The Parallel Apartments (69 page)

“Yeah, the blade broke off. The cops took it.”

“Marcia,” said Porifiro, “how did the guy pay?”

“Cash and a half-off ticket.”

“Oh no.”

“What?”

“I gave a half-off ticket to a guy I hate and talked him into setting up a date, and I led him to believe he was gonna get with you, but, surprise, he was gonna find Rance. And look, the guy owns a big, sharp sword, I saw it when he bought it, and it was so sharp it gave him two horrible cuts. I thought it'd be funny, setting him up. But oh dear.”

“But,” said Casey, “the guy came here
armed.
”

“And… he thought he was going to be with—”

“He was after you, Marcia.”

“Call the police!”

“He moved out of the Parallel Apartments the day after it happened.”

“They'll find him.”

“How will we prove it was him?”

“Still have the half-off ticket?”

“Yeah.”

“Maybe there's a fingerprint on it.”

XXXI

January 2005

Justine's right ear ached and was all sweaty from talking on the phone for the past hour and a half. Her eyes stung from the droplets of sweat that had found their way to them from her forehead, her voice was hoarse and her mouth rubbery from screaming, her neck and shoulder cramped and shaky from squeezing the phone, her stomach and throat burning from the nausea caused by a particular bit of news, her legs numb from kneeling on the floor, folding laundry, six loads of it—every article in the apartment, including bedding and oven mitts and all the clothes Rose had left behind a month ago—because Justine had needed to at least be partly productive during the ninety-minute throe of shock, hate, rage, and shame that Rose's call—the first one Justine had answered since the Jeep episode—had prompted.

Earlier, Justine had had nothing to do but launder and despair and wait around for her water to break, but now she had to shower and scrub and put on clean clothes, because Rose would be here soon to pick her up and take her to St. David's, where her grandmother—grandmother!—was about to give birth to a baby girl named Edith—
Aunt
Edith—after which the
new mother and the newborn, and Edith's fifty-four-years-older-sister, Livia,
Livia,
would be waiting for Rose to arrive with Justine. A genuine family reunion, orchestrated by Rose, would then take place, and, at the same time, the anticipation of Justine's own contribution would sweeten it all. An absurd and sudden explosion of family, each of them falling reborn from the sky, free of secrets, cleansed of venom and hatred, delivered from estrangement, shucked of lonesomeness and lies; each of them newly put forth in lively primaries; each an heiress, lost and now found, to herself; all soon to be crowded into Charlotte's hospital recovery room, Livia and her mother already having been reunited by Rose's brilliant subterfuge.

“How did you find them?” Justine had asked, between mournful yowls, about twenty-five minutes into the phone conversation. “My grandmother doesn't make
friends
.”

“I'm very charming, that's how,” Rose had said, pacing back and forth in Matt's apartment, where she'd spent the last month planning and executing the multiway match of her life. “First, I tried to steal Dartmouth for you, as a peace pipe, but Charlotte caught me and won the tug-of-war. She asked me to drive her someplace, an estate sale, and she told me what it was like—her confusion and guilt when you ran away, her relief at your phone call that night when you let her know you were alive, when you asked her to leave you alone, said that you'd be fine but weren't coming back, that it was Livia and Lou you hated, though you wouldn't tell her why.”

“How about Livia?” said Justine, folding a sensationally stained dish towel.

“I know her only through Archibold Bamberger. Never met her.”

“They're still together?” said Justine, not really caring. “Are they married?”

“Yep, nope. I happened to be friends with Archibold from work. I told him I knew that Livia and her mother were in a bad way. I told him about you, and that I needed his help to make the family right again. I have a lot at stake here, too, you know. All he had to do was persuade Livia to understand and forgive her mother, and I did the rest. He adores all three of you, loves you all, had been plain busted up over the mutual estrangement, so he immediately agreed. I told him that Livia wouldn't have to contact her mother at all; she just had to allow for the possibility of reunion, with Archibold as witness. After a couple of weeks, he succeeded. Then I set it
up so your mom and Charlotte'd run into each other at a yard sale. It was easy and worked perfectly. There was crying and hugging, and even a polite argument over who had dibs on a broken hummingbird feeder.”

“I hate you, Rose.”

“I know, but listen, I have some things to tell you, things they know but never told you. Or each other, until recently. It will explain a lot. It's very Greek and tragic, so keep an open mind.”

“I don't want to know!”

Rose began with the revelation in the diaries, and ended with the truth about Livia and Lou: the truth about Justine. For the first time in her life Justine was stumped of crying. But she didn't hang up. Justine found herself at a strange peace, as if she'd known all along. It was the only thing that made sense, an accidental incest. It explained why her mother didn't like her, why Charlotte hated Lou, why Lou ran off after Dot's death. So much more.

“Okay? Justine?”

“I don't know if I ever want to see you again. Or them.”

“You really don't love me anymore?”

“No, I don't think I do. You're not the same.”

“I did this all for you. This is what you came to Austin for, to find out what-the-fuck, right?”

“It's what
I
came back for. I didn't ask for any help. And I didn't ask for any horrible truths.”

“You kinda did.”

“You're making everything up, aren't you?” said Justine, though she knew everything Rose had uttered was the truth. “To get back at me for leaving you.”

“No.”

“Is there anything else?”

“That's it,” said Rose, though Justine was sure it wasn't. They traded silences.

“What was that noise?” said Justine, finally, not wanting to hang up, but not wanting to talk, either.

“Matt, blending. What's that racket over there?”

“The shin-splint walkers.”

“Oh. Yeah. They're out on our street, too. Big marathon.”

Another long pause. Justine was cashed. She could no longer fold, think. But she was not uncomfortable. Just tranquil. Tranquilized. As long as none of the painful or embarrassing auguries of imminent childbirth woke her, she would sleep very well.

“Well,” she said.

“Well.”

“Bye.”

“Wait,” said Rose. “There is one more thing.”

“I'm tired of bawling, I'm tired of feeling sick. I'm getting off the phone now.”

“Charlotte's pregnant,” said Rose, before Justine could hang up. “She's due today, just like you. What about that, huh? This is all destiny. There's supposed to be a reunion today. She's at the hospital now, on account of her age. Livia's there, too. And I'm going to come pick you up and take you there, and the Durants will be complete again. Then you can break up with me.”

“B—”

“See you in a few.”

Rose immediately hung up.

Justine, to her surprise, found herself in a state of faint, tearless hope. A wave of forgiveness followed, along with empathy, and understanding, all of these plaited neatly into a peace. She chose an outfit, turned on the shower, and refolded Rose's things while the water got hot. She thought deeply about makeup, about her brows, about two children the same age but two generations apart growing up together, about Rose's chest, about her grandmother's cigarettes, about her mother's hair, about Lou's cavernous hands, about what he must have felt—was he dead now?—about Dot, her delusions of healing, about the manifold imaginary deaths Justine used to make her mother suffer, about the fabric-like softness of the old ten-dollar bill Franklin had given her for sucking him off in a Port Authority shadow. Justine thought about the old alleyway Camaro and her little poem lip-glossed on the backseat—all she remembered was the last word,
pennysworth
; she thought about the fear in the eyes of Sherpa's raccoon, about the barn-sour tarantula in his driveway, about KVET and how little it had changed, about Betsey and her J-shaped scar—was she still alive, did Johnsonson go to New York to help her?

“Help!” cried somebody outside.

The somebody knocked at the door, loud even over the racket of the incessant parade. “Are you home? Plans have changed.”

Justine paused in her deep review.

“It's me, April, your neighbor, open up Justine?”

Justine opened the door.

“God, April, what happened? Are you bleeding? What's that in your hair?”

April ran past Justine into the apartment.

“Hey,” said Justine. “What—?”

“It's an emergency, I have to get it now, I can't wait, I'll explain everything later, but I was just attacked and I'm worried he'll come back, so after I leave, lock your door and call the police.” April was in the kitchen yanking open all the drawers. “We need a good, sharp, clean knife, don't you have any? Even one?”

“April, who—”

“Are they in the dishwasher? Where's your dishwasher?”

“I don't have a dishwasher, and I don't keep sharp knives. April, who attacked you? Did he… violate you? Did you call the police? Jeez, the back of your neck. You're bleeding.”

“Anything sharp at all?”

“I'm calling the police right now, where's my phone, I just had it, April sit down and relax, I have scissors somewhere, I'll help you cut that tape or whatever out of your hair.”

“We need a knife!”

“Okay, okay, I have a box cutter in my purse, right there, on the counter.”

“Oh, this is perfect.”

“Don't cut yourself sticking the blade out.”

“I won't. How much do I stick it out? Like an inch? I should know how thick it is, I read
What to Expect,
but…”

“Yeah, I guess an inch, doesn't really matter. Do you see my phone?”

“I love you so much, Justine, I know you did such a good job for me. Maybe we can do it again.”

April bent to her knees, and with one quick, sure motion, lifted Justine's superhero shirt up to just below her breasts and slit open Justine's belly below the navel, a transverse incision ten inches long and an inch deep. As Justine stepped backward, uttering a distressed half gulp, half scream
that April hadn't expected, the walls of the cut, at first tidily bloodless and striated, grew mucky with fatty blood. God, had she cut the
baby
? Justine landed almost silently on a dozen neat stacks of laundry, eyes open, hands reaching for nothing.

“Okay? Justine? Be still. I love you. ‘Kay? This'll be over in a second. Thank you for carrying. Can you help me hold it open?”

The floor of the valley of the cut began to split, unzip, the internal pressure overruling the strength of the deepest layer of muscle and connective tissue, until a little shoulder appeared, then a head crowned, turning and lolling as if impatient and long-ready, scolding April for taking her sweet time to get here. Carefully April worked her hands between the lips of the cut. Justine's hands clawed and shook. It probably hurt as much as a real delivery, poor Justine, it would be over soon. April drew open the cut, curtains.

A girl!

She had cut the little thing, but not too bad, a little nick on the shoulder, it would be all right. Many years from now, Montserrat, tipsy from champagne, would show it off to friends and family at Christmas dinner…
Look what Mama did to me!

April cut the umbilicus as close to her baby as she dared. Hm, that looked right. A perfect, perfect child. Montserrat, after the soprano, who was also perfect. Montserrat cried, loud and healthy, a proper natal screech. When the infant paused to take a breath, April heard the shower running, as if it was waiting for them. They went into the bathroom, and April tested the stream of water with her elbow. Oh, a bit too hot, let's turn it down a little, Montserrat, all right? April would never let this baby out of her arms, even if it meant never sleeping, never eating, never changing clothes again. April, nightie and all, stepped into the spray of water, holding Montserrat to her chest, and washed the fluids and membranes and sticky disorder of childbirth away.

PART THREE

XXXII

January 2005

Just a few hours after he left behind that bitchy neighbor tied up in her apartment, Murphy jammed all his belongings into his Chevette and drove to his granny's house on Chicon, where he was not completely surprised to find a coroner's van idling in the driveway, both back doors open, as if in wait to swallow another corpse. Inside the house the coroner and a couple of lackeys were all staring at clipboards and ignoring the evidently occupied black body bag on the living-room divan, the same piece of furniture she'd purchased new after Murphy had burned their first house down, in 1982. He'd lived here, in the house State Farm pretty much paid for, from ages nine to eighteen.