by Alex Kava
Now that Maggie thought about it, why would she find it odd that her mother be attracted to Everett’s brand of religion, to Everett’s version of reality? After all, hadn’t Kathleen O’Dell spent years worshipping at the altar of BCD: Beam, Ceurvo and Daniel’s? There had been times in the past when the woman would have sold her soul for a bottle of Jack Daniel’s. Just because she was no longer drinking didn’t necessarily mean her soul was no longer for sale. She had handed in one skewed sense of reality for a different one, one addiction for another.
Maggie could understand the seductive lure for her mother, whose version of current events came from the National Enquirer or watching Hard Copy. What a rush it must now be for her to believe that she had the inside scoop on national issues; that she was respected and trusted by someone with the charisma and charm of the good reverend; and that she could have the easy answers to questions so many people spent a lifetime in search of.
She had heard some of those answers, the paranoid delusions that men like Reverend Everett spread. There was power in hate, and control by fear was one of the most successful manipulations. Why had Maggie shrugged off her mother’s comments about chemicals in her drinking water, hidden government cameras in ATM machines and oh, yes, several weeks ago a hysteria about not wanting to talk to Maggie if she was calling on her cellular phone because “they had ways of listening in to those conversations?”
Why hadn’t she seen the danger signs long ago? Or had she seen them but been so relieved to no longer be picking up the shattered pieces her mother left behind that she didn’t care, or that she simply didn’t want to know?
Somewhere Maggie had read that alcohol only emphasized an alcoholic’s personality, bringing out and highlighting characteristics that already existed. It made sense with her mother. The alcohol only seemed to make her more needy, more hungry for attention. Yet, if that was indeed true, Maggie realized the irony in her own drinking habits. She usually drank to forget the empty feeling inside her, and to not feel so alone. If the alcohol only emphasized those very same things, then no wonder she was so fucked up.
Like mother, like daughter.
Maggie shook her head, trying to prevent the memory.
You two could be sisters. I never fucked a mother and daughter before.
Those goddamn crumbling walls. She grabbed the Pepsi can in her cup holder and gulped the warm, flat remainder. Why was it that she could not remember the sound of her father’s voice, but she could still feel this stranger’s breath on her face? With little effort, she could smell the sour odor of whiskey and feel the scrape of his beard as he pinned her small body to the wall and tried to kiss her. She remembered his hands fondling her preadolescent breasts, laughing and telling her he bet she was “gonna have some big tits just like her mama.”
And all the while her mother stood back with her glass of Jack Daniel’s, watching and telling him to cut it out but not making him stop. She didn’t make him stop. Why didn’t she make him stop?
Somehow Maggie had escaped on her own. She couldn’t even remember how. That was when her mother started insisting her men friends take her to a hotel. She stayed out all night, sometimes was gone for days at a time, leaving Maggie home alone. Alone. It was good to be alone, a little scary but less painful. She had learned early on how to be a survivor. Being alone was simply the price of survival.
As she approached Richmond, she started paying attention and watching for her exit. She tried to ignore the growing nausea in the pit of her stomach and was annoyed that it was there at all. What the hell was wrong with her? She chased killers for a living, examined their gruesome handiwork and traveled into their worlds of evil. What could be so difficult about one goddamn visit to her mother’s?
CHAPTER 52
Richmond, Virginia
Kathleen O’Dell finished packing the last of her grandmother’s porcelain figurines. The man from Al and Frank’s Antiques and Secondhand Treasures would be picking them up in the morning with the other items. Now she couldn’t remember if the man’s name was even Al or Frank, although he had told her, while he appraised her things, that he was one of the co-owners.
It bothered her that she felt sad about giving up the items. She still remembered her grandmother letting her handle the figurines when she was just a child, allowing her to gently turn them around in her small hands in order to admire and touch them.
Several of the figurines had come over with her grandmother from Ireland, stuffed in an old suitcase with few other belongings. They were a part of her family’s heritage, and it seemed wrong to sell them for something as meaningless as money. But then, Reverend Everett constantly reminded them that they needed to divorce themselves from the materialism of the world in order to be truly free. That it was sinful to admire and covet material items even if they held some sentimental value.
More important, Kathleen knew she couldn’t very well cart all these things with her when they left for their new paradise in Colorado. Besides, she wouldn’t need them. Reverend Everett had promised that everything would be provided for them, their every need and desire would be attended to. She hoped that meant it would be much cleaner and luxurious than the compound. Most of the time the place smelled bad. And on her last trip there, she could swear she had seen a rat scurrying along the side of the conference hall. She hated rats.
She left the boxes and walked through the rooms, looking to see if she had forgotten any of the items she had agreed to sell to the man from Al and Frank’s. The man whose name she couldn’t remember. She decided she would miss this apartment, though she hadn’t lived here very long. It was one of the few places she had bothered to decorate and make into a home. And it was one of the few places that didn’t remind her how trapped and alone she could feel. Although some evenings nothing could prevent her from feeling the walls closing in on her.
She told herself that it would be nice to live in a community where her new friends lived just across the hall. But hopefully not Emily. Dear God, Emily’s constant complaining would drive her nuts if she had to live across the hall from the woman. It would also be nice to have people she could talk to, rather than spending her evenings answering Regis Philbin’s million-dollar questions. Yes, she was tired of being alone, and she certainly didn’t want to grow old alone. So if the price was a few rare figurines her grandmother had willed to her, then so be it. It wasn’t like those silly things had done anything for her lately.
There was a knock at the door, and for a moment she wondered if perhaps she had gotten the days mixed up. Was it possible the man from Al and Frank’s meant to come today and not tomorrow? She’d just have to tell him that she’d changed her mind. That’s what she would do. She couldn’t possibly sell them to him today. She needed time, after all, to get used to the idea.
She opened the door, ready to say just that, and found herself staring at her daughter, instead.
“Maggie? What on earth are you doing here?”
“Sorry I didn’t call.”
“What’s wrong? Did something happen? Is Greg okay?”
She saw Maggie flinch. It was the wrong thing to say. Why did her daughter always have to make her feel like she was saying the wrong thing?
“Nothing’s wrong, but I do need to talk to you. Is it okay if I come in?”
“Oh, sure.” She opened the door and waved her in. “The place is a mess.”
“Are you moving?” Maggie walked over to the stacked boxes.
Thank God the boxes weren’t labeled. Her daughter would never understand about the materialism and divorcing it to feel free or not coveting, or whatever it was…Oh, it didn’t matter. Maggie would never understand, and no one outside the church was supposed to know about Colorado.
“I’m just cleaning out some old stuff.”
“Oh, okay.”
Maggie gave up her questioning and stood at the window, looking out over the parking lot. Kathleen couldn’t help wondering if the girl already wanted to escape. Well, it wasn’
t like it was a day at the circus for her, either. At least, she didn’t expect anything from Maggie. Not anymore, that is.
“Would you like some iced tea?”
“Only if it’s no trouble.”
“I just brewed some. It’s raspberry. Is that okay?” But she didn’t wait for an answer. She retreated to her small kitchen, hoping its cozy warmth would soothe her nerves.
When she reached for the tall iced tea glasses, she noticed a bottle in the far corner of the cupboard. She had forgotten she even had it. It was for emergencies. She hesitated, then stretched to grab it. This was feeling like an emergency day. First her grandmother’s figurines and now an unexpected visit from her daughter.
She poured a quarter of a glass for herself, closed her eyes and gulped it, savoring the burning sensation sliding down her throat and all the way to her stomach. What a wonderful, warm feeling. She had another, then filled her glass one last time about halfway, tucked the bottle back into its hiding place, and poured iced tea in to fill the rest of the glass. The tea was almost the same color.
She grabbed both glasses, remembering that hers was in her right hand. She glanced around the small kitchen. Yes, she was going to miss this place, the welcome mat at the sink and the yellow curtains with little white daisies. She still remembered the day she found those curtains at a garage sale down the street. How could she be expected to leave this place without some sort of help?
When she came back into the living room, Maggie had discovered one of the figurines she had left half wrapped on the window bench “I remember these,” she said, handling the statue and gently turning it just as she had taught her to do, just like Kathleen’s grandmother had taught her.
She had forgotten that she had even shown them to Maggie. But now seeing one in her hands, the memory came back as though it were yesterday. She was such a beautiful little girl, so curious and cautious. And now she was a beautiful young woman, still curious and oh, so very cautious.
“You’re not getting rid of them, are you?”
“Actually, I’ve had them in storage. I was just getting them out to take a look and…and well, decide just what to do with them.” It was partly the truth. She couldn’t be expected to get rid of all her things, move from her nice little apartment and tell the truth. That was just too much to expect.
She watched as Maggie carefully returned the figurine to the window bench. She took the glass of tea Kathleen handed her from her left hand. Yes, her left hand had Maggie’s tea. She couldn’t mix them up now.
Maggie sipped her drink and continued to glance around the room. Kathleen gulped hers. She wasn’t sure she wanted Maggie examining any more of her things, stirring up more memories. The past belonged in the past. Wasn’t that what Reverend Everett always said? He said so many things. Sometimes it was just too hard to remember them all. She was almost finished with her tea. Perhaps she would need more.
“What did you need to talk about that couldn’t wait until Thursday?” she asked Maggie.
“Thursday?”
“Thanksgiving. You didn’t forget, did you?”
Another flinch.
“Oh, jeez, Mom. I’m not sure I’ll be able to make it.”
“But you must. I’ve already bought the turkey. It’s in the fridge. Practically fills up the entire damn thing.” Oh, Jesus, she shouldn’t cuss. She needed to watch her language or Reverend Everett would be upset. “I’m thinking we’ll have dinner at five o’clock, but you can come earlier, if you like.”
She remembered that she still needed to buy cranberries and that bread stuff. Where did she leave her list? She started searching the tabletops.
“Mom, what are you doing?”
“Oh, nothing, sweetie. I just remembered a few things for Thursday. I wanted to write them—oh, here it is.” She found the list on the lamp stand, sat down and jotted cranberries and bread stuff at the bottom. “Do you know what that bread stuff is actually called that you use to make the stuffing?”
“What?”
“The bread. You know those small pieces of dry bread that you use to make stuffing.” Maggie stared at her like she didn’t know what she was talking about. “Oh, never mind. I’m sure I’ll figure it out.”
Of course, Maggie probably didn’t know. She was never much of a cook, either. She remembered the girl trying to bake sugar cookies one Christmas and ending up with rock-hard, burnt Santas. Then she refused to be consoled when one of the guys from Lucky Eddie’s suggested they paint them and use them for coasters. Poor girl. She never had much of a sense of humor. She was always so sensitive and took too many things to heart.
When she finally looked up from the list, Maggie was staring at her, again. Uh-oh. Now she looked pissed.
“What else should we have for our Thanksgiving dinner?” Kathleen asked.
“Mom, I didn’t come here today to talk about Thanksgiving.”
“Okay, so what did you come here to talk about?”
“I need to ask you some questions about Reverend Everett.”
“What kind of questions?” she asked. Father had warned them about family members wanting to turn them against him.
“Just some general stuff about the church.”
“Well, I have an appointment I need to get to,” she lied, glancing at her wrist only to find no watch. “Gee, Mag-pie, I wish you would have called. Why don’t we talk about all this on Thursday.”
She walked to the door, hoping to lead Maggie out, but when she turned back, Maggie stood in the same spot, clear across the room. Now Maggie frowned at her. No, not a frown. It was that worried, angry look. No, not anger. Well, yes, anger but also sadness. She had the saddest brown eyes sometimes. Just like her father, just like Thomas. Yes, she knew that look. And yes, Kathleen knew exactly what her daughter was thinking even before Maggie said it.
“I don’t believe this. You’re drunk.”
CHAPTER 53
Maggie knew as soon as her mother called her “Mag-pie.” It had been her father’s nickname for her. One her mother had adopted, but only when she was drunk. Instead of a nickname, it had become a signal, a warning, a grate on her nerves like fingernails on a chalkboard.
She stared at her mother, but the woman didn’t flinch. Her hand stayed firmly planted on the front doorknob. God! She had forgotten how good her mother was at this game. And how god-awful she was, because she let the emotion rule and carry her away—the emotion of a twelve-year-old. Suddenly, she found herself pacing the short length of her mother’s living room.
“How could I have been so stupid to believe you?” Maggie said, annoyed that her lower lip was quivering. A quick glance showed no change in her mother’s face. That perfected combination of puzzlement and innocence, as if she had no clue what Maggie was talking about.
“I have an appointment, Mag-pie…and lots of packing to do.” Even her voice had not shifted, not even a notch. There was still that sugary cheerfulness that came with the alcohol.
“How could I have believed you?” Maggie tried to ward off the anger. Why did this always feel so personal? Why did it seem like a betrayal? “I thought you stopped.”
“Well, of course, I stopped. I stopped packing to talk to you.” But she stayed by the door, hand still planted—maybe she hoped if Maggie didn’t leave, she could simply escape. She watched Maggie pace from one end of the room to the other.
“It was the tea,” Maggie said, slapping her forehead like a child finally getting an answer to a quiz. She snatched up her mother’s glass and took a whiff. “Of course.”
“Just a little something to take the edge off.” Kathleen O’Dell waved it away, a familiar gesture that reminded Maggie of some form of alcoholics’ absolution.
“To take the edge off? For what? What did you need to take the edge off of? So you could get through one goddamn visit with your own daughter?”
“A surprise visit. You really should have called first, Mag-pie. And please don’t swear.” Even that tone, that Pollyanna tone,
grated on Maggie’s nerves. “Why are you here?” her mother asked. “Are you checking up on me?”
Maggie tried to slow down, tried to focus. Yes, why had she come? She rubbed a hand across her face, again annoyed that there was a bit of a tremor in her fingers. Why did she have so little control over her reaction, over her body’s response? It was as if the hurt little girl inside of her came to the surface to deal with this, because the adult woman had not yet found a sufficient way.
“Maggie, why are you here?”
Now her mother had come back into the room, suddenly anxious for an answer.
“I needed to…” She needed to remember the investigation. She was a professional. She needed answers. Answers her mother could provide. She needed to focus. “I was worried about you.”
It was her mother’s turn to stare. Suddenly, Maggie wanted to smile. Yes, she did know a thing or two about playing games, about the power of denial or in her mother’s world, the power of pretend. Her mother wanted to pretend one drink to take the edge off was not a fall off the wagon? Well Maggie could pretend she was simply worried about her, afraid for her safety, instead of looking for answers about Everett. That was what brought her here, wasn’t it? The investigation and trying to solve it. Of course it was.
“Worried?” her mother finally said, as if it had taken this long for her to formulate a definition for the word itself. “Why in the world would you be worried about me?”
“There are some things about Reverend Everett that I don’t think you know.”
“Really?”
Maggie saw suspicion slipping in past the bewilderment. Careful. She didn’t want her to get defensive. “Reverend Everett is not who he seems to be.”
