Home Sweet Home

by April Smith

  “I’m washing the pillowcases!” she snapped before he could complain. So much for tolerance.

  Leon was unperturbed. He’d taken a catnap and was looking refreshed. His shirt was casually open at the neck, and he was carrying a double-barreled cylindrical leather case, from which he removed two bottles: one gin and the other vermouth.

  “I think I’ll make a martini,” he said.

  “Go right ahead,” Betsy said.

  “Do you have ice?”

  “We live in America,” she retorted. “Make me one, too.”

  —

  The Winters did not sleep well. For one thing, the cat fell on Leon’s head. In the litany of instructions about showers and toilets, nobody had thought to warn them that the cat liked to perch on the top of the bathroom door. When Leon got up to urinate and closed the door in a midnight trance, a yowling, shrieking furry mass of claws dropped out of nowhere like a nightmare that had been stalking him all his life. The guest room wasn’t safe, either. Moths of every size and color had come to rest inside the pink canopy above the bed and, worse, flap helplessly in the spiderwebs in the corners that Betsy’s vacuum cleaner had evidently missed. The loud jungle noises of cicadas and the strange night calls of cattle kept them wakeful and on edge, along with vaguely itchy things on their feet.

  Marja and Leon were not the only ones to spend a fitful night. The two FBI agents assigned to shadow Betsy Kusek, a.k.a. Coline Ferguson, had taken turns sleeping in the backseat of their unmarked car, which was hidden in the deepest shadows fifty feet from the turnoff to the Lucky Clover Ranch. But they were alert and on the ready the next morning when they observed Mrs. Kusek leaving the property at 8:09. She was driving a white station wagon and heading toward Rapid City. They followed at the prescribed distance.

  16

  Leon’s snoring reverberated throughout the house. It seemed impossible such thunderous noise could be produced by the relatively small oral cavity of a human being. Honestly, Jo thought, Uncle Leon was worse than her dad.

  Aunt Marja was alone in the kitchen, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette, when Jo came in from gathering eggs.

  “How can you stand it?” Jo asked.

  “I’ll show you,” Marja said.

  She reached into the pocket of her housecoat, took out two cotton balls, and stuck them in her ears, bugging out her eyes like Lucille Ball when she’s fed up with Desi Arnaz.

  Jo laughed. “That’s not fair! Why doesn’t he do something?”

  “What can he do? Unless we slept in separate rooms, and you don’t want that.”

  “Why not? I’d rather sleep in a tree.”

  Marja tapped the cigarette ash into the saucer. “It doesn’t make for good communication.”

  “I’m never getting married,” Jo mumbled.

  “Did you and your mother make up?”

  Jo shrugged. “I don’t know.”

  “Where is she?”

  “At her friend Stell’s—Robbie’s mom—so they can complain about their awful children. Want some breakfast?”

  “Sure. I’ll take some toast, if you’re making. Can I help?”

  Jo shook her head. “You’re the guest.”

  Marja smiled, hearing the echo of her sister’s voice. The problem was Jo and Betsy were too much alike—both hardheaded.

  “I thought I’d never get married, either,” Marja confided. “The first time the words ‘my husband’ came out of my mouth, I couldn’t believe it was me saying them.”

  “I’ll bet.”

  “He can be fussy and snore like a sailor, but Leon’s a good man. In my position, I’m lucky to have him.”

  “What do you mean, your position?”

  “Leon is a famous surgeon and quite well-off. We have a beautiful apartment on Park Avenue. He could have had anyone—although I’m thinking in particular of a certain nurse with a good figure, about nineteen years old,” she said, squishing the cigarette butt in the cup.

  Jo snickered supportively.

  “Not many successful men want to marry a blind spinster.”

  Jo sat down at the table with two plates of toasted homemade cinnamon raisin bread spread with country butter.

  “Oh my!” said Marja, biting down. “This is even better than the Automat!”

  “Then why did he marry you?” Jo asked. “Was it because he felt sorry for you?”

  Her niece’s candor was a shock, but also touching in a way. After all, she was fourteen years old, hungry to know about the outside world, the adult world, and whom else could she ask but her New York aunt?

  “You really want to know why we got married?” Marja asked.

  Jo nodded. She had such earnest, clear blue eyes. For a moment Marja hesitated to broach such innocence, but she was drawn by the opportunity to confess a long-held secret to someone who, she guessed, wouldn’t judge her.

  “All right, I’ll tell you, but in total confidence. I seduced him.”

  Marja affirmed Jo’s astonished look.

  “You thought the opposite?” she suggested. “That he might have taken advantage? Well, it wasn’t that way. I have a body. I’m a woman, too. Oh, God, don’t say anything to your mother. I’m not telling you to ever be like me—”

  Jo promised and crossed her heart.

  “We were alone in a rehearsal room. It was after a concert at the institute, where I was teaching music. A student concert, really, but I played some Debussy. There were refreshments in the lobby and it was open house—parents and students roaming everywhere, going into classrooms and what have you. I just locked the door and took off all my clothes. We’d known each other five minutes!”

  Jo gasped and covered her mouth and then burst out laughing. They whooped and giggled like two grown women.

  “You did that?” Jo sputtered.

  “I just fell into it, like the music. The moment his hand touched mine I knew he was the one. I think it knocked him off his feet, my boldness…and then he came back for more,” she added suggestively, getting up to put the plates in the sink.

  Jo watched dreamily, intoxicated by this amazing story. That’s not the way they told it, the girls who’d gone all the way—according to legend it was always a struggle, and we all knew there were terrible consequences. Her own experience of boys was ducking gropes and ignoring gooses on the staircase in school, or, in their cars, putting off excruciating pleas of “blue balls.” Jo refused out of pure, blind self-defense. The only boy who wasn’t repulsive was Robbie Fletcher, but he was more a friend. Her aunt’s frank description spun her sideways. She had never been given such a vivid picture of what freedom really meant as being able to take off all your clothes whenever you felt like it. As far as she could tell, that didn’t happen—at least not willingly—to girls in South Dakota.

  “Sometimes, honey, you have to take the plunge,” Marja remarked.

  Then it just came out of Jo’s mouth: “I want to live with you and Uncle Leon.”

  “No, you don’t,” Marja reminded her. “He snores.”

  Jo laughed. “See? You’re a lot more fun than my mom.”

  “The Wicked Witch of the West would be more fun right now. She loves you very much, Jo. This, too, shall pass.”

  Jo shook her head defiantly. The route of escape was clear and she was fixed on it. “None of my friends get along with their parents. If I didn’t have to finish high school, I’d be gone! She wouldn’t care. She’d be glad to get rid of me.”

  Encouraged by the belief that she was getting through to her niece, Marja decided to impart another bit of truth: “Now, listen. When your mother left to come out west, I was pleased for her. She was married and, luckily for her, getting out of the Bronx. But my feelings were hurt, too, because I couldn’t leave because I had to take care of Dad, and not only that, but you and Lance were babies, and I would miss you growing up. To add insult to injury, I love my sister. But still, we weathered the storm and kept in touch, and here we are. You see, Jo, you can love someone but be mad at
them at the same time.”

  Jo didn’t seem to hear a word. “You have a big apartment, right?” she said, her imagination going full pitch. “Park Avenue, you said. I could sleep on the couch.”

  Marja sighed indulgently. “And where would you go to school?”

  “They have schools in New York. It would be so much better!”

  Leon came into the kitchen wearing loafers, pressed slacks, and a button-down shirt, ready for another day at the office rather than on a cattle ranch. Before he could say hello, Jo was like a bouncing ball, springing the news on him about their so-called plans. She even made him bacon and eggs to show what a help she could be. Marja remained quietly stunned by this turn of events: Betsy’s daughter had asked to live with her! Along with being awfully flattered came guilty triumph over her more outgoing sister, who’d never seemed to stumble while going after what she wanted. Recounting Betsy’s move out west had stirred resentment in Marja, always pitied and left behind in darkness to put up with their punishing father. Leon had brought her into the light; circumstances had taken her here. Now she was ready to take her rightful place in the family in the role of cherished aunt.

  Surprisingly, the proposition of Jo moving in with them appealed to Leon’s generous side. Perhaps he, too, was looking for a way to break the genteel routine of married life by having someone young, fresh, and pretty for company. In his practice, he would often play the fool for younger patients, give them balloons and make them laugh. He liked being the big cheese and he liked showing off. He and Marja could well afford to be extravagant. He pictured traipsing down Fifth Avenue with Jo, awestruck; trips to Europe, just the three of them.

  “I think it’s a swell idea,” he said, patting Jo on the head. “Everyone should live in New York City at least once in their life. We’ll take you to the philharmonic and the theater. The Museum of Natural History!”

  “Darling, I think she has natural history right here,” Marja said playfully. She was very pleased.

  —

  Betsy was in a better mood when she left Stell Fletcher’s house that morning. Stell had such a sunny outlook. She didn’t believe that Robbie and Jo being suspended for a week was cause to commit hara-kiri.

  “Anyways,” she said, “suspension is so stupid. Robbie’s lying on the sofa watching TV. You call that punishment?”

  By the time they’d finished coffee and the last of Stell’s famous blueberry crumb cake, both moms agreed that Jo and Robbie would simply bore themselves to death at home and never pull another prank like throwing firecrackers off a bus.

  Betsy had felt so unburdened after yakking it up with Stell that she’d allowed herself a few frivolous stops on the way home, feeling generous toward her guests and recalcitrant daughter. No sooner had she made it through the back door, overloaded with shopping bags, than she was surrounded by Marja, Leon, and Jo, all insisting that it was a done deal for Jo to move to New York.

  “She doesn’t necessarily have to live with us,” Marja explained. “She could go to an academy. What about your alma mater, the Knox School? Leon and I would be happy to cover the costs.”

  “What’s the hurry?” Betsy asked mildly. “She’ll be away at college soon enough.”

  “Please, Mom? I want to go!” begged Jo.

  Betsy shook her hands at them as if shooing bees. “What brought this on all of a sudden?”

  “What’s she going to do here?” Leon asked. “Marry a farmer? Really, Betsy, she’s much too bright.”

  Still buoyant, Betsy refused to take the conspirators seriously. She wrinkled her nose and told her daughter, “Your father and I would miss you too much!”

  “What if I came home for Christmas?” offered Jo, watching critically as her mother unpacked things she didn’t usually buy: chocolate pudding mix, graham crackers, whipping cream. “Are we making a cake?” she asked sardonically.

  “I thought, since you’re home—”

  “Mom! It’s not like I’m in third grade and we’re having a bake sale!” Jo snapped. “Can we please talk seriously about my future?”

  Betsy felt embarrassed and angry with herself for having given in to the impulse to do something nice. She should have let Jo suffer her penance. Maybe then the kid would be grateful for all the times when she was in third grade—and fourth and fifth—and did stay home with a fever while Betsy cared for her and amused her until she was mended and out the door. A cold objectivity overcame Betsy and she started to think maybe it would be a good idea to let her go. Maybe Marja and Leon knew a better way to raise a teenager. She was about to say so when Lois and Bandit began to bark and someone knocked sharply on the door.

  Betsy left the groceries, strode across the living room, and opened it. A young man dressed in a dark suit and wearing a fedora was waiting on the doorstep. Behind him a black late-model sedan was pulled up next to the station wagon, covered with dust as if it had been driven a long way.

  “Good morning, ma’am. I’m Special Agent Wentworth with the FBI, and this is Special Agent Breyer.” A second man, also wearing a dark suit, had joined him.

  They’d followed her to Stell Fletcher’s house in North Rapid and waited. They’d followed her to J.C. Penney and the Piggly Wiggly grocery, and then along rural roads for some thirty miles to the turnoff for the Lucky Clover Ranch, parking in the same out-of-the-way spot where they’d spent the night on surveillance. Before risking an approach, Agent Breyer had stalked through the woods with a pair of binoculars to confirm the station wagon was still parked at the house and there were no other visitors. The subject wasn’t going anywhere.

  “Are you Mrs. Kusek?”

  “Yes.”

  “Do you also go by the name Coline Ferguson?”

  Betsy was taken aback. “Not since I was a child.”

  “Is your husband Calvin Kusek?”

  She stared at the two somber men in dark gray suits and her world kaleidoscoped into a thousand pieces. “Oh my God, did he crash the plane?”

  “Your husband?”

  “Tell me he’s all right!” she pleaded. “He’s meeting with the FBI in Pierre. He flies a plane. Did something happen?”

  Agent Wentworth looked questioningly at his partner. “We haven’t heard about an airplane crash, have we?”

  The other shook his head. “No, ma’am. I’m sure he’s fine. That’s not why we’re here. We want to talk to you about the election.”

  Betsy shook her head to dispel the nightmarish shock.

  “Is this a poll?” she asked, recovering her sense of humor. “Because if it is, I’m voting for my husband.”

  They laughed politely. Both were tall, in excellent physical condition, wearing cheap suits and thin ties, awfully young to be FBI. Wentworth looked like a strawberry-blond farm boy and Breyer—a dark-haired, serious type—out of the industrial cities of the east, she assumed. He had a rough beard and hadn’t shaved recently, which made him look as hard as any criminal.

  “What’s this all about?” Betsy asked.

  “Very simple and straightforward, ma’am. Your husband is running for the U.S. Senate, and it’s our job to make sure his relatives and close associates don’t pose a security threat.”

  “This is certainly a surprise.”

  “Just a standard background check,” said Agent Breyer.

  “Why didn’t my husband tell me?”

  “Likely he didn’t know. May we come in, ma’am?”

  Betsy backed away. She hadn’t realized that the others had gathered at the kitchen door and were watching apprehensively.

  “Mom,” Jo whispered, “how come you never told me your real name is Coline?”

  “She’s always been Betsy,” Marja said, covering quickly.

  The agents wiped their shoes and removed their hats.

  “You must be Jo,” said Agent Wentworth. He went out of his way to shake her hand.

  Jo stared. He was older and handsome as a movie star. “Hi.”

  “Where’s your brother, Lance?”
>
  Betsy’s back stiffened, protective of her children.

  “Lance is in school,” Jo answered obediently.

  “And why are you at home?” Agent Wentworth asked kindly.

  Betsy moved her daughter aside. “She doesn’t have to talk to you.”

  “That’s all right,” said Agent Wentworth.

  For once Jo didn’t argue, instinctively on guard against these cold, strange men who were making her mother upset, although she was pretending not to be. Leon didn’t wait to be summoned. He was a red-blooded patriot! He came forward and introduced himself forthrightly: “Dr. Leon Winter, ophthalmologist, New York City.”

  “What’s your relationship to Mrs. Kusek, Dr. Winter?” Agent Wentworth asked.

  “I’m her brother-in-law. This is my wife, Marja. She’s Betsy’s sister.”

  Agent Breyer had produced a notebook and was writing things down.

  “We need to talk to your sister-in-law alone,” Agent Wentworth said.

  Leon was eager to accommodate. “Don’t worry about us. We’ll just skedaddle.”

  Betsy gave him the keys to the wagon. “You can get an ice cream at the A&J market near the turnpike.”

  Jo looked worried. “Are you sure, Mom?”

  “Yes, dear. It’s fine.”

  “We’ll take good care of her,” Marja said, touching her sister’s arm in a way that said, Be careful.

  When they were gone, Betsy asked if she could offer them something.

  “A glass of water would be much appreciated,” Agent Breyer said.

  “Where’d you come in from?”

  “Pierre.”

  “That’s quite a drive.”

  “Not unusual, not for us.”

  Betsy came back from the kitchen with two glasses. “You could have flown in with my husband,” she said blithely, feeling the old hostility toward their authority rise.

  When they’d settled in the living room armchairs, Agent Breyer turned to a fresh page in his notebook and asked Betsy if she was ready to get started.

  “Fire away.”

  Agent Wentworth took over the questioning. “Do you believe in the Christian spirit?”