by Sonja Yoerg
A line of cars went by and blocked her view for a second. Afterward, she caught a peek of the homeless guy coming out of the store. He sat down like he was coming home from work and plopping into his favorite chair. The Prince squatted next to him, just buddies having a chat. The homeless guy might have handed something to the Prince, but she couldn’t be sure because the Prince was in the way. She stepped onto the sidewalk to get a better look, but then he wheeled around and headed straight toward her. Shit! She ducked down behind this garbage can like a total idiot. When a truck rolled by, giving her cover, she sprinted around the corner, then strolled toward the post office as if she had never seen a thing.
• • •
The next day in school she started up a conversation with Trevor, the A-plus douche who had the locker under hers. Full of himself for absolutely zero reason. She had said maybe three words to him all year and one of them was “Ow!” when he hit her ankle with his locker door. Didn’t even apologize. Like she said, total douche. But today Trevor would serve a purpose.
She shut her locker. Trevor knelt and stuffed books in his backpack.
“Hey, Trevor.” Her cunning opening.
He didn’t even look up. Douche.
“I was wondering. You know everything that’s going on, right?”
“Everything worth knowing. Why?” He zipped his backpack and stood up. He had on a gangsta wannabe T-shirt with the logo of some band she’d never heard of. The skull and blood spatter said it all. His mouth twisted in a nasty sneer. She expected little snakes to wriggle out.
“Do you think my brother Charlie’s in over his head? He’s only a freshman, and I know it’s just for fun, but . . .” Fishing expedition with zero bait. Good luck.
“Charlie’s okay. Charlie’s always okay.”
“That’s what I figured.”
“Then why are you asking?”
“He’s my brother. Don’t worry, though. I’m not ratting on anyone.”
He frowned in thought. “His prices are kinda steep.”
“I agree.”
“But he’s got great stuff.”
“I’ve seen it. It’s the best.” She had no idea what they were talking about. Bizarrely fun.
Trevor gave her a half smile. “It’s kinda creepy.”
“What’s creepy?” Other than you?
“You talking to me about this.” He kicked his locker shut and gave her a lascivious grin. “But if you’re the kinda ho that’s into porno mags, maybe we should talk again.”
• • •
Once she didn’t feel like puking anymore, she knew just whom to ask for the deets: cousin Spencer. In fact, she wished she’d gone to him first instead of getting drooled on by Trevor. She caught up to Spencer after history class.
Not only did he know all about the Princely enterprise—he was too trusting to question why she wanted to know. Turned out the Prince didn’t sell the magazines or even charge for peeks. He rented them overnight. Gross, right? Most parents installed porno-preventers on their computers, so for a twenty-dollar deposit, a guy could have his very own handheld experience.
“If the pages come back stuck together,” Spencer told her, his gaze downcast, “Charlie keeps the twenty. Otherwise it’s ten.”
No wonder he was loaded.
• • •
It didn’t take the Prince long to start working on Nana. She got here on Sunday and by Wednesday evening they were besties. Ella was making cupcakes for her friend’s birthday, basically stalling on doing her math homework. Nana and the Prince sat at the kitchen table with a deck of cards, some poker chips, and a giant bag of M&M’s. Nana the card shark. Ella always thought old ladies played bridge, but Nana was showing him how to play blackjack and weird versions of poker. They played open hands first, so the Prince could see her strategy. Then he was on his own; Nana chuckled as she raked in her winnings. An hour after they started, her pile of M&M’s dwarfed the Prince’s.
Ella filled the last paper liner with batter. She licked the spoon just as her mom came into the kitchen. Her mom had some sort of radar that detected salmonella exposure. But she ignored Ella’s flirtation with death and creeped on the card game instead. She leaned against the counter and crossed her arms over her chest. Her face seemed half happy about the Prince and Nana bonding, and half suspicious.
“Watch out, Charlie,” her mom said. “She’ll take you for everything you’re worth.”
Nana lifted her eyebrows, but she didn’t look up.
The Prince might have been working on Nana, but who’s to say the old lady didn’t have a plan of her own? Maybe it called for getting in good with Charlie. After all, the liquor store sold more than dirty magazines. She toyed with the idea of telling her mom what Charlie was up to, but she didn’t have any cold, hard evidence. What had she seen anyway? And none of the boys involved would spill the beans. Plus, with Nana there, and the Battle of the Bands approaching, it might be more entertaining just to see how it all played out.
CHAPTER TWELVE
HELEN
Tired of talk shows and the travel channel, Helen asked the girl—Ella—to bring her some books from the town library.
“What kind?”
“When I was your age I liked romances, fool that I was. Then I got a taste for mysteries.”
“Murder mysteries?”
“Oh, any kind. But a murder or two doesn’t hurt.”
Back in Aliceville, Helen chose her first mystery by accident. Hurrying to get home before Eustace, she dashed into the library and grabbed Agatha Christie’s The Mysterious Affair at Styles, thinking it was about a love affair. The cover showed a balding man with a red bow tie touching his forehead like he was thinking hard. She stuffed the book into her shopping bag and hoped that peculiar man would not turn out to be the love interest. That afternoon she learned he was Hercule Poirot. Helen would come to read all of Agatha’s books she could get her hands on. Poirot was her favorite, despite his high-and-mighty attitude. She didn’t care two beans for Miss Marple, the nosy little old gossip. Put her in mind of her mama. Once she finished all of Agatha’s, she branched out to other mysteries. Did her mind good to think about something other than her family and their never-ending wants and desires.
She hadn’t done much reading since she moved to California. Books were for when it was too hot to bother breathing, or when the rain ran down the windows and the wind rattled the shutters. Or when a person was laid up.
Ella brought her a half dozen books. Helen picked out a romance, for old times’ sake, and read the first chapter. She laughed out loud, the first good belly laugh she’d had in ages. How did she ever fall for this nonsense?
• • •
For the first few years of married life, Eustace was on her every night like a boy with a new pogo stick. She assumed this was normal, especially as it lined up with the way folks behaved in the romances. Besides, he treated her fine, calling her “my pretty princess” and buying her dresses and shoes in the latest styles. Took him years before he trusted her to pick out her own clothes, worried most likely she’d come home with a faded housedress and never-white-again apron like her mama’s. She never thought to complain about Eustace, not that she had a soul to do any complaining to. What friends she did have—all from the other side of town—went scarce as soon as she got married.
The babies came one after another, but that didn’t slow Eustace down. Didn’t care if they hollered away in the nursery while he sweated and grunted on top of her. The sound of her babies crying pained her. She had a book by Dr. Spock the library lady pushed on her. He said babies needed affection, and she should trust her instincts. When she informed Eustace of this, he laughed and said Dr. Spock could have as many spoiled children as he pleased, but there would be none in his house. So Helen closed her ears to the crying and waited for him to finish, roll off her, and fall asleep. The whole p
rocedure took minutes. Then she’d sneak out, soothe the children, and slip back into bed. Finally, she slept.
By 1971, they had four children. Eustace wanted more, but Helen, at twenty-four, was done making babies. She was exhausted, despite Louisa’s help. Louisa told her she ate like a bird, and a small one at that, but Helen was worried that if she lost her figure she’d lose her husband along with it. So she pushed her plate away and lit a cigarette instead. At Louisa’s roundabout suggestion, she took to tracking her monthlies. When she reckoned she was ripe, she fell ill with various maladies, or, for variety, picked an argument with Eustace of sufficient ferocity that he escaped to the local watering hole or his daddy’s hunting cabin. It wasn’t a card she played often, though. He was too powerful a man to tolerate her yanking his chain.
Unlike Helen’s, Eustace’s energy—and his ambition—appeared unbounded. He was on the board of this and that, and fished, hunted, and golfed. Then, in 1972, he got it in his head to try politics. He ran for town council and won handily. Two years later, when Paris was nine and Geneva nearly three, he got himself elected mayor. Teaching that man the ways of politics was near to teaching a hog to wallow. Aliceville didn’t have more than eight thousand souls, but a mayor was a mayor. The social gatherings outnumbered the meetings, if anyone could tell the difference. Eustace kept his law practice going, too, and was regularly called away to the county seat or to Columbia. Times he came home from a night away right cheerful. Helen wasn’t stupid, but she knew better than to make a noise. She had her house, her children, and her help. She had the ladies’ club, if she wanted it (and she generally did not), and the church group, which she tolerated. What she did not have was time to worry about everything Eustace might or mightn’t be up to. She couldn’t summon the enthusiasm.
But knowing is one thing and seeing is another subject entirely. One Fourth of July they asked Louisa to look after the children and drove to the country club. Eustace had taken up golf to get in on the betting and make certain he didn’t miss any goings-on. The club was set on a hillside overlooking Lake Prospect. Torches lined the lakeshore, and red, white, and blue bunting hung from the roof edge and porch railings. Round the back, Japanese lanterns and more torches lit tables draped in white. Red, white, and blue bows decorated each seat. Like a spread in a magazine. Eustace steered her to some acquaintances and left to get drinks.
The bartender had a heavy hand. Helen ate a few hors d’oeuvres to soak up the liquor, but it wasn’t twenty minutes before Eustace handed her another drink. Then he disappeared. She didn’t realize it right off, busy as she was chatting with Reba and Suzanne from the ladies’ club. Might have been the drinks, but she’d forgotten how much fun the two of them could be. When Reba did her impression of her girl—a sweet but daft thing—trying to work out how to use the new washing machine, Helen nearly spilled her julep.
She excused herself to go to the restroom, walking on her toes to keep her heels from sinking into the lawn. Been months since she was last at the club and got herself turned around, heading left instead of right through the lobby. On her way past the kitchen she heard Eustace’s voice. Nearly called out to him before she saw his silhouette in the hall shadows. He was turned a little away from her and had his hands on the hip of a woman—a girl—she couldn’t see well enough to place.
“Come on,” Eustace said to the girl. “Give me some sugar.” He pulled her toward him. She giggled loosely—she was drunk.
The girl twisted in his grasp and her skirt fanned into a slice of light from the kitchen. Yellow. Daisy yellow.
Helen stepped back and took a deep breath. Then she returned the way she’d come, found the restroom, and spent several minutes collecting herself. She put on more lipstick and took a good long look in the mirror. Skin smooth, hair blond and silky, figure trim. Not quite twenty-eight and already yesterday’s news. How was that for a sermon on vanity?
When a serving boy offered her another drink, she took it and rejoined her friends. After a time, the girl in the yellow dress appeared on the lawn. Helen watched her take the arm of a hunting friend of Eustace’s, and realized the man was the girl’s daddy. He and his wife had been around to their house a month before, asking if they might borrow Louisa for their daughter’s seventeenth birthday party.
• • •
Such recollections were among the ill effects of sobriety. Helen had had enough of it. Since the accident, the medication had taken the edge off her cravings for liquor, but now Geneva had weaned her off most of it, saying it was habit-forming. What’s wrong with a habit? Gives a person something to look forward to, something to take away the ache. The first vodka of the day was the best, with the next one a close second. She recalled how it gave her another layer, a thick one. The world kept spinning, but she cared a whole lot less. If she kept adding to the layer, drink by drink, she’d disappear without a sound, like a stone headed to the bottom of a lake. No one had a right to take it from her. Geneva’s determination reminded Helen of Eustace. Another inheritance from that man.
Her shoulder had improved to the point where she could use a walker. The leg she broke and the artificial knee still pained her, mostly at night. She blamed the dampness and the lack of booze. At least her nose had healed, and she could go out in public without getting strange looks.
She missed her apartment where she could do as she pleased: play bridge, go to the movies, go shopping, sit by the pool with her neighbors—the ones without loud children. More, she pined for her car, a light blue Mustang convertible, now crumpled beyond redemption. Five years ago, she had ignored her children’s prophecies of doom, and driven the Mustang clear across the country. Wouldn’t have minded to keep right on driving except she ran out of road. And driving, although a heck of a lot of fun, was lonely business. Nothing worse than being alone. Except being alone without a drink.
When she visited Dublin’s house, she had felt more at ease, despite the unceasing commotion from the boys—especially Jack. But their lives spilled over the edges and the spotlight rarely shone on her. Nothing like busy people to make a person feel useless. If only they had a bigger house, she could’ve moved in with them. It occurred to her that Dublin and Talia, especially Talia, might’ve hung on to the little bungalow for exactly that reason.
Here at Geneva’s place, tall, heavy trees surrounded the house and fog hugged the ground at night like in a horror movie. Everything a hush. Dog didn’t even bark, except when deer stood in the yard. The girl kept to her room and Tom to his workshop. Geneva worked most days. When she was home, the way she studied Helen unnerved her—as if Helen had a bomb inside her. Maybe she did. One thing she knew for sure: Without a steady soaking of alcohol, whatever lay ticking inside her was primed to go off.
She couldn’t very well waltz out of the house and get her own supply. She needed a conspirator, a rumrunner. Charlie had potential, but she couldn’t just ask her fourteen-year-old grandson to buy alcohol for her. Not without a foolproof plan.
• • •
Charlie was standing at the kitchen counter dressed in his baseball uniform and eating the first of two enormous sandwiches when Helen clunked in with her walker.
“Hey, Nana. You’re getting good with that.”
“A new trick for an old dog.”
“You’re not old.”
“I knew I liked you.”
Charlie chewed and gazed into the middle distance. “Can I ask you a favor, Nana?”
Helen brightened. “Why, I’d be delighted to help.”
“I want to get Dad something special for his birthday, only I don’t want him to see it.”
“His birthday’s not for a month.”
“No time like the present.”
“I suppose not. So what do you need from me?”
“I want to order it online and have it delivered to my friend’s house so Dad won’t know.”
She scooted a little clos
er. “May I ask what it is?”
Charlie hesitated.
“I see.” She smiled at him. “Never mind. Where do I come in?”
“I don’t have a credit card. But I can pay you back, no problem.”
“Oh, don’t worry about it.” A shady deal, no question. And there was more than one way to even a score.
“Thanks, Nana. You’re the best.” He opened the refrigerator and took out a bottled drink. “You want one of these? It’s iced tea.”
“Is it flavored?”
“Yeah. There’s peach, my favorite. And green tea, which only my mom drinks. Dad likes the lemon, which explains why there aren’t any.” He pushed a bottle aside. “And pomegranate. Mom bought that one by mistake.”
“Isn’t it any good?”
“Try it. If you like it, there’re a few more in the garage.”
“Which kind does Ella drink?”
“I don’t think she likes any of them.”
The stars had aligned. “I’ll be brave and try the pomegranate, thank you.” She motioned to the nearby couch. “And let’s sit here a minute. I have a proposition for you.”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
GENEVA
Geneva tied off the last suture on the cat she had spayed and changed out of her scrubs. On the way to her office she ran into Rosa the intern, who said the Kahnemanns were in the waiting room with Trixie, their cocker spaniel.
A thin, dark blanket of dread fell over her. “Please tell them I need five minutes.”
“Room Two is open.”
“Okay. I’ll meet them there.”
She continued to her office and opened Trixie’s file on the computer. Seven months ago, Geneva had removed a section of the dog’s small intestine because of an obstructive tumor. She scanned the pathology report to remind herself of what she already knew: The growth had been malignant. At the time, she estimated Trixie might survive a year. And now the Kahnemanns had returned. She closed the file.
