Mason's Daughter (6 page)

Colton turns his head toward Charlie. “Art glass.” At the corner of his mouth, I detect a hint of amusement.

A year ago, I would have climbed all over him for his insolence, but Colton’s behavior since Jack’s death has made me hesitant to discipline my own son. Maybe I have made a mistake in holding back.

As Charlie tucks his son into the back seat of their car, Judith touches my shoulder. “We’ll talk later,” she whispers.

They drive off. Without looking at Colton, I use my words like a fist. “Get in the car. No photography club, not today, not ever. Give me back the camera so I can return it.”

“Too late.” His face muscles harden into a smirk. “I threw the box and the receipt away.”

“Then I’ll keep it. You’ll never be allowed to use it.”

HATRED NOW HAS A PARTNER
at my house: silence. After we arrive home, I confiscate the camera and tell him he is grounded indefinitely. Colton retreats to his room while I escape to my greenhouse. I flip the switch on the automatic sprinklers to the off position. Twice I count the trays of begonias and check the angel wings for roots. My mind fixes on repotting geraniums and clipping dead branches from a hanging basket of bougainvillea, and soon my breathing follows a rhythmic pattern.

By the time dusk approaches, the greenhouse has worked its magic. In complete calm, I return to my kitchen and open the refrigerator door. Nothing appeals to me, but I pull out some containers of leftover meatloaf and mashed potatoes. I dump French cut green beans from a can into a pot and turn on the gas burner.

Looking around my kitchen, I smile as I contemplate the improvements I’ve made to this house over the years. Mother left it to me, but she never managed to finish plans, much less a single project. She and Grandmother Mason would be proud of me, if they could only see it now.

When the aroma of garlic and pungent meat sauce fills the kitchen, I step into the entry and yell “Dinner!” up the stairway. No way will I knock on Colton’s door. The calm has disappeared.

The food grows lukewarm before I decide to eat without him. I pick apart the slab of meatloaf. The green beans might as well be plastic sticks. If I had opened a bottle of wine before I started reheating the food, it would be half empty by now.

When I take my last bite, his bedroom door opens and his footsteps tread down the stairs toward the kitchen. I chew slowly while he pours a large glass of milk. My gaze follows his movements until he sits at the table across from me.

“Food’s probably cold,” I say, looking down at my plate.

“S’okay.”

“Colton, you don’t seem to understand.” I study his face. “Your little stunts this past year have cost me a pretty penny, but they were accidents. You broke that vase on purpose.”

“Art glass.”

I want to smack him, but I pound my fist on the table instead. “Now it’s in pieces, thanks to you, and I can’t afford to reimburse Mr. Donatello right now.”

“So what? Big Jack will pay for it.”

“We don’t take money from Big Jack to pay for anything. Besides he’s in the hospital.”

“Dad did.”

“Did what?”

“He took money from Big Jack. Last year I heard him talking on the phone to someone about it. A lot of money.”

“You heard wrong.”

“I was standing right there listening. You were in the greenhouse or somewhere else.”

“Regardless of what you
think
you heard, he’s not writing checks for anything until–” I put down my fork and glare at him. “What makes you think Big Jack would ever foot the bill for your foolishness?”

“I overheard Officer Avery tell Mr. Donatello my grandfather would pay for it.”

Despite my protest, doubt surrounds me like a wave of noxious air. “Officer Avery is fully aware of Big Jack’s condition. How could Mike promise–” I blink. Which grandfather?

“Why don’t you ask him?”

I decide to do just that. Right after I ask my mother what the hell she is up to now.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Colton and I finish out the workweek like programmed robots. By Saturday morning, we have hardly uttered more than a dozen words to each other. Prickly silence accompanies us as we strap on our seat belts and I start the engine.

When we arrive at Mr. Donatello’s gallery, we park next to a limo with Louisiana plates, no doubt belonging to one of his fancy clients from New Orleans. Mike Avery stands in the hallway outside the office chatting with the owner. “Hey, right on time,” he says with a smile.

Mr. Donatello retrieves a push broom from a storage closet and escorts Colton out the back door to the storeroom. Their voices exchange instructions and questions.

“Isn’t Max coming?” I ask.

Mike shrugs. “He knows he has to be here now.” He takes a few steps into the gallery’s display area and stops in front of an oil painting of indeterminate subject. “How ‘bout all this modern art? Sheesh, I couldn’t hang some of this stuff in my house without getting nightmares.”

“What
do
you like?”

“I dunno. Scenery, I guess. As long as I can tell a tree’s a tree.”

“Mike–”

Before I can continue, all five Cromwells burst through the front entrance as if responding to a fire alarm. “Here we come,” Judith sings. “We aren’t late, are we?”

Officer Avery points to the back door and they head toward the hallway like cattle through a chute. As they stomp past, the office door slams. Good for Mr. Donatello. He has learned his lesson.

“Mike, I need to ask you something.”

He listens while I explain that Colton had no knowledge of my arrangement with Mr. Donatello. When I come to the part about the payment, he begins twirling his hat around one finger. I ask him to repeat his exact words to Colton about the money, but he demurs.

“You probably heard Big Jack offer to pay for Colton’s accidents before,” I say, “but I never accepted. Besides, he can’t write any checks now. I’ve got his power of attorney, but Harlene has the checkbook. Why did you tell Colton his grandfather would pay for the damages?”

“I, uh . . . well, there might be another explanation.”

“Hello, Sally,” a voice calls from across the room. “Ooh, isn’t that color divine on you?”

I spin around to see Angelique float into the gallery, glistening like molten gold. Behind her, denim-covered legs support a large framed painting that wobbles behind her through the door.

“I’m so glad you’re here,” she says. “I don’t remember if I told you Mr. Donatello ordered this one.” Angelique points to the canvas, as her helper sets her painting at his feet. “This kind gentleman offered to carry it inside.”

I all but jump as I recognize the man who grins at me.

“Hello again,” he says.

Angelique leans toward him, her earrings swinging to and fro as if they can hypnotize. “Tell us your name, you darling young man.”

“Brett Kennedy,” I answer.

“Timing really is everything,” Angelique says in her husky voice. If anyone else winked and gushed a cliché like that, I would gag. From her, it sounds natural, even intriguing.

The back door opens, and squeals and laughter blow in from the alley. Charlie enters the gallery, with six-year-old Maddie dangling from his hand. “The chain gang is hungry. Who wants a breakfast taco from Hot Crossed Buns?” He scans the room for takers. “Oh, hey, Brett.” They pump hands. “I didn’t realize you were joining our party.”

“I’m just here to pick up a new piece of artwork.” Brett shakes his head. “But today has started off very fortunate for me.” When Brett smiles at me, Mike Avery’s black leather gun belt creaks as he straightens his back.

“Oh, yes, let me introduce you to Officer Mike Avery, a good friend of our family.” I can picture redness creeping up my neck and onto my face, spreading like an oil spill.

After they shake hands, Mike excuses himself. Angelique takes Brett’s arm and mine to tour us around the gallery. By their nodding and pointing, it’s evident he shares her wide knowledge of the art world. We stop in front of the painting Mike found so troublesome.

“This is the one I’ve purchased,” Brett says. Pride covers his voice like a tarp.

Angelique purrs and twitches like a cat pawing a toy. “You have a marvelous eye, Brett.” She turns toward me. “Sally, what do you think?”

Is she trying to induce me to approve of the painting or the purchaser? “Marvelous, especially in the eye of the beholder. Why don’t I get Mr. Donatello for you? I think he’s in the office.”

I tap on the door and detect some rustling noises, and then metal clicks against metal. “Mr. Donatello?” I try the handle. The door is locked.

A man’s voice answers. “He’s not here.”

My hand lingers on the doorknob, and I wait, all but certain I heard wrong.

It was still dark outside, but I woke up thirsty. I looked at the clock beside my bed. Clyde taught me how to tell time last month. The big hand was near six, just like me. That cut the hour in half, he said. The little hand was stuck between the two and three. Morning was hours away.

I tried to swallow, but my mouth was too dry. Aunt Mary was right. Clyde and I shouldn’t have eaten all that popcorn before bedtime.

The door to my bedroom was shut, and I crawled up on a chair to unlock it from the inside and crossed the hall to the bathroom. The drinking glass on the lavatory sparkled like crystal in the moonlight. I pulled up the little step stool so I could reach the faucet and filled the glass. I stood on tiptoe to peek at myself in the mirror. The light was not bright enough to check my front teeth, which were getting loose. After two full gulps, I swished my mouth, gargled, and tossed the leftover water down the drain.

When I reached the doorway, I didn’t move. A door opened down the hall, but no one closed it. I remembered the rules. Always keep your bedroom door shut at night, Daddy told me.

Maybe someone was too sleepy and forgot. I passed Aunt Mary’s room, where she was probably already tucked in tight behind her closed door. She always poked the side edges of her blankets under the mattress, so she wouldn’t fall out of bed, I supposed.

The hall looked different in the dark, with too many places for someone to hide. I stopped and turned around, ready to run back to bed. Silly me. Daddy and Clyde wouldn’t let anyone scary into our house. I turned back and kept walking.

Now I spotted the problem farther down the dark hall. A pale beam of light shined from the doorway to my mother’s room. I loved her bedroom, with its watery blue walls and silk comforter floating like a raft on her huge bed. Whenever I bounced on her bed, it was like a beautiful lake, calm and smooth, unless she had been cleaning out her closets. Then there was no room for me because she tossed her clothes and shoes all over the bed and the floor, and later the maids had to come in and put everything back.

Mother might need my help or just a drink. She didn’t want any popcorn earlier, but she could have gotten thirsty like me. Maybe she pressed the buzzer during the night and the maids hadn’t come yet. The buzzer looked like a doorbell connected to the wall by a wire and sat on her bedside table. I pushed it once just for fun, and a few minutes later Mrs. Gussmann came running into the room. I didn’t get in trouble, but she warned me never to do it again. Mother laughed, although I could tell Mrs. Gussmann meant business.

I peeked into Mother’s room. With the moonlight behind him, a very tall man cast a shadow across her bed. She was sound asleep, so I kept extra quiet. He picked up her medicine bottle from her bedside table and emptied the pills into his palm. As he counted them, I recognized my father’s steady movements, but I couldn’t see his face.

The doorknob was cold against my cheek, so I covered it with my hand and hung on, resting my chin in the crook of my arm. My eyelids got heavy watching him replace the pills and set the bottle on the table. When Daddy turned on the lamp by her bed, my eyes popped open.

Mother didn’t move, not even an inch. He stared at her blonde hair, grown long enough to cover her pillow like a shawl. He picked up a thick length of it and twirled it around his fingers, then let it fall, one strand at a time. The way the light shined through it, her hair looked like spun gold.

As Daddy twisted sideways to turn off the light, Clyde’s big knife dangled from his left hand. He tossed it and caught the handle mid-air in his right hand, as if it weighed no more than one of Mother’s slippers. He pulled on her hair again and raised the knife, then cried out words I couldn’t understand. He cut off a thick piece of her hair and threw it on the floor behind him.

I gasped and stepped backward, yelling, “No, Daddy! No!” I covered my face with my hands and felt tears on my cheeks. The door slammed, and I was left standing alone in the dark hallway. Only the sound of my screams broke the peaceful night.

Moments later, Mrs. Gussmann put her arm around my shoulder and pulled me into her marshmallow of a bosom, all but smothering me. “Gracious me, what happened?” she said.

Mother’s bedroom door opened and I grabbed for Mrs. Gussmann’s waist and took hold of the sash of her robe. I sputtered and sobbed, but she couldn’t make sense of my effort to tell her what I had seen.

My father’s voice took over. “She’s had a nightmare. Will you tend to her, please, Mrs. Gussmann?”

“Of course, sir,” she said. “Come along with me, Sally. We’ll sit in the rocking chair until you go back to sleep.”

Hanging on tightly, I kept my eyes closed, and she guided me down the hallway back to my room as if I were blind. “You’re getting too heavy now for me to carry,” she cooed. After shushing me several times by saying I had a bad dream, she sang lullabies and rocked me until I fell asleep.

The next morning I woke up in my own bed to the sound of a drill. Outside my door, a man with a leather tool belt around his waist was attaching a plastic box to the wall. It resembled the buzzer on Mother’s bedside table. How did he expect me to reach it from here? “Good day to you, miss,” he said as he nodded.

I padded down the hallway, with a heavy feeling left over from my nightmare. The door to my mother’s room stood open. One maid was stripping the linens from the bed while the other ran a carpet sweeper back and forth near the bedside table.

The first one shook out a pillowcase. “Why would she do this to herself, the nut ball?”

“You just answered your own question,” said the other.

I waited in the doorway. “Where’s Mother?” I asked. They both jumped at the sound of my voice.

“Gone to the hairdresser,” said the first one.

“Yeah, she’s given herself a new bob,” said the other.

“Was that his name?” And they both giggled.

I closed the door. There was no point in asking anyone what happened. Nobody paid any attention to me anyway.

Right where I stand, I want to pound on the door until the owner of that voice emerges from the office. The words -- no, the
sound
of them -- push my heart into a spin. I try to move, but my feet won’t take orders. I let my hand linger on the doorknob, willing the person on the other side to show himself.

Mother or angel, whoever you are, work your magic
.
Help me. Make him open the door
.

The power of the impulse fades and I step backward. The person in the office stands up and moves against the door, as if listening for me. I can hear him breathing.

“Thank you,” I say, as I walk away. Even if I admit to myself I recognize the voice, I’m not waiting to find out if I’m correct.

Once Mr. Donatello comes in from the alley, Angelique and Brett keep him occupied, too busy for me to hand him my first installment. By the time Charlie returns from the diner, Mike has set up a makeshift table in the alley and we eat buffet-style. At Charlie’s insistence, Brett and Angelique join us.

Judith and Charlie supervise Max and Colton’s return to work as I clear away the mess from the meal. When I pick up the garbage bag, Mike offers to carry it to the dumpster.

“Thanks, I need to find Mr. Donatello anyway.”

“He’s inside. Try the office.”

I smile at Mike and shake my head. “I already did. He’s not . . . someone else is in there.”