Peony Street (28 page)

The phone rang and Claire answered, explained why Denise wasn’t there, and made an appointment for the customer.

“Are you thinking of buying this place?” Sloan asked her after she hung up.

“I’m just helping out an old friend,” Claire said.

Claire removed the rollers, combed out and styled the hairpieces, and gave them a light fixative spray. She then loosely tied a hair net around each one to support the weight of the hair so it wouldn’t flatten the style before Sloan wore it.

“I could teach you how to do most of this,” Claire said. “You’ve seen me do it enough.”

“No,” Sloan said. “I haven’t done my own hair since I met you.”

“We’ve come a long way from the Palomino Club.”

“I loved that job; it was so simple. Take off your clothes, shake your ass, and collect your money.”

“That’s how you met Sergio.”

“Good ole Sergio; he was my first submissive. I didn’t know what in the hell I was doing.”

“I never could understand why men would pay you to be mean to them.”

“Powerful men like to be worshipped in public and abused in private,” Sloan said. “Once a beautiful woman understands that she can rule the world.”

“Did you like that job better than the porn?”

“I learned a lot about lighting from doing porn.”

“And you met Vincent.”

“I still put flowers on his grave every summer. He was the best producer I’ve ever worked with.”

“He really believed in you.”

“He took Tammy Jo Hogsett and turned her into Sloan Merryweather,” she said. “I owe all I have now to him.”

Claire put the hairnet-covered hairpieces on Styrofoam forms, lowered them carefully into two shopping bags and loosely covered them with tissue paper. Sloan pulled the towel from her head and dropped it on the floor. She put on her ski jacket, flipped up the hood, slung her handbag over her shoulder, and took the shopping bags from Claire.

“We’re leaving tomorrow,” Sloan said, “as soon as you sign the agreement.”

“I should have that to you by noon,” Claire said.

She was feeling nostalgic and soft-hearted toward Sloan, whom she couldn’t help but excuse for being no more or less than exactly what she always had been. They had been together for twenty years. Sloan had shown her the world and made her rich; that should count for something.

“Good luck, Sloan,” Claire said. “I hope everything works out for you.”

“Oh, I forgot to tell you,” Sloan said, as she paused at the door. “I banged your brother last night.”

“My brother died over twenty-five years ago,” Claire said.

“The bartender,” Sloan said. “Something Fitzpatrick: Peter? Paul? Perry?”

“Patrick,” Claire said. “Did he tell you he was my brother?”

“He didn’t have to,” Sloan said. “He looks just like you.”

Claire shook her head.

“Goodbye, Sloan,” she said.

“Call me when you’re ready to come back,” Sloan said, and as if by magic, the dark sedan appeared out of the darkness, pulled up to the curb, and swallowed Sloan whole.

Claire cleaned the shop and locked up. She walked down to the corner, where what used to be
Davis’s Diner was now the Pine Mountain Cafe. It was eight o’clock and the restaurant was filled with students and tourists. Claire read the menu posted on the window and was reminded of the bistros in Aspen or Big Sky. What Patrick had referred to as “frog snot” on his sandwich had actually been pesto.

She crossed the street diagonally where
Pine Mountain Road met Rose Hill Avenue, and walked past the bank, up to Maggie’s bookstore, Little Bear Books. Through the window she could see more students and tourists sitting in the café, drinking out of either very big or very little coffee cups. She walked on down the street to where Rose Hill Avenue ended at the gates of Eldridge College. She waved to the night watchman, who was an old friend of her father’s.

Claire crossed the street and walked back toward town; past the Bijou Theater, currently hosting a short films festival, and then Delvecchio’s IGA, which now had a big red movie rental kiosk outside and a sign on the door that read, “Lift passes and trail maps sold here.”

She walked past the post office, then the Rodefeffer Realty office, and turned down Pine Mountain Road toward the river. Instead of turning right on Iris Avenue she went all the way down to where the road ended in the water, between the old train depot and the glassworks. The Mountain Laurel Depot Bar and Grill seemed to be packed with people as well. A sign on the gate of the old Rodefeffer Glassworks announced it was soon to become “Wilberforce Cycles,” a bicycle factory specializing in racing and mountain bikes.

The train tracks by the river had been converted into a rail trail. Claire stood in the middle of the path and took deep breaths of cold air. Claire enjoyed the sound of the water rushing by, and how clean the cold air felt and smelled as it rolled across her face. She thought of all the oceans, lakes, rivers, and streams she had stood next to over the past twenty years. Only this particular water looked, felt, and smelled like home.

Claire backtracked and walked past the new condos on Lotus Avenue. She was trying to decide which end unit was Courtenay’s when she realized Stanley’s car was parked outside the one on the farthest end. Claire’s heart was racing as she got nearer, determined to see the license plate in order to be sure. The door to the last condo opened and Claire ducked down behind the car parked next to Stanley’s. She heard a man’s deep voice say, “We’ll be in touch.” Claire duck-walked to the front end of the car she was hiding behind and raised her head up high enough to peek through the windows. She saw Stanley’s driver get in Stanley’s car.

She only heard one car door close, so Claire surmised either
Stanley had stayed in his car or the driver was alone. The car backed out and Claire stayed hidden in the shadows until it was gone. Then she quickly walked home.

When she opened her parents’ front door she was shocked to find
Stanley sitting in the living room with her father. She looked back out the front door but his car wasn’t there.

“Hello, Claire,”
Stanley said.

“What are you doing here?” Claire said, and then to her father, “are you alright?”

“He’s looking for that key ring your friend gave me,” Ian said. “I told him we can’t find it. My memory’s not what it used to be.”

“It’s okay, Dad,” Claire said. “It’s no big deal.”

“It’s actually quite a big deal to me,” Stanley said. “Sloan told me she didn’t leave her phone at the Inn. I’d like to know what you were doing in her room.”

Claire’s father was nodding his head and his exaggerated frown was back. He was also rocking a little, back and forth; this was a new behavior.

“I want you to leave,” Claire said to Stanley. “Right now.”

Stanley
rose and smiled at Claire, but not with his eyes.

“Your father and I were having a nice chat,” he said.

“My parents are off limits to you and Sloan,” Claire said. “I’ll get a restraining order if I have to. I’ll call the press.”

“It was a pleasure to meet you,”
Stanley said to Ian, who looked bewildered.

Claire opened the front door.
Stanley walked through it, and then paused.

“Don’t ever threaten me again,” he said in a low voice, still smiling. “You should know better than to underestimate what I can do.”

“Don’t you threaten me anymore,” Claire said. “Don’t you underestimate me or anyone else in this town. We don’t care how much money Sloan has or how mean you are. We’ll do whatever we need to in order to take care of our own.”

“Cute dog,”
Stanley said to Claire. “It’s actually Sloan’s dog, I believe, isn’t it? I don’t think you ever had the paperwork changed to reflect new ownership.”

Claire closed the door in his face and locked it.

“What’s wrong, Claire?” Ian asked her. “Who was that man?”

Her father was clearly agitated, still rocking slightly and nodding his head.

“That was not a nice man,” Claire said. “If he comes here again, don’t let him in. Call Scott instead. Where’s Mom?”

“She’s asleep. He wanted to speak to her but I said she wasn’t feeling well. He thought she might know where the key ring was.”

Claire went down the hall and looked in on her mother, who was snoring. She realized she was trembling all over. She didn’t know what to do but felt she had to do something. She couldn’t call Scott; he was busy with his mother and besides, as kind and honorable as he was, he was no match for Stanley. She realized there was only one person on her side who was; she went to the back porch to make the call so her father wouldn’t hear.

Scott, his sister Penny, a social worker from Pine County Hospice, and Father Stephen all sat on either side of his mother’s bed. Scott’s mother was crying into a tissue, and his sister’s eyes were swollen and red.

“I spoke to Doctor Machalvie,” Father Stephen said to their mother. “He’s been conferring with the specialists in Morgantown, and he agrees that chemo and radiation would only prolong your life for a very short time, and the side effects would probably make you miserable. He’s ready to make the referral to Hospice.”

“Can’t we just pray for a miracle?” Penny said. “If our faith is strong enough we can heal her, can’t we?”

“I believe miracles happen,” the priest said. “I believe that prayer can heal. I also see good, faithful people die all the time. A time comes for us all.”

“If we bring in Hospice it means we’ve given up,” Penny said. “I won’t do that.”

“You want your mother to be as comfortable as possible, don’t you?” the social worker said. “A nurse will come to the house to check on her and help manage her symptoms; we can set up any medical equipment she needs here at home; aides can come to help take care of her personal needs. She’ll be free to focus on resting and spending time with her family and friends. We’ll help you take good care of her. People who go into Hospice care early enough tend to live longer, better quality lives.”

“You can prepare for the worst and still hope for the best,” Father Stephen said.

“Can she have chemo and radiation if she’s in the program?” Penny asked the Hospice social worker.

“Only if it’s for palliative care, which means treatments that are given to alleviate painful symptoms,” the social worker said. “Right now the Medicare guidelines stipulate that she can’t seek curative treatment while in the program. That may change in the future, but that’s the law right now.”

“What do you want to do, Mom?” Scott asked her.

“I’ll do whatever you both want me to do,” she said. “You decide.”

“I’m going to leave this information with you,” the social worker said, and laid some brochures on the bedside table. “If you have any questions please don’t hesitate to call us.”

Scott walked outside with her and said, “I hope we can convince Penny it’s the best thing.”

“It’s not unusual for family members to disagree,” she said. “It’s good if everyone can be on board, but that’s not always the case. You need to be designated her medical power of attorney; then if she becomes incapacitated you can make the decision for her.”

“I hope it won’t come to that.”

“Be sure to take care of yourself,” she said. “Get some sleep.”

When Scott got back to the bedroom Penny said, “I’m afraid they’ll just come in here and shoot her up with morphine and then she’ll die.”

“Mom will decide how much pain she can tolerate and how much medication she wants,” Scott said. “Plus Doc will be in on every decision. He wouldn’t recommend Hospice if it wasn’t the best thing.”

“I can’t do it,” Penny said. “I’m not giving up.”

“Don’t fight,” their mother said. “Please don’t fight.”

“Why don’t you all sleep on it,” Father Stephen said. “Pray about it and ask for guidance.”

“Pray with us now,” Scott’s mother said. “Let’s all hold hands and pray.”

Scott didn’t understand why he felt so resistant to holding hands with his family and letting Father Stephen pray over them. He’d been raised in the church, and while he wasn’t what anyone would call a strict Catholic, he did believe in God.

As he listened to Father Stephen quote from Corinthians and then ask for mercy and forgiveness for his mother, his resistance turned to resentment. What had his mother ever done that she needed to ask for forgiveness? Why should anyone have to beg to be let into heaven? There wasn’t a person Scott could think of who was perfect enough to please the kind of God they were praying to. Why bother?

Afterwards, as he walked out of the house with Father Stephen, Scott felt his irritation boil over.

“It doesn’t seem fair,” Scott said. “My mother’s a good person, a good Christian; why did this happen to her? There are plenty of evil people who live long, unproductive lives.”

“We can have faith that for those who have done well, everlasting enjoyment shall be given; while to lovers of evil shall be given eternal punishment.”