Mother (17 page)

Babs had long ago forgiven her husband: forgiving and forgetting was how you got along in the world; it was the Christian thing to do. But Prissy Martin, who prided herself on being the best Christian at Holy Sacramental, neither forgave nor forgot anything. Instead, she kept Babs on a short leash, at her beck and call. It had gotten old. Very old.

The one good thing Prissy had given her was her daughter. From the time she was born, Priscilla was only too glad to accept her offers to babysit Claire and, later, to let her go to her house after school. Babs, childless herself, loved Claire like her own daughter. Claire had come over to have tea and cookies earlier this week, slipping out when Prissy wasn’t around. It had been lovely.

But if Prissy had known that Claire’d been in contact with Babs from the time she’d left home, while refusing to have anything to do with her mother, she’d have been furious.
It’s amazing Prissy’s never found out. No secrets are safe on Morning Glory Circle.

Budweiser in hand, Hank Lowell slid quietly into the kitchen from the backyard, hoping to hell Ben and Jerry wouldn’t start barking. “Crys, where are you? You’ve gotta hear this!”
 

“Hear what?” Crystal poked her head through the living room doorway.
 

“Prissy Martin’s at it again!” Hank grinned and scratched the poodles behind their ears.
 

“Talking to herself? I’m watching
CSI
… It better be good.”

“Oh, it’s good, all right, it’s good. She’s got the garage door open, too.”

“Can you see inside?” Crys grabbed a beer from the fridge and snapped it open. “Let’s go!”

They could hear her the moment they stepped outside. She was chattering away and moving around in the garage. Cautiously, they crossed their driveway and approached the tall redwood fence that separated their backyard from Priscilla Martin’s anal-retentive abode.
Proper Priscilla, everything in place, right down to the fake grass.
But recently, Hank had gotten a peek inside her three-car garage when she’d had everything moved out of the apartment above it.
 

Since they’d moved in four years ago, he and his family had endured a barrage of snide remarks from the woman about the color they painted their house, the condition of their lawn, and the fact that they had a few dandelions among the snapdragons. She complained when he had pool parties that lasted later than she liked, and she even called the poor cop, Roddy Crocker, who lived at the other end of the cul-de-sac, to complain about music being too loud a minute after the ten o’clock curfew. It was pretty funny, the way that backfired. Thanks to the call, he and Roddy became pals - Roddy had even bought a new Harley from him.
Thanks, Priscilla!
 

On tiptoe, Hank led Crys to a knothole in the fence. He peered through and saw his neighbor stuff a black plastic sack into an open cranny in the overstuffed garage. A hanger popped out and she spoke. “Oh, Angelheart, what’s the matter with kids these days? They just don’t appreciate what God gives them.” She put the hanger back in the bag. “There. Those won’t be cluttering the basement anymore. But I would swear there was another bag. Did you see it anywhere, Timmy, or is your old mother just losing her marbles?”

“I’d say his mother lost her marbles a long time ago,” Hank whispered in Crystal’s ear.

“Oh, Hank, her son died. Have a heart.”

“Roddy told me he died more than twenty years ago. She’s nuttier than trail mix. He said she cleared out the apartment for her daughter and son-in-law. I heard they’re going to have a baby.”

Crys whispered, “Let me look!”

Hank stood back, letting Crys have a long turn at the knothole. He listened to Priscilla jabbering to her dead kid, while admiring Crystal’s fine ass - still a great pair of cheeks after two kids and fifteen years of putting up with him. He wished she’d go back to being a blond, though - that fire engine red hair was getting old. She’d even wanted to get the carpet dyed to match the drapes, but thank God he’d been able to talk her into getting a Brazilian instead.

“Wow, she’s got a really nice blue Tiffany lampshade in there,” Crystal told him. “I wonder if she’ll put it out for the yard sale.”

Hank almost laughed. “Why don’t you ask her?”

“I just might - ooh, listen.”

Prissy’s voice sounded concerned. “What do you mean, Timmy? You’ve always been my favorite. You know that, don’t you, Angelheart?” She went silent, evidently listening to her deceased son. “Mm-hmm. Mm-hmm. I understand why it bothers you, but I promise you your sister won’t snoop in your room again.” A pause. “Yes, I know. She messed up your GI Joes and looked at all your shoes.” Pause. “No, that wasn’t nice, but she misses you, too, just like Mommy. I’m sure that’s why she did it. Why, Angelheart, she looked in my room - and my jewelry room, too - but I didn’t say a word.” A longer pause. “Yes, if she goes in your room again, I’ll have a talk with her.” After a beat, Prissy sighed. “Phyllis told me Geneva-Marie is thinking of running for president of the Auxiliary. Against
me!
Can you imagine! The nerve!” She laughed. “Well, I think we can nip that in the bud, don’t you?”

Hank heard the garage door close, then Priscilla Martin said, “Now, let’s go have some nice hot chocolate, Angelheart. I have those itty bitty marshmallows you like so much!”

Hank and Crystal waited until their neighbor went inside her house, then Crystal took a long drink. “Okay, when you’re right, you’re right. Priscilla Martin is crazy on toast.”

On the other side of town, Paul Schuyler stared up at the dark ceiling and wondered where Chastity McDonald was now; if she’d gotten married and had more kids, if she was having a happy life. It had been a long time since he’d thought about her, but his recent dealings with Priscilla Martin had roused a hornet’s nest of painful memories he’d tried hard to forget. The passing years had done nothing to bridge the gap between himself and the pain.

After what had happened, Chastity’s father, Palmer McDonald, had sent her away. Paul had never known what had become of her, but knew better than to ask questions. Palmer McDonald had been the mayor of Snapdragon then, just as he was now, and he could have made Paul’s life hell.
He could still make my life hell.
They’d come to an agreement, though, and as long as Paul kept his end of the bargain, he knew there would be no trouble.

Priscilla, however, unnerved him. He hadn’t seen the woman since the trouble with Chastity - when he and Tim Martin, his best friend, were seniors in high school. And now, after all these years, she’d contacted him, asking a favor - to hire her son-in-law without so much as an interview. Paul didn’t really need another instructor, but the veiled threat lurking under Priscilla’s words made it clear he had no choice.
She could make my life hell as easily as Palmer McDonald.
 

Luckily, Paul had instantly taken a liking to Jason Holbrook. He realized now that this shouldn’t have been such a surprise; Claire couldn’t have turned out anything like her mother because she’d always been a chip off her big brother, and Paul might have guessed she would have married a decent man. And Jason Holbrook was decent.
 

Paul remembered Priscilla Martin. She’d always disliked him - and anyone else who came within five feet of her son. She’d done everything in her power to keep Tim to herself. It was a strange, twisted relationship that Paul had never understood. He knew Tim had had a mind of his own, that he’d wanted to put some distance between himself and his mother - that’s why he’d moved to Arizona to be with Steffie Banks - but Tim had problems, too. He allowed his mother too much power over his life, and Paul had never understood why. He hadn’t been gone more than a year before a hiking accident gave Priscilla an excuse to bring him home.
 

Tim had said he intended to go back to Brimstone after he’d healed - he’d told Paul he and Stephanie were going to be married - but his suicide said otherwise. It told Paul that Tim had resigned to a life controlled by his mother. He’d even given up on Claire; he’d wanted to get his little sister away from Priscilla, but …
I guess he just couldn’t take any more.
After all these years, Paul’s eyes still welled at the loss of his best friend.
 

He wished there was something he could do to help Claire and Jason get away from her mother’s clutches. He knew Tim would like him looking out for his baby sister.

Paul rolled over and closed his eyes.
I’ll watch out for her, buddy.
As he drifted to sleep, he recalled the childhood he’d shared with Tim and Steffie. Those were the best times of his life.
 

Father David Flannigan couldn’t sleep. Earlier, he’d had a chat with young Andy Pike, who’d taken over at Holy Sacramental when Dave retired. He’d hand-picked the boy who’d served as his assistant for five years before his retirement and he was a fine young man. There were none better. But now, Andy had called, asking for advice because Priscilla Martin was pushing him in a direction he didn’t like.
 

Without giving details, Dave had advised him to handle the woman with the softest of kid gloves and warned him she was so strong in her righteousness, that she wasn’t above ensuring her wishes were met. That was an understatement, but he didn’t want to tell Andy what she’d done - or what he’d done.
It’s a sin of pride not to confess. But I’ll tell him if I must.
Still, he preferred to keep some secrets solely between himself and God.
 

Father Andrew Pike rolled over in his sleep, dreaming he was selling chocolate bars on Morning Glory Circle. He was dressed in an altar boy’s surplice instead of his suit and collar, and so far, almost half the houses had bought at least one bar.
Priscilla Martin sure was right about dressing as an altar boy!
He would never have made so many sales dressed in his clericals.
 

He came to Priscilla Martin’s door and, before he could knock, she was there, smiling, wearing a collar and a long black cassock.
My collar and cassock!
But that couldn’t be.

“Priscilla, why are you dressed as a priest?”

She didn’t answer him, only crooked her finger and motioned him inside.

Within, her house didn’t look right - he remembered she decorated in pastels with lots of frilly lamps and paintings of snapdragons, and there was that big eagle clock over the fireplace. This wasn’t her house at all, it was
his
house!
She’s in my home! In my clothing! Why?

Don’t sit under the apple tree with anyone else but me ...

The music spun on an old record player in the corner.
Why are Priscilla’s things in the rectory?

Priscilla took his hand. “Dance with me,” she commanded. “Dance with me, you little fool.”

She whirled him around, this way and that, until he was so dizzy he could barely stand up. Then she pulled him close, clutching him to her chest as the song slowed to a crawl, the voice dragging over the syllables like a hearse grinding through mud.
Doooon’t siiiiit uuundeeer theee aaaapple treeee …
She moved him like a puppet, back and forth, putting his left leg in and right leg out, then commanded him to shake it all about.
 

“I’m tired,” he said. “Please just buy a candy bar and go home.”

“This
is
my home, Andrew,” she murmured, and led him to the couch.

Helpless, paralyzed, he watched as she took off his cassock, whirling it overhead like a stripper before throwing it on the floor. She was naked now except for Birkenstocks, his collar and black dickey. She crooked her finger at him again. In her thrall, he approached. She reached out and undid his pants, pulling them down, leaving him naked except for the surplice.
 

Priscilla leaned back on the couch and opened her legs, showing a wet red gash that looked like an open wound.

“No,” he said, then she snapped her fingers and a blinding pain shot through his head.
 

“You’ll enjoy doing My will. I promise.”

She spread her legs wider and a long purplish tongue snaked out of her opening, licking around, scenting him before pointing straight at him.

Despite himself, he took another step forward, his penis betraying him, betraying the Lord.

“I’m smiling for you,” she said, spreading wider.

That’s when he saw the teeth.

“Fuck me Father, for I am sin …”

Father Andy woke up screaming.

Still Crazy After All These Years

Friday evening, Claire fluttered around the apartment, cleaning up, making dinner, barely able to contain her joy. She’d timed the lasagna - Jason’s favorite - to be ready just as he’d be returning from work. When she heard his keys working the lock, she dashed to the door to greet him.

He entered, his shirt untucked, a smile lighting up his face when he saw her. He shut the door and bent to give her a kiss. “Mmm. Something smells good! Besides you. So … how was your appointment?”

“It’s a boy!” Claire exclaimed. “Congratulations, Dad!”

“That’s wonderful!” He picked her up in a swooping hug and kissed her. “Congratulations, Mama!”

He’d said he didn’t care about the baby’s gender, though Claire had secretly wondered if he’d wanted a boy. But she could tell by the light in his eyes, the width of his smile, and the spattering of quick, noisy kisses he planted on her cheeks, lips, and neck, that he was genuinely happy.
 

The oven timer chimed as he let go. “I’ve made lasagna.” She took his hand and led him into the dining table, where he sat while she donned mitts and removed the sizzling dish from the oven.

“What else did the doctor say? Did you like her?”

Doctor Putnam, a gentle, soft-spoken woman in her mid-forties, had been wonderful. She was everything she’d hoped for. “I liked her a lot.” Claire placed the casserole on the stovetop. “She’s much better than Dr. Hopper, for sure. Mother gave me the stink-eye again about not using him, but she let me borrow her car.”

“She didn’t try to go along?”

“Oh, she wanted to, but she had a meeting about the sale this weekend and couldn’t get away. Thank God!”