Fiona Range

by Mary McGarry Morris

  Fiona bent so close to Terry that their cheeks brushed as she whispered, “I may be a stupid, easy lay when I’m drunk, but I’m not a witch. I don’t cast spells or kill babies. And you can quote me on that.” She stood up and zipped her jacket. “Which I’m sure you’ll do,” she added with a cold smile.

  A sharp wind nipped her heels as she hurried to her car. A haze of thin yellow clouds hung in the starless sky, and she was conscious of an emptiness so ravenous and vast she felt as if she were being sucked headlong into its dark belly. She walked close to the buildings and stores. The friction of her fingertips grazing the rough brick fronts seemed to give her a sense of substance and being.

  “Fiona!” a man’s voice called out. “Hey, I thought that was you,” Rudy Larkin called as he hurried across the street. His beaked nose was running, and his thin jacket collar was pulled up over his red ears. “How’ve you been? I was just going to stop for coffee on my way home, and I thought that was you!” he said, shivering and waving his hands to gesture from Dunkin’ Donuts to where they stood. “So how’ve you been?” he said so uneasily she knew they were both remembering the same early-morning scene.

  “Fine, after I stopped being embarrassed,” she said with a flash of rising anger, misdirected as she knew it was.

  “I know. That was awful. And Elizabeth got so upset.”

  “How is she?” she asked.

  “Better, I think. But then with Elizabeth it’s hard to tell sometimes.”

  “Yah? Well, I’ve called her three times and she has yet to call me back, so my guess is she’s still upset—with me, anyway,” she said with a forced little laugh.

  “Actually, I haven’t seen her either. I’ve caught her on the phone a few times, but that’s been about it,” he said. “This is my first night off in two weeks, but I guess she’s been having a lot of meetings, parent conferences, things like that.”

  “Well, I better get going,” she said. “I’ll see you.” She took a step back and waved.

  “Wait! I’ll give you a ride,” he called.

  When she explained that she was parked right over there in the municipal lot, he insisted on walking her to the car. As they crossed the street, she asked if small-town living had gotten to him yet.

  “No, not at all,” he said in a torrent of conversation now as she unlocked her door. Dearborn was certainly as quiet as Elizabeth had said; well, actually the better word was probably warned. Whenever he’d expressed interest in coming here, Elizabeth would tell him how small the town was, how quiet, how unfriendly people could be to strangers, which wasn’t turning out to be the case at all as far as he could see. New Englanders might be cautious and reserved, he said, but no one had been unfriendly.

  “She was afraid you’d be bored to death here,” she said, getting into the car.

  He laughed. “No, she was just afraid I’d come.”

  She didn’t know what to say for a moment. “Elizabeth’s not like that,” she said.

  “What do you mean? Not like what?”

  “She’s a very sincere person. And if she said this might be too quiet a place for you, then that’s exactly what she meant.”

  “You think so, huh?” he said with the forced amusement of one who finds himself the butt of a very complicated joke.

  “I know so. She’s probably the kindest person I’ve ever known. In fact, I don’t think in her whole life she’s ever hurt anyone.”

  “No, you’re right. With me, a little paranoia goes a long way.”

  “Yah, tell me about it,” she said as she turned the key.

  With the roar of the old engine he leaned closer to say he was glad he’d run into her. That was another good thing about small-town living: seeing the same people all the time.

  “Actually, that’s the worst of it,” she called up. “You can’t ever hide.”

  “Really? Well Elizabeth’s sure doing a good job of it,” he said, then closed her door, and waited, watching as she pulled out of the lot.

  At the corner she glanced in the rearview mirror and saw him standing in front of the steamy, bright yellow window of the doughnut shop. She felt guilty. He was lonely, and she had brushed him off when all he’d wanted was to talk about Elizabeth, which was usually what George wanted to talk about when he was with her. Elizabeth. Dear, sweet Elizabeth. Well, she couldn’t blame them. She loved her too. Her eyes shot back to the road, to the faded blue station wagon ahead. Patrick Grady’s head bobbed from side to side with the beat of whatever music he was listening to. She wondered if he was on his way home or if he was going to meet someone. A woman maybe. Someone he would never commit to because he had never stopped loving her mother, had never stopped hoping she’d come back to him.

  He turned onto Chestnut Street, so she turned. Halfway up the hill, he pulled abruptly into the driveway of a large gray house opposite the Bird Sanctuary. She drove slowly past, then as soon as she was around the curve and out of sight she made a quick U-turn and came back down the hill, slowing at the darkened house. But the driveway was empty. He must have seen her car and had only pulled in there to get away. She drove slowly, angry that she’d followed him, angry that she’d been caught at it, angry to find herself once again swept up in this hopeless fixation. But who did he think he was, complaining to Uncle Charles about her when it was such a personal matter between father and daughter, and no one else, no one else, no one else, God damn it. Her aunt and uncle, like a lot of other people, might be afraid of him, but she wasn’t. She wasn’t. No, she wasn’t!

  She drove out past the Industrial Park until she came to his neglected-looking little house. When she pulled into his driveway behind his car, she still didn’t know what she would say. Before she could change her mind, she jumped out and hurried up the narrow front walk. The windows were dark with drawn green shades. The porch creaked with every step. A No Trespassing sign was nailed on the peeling door frame.

  She raised her hand to knock and the door swung open. Patrick Grady loomed in the entryway shadows, head half turned, his angled stare incredulous through the dusty screen, and angry. “Now this is harassment, and if you don’t get off my property this minute I’m calling Charles Hollis and telling him to get his ass down here and drag you off.”

  “I have every right to be here—”

  “No you don’t!” he howled, pointing so suddenly she jumped back as his finger stabbed a hole through the brittle screen.

  “But I just want to talk.” She couldn’t swallow.

  “What’re you, crazy? Leave me alone. I don’t need this shit! Just leave me the hell alone!” he bellowed, with such rage that the scarred mass sagging from his cheek so burdened and stretched the lid above the eyeball seemed to hang from its socket.

  “Please, I just want to talk to you, that’s all.”

  “Talk to me?” he cried. “Don’t you get it? There’s nothing to talk about. Nothing! Absolutely nothing!”

  “But I just want to know about my mother, that’s all.”

  “Well I’ve got nothing to say about that, do you understand?” He stepped back and slammed the door.

  “Please!” she cried, hitting it. “Please talk to me. That’s all I want! That’s all I want! That’s all I want!”

  The inner door opened, then the screen door, which he pushed just wide enough to slip past onto the porch. A gust of wind tumbled a beer can, sending it clattering across the porch floor. He snatched it up, crushing it as he spoke. “If you just want someone to talk to you, then you’re really at the wrong place, because I got nothing to say.”

  “Could I ask you some questions then?” She shivered. She clenched her jaw to still her chattering teeth.

  “What kind of questions?” He seemed amazed by her persistence.

  “Well, how long did you and my mother—”

  “No!” he barked. “I don’t have anything to say about that.”

  “Was she—”

  “Jesus, you don’t get it. I said, not about that!” he growled, po
inting his finger at eye level.

  That. Not her, but That. His contempt made her cringe. “Were you born here in Dearborn? Do you have any brothers or sisters? Are your parents still living?” she asked in a rush of words, already knowing the answers. He had been born in Maine. His one sister lived in Texas and never came back here. His parents were both dead. “Do you have any relatives around here?”

  He shook his head. “What do you want? Are you nuts? You got mental problems? What? What is it?”

  “I just want to know. I’m really interested.”

  “Well don’t be, because I’m nothing to you.”

  She stared back, determined not to be hurt or driven off by his cruelty. “You were my mother’s friend,” she said.

  His head jerked back. “She had a lot of friends. Why don’t you go bother them? Go ask them some questions.”

  “Most people won’t talk about her to me. They get uncomfortable or something.” She shrugged. “I don’t know why.” She looked down. She could feel his eyes searching for Natalie, maybe even for some part of himself in her.

  “Maybe you just come on a little too strong for most people.”

  “Yah, well, maybe I do.” She shuddered in the sharp wind and had to hold her hair to keep it from blowing across her face. “Maybe I take after my mother then.”

  He glanced at his watch. “Is that it now?”

  “Do I? Do I take after her?” she asked quickly. “Do you think I do?” She smiled and held her breath, posing, waiting for the shutter to snap.

  “I think you should ask them—the Hollises. Arlene, she’d know better than anyone.” He opened the door, then stepped onto the threshold and glanced back. “I’m going in now, so you better go.”

  “Wait! Please wait!” she called, and he spun around.

  “No! You be quiet!” he said, jabbing his finger at her. “I don’t want this. I don’t want any trouble, do you understand?” He kept looking up and down the road as if someone might be watching, though there wasn’t a house, car, or anyone around for miles.

  She nodded, her mind racing for a way to keep him out here. His fearful gaze drew her closer to the quickly latched door. “I won’t cause you any trouble. I mean it. I’d never do that. I just like you, that’s all. I like you a lot. I do, I can’t help it, it’s like this natural thing. It’s like this powerful attraction to someone I really don’t even know. I’m sorry. But I can’t help it.”

  There! She had seen it: just the slightest shift, the briefest flicker deep in his eyes; she was sure of it.

  “Will you go? Will you please go now?” he said.

  “I will, but is it okay if I come by again sometime? Just to say hi,” she added, and now as he stared at her she did not look away.

  “No. Don’t,” he said, then went inside. He closed the door and the deadbolt clicked into place.

  The first message on her machine was from Elizabeth saying she was sorry they hadn’t been in touch. She had to go somewhere tonight, so she’d call back tomorrow night. Hoping the next voice would be George’s, she smiled as the tape whirred to the second message.

  “Fiona! This is Rudy. Rudy Larkin. I know I just saw you a few minutes ago, but when I got in I called Elizabeth and her mother said she wasn’t there, so I’m hoping maybe she stopped in to see you on her way home, but anyway I guess you’re not there either since no one’s picking up. Well, sorry to fill up so much of your tape like this, but if Elizabeth should come by, would you tell her to give me a call since I have this very rare thing called a night off, and I miss her very much.” There was a pause. “Well, thanks,” he said uneasily, as if realizing how pathetic he sounded.

  Even though she’d vowed to wait until he called her, she dialed George’s number. It rang four times before he answered. “Hello!” he called exuberantly, traces of laughter bright in his voice. “Hello?” he said again, and then in the background a woman gasped and said, “Oh, I didn’t realize it was this late.”

  Fiona set the phone so precisely, so carefully, so gently into its cradle that it did not make a sound.

  Chapter 7

  No matter how brilliant the sun, a cold metallic sharpness now thinned each day’s briefer light. The flowers had died and most of the trees were bare, but for the oaks and their tenacious brown leaves, some of which could hold on through wind and snow. Fiona shivered as she drove. The heater didn’t work, and winter’s icy talons were already ache-deep in her bones. She dreaded the short days and longer nights, the freezing months to come in front of the television. All she wanted was someone who cared how she felt and what she thought about the simplest things, someone who would know when she left the room and keep glancing at the door until she returned. Was that too much to ask?

  Hurrying into the coffee shop, she was instantly calmed by the clatter of the warm kitchen. Water drummed into the large double sink as Sandy filled the pitchers. Chester was mixing pancake batter, the beat of his wire whisk against the side of the metal bowl steady as a pulse. Bacon strips and sausage patties sizzled on the grill.

  The minute she came into the dining room Maxine told her that Todd Prescott and Sandy were living together. Sandy had asked Maxine to “break the news.”

  “Break the news! Like I’m supposed to be heartbroken or something?”

  “She doesn’t want to upset you,” Maxine said.

  “Upset me! Me? What about her kids? What kind of screwed-up life is this going to be for them? Doesn’t she have a brain in her head? Clueless is one thing, but this is fucking negligence!” she exploded, startled by this dizzying, almost ungovernable rage. She looked around, desperate to fix on something that would pull her back, but the sight most vivid was the stained carpet’s threadbare path from the kitchen past these empty chairs, empty booths, and empty tables that she had sponged off and set, served and cleared more times, with more diligence and care, than anything else in her wasted life.

  The door swung open and Sandy backed out from the kitchen with a tray of filled water pitchers. Strands of hair strayed out from her ponytail onto her collar with an air of childlike innocence.

  “He moved all his stuff in last night,” Maxine whispered.

  “Which means he’s desperate. He probably got fired and he needs a place to stay.” She moved closer to Maxine. “You know I can’t tell her, but you can.” As it was, she and Sandy were barely speaking. Last week when Sandy had mentioned that Todd liked to take the girls to the playground, Fiona warned her he might be using them as cover for drug deals.

  “Oh, no. Sandy said he just got a big raise,” Maxine whispered. “In fact, his father even called to thank her for being such a good influence.”

  “Oh, shit, he always does that,” Fiona sneered, though her only phone calls from Mr. Prescott had been enraged demands to leave his son alone.

  “I’ve never seen her so happy.” Maxine watched Sandy hurry into the ladies’ room.

  “No,” Fiona said. “Real happiness is what you do for yourself. It doesn’t come from what some guy does for you.”

  The front door opened and Maxine’s hand shot to the menu rack. She looked up with an expectant smile, but it was only Jimmy Leonard pushing in his milk-laden dolly.

  “Good morning, ladies,” he called loudly, then looked around, disappointed not to see Sandy, who flirted and brushed up against him whenever he came near. Today he wore a T-shirt, instead of his usual tank tops that showed off the ropy muscles that bulged and rippled with the slightest effort. He pushed his delivery into the kitchen, where his good humor was quickly squelched.

  “If I’ve told you once I’ve told you a hundred times,” Chester was shouting, “deliver back here. From the alley! Not the front when customers are eating.”

  “Hey Fiona,” he said on his way out of the kitchen. “Weeze and me’re having our Halloween party Thursday night. You’re coming, right?” Their party, an annual event, had come to seem like a chore in recent years.

  “I don’t know, Jimmy, I’ll try,” she
said.

  “Everybody’s coming,” he said as Sandy came out of the ladies’ room. Smiling, she had fixed her hair and put on fresh lipstick. “Hey, and you’re invited too, Sandy,” he said. “You and Todd,” he added.

  “But that’s Halloween.” Sandy looked perplexed.

  “Hey, she doesn’t miss a trick, does she?” Fiona winked, but Jimmy was still grinning at Sandy.

  “Steve and Myrna want us to bring the kids over for trick or treats,” Sandy explained.

  Steve and Myrna. Fiona couldn’t believe it. Dippy little Sandy Rudman, the bartender’s daughter, on a first-name basis with the Prescotts.

  “Besides, Todd doesn’t like parties too much anymore.” Sandy smiled, unable to hid her pride in his stability.

  “What, are you kidding? Todd Prescott? I’ll just ask him myself then,” Jimmy called on his way out the door.

  “Oh, I hope he doesn’t,” Sandy said under her breath.

  “That’s the worst thing you can do, try and put bars around him,” Fiona said, and Sandy regarded her coldly. “Because that’s what they always did, the Prescotts. It was like this sick game, like they almost wanted him to get in these horrible messes because then they’d have some control over him again.”

  “Well I guess that explains why they put up with you then!” Sandy said. She banged her tray down on the table.

  Fiona wheeled around, so surprised she laughed. “As a matter of fact, they hated my guts.”

  “And they will do!” Sandy spat back triumphantly.

  “Stop it!” Maxine demanded.

  “Thank God. My integrity’s still unblemished!” Fiona said.

  “Your integrity!” Sandy scoffed as the front door opened. Two women entered with a gray-haired man in a three-piece suit. All three carried briefcases. “Your integrity!” Sandy whispered on her way to their booth with a water pitcher. “Oh that’s good. That’s really good.”