Mommy, May I

by A. K. Alexander

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Claire’s dinner with Leeza was anything but dull. The broad had flair, you had to give her that. Claire sat across from her wondering how much hairspray it took to get that huge heap of bright red curls to stay put.

  “You know, I’m not totally heartless. I don’t want the kid to get hurt.”

  Claire held back her urge to laugh, nearly choking on her Caesar salad.

  Leeza must have read her thoughts. She leaned her head to one side, doing that sultry but innocent thing she’d become famous for. “I know what you’re thinking, Claire. In the past, I’ve been pretty vindictive.”

  “Nothing short of a barracuda,” Claire snorted gleefully.

  “It’s not like they didn’t deserve it, especially that bitch Helena. But no matter what, I didn’t want to hurt Frances.” Leeza slowly sipped her champagne, staining the rim of the glass with her shell-pink lipstick. Claire could feel heads turn in their direction. Did Leeza feel the men’s lustful glances and the jealous looks from their companions? For what Leeza lacked in charm, she made up for in the full-bodied sexiness department.

  It wasn’t as if Claire was some slouch. She had looks too, but in a cute, petite way. The magnetic seductress across from her licked the rim of her flute. Claire shifted uncomfortably in her chair.

  Leeza set the flute down and looked directly at Claire. As she leaned over the table, her cleavage left nothing to the imagination. Claire caught a whiff of expensive floral perfume Leeza must’ve bathed in. It nearly bowled her over, causing her to sneeze.

  “Now you have no reason to believe anything I say about this, because last year, when I brought you the story, I didn’t care who got hurt, not even the kid. But I’ve thought a lot about that little girl in the last couple of months. And I’ve got to tell you, I didn’t come from the easiest upbringing myself. I think a little of my spunk wore off on her over the years.”

  Claire shook her head trying once again to stifle her laughter. Was this self-deluded woman for real? Maybe she was beginning to believe her own lies.

  “Sounds crazy I know. But I’ve read some of the snotty cracks she’s dished out to the reporters. That kid’s no dummy.”

  “What are you saying, Leeza?”

  “Can you write the story I told you without involving Frances?”

  Claire finally laughed this time. “Leeza, how can I? It’s all about her birth mother threatening you if you don’t leave the girl alone.”

  “Can’t you write something nasty about Helena then?”

  “I probably could, but it’s not worth my time. Either I print the whole sordid conversation, or I don’t do it at all. Anyway, what’s your deal? Patrick paid you up the yang, you’ve had your day in the sun, beat him, her, and the kid to a pulp mentally. Now it looks like Helena’s trying to do some payback for her mistakes with this new center she’s having built. Why don’t you can it for a while? Enjoy life. Get over your spite. Take some of your cash and spend a week at one of those hedonist places down in the Bahamas, or some place like that. You’d love it. It’s right up your alley.”

  “All right then.” Leeza rolled her eyes.

  “All right, what?”

  “Don’t do it. I’ll drop it.”

  The bill came, Leeza’s cue to go to the ladies room. Claire was baffled by this turn of events. She paid the bill and weighed running the story anyway.

  Waiting for Leeza to return, Claire ordered a stiff drink so she could at least ask her about her Playboy spread, reminding herself that sex sells.

  She sucked back the drink and made a final decision not to run the story about Helena. She knew that she might hate herself later for not going through with it.

  “Oh God,” she thought. “Am I getting a conscience? What in the hell are they putting in the water around here?” She held up the glass, studying the liquid inside, then quickly ordered another drink. God help her if she truly was gaining a sense of moral decency.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  1974

  Before . . .

  Richard leaned against the headboard of his bead and reread Ligeia, the poem about Poe’s true love. It reminded him of Janie Keaton every time he read it. For the first year after her death, he couldn’t read “Murders on the Rue Morgue” or any of Poe’s poetry. But as the years passed, so did the feelings of contempt for himself and for her. He’d learned not to care or feel anything at all about it. He knew that she would still be alive if she’d been nice to him.

  What a relief it was that no one ever discovered what really happened to Janie Keaton that late summer night four years earlier. He’d been stupid and careless then. Now at seventeen, he was much wiser and far more calculating. He played dumb, but Richard knew he could pretty much play any role required of him. Acting came easily for him. He’d been lucky that no one ever suspected him. Of course, no one had any inkling that he and Janie had been friends.

  Richard set down the book of poetry on the nightstand beside him and laughed aloud, thinking what people around town believed happened to Janie. Her ignorant drunk of a father made himself look pretty guilty when, only two months after Janie’s disappearance, neighbors found the Keatons dead. Janie’s father had murdered his wife in a drunken rage, then turned the gun on himself and blew his own brains out. It was the talk of the town for quite some time.

  Richard used to sit in the deli and listen to people speculate about the murder/suicide and Janie’s disappearance.

  “Her dad did it. Everyone knows it. Poor Janie’s probably buried out in the woods somewhere. You know he was a drunk? She sure hid that one. Mrs. Stone says he was probably raping her and he was afraid she’d tell someone.” The rumor grew grander with each conversation, and soon his guilt was pretty much the consensus around town. Richard got off totally free.

  Richard headed out the back door to have a look at his collection. After the incident with Janie, he’d been determined to get a few things right.

  As the door slammed, he heard Aunt Valerie yell after him, “Richard! Richard, where are you going? Thanksgiving’s tomorrow, and I need you to get that turkey for me.”

  Richard didn’t reply. She kept on yelling. He kept on walking. During the six years that he’d lived with his uncle and aunt, he’d learned to ignore her. Uncle James never said anything to him about it, probably because Uncle James knew how cruel she’d been to him. She took every opportunity to knock him or put his mother down. She was a real hypocrite, always touting her undying faith while heaping abuse on him and his uncle.

  At first Richard couldn’t understand her contempt for him, but over the years he’d begun to understand it. Aunt Valerie had such disgust for Uncle James and his fetishes that she despised anything associated with him. Richard also knew the old bitch would never leave because of her screwed-up religion. Richard, however, knew there was more to it than what her good book of faith taught her. He had a strong feeling that money was involved, and if his intuition was correct, it was quite a bit. He figured that was why Uncle James never left. Secrets, lies, and blackmail—ah, such a tangled web.

  He walked deep into the woods where it looked eerily dark, and the only sounds were the buzzing, howling, and hooting of the forest creatures. It was exactly how he liked it. He hugged his jacket tight around him. Reaching his makeshift shack, he went inside. It was a small fort built with wood and stones, but it served its purpose. He took the cold metal key from his pocket and opened the good-size locker he kept there—for his collection.

  He swung open the door, and the formaldehyde passed through his nostrils heading straight to his brain. This place was good. The jars and canisters held the fruits of his labors.

  On the first shelf there were mice, rats, rabbits, and all sorts of rodents. Richard had chosen them to learn on. After that, he’d advanced to killing and embalming cats and dogs. Now he’d moved up to larger game—deer and sheep. There were times when he would bring an animal here after trapping them and drain their fluids while still a
live. The way the little beast struggled and bellowed was always interesting. Richard would sit and watch the life drain from them, only to fill them back up.

  He’d created a smaller version of the mortuary’s embalming station in his fort, with intravenous tubes and supplies that he’d stolen from his uncle. The small pump he used for the fluids wasn’t as elaborate as the one at the funeral home, but it worked.

  Today, he would not have time to hunt, except for the freaking turkey the bitch wanted him to get. But what fun would that be? He couldn’t add it to his collection. It would be great, though, if he could. How nice to add Aunt Valerie’s prize turkey, then tell her that it must’ve escaped.

  He laughed looking at Whiskers—Aunt Valerie’s cat—its eyes all bugged out, only the whites showing. Whiskers had been quite a treat. He’d screamed for mercy with his annoying howl, but hadn’t gotten any. Maybe for Christmas he should tell her he’d found Whiskers and give her the gift of a lifetime. Wouldn’t that be a riot! “Hey there, kitty kitty, how you doing? Love to stay and chat, but I’ve got a turkey to get. No more turkey for you, I guess. Huh, kitty kitty?”

  He could smell the apple pie as he approached the house. At least she could cook—Aunt Valerie’s only redeeming quality.

  The years had been hard on Uncle James. He’d had heart problems recently, which Richard attributed to the bitch in the kitchen. Today, she’d sent James to the market and Richard outside to catch the turkey so that she could come out and chop its ridiculous head off.

  “Richard,” she screamed. “Where have you been?” Richard didn’t respond. “Richard! I’ve been waiting and waiting. I've asked you to do this for me all morning. But I should know better. You’re as rotten as your uncle and that mother of yours.”

  Richard put his hands inside his jacket. His body shook. He was so damned tired of her beating him down. She only hated his mother because Elizabeth had been beautiful and sweet. He stared down at the ground, refusing to even acknowledge her.

  “What in the world? My God, do I have to do everything?” She came storming out the front door, her fat ass trailing behind.

  God, how did Uncle James stand it?

  “You are so incompetent! That’s what happens, I suppose, when your mother’s a no-good whore and you’re a bastard.”

  “I’m not a bastard,” he said quietly, raising his eyes before lifting his head. He glared at her.

  “Oh, yeah, I forgot. You’re the son of the legendary Mills Florence. Richard, for God’s sakes, your mother never knew Mills Florence, and she never went to Hollywood. But what can you expect from a whore? Good for spreading her legs and lying—even to her only child. You’re no one’s son, Richard. Nope. I’m sick of all this deceit. It’s time to face reality, boy. You’re nearly a man now. I’d say it’s time you knew the truth, and you know what? Your daddy is the same man who’s been raising you these last six years.”

  Richard felt as if he’d been slugged in the stomach as the meaning of what she’d said came slowly over him like a morning haze clearing off the mountains. He shook his head, trying hard to rid his brain of this thought, but once Aunt Valerie had said it, he knew that she was right. Uncle James was his father. Of course he was. It all made complete sense now.

  “Thought that might get you. That’s right, son, your precious mama was a whore for her own brother. No decency whatsoever, neither one of ‘em. Lustful and disgusting, and you and that man you call “uncle” are lucky I obey the Word of God, for I do not forsake my husband even when sinned against. I have always been true. I will be welcome through those gates of Heaven, but you, boy, you’ve got dirty, sinful blood flowing through your veins. You can only go to hell. Now that you know the truth, quit standing there dumbfounded and get that turkey! We don’t have all day. Your father will be back from the store soon.”

  Aunt Valerie turned to go back in the house, muttering how ungrateful Richard was. Richard’s breathing became labored, his chest ached, and the burning behind his eyes was immense. His vision blurred as his heart raced. He needed to silence her.

  He looked back over by the turkey’s coop where the axe rested against the shed. He walked over and grabbed the handle firmly. He crept up behind her, raised the axe.

  Aunt Valerie turned around, “Richard? What are you . . .”

  He swung like a ball player up to bat, and connected. Aunt Valerie’s head didn’t come all the way off, but the blow severed the jugular vein and her head fell forward, half-on, half-off. Blood sprayed out of her neck. Richard jumped out of the way as she slumped against the doorjamb.

  Richard leaned down to where it looked as if Aunt Valerie was simply taking a rest, and lifted the lolling head up, her dead eyes meeting his. “That’s what I’m thankful for, y’old bitch,” he said. “Don’t have much to say now, do you?”

  When Richard murdered Janie Keaton he’d felt bad, not so much because he’d killed her, but because he didn’t have a friendship with her any longer. He’d had to kill her to control his destiny. No one was allowed to leave him, unless he said so.

  Aunt Valerie was his second human victim, and this time he felt no remorse, none whatsoever. But he did not want to go to jail, so he’d have to act fast.

  Richard went inside and pulled on some cleaning gloves, then dragged his aunt’s body over to the wood-chopping stump. He stood her up, then pushed her down hard across the stump, crushing her windpipe. The turkey made his insane gobbling noises inside his pen. If Richard were not in such a hurry, he’d go shut that fucking thing up, too. No time. Besides, the damn bird was part of the master plan, here.

  Richard located a rock large enough to trip someone chasing a turkey around the yard. Richard let the turkey out of the coop. He wiped down the axe, then placed her hand on it so her fingerprints were the only ones on it. He put the axe down on the stump, as if she’d laid it there while trying to trap the turkey and then tripped, the blade sticking up and catching her just so across the throat.

  He covered his tracks where he’d dragged his aunt’s body across the ground, and then surveyed the scene. It looked good. It appeared as if the turkey had escaped and Aunt Valerie had set down the axe in haste, and while chasing the turkey she’d tripped on a rock next to the stump and fallen onto the axe, nearly decapitating herself.

  Richard clapped, pleased with what he’d accomplished. “I’m brilliant. Whoopee, I am brilliant! I am fucking brilliant!”

  He went back inside, picked up the apple pie, which was still warm, and sliced a piece. After eating the tasty treat, he turned on the television and propped his feet up on her sofa. He took a nap. Creature comforts, how liberating!

  Uncle James’s screaming shattered the silence. He ran inside looking like a crazed man as Richard rubbed his eyes, and stretched.

  “What happened? What have you done?” James yelled.

  “What are you talking about?” Richard yawned.

  “Your aunt! What did you do to her?”

  “I didn’t do anything.” Richard walked out the door pretending to know nothing. “Oh shit! What in the . . .”

  “You didn’t know?” Uncle James turned away from Aunt Valerie.

  Richard could see his uncle’s whole body shaking, as he leaned against the wall. He thought James would’ve been happy to be rid of her. “God no. Of course not!” Richard shook his head vehemently. “Aunt Valerie told me to go catch the turkey, but the darn thing kept getting away. So she got mad as usual, and said she’d do it herself. I came in and turned on the TV. I must’ve fallen asleep. I kinda had a headache.”

  “You didn’t hear anything? Not the turkey, no screaming?” Uncle James pointed his finger toward the yard.

  “No, sir. Nothing.”

  Uncle James—the man Richard now knew was his father—stared at him hard, as if studying him for the first time. Richard did not recognize this look, and his palms became clammy, as he cocked his head from side to side, popping his neck.

  “Do you know what this looks like, Ric
hard?” Tears welled in his father’s eyes.

  Richard was confused and started pacing the floor. “It looks like she tripped and fell on the axe. If that’s what you’re asking me.”

  James walked inside and collapsed on the sofa, his face in his hands. He shook his head and rubbed his temples for a few minutes as tears streamed down his face. When he looked up with reddened eyes, he said, “I can’t believe you would do this. I know she was awful to you, but she took you in, and what you’ve done is damned horrible. I don’t think I know you, son. You killed my wife!” he yelled.

  “What the hell are you saying?” Richard continued to pace, throwing his arms up in the air, as his anger consumed him, making anything possible. Anger was power. And at this moment, the anger fueling him was coming from his very own flesh-and-blood father.

  “Don’t act stupid. I’ve loved you. I cared for you. I’ve done everything for you that I could, but I know there are things you hide—terrible things. I know about your animals, and God, I wanted to talk to you and ask you why, and try to help you. I hoped that you’d stop it all—but this! This is madness—you’ve killed your aunt!”

  Richard knew that he couldn’t continue to lie. His father had it figured out, and if he did, so would the police. So he formulated a plan. “For good reason,” Richard said. “If I were you,” he shook his finger at him, “I’d be thanking me.”

  “Oh, Richard, no!”

  James sobbed and Richard watched him like a baffled child. He didn’t like seeing his father crying with such agony, but at the same time he was angry and shocked, too. The room was still except for his father’s sobs. The apple pie on the counter suddenly smelled sweetly putrid to Richard, turning his stomach sour.

  James’s next words chilled Richard. “I know you were the reason that little girl went missing a few years ago.”