Mother (20 page)

“I’m afraid I’m going to have to pass, Mrs. Martin, but thank you for stopping by.” He gave her a winning smile before shutting the door in her face.

Bettyanne hurried to the window. When Prissy was out of sight, she exhaled. “That woman,” she said. “She’s just so intrusive. And she calls you ‘Roderick.’”

Roddy nodded, slipped back into his chair and turned up the volume.
 

“She has a lot of nerve.”

“Indeed. You better hurry or you’ll miss your flight.” Roddy was eager for solitude.

Bettyanne looked at her watch and gasped. “Oh! I’d better go!”

“And Betty?”

“Yes, dear?”

“Don’t bring back anything you didn’t take with you.” He gave her a pointed look.

“Of course not, Roddy.”

As she headed toward the bedroom, Roddy called, “Open a window, would you, sweetie?” He didn’t want Priscilla Martin’s hideous perfume embedding itself into the furniture. He’d smell it for weeks.

A smile tugged at his lips as he thought of Aida Portendorfer -
‘just scandalized!
as Prissy had put it - by the sight of Earl’s pork sword.
It’s a sad world,
he thought as he sipped his beer,
when a man can’t drain the tank in his own back yard.
 

“Hey there! How’re you doing?”

A tall, tattooed gentleman with blond hair and a prize-winning handlebar mustache walked over from the burnt orange house, where Johnny Mathis was crooning
Misty.

“Hello.” Jason put his hand out and the man shook it with admirable firmness.
 

“I’m Hank Lowell, from next door. That pretty lady with the red hair manning the bake table is my wife, Crystal, and those two boys playing in the tires are Harley and David, our sons.”

“Jason Holbrook. I’m Mrs. Martin’s son-in-law.” Crystal, Hank’s wife, appeared to be very busy with a long line of customers. There were people all over Hank’s lawn, too, checking out a dozen motorcycle helmets, tires, rims, and all sorts of auto and bike paraphernalia. “You’re doing a landslide business!”

Hank glanced back and grinned. “Nothing’s stolen, either.” His laugh was hearty. “I run the cycle shop in town. Do you ride?”

“My wife would kill me.”

“Don’t blame her.” Another hearty laugh. “Mine says I have to get this stuff out of the garage.” He chuckled. “I always mind the missus. She’s right, too. She’s making me sell off half of my helmet collection. I practically hoard the damned things. Love ‘em dearly, but they’ve got to go.”

Jason had heard Prissy grouse about the family next door, but he really liked Hank Lowell. “So, how are you attracting so many customers?”

His laugh could give Santa Claus competition in the jolly department. “Reasonable prices, just like at my business. It’s the only way to clear out the garage, being reasonable. And Crys is selling pumpkin pies for five dollars a pop. Just like Costco.” He grinned. “They’re a little smaller of course, but we’re making about two bucks a pie. Labor’s free.” He looked at the lonely cannoli. “Your mother-in-law isn’t doing too well from the looks of things.”

Jason told him what she was asking for the cannoli.

“Oh, hell, she’s asking double what Giuseppe Bartoli sells them for. That’s highway robbery.” He paused. “Not so surprising, though.”

“Not at all. Here comes my wife. Just a minute, I want to introduce you.” Jason trotted back to Claire and took a folding tray and the black bag of hangers from her. “You’re going to love the neighbors.”

“Great.”

“Hank, this is my wife, Claire Holbrook. Claire, Hank.”

While they shook hands, Jason set up the tray and put a few dozen hangers on it - all that would fit. Claire had brought a roll of tape and a sign advertising “FREE HANGERS.” Chuckling, Jason taped the sign to the tray.

“Hey, Crys,” Hank called. “Do we need hangers?”

“Not today,” Crystal called back. “But thanks.”

“Sorry,” Hank said.

“Why are you sorry?” Claire asked.

“I figured you’d want to get rid of them before your mother comes back. She won’t take kindly to your giving them away.”

“I know,” Claire said, grinning. “I’m counting on it.”

“Are they hers?” Hank returned the grin.

“No, they’re ours. Though she fished them out of the trash can and put them in her house,” Jason explained. “I thought she wanted them for the yard sale today, but I was wrong.”

Claire laughed.

“I’ve noticed she has a little problem getting rid of things,” Hank said, dimples showing next to the blond handlebar ‘stache.

“You have?” Claire looked surprised.

“Yeah, when she was having that apartment you’re living in cleared out, we - Crys and I - saw inside that garage. No offense, but I don’t know how they got all that stuff in there - it was already packed full.” He chuckled. “Good thing it’s a three-car garage, right?”

“Right. We’d like to see in there, too,” Jason said. “She won’t open it for us.”

“Well, you can come on over here and spy on her any time you want.” Another happy guffaw. “In fact, I actually came over to tell you two what we overheard the other night. Might be important.”

“Please tell us,” Claire said.
 

“Well, she had the garage open and was jabbering up a blue streak so Crys and I went out to listen.”

“And?” Jason prompted.

“And that … um …
invisible friend
of hers is evidently upset.”

“My deceased brother.”

“Yes ma’am. I was trying to be delicate.”

“You’re fine, go ahead.”

“Okay, well, she acted like he was talking to her - that’s nothing new, we’ve heard it before - but she was telling him she knew you two went into his bedroom.”

Jason’s stomach clenched. “She knows we were in there?”

“Apparently, your brother told her ...” said Hank in a sheepish tone.

“It’s fine,” Claire said. “Go on.”

“Well … the way she tells it, you went into her bedroom and some other rooms, and, um … she said she would ‘have a talk with you two’ if she hears you did it again.” His cheeks flushed. “I’m quoting. I didn’t mean to pry. Just thought you should know.”

“Thanks, Hank,” said Claire. She and Jason exchanged glances. “I should have known she’d notice. That woman sees everything.”

“But how?” Jason’s panic burgeoned, making him feel slightly dizzy. They’d sneaked around like children. They had no right to go through Priscilla’s house. She must be furious.
And she may be eccentric, but she
is
trying to help us.
Jason felt ashamed of himself.
 

But Claire was unrepentant. “I’ll bet she noticed we took the pill bottles from Dad’s trash can.”

Hank cocked his head. “Dad? Your old man lives there?”

Claire nodded.

“I’ve never even seen him.”

“He’s confined upstairs. He’s handicapped,” Claire said.

Jason, still feeling guilty, opened his mouth to suggest they take the hangers back inside, but his words were cut short.

The guitar riff of
Barracuda
rent the air.

“No, no, no, no …” Priscilla Martin bustled toward them and their folding tray full of evidence.
 

Jason’s throat went dry. Claire’s back stiffened. Hank chuckled.
 

Prissy snatched up the stack of hangers and clutched them like homeless puppies. “I didn’t mean for
these
to be sold, or -” she glanced at the FREE HANGERS sign, “-
given
away.”

Claire made a grab for them. “They’re
our
hangers, Mother, and we decided we wanted to give them away.” She turned to Jason. “Isn’t that so?”

Jason nodded as Prissy hugged the hangers closer.
 

Hank’s face was a mask of fascination as Claire jerked the hangers from Prissy’s clutches.
 

Prissy turned to Hank, all smiles. “Run along, Mr. Lowell. Certainly, you have your own matters to attend to. And please, turn that horrible music down.”

“I’m outta here.” Hank returned to his own house, but didn’t turn down the music.
 

Huffing, Prissy pulled at the hangers, but Claire held them tight.
 

There they stood, each clutching opposite sides of the hangers, staring each other down like rabid dogs. Jason cleared his throat and was about to speak up, when Prissy cut him off.

“As it happens, I’ve decided I can make use of these after all.” Her practiced smile was warm, non-threatening.

“How’s that, Mother? To take up more space in your house? You have more bags, and they belong to us, anyway. I just might decide to sell
them
this afternoon, too.”

Jason glanced toward the Lowells, who were openly staring.
Just kill me now.

Prissy sighed, the earlier blaze in her eyes dimming to a tired spark. “We mustn’t be wasteful, Carlene. Someone can use these.”

“It’s
Claire,
Mother, and I agree. Someone
can
use them and that’s why we put them out here. You don’t need
them. I think we
all
know they’ll just sit in their trash bags until Kingdom Come, collecting dust in a room already stuffed with shit you don’t need.”

“Carlene! Watch your language. You owe the swear jar a dollar!”

“These. Hangers. Belong. To. Us.” Claire’s mouth was a hard line and her eyes could have cut glass. “Fuck. The. Swear. Jar.”

Jason wanted to leave, but forced himself to face the horrible music.
“A compromise,” he said.

Both women cut glances at him.

He cleared his throat. “We have one bag here to give away, and you can keep the others and use them however you wish, Prissy. Fair?”

Priscilla’s eyes lit and Claire’s smoldered.

“See?” said Prissy to Claire. “A compromise. I think it’s a wonderful idea, Jason.”

“Claire?” Jason’s tone was cautious. “Does that work for you?”

“Fine,” she said through gritted teeth.

He breathed a great sigh of relief. This wasn’t about the hangers, he knew that. This was a lifelong power struggle between the two women … and he’d stepped right into its festering core.

Slowly, Claire’s rigid stance relaxed and Jason’s relief grew. He’d never seen his wife like this before - so hell bent, so angry, so …
petty.
It unsettled him.

Prissy brushed her mint green polyester pantsuit off, ridding it of invisible dust. “Very well, then,” she said. “Everyone’s happy.” She smiled, then continued, “Be sure to buy a cannoli or two, kids. It’s for a very good cause.”

“We will, Prissy,” said Jason. “It smells wonderful.” In truth, the only thing he smelled was something citrusy behind the stink of his mother-in-law’s perfume. He didn’t recall seeing any lemon pies or orange cakes, but it made him hungry for dessert.   

“Here she comes,” Duane Pruitt said to his partner, Jerry.

“I think I need to go check on Waldo.” Jerry Park made to rise from the table loaded with brownies and blondies.

Duane touched Jerry’s wrist. “Oh no, you don’t. You’re not going to desert me during Prissy Martin’s inspection.”

“Well, she’s got to be in a bad mood, now.” Jerry reseated himself. “That was quite a show. I wish we could have heard what they were saying.”

“Fighting over hangers.” He frowned. “It’s just so …
Mommie Dearest
.” Duane chuckled. “I wish we’d filmed it - we could have dubbed in the conversation and put it on YouTube!” He switched on the Bluetooth speaker, hit KNDL and stopped - Lenny Kravitz was singing
American Woman.
Duane sang along:
“Stay away from mee-hee.”
 

Jerry laughed his giggly laugh and Duane kept singing, not noticing Prissy Martin’s arrival until she stepped under their big striped umbrella.

“Well, how are you boys doing today?”

Jerry stared at her like a schoolboy trapped in an angry nun’s gaze.
 

“We’re fine, Mrs. Martin,” Duane said. “And how are you?”

“Absolutely perfect,” she said. “And please, call me Prissy. All my friends do.”

“My,” Duane said, beginning his performance, “that’s a lovely pantsuit you’re wearing, Prissy. Is it vintage?”
Vintage, as in J.C. Penney, 1984.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Jerry fighting down more giggles.
 

“Why yes, it is. Thank you for noticing. Not everyone does, you know.”

“I love the padding in the shoulders. It does something for you.”

She batted her eyelashes at him. Simultaneously, Jerry began shaking with laughter. Duane kicked him under the table. They couldn’t risk Priscilla Martin catching on that they were making fun. He knew she could make their lives a living hell and they already had one mark against them: She didn’t condone their
questionable
lifestyle. Fortunately, she was enough of a sucker for flattery that it overrode her conservative sensibilities. “You look wonderfully elegant,” he added.
 

“Why, thank you, Duane.” Her eyes glittered. “How are your brownies selling, may I ask?”

“Like hotcakes.” Duane fed her ego with a shit-filled smile. “Would you care for one?”

“I would indeed.”

“Brownie or blondie?”

“Brownie, please.” There went the eyelashes again. “A girl needs her chocolate.”

Duane handed her a wax paper-wrapped square.
 

“Here,” Jerry said as he picked up two more brownies and tried to give them to her. “I bet your daughter and her husband would each like one.”

She looked down her nose at him. “I keep them quite well-fed, thank you.”

Jerry shrank at her condescending tone.
 

Duane was certain Priscilla Martin blamed Jerry for his “sudden” homosexuality, and she made no effort to disguise her disapproval.

Duane cleared his throat. “Well, let them know we have plenty, if they get the urge.”

Priscilla continued glaring at Jerry, so Duane pulled out the big guns. “That perfume,” he said. “It’s absolutely breathtaking.”
I can hardly breathe!
“I was telling Jerry just this morning how wonderful you always smell. What is it called, and where can I get some? I have a sister who would just adore it.”

Priscilla Martin’s eyes twinkled. “It’s called
Opium
. It’s a special blend. I believe you can get it at Nordstrom’s.” She paused. “I thought you people would know that.”