Concrete Angel (39 page)

“Who died?” Mother asked now as our eyes met across the room. My face must have betrayed my apprehension.

“Ryan in bed?” I asked, hanging my jacket, my back to her. I could sense her nod, imagine her licking her finger to turn the page. “Keep him out all day again? He should apply for working papers.”

I couldn’t manage to keep my mouth shut about what were now inconsequential things. Nerves were doing that to me, and my voice sounded edgy to my ears.

“He spent the day with your grandmother.” Slap, slap. “Bud and I went to see his accountant.”

I could tell she regretted admitting as much immediately and her voice tapered off.

She invented an elaboration—one of those quick lies she usually excelled at. But this time it carried no heft. “We had some mutual business matters to discuss.” She slammed the magazine down and stood up, stretching.

Mother probably would’ve liked to slap more than the pages of LOOK magazine. But having done it the week before, it seemed like a stale idea. I could imagine her sorting through the ways I’d failed her in recent months, figuring out what had caused the change, and blaming both my enrollment in that fancy college and my relationship with Jason for it. I’m sure she considered the time I spent with my father and grandmother as sources of friction too. How she would’ve loved to know that those days with Daddy had ended.

“Have you noticed things aren’t as close between us as they were a year or two ago,” she said, reading my mind. “Is it because of Bud?” She’d spotted the truth immediately. “Because he took me under his wing in various… deals? Well look, sweetie, he made our lives a lot easier. You might think about that fact before you roll those eyes again, before you accuse me of whatever it is you have in mind.”

Her voice had risen in volume, and we both heard Ryan stirring in the next room. She continued in a more subdued voice. “We’re living a lot better now than we have any right to—after what happened with Mickey. And it’s mostly thanks to him. To Bud,” she said, as if it needed clarification. Her voice sounded reverential almost. “It’s not like your father—or Mickey—is helping us out. It always falls on me.” I could see her weighing whether to include me on the list of unhelpful people too.

Whine, whine, whine. Blame, blame, blame.

Now I did roll my eyes, but Mother sunk in her own pity pit didn’t catch me.

“Look, Mother, getting back to what you said about mutual business matters—deals between you and Bud—I saw a lot of paperwork at Grandmother’s. You know, in the boxes in the cellar.”

Her eyes flashed a warning, but I ignored it. There’d be no turning back. “I was working on a project for school.” I decided to use that story again, “and I ran across a lot of documents that looked—well, strange. Letters, police and school reports, deeds, titles, diaries. Perhaps I misunderstood some of them,” I added to quiet her.

“How dare you go through my papers. What business is it of yours?” Mother began to pace the room, her heels clicking on the bare floor, quieting when she reached the carpet, and then clicking as she turned.

“Some people might say it became my business when you forced me to say I shot Jerry Santini,” I told her, preparing to open the attaché. “The day you had me sit in a judges’ chamber and lie. When you made me lie to the police, to my father, to my grandparents, to everyone.” I paused a minute to collect myself, struggling to control my voice. Any detection of weakness wouldn’t help me.

“I’ve been expecting this moment for years,” my mother said, sounding unsurprised at what I’d said. “The moment when you’d claim such a thing.” She dabbed at her dry eyes. “Oh, the doctors warned me you’d want to disown the incident at some point. You were in such a fugue state that night—you must hardly remember what happened.” Her voice took on a soothing quality—as if she was dealing with someone mentally disturbed.

“I remember it well,” I told her. “But I needn’t have. I wrote everything down, in fact. All the details of our ruse. Our little plot to get you off.”

Mother drew herself in. “Something written years after the fact is worthless,” she said, coming to stand behind me. “Maybe you don’t understand. Both legally and personally worthless. You might as well be writing fiction.” She started to reach for me, stopping as I stiffened.

“I didn’t write it years later.” I lied—but a lie I’d worked on for days— running it by Jason for practice. “I wrote it a few months after it happened. Cy Granholm— that wretched attorney who crafted the story— advised you to keep a record, I overheard him— and I thought it’d be a good idea if I did the same. So I wrote it all down and eventually left it at Grandmother’s house—in a box of my own.” I patted the attaché. “I guess even then I realized I needed something to protect myself. Even if I was only a child.”

“I don’t believe you.”

But I knew she did. I knew she could imagine me writing away at my desk, wishing she’d supervised me more closely. Wrongly thinking that driving me to the shrink was enough supervision. Wondering if he’d been in on it too. That getting into my head earlier would’ve been a good idea.

She looked at the attaché curiously. “That bag’s awfully thick. What else do you have in there?” Her voice had lost some of its coolness. Her hand started to reach for it.

I held it tighter, shrugging. “About a million pieces of paper documenting your life. Records going all the way back to childhood indiscretions. Accounts of things that happened to you as far back as middle school. You kept careful records and what a help it was.”

She made an overt grab for the briefcase.

“It doesn’t matter, Mother. These are all copies. Copies of report cards, letters from the parents of children you played with, police records, car sales, department store purchases, stays in hospitals, phony Medicare claims. I can’t begin to enumerate the entire history of your activities. It took us hours to make the copies.”

“Us?” Mother turned on her heel and walked over to the closet, opened it and made to reach for her coat. “Do you mean Jason or your father?”

“Are you running away, Mother? Leaving Ryan and me to ourselves?”

This was one scenario I’d envisioned. The best one too. I held my breath. But I was still a fool, still didn’t know the depths of her wickedness.

Her voice was muffled. I stifled a scream as she came out of the closet holding a gun. It wasn’t poised for shooting, but it wasn’t slack in her hands.

I hadn’t thought of this though I should have. A gun had solved things for her once. The penalty for its use had been so slight she was bound to try it again.

“Is that the same gun you used on Santini or did Bud rearm you?” I asked, straining to keep calm.

I didn’t think she’d use it, but I knew there wasn’t much she wouldn’t do to protect herself. I girded myself and began to think about how to get it out of her hands. Did it occur to her that her other child was twelve feet behind her—through wallboard only inches thick? Would she ask him to take the fall after she killed me? Say she caught him playing with her gun after it was too late. Of course, she would. I could almost see the story forming in her head.

She was talking again, telling me her plan. “This is what I’ll tell them—these people you plan to go to—whoever you have in mind,” Mother said, aiming the gun. “I’ll say you were going through something tonight—sort of reliving the night it happened. Bud was here too, and you were ready to kill him—kept calling him Jerry.” She paused, needing a minute to catch up with her own story. “He’ll back me up. I’ve heard of such things—people reliving a terrible moment. Unfortunately—there was no choice—and we had to shoot you. Maybe Ryan came out of his room and saw it. Or maybe there was a struggle and the gun discharged. Something like that anyway. Bud can be here in five minutes. He’ll help me make a plan.”

She said this smugly. As if it solved all of her problems. Had she forgotten I wasn’t alone in the world anymore? Chances were both Jason and Daddy would know why I was here. She had no way of knowing Daddy has disowned all my actions.

“You don’t think it’ll look suspicious. Another body found dead on your living room floor.” It was ludicrous. “And anyway, Jason knows. Daddy knows—has always known.” I didn’t mention my father’s lack of support. “It’s too late, Mother.”

“Your father?” Mother lowered the gun incrementally. “Cy told me he knew what happened, but I didn’t believe him. Said he’d keep quiet.” She bit her lip. “I guess he did. What did he say about me?”

“He said he’d back me up,” I lied. “Whatever I decided to do with this—stuff— was okay with him.” I waved the case at her.

“And you decided to come to me first rather than go straight to the cops? Why, I wonder?”

“It seemed fair.”

“You expected me to take off after you told me, didn’t you?” The gun was waving in the air, shaking with her anger. “Leaving Ryan to your tender care. Some people might call it incestuous—the strange love you have for him. I remember when you insisted on him sleeping in your room the day he came home from the hospital.”

I made a move toward my mother, wanting to rip her head off, shut that damned mouth of hers, stub her out like a spent cigarette. I wished I’d decided to kill her—made a plan for murder instead. She stepped away from my lunge, tripped on a toy Ryan had left on the floor—how apropos—and the gun went off.

I’m not sure what happened next, but the bullet skimmed my shoulder on its way into the wall behind me. I felt it down in my soul somewhere too. We both stood there stunned—for what seemed like forever.

“You almost shot me,” I said, not at all surprised.

“Well, you tripped me—or backed me into a corner.” She set the gun on a table. “You should know better than that. You can’t make any sudden moves when I’m agitated. Why did you have to get me so upset?” She paused and asked quietly, “Are you okay? God, I’m sorry. I never would’ve fired it.”

“How could I have forgotten about you and your corners?” I examined my shoulder. “I wasn’t there when Jerry Santini made his move, you know. I was sound asleep.” She’d managed to phrase it as if Jerry’s
move
was made on her—and not part of his futile attempt to call the cops.

She nodded wearily. “I barely remember that night, you know. I wasn’t myself, of course.” She laughed lightly.

“I know.”

“What will you tell people if I take off? That’s what you have in mind, right? Your arm is all right, isn’t it? You do know I wouldn’t have shot you except for the toy I tripped over. I only meant to scare you.”

I bet she’d had the same thing in mind six years earlier. I nodded. “I’ll say you couldn’t stomach the idea of raising another child. Something along those lines anyway.” I paused. “There aren’t many people to explain it to.”

“You’ll tell your father that story?”

I nodded. “He won’t question it. And listen, Bud has to go too. And all remnants of the stuff you’ve been up to must disappear.”

“I wouldn’t go without him.”

“So this is the deal. Leave enough money behind to keep us going for a while—a year or two. You do have enough money to do that?” She nodded. “You’ll never come back—no matter how tempted you are. No matter what happens. When Grandmother dies, you won’t return. I don’t want your address after you get there—but give it to Daddy just in case—once you are permanently settled at least. He can keep it somewhere. He’s used to keeping family secrets.”

“Maybe jail would be better. My term would have an end date.”

“It’s up to you,” I said, waiting.

“You’d actually turn me in.”

I could see she still didn’t believe it. Didn’t believe her faithful dog was lost to her. I wasn’t sure either but I had to appear adamant—sure of it.

“In a heartbeat.” My voice was strong. “And another thing, you have to go far away. Maybe the west coast. I don’t want any accidental meetings.”

“I’ve always wanted to see San Diego,” she said. “I’m not used to being without you—we’ve been through so much… I hope I can do it.”

I covered my ears— literally—something I should have done many years earlier. “You have two weeks to get yourself together, but I’m taking Ryan to Daddy’s tonight.”

For the first time, yes, the very first time, she started to cry.

“He really is Mickey’s kid, you know.” She dabbed at her eyes with the back of her hand. “I never cheated on Mick.”

I wonder if she thought it mattered to me.

“I don’t know how he got it into his head. Maybe it was only his excuse to leave because I was never the promiscuous type. He knew that.”

She paused. “And you, Baby. You are the love of my life. You know that. Right, Christine?”

I think she believed it. And some part of me did too. We’d been through so much together. Most of it bad but still it was our story. The only one we had.

We tiptoed into Ryan’s room together. I packed a few of his clothes while she watched him sleep. I packed a few of mine too. Ryan didn’t wake up when I lifted him from his bed. His head settled into my shoulder like it had been made to fit there.

I put on my jacket, and struggling with the weight of my brother, picked up the packed clothes, and the attaché. Of course, there was no asking her to help me. There never had been. I could sense Mother standing at the open door, could feel her hoping I’d relent, turn back, something. Relent and be the love of her life.

I can’t say no tears slid down my cheek, or that her stricken face wasn’t seared on my brain. But out on the street, Jason was waiting for me, the car running. Ryan and I climbed in and none of us looked back.