The yellow fabric strained at the seams and clashed with her skin tone. It might’ve been striking on Miss Martins, but on her, it was appalling, like a corpse walking in its burial clothes.
“When Halo arrived, he flew into a fury,” she continued, settling back in her seat. “He grabbed her dress, this dress, and tried to rip it off me. We struggled, and I knocked over the flowers that he’d brought her. Such a considerate man.” Her pupils narrowed, her irises becoming bold and birdlike. “He called me sick and pathetic. I screamed, looked him dead in the eye, and told him everything. I told him about you.” She gave Judy a condescending frown—or was it an attempt to show concern? “About who you really are. I don’t think he believed me, but all the same, it sent him over the edge. He tried to push me away, but I snagged him by his jacket collar and pulled him on top of me. On the bed, I kissed him, I clawed at him, I did whatever I could to reverse what I’d told him, to keep him there, to bring him back to me. He hissed at me and told me he hated me and then, to prove it, he…” The memory of it pierced her—her chest bowed slightly inward, her shoulders bunched together, her green eyes shook. “I didn’t fight him. It sounds ridiculous, I know, but I still wanted him. I loved him. I did. But then, in the midst of all that, it changed—like how lightning can reduce a tree to a cinder in a flash—and I saw who he was. I saw who my sister was, too. I knew what I had to do; I had to become Procne. I wanted to whittle him down to nothing, take him apart grain by grain until there was nothing left.”
We didn’t respond. A smooth clarinet warbled from the radio and slithered between Elaine and us. With an awful sinking feeling, I realized something: “You sent me Love’s Last Move,” I said to her. “You wrote the inscription and the quotation. It makes sense now. Miss Martins wouldn’t have chosen such a horrific myth.”
Her eyes lingered on Judy, squinting at her, appraising her, and shifted to me. Smiling, she said, “You’re wrong about that: she knew the story well. She mentioned it to me when we were having our last cup of cocoa, didn’t she? That’s just what happened. As she was beginning to feel the effect of the Veronal and drifting off, her eyelids drooping, she called me… ‘Procne. Sad, vengeful Procne.’ Her words. We studied the classics at Mary Todd, so I knew the allusion, mind you. But I can’t take full credit. You understand, Philippa. Full credit. I inscribed the novel, doing my best imitation of her handwriting. We have similar longhand, trained by the same witch of a schoolmistress. If I sent it to you, I knew you’d find your way back here.” She gasped melodramatically. “Oh my, your milk must be getting cold!”
“What about Cleve?” Judy asked, pushing her mug away. “What happened to him?”
Elaine shook her head as if fending off grief, although I wasn’t sure I believed it. I couldn’t tell which emotions were real, which were artificial, and which were a soup of the two. “He had his hot cocoa like he always did, and I tucked him in.” She dropped her chin, revealing her pale scalp underneath her thinning hair.
“Like Miss M,” Judy said, “once he was unconscious, you dragged him on a sheet to the bathroom, dumped him in the tub, and filled it with water.”
“I wanted him to go… peacefully.” She looked up, and a tear slid down her face, streaking her powder. To me, she said, “My sister too.”
“But how did Cleve get into the river?” Judy asked, her tone clinical. “And why did you write AHKA on him? What does it mean?”
“I didn’t do it,” she said, shaking her head in despair. “When Halo came home, I showed him Cleveland. I told him how it was his fault, how it was on his shoulders, and how he should’ve loved me, his wife, not my sister. He threw me against a wall and nearly killed me, but when he simmered down, he realized he’d lose everything—his inheritance, the house, the meager allowance Moira uses to string us along, and of course, my sister. So, he called up his mother, the puppet master, and explained everything to her, and she was furious—I heard her screeching over the phone—but she knew what to do, as she always does. He demanded I find some nail polish, an old bottle—a color I didn’t use anymore—and give it to him. Then he told me to take a dose of Veronal and go to bed. My head ached horribly, so I obeyed. I learned later that Moira had instructed him to implicate that Bogdan man.”
Cleve’s anger—his hatred of Miss Martins, his violent outbursts—seemed pointless. Pathetic, really. His actual enemy was at home, serving him cocoa and kissing him good night. If I’d only tried some other angle with him, found some way in, maybe I could’ve helped—No, he would’ve never allowed it. I know that. All the same, he deserved to grow up.
“So, your husband took him on your boat, removed his shirt, wrote on him, and dumped him,” Judy said.
“To do such a thing, to mar him in such a way.” She bit her geranium red lip against more tears.
“How did Moira know about AHKA?” I said.
“I don’t know, but Cleveland’s death had nothing to do with the Peabody girl.”
As we were questioning Elaine, Judy’s expression had been growing more intense. Her features had become predatory, like a beast with its ears flat against its skull, stalking its prey. “What did the two goons in suits have to do with this?” she asked, glancing at me.
Elaine seemed perplexed. “What do you mean?”
“One is tall and skinny, and the other walks like a penguin.”
“Oh!” Elaine said, clearing her throat, “the men from the FBI. They dropped in after that Bogdan fellow was arraigned, didn’t they?” Her gaze fixed on Judy. “Halo was out on errands. He was buying more sleep aids to keep me doped up—or maybe to kill me. Who knows? I’d dumped the entire cabinet down the drain the night before, except for a bottle of Veronal, which I hid away.” I remembered Halo tossing his groceries in the trash after his confrontation with the men but keeping the prescription that he’d picked up at the drug store. “While he was out for the morning, I’d paid my last visit to my sister,” she continued, again seeming proud of her scheming. “When the FBI showed up, I thought they’d found her and were calling to arrest my husband. Of course, I hoped they hadn’t come for me after the trouble I went through to stage the scene and write that ridiculous word—whatever the hell it means—above Charlene. But that wasn’t the case.” A mischievous, childlike glint danced in her eyes. “All I had to do was talk about my husband’s ‘violent tendencies’ and they bit. Besides, his and Moira’s attempt to frame Bogdan was ill-conceived. Judy, you saw through it immediately, didn’t you?” She gave Judy a warm smile, flecks of lipstick stuck to her teeth. “When I’m not being plied with sleeping potions, I have a sharp mind. Like both of you.”
I didn’t understand why the FBI were involved in a local murder case. I wasn’t sure I believed it. “Why again were the FBI visiting you?”
She glared at me like I was an idiot: “Who cares?” She swayed and a smile flickered across her lips. “As you know, the police discovered that Halo had been spotted at the Daphne by the desk clerk and you—that clinched it. They didn’t even think to ask the clerk if she’d seen me, or anyone else, for that matter.”
“What did the FBI say to your husband that spurred him to race to the Daphne?” I said. “It’s like they sent him there on purpose.”
Elaine shrugged. Clearly, she wasn’t interested.
Judy asked, “How did you find Miss M?”
“One day, when Moira wasn’t watchdogging me, and my medicine had worn off, I followed my husband. I knew he’d go to her, and I knew he was going to run away with her.”
“And how did you kill her?” Judy pushed. Her eyes were black slits.
Elaine hesitated, seemingly frightened of Judy or, perhaps, of how she would react to what she was about to say. “When I returned for my final visit, I explained to the clerk, some lazy slattern, that I’d forgotten my sister’s apartment number. She wouldn’t budge, so I bribed her.” She looked at me, avoiding Judy’s gaze, as if it might turn her into stone. “I buzzed Charlene, begged to see her, and told her
that Halo was lying to her. She let me in, and I explained that her beloved had killed Cleve by accident, that he intended to kill me, the story I’d tell the police. She didn’t believe me, but it didn’t matter. She’d already had her cocoa.”
As she spoke, her veil of domesticity dropped back into place—or was it apathy? Now, she seemed more the smug Junior Leaguer than the distraught psychotic. Even the music from the radio seemed to shift, becoming jingly and jaunty.
It was appalling, it was grotesque, but I’d begun to understand it and even sympathize with her. After all, to a degree, I was responsible. I could’ve helped her. I could’ve screamed that night in Miss Martins’s apartment. I could’ve hit Halo with something. I could’ve interrupted the dominoes that led her to madness. No, that wasn’t true; it had started long before then and ran much deeper. What I did or didn’t do wasn’t going to change it. But I hate that I didn’t try, if for no other reason than I thought she was Miss Martins and that, in some dark corner of my heart, I wanted it to happen.
Something still nagged me, though. What had Elaine told Halo that night about Judy? Why would that push him over the edge and prompt him to attack her? She’d told Judy: “I told him about you—about who you really are.” What did that mean?
Elaine flashed a smile. “Seriously, you two, are you going to drink this milk or eat some shortbread cookies? I baked them myself.”
JUDY, NOVEMBER 29, 1948
Philippa was furious with me for not telling her about Miss M’s journal. I read her expression immediately. I wanted to tell her. I did. But it wasn’t time yet. I didn’t know how to put it into words, my new truth, the facts about who I am. It’d just come out as gibberish. But I didn’t want that bitch Elaine to spill the truth, so I seized her mug and stood. Maybe I could distract her. “Why haven’t you had a sip?” I said to her, looking down at her and holding out the toxic liquid, wafting the fumes under her nose.
“Guests first,” she said, waving it away. “It’s only polite.”
“I insist,” I said, thrusting it at her, the pale fluid sloshing over its brim.
We regarded each other, her eyes digging into me, trying to excavate some secret knowledge—or maybe just predict my next move. A big band tune spun idiotically in the background like a troop of whirling Busby Berkeley dancers. Elaine emitted a deep sigh, dropped her shoulders, and took the mug from me, cupping it as if to absorb its warmth.
Then, I understood: She’d passed the baton. She was granting me permission to complete the story. She wasn’t going to tell Philippa everything. “You see,” I said to my friend, walking over to the radio, “many years ago, Halo and Charlene—she would later change her name to Christine Martins—met and fell in love, but Charlene, she got sick of Halo.” I switched off the radio. “He was always a lady’s man, always screwing other girls. Society girls. Government girls. Whores. You name it.” I returned to the window seat.
“That’s right,” Elaine chimed in, still coddling the mug.
“And Miss M, she kicked him to the curb and left town. But then poor, sad little Elaine came along.”
Interrupting, Elaine sneered: “Halo was distraught. He loved my sister, but like many young men, he was red-blooded. So yes, we started up. I was his second choice, but I didn’t care. We were in love… for a time.” She smirked. “Judy, you know what that feels like—living in someone else’s shadow, being the stand-in, a simulacrum.”
“You got engaged,” I said, wresting control of the story. “Then you broke it off and went away, too.”
“My sister recorded all the big moments in her diary, didn’t she?” She lowered the mug to the table but kept her fingers on it, tracing its rim. “She’d ignore her little book for months, years even, but when a momentous occasion arose, when she needed to process something, she’d lay it all out. That’s Charlene for you—always wanting to be historical, to have the last word. Well, here I am, and the last word is mine.”
“Why did you go away?” I said, leaning toward her.
“To help my sister with her baby”—her eyes flashed—“with you.”
I took in her marred makeup, bleeding eyeliner, and smeared lips. She was sly, dealing in half-truths. She wanted me to preserve the lie, but I refused to keep it fully intact. I had to unload some of it, or it’d crush me. “It’s the other way around. Your sister helped you with your baby.”
“I don’t understand,” Philippa said. “What do you mean?”
I sank my gaze into Elaine: “She had a baby, not Miss M.”
“Cleve?” Philippa asked.
“He came a year later.”
“I don’t…?”
She wasn’t getting it, and I needed her to, or I’d blow apart. “She had me, Philippa!”
I’d learned the truth from Charlene’s journal, but it still felt horribly raw. I wanted to scream, to tear at Elaine, to tear at myself. Instead, I tamped down all that chaos and tethered it to my heart like a gnashing dog. This woman, this murderer, was my mother—my mother! I’d been so sure Miss M was the one, so sure, but no, first, it was Charlene Peters. Then Bart, ever the blunderer, spun a story that she was raped and that—surprise!—I was the result. Thank you, Bart! Then, as if that wasn’t enough, as if I was being forced to run a gauntlet of shame and woe, the veil was pulled back and—surprise again!—Charlene and Miss M were one in the same. “So sorry, Judy, Miss M is dead, stuffed in a fucking tub!” It was bitter news: a revelation with no future, nothing to act on. Of course, none of that could’ve prepared me for the journal.
“This woman,” Philippa said, gaping, “is your mother?”
Elaine massaged her right temple, as if she were a character from the dramatis personae of a Victorian melodrama. I expected her to complain of a terrible headache, swoon, and collapse on the floor. Most likely, it was an attempt to elicit sympathy from Philippa. I wanted to snatch up the milk and pour it down her throat.
“Does this mean that…” Philippa added with a touch of wonder, “that Cleve was your half brother?”
Elaine’s eyes shot wide open. They were tear-glazed and blazing with anxiety: “Are you going to tell Philippa everything?” they seemed to be asking me. “Are you sure you want to do that?”
She had deserted me; she had no right to ask anything of me. I wanted to tell the entire truth, to blurt it out, especially because it would humiliate her, because she feared it. As we regarded each other, I spotted something sinister dart through her eyes. Under her fear, there was a haughty, self-destructive impulse—an impulse I’d felt keenly in myself. She was daring me to pull the trigger, to detonate all of us with the truth. But I wouldn’t do that to Philippa. Ever.
“You see,” I said to Philippa, gripping the edge of the rickety table, “she was upset when she discovered she was pregnant. She didn’t want to take care of me. She didn’t want the responsibility, she didn’t want to answer all the questions, so she followed Miss M to New York City and asked Miss M to claim me as hers.”
Elaine broke in, murmuring: “I was weak. So, so weak—”
“Shut up!” I snapped, heading off her dramatics. Philippa jumped a little. “You don’t get to tell this part of it! It’s not yours to tell.”
Elaine flushed bright red and dropped her chin like an admonished child.
“She was going to take care of me,” I addressed Philippa, still fuming. My anger was all that was keeping me together. “Wouldn’t that have been something? But she ran on hard times and needed the cash, so she went to the Closses and told Halo that he’d knocked her up and that I was his. Moira caught wind of it. She didn’t like having her son ‘blackmailed’—that’s what she called it—so she threatened Miss M and forced her to give me up for adoption.” Philippa scooted to the edge of the window seat. I looked at Elaine, measuring her expression, wondering about her breaking point, and slowly stood. “Miss M even tried to force you to take responsibility for me, but you claimed that you were too ‘emotionally fragile.’ So, I went into the system.
Moira was on the board at Crestwood, so of course, it was handled with the utmost discretion. Anyway, it freed you to renew your engagement with Halo and, once married, have Cleve, who I guess you weren’t too ‘emotionally fragile’ to raise. After years in and out of Crestwood and foster families, where I got these”—I stretched out my arms, displaying my scars as the evidence of the damage those years had done—“Jackie Peabody was murdered, and Moira saw an opportunity. She pulled strings and had me placed with B and E, keeping me, the liability, close.” I glanced down at Philippa. “You know what’s funny,” I said to her. “Crestwood recorded my birthday incorrectly—or maybe fudged it on purpose to hide my identity even more. I’m actually eighteen. I can change my name now.”
Grimacing sympathetically, Philippa rose and took my hand. Its touch was reassuring, even calming. Cool resolve cut through my thrumming anger. Clarity amid chaos. Even though I’d bungled telling her that I loved her, and even though we were staring down my nightmare of a mother, I knew that she loved me.
With her face still tilted forward, Elaine said, “A year or so ago, my sister moved back to town with a new name.” She slowly lifted her chin. Frizzed strands of hair had slipped from her bun. “She wanted to be in your life, Judy, so she got a job at Eastern High. At first, she didn’t want you to know who she was. She wanted to observe you from afar, but that changed, and then she made a point of bumping into Halo—”
“Not true,” I said, taking a step toward her, dragging Philippa with me. I hadn’t let go of her. “She wasn’t planning it. He bumped into her.”
Elaine glared at me defiantly, trembling: “The worthless creep couldn’t help himself, and the two of them, they started up again with no regard for me, for what I was feeling.” Her voice clawed its way out of her throat. “Then he told me that he wanted to leave me for her, his ‘old flame,’ and that he wanted to embrace you as his daughter!” Her eyes bulged with rage. “I lost my goddamn mind, and Cleve, he overheard it all, which is why he must’ve stole Charlene’s journal and why he hated you, Judy.” She wiped her nose with the back of her hand. “I’d remained silent as Halo plowed his way through woman after woman. I’d tolerated his bitch of a mother. I understood I was just another one of his many women, another notch on the post. Other than being the mother of his son, I meant nothing to him. I never had! I knew what I had to do. I had to break free of it, of marriage and motherhood.” She covered her mouth in horror.
The Savage Kind Page 32
