True Blend

by DeMaio, Joanne

  “Do you want me to come in?” Celia asks when she pulls into Amy’s driveway.

  “No.” Amy drops down the visor and checks her face in the mirror. “Thank you, Celia. For everything. But I have to talk to my mom. I’ll be okay now.”

  “Well you let me know if you need anything.” She leans over and gives Amy a hug. “Take care of yourself. And talk to George, you hear me?”

  Amy steps out of the car as the gray sky begins to mist. Home, home, home, never has it taken so long to get home. She holds the shawl aloft over her head and hurries toward her front porch.

  * * *

  Every time the bell at the door rings, George sets down the carving knife, stops laying out a platter of chicken cutlets or filling a tray of ground beef, his fingers hovering over the fresh meat, stills, and listens for Amy’s voice.

  “Is George here by any chance?” Celia asks Dean. She pulls her umbrella shut and sets it dripping near the door.

  George hears it all and steps closer.

  “He’s in the back. Can I help you with something?”

  “I really need to talk to George. Could you tell him that Celia’s here? I’m a friend.”

  Every sound, every syllable, is heard. Every step, every gesture pictured in his mind.

  “Why don’t you have a seat?” Dean motions to the tables in the corner.

  George hears Celia’s footsteps, hears her chair scrape. It’s why Sinatra isn’t singing, it’s why the radio talk station is off, the voices that usually bring him updates on crime leads and heist statistics and an expanding manhunt silenced. He walks out from behind the counter wearing his black apron, black pants, white shirt, but feeling like a different man. Furious worry keeping him up all night exhausted him.

  “You look like something the cat dragged in,” Celia says when he takes a seat.

  “That’s what I feel like.” George hesitates, pressing his open hand to the back of his neck. “How is she, Celia?” he finally asks. “Have you seen her?”

  “I have. What the hell happened yesterday?”

  George turns to Dean. “Hey guy, how about some coffee over here?”

  “Right away,” Dean says, disappearing into the back.

  “She’s okay?” George asks Celia.

  “That’s subjective.”

  “Subjective.” He looks down at his hands. “Which means she’s not.”

  “No. It means I’m not sure how she is. Amy’s not saying much.”

  Dean sets two steaming cups of coffee before them when the bell above the door rings. George glances over at two customers walking in before sipping his coffee. “How’d she look then?”

  “Shell-shocked, to say the least. Which is why I’m here.” She stirs cream into her cup. “Maybe it’s none of my business, but Amy’s my best friend. She’s been through so much and I’m worried about her.”

  “What did she tell you?”

  “You were at the bandshell, something happened, an argument or disagreement or something, and she walked out.”

  George looks into the coffee in front of him. “That about sums it up,” he says, raising his eyes to hers. “No details?”

  “Not really.”

  “Do you know where she spent the night?”

  “Yes I do. In an empty house I recently staged. One I wanted her to buy, actually.” Celia lifts her cup and takes a sip. “She let herself in with my lock box code.”

  He leans back and looks away, trying to compose himself.

  “What the hell was she hiding from, George?”

  “She’s got nothing to hide from. Could you tell her that for me?”

  “Me? You’ve got to tell her yourself. You’ve got to talk to her. Can’t you go and see her?”

  “She’s home?”

  Celia squints at him. “Yes. Yes, okay? I just brought her there. What’s the big secret? She’s there, you’re here and you should be together. Go see her, George.”

  “Believe me, it’s not good right now.”

  “You won’t tell me what happened, will you?”

  “I’m sorry, Celia.” He shakes his head.

  Celia slides her coffee away. “Well I can’t believe that you would intentionally hurt her. I really can’t.”

  “It wasn’t intentional.”

  “But it was bad.” She watches him carefully.

  “Just tell her I’m here all day. Whenever she wants to talk, I’m here.”

  * * *

  The good thing about having people around is that they are a distraction. When she folded Grace’s clothes into the suitcase, she knew it was only a matter of minutes before the house would be empty. Before she would turn on the steaming shower to wash the remnants of yesterday down the drain. But she can’t yet. She has to stay calm and get Grace out of this house, out of this town, away from the madness.

  “Where the hell is that cat?” Amy says under her breath. The suitcases are in the driveway, Grace is strapped into her parents’ car and her mother just walked out carrying a cooler of sandwiches and juice boxes for the road. Amy moves the cat carrier onto a kitchen chair; Angel’s dish and food are packed inside a brown bag. She leans out the screen door. “Did you look upstairs for her, Mom?”

  “Yes I did,” Ellen calls back. “I haven’t seen her all day.”

  “All day?” Dr. Brina always told her not to separate Grace from the kitten, so Amy checks Angel’s favorite sleeping places: the end of her bed, the bath mat, on Grace’s windowsill. Outside below, she sees her father loading the trunk.

  “This time you’re coming with us,” he said earlier when they had coffee together. “You should have moved back home after Mark died. None of this would have happened then. Did George hurt you? Are you in trouble?”

  “No and no.” She tried to reassure her father on the front porch. “There’s just been a misunderstanding, and it’s serious. I told Mom I’ll fill you in as soon as I can. But in the meantime, it’s easier if Grace stays with you while I straighten things out here. Because on top of all this, I’m crazy busy with my bridal fashion show next week.” She takes a deep breath and hugs her father. “After the show, I’ll close the shop for a few days, stop the mail and head up to stay awhile.”

  But she figures he knew it was more than she let on; it was about George. She looks out at her father from the window. He aged over the past few years. How many nights’ sleep did he lose worrying about her? Deep wrinkles cut into his cheeks and feather from his eyes. And now this.

  “Kitty, kitty,” she calls softly, turning away and lifting Grace’s bedspread. A little black and white paw shoots out at her bare foot, making her jump, the folds of her limp dress brushing her legs. She gets down on her knees and pulls Angel out. Any other day, the kitten hunt would have made her laugh, but not today.

  “I’ll be up soon, when this is through,” she says to her mother when she brings the cat carrier out to the driveway.

  “When what is through?” Her mother stands outside the car, watching her. “With the stalking going on, I’m afraid for you.”

  “Mom, don’t worry. What happened with George isn’t about the stalking, I told you that already. What I really need to do is set up Wedding Wishes for the fashion show next week, so let me take care of that first and I’ll be up tomorrow night, okay? To stay a couple days.”

  “And then what? Come back for the bridal show? Amy, it’s too much. I don’t want you running back and forth on the highway with all that’s on your mind. You’ll be so distracted you’ll get in an accident.”

  “Mom. Come on, I’ll be fine. And I need to be with Grace.”

  “No, I’m serious. Grace is perfectly safe with us. She’ll be out in the yard, playing in the garden and getting plenty of fresh air and good food. I won’t let her out of my sight. You just take care of things here, and we’ll see you later next week. It’s better this way.” She reaches over and touches Amy’s cheek. “Maybe you can fix things with George, too,” she adds softly.

  Amy’s eyes
tear up. “Okay,” she whispers. “We’ll see.” She gives her mother a quick hug, then opens the rear door and leans in to her daughter. “You give Mommy a hug too,” she says. “And be a good girl for Grandma and Grandpa, now. I’ll see you soon, okay honey?”

  “Where’s Angel?” Grace asks, her eyes wide with worry.

  Amy touches the tip of her beautiful daughter’s nose, still relishing that innocent voice. “Right here, looking for you!” She sets the carrier on the seat beside Grace.

  Grace reaches her arms up to Amy. “Want to stay home.” She starts to twist in her car seat.

  “Shhh.” Amy leans in and hugs her again. “When I come to Grandma’s, we’ll look in the pretty gazing ball, okay? And you’ll show me how big the sunflowers grew. Remember when we put the seeds in the dirt?”

  Grace pouts around a thumb in her mouth and nods solemnly.

  “Love you.” Amy straightens and closes the car door. Her father starts the engine and she waves to Grace in the back seat. “Bye, sweetie.” Grace waggles her fingers while sucking her thumb. “Bye Mom, Dad. I’ll call you.”

  Her mother squeezes her hand through the open window. “Every day.”

  The car backs away carrying her daughter to safety in the New Hampshire hills. She follows it to the end of the driveway, walking slowly and keeping it in her sights as long as possible in order to delay what comes next.

  She knows it is just a matter of time before it happens, before George seeks her out.

  * * *

  It begins again in the shower. Deep within her arms, there’s a tremor. At the same time, her vision narrows, darkening at the edges until there is only tunnel vision. Her eyes glance about, orienting herself in the bathroom. She has enough wits about her to get herself out of the shower and into her robe. It started last night, this tingling, the worry, but sheer will kept it at bay until she was home and her daughter safe. Now, no amount of pacing and thinking and splashes of cold water can deflect it.

  Amy sits on the edge of her bed and tightens the sash of her robe as the full-blown anxiety attack comes now. Dr. Berg warned her that this is the worst of PTSD symptoms. Anxiety. This time, she gives her body over to it completely. Sound and vision grow distorted. The morning clouds open, releasing a gentle shower of rain outside her window; birdsong fades in and out as her ears ring. She reaches one hand quickly to her nightstand, drops her head and closes her eyes. If she even loosens her grip, the room spins. Perspiration trickles down her face, along her neck, and the sound of her breathing blazes in her head. She talks herself through it, whispering over and over that she is okay. She is on her bed, Grace is safe, the symptoms can’t hurt her. When they subside, when she lifts her head and the room is stable, her body gives in to the exhaustion. And again, sleep comes quickly, deeply, stifling the thought that it wasn’t danger that brought on the panic. It was heartbreak.

  * * *

  George lifts a towel soaking in a bucket of sterilizing solution and wipes down the tabletops and stainless steel sink used for meat washing. He usually likes this late hour when the outside door is locked, the display room lights dimmed and Sinatra plays uninterrupted. Every surface in the workroom needs a thorough sanitizing at the end of each day.

  He sent Dean home early this afternoon, at three, shut off the shop lights and listened only for the phone to ring. Because there is nothing to do but stay where Amy would expect him to be all day. He waits to hear her voice on the shop telephone, or his cell phone. To see her standing at the door, looking in. He doesn’t dare alter his routine lest she not find him and turn to leave. He also knows damn well that it might be Detective Hayes knocking at the door, holding a warrant for his arrest if Amy decides to turn him in.

  Now he pulls the cutting boards from the hot water and bleach solution, rinses them and leaves them to dry. Going through the motions keeps his hands busy, restraining him from pouring a drink or throwing something or calling her. All parts of the meat grinders, including the auger housing, have been disassembled, cleaned and sanitized. George picks up the wrench and methodically, silently, reassembles the auger housing to the grinders, working his way through the neat row of nuts and bolts he lined on the countertop.

  He does the same with the slicing machines, then wipes off the refrigerator shelving until all possibility of cross-contamination is eliminated. Finally there is nothing left. Nothing to do but stand there. He checks his watch again, hangs clean towels in the workroom for the next day, shuts off the lights and heads home. If there is no word from Amy on his answering machine, if she hasn’t left questions, words, breaths and pauses there rather than interrupt him at work, then he will go to her.

  Thirty

  WHEN AMY WAKES UP, SHE knows exactly what is going to happen as though she has clearly done this before. It isn’t a flashback. This is simply a knowledge of what is to come because it happened already, over and over, in her mind. She showers again, dresses in faded jeans and a black tunic, straightens up the kitchen and stands at the window over the sink. The cornfield at the farm down the street is the gauge by which she judges summer’s passing. Early on, she could never see the tiny plants. Now they grow tall and green beside the red barn, heavy with corn inside the curling leaves. The plants stretch to the steady rain falling from the low, gray sky. This is the time of summer when she might spot deer as she walks along the street; the corn lures them close to human life. Her own life feels emptied.

  She knew he’d come. Looking out at the greens of the cornfield as vast as the sea, she steels herself upon hearing his truck door close. His footsteps sound muffled through the paned farm door, gritty on the wet stone walkway on the side of the house, leading around back to the kitchen. A surprising wave of sadness passes over her as she misses the jangling keys that often accompanied his step. He knocks on the wooden frame of the kitchen screen door and she hears him shift his position beneath the overhang to escape the rain.

  Standing in the dark kitchen, she doesn’t put on a light, doesn’t move. She only waits at the sink, blinking back tears, unsure of what to do.

  * * *

  George stands at the back door. He knows she’s home; her SUV is parked in the driveway and a lamp shines in the front window. The wait, all day, has grown interminable. When she doesn’t answer his knock, his fist hammers the doorframe. “Open the door, Amy,” he calls out. “Please open the door.” Rainwater cascades off the overhang in sheets. He knows she’s inside, listening. “Oh God, Amy. Don’t do this.” He takes a step into the rain, then turns back. His fist pounds twice on the door before dropping to his side. “Amy. Amy, I made a mistake,” he yells, brushing rainwater off his hair. “Let me talk to you,” he insists, rattling the locked screen door against its frame.

  The paned wood door behind it finally opens. She stands on the other side.

  “Amy.” He looks through the screen at her, alarmed at the grief he sees. “Amy, we can’t leave things like this.”

  “You want to talk now? Where were you the past two months?” she demands.

  “I wanted to talk. There were so many times I wanted to tell you.” He moves closer to the screen, his hand on the doorknob while the wind blows the rain straight at him.

  Amy slips back into shadow. No lights shine in her kitchen. “Get out,” she says.

  George tries the latched door again, then raises his eyes to hers, squinting into the dark room. Rain drips off his hair onto his forehead. “God damn it. I couldn’t tell you.”

  She watches him. “But you could take my daughter?” A cool mist of rain blows through the screen and she backs further away. “You played me really well, didn’t you? I never even suspected you were one of them. How could you? Jesus, how could you do it?”

  He tries opening the screen door again. “Just let me in, Amy. Let me explain.”

  “Explain what? How you planned it all?” She hugs herself, stepping further back into the kitchen, away from him. “Don’t you get it? I don’t want to see you.”

 
; “But you’re wrong,” he insists. “You’re confused by what you saw that morning. I wasn’t one of them. I helped Grace, damn it. I kept her safe.”

  “You had the chance to help us in the parking lot.” She takes a long breath. “You had a gun,” she contends, pausing between each word, the hiss of rain sounding too. “You could have stopped it.” They watch each other, patient until she edges closer and begins to shut the inside door.

  “Amy,” he says, his fist hitting the screen doorframe desperately, a side wind blowing the rain at his face. “Don’t.” In her moment’s hesitation, he speaks quickly. “They had three guns. Don’t you understand?”

  “No.” She shakes her head.

  He pulls his hand over his wet face. “They had Grace.”

  Like he knew they would, his words inflame her. “And you helped them. Get out of here before I turn you in.” He doesn’t move. “Leave, George,” she cries.

  “I had the money,” George answers, his voice controlled. “That’s all I had.”

  “What?”

  “A million dollars. That was my weapon. Not the gun.” He raises his voice over the steady downpour. “The others knew that if they hurt Grace, I’d use that money to pay to have the same done to them.”

  “You’re lying. You took Grace from me. I can’t deal with you anymore.”

  “Then turn me in,” he yells, “because I am not leaving here.” When the kitchen phone rings, they both stop. “Answer it,” he says on the third ring. “Answer it and tell them to call the police.” When she moves toward the phone, he wrenches the locked screen door open, rushes in and grabs her arm. His hair lays wet and flat, rainwater drips from his face and hands, his clothes are soaked. Nothing could have prepared them for this moment as he pulls her to him and locks her in his arms. Her face presses against his chest and he feels her struggle to escape, to breathe. If this is how it has to be done, how an absolution is reached, he hates it. His grip gets tighter when he hears her cries.