Mother (35 page)

“Look in a room or two, Father. Just look. They’re so full that I keep wondering how and where she stowed all the things from
this
room - it was stuffed to the rafters. She must have carried all of it down to the basement.”

Andy looked around at all the childhood memorabilia - from boy-band posters on the walls to a Monopoly box, to a large Victorian dollhouse on a child’s table in the corner. “Someone must have helped her with all this.”

“It would seem like it, but no, I don’t think so. Like I said, she doesn’t allow people up here.”

Andy gasped when his gaze snagged on an old teddy bear sitting in a child’s rocking chair in the far corner. “That bear.” The worn stuffed animal had dark red circles painted around its eyes and mouth, giving it the gruesome appearance of a bleeding thing. On the chair next to it was a tube of lipstick.

“What in the world?” The color drained from Claire’s face. “Who did that to Mr. Anton?”
 

There was something else in her expression, something he couldn’t read.

She turned her gaze on him. “It’s her.”
 

“Excuse me?”

“Mother.” The fiery glint in her eyes set Andy on edge.

“You’re saying your mother did this?”
 

Claire nodded. “She must have.”

“But … but why?”

“She’s crazy.”
 

Glancing at the defaced bear, he forced an uneasy smile. “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation.” Suddenly eager to leave, he looked at his watch. “I’m terribly sorry, but I’ve got to run. I’m late for an appointment.”

Claire’s face was flushed, her jaw firm. “I understand. Thank you for stopping by.”

“Any time.” He patted her hand as she stared at the teddy, a spark of disconnection in her eye. The skin crawled on the back of his neck. He’d seen that glassy look during his visits to patients at the Snapdragon Gardens Mental Health Facility.
 

“I’ll see you again soon.” As he turned to open the door, an explosion of sound rent the air and shook the windows, as if someone had set off a firecracker - or a bomb.
 

“What on earth …” Claire gathered her crutches and struggled to the window.

Andy was at her side. “What was that?” He saw nothing unusual below.

“A gunshot,” she said without glancing back.
 

“It couldn’t be.”

“We lived in a bad part of Oakland for a while. Trust me. That was a gunshot.”

“I believe you.” Still, he saw nothing.

Another blast cracked the air and Claire gasped. “It’s coming from the Collins house!”

Andy looked in time to see the front door explode open. Geneva-Marie raced into the street. She ran hard, arms flailing, her screams high and shrill. Red splattered the front of her white shirt and streaked her face. A figure emerged from the doorway. Andy gasped as Burke Collins raised a shotgun and aimed it at his wife.

Claire screamed, “Call 911!”
 

Another boom blasted the air.

Geneva-Marie’s hair shot out at all angles and a halo of red mist burst around her head. She flew forward, then crashed onto the asphalt of Morning Glory Circle, a shattered heap. Andy’s cell phone dropped to the floor as he stared at the bloody stump where Geneva-Marie’s head had been. Gray gobbets of brain, splinters of bone, and hanks of blood-soaked hair surrounded her.

Claire screamed.

Burke Collins stalked down the steps, breaking into a clumsy run toward the house next door, ignoring the big dog barking behind the fence.

“I have to go downstairs.” Andy grabbed his phone, punching in 911.
 

She turned to look at him with stricken eyes. “ Be careful. Promise me.”

“I promise.”

She turned back to the window, and Andy barreled down the stairs. He found Priscilla Martin in the living room, staring at the carnage from her picture window.
 

“Priscilla?” She didn’t turn. “
Priscilla?
”

He stopped cold when he saw the smile on her face.
 

“Priscilla!” He grabbed her wrist and pulled. “Get away from the window. It’s not safe.”

Her head swiveled like a viper about to strike. Her eyes were vacant but the smile was gone so fast he wondered if it had been there at all. “Did you see that?” Her voice was hollow. “They’re going to have a terrible time getting those bloodstains out.” She blinked. “They’ll be scrubbing for weeks.”

Andy’s stomach dropped. “You’re in shock, Priscilla. Come away from the window.”

But she wouldn’t move.

“I’ve called the police,” he said. “You need to go upstairs and comfort your daughter.” He pulled Priscilla’s arm, forcing her. He hardened his voice. “Your daughter needs you. Now!”
 

She glared at him, resisting.

“Mrs. Martin! In the name of God, go to your daughter! It’s the Christian thing to do!”

Priscilla nodded then headed upstairs. From the vents, Fleetwood Mac played on.

At the window, Andy watched Burke Collins stalk toward the pale green house next door to the Collins residence. Shotgun in hand, Collins stared at the hysterically barking dog, but didn’t threaten it.
 

Andy retreated to the safety of the kitchen and prayed for Geneva-Marie’s soul, for her husband’s, and for the safety of their two boys.

Burke Collins pounded on Duane Pruitt’s front door. “Get out here, you sumabitch!” He beat the door until the meaty edge of his hand split, leaving scarlet streaks on the pristine white paint. “You coward! You motherfucking queer!” Through the rush of pumping blood and the sludge of his alcohol-soaked brain, he heard distant sirens. “Fucker!” He kicked the door again and again, spears of pain shooting up his leg, the nails of his toes splintering inside his boots with each bone-crunching blow.

As the sirens neared, thick nets of fog cleared and his actions came back to him in blurred and bloody fragments.

“Sumabitch!” He slammed his shoulder into the door and tears streamed down his cheeks. “You dirty, double-crossing cocksucker!”

He cocked the shotgun and aimed it at the lock, pulled the trigger. It clicked with empty impotence. “Motherfucker!” He turned, staring at the world behind him. It had tilted, slipped on its axis. He made his way down the steps, his legs bowing like rubber beneath him. He staggered toward the shattered figure in the street, weeping, his shotgun at his side. “Geneva! Oh, God, Geneva! What have I done?”

His wife lay on the asphalt, her once pretty face now a raw, mangled mass of blood and gore. Clots of bloody hair and bone surrounded her. Burke keened in horror and grief. “Geneva!” He threw his head back and shrieked at the sky. “No!” Unleashing primal screams, he dropped to his knees in the street beside Geneva’s scattered remains. Hunched over, he buried his face in his hands, pleading with God to turn back time.

Red and blue lights flashed as a clutch of police cars screeched onto Morning Glory Circle, skidding to a stop just feet from where he knelt. Officers opened their doors, using them as shields as they pointed guns at him.
 

“No, no!” He staggered to his feet, held his free hand up. “My wife,” he cried. “She’s hurt! And my kids. Oh,
God
, my kids!”

“Lay down your weapon, sir, right now!” a voice boomed from a loudspeaker. “Lay down your weapon and raise your hands above your head!”

The world was blurry with tears and booze, but he saw that he was surrounded. He looked down at his shotgun. He’d used his last shell on Geneva-Marie. His face crumpled and tears spilled. But there was still a way out. “Geneva, I’m coming.” He raised his empty shotgun and aimed it at the officers.

“Fire!”

His body shook, quaked, and jerked as the blasts of guns deafened him, but there was no pain. There wasn’t anything.

In Status Symbol Land

Aida Portendorfer squeezed Stan’s hand as they stood on their front walk staring at the havoc. Police photographers snapped pictures of the bodies, which remained in full view, though more than an hour had passed since Burke had been shot down. At the opening of the cul-de-sac, a barricade kept a barrage of reporters and TV vans at bay on Daisy Drive. Overhead, a news helicopter hovered like a vulture, in small, tight circles.
 

A cop approached Father Andy and drew him from the sidelines, toward the bodies. The priest knelt over poor Geneva-Marie, giving her last rites a little too late.
 

Stan put his arm around Aida and hugged her close. “On our street ...”

Aida’s eyes drifted to the big white house presiding over the circle. She could see Prissy Martin standing in a second-floor window, watching.

“Go back to bed,” Mother had said when she arrived in Claire’s room. She fetched the phone from its place near the vent. “I imagine you’re looking for this.” She dropped it on the desk. “Watching that will only raise your blood pressure, and that can harm the baby.”

 
Reluctantly, Claire sat in her desk chair, still stunned.
 

Mother stared down at the street.

“I’d like to talk to Jason now, then take a little nap, Mother.”

Mother didn’t move.
 

“Where’s Father Andy?”

“He appears to be giving last rites to Burke.” She turned. “I can’t imagine why Andrew thinks Burke deserves last rites, but I guess that’s what priests get paid to do. Are you going to call Jason, dear?”

Claire stared at her phone. “Yes. As soon as you leave.”
 

“Mom!” Billy Sachs said for the hundredth time, “I want to see!”
 

“No, Billy.” Candy spoke with uncharacteristic firmness. “No.” She’d called Milton, but he was stuck in a meeting and couldn’t get home early.

She looked at all the closed drapes and drawn blinds and prayed Billy wouldn’t find a way to look outside - he’d come home just before the shootings, thank heaven.
He could have been killed!
She wondered if Burke Collins would kill a child and shuddered. “Billy, the popcorn’s ready. Let’s go watch
X-Men
!”

“I want-”

“I know, but this is better.” Taking the bag of popcorn, she pushed Billy toward the TV room in the back of the house. “Put the movie on. I’ll be right in.”

The boy sighed, but did as he was told. When he was gone, Candy lifted a drape and pushed her fingers between the blinds. Cops surrounded the bodies, but she recoiled, seeing all the blood in the street. The Collins house was wide open, with police officers and detectives, photographers and videographers going in and out between the squad cars and ambulances.
I hope their boys weren’t home when this happened.

“You like that, big boy?” said Nellie Dunworth in a breathy tone. She sat in her electric scooter wearing her headset, as she polished a piece of china.

Her sister, Bertie, gaped out the window at the drama beyond. The gunshots and sirens had put a real damper on the mood, but the man on the other end of the line who called himself Mr. Xtra Big, was nearing the ten minute mark, and at four ninety-nine per minute, Nellie and Bertie Dunworth could not afford to lose the call.

“Oh, yeah, baby,” said Mr. Xtra Big. “And then I’d pull your hair and slap your ass while I did it.”

Nellie rolled her eyes. So, he was a spanker. While he went on, she turned to face her sister, and mouthed, “What’s happening?”

Bertie shook her head. “Nothing new,” she whispered. “Lots of cops and photographers.”

“Oh, oh, ohhhh …” said Nellie in the throes of faux-orgasm. “Keep talking to me, baby. You’re making me so hot.”

“Are you touching it?” asked Mr. Xtra Big.

Nellie looked down at the china teacup. “Oh, yes. I’m rubbing it so good. I’m making it glisten for you, baby.”

Mr. Xtra Big groaned as he very clearly finished himself off, losing her several valuable minutes.
Damn it!
 

She wondered what the residents of Morning Glory Circle would do if they knew what she and Bertie did for a living.
At least it’s an honest living.

Phyllis Stine sat at the dining table, weeping into her hands as Clyde wrapped a second shawl around her quaking, bony shoulders. She’d already called anyone who’d been willing to listen, from her cousin in Pennsylvania to her former pharmacist who’d retired to Santa Fe. When Clyde had warned her about going over their minutes, the tears had come in a torrent and hadn’t stopped since.

“I just can’t believe it,” she wailed. “Right here on Morning Glory Circle! Is nowhere safe?”

“Shh-shh-shh. It’s over and done, now.”
 

Phyllis could sustain herself on this kind of drama for months, years even, and Clyde dreaded the story’s countless retellings and Phyllis’ embellishments before the topic finally grew stale.

“Such a good woman. So kind.” Phyllis bawled and pressed a wadded tissue to her face as camera flashes flared in the early evening dusk.
 

Clyde didn’t point out that only this morning, Phyllis had been on the blower with Aida Portendorfer, saying she was glad Burke had come to his senses and finally left the dreadful Geneva-Marie. Burke could do so much better than that trollop, she’d said. It was probably Geneva-Marie’s fault Burke had turned to booze, she’d said. And who could blame the man for
that?
she’d asked.

“Now, now, dear.” Clyde rubbed his wife’s shoulders. “Is the Valium working yet? Would you like to take a nap?” He cast a longing glance toward the living room where, on ESPN, the crowd went wild as a sportscaster announced another win for Clyde’s team.
 

 
“There were so many things I should have said to her.” Phyllis honked her nose and looked at the tissue, her fingers trembling with exaggerated effort. “And now, I’ll never have the chance!”
 

“Perhaps another Valium, dear?”

She shot him a look, twisted from his touch, and said, “No. It doesn’t work. Go next door and get some fresh from Prissy.” Prissy always had the best drugs. “And bring me the phone. I need to call Gladiola.”

“Who?”

Phyllis sighed. “Gladiola Gelding, in Crimson Cove! I went to school with her. I’ve told you all about her. We were in drama together!”