the deepest trenches of his soul.
Geneva is dead because of me. And the kids
. He couldn’t bear to think about them, not yet.
 

Beside him, Jerry rolled over and opened his eyes. “You need to get some sleep, Duane,” he said in a groggy voice.

“I know.”

Jerry watched him a long moment. “It wasn’t your fault. You know that, don’t you?”

Duane’s eyes blurred but he managed a smile for Jerry’s sake. “I know.”

The house stood, a massive sepulcher bathed in darkness. All around Morning Glory Circle, porch lights and streetlamps marked each house, but the streetlight in front of the Collins house had gone out and no lights burned within. It was a tomb.

Downstairs, some of the dishes and small appliances, books and paintings, had already been boxed up by Geneva-Marie’s bereft first cousins from San Jose, but the furniture remained. The cousins had told the real estate agent to sell the furniture with the house, or donate it to charity.
 

Upstairs was another matter. A cleaning crew had removed the blood-sodden beds and stripped the bloodstained carpets and scrubbed the wood floors in Barry and Chris Collins’ rooms. A hungry mouse scavenged for food, nose twitching, whiskers vibrating as it sniffed at the floorboards, scenting blood no human could detect. It peered at the bare walls and trembled. Despite fresh paint, the memory of the murders lived on in the wood and plaster of the room. The mouse ran.
 

Dave Flannigan sat at the kitchen table. He’d been unable to sleep, his mind on the past. Before him lay his revolver, a solid little .38 Special he’d bought after a thief had broken into his mother’s house, and stolen her money and jewelry. His mother, long gone these many years, had never gotten over it. Oh, she claimed she had, but he could always see the terror in her eyes when he left for the rectory after their Monday night dinners. He’d bought the gun for her, but she’d refused to learn to use it, so he’d kept it locked in his nightstand ever since. He’d never used it himself beyond a few trips to the police range for target practice.
 

While his mother had never recovered from the burglar’s invasion, Dave had never gotten over Priscilla Martin’s. Now, the gun lay on the table because he couldn’t forgive his own cowardice. It rarely bothered him - he was good at compartmentalizing - but tonight’s talk with young Andy had brought it all crashing back, as fresh and horrifying as it had been after Timothy Martin committed suicide and Dave realized he might have prevented it if he’d come forward years before.
What else did that woman do to that poor boy?

He poured a shot of bourbon and tossed it back, grimacing, trying to find his courage.
Dear God in heaven, what should I do?

God wasn’t answering. Dave wasn’t even sure there was a God anymore, but he wasn’t sure there wasn’t one, either - and for a Catholic to commit suicide was a mortal sin, a quick ticket on the train to brimstone and hellfire. He didn’t know if he’d ever believed that, but it had worried him enough to stay his hand after Timothy’s death.

He dropped the empty shot glass and it rolled off the table, shattering on the floor. Uncaring, he picked up the gun, hefted it. There was one bullet in the chamber.
One is all I need.
 

He raised the revolver, opened his mouth, and put it to his lips as tears streamed down his old, seamed cheeks. The metal was cold and metallic against his tongue. He could taste the gun oil.

He put his finger on the trigger, felt the resistance. All it would take was a little more pressure. “God forgive me,” he sobbed.

But he doubted God would forgive him.

He lowered the gun, thinking back to when he and Priscilla Martin had had sex. As he told Andy, she always got what she wanted and she’d wanted to rut with him, to use him, and the flesh was weak. And then she asked him to copulate in front of her boy. Before that, he’d tried to convince himself she was sincerely worried about Timothy’s self-abuse, but he’d sensed perversion early on. He began to feel repulsion toward her, but still, it had been easier to continue the assignation than confront her. She’d found small ways to remind him that if he didn’t do what she asked he could lose his position. Those threats had kept him in line for a long time. When he finally refused outright, Priscilla had accepted it, but only because he’d told her that blackmail goes both ways and her sick obsession with her son would be revealed.
 

Time passed and he convinced himself that Priscilla had quit sexually abusing her son for fear of exposure. As the years went by, he found peace; and even after Timothy died, Priscilla hadn’t come after him.