Grand Avenue (39 page)

“I thought your speech was wonderful,” Chris said in the abnormally high-pitched voice of someone trying desperately not to laugh.

Ariel regarded the women suspiciously, as if they were about to pounce. “Thank you,” she said, although she clearly wasn’t sure.

“We weren’t talking about you,” Vicki said, as if to reassure her, and once again, the other women doubled over laughing.

“What’s going on in here?” another voice demanded. The voice was so sharp it hurt the ear.

Susan watched her younger sister sweep into the room, like a deranged beekeeper mourning the loss of her hive. Her veil was pushed back to reveal a thin face framed by straight, yellow-blond hair. Bright red lips flamed out from an otherwise colorless complexion. Dark eyes radiated indignation. Immediately the laughter froze in Susan’s throat.

“Really, Susan, we just buried our mother. How can you show her such disrespect? We could hear you laughing from the next room.”

Susan felt the stinging rebuke like a slap to her face.

“Respect is something you show the living,” Vicki said.

“Sometimes laughter eases the pain,” Chris added.

“Aren’t you awfully hot in that hat?” Barbara asked.

“Cunt,” Ariel muttered under her breath.

“What?” Diane stammered. “What did you say?”

“I said ‘cup.’ As in cup or mug.” Ariel held up the pot of freshly brewed coffee. “Which would you prefer?”

“Oh. Oh, yes. A mug will be fine. I’m feeling a little shaky. All these people to entertain.” Diane adjusted her hat. The veil came loose and fell across her face. Diane impatiently whipped it back up.

“I don’t think anyone expects to be entertained,” Susan said.

“Well, one does what one can. Anyway, hopefully everyone will leave soon.” Diane stared pointedly at Susan’s three friends. “I can rest then.”

“Yes, you’re looking a little tired,” Barbara said.

“I am?”

“Everyone was commenting,” Vicki added.

“Must have been that awful train trip,” Chris said.

Ariel approached her aunt, holding out the steaming mug of coffee. “Here’s your coffee. Black, right?”

“Yes, that’s right.” Diane took the coffee without saying thanks. “Well, I guess I should get back to our guests.” She didn’t move. “I need a cigarette.” With her free hand, she reached inside the small black purse dangling from her wrist.

Susan thought of objecting, but decided against it. Diane knew Susan’s feelings about smoking. Diane knew Owen didn’t allow smoking in the house. She obviously didn’t care. What the hell, Susan decided. Her sister would be gone in a few days. It wasn’t worth creating a scene.

“No smoking in the house,” Ariel admonished.

Susan smiled at her older daughter, fighting the urge to smother the top of her purple-and-pink hair with kisses.

Diane impatiently waved Ariel’s statement aside as she drew a cigarette out of its package and raised it to her lips.

“I’m sorry,” Susan told her. “I’m afraid you’ll have to smoke that outside.”

“I’m surprised you smoke,” Chris said.

“It’s a filthy habit.” Vicki shook her head disapprovingly.

“It causes wrinkles.” Barbara motioned toward her own unlined face.

Diane looked at the ceiling as if hoping for divine intervention. When none was forthcoming, she tossed the cigarette back into her purse and headed for the door. “Fine. I’ll go out front. You might think about seeing to our other guests.” Purse in one hand, coffee in the other, she used her hip to push through the door into the living room.

The four friends watched her leave, then turned to one another. “Cunt,” they mouthed in unison.

“I heard that,” Ariel said with a laugh. “God, some example you guys are setting.”

“Thanks, sweetie,” Susan said.

“For what?”

For not giving me a hard time. For acting like a human being. For being young and alive and healthy. For being mine. “For the nice things you said about Grandma at the funeral.”

Ariel nodded, swaying toward her mother, stopping as the kitchen door swung back open and Barbara’s daughter, Tracey, poked her head inside the room.

“There you are,” Tracey said, quickly at her mother’s side, her arm snaking around her waist as Barbara kissed her forehead. “I wondered where you guys disappeared. Hi, Ariel.”

Ariel grunted something unintelligible in reply.

Susan’s eyes moved warily between the two girls, trying to squeeze them together in her mind, to borrow a little from one to give to the other, to mix and
match the best qualities of each. To Ariel, she’d give Tracey’s maturity and good manners. To Tracey, she’d lend Ariel’s spirit and sense of adventure. She’d temper Ariel’s rebelliousness with a helping of Tracey’s respect for her elders; she’d enhance Tracey’s quiet reserve with a dash of Ariel’s outspoken fearlessness. Tracey was a big girl, the kind of girl Susan’s mother would have described as big-boned. Pretty face, though she’d never be as beautiful as her mother. Maybe if she cut her hair, punked it up a little, maybe added a few pink streaks. Susan almost laughed out loud. My God, what was she thinking?

“How’s Kirsten?” Tracey asked Vicki.

“Great. She’s a counselor at Camp Walkie-Talkie, or whatever they call the damn place. Loves it.”

Tracey looked over at Chris, hesitated. “How are you, Mrs. Malarek?”

“Fine, thank you, Tracey.” No one ever asked Chris about Montana anymore.

“Are you ready to go yet?” Tracey whispered to her mother.

“Not yet,” Barbara said.

“Oh, no, please,” Susan said quickly. “You guys don’t have to stick around all afternoon. I know you have other things to do. Please. You’ve already done so much.”

“You think we’re going to leave you alone with Cunt Dracula?” Vicki asked, as the women once again collapsed in helpless laughter.

“You guys are really bad,” Ariel said, shaking her head.

“I don’t get it,” Tracey said. “What’s so funny?”

“That’s what I’d like to know,” Diane said, reentering the kitchen with a sharp push on the door, trailing an almost visible line of smoke in her wake.

“That was a fast cigarette,” Vicki observed.

“I only smoke them half the way down. Besides, I met someone outside. Handsome man. Nicely dressed. He was coming up the front steps just as I was going out. Apparently nobody told him about the funeral.” She glared accusingly at Susan, glanced back at the door. “He’s very intent on paying his respects.”

There was a slight commotion in the other room, the sound of voices. (“What are you doing here?” “I don’t think this is a very good idea.” “Now isn’t the time or place.”) And then the kitchen door swung open and Tony Malarek pushed his way inside.

“Oh, God,” Chris moaned, backing into a corner, automatically grabbing the hair at the back of her neck.

Susan stared at Tony without speaking. If she didn’t know him better, she might have described him exactly as her sister had. Handsome, in a rough-and-tumble sort of way, nicely dressed in black pants and black, short-sleeved shirt. His hair was close-cropped and salted with flecks of gray, his face and heavily muscled arms deeply tanned. He looked well-rested, confident. Even happy, Susan thought with a shudder, wondering what he was doing here, what his next move would be.

“Okay, Tony,” Owen said, entering the kitchen, Jeremy Latimer at his side. “We don’t want any trouble here.”

“What’s going on?” Diane asked, wary eyes darting from man to man.

“Relax,” Tony said, his eyes coming to rest on his former wife. “I didn’t come to make trouble.”

“Who is this man?” Diane asked.

“I just came to pay my respects.”

“That’s not necessary.”

“I think it is.”

“Then why don’t you say what you came to say and leave.” Susan struggled to keep her voice steady.

“Ah, the voice of reason. As usual.” Tony’s voice dripped sarcasm as thick as melted toffee. “Sorry about your mother, Susan,” he said, his eyes never leaving Chris.

Susan nodded, said nothing.

“I’m Tony Malarek, by the way,” Tony answered Diane, as if suddenly remembering her question. “This pathetic little creature is my wife, Chris.”

“Ex-wife,” Chris said, her voice surprisingly strong.

“Ex-wife.” Tony reached out his hand, his fingers folding into the shape of a gun aimed directly at his wife’s head. “Guess she wasn’t paying attention when the judge said, ‘Till death do you part.’ ” His fingers pulled the imaginary trigger.

“Okay, that’s enough,” Jeremy Latimer exclaimed, knocking Tony’s hand to his side as he and Owen pushed Tony toward the kitchen door.

“Asshole,” Barbara muttered under her breath.

“Cocksucker,” Vicki said out loud.

“Careful, girls,” Tony called back. “This gun’s got lots of bullets.” His laugh echoed through the house. Seconds later, the front door opened and slammed shut.

For a minute, nobody seemed to breathe.

“My God, what kind of friends do you have?” Diane demanded.

Susan ignored her sister, moved quickly to Chris’s side. “Are you all right?”

“I’m fine,” Chris said. “I’m just so sorry. I never thought he’d come here.”

“Is everything all right?” a voice asked from the doorway.

“Should we call the police?” another voice asked.

“Yes,” Susan said.

“No,” Chris countered.

“Why not?”

“They won’t do anything.”

“He threatened your life, for God’s sake. We were all witnesses.”

“I didn’t see anything,” Diane said quickly.

“The police won’t help,” Chris said with quiet resolve.

Susan’s shoulders slumped. “At the very least, you’ll stay here tonight,” she insisted.

“Where will she sleep?” Diane asked.

“It’s all right. I’ll be fine.”

“You can’t ignore him, Chris. He’s a ticking time bomb.”

“I can’t run from him forever. I’m through running.”

“Not forever,” Susan told her. “Just a few more nights. Till he calms down.”

“It’s all right,” Barbara interjected. “I’m taking Chris home with me. No arguments.”

Chris smiled her assent, as if she knew it was pointless to argue.

I can’t run from him forever. I’m through running
.

Susan replayed Chris’s words over and over in her head after everyone had gone. She heard them twisting through Diane’s voice as her sister finalized the arrangements for her return trip to California. She could still hear them bouncing around in her brain later that night, when she crawled into bed beside Owen and closed her eyes, drifting in and out of sleep. They were the voice behind her restless dreams. Dreams of naked women running in helpless circles, of lost children wandering through dense jungles.
I can’t run from him forever. I’m through running
.

The phone rang.

Owen sat up in bed as Susan groped for the phone in the dark. The clock on the bedside table said 4:42. The phone rang again. “Oh, God,” Susan said instead of hello, crying even before she heard the voice on the other end of the line.

“Susan? Susan, is that you?”

“Yes, it’s me.” Who was she talking to? Susan struggled to recognize the voice. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

“Help me. You have to help me.”

“What happened? What’s going on?”

“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” the young girl wailed between anguished sobs, and only then did Susan recognize the familiar timbre of Tracey’s voice.

“Tracey, what’s the matter? Tell me!”

“I can’t!”

“Tracey, please,” Susan pleaded. “You have to calm down. You have to tell me what’s going on!”

“Tony …!”

“Tony? Is Tony there?”

Owen flipped on the light, started climbing into his clothes.

“No.” Susan could feel Tracey shaking her head. “He’s gone. He … he …”

“He what? Tracey, what did Tony do? Did he hurt Chris?”

“Chris?” Tracey repeated the name as if she’d never heard the word before. “Chris isn’t here.”

“Tracey, what happened? Please tell me what happened.” The breath suddenly froze in Susan’s lungs. Why was she talking to Tracey? Where was Barbara?

Dear God, where was Barbara?

“Where’s your mother?” Susan shouted into the phone. “Tracey, let me speak to your mother!”

Ariel and Whitney suddenly appeared in the bedroom doorway. “Mom,” Ariel said, holding tightly to Whitney’s hand. “What’s wrong?”

“Tracey, answer me,” Susan directed. “Where’s your mother?”

Tracey’s response was a scream that shot through Susan’s body like a bolt of lightning. A sound, Susan later remembered thinking, she would take with her to her grave.

1992–1993

A
t five-thirty in the morning, the phone rang in Vicki’s bedroom. She reached for it on the first ring, heard Susan’s trembling voice, absorbed the information quickly, hung up the phone, walked into her large en suite bathroom, and threw up all over the marble floor. Forty minutes later, she and Jeremy turned their new black Jaguar onto Grand Avenue and parked in front of their old house. The police were already there, the entire area cordoned off, Barbara’s house surrounded by streams of yellow tape that identified it as a crime scene. “I’m Vicki Latimer,” Vicki announced as she brushed by one of the officers.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am …”

“I’m Jeremy Latimer,” her husband told the young officer, who immediately stood back to let them enter.

She saw Owen first. He was sitting on a chair by the fireplace, his head in his shaking hands, his skin ashen, as if he’d been dusted with a fine coating of chalk. Vicki was just about to ask where Susan was when she came
out of the kitchen, her skin blotchy and pale. She was wearing a long, white T-shirt over a pair of baggy brown shorts, obviously the first thing she’d seen to throw on, Vicki thought, her eyes shifting uneasily to the young girl Susan had her arm around.

Tracey walked slowly, her large, round eyes open and blank, as if permanently imprinted with the horror of what they’d seen. Her face was swollen from crying and stained with tears. Her cotton pajamas were an unsettling combination of pink and red. It took Vicki only a few seconds to realize that the red was blood, and when she did, she almost threw up again. Likewise when she looked at Tracey’s blood-streaked hands.