Skull Session (18 page)

20

P
AUL WANDERED BACK TO THE kitchen, where he picked at the ravaged turkey for a while, thinking. He was startled when Kay appeared next to him at the counter.

"The best part of Thanksgiving, isn't it—picking at the turkey." She pinched off a piece of white meat. "Why do you think it tastes better like this?"

"Because we get to use our fingers," Paul said. "Gives our monkey hands something fidgety to do."

"I think you're right." Kay peeled another strip ofmeat, put it primly in her mouth. "So what are your ruminations out here in the quiet kitchen?"

"I think you should try to be more sympathetic to Mother. She has a right to preserve whatever image of her past she wants."

As he'd expected, Kay didn't back down: "I agree we have to respect her sensibilities, but I also think we have to not let her drift away from reality completely. This thing of sanitizing, idealizing the past—she's getting to the age where she needs to be called back to earth now and again or she'll get off into her own little universe."

"She comes from a generation that simply didn't discuss certain things over the dinner table, Kay. The way she sees it, a person's most intimate details are not appropriate subjects for casual conversation."

"What you're saying is that our outspoken, radical, bohemian mother has a wide Victorian streak and we should indulge her contradictions."

"She's entitled to her contradictions."

"Sure. So is everybody. But she has to stay anchored in
reality,
for Christ's sake. Otherwise she'll get isolated, and when someone her age gets isolated they go into a final tailspin."

"Ohhh,
bzy-buh\"
It had always been impossible to win an argument with Kay. She had the Viking warrior-woman in her—with her eyes sparking, her hair on one shoulder in a thick braid, all she needed was a steel helmet with horns. "So now she's off by herself in your guest bedroom," he said, "as isolated as she can be."

"I'm not going to start censoring my conversation because my mother needs to launder her past," Kay said. But her voice had lost conviction. Aster's withdrawal had gotten to her too.

They both took another bite of turkey. "I found a note from Ben to Vivien, in the mess up there," Paul told her. "I'm kind of curious to find more letters."

"Yeah, Dad was a big letter-writer. I think he was determined to leave lots of interesting material for his future biographers."

"You don't have to be so cynical. Aren't you interested in who he was?"

"Not as much as you are. My present is about all I can manage. The less of my past I have to lug around with me, the better." Kay looked quickly to the door to the dining room, then swung it shut on the gentle hubbub of voices and continued in a lower voice. "Listen. I'll tell you another reason why I don't feel I have to defend the glorious Hoffmann family, or to let Mother smooth everything over. It wasn't always Walt Disney up there. Royce was a little rotter, and Aster never could see it. Partly because I never told her everything."

"Like what?"

"Like the fact that when I was thirteen, Royce decided he wanted to have sex with his cousin Kay. At first he just liked to grab me where he shouldn't—when we'd be wrestling or climbing or whatever. Then he started making me kiss him and let him put his hands on me."

"For Christ's sake!"

Remembering, Kay became indignant. "That sleazy little shit! When I told him cousins weren't supposed to do that sort of thing, he basically told me that was precisely what made it so much fun."

"How old was he?"

"Fourteen."

"So—"

"So I lost my virginity to Royce Hoffmann. Don't look so shocked— it wasn't rape, really. I didn't want to go along, but at the same time I didn't want Royce to think I was any less daring or knowledgeable than he pretended to be. I have to take responsibility for that. It wasn't traumatic, just sort of disgusting."

Paul waited, not knowing what to say.

"Really, I wasn't a victim. I didn't feel any different afterward except that I was nauseated by the very sight of Royce. You know what the most sickening thing was, though? That Royce threatened to tell on me if I didn't do what he wanted, or if I told anyone about the things he did. Ooph!" Kay shivered in disgust. "Little ratshit creepoid!"

"Tell on
you.
What a son of a bitch!"

Kay picked absently at the turkey again. "Anyway. You can see why I don't go along with all of Aster's stuff."

The kitchen door swung open and Ted came in backward with both hands full of empty beer and soda bottles. "Aha. Picking the carcass. I had the same idea."

"Proving that human beings aren't omnivores really, they're carrion eaters," Paul joked.

"Is everybody happy out there?" Kay asked. "Is it time for dessert?"

Aster was sitting on the bed of the guest bedroom, massaging her face. Paul hesitated in the hall, then knocked on the door frame. "There's pie and ice cream."

"Maybe in a few minutes," she said.

"I'm sure they're done with the topic now."

"Safe for me to come out?" She snorted. "I just needed a few minutes alone. I don't know why Kay has to go on like that, airing the dirty laundry. Honestly."

Paul came into the room and half-sat on the dressing table. "She just sees it differently. It's not dirty laundry, it's just amusing conversation."

"Well, she doesn't have to sensationalize things." Aster coughed, wiped her mouth with a tissue, and then stared at the wall as if looking into the distance. "On the other hand, Ted may have something there—that someone was looking for something. I think it's much more likely than Kay's utterly fantastic ideas about Royce."

"What would someone be looking for?"

"Who knows? Paulie, you should know by now that wherever large amounts of money are involved, people's behavior changes. Different rules apply. Your father used to say that large fortunes have a gravitational field, one that attracts things to it for better or for worse—usually for the worse." Aster looked very tired. "What were they looking for? Probably nothing. When I was a little girl, there was an old woman who lived by herself in a big old house at the end of our road—Mrs. Williams, or Willard, something like that. The whole town was convinced she had a mattress full of money. Classic small-town folklore. Kids would talk about going in and stealing some of it. So when she got very old, she didn't pay her taxes, and the town finally came in and seized her house. She'd been living in squalor. There wasn't any money. Never had been. My point is, it doesn't matter what's true, it only matters what people believe. Somebody's probably going to Highwood convinced there's something hidden that isn't there and never was."

Aster coughed harshly, her cheeks swelling. When she recovered, she went on: "And there's something else. There are a lot of things I don't like about my sister. But when you're older, a woman who lives alone, people are willing to believe anything about you. It's a treacherous aspect of human nature. Remember the witch-hunts. God only knows what people in my neighborhood say about
me."
She wiped her eyes with a tissue, then squared her shoulders. "Anyway. Vivien is too smart to keep anything hidden at Highwood. She always used some private bank in Manhattan."

"I know—they sent me a check."

"Don't you get caught in that gravitational field. Don't let it pull you or bend you around. And don't make the mistake of thinking Vivien isn't aware of the way people are affected—she is, and she likes to make good use of it."

"I've noticed."

Aster's voice grew bitter. "Maneuvering people. Playing on their hopes and expectations. That's how she gets what she wants."

There it was again: Whenever she spoke about her half sister, she seemed to oscillate between two opposite emotional poles—on one hand sympathy, loyalty, pride; on the other bitterness, envy, mistrust. He sat across from her on the bed. "Can I ask you a question?"

"Maybe."

"What happened between you two?"

She looked at him shrewdly. "You asked me that before. The answer is, nothing."

"I mean, I've got to deal with Vivien. If there's something I need to know, I wish you'd tell me now."

"Really, you and Kay have the most fantastic ideas." She stood up briskly and caught sight of herself in the mirror over the bureau. "God, this haircut! Am I ever going to have normal hair again? This was Kay's idea of therapy for her depressed old mother—get a perm." She tugged at the kinked mass. "Yes, I think I would like some dessert now," she said.

Paul sat on the bed next to Mark, the darkened room lit only by the light leaking around the hall door. "So. Was it a good night?"

"Pretty good." Mark's voice sounded uncertain.

"Only pretty good? Didn't you have a good time with your cousins?"

He tucked the sheet under Mark's chin.

"Yeah. Alexis cheats, though."

Paul had to laugh. "I think all cousins cheat at games. It's a tradition Anyway, I thought I saw you pull a little fast one."

A little smile flickered. "You
saw
that?"

"You'll never put one past me, boy."

Mark got serious again. "Is it true?"

"Is what true?"

"All that stuff about Highwood—the son murdering the grandmother."

"I don't think anyone murdered the grandmother. Kay's exaggerating because it's entertaining. You know, how you sometimes like a scary story. The same reason people like roller-coasters."

"But you really
are
scared." Mark said it matter-of-factly.

Was he? He had some attention on the possibility of risk, certainly. He was constantly suppressing tics. He also had that odd, nagging feeling, the strange familiarity of the emptiness at Highwood. There was fear there, but something else too. Loneliness? Darkness? He couldn't think of a word for it. "What makes you say that?"

"Because you listen so closely when Kay's talking about it. Because you don't laugh when everyone else thinks it's funny."

"No, I'm not scared. If I'm quiet, it's because I'm thinking about practical things Uke how many yards of plastic I'll need to cover the broken windows."

Mark rolled his head away on the pillow, and for a moment Paul thought he was signaling his readiness to sleep. "I think Alexis and Ben are spoiled," he said.

"Spoiled? What do you mean?"

Mark rubbed his forearm across his eyes and left it there, concealing his face from Paul. "They're so . . . I don't know. Like they're used to everything being okay all the time. Nothing to worry about."

Paul felt a stab of anguish. Mark was saying that their mother and father were still together, and that they didn't have to worry about what was inside their heads. That they were
secure,
for God's sake, which made them relaxed and confident. He felt his throat tighten.

"Everybody has about the same number of problems in the long run," Paul told him, not really believing it. "And everything
is
going to be okay. You know what I think is happening? Sometimes when you're tired, everything seems like a problem. Why don't you just be quiet for a while, I'll rub your head, and next thing you know it'll be morning." He massaged Mark's temples, tugged gently at his hair, willing him to be at peace. Before long, the boy's exhalations slowed and whistled in his throat, a gentle snore.

Friday, heading back to Vermont, Paul drove as Lia read another volume of Piaget. Mark fell asleep in the backseat within minutes.

After glancing back to see that Mark was truly out cold, Lia put a shoe box on the seat next to her, opened it, and took out a snub-nosed, chrome revolver.

"What the hell is that?"

"Ted's old .38 police special. He offered to lend it to us, and I accepted. It's a nice little gun." She deftly opened the cylinder, spun it, looked through the barrel, snicked it shut again.

"Fucking terrific. Jesus, Lia." The sight of her savoring the heft of the gun set off unpleasant reverberations in his nervous system.

"Seems clumsy until you fire it," she said. "Then you're glad for the weight—absorbs some of the recoil. We got Ted worried. He was talking about gangs from the city coming up while we're at the lodge.

Says we should make sure we've got an equalizer. He's right."

"Nobody's going to come up there."

"Fine. Then what're you so bent out of shape about?"

"Look, if it's so dangerous that we have to fucking pack a gun to work there, I don't want the job."

"It's not like that. I agree with you, nobody's going to come up there.

It's just insurance, Paul."

"I don't know how to use one of those things."

"I do."

Of course she did. Cop's daughter. Connoisseur of risk. Paul scowled at the road as she inspected the boxes of bullets Ted had included with the gun, then wrapped it up again and resumed her reading.

He had looked forward to the open road, but the gun put him back into the black mood he'd awakened in. It had been a good visit, generally, except for the way Highwood had cast a shadow on things.