Prized Possessions

by L. R. Wright

  Prized Possessions

  L.R. Wright

  FELONY & MAYHEM PRESS • NEW YORK

  This book is for Dorothy Kea—my Aunt Queenie

  Contents

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  50

  51

  52

  53

  54

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  There is a Sunshine Coast, and its towns and villages are called by the names used in this book. But all the rest is fiction. The events and the characters are products of the author’s imagination, and geographical and other liberties have been taken in the depiction of the town of Sechelt and the city of Vancouver.

  1

  SHE AWAKENED from an uneasy sleep, feeling cool around the shoulders: not cold, but not cozy, either. She pulled up the quilt and felt a chill upon the side of her face. She lifted her head from the pillow and saw that the French doors were wide open, and the drapes too—they were moving slightly, in the breeze that drifted into the bedroom. She looked back over her shoulder. The other side of the king-size bed was empty; this didn’t surprise her. He’d be out on the patio, probably, smoking a cigarette. And thinking. She turned onto her back, holding the quilt snugly at her throat.

  The bedroom was filled with moonlight, and the scents of cherry blossoms and cedar. She heard the shushing of the nighttime breezes and imagined the muted sound of the sea. She lay drowsy and witless under the quilt, having exhausted—perhaps forever—her ability to make decisions.

  She heard a scraping sound from the patio.

  She imagined him getting up from the padded chaise, stubbing out his cigarette in the black plastic ashtray that was kept out there…and now he would appear in the wide-open doorway to the bedroom, slippers on his feet, his robe wrapped around him, ready to talk some more. She watched through slitted eyes, concealing their gleaming; watched, watched…but he didn’t appear.

  She imagined him at the back fence, leaning his arms upon it and looking unseeingly across the lane and over the park to the houses on Hudson Drive and, behind them, the sea—which would be ink-black, moon-splotched; moving, restless, like a great black being.

  He didn’t come, and he didn’t come… He’s looking up now, she thought, up into the enormous soft-hanging branches of the cedar tree that stood in the back corner of the yard: a tree so huge he couldn’t stretch his widest embrace around half the circumference of its trunk; a tree whose lowest limbs he could not reach without a ladder.

  Now he will come back into the house—now, she thought, regulating her breathing, making it slow and even. But the drapes at either side of the French doors stirred, not at the touch of his hand, but in a current of night air that wafted, curious, toward the bed.

  She turned on her side, her right hand under the pillow, her left hand clutching the quilt. She wasn’t cold, but she didn’t like the feeling of the blind breezes fumbling at her face, and she would have liked to close the doors. She realized that she had gradually begun to breathe faster and lighter. She was acutely aware of sounds and shadows; warily alert to a myriad of possibilities. She glanced at the clock on her bedside table, and wondered how early the sky began to lighten, in April, and when the birds awoke.

  Her eyes were wide in the almost-dark of the bedroom. The moon had shifted in the sky and now tossed cedar-bough shadows upon the floor and she wanted those doors closed, and the drapes pulled firm and fast against the night.

  Her heart was high in her throat; and she couldn’t understand this. She let go of the quilt for an instant, to blot the palm of her hand. It was a very simple life she wished to live, not at all complicated, an utterly straightforward life…

  He came through the other door, not the open ones she was watching but the other door, the one from the hallway. She heard the sound of it opening, like an inhalation of breath, and quickly closed her eyes, smoothed the skin of her face from the inside, relaxed the hand that gripped the quilt, and breathed once more like a person asleep. It wasn’t unusual to pretend to be asleep. People did it all the time. Everybody did it. There were times when you simply didn’t want to talk, and it was more polite to pretend to be asleep than to say to someone, I’m sorry, but I really do not want to talk to you anymore right now.

  She could hear nothing, nothing, except the sound of her heart, trapped in the hollow of her throat, trying to find its way back down into her chest; and so she opened her eyes a little bit because she had to know where he was—and she saw his legs, bare in the moonlight, and watched a restless cedar shadow shudder across them; saw that he was wearing the plaid robe she’d given him, the one that came to his knees, and the plaid slippers that matched. He was making no sound. He was moving slowly toward her…and now he was right beside her, standing no more than two feet away from her.

  For a long time he didn’t move. He just stood there. He was close enough for her to smell him.

  Finally she could stand it no longer and she stirred, slowly, as if in her sleep, and placed her head sideways upon the pillow, and blinked her eyes, and left them open; she would pretend to be awakening, she thought.

  He was taut and motionless, his face utterly unreadable.

  She smelled the cherry blossoms and from the early morning darkness heard two slow, clear notes of bird song.

  Her husband lifted his right hand, slowly, and aimed his revolver at her head.

  One Year Later

  2

  ON THE FIRST MONDAY in April, Eddie Addison mounted the steps of a three-story house near the corner of Fourth Avenue and Alma Street on Vancouver’s West Side. He was young and bulky, tall, with carroty red hair. He crossed the wide porch, knocked on the door and waited. He cast small, uneasy glances from side to side, not looking for anything in particular, just keeping his eyes open, keeping his smarts at the ready.

  He heard a muffled cry from inside, and for a second the hairs stood up on the back of his neck. Then the door flew open and she was standing there smiling at him, small and blond-haired, wearing a pair of jeans and a T-shirt with the sleeves ripped out of it.

  “Here,” he said, thrusting the package at her.

  “Oh, thank you. Come on in”—she stepped aside—“and wait, while I… ” She left the door ajar and hurried off down the hall.

  He went inside reluctantly. Warily. God only knew what kind of stuff went on in this house. He didn’t want to have anything to do with the place.

  Eddie knew she was going to get him a tip. Of course, she should have had it ready, so as to be able to give it to him gracefully, not saying anything about it, just handing it to him at the same time she took the package. That’s how Mrs. Holden on Mackenzie Street did it when he delivered. This girl had no class, he thought disapprovingly, despite the fact that she went to the damn university.

  He stood there f
eeling more and more awkward, waiting while she hustled off to rustle him up a tip, filling the whole damn hallway with his body. It wasn’t hardly wide enough for a person of a decent size to turn around in. And then they had these bikes in it too, lined up against the damn wall, two of them, one behind the other.

  To Eddie’s right was a door with a glass doorknob and a little window in the top. He peered through it—well, it was right there, wasn’t it, right in front of his eyes, pretty hard to ignore—and through it he saw a bedroom that was the biggest mess he’d ever seen in his life. He couldn’t believe his eyes at first. He thought something must have blown up in there, throwing this person’s clothes to kingdom come. The bed, which was not really a bed at all but only a big mattress with a couple of quilts and a couple of pillows on it, was totally covered by pieces of clothing. And there were stacks of books on the floor, and a dresser with hundreds of bottles and jars sitting on top of a big lace doily thing. Stuff was draped over the mirror too—necklaces and scarves—and there were photographs shoved between the mirror and its frame; and more clothes were on the window seat, piles of sweaters and a couple of purses; and shoes were all over the floor, which was covered by a big rug with Indian stuff woven into it, a huge black raven, stuff like that.

  “I gotta go,” Eddie muttered. He wasn’t going to stand here all damn afternoon while she looked for her damn purse or whatever she was doing.

  “Oh, no, don’t go,” she called out, and stuck her head into the hallway from a room a little way down, past a big bookshelf thing that was packed with clothes instead of books. She must have seen him looking at it, because she said, like she was apologizing, “That’s mine; my room doesn’t have a closet.” So somebody else lived in the mess across the hall, then, Eddie thought. She popped her head back into her room, and he heard her talking to herself, her voice coming out into the hall in little swoops and swirls, like a bird ducking back and forth in the air. He heard little bits of what she was saying: “…know I put it… think, Melanie…,” and then a flurry of laughter. “Here it is!”

  Eddie took a step down the hall. And it was because he was so big that it seemed as if only one step brought him right to the doorway of her room.

  It was a very wide doorway. At first he thought maybe it was meant for a wheelchair—this was because of Mr. Bacon, who came to the drugstore every day, and it was Eddie’s job, one of Eddie’s jobs, to hold the double doors wide open for Mr. Bacon’s wheelchair. And he saw that this was one of those sliding doors that came out of the wall, half from one side and half from the other. Which was a pretty dumb kind of a door to have on a bedroom.

  But it didn’t look much like a bedroom in there, he thought, staring. There was a fireplace, for pete’s sake. And the bottom half of all the walls was paneled in wood, an effect Eddie found pleasing but weird. So it wasn’t a bedroom at all but a living room, he decided. Except there was a bed in it, and a chest of drawers, and a mirror, just like in the other room he’d seen.

  He was about to say something to her, maybe, “This is an interesting room” or “Did this used to be a living room?” or “Do you ever light that fireplace?” thinking it’d get pretty damn hot in her bed if she did. But then she glanced up from the purse she was rummaging around in, and she happened to look right into Eddie’s eyes at exactly the same second that he happened to look right into her eyes.

  Eddie felt a jolt go through him, as though he’d been electrocuted and changed into a statue.

  Her eyes were brown, mostly brown, with something shiny and gold about them: the same color, Eddie thought, as tea, or maple syrup. But these comparisons dissatisfied him. He thought harder about where he had seen that particular amber-brown color before, all warm and sparkly and beautiful, and he still couldn’t move, but he was very content to stand there, looking at the color of her eyes, until she let him know what to do next.

  Finally she stood up, very slowly, hanging on to the strap of her handbag, and Eddie, his penis stirring, waited without breathing to hear what she was going to say.

  “Please don’t come into my room,” was what she said.

  His surprise was immense. He toppled from his dreamlike state into mortification and felt his face get hot and red. He took a step backward and bumped into the edge of the door. “Fuck you,” he said, and it came out all hoarse and trembly. “Fuck you,” he said, loud and strong this time.

  “I’m sorry,” said the girl named Melanie, stammering. She brushed some hair out of her face.

  “Yeah, sure,” said Eddie bitterly, “You’re sorry, sure, right, I just bet you’re sorry,” he said, backing into the hall.

  “I am, really I am,” she said. “Here. Please.” She held out some money. “Take it. Please.”

  Eddie stared at it, then at her. His face flushed even redder—he felt it heat up like a stove burner somebody’d turned on. “Fuck it. Fuck you.”

  “Oh, please, don’t—don’t—”

  He wondered if she took drugs.

  Eddie looked hard at her chest, and then he deliberately looked farther down, right at her crotch. Now he looked back at her face. “Fuck you,” he said again.

  She stood there with her white face hanging out, clutching his tip, with her shoulders hunched now, not all straight-backed and cocky like before. “You’d better go,” she said.

  He didn’t like what was in her voice, or in the expression on her face. But he didn’t know what to do about it. So he turned himself around in the narrow hallway and went back to the front door and slammed it behind him and stomped across the porch and down the steps, and all the way back to the drugstore he imagined himself doing things to her.

  3

  THE SUNSHINE COAST is what British Columbians call a southerly stretch of their coastline that is reached by ferry from Horseshoe Bay, just north and west of the city of Vancouver. It extends from Gibsons in the south to the village of Lund, eighty miles and another ferry ride to the north. At Lund, the highway comes to an end; the rest of the thousand-mile Pacific coast is accessible only by boat or float plane.

  There are numerous towns and villages scattered along this eighty miles of coastline.

  Among them is one called Sechelt.

  ***

  Charlie and Emma O’Brea unloaded grocery bags from Charlie’s Honda Accord and took them into the house. It was a mixed-up spring day, full of cloud-glower and sporadic sunshine. A chilly day; unfriendly, Charlie thought.

  He deposited two bags on the kitchen counter and went into the bedroom to change into his gardening clothes—old jeans, baggy at the knees and in the seat, and a big old sweatshirt that said UBC, which stood for University of British Columbia, on the front. He was hanging up the pants he’d taken off, when Emma came in. She wasn’t carrying anything; Charlie didn’t know what her purpose was in coming into the bedroom at that particular moment.

  “Oh, leave that, Charlie. I’ll do it for you,” she said.

  “Thanks, hon,” said Charlie, picking up his blue sweater and putting it on a hanger, “but I’ve got it.”

  She came close to him, placed the palms of her hands flat against his chest, and smiled up at him. Her blond hair fell back from her face. There were tiny crinkles around her eyes, which were hazel. Charlie could see brown eyeliner on the top lid, and brown eye shadow like bruises, and brown lashes lengthened and thickened with mascara. She was looking at him questioningly. He kissed her forehead, squeezed her shoulders and released them, and headed for the back door.

  A few minutes later, standing in the middle of the backyard, he saw her through the kitchen window, putting the groceries away.

  The tune that had been spinning around in his head for the last several days made its way into his throat, asking to be sung, but he only hummed it, as always: “All around the mulberry bush, the monkey chased the weasel; the monkey thought ’twas all in fun—pop! goes the weasel.” There was a game that went with the song. Charlie dredged about in childhood memories but couldn’t find it.
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br />   He stood in the middle of his backyard with his hands in the pockets of his jacket, and he had to laugh, because there was nothing whatsoever to be done out there, he realized, now that he had had a good look around. The lawn didn’t need cutting. The hanging baskets Emma had planted earlier in the week didn’t need watering. The bed of tulips didn’t need weeding. And it was too early in the season to deal with the raised bed, where he grew heat-loving things like tomatoes and cucumbers and peppers.

  He walked around to the front of the house, in case something had been left undone there. The early-blooming azaleas under the living room window had finished flowering. He began removing the dead blossoms. But Charlie was extremely restless this Saturday afternoon. He had wanted to expend some serious energy out in his garden, not pass the time doing finicky stuff like deadheading the azaleas.

  He found a few weeds and pulled them, and decided some ground cover was called for under the azaleas. But that was finicky work too.

  He’d clean the garden tools, he decided. Clean them and oil them. The shovel, the spade, the fork, the rake, the clippers. And he’d take the electric mower apart and clean that, too, and see if it needed oil.

  He returned to the backyard and opened the door to the toolshed. He stood there staring inside, not really surprised by what he saw; Emma’s sticky invisible webs were everywhere. The garden tools beamed at him, shining, from their hooks on the wall. The mower sat contentedly on the floor, throwing off a dull glow. Charlie closed the door on all of it.

  He went back into the house, took off his jacket, and sat down at the kitchen table. “Thanks for cleaning up the gardening stuff.” He heard the warmth in his voice; you’ll go far, Charlie, he told himself.

  “You’re welcome,” said Emma, folding paper grocery bags. She made a neat pile of them and tucked it in between the refrigerator and the wall. “Would you like some coffee?”

  Charlie looked at his watch. “What time do we have to be next door?”