Mason's Daughter (18 page)

My throat turns to desert, too dry to spit anything but words. “You’re lying. It never happened.”

“Mrs. Gussmann said Weesie kept muttering how ‘this’ would get me to come home immediately and fix it. It worked.”

The skin around my head feels too tight. I sink into the chair and stare at my hands. “Fix what?”

“We could never discover what she wanted. It always changed from day to day, week to week. Even your Aunt Mary couldn’t make any sense of it. There were other . . . threats, too.”

“But she remained at home until I was almost ten. Why did you send her to the institution then? Couldn’t she have stayed with us at the villa the way she was?”

“Mrs. Gussmann found knives and scissors in strange places, household things–sometimes your clothes–shredded or burned. Shattered lamps, vases. Someone had smashed them against the wall. Everyone suspected, but I
knew
it had to be no one but Weesie. Clyde was around to protect you, and after he left there was no one else I trusted as much. It’s why I insisted your door be locked at night. Do you remember?”

I nod. “I thought it was because you were mad at me.”

“No, I was never mad at you. It was because of your mother–”

“But she would never have harmed
me
.” Even as the words come out of my mouth, I know I am the liar.

“I couldn’t take that chance. I relied on Mary to keep a watchful eye on Weesie. She recognized when the behavior got bad enough to call the doctor to administer a sedative. Even as her own illness got worse, Mary realized your mother was faltering.”

“But my mother loved me.”

I think I hear my father answer, “So do I.” But I can’t be sure because his voice is too soft. Or maybe the doorbell drowns it out.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

The doorbell rings again, insisting on my attention, but my body might as well be strapped to the living room chair. I stare at Nate, grappling with my childhood memories. How can I make sense of his wild claim that my mother had threatened to do away with herself and take me with her? Not once, but multiple times.

Nate waits by the fireplace until he figures out I can’t move. “Would you like me to answer the door?”

I nod, numb from the inside out. Even my hostility freezes, no longer erupting. My thoughts choke any words, like an ice floe in a wintry river.

Nate opens the front door, and once they trade greetings and mumble a few other words, Mike strides toward me into the living room. He stops about five feet from my chair, pulling up short as if he has come to the edge of a dangerous precipice.

I raise my eyes to meet his frown. “Find anything?” I can’t bring myself to say my son’s name.

“Did Colton have any money with him?” His voice gives off an unfamiliar air of detached authority.

His refusal to answer my question perks up my antenna and I eye him without moving from my chair. “We have to find out where he is and if he’s okay. I don’t know about any money.”

“Do you mind if I take a look in his room?”

Nate comes forward and stands next to Mike. They look like members of the same team. “Sally, Mike’s visit here is official. If you give him permission to search Colton’s room, anything he discovers could be used as evidence.”

Mike’s eyes narrow to slits. “He’s right.”

I bolt to my feet. “You came here, not to comfort me or help Colton, but to prove he’s guilty of arson?”

“Sally, damn it, you know I’m only doing my job.” Mike removes his hat, revealing a sweaty stain under the brim.

As if switching sides in a debate, Nate moves next to me and faces Mike. “Can’t it wait until after you find Colton? Sally has nothing to hide.”

Earth and sky exchange places again. The man supposedly in love with me for over fifteen years can no longer be of any help now, while Nate stands poised to become my ally, if not my defender.

“It doesn’t matter to me what you do.” I feel like punching Mike, uniform and all. That way at least Colton and I will be in jail together. “You want to search the whole house? I’m leaving to find my son!”

“It’s been a difficult day,” says Nate. “Let’s give some thought to our next move.”

Is he trying to smooth things over? I have my temper under control.

Mike holds up both hands, palms toward me. “Okay, okay. But stay put. You should be here if he shows up.”

Nate sits down. “Technically, you need a search warrant, but where would you get paperwork this time of day?” Using a simple, undisputable fact, Nate doesn’t sound argumentative, and the ground under my feet feels firmer. “Couldn’t your time be better spent making inquiries and locating her son?”

Mike pushes his hat toward the back of his head. “Who would guess the county judge would go fishing in the middle of the week?” He glares at Nate, clenching his jaw. “You might think you’re helping, but really it’s just postponing the inevitable.” He starts toward the door, and then spins around. “Don’t you want to hear why I asked about the money?”

Electricity crackles and zaps my insides, starting at my ankles.

“Do you know something?” Nate says.

“Nothing concrete yet, but there have been two reports. A boy around Colton’s age bought a ticket at the bus station in Austin.”

“To where?” I press my fingertips against my lips.

“El Paso.” Mike settles his hat on his head with a forward tug of the brim. “It’s easy to cross the border into Juarez. The kid paid his money, but never boarded. That’s the
good
news.”

My mind refuses to picture Colton as an escapee. “He’s simply a confused, frightened boy who needs reassurance, not punishment. I know him to be incapable of arson. Whatever he might have done has to be an accident.” What will it take for Mike to abandon his pursuit of justice, burned tee shirts or not?

“Sally, I’d really like to accept your explanation and call it a day, but even as your, um, close friend, I have to do my work. I have no choice. You can’t shelter him from the consequences of his actions forever.”

His tone doesn’t sound contemptuous, but Mike might as well toss ice water in my face. Ever since Jack died, I have failed miserably in parenting my son. “Sorry. It’s just that, when it comes to Colton, he’s been so lost, and I see almost everyone as the enemy. I realize that’s unfair to you, and ungrateful.”

“It’s probably too much to expect you to be helpful,”–Mike’s voice grows softer–“but cut me some slack, will ya?”

I appreciate Mike’s attempt at a smile, feeble though it appears. Mine isn’t any better.

“And the other report?” Nate’s tone points me back toward my fears.

“A truck stop owner in Flora Springs noticed a boy hitch a ride in a semi, headed east toward Louisiana. The boy was carrying a gas can. Told the driver his mama ran out of gas on the highway.”

Nate follows Mike toward the foyer. “Which trucking company?”

“It wasn’t the local MCW Freight Lines.” Mike shoots us a crooked smile. “Now, wouldn’t that be a lucky coincidence?”

The front door clicks behind him, and Nate returns to the living room. “May I use your phone?”

I point toward the kitchen and wonder what he can possibly need to tell anyone, until I remember who owns the trucking company Mike mentioned. Great-grandfather Augustus Mason started it with horses and wagons, hauling regional harvests to a local market. Before he died, he brought his son-in-law, a local blacksmith named Amos Cobb, into the business. By the time Cobb’s only daughter Louisa married, her new husband had already made both families a fortune in oil field machinery. By expanding the fleet along with the territory and upgrading the equipment, Nate Wallace turned his prolific energies into prodigal wealth again.

Snippets of Nate’s conversation waft into the living room. Words such as “CB radio,” “pre-teen boy,” and “missing his mother” catch my attention. When he provides no description, I suddenly realize Nate has none to give. He doesn’t even know how tall Colton has grown, almost to Nate’s shoulder.

Breathless, I dash to the kitchen. He stands near the counter, his back to me. Without hesitating, I put my fingertips on his arm. “Tell them he has a bandage on his right wrist.”

Nate looks down at my hand as if he doesn’t recognize it and, after he blinks several times, lets his gaze wander to my face. I stare at him and our eyes lock.

“Do you know what he was wearing?” he asks, his voice hoarse.

I describe the black tee shirt and jeans Colton had, with my help, put on earlier that morning. It seems like a week ago. Nate passes on all the information I give him.

“One more thing,” Nate barks into the receiver. “This boy is my grandson.” After he hangs up the phone, Nate turns to me and says, “Sorry, but I need to make this next call in private.”

I snatch my hand from his arm as if it has become a stoked ember. What ill-gotten strings will he pull now? I don’t want to hear any damning conversation and back out of the kitchen.

The patio offers a cool, comfortable seat in the waning light of early evening. I can stay there as easily as any room in my house. With my head resting against the cushion of the chaise, my eyelids droop to half-mast.

After several minutes, Nate opens the back door and walks outside. In silence he surveys the pile of items rescued from my greenhouse, long enough to make me wonder if it brings back any painful memories for him. When he speaks, his voice grows soft. “I’m sorry this happened to you, and to your house.”

“Me, too.” Sorry twice. Is that all?

“I have to go now.” He reaches into his right coat pocket and pulls out his keys. “There are some things I need to tend to in person.”

I shift sideways in an attempt to stand, but he holds up his hand. “Don’t get up. I’ll see myself out.”

He hesitates, but I can’t think of any reply. Is he expecting me to thank him? The words form slowly on the tip of my tongue, like frozen sludge, but the habit won’t surrender. Not yet.

“Colton will turn up soon, you’ll see,” he says. “Tell Angelique–”

“Tell me what, sugar?” Her voice drifts across from the other side of the patio.

I can’t see her face in the dusky shadows, but when she takes a drag of her ubiquitous cigarette, the tip glows like a tiny comet. She must have let herself out the library door for a smoke.

The white of his teeth flashes and I realize Nate, like the rest of us, responds to her warmth and encouragement. Maybe he hungers for it.

Angelique inches a step forward. “Aren’t you staying for supper? I ordered a meal for you.”

“Give it to Mike. Or Colton.”

Neither Angelique nor I move as he disappears into the house. I wait in silence to determine if I can hear the front door close. He slips away as quietly as he came, and suddenly I wonder if I will ever see him again.

I pat the chair next to me, and Angelique floats over to sit down. She stubs out the remains of her cigarette on the cement floor and tosses it into the trash pile.

“How well did you know my mother?’ I ask.

“Well enough to see the problems. We traveled in the same social circles. Plus Mrs. Gussmann’s cousin worked for me when I was married to my first husband, therefore I heard all the rough and stormy tales.”

“Did you hear the story about her threat to jump off the third floor balcony?”

Angelique gives a low whistle. “So Nate finally told you.”

I nod. “You think it’s true?”

Angelique sighs. “Your mother had every reason under the sun to be happy. A husband who adored her, a supportive family, physical beauty, friends who cared about her, wealth beyond imagination. Then along came the perfect baby.” She strokes my cheek with her fingertip.

I pull my knees up and rest my wrists on them. “But . . .”

“Unhappiness wasn’t the problem. Nothing could keep her
sane
. Not Nate, not you, not the doctors.” Angelique flicks her lighter and fires up another cigarette. “I have no firsthand knowledge of that episode, but I overheard enough reliable kitchen chatter about it later to believe without any doubt Louisa was insane enough to commit such a terrible act.” She exhales, grinds out her smoke, and stands up. “We should go inside right now.”

“Are you cold?”

“I don’t want lightning to strike me.”

“There’s no thunderstorm in the forecast. And besides, you’re sheltered under the eave.”

“Nothing will protect me if someone, your mother, perhaps, decides to zap me with a bolt. I shouldn’t have spoken about the dead that way.”

“That’s the gypsy in you talking.” I peek at the sky anyway.

“Nevertheless.” She drifts toward the door to the kitchen and opens it. “Someone is knocking. Must be our dinner delivery.”

We return to the foyer and open the door, tip money ready in my hand. Still in uniform, Mike twirls his hat. He isn’t smiling, but he looks happier than the last time I saw him. Relieved, maybe.

My eyebrows shoot up in anticipation. Behind me, Angelique reaches for my hand and clutches it.

“Some trucker got Nate’s relayed message on his CB radio and pulled into a Valu-Mart just outside Houston, in Katy. The store’s security guard is holding Colton.”

“Sally, you must go get him.” Angelique squeezes my hand.

Mike waves his arm toward his squad car. “I’ll drive.”

It isn’t that I don’t want to retrieve my wayward son. I am ready to do my duty as a mother. Even if he spits in my face, I’ll walk across hot coals to snatch him from the jaws of hell. Colton’s monsters, whatever haunts him, don’t scare me. What does frighten me is the thought that I have become one of those monsters.

Eyes pleading, I turn to Angelique. “Come with me.”

“Of course, darling girl. I wouldn’t let you do this by yourself.”

Once we collect our purses, Mike clasps Angelique and me by the arms and steers us to his cruiser. Departing Mason’s Crossing for the highway to the east, he speeds up and we take off like a bullet into the gathering darkness.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

With the sunset behind us, we ride in silence. Angelique extends her long legs sideways across the back seat of Mike’s blue Marauder, and I squirm in the front on the passenger side.

Grimacing, Mike clicks his seatbelt across his lap. “Oh, crud, I almost forgot.” He nods at me to do the same. “It isn’t law yet, but it’s coming sooner or later.”

Obediently I draw the strap across my hips. Too bad it won’t keep my life from careening out of control.

The events of the last two days cartwheel through my thoughts like crazed circus clowns. Emergency stitches, shattered glass, and heart or lung ailments dance circles around stories of premeditated death. The clowns won’t squeeze back into their tiny trick car. Bright tongues of flame lick the sky above my greenhouse. A devil’s nightmare.

The questions begin tumbling. What has Colton endured to reach the distant community of Katy? How much farther would he travel to escape? Maybe agreeing to sell my house will make him want to come home. Does Mike have evidence enough to detain Colton for questioning about the fire? What cunning scheme has my father set in secret motion? I can’t help shivering.

“Do you want me to crank up the heater?” Mike asks. “How ‘bout back there, Angelique? You cold?”

Before she can answer, I gasp and look over my shoulder. “We have to turn back. I forgot to bring Colton’s medicine.”

“Not to worry, sweetie.” Angelique reaches forward to pat my shoulder. “I grabbed it off the kitchen counter on my way out.”

“Oh, thank God. You think of everything.”

Mike estimates the trip should take an hour and forty-five minutes, plus time to stop for gas. Since his car doesn’t need refueling after less than an hour, I figure he pulls into a convenience store on the other side of Columbus so Angelique can stretch her legs and enjoy a smoke. He shoos her away from the gas tanks, and her heels click all the way across the pavement until she reaches the store’s entrance.

With the door ajar, she pivots and calls, “Sally, are you coming, honey?”

I nod and trail behind her like a kite that won’t go airborne. The dark-skinned clerk at the counter returns her cheery smile as he points us toward the restroom. Holding the door open, Angelique stands back, and I choose the stall on the right.

Her voice carries under the beige metal partition. “Have you considered what you’re going to say to Colton?”

How should I start? Questions or assurances? Hold him accountable or wait for him to explain? I flush and stare at the water until the swirling ends. The thoughts stop spinning and my mind goes numb. “Won’t Mike do most of the talking?” I step to the sink and wash my hands, not daring to glance in the mirror.

“I’m sure he’ll have plenty to bring up at some point, but . . .” She flushes and waits for the noise to subside. “Now’s your chance to help Colton face some difficult circumstances. He’ll need your support.”

“He doesn’t want to hear anything from me.” I wipe a paper towel across my hands and toss it into the trash.

“He may act that way, but you’re nevertheless very important to him.” She exits the stall and checks her lipstick in the mirror before she turns on the faucet. “What you say and do is critical. Let Mike be the bad guy for now. Your job is to help Colton feel loved and affirmed, even if he’s done something terrible.”

“Like burn down the garage and the greenhouse?” In the mirror’s reflection, our eyes meet.

She takes her time drying her hands, as if absorbing every last drop between her fingers matters. “You can’t make your love conditional on his proper behavior. Why, what would families be good for if only the well-behaved members receive all the love? It’s the thirsty ones like Colton who need the water.”

Shaking my head, I regard her reflected image as if I need to explain the solution to a long bothersome puzzle. “Sometimes not even the well-behaved ones get the love they need.” It had never turned out that way for me.

“Very true, my dear.” She puts her hand on my arm. “Someday I’ll remind you of what you just said.”

I return to wait in the car while Angelique sashays up and down the aisles, filling a shopping bag with packaged treats and drinks. Colton will find his favorites among the snacks, sweet and gooey, salty and crunchy, and otherwise tempting. If I can’t make him feel loved, will a Snickers bar do? Angelique doesn’t deserve my sarcasm, so I keep my mouth shut for the rest of the ride.

WHEN WE PULL INTO
a parking space at ten minutes past eight, the lot at the Valu-Mart sits three-fourths empty with the lights along the perimeter already extinguished. We trudge toward the entrance under a ghostly aura of a single globe that shines on us like a spotlight. Mike presents his photo ID to the uniformed door attendant, who points us to the manager’s office.

I feel like a prisoner marching toward the firing squad. Will I know what to say or how to act? I stare up at the high ceilings in the warehouse-style store, awed by the tall rows of merchandise on pallets, and wish I could disappear among the cartons.

Angelique mutters a few “tsk-tsk” noises, appalled at the wave of future retail. We turn left by the middle cash register, one of at least eighteen lined up like boats in an invisible dock.

My stomach contracts as we approach the door to the manager’s office and I concentrate on the scuffmarks along the wall. Mike raps on the door, then pushes it open, wide enough for me to pass through. Angelique follows and stands between Mike and me.

Cradling his right wrist, Colton sprawls on a black metal chair. The overhead fluorescent lighting robs his skin of color, and I can’t tell if sweat or tears caused the dirty streaks running down his face.

Although I call upon her, my mother’s voice in my head fails to issue orders or even drop hints. My mouth goes dry and any words I might conjure up on my own stick in my throat. Feeling the warmth of Angelique’s hand on my shoulder, I take a step forward. “Colton?”

He looks up, his eyes shifting back and forth like windshield wipers, but can’t meet my gaze. His breath comes in shallow panting, almost heaving.

Is he on something?

From behind his desk in the corner, the store manager stacks some papers. “I’ll need to see some identification, please.”

Before I can express my annoyance for the interruption, Mike inches forward. “Of course.” He sidesteps around Angelique and me and pulls out his wallet again. He jerks his thumb toward me. “She’s his mother.”

With very little cash in my purse, I wonder if the manager will ask for reimbursement for whatever misdeeds Colton might have committed. Perhaps he will accept a postdated check.

The instant the path to the door clears, Colton jumps up and bolts through it. His howl echoes down the hallway before the outer door slams behind him.

Mike whirls around and yells, “Hey, come back here!” He takes off after him. In his haste, he knocks Angelique’s purse off her shoulder.

I dart after Mike and Colton, leaving Angelique to thank the store director and pay for any repairs or shoplifted items. It’s all I can manage to chase the sound of the screaming and shouting.

By the time I reach the front door, Mike has caught Colton in a headlock halfway across the parking lot and is preparing to push him face down. He won’t hesitate to use handcuffs. Colton cries and shoves backward with all his weight, but Mike is too strong for him.

“Stop! Stop!” I cry, crashing through the door.

“Give it up, Colton!” Mike shouts in his ear.

“Let him go!”

“Back off, Sally!” Mike growls. “I’ll handle this.”

I grab at Mike’s left arm. “You’re hurting him.”

“You all think you’re so smart, but . . . none of you . . .” My son cackles with such derision, I can’t help shuddering.

With a sharp gasp, I make myself reach to touch my son’s shoulder. “Colton, whatever you’ve done is–”

“Shut up!” he snarls.

I draw my hand back as if he tried to bite it. His voice doesn’t even sound human.

As Colton struggles to twist violently up and down, Mike locks Colton’s arms behind him. “Ready to quit, son?”

Colton collapses like a marionette with the strings cut. “Don’t call me ‘son’,” he sobs. “You’re not my father. An asshole like you could never be my father.”

“No one but Jack was your daddy, my sweet boy,” Angelique says from behind me. She grasps my hand. “Mike only wants to help you get home again. We all do.”

“I’m not going back to that house ever again!” His sobbing turns to squeaks and hiccoughs and grows louder, pushing his spiteful words into the shadows. With the heels of his hands dug into his eye sockets, he tries to cover his face.

After he stops sputtering, I swallow hard. “I know you miss your father.” I let my purse drop to the pavement. “Dad loved you very much. There’s nothing we can do to bring him back, but at least we can try to accept his death as unintentional.” I glance at Mike, who spins his head sideways as if I have slapped him. “Even if the official ruling says otherwise.”

“Dad’s death wasn’t an accident.” Colton’s voice loses its youthful pitch and assumes an air of cool maturity.

“What do you mean?” My hand flutters to my chest.

“All this time, you thought he shut the garage door and left the motor running because he was too drunk to know the difference.”

“That’s exactly what–”

“You weren’t there. Dad didn’t close the garage door.” He peers up and his eyes might as well be distant moons. As his gaze settles on me, his voice cracks. “I’m the one who shut the door. I did it. I killed my father.”

“What are you saying?” Frowning, I kneel on the asphalt in front of him. “No, you were in bed asleep when he came home. We both were. It was very late.”

“That night I got up to go to the bathroom and heard his truck in the driveway.” He picks at his bandage. “Remember the time my bike got stolen last year? You got so mad because I didn’t put it away in the garage and close the door.”

Nodding, I gulp the night air, like ice in my lungs.

“I noticed Dad’s brake lights from my bedroom window. I waited, but he didn’t close the garage, so I went downstairs. He was still in the truck, leaning forward on the steering wheel. I thought he had fallen asleep, like he does on the couch sometimes, and he’d come into the house later.”

“You must have been dream–”

Angelique’s hand on my shoulder silences me. With a pang, I mash my lips together. How many times has my stubbornness stifled Colton’s urge to talk? I wish I could call the words back. Maybe our hard year of anguish could have been softened.

“Then I pressed the button to close the door and went back upstairs.” Large drops, like iridescent crystals, shimmer down Colton’s bright red cheeks. “I didn’t know he had left the motor running.” He looks up at Mike. “I swear I didn’t know.”

His words dissolve into sobs again. I reach for him and pull him into my arms, cradling him like a baby. Racked from exhaustion, his body gives way and he loses all resistance. At last he throws his arms around my neck and nestles his wet face into my shoulder, and our tears mingle. As I rock him back and forth, he keeps repeating, “I didn’t know. I didn’t know.”

As my arms tighten around him and I brush the hair from his forehead, I wish for us to become a young mother and child again. A fresh start. A better growing up together. How could I not see what I was doing to my own son?

My mother, Saint Trixie, even Jack and all the other angels must be gazing down from heaven and crying out with great pity for us. Pity for the mistakes, the blindness, the fears, the stupidity, the hurts we inflict on each other and on ourselves, the love we withhold. Maybe their combined weeping possesses the power to wash all that away. Surely, in that sanctified moment, our tears do.