Time After Time (60 page)

She hadn't dared pull the
sheet farther back than his face; part of his chest, she knew, had
been blown away.

Helen sighed heavily.
Things would get better after April first. But tonight it was still
March.

"Mom! I'm
home!"

In the hall outside the
sitting room, Helen heard the satisfying thunk of the heavy oak
door falling into place. One child back, one to go.

"How're the roads?" she
called out. Becky had good instincts and a level head, but her
driver's license was so new it still smelled of plastic.

"No problem," the girl
said in a voice that Helen knew was being deliberately upbeat.
Becky was as aware of March as her mother was, but she had her own
system for dealing with it: she shopped.

"Look what I found at
Filene's Basement." The girl strode into the room, still in her
black hooded trench coat, and nudged the cat off the hassock with
her shopping bag. "Cashmere. And dirt cheap."

She flipped the hood of
her coat off her head, revealing straight gold hair that took its
glow from the fire, and beamed at her mother.

Helen, still marveling at
the whiteness and straightness of Becky's teeth despite the fact
that her braces had been off for over a year, frowned and said,
"Cashmere? Since when can you afford cashmere on a baby-sitter's
wages?"

"Well, it's not all
cashmere. Just twenty percent."

"I hope you put gas in the
car."

"Ten dollars worth," Becky
said, wrinkling her nose. "I'll put in another ten when I get
paid."

"Becky, this won't do. You
can't go spending money like there's no tomorr—" Instantly Helen
regretted having said it. Who knew better than they did that
sometimes there
was
no tomorrow? For Trooper Hank Evert, writing out a routine
speeding ticket, there had ended up being no tomorrow.

Becky was shrugging out of
her rain-spattered coat; she let it fall where she stood on the
worn Oriental carpet. When she faced her mother again the look in
her green eyes was as calmly agreeable as the smile on her face.
"You're right, Mom. This is the last thing I'll buy for a
while."

It's March,
Helen reminded herself.
Let her be.

Rummaging through a wrap
of tissue, Becky pulled out a smart turtleneck sweater for her
mother's perusal.

Helen smiled ironically.
"Oh, good. More black. Just what you need."

"It's not black. It's
blackish charcoal."

"It's charcoalish
black."

"It'll look terrific on
you, too, Mom. With your black hair and gray eyes—"

"I'd look like a lump of
coal. Why all the black, anyway?" Helen added, unable to keep the
protest out of her voice. The color of mourning held no allure for
her.

"It's just cool, Mom,"
said Becky with an edge in her own voice. "For no other
reason."

Helen had to leave it at
that. She stood up, automatically retrieving her daughter's
crumpled coat from the floor. On her way out to the hall clothes
tree, she asked, "Did your brother say when Mrs. Fitch was picking
them up?"

She heard Becky mumble
something about Mrs. Fitch's car being at the
mechanic's.

Surprised, Helen said, "So
how are Russ and Scotty getting home?"

She turned around in time
to see Becky sprinting for the stairs. Without pausing, the girl
said, "Russ told me a friend of Scotty Fitch was gonna meet them at
the mall and drive them both home."

"Rebecca!" Helen said,
more angry with her daughter than with her son. "How could you
leave him to come back on his own?"

Becky was taking the
stairs two at a time. "We live in
Salem,
Mom," she ventured over her
shoulder. "Not Sarajevo."

"You know what I mean!
He's fourteen," Helen snapped. "All feet! No brains! I don't want
him hanging around with kids who drive."

Turning at the top of the
stairs, Becky looked down at her mother and said quietly, "I don't
see how you can stop him, Mom."

"Oh, really?" Helen
answered in a crisp, dry voice. "Wait till he gets home, then, and
watch."

"Oh-h ... don't take it
out on Russell," Becky pleaded. "It was my fault. I'm the one who
let him." In self-defense she added, "When I was fourteen you
let
me
get
chauffeured around by girls older than I was."

"That was different. You
were level-headed. I could trust your judgment—up until tonight,
anyway," Helen said with a dark look. "And besides, times
are—"

"I know, I know:
totally
different,"
Becky said with a roll of her eyes. "Even though it's—what?—a year
or two later?"

"You don't know who's out
there, honey," Helen said, ignoring the sarcasm. "There are
nutcases ... madmen ... psychos ...."

"Mom. Stop."

The expression on the
girl's face was wise and tender and weary all at once. She knew,
and her mother knew, that the one madman who mattered most had
rolled his car in a fiery, fatal end to a spectacular police chase
on Route
95
.
He was out of the picture, out of
their lives.

But that didn't mean there
weren't other madmen out there.

"Hey," Becky said, more
cheerfully. "I almost forgot. This is for Russ." She reached into
her shopping bag and pulled out a Pearl Jam baseball cap. "It's
wool. Ninety-nine cents. Can you believe it?"

She tossed the cap down to
her mother with a last, quick smile and beat a retreat to her
bedroom at the end of the wallpapered hall.

Helen sat the cap on the
newel post and sighed. Becky was rolling through the tough teen
years so painlessly that she'd almost managed to convince her
mother that fathers weren't all that critical. It was Russ who was
the reality check: The boy was angry, moody; sloughing off
responsibility right and left.

"Pretty typical," Helen's
friends all said.

But no one else could pin
down, to the day, exactly when her son had begun the transformation
from nice kid to beast in the jungle. Helen could. On the evening
of his father's funeral, Russell Evett had withdrawn into his room,
and when he came out three days later he wasn't Russell Evett
anymore. It was as plain as that.

Helen was roused from yet
another replay of that time by the piercing ring of the hall phone.
The voice that answered hers was fearful and tentative and had the
effect of jangling her nerves still more.

"Mrs. Evett? You don't
know me—I'm sorry to call you at home—but I have an important
request, more like a favor—no, wait, let me start over. I got your
name from a friend who has a little girl in your preschool, Candy
Greene. That's the mother's name, not the little girl's. The girl
is called Astra? You remember? A little blond girl, very
fluent?"

"She's not in my
Tuesday-Thursday class, but may I ask who this is?" said Helen,
impatient with the meandering voice at the other end of the line.
What if Russ were trying to call?

The woman sucked in her
breath in a broken gasp. "Oh! I'm sorry ... it's this vicious
headache." She took a deep breath, obviously trying to organize
herself.

"My name ... is Linda
Byrne," she said with new deliberation. "I've heard such good
things about your school, and I want my daughter to go there.
She's
so
bright.
She gets along well with children and she's pretty good about
sharing and taking directions. She doesn't bite." Hurried and edgy
despite herself, she added, "Is there anything else you need to
know?"

"Well, yes," said Helen,
surprised by the woman's naiveté. "We like to sit down with the
parents and the child—"

"Oh, but my husband
couldn't possibly be available for that!" the woman said at once.
"He's so busy!"

"One parent would be fine.
I'll tell you what, Mrs. Byrne. Why don't you come visit the school
tomorrow at about five o'clock with your little girl, and
we—"

"But I can't. Don't you
see? That's why I'm calling. From my bed. That's the favor I'm
asking. Couldn't you possibly come here instead?"

Her voice betrayed rising
panic. Helen, wishing to reassure her but mostly in a hurry to get
off the phone, said, "There's no urgency, Mrs. Byrne. If you're not
feeling well, we can certainly meet on another day. Registration
has only just opened for the next term. You have plenty of
time—"

"I don't! Candy said you
fill up overnight!"

Helen laughed reassuringly
and said, "Mrs. Greene was exaggerating. Really. Why don't we agree
on a day next week—"

"Please ... next week
won't be any better," the woman said, suddenly weary. "I've been so
... I have to nail this down ... this one thing, at least. I can't
go on like this ... drifting ... please, won't you come? We live on
Chestnut Street, not all that far from your school. It wouldn't
take long ... really ... I don't see why you can't ...." she
argued, practically in tears.

If Linda Byrne was trying
to make a good impression, she wasn't succeeding. She had a
top-drawer address, but she sounded like the kind of spoiled, idle
woman who routinely takes to her bed when things don't go her
way.

On the other hand,
something in her tone sent a shiver of sympathy through Helen.
Whatever the reason for her headache, it was obvious that Linda
Byrne was in real agony. No one could fake that kind of pain in her
voice, not even a prima donna.

"All right. I can make
time tomorrow evening. Shall I come by before dinner? Say, five
o'clock?"

"Oh, yes, thank you," Mrs.
Byrne said, her voice becoming suddenly faint. "Peaches will be so
pleased."

She gave the number of her
house and hung up, leaving Helen somewhat bemused over the whole
thing.

Peaches.
In Helen's mind the name conjured up everything
from a bunny rabbit to a striptease. She'd never taught a toddler
by that name, not once in the fifteen years she'd been in day care.
From the cozy groups of six she'd cared for in her home to the
larger classes who'd passed through the preschool she later
founded, Helen had never come across a single, solitary
Peaches.

In any case, Helen's plan
was to present herself to little Peaches and—with any luck—to talk
Linda Byrne into visiting the preschool before she signed up her
child.

Helen was immensely proud
of The Open Door, proud of the way she'd risked a modest
inheritance on an old building in need of rehab and, with tax
credits and a lot of sweat equity—hers and Hank's—turned it into a
stimulating center for creative kids. She didn't need to chase down
Linda Byrne's business; the class would be full by May first,
tops.

She didn't
need
Linda Byrne's
business. But oddly enough, she seemed to want it.

****

Helen was debating whether
to throw one last log on the fire or call in the militia when she
heard the front door being slammed.

"Russell Evett, get in
here!" she yelled.
"Now."

After what Helen knew was
a deliberate delay, she heard Russ shuffle into the sitting room.
She herself was smacking the last of the fire into helpless embers
with the poker, trying to get her relief and anger under control.
When she was done, she turned to confront her son.

The boy-man who faced her
looked like any other fourteen-year-old: baggy clothes, scary
haircut, a zit or two on his chin to be followed someday soon by
stubble. He was tall, as tall as she was, and growing weed-fast.
He'd got an ear double-pierced recently without her permission. She
knew he always took out the earrings or safety pins or whatever
they were before he walked through the door, and tonight was no
exception.

She searched for signs of
remorse or hints of fear in his face; it had been so long since
she'd seen either. He'd inherited Hank's green eyes and her black
hair, a pleasing combination. But somehow, neither Hank's
self-discipline nor her hypersensitivity had got passed on. If Russ
had either, he wouldn't be standing on the carpet in front of her
right now.

"The mall's been closed
for an hour and a half," she said quietly. "Where have you
been?"

Russell shrugged and
looked away. "Hangin'."

"Well, I don't want you
‘hangin',' young man. When we agree on a plan, I expect you to
follow your end of it."

He shrugged. "Mrs. Fitch
couldn't come."

"Your sister was
there."

"That wasn't the plan
either, Ma."

"Well, she was the obvious
alternative."

"Becky said it was okay,"
he threw out sullenly.

"Becky is not your mother.
You know the rule: no cars. You had plenty of time to
reconsider."

"How was I even supposed
to find her?"