Women on the Edge of a Nervous Breakthrough (29 page)

  "He is." Erin held out her empty glass to Vivian, who shook her head, then relented and poured her another half -fi nger. "And he's much happier since she died."

  "What?" Sarah gaped. "Rosemary?"

  Erin nodded and downed her second drink with barely a shudder. "I think he was relieved. I was. She drove me nuts."

  Sarah stared at Vivian, who shook her head, frowning. Better let Sarah think Erin was off her rocker. Though Vivian was starting to think Erin was probably the only person in Kettle who saw through all the bullshit.

  And Mike.

  "You know what?" Sarah replaced Emily in her perfect

house, sat, and arranged her long legs to one side. "We're like those women in 1920 who holed themselves up in this house Halloween night, away from their men."

  Vivian's drink began to taste like gasoline, and she put it on the fl oor.

  "One of the women went home and her husband beat her to death."

  "Oh, but Erin, that was an acci . . . dent." Sarah retreated under Erin's scowl. "I'm an idiot, aren't I."

  Short silence, while they apparently agreed with her.

  "Well that's not going to happen tonight." Vivian leaned over and kissed Erin's ragged cheek. "You can stay here."

  "No. It won't happen." She giggled, her eyes shiny and glazed in the light.

  Sarah flicked Vivian a glance. "We should call the police and report him in case he comes after you."

  "Good idea." Vivian got up and headed for the phone, dragged the white pages onto her bed.

  "No police."

  Vivian ignored her. Police, non -emergency . . . there. She stabbed her finger on the number, surprised to fi nd she no longer mourned her long nails. "It's a good idea, Erin. At this point he'll come after me, too. I'd like to think Sarah can do

911 fast, but I'd rather it didn't come to that." "It won't." "What makes you so sure?" Vivian started to dial. Five . . . fi ve . . . fi ve . . . six—

  "Because." Erin shrugged and drew her knees up, rested her chin on them, and stared at the lamp, two bright refl ected spots in her eyes. "I killed him."

  Sarah gasped so long and so loud, Vivian had time to be surprised she didn't inflate and go sailing around the room.

  "Relax, Sarah. She's not serious."

  "Yes. I am."

  "Not funny, Erin." She heard the fear in her own voice, and punched off the phone.

  "I'm not kidding. I did it like you did. A hair dryer in his bath. Now I'm free." She lifted her head and gazed triumphantly at Vivian, student to master.

  "Oh God."Vivian had to breathe to make sure she didn't puke Irish whiskey all over her grandmother's hardwood. Erin's odd behavior explained: She was in shock. "You're sure he's dead?"

  "I'm sure."

  "Erin." Vivian walked over and crouched next to her, wondering how life could keep going so horribly wrong. "I didn't kill Ed."

  Erin turned those strange, fi xed eyes on her.

  "Yes you did." She spoke calmly, with absolute certainty. "You freed yourself. You told me to do the same thing."

  "No."
Oh God, oh God. V
ivian put her hand on Erin's arm and shook gently. "The CD player fell into Ed's bath. It was an accident. I wanted you to
leave
Joe, not kill him."

  Erin's smile started to droop. "An accident? You didn't kill him? To free yourself?"

  "No, I didn't." Vivian's voice cracked. She had a sudden urge to live her entire life again. Different parents, different state, peaceful suburbs, college education, a white -fenced house, husband who adored her, two -point-five kids and a dog. Was she evolving leaving Kettle and Mike? Or running away? "I loved Ed. Or . . . I thought I did."

Not the way she loved Mike.

  Erin stood.Turned and staggered out of the bedroom, catching her side on the doorjamb, stumbling down the stairs.

  "Jesus." Vivian scrambled after her, Sarah close behind. "Erin, don't go anywhere, we can talk about this, we can fi gure out what to do, get you a lawyer. It's going to be okay."

  "I have to go running." Erin reached the front door, opened it, made a tiny, helpless, animal sound, and froze.

  Vivian came up behind her, moved her aside, and found herself staring into the stony, pale -as-paper face of Joan.

Twenty - three

Vivian quickly stepped in front of Erin.

  "You killed my son." Joan stared past Vivian with the same shocked, too -wide eyes Erin was undoubtedly using to stare back. All made more sickeningly bizarre by Joan having dressed for the Kettle party in black and painted her face ghostly white.

  "Come in, Joan." She pulled the woman in, glanced past her into the street, and any urge to giggle evaporated.

  Cars pulling up. Men getting out. The media, the reporters, paparazzi. Hadn't she said only a few hours earlier with naive confidence that there would be nothing to report tonight? She'd barely had time to react to Erin's announcement, but she saw it clearly now. The copycat crime of the century. The feeding frenzy was only beginning.

  They'd extract from Erin that Vivian urged her to get free of Joe, that she'd offered to help. They'd catch on to Erin's ad miration, paint a picture of a disturbed woman idolizing Vivian, of her transformation culminating in a makeover using Vivian's makeup and Vivian's clothes. This was going to be beyond nasty. Because this time it was really about murder, and the facts would be used to paint a picture that fl attered no one in it.

  And if Vivian thought she never understood the value of a white -picket-fence existence before, she understood it double now. Only the house with the fence had Mike in it, and was located in Portland, Maine. The kids were theirs, and the dog was named Lorelei or Taylor, so Vivian would never forget to appreciate what she had.

  As soon as the dream snapped into focus, it fuzzed and faded into impossibility. What had she thought she could accomplish shaking Kettle up, besides drawing attention to herself? Well, congratulations, she had. Now a husband and son was dead, and a troubled woman who'd finally freed herself the only way she knew how would pay by starting a new life in yet another prison.

  Unless Vivian could stop it here. For Erin's sake and Mike's sake and hers, and if Vivian could just make her see it . . . Joan's, too.

  Joan pointed a shaking finger at Vivian. "You gave her the idea with what you did. Joe is dead because of you."

  Erin made a choking sound. "I was—"

  Vivian grabbed Erin's arm, relieved when Erin got the message and shut up.

  "I'm going to see you get life without parole for this, you bitch." The huge eyes were unblinking in the startlingly white face, teeth eerily white to match. Erin shrank back. "You were never good enough for my son. I'm going to see you and Lorelei both locked up. You're both guilty, you're both—"

  "Joan?" Vivian spoke as gently as she could, trying to keep her breathing smooth and regular. "We need to sit down and talk this out."

  "I've got nothing to say to you. The police are at the scene, I told them to come here when they were done. I knew you'd be here, both of you, twin murderess bitches celebrating."

  "Not celebrating." Erin sank into a chair. "We're not."

  "Think about what will happen, Joan."

  "She'll get put away, that's what will happen."

  "It's not that simple. Someone told Joe that Erin was at my house this afternoon. That person knew he'd be furious." She touched Erin's raw cheek. "Would this have happened if he'd come home at his usual time?"

  "You can't pin this on me. She was trying to be something she's not."

  "She deserved this for trying on makeup?" Vivian kept calm, but it was close to the hardest thing she'd ever done.

  "Joe didn't deserve to die." Joan's voice cracked; she wilted to one side as if one leg stopped being interested in holding her up. Sarah caught her, led her to the faded couch, and sat next to her.

  "No. He didn't deserve to die."
Though he came close.
"But the two of you left Erin feeling she had no other way out."

  "This has nothing to do with me."

  And that was where Vivian's only hope lay. In proving her wrong. "Did you see who's outside?"

  "Reporters. They were all over the party."

  Sarah exchanged glances with Vivian and nodded nearly

imperceptibly. "They'll make a huge deal of this, Joan. It will be very unpleasant."

  "Murder is unpleasant."

  Vivian sat on her other side. "Because I'm here, it will make national news."

  Joan leaned away from Vivian to glare at her better. "I'm glad. They'll drag you through the mud all over again, maybe this time get some of it to stick where it belongs."

  "And Joe." Sarah's voice was pure honey. "They'll drag him, too. It will be awful."

  Joan leaned the other way, and Sarah got the glare. "What?"

  "It will all come out, Joan." Vivian adopted Sarah's soothing tones, though she'd rather shriek and throw punches. "What he's done to Erin for so many years. Stories. Details."

  Sarah shook her head mournfully. "The whole country will think he's a monster."

  "Much worse than me. And you know, Joan, most abusers were abused themselves as children." She tried to keep her tone sympathetic, praying this risk would be worth it. "The press will ask a lot of questions; there will be a lot of speculation. Is that what happened to Joe as a boy? What kind of mother could stay silent while something like that went on?"

  Joan started to breathe too quickly; her body shook.

  No joy leading up to this hoped -for triumph. Vivian wished she could take back the whiskey; her stomach was sick at what she was doing. But she'd gotten Erin into this. She owed it to her to try and get her out. And to herself. And even to bloody fucking Kettle, which would be torn apart if this went public.

  "I'll tell people. Finally. I will." Erin popped out of her chair and started pacing. "He had the hospital throw my baby away like she was garbage before I even saw her. He smashed up her nursery with an ax. He wouldn't let me get a job or see anyone or wear what I wanted. He hit me. He put things up me that hurt during sex. He liked to go in the wrong hole when I was on my hands and knees and pretend I was a boy. He wanted me to dress like a little girl and call him Daddy and suck his—"

  "
Stop."
Joan made a ghastly sound that was probably supposed to be a laugh. "You say that, and here's my response. Joe came to me one day and said you liked the kinky stuff, and it upset him. I was there when we told them to take the baby. Trust me, you didn't want to see that thing. Joe did it to protect you from that nightmare for the rest of your life."

  She laughed too loudly, trembling, demonic. "See how it will go? Her word against mine. None of you scares me. I told you how things work here. No one will back her up. They just don't want to know."

  "You are absolutely right, Joan." Any sympathy Vivian might have felt for the grieving mother died quicker than her son had. "And that works both ways."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  A pounding on the door. "This is the sheriff. Open this door."

  "Erin killed Joe?" Vivian took Joan's arm, desperate to get the message across. "That kind of thing doesn't happen here. Who is going to believe it?"

  "
Certainly
not me." Sarah took up her cue so beautifully, Vivian could have kissed her. "I can't imagine such a thing happening here. I don't
want
to imagine such a thing happening here."

  "It was an accident, Joan."

  "No." Her voice quavered.

  "If it was an accident, Joe will die a hero, mourned by the town. You'll be the noble, grieving mother. If this goes to trial, you'll be the enabler, Joe will be a monster, Erin the victim. No jury would convict her. Is that what you want?"

  Pounding again, more urgent. "Sheriff. Open this door."

  Joan's torso shook; she moaned and wiped her forehead. "She can't get away with this. She won't get away with this."

  Damn it.
Damn it
. "We're not trying to get away with it. We're trying to keep it from getting worse than it already is. Would Joe want his personal life exposed like that? Would he want
you
exposed like that?"

  "Open the door
now
or I start counting."

  
Shit.
She'd done what she could in the time they had. Vivian jumped up, opened the door, and let the sheriff in with his assistant, feeling as if she were letting in a carrier of the black plague.

  "What's going on?" In keeping with the sick irony theme for the evening, the sheriff was dressed as a convict, features ashen under his bravado. He'd probably never had to investigate anything more than a parking ticket.

  "Bill." Joan rose off the couch and stumbled, Sarah shot to her feet and supported her, whispered something in her ear, gazing anxiously at Vivian, who shrugged. They'd done what they could. Everything was up to a top -heavy, cow -eyed bitch. Erin's fate. Vivian's fate. And poor, dopey Kettle's.

  "What the heck happened, Joan?"

  All eyes turned to Joan, who lifted a trembling hand to her black hair, face pasty and horrifying in the ghostly makeup.

  "Joe was . . ." She let out a sob. "Joe had an accident in his bath."

  Vivian exhaled. Erin gasped. The relief on the sheriff's face was nearly comical. "But when you called, I thought you said something about murder."

  "No." Joan gave a short, weak laugh, tears streaming. "You know as well as I do. There's never been a crime in Kettle."

Erin opened her eyes and turned to the Jesus clock on her sea-green wall. Six A.M. She didn't have to leave for work at Dr. Dodson's for another hour at least. He started seeing clients at eight, but she liked to get there early. On Wednesdays he was nice enough to give her a therapy session for free at seven. But this morning she didn't have to get up yet, though she wanted to run.

  In another few months, maybe by summer, she'd have her GED and enough saved to enroll in some college -level courses. After that, she figured there'd be no stopping her. Plus, she'd turned one of the upstairs bedrooms here into a studio and had started painting in earnest. Dr. Dodson had hung one of her paintings in his waiting room, and a few clients had even asked about it. Maybe that could become another source of income. People said her paintings made them feel cheerful.

  She rolled out of bed and walked to the dollhouse to say good morning to her doll family, got them out of bed and started on their day. Even she thought this was pretty weird, but she'd begun doing it one day and just kept at it.

  After she saw Emily to the table and Nathan making her

breakfast, Erin opened Stellie's bureau and chose some of Vivian's old clothes to wear. Vivian hadn't taken much when she moved to Portland with Mike. Said she wasn't going to need a lot of the outfi ts, that Erin could have them.

  Considering she was also letting Erin stay in her house rent free until Erin got on her feet financially, Erin felt more comfortable thinking of the clothes as a loan. Vivian had actually borrowed some clothes from Erin before she left, which had mystified Erin. But Vivian insisted on two pairs of gray sweat pants and a bunch of plain white T-shirts. As if that made the trade even, when her clothes must have cost thousands.

  Today Erin chose a bright red pair of capris and an electric blue top and laid them on the bed so she'd be able to dress quickly when she came back from her run. Dr. Dodson thought casual dress made clients feel more at ease, and Erin was fine with that. She didn't think she could stand any more beige or gray or navy, even if the colors belonged to a fancy suit.

  Things had changed in Kettle since the fall. Sarah had moved with her daughter to a suburb west of Chicago. She and Amber were planning to spend a good part of the summer touring Europe together. Ben had gone to Chicago, too, but Erin had the feeling he was more part of the furniture than the family. She didn't think he and Sarah would be together much longer, but at least they were trying. And Sarah would be happier near Chicago, Erin was sure of that. Amber, too.

  Joan had sold both her houses and had gone to live with a sister in Peoria. Erin had helped her move. Kind of an odd dynamic, with Erin helping out of guilt, and Joan letting her help out of guilt. Both women had grieved Joe in different ways, and while they were glad as hell to see the backs of each other, the balance of power had shifted, and they'd managed to work together okay. And maybe helped each other heal.

  Erin had buried the hair dryer she'd used to kill Joe along with her
What to Expect
book at the little grave marker in the woods she used to pretend marked Joy's grave. She felt bad burying something nonbiodegradable, but Dr. Dodson said it was probably good closure. Whatever that meant. You couldn't ever really close the door on that kind of grief, for either Joy or Joe. Like trying to put an elephant in the refrigerator; no matter how you tried to stuff it away, something still stuck out.

  She put on her shorts and tied her hair back in a ponytail— maybe she'd French braid it later for work since Vivian had shown her how before she left. Erin hadn't run much in the winter, but now there were a few days warm enough here and there, where she could take it up again. April was full springtime in a lot of places, but it took its fi nicky time in Wisconsin.