Mother (12 page)

“Are you okay, sweetie?” Jason held her elbow. “What is it?”

“Nothing,” she said. “I’m fine.” As quickly as the disembodied voice had come, it vanished.

A wreath of dried lavender hung on the door in front of her. She glanced down the long hallway: Each door appeared to have a different kind of wreath, but all were dry, gaudy, and covered in a film of dust, as were the dried flower arrangements on the side tables dotting the hall. The very real smell of dust and dead flowers cloyed and mixed - for just an instant - with a ghost of Clorox. She knew the scent of bleach wasn’t real - it never was - and had no idea why she’d smelled it. It had dogged her until she’d moved away, and now it was back. She shivered. “Chances are it’s locked, but you never know.” The knob turned. “It’s your lucky day, Jason.”

She gave the door a nudge, but something blocked it. After a harder shove, it opened about a foot and an avalanche of video and music cassettes clattered to the floor.

“Feast your eyes.”
 

Gazing in, they saw plastic-covered clothes on racks, chairs stacked halfway to the ceiling, and several boxes of Corelle dinner sets that looked unopened. Poking her head inside, she spied a half dozen dust-covered three-foot stacks of
National Geographic
s, an upside down microwave, and what appeared to be a banged up wooden headboard leaning against a wall. There were lamps - lots and lots of lamps - some old, some relatively new, all ugly. Through small breaks in the jumble of videocassettes, LPs, and about a hundred dusty paperbacks, she could see the carpet - which had once been a shade of pale peach but was now a dirty beige. The smell of dust clogged her throat, but it was better than bleach.
 

“Jesus Christ!” Jason coughed. “What is all this stuff?”

Claire grinned. “It might be useful to someone, don’t you know?” Her tone was mocking.

“But …”

“And this is just
one
room. I guarantee you, they’re all like this.”

“But what does she
do
with it all?”

Claire chuckled. “She’s going to have a yard sale.” She made air quotes around the words. “She’s been going to have it since I was in utero, but you know, one of these days, she’ll get around to it.” She laughed, forcing herself to see the humor, to keep her mind from conjuring up imaginary nightmares.
“Touch them!”

“Won’t she participate in the street’s yard sale next weekend?”

“Oh, she’ll be there, she always is, every year, but she only supervises. She’s a pathological hoarder. I’d be amazed if she set out so much as a hanger.”

Jason grinned. “We could steal our hangers back and sell them ourselves!”

Claire laughed. “Don’t tempt me.” She paused. “No,
do
tempt me! I want to watch her squirm!”

“I’m game. Where do you think she put them?”

“I haven’t a clue, but if we can’t find them, we’ll find something. Something of ours to sell. Just wait until you see how she reacts!”
 

“Sounds good.” Jason pulled the door closed and kissed Claire. “I’m sorry,” he said.

“About what?”

He cocked his head toward the door. “All that.”

“Why are you sorry? I told you what we’d find.”

“I really thought she would have preserved your room.”

“You’re so sentimental. I love you. But that’s Mother for you.” She grinned and rubbed her hands together. “Let’s try some other doors.”

“Lead on!” They continued down the hall and made a random stop, found that door locked, then tried another. It was unlocked, and after a couple of shoves, they got the door open and Jason peered in. This room mostly contained heaping stacks of black garbage bags.

“Old clothes,” Claire explained, rolling her eyes.

“And more lamps.” Jason stared into the sea of dusty, abandoned light fixtures. “Why all the lamps?”

Claire shrugged. “Ironically, I’m afraid I can’t shed any light on that.”
 

Jason groaned then they moved to a third room, where they saw clothes racks, several old desks, all covered with an assortment of books, board games from the sixties and seventies, a few broken table fans, cookie tins, and several giant bags of empty soup cans. Embroidery craft sets were strewn among a clutter of
Reader’s Digest
s, and several brightly-colored hula hoops were tossed haphazardly, like lifesavers, among the debris.

“Wait till you see what Mother refers to as ‘the pantry.’” Claire shut the door and Jason followed her down to the basement. It was unfinished and smelled of dust, cement, and something dead. This, too, brimmed with outdated items, more clothes that appeared to be at least forty years old, and plastic tubs overflowing with records, cassettes, and yet more
National Geographic
s. A ceiling-high stack of lampshades teetered in a corner by the water heater.
 

“This,” said Claire, pulling back a dusty curtain that concealed the area beneath the stairs, “is the pantry.”

Wooden bookcases lined the walls and Jason stared in awe at row after row of canned soups, vegetables, and fruit. Other shelves held soaps, shampoos, laundry detergent, and cleaning supplies. There was even more here now than there used to be.
My mother, the hoarder.

Claire plucked a bottle of ranch dressing off a shelf. “Expiration date, November, 2004.” She took another. “June of 2001.”

Jason was only half-listening. He’d fixated on several dozen packs of indeterminable dried fruit that had gone brown and black and looked like bags of dead cockroaches. She watched him gape at the rows of unopened laundry detergents, which sported images of women in white aprons, heels, and beehive hair-dos, smiling as they inspected the cleanliness of their linens. Others portrayed young hippie women with flowers in their hair, washing their tie-dyed garments with joy.
 

“Ooh,” said Claire, shaking a bottle of A1 Steak Sauce. “This only expired three and a half years ago. Mother’s really getting modern in her old age.”

Jason blinked. “But … why? It’s not edible? Why keep it?”

Claire affected her mother’s nasal voice and wagged a finger at him. “Waste not, want not, young man.”

“Is she preparing for some kind of zombie apocalypse or something?”

Claire laughed. “No. She just refuses to throw anything out.” Claire glanced at four black garbage bags in the corner. “Speaking of which …” She dragged one into the light and untied it. “Yep. Just what I thought.” She held it open for Jason to see.

Inside were the neatly stacked hangers they’d tried to throw out.

“We need to contribute something to the yard sale, Jason. After all, it was your suggestion.” She grinned.

“You mean it?” He nodded at the hangers.

“Absolutely.”

Jason laughed.
 

Claire retied the bag and set it aside. “So what do you think of all this?”

He looked around the vast basement at the heaping mountains of forgotten junk, then looked at Claire. “No wonder she drove you crazy.”

Claire’s smile disappeared. “Oh, you don’t know the half of it, Jason. This is just the eccentric tip of the iceberg.”

“So is this where your mom keeps all her diamonds and gold to make jewelry?”

Claire made a face. “That’s what she calls it, but no, that’s upstairs.”

“Can we see her work room?”

“You’re serious?”

“I said I wanted to see it all!”
 

Claire glanced at her watch. “We have at least an hour before she comes back, so, sure.”
 

They trotted back up to the second floor, pausing only to deposit the bag of hangers by the kitchen door. Upstairs, Claire halted in front of the last room on the left and tried the knob. It moved freely. “If she hasn’t moved it, this will be her workroom.”
 

This door sported a nest of dried, dusty marigolds.
 

Father Andy Gets a Headache

Father Andy stood at the back of the meeting at Holy Sacramental and tried not to glance at his wristwatch. Priscilla Martin was on a roll, inspiring the Ladies Auxiliary to loftier goals in the fight to feed Snapdragon’s poor and homeless. She was proposing the city make a homeless camp out by the airport. There, they could camp out and earn their meals - and even earn tents - by doing volunteer work for the city; picking up trash, beautifying the highway, gardening, and a myriad of other jobs Priscilla deemed them worthy to do.
 

Mary Bell raised her hand. “Prissy, I don’t think the handicapped or even women or families with small children should be made to work so hard simply to qualify for a tent.” There were murmurs of assent.

If looks could kill.
Priscilla Martin fixed little Mary Bell, a woman in her forties who looked all of sixteen with her cute chestnut bob and rosy cheeks, in her sights. “Every human being, no matter what their station in life, deserves a chance to earn what they require. To take that away from them diminishes them.”
 

In some ways, Father Andy admired Priscilla Martin, though he had to admit, he often disagreed with her ideas - she was too Old Testament for his tastes. He studied her; she was dressed in a soft lavender skirt and jacket and matching pumps that looked brand new but the padded shoulders screamed of the eighties.
 

“Father? Father Andrew?”

He looked up. Priscilla Martin was staring at him.

“I’m sorry?”

“Don’t you agree, Father?”

He felt a vein in his temple start to throb. “I think everyone deserves shelter and food. These are basic human rights and the most Christian of tenets.”

Priscilla’s smile showed too many teeth. “And every human being has a right to earn these things, don’t you agree, Father?”

The forehead vein did a boogie. “As it says in Deuteronomy 15:8, ‘
You shall freely open your hand to him, and shall generously lend him sufficient for his need in whatever he lacks.’
I think this means we must take into account the fact that some people need more help than others, and follow Christ’s example.”

He thought he saw a flash of anger in Priscilla’s eyes. “I suppose, Father.” She sighed. “Perhaps we can compensate for the handicapped and very young by holding contests among the homeless. You know, things that might entertain those of us more fortunate - things we would pay to see.”

“Prissy wants bum fights,” Lizzie Knudsen called out.
 

Father Andy cringed. A vein on his left temple bongoed along with the right one now. Lizzie was a brash woman, but fair and honest. And she loathed Priscilla Martin. Before Priscilla could speak, Andy forced himself to join her at the podium. “An amusing joke, Lizzie, but I’m afraid we’re out of time for tonight, ladies. Before you go, I want to thank you for your wonderful report on our Winter Wonderland sales figures, Mrs. Dexter.”

“My pleasure.” Hannah beamed.
 

“And thank you, Priscilla, for starting plans for our St. Patrick’s Day Social. We would be lost without you.”

Priscilla’s frown turned upside down, as he’d hoped. But still, his head ached more and more.
 

“Madame Secretary,” he continued, before Priscilla could open her mouth, “please note that we were discussing sheltering the homeless and will continue on with that next week as our first order of business. Goodnight, ladies.”

The twenty or so women rose, talking with one another as they filed out. Andy turned to leave.
 

“Father Andrew,” called Priscilla Martin, “may I have a few words with you?”

He winced, wanting only some Excedrin and a bottle of dark beer to chase the pills. “Yes, Priscilla? What is it?”

“I thought perhaps we could sit down over a glass of wine and discuss this problem with the homeless.” Her smile disturbed him.

Boom boom boom
went his headache. He cleared his throat. “I’m sorry, I have other business I must attend to tonight. Perhaps you and Jane or Babs and some of the other ladies might relax and chat. I see Geneva-Marie hasn’t left yet. I’m sure she’d love to talk.”
 

Priscilla looked annoyed. “You’re sure? I-”

“I really have to run,” Andy said. “I’m sorry.”

“Very well. Are you feeling all right, Father? You look a little pale. Do you have a fever?” She reached up to feel his forehead and he stepped out of reach.

Lying was a sin. “A bit of a headache,” he admitted. “I need to get home before it gets any worse.”

Priscilla tapped her folder of notes on the podium in time with the throbbing in his head, and passed him by on heels that clicked too loudly. The cloud of perfume she left behind tap danced in his skull. She walked quickly out, barely nodding goodbye to her friend, Babs Vandercooth.

Father Andy waited until the last knot of ladies left the room, then turned off the painfully bright lights, locked up in sweet darkness, and headed for the rectory next door. After letting himself in the white frame house, he headed upstairs for pain relievers, then back down to the kitchen, where he fetched a Guinness Black. He took it into the shadowed living room and sank into his easy chair without bothering to turn on the TV. When he had a headache, silence and darkness were the only entertainment he craved.
 

He finished the lager, closed his eyes, and just as he felt himself begin to doze, someone pounded on the door. Andy did not condone profanity, but it was with great discipline that he resisted the temptation to curse as he rose from the warmth of his easy chair and crossed to the door.

“Yep,” said Claire. “This is Mother’s workroom.”

Jason followed her in. This was nothing like the other rooms; it was virtually spotless and everything seemed to have a place. A polished wooden worktable dominated the west wall under a large window with frilly stark-white curtains. Beneath a large task lamp, the desktop was home to neatly stacked plastic boxes full of beads of all colors and sizes, spindles of twines and wires, and small tools that Jason didn’t recognize. There wasn’t a speck of dust to be seen.

Claire held up one of the plastic boxes. “Want to see something really creepy?” She removed the lid and Jason peered inside.