Mother's Day (19 page)

Jenny’s tense shoulders seemed to relax at this. After a few moments she eased herself against her mother’s side. Karen pulled the edge of the afghan over her. “Rest,” she said. She reached up and turned off the lamp above her shoulder.

“I can’t,” said Jenny, her voice small and scared in the darkness.

“Try,” Karen urged her.

They sat together in silence. After a while Karen heard the rise and fall, the rhythmical breath, of sleep. She curved her arm gently around her daughter and clung to her sleeping child. Their child. She wished she could hate him. Only hate him. Make him gone from her heart the way he was gone from their house. But loving him was an ancient habit of hers. She tried not to picture him, out there somewhere, in the night chill. But it was useless. He was as familiar as herself. Greg, who couldn’t wait to get home each night to his chair by the fire, the warmth of his bed, the embrace of his wife, his little girl’s kisses. We’re the Three Bears, Jenny had said when she was small. And they had laughed. It seemed so true. And now Papa Bear was out there, alone in the dark, chased by hunters. And here, by the cold hearth, their fairy-tale world was in ruins. How could you do this to us? she wanted to cry out. I thought you loved me. But there was no one to hear her. No one to explain. Flames of anguish licked at Karen’s heart, burning like home fires.

While Emily searched in the bedroom closet
for her rain bonnet, Walter stood at the kitchen sink, washing up his few breakfast dishes. His sister, Sylvia, was seated at the table, waiting for Emily.

“Walter, you need a dishwasher,” she advised. “And a microwave. And look at this floor. The linoleum is worn through in places. Well, what do you expect? Mother had that put down the year Father died. That’s going on half a century now. Time flies…”

Walter dried his coffee cup and put it up in the old cupboard. Sylvia grimaced as the cupboard door creaked on its hinges. “I don’t know how you can stand this old place. Look at these old Currier and Ives prints. They’re going to fall off the wall any day now. Why don’t you take two minutes and fix them?”

Walter put away his saucer and closed the cupboard door. Sylvia sighed. “I don’t know how you can stand this old place,” she said. “Now, I like living in Seaside Village. Everything is new. If something breaks, somebody comes in right away and fixes it. I mean, if you’re not handy,” she said, looking pointedly at her brother, who was cleaning off his glasses with a paper towel, apparently oblivious of her, “you’ve got no business in an old place like this.”

Walter held his glasses up to the old hanging light fixture and squinted through them to be sure all the smudges were gone. “Tell you the truth,” Sylvia went on, “I never wanted to set foot in this place again after Mother died. It seems like there was nothing but sickness and gloom in the house…” She shuddered.

“You’re the most morbid person I know,” Walter observed calmly, replacing his glasses on his nose. “Why else would you be going to this funeral today, except that you like the idea of a murder victim’s funeral?”

Sylvia drew herself up indignantly. “For your information, I have known the Emerys for years through the church. They have no other family, to speak of. If you were more active yourself in your parish…”

“You know Emily doesn’t do well with funerals,” said Walter.

“Nonsense,” Sylvia sniffed. “It doesn’t matter whether Emily goes to a funeral or a garden party. Emily has a constitutional weakness. You know it as well as I do.”

Emily’s voice wafted to them down the hall. “I’m just looking for my gloves. I’ll be right there.”

Sylvia stood up and adjusted her skirt. “You should be going to this funeral, Walter. Seeing who shows up. They say that killers often can’t resist turning up at their victims’ funerals.”

“I’ll leave the crepe hanging to you,” said Walter.

“Rather irresponsible,” said Sylvia. “In light of the fact that you were the one who let the killer get away.”

Walter did not reply. He put on his jacket and walked to the back door. He stood there for a second, looking out at the rain. “Well, you enjoy the festivities, now,” he said to his sister. “You’ve got a perfect day for it.”

“Mother,” said Bill Emery, “are you ready? The limousine is outside.”

Alice Emery stared into the hall closet crammed with bags, boots, and winter coats. From the top shelf she extracted a black, beaded evening bag and stared. “Do you remember the year Linda gave me this for Christmas? She saved up her baby-sitting money for it.”

Bill looked at his watch and then glanced at the bag in his mother’s hand. “I don’t know,” he said. “All those Christmases run together in my mind.”

Alice smiled wistfully. “I never had anywhere to wear it. Your father wasn’t one for going out fancy.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why she picked this. She knew we never got dressed up like this. Probably something she saw in a movie made her think of it.”

“Maybe,” said Bill. “I don’t know.”

“I think I’ll carry this,” Alice said.

“Mother, that’s an evening bag. It’s not meant for a funeral.”

“I know that,” said Alice stubbornly. “But I’m going to carry it.”

“All right,” said Bill. “Fine. But we’d better hurry.”

Alice’s hands trembled as she fumbled with the clasp on the bag.

“What are you doing?” he said.

“I have to put my things in here,” said Alice. She pointed to her worn, brown pocketbook, which sat squatly on top of the console TV. “Hand me my other bag, will you?”

Suppressing a sigh, Bill walked over and pulled the bag off the TV by its strap. A lipstick tube, a half-eaten roll of Life Savers, some coins, and a couple of wadded tissues spilled out onto the floor. Bill knelt and stuffed them back inside. He stood up and held out the bag to his mother. “It’s just that people are going to be waiting,” he said.

Alice began to sort through her brown pocketbook, extracting items and placing them in the evening bag. “Let them wait,” she said. She lifted out the pocket date book and examined it thoughtfully.

“I don’t think you’ll be needing all that stuff, Mother. Besides, it probably won’t all fit in there,” he said tactfully.

Alice continued methodically to repack her purse. She did not look at Bill. “I should never have listened to you,” she said. “I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

Bill’s eyes flashed, but he spoke in an even tone. “No one forced you to do anything.”

Alice’s voice was thick with emotion as she pressed her ubiquitous tissues into the corners of the black bag.

“I turned her out. My own daughter. I never even got a chance to speak to her again.”

“We had no way of knowing this was going to happen,” said Bill.

“You were so determined to have your way,” said Alice, stuffing a tiny change purse into the black bag. “I felt like if I didn’t do what you wanted, you would turn against me, too.”

Bill clenched his fists and walked over to the front window, pulling back the curtain. Glenda had stepped out of the car and was signaling him to come. “We have to go,” he said.

Alice looked up at him, shaking her head. “Don’t you even care? Your own sister?”

“I don’t care to be your scapegoat,” he said.

“Bill,” Alice exclaimed, “that’s an awful thing to say.”

Bill walked over to the front door and called out, “We’re coming.”

Alice put on her hat and pulled the black veil down over her forehead and glasses. “Are the children in the car?” she asked distractedly.

“I told you twice already,” Bill snapped. “They’re with a neighbor. They’re too young for this.”

“They never even knew their aunt Linda,” Alice said, awkwardly fishing a tissue from the cramped black bag. She wiped her eyes and tucked the bag securely under her arm, cradling it there.

“Whose fault is that?” Bill muttered.

“What?” Alice asked, turning back to him.

“Nothing,” he said. “Let’s go.”

Considering how long she had been away from Bayland, Linda Emery drew a substantial crowd to her funeral. Few of those who gathered, however, were actual mourners. There was a clutter of reporters and an assortment of the morbidly curious. Many had come hoping to see the reaction of Linda’s long-lost child—the child whose father had been accused of Linda’s murder and escaped. Those who did were disappointed. Karen had forbidden Jenny to attend for just that reason—that her presence might result in circus antics at the solemn occasion.

Because of the rain, the graveside service was brief. Mary Duncan, shielded from the weather by an umbrella held by her husband, dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief as the priest intoned the final words of interment. She could see Linda’s mother looking dazed and bewildered as she threw a rose onto the casket. Mary could scarcely imagine the sorrow of losing her daughter and her husband, all in a matter of months. Mary’s gaze traveled to Bill Emery, who dutifully threw in a flower after his mother, his face impassive. Mary had already noted the coltish, honey-haired young girl in dark glasses who seemed to be following Bill’s every move like an ardent fan at a sporting event. She wondered if Glenda had noticed. How could she not? Mary thought, feeling a little sick. Well, sometimes the wife was the last to know.

Sam nudged her, and Mary looked up at him. “You ready to go to the car?” he asked. He hadn’t wanted to come, but she’d shamed him into it. She looked at him tenderly. “Remember the fun we used to have with Linda in those days?” she asked.

Sam nodded. “Sure I do. Come on.”

Mary ran one finger over the soft petals of her rose. Then she stepped up to the casket and tossed it on. “Good-bye, old friend,” she whispered.

As she turned away from the grave, huddled beside her husband, she was accosted by a young woman dressed in a damp tweed skirt and a rumpled jacket. “Excuse me, Mrs. Duncan?” she asked.

Mary wiped her eyes. “Yes,” she said.

“My name is Phyllis Hodges. I’m from the Gazette. I’ve heard a rumor that you are the person who identified Mr. Newhall to the police as the killer.”

Mary’s mouth dropped open. Before she had a chance to speak, Sam took her by the arm and stepped between her and the reporter.

“What’s wrong with you?” he demanded. “This is a funeral. People are mourning here.”

“I’m just doing my job,” said Phyllis.

“Mrs. Duncan doesn’t know what you are talking about,” he said. “Come on.” He hurried Mary along toward their car.

“Sam,” Mary complained, wriggling out of his grasp. “Why did you do that?

Sam opened the door and virtually pushed her inside. Then he came around and jumped onto the driver’s seat. “Lock the door,” he said. “She might follow us.”

“What’s gotten into you?”

“That’s all we need,” said Sam. “She’ll write in the paper that you blew the whistle, and the Newhall man will come back looking for you. I knew you shouldn’t have gotten involved in this.”

“Oh, Sam, for heaven’s sake,” said Mary. “He’s miles from here by now.” She locked the door.

“Mom, what are you doing?”
Jenny cried, kneeling beside the wastebasket and staring at its overflowing contents in horror.

Karen continued to rifle the jewelry box and the top drawer of her bureau. “I’m cleaning out,” she said, pelting a pair of earrings onto the pile.

Jenny lifted necklaces and bracelets, bottles of perfume, and scarves out of the trash and stared at them. “Mom, this is all your good stuff. Presents from Dad. You can’t just throw this stuff away.”

Karen ignored Jenny’s protests. Last night she had cried herself to sleep, hugging Greg’s pillow, and at dawn she had been jolted awake by a dream of him making love to a woman with dark hair, white, freckled skin, and swollen breasts. In the dream they tumbled in sweaty sheets, his hand traveling over the woman’s rounded belly and disappearing between her legs, while they chuckled at the mention of Karen’s name. The memory of that humiliating image made her scalp prickle.

The phone began to ring on the bedside table. “Don’t answer it,” said Karen sharply. It was the day of Linda’s funeral, and their phone had not stopped ringing. Seeing the stricken look on Jenny’s face, Karen said more gently, “It’s just more trouble.” She had resolved not to answer it again today. A few calls had been friends, offering support, but Karen had refused all visitors. Behind every offer of help hovered a flock of unanswered questions, ready to swoop down on her. More than anything, Karen did not want to tell the story again. The rest of the calls had been reporters and clients of Greg’s calling to cancel their business with him. How they were going to live with no income was beyond Karen’s fathoming right now.

The phone stopped ringing, and Karen lifted the silver locket out of its box on her dresser. She had not even worn it yet, and she could tell that it had been expensive. The shop where Greg bought it was a pricey antique store downtown. She pressed her lips together, seeing again that cautious, hopeful look in his eyes when he gave it to her. A present was not just something he bought because a day rolled around on the calendar. It was an opportunity to please her. He puzzled over each gift, studied what she liked. He rarely missed the mark. A fresh ache seized her heart as she recalled how he loved to describe the selection process—baubles considered, then rejected; salespeople parading their finest wares before him until he, like some benign pasha, finally seized upon the perfect gift, clapped his hands, and it was wrapped.

“That’s so pretty,” said Jenny wistfully.

Karen snapped the locket open and dislodged the little picture of Jenny. She slipped the photo back into her jewelry box and then dangled the necklace by the chain. You will need the money, she told herself. You have to be practical. You could return this to the store. Then she shook her head and tossed the necklace on the heap of mementos in the basket. I’ll find another way to get the money, she thought.

Jenny reached into the basket with a cry. “Can I keep it?” she said.

Karen looked coldly at the locket in Jenny’s hand. “I’d rather you didn’t,” she said.

Jenny did not look up at her. “I want it,” she said stubbornly. “You threw it away. What do you care?”