Mother's day

by MacDonald, Patricia J

  Through it all, Karen sat in the living room like someone in the eye of a hurricane. She answered questions funneled to her by Detective Ference. She gave them the names and addresses they requested—friends, family, places Greg might have gone. She agreed without argument to the surveillance methods they wanted. She made no effort to resist them or correct their impressions. She was dimly aware of Jenny, flailing out at the invasion, cursing the intruders in their house, but she made no effort to stop her or join her. She just sat.

  Finally, now, after hours of this, the last of the swarming interested parties were retreating from her property. “We’ll be going, then,” said Walter. “Don’t get up.”

  Karen almost laughed at that. As if she could get up. Her legs felt as if they belonged to somebody else.

  Walter Ference handed her a card with his name and two numbers on it. “This is the police station,” he said, “and this is my home number.”

  Karen looked at it blankly.

  “Mrs. Newhall, the sooner we apprehend your husband, the better it will be for all of you. You and your daughter are caught in the crossfire here. You’re going to be made to feel like criminals because of his actions. As long as he is at large, you will not have an unobserved moment, a private telephone conversation, nothing.”

  “Yes, I know,” said Karen.

  “If you have any information, give me a call. I’ll treat you fairly. We have no quarrel with you or your daughter.”

  “Thank you,” said Karen. She stared at the card and then put it in front of her on the coffee table.

  The police had gathered up their things and, led by the chief, were straggling out through the front door like the last revelers at a party. “Good night,” said Walter. He followed the rest of his men outside.

  Karen heard Jenny slam the door on the departing detective.. After a moment, Jenny came into the room and stood in front of her mother.

  “Is it true?” said the girl.

  Karen looked up helplessly at their daughter, whose face was bright pink. “They found the room key in his van. With blood on it. They seem to think—”

  “I’m not talking about that,” said Jenny impatiently. “I want to know if it’s true that he’s my real father.”

  Karen felt the question pierce through the numbness that enveloped her. “Yes,” she said in a flat voice. “Apparently, it is.”

  Before she could say more, Jenny turned on her and ran out of the room, clattering up the stairs.

  “Jenny,” Karen called weakly after her. But there was no answer. You should get up, she thought. You should go after her. This is a terrible shock for her.

  But she couldn’t. Her own feelings overwhelmed her. She kept seeing Greg’s face as he admitted to their accusations. Every time she pictured it she was stunned all over again. She would have been less surprised if the coffee table had suddenly started to speak.

  She knew him. They had been together more than twenty years, and she knew him inside out. For all these years they had shared their thoughts. In bed, in the morning, they described their dreams. At night, if they couldn’t sleep, they told one another their fears. She had never doubted his love, never suspected his actions. Because she knew—she was the center of his world. He was the center of hers—it was a given. They would never let anything threaten that. They had promised. It was written in stone.

  Karen looked over at the club chair where he always sat in the evening, his feet on the footstool in front of it. He never changed chairs. When she offered to buy him a new one, he demurred. “I love this chair,” he would say. “Why would I want another one?”

  Once, when he went on a camping trip with some buddies, she’d had it reupholstered. He’d agreed reluctantly that it looked nice, but it took him weeks to get it comfortable again, and she knew that although its worn arms and frayed back had bothered her, he never saw it as shabby. It was his chair. He was not put off by imperfections—his affections increased with time. That was the way he was.

  She squeezed her eyes shut, and tears rolled down her face. Her heart felt as if it were being hammered into something small and dented by the pain inside of her.

  “I hate you,” she said aloud to the chair. “How could you lie to me like that? Not you. Anyone but you…”

  Her thoughts reeled back to the time he mentioned. When she found out they could not have children. When they had begun to understand how difficult adoption would be. It was true, she had been depressed. It was true she didn’t want to make love. She could barely speak, or get out of bed, or get a meal together. The last thing she’d wanted was to frolic in bed. It was beyond imagining.

  I understand, he would always say. Once in a while, she would worry—would he turn to someone else? But it was more of a worry for form’s sake. Because magazine articles and talk shows said it happened that way in normal marriages. But they were not like other people—they were special. He was hers, for better or for worse.

  And he was always reassuring her. It’s not important, he would say. You’re everything I need. It’s just a phase. He never got mad. He never complained. And when she had the strength, she would thank her stars for such a husband. And all the while…he was deceiving her. He was living another life.

  I’ll go mad if I sit here, she thought. But she couldn’t move. Outside her window, the moon was pale and translucent as a thin slice of lemon. The same moon they had admired at its rising only hours ago. She and her husband. And their daughter.

  Jenny shuffled into the room, clutching a white afghan from her bed. “I can’t stay in my room, Mom,” she said. Her face was as white as the blanket. “Can I sit here with you?”

  Karen looked gratefully at her child. She raised her arms up to her. Jenny came over to the couch and curled up against her mother’s side like a kitten. It seemed to Karen that they had not sat that way since Jenny was a weary little toddler. The warmth of her child resting against her side was inexpressibly comforting. Karen wrapped one arm around her gently, afraid to spook her, to drive her away. But Jenny did not resist. She snuggled closer to her.

  They sat silently like that for several minutes, each lost in private fears. Then Jenny whispered, “He didn’t do it. He never would.”

  Jenny was talking about the murder. Karen realized with a start that she had hardly given a thought to that, so consumed was she by the knowledge of his betrayal, the secret he had kept from her all these years about Jenny. She tried to focus on the question of murder—she tried to picture Greg, driven to such an act. “No,” she whispered. “No, not your…father.” But even as she said it, she felt a shiver of doubt. She had never imagined him betraying her, either. If anyone had asked her, she would have said that she knew him completely.

  “So why are they trying to blame him, Mom?”

  “He told a lot of lies,” Karen said. “A million lies.”

  “He had to,” Jenny protested.

  Tears welled up in Karen’s eyes. “He didn’t have to,” she said furiously. “Nobody has to lie like that.”

  “But, you know Daddy would never do that. Hurt someone.”

  A bitter laugh escaped from Karen. “Oh, no?” she asked.

  “You know what I mean,” said Jenny stubbornly. “I mean, you know, hit a person, a woman like that. Kill her.”

  Karen took a deep breath. “No,” she said. “He wouldn’t…he couldn’t do that. But the police—”

  “You have to tell them that,” Jenny cried. “That he would never do it.”

  “Jenny, the police don’t care what I might say about it. Besides, innocent people don’t run away,” she said.

  Jenny tensed up and drew away from her. “Mother, you just said he didn’t do it.”

  Jenny was staring at Karen, demanding consistency, reason, answers. Karen didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. I have no answers, she wanted to wail. But instead she focused on her child’s face. Your world has been turned upside down, she thought. You are trying to hold on for dear life. She searc
hed for some words of comfort that would ring true. All she could think to say was, “There has to be some explanation.”

  “That’s right,” said Jenny defiantly. She sat forward on the sofa, her back to Karen. “Are you mad that he kept me?” she asked.

  Karen pressed her lips together and blinked back tears. The pain in her heart made it hard to breathe. The truth came readily to her lips. “I love you more than anything in the world,” she said.

  Jenny’s tense shoulders seemed to relax at this. After a few moments she eased herself against her mother’s side. Karen pulled the edge of the afghan over her. “Rest,” she said. She reached up and turned off the lamp above her shoulder.

  “I can’t,” said Jenny, her voice small and scared in the darkness.

  “Try,” Karen urged her.

  They sat together in silence. After a while Karen heard the rise and fall, the rhythmical breath, of sleep. She curved her arm gently around her daughter and clung to her sleeping child. Their child. She wished she could hate him. Only hate him. Make him gone from her heart the way he was gone from their house. But loving him was an ancient habit of hers. She tried not to picture him, out there somewhere, in the night chill. But it was useless. He was as familiar as herself. Greg, who couldn’t wait to get home each night to his chair by the fire, the warmth of his bed, the embrace of his wife, his little girl’s kisses. We’re the Three Bears, Jenny had said when she was small. And they had laughed. It seemed so true. And now Papa Bear was out there, alone in the dark, chased by hunters. And here, by the cold hearth, their fairy-tale world was in ruins. How could you do this to us? she wanted to cry out. I thought you loved me. But there was no one to hear her. No one to explain. Flames of anguish licked at Karen’s heart, burning like home fires.

  Chapter Nineteen

  While Emily searched in the bedroom closet for her rain bonnet, Walter stood at the kitchen sink, washing up his few breakfast dishes. His sister, Sylvia, was seated at the table, waiting for Emily.

  “Walter, you need a dishwasher,” she advised. “And a microwave. And look at this floor. The linoleum is worn through in places. Well, what do you expect? Mother had that put down the year Father died. That’s going on half a century now. Time flies…”

  Walter dried his coffee cup and put it up in the old cupboard. Sylvia grimaced as the cupboard door creaked on its hinges. “I don’t know how you can stand this old place. Look at these old Currier and Ives prints. They’re going to fall off the wall any day now. Why don’t you take two minutes and fix them?”

  Walter put away his saucer and closed the cupboard door. Sylvia sighed. “I don’t know how you can stand this old place,” she said. “Now, I like living in Seaside Village. Everything is new. If something breaks, somebody comes in right away and fixes it. I mean, if you’re not handy,” she said, looking pointedly at her brother, who was cleaning off his glasses with a paper towel, apparently oblivious of her, “you’ve got no business in an old place like this.”

  Walter held his glasses up to the old hanging light fixture and squinted through them to be sure all the smudges were gone. “Tell you the truth,” Sylvia went on, “I never wanted to set foot in this place again after Mother died. It seems like there was nothing but sickness and gloom in the house…” She shuddered.

  “You’re the most morbid person I know,” Walter observed calmly, replacing his glasses on his nose. “Why else would you be going to this funeral today, except that you like the idea of a murder victim’s funeral?”

  Sylvia drew herself up indignantly. “For your information, I have known the Emerys for years through the church. They have no other family, to speak of. If you were more active yourself in your parish…”

  “You know Emily doesn’t do well with funerals,” said Walter.

  “Nonsense,” Sylvia sniffed. “It doesn’t matter whether Emily goes to a funeral or a garden party. Emily has a constitutional weakness. You know it as well as I do.”

  Emily’s voice wafted to them down the hall. “I’m just looking for my gloves. I’ll be right there.”

  Sylvia stood up and adjusted her skirt. “You should be going to this funeral, Walter. Seeing who shows up. They say that killers often can’t resist turning up at their victims’ funerals.”

  “I’ll leave the crepe hanging to you,” said Walter.

  “Rather irresponsible,” said Sylvia. “In light of the fact that you were the one who let the killer get away.”

  Walter did not reply. He put on his jacket and walked to the back door. He stood there for a second, looking out at the rain. “Well, you enjoy the festivities, now,” he said to his sister. “You’ve got a perfect day for it.”

  “Mother,” said Bill Emery, “are you ready? The limousine is outside.”

  Alice Emery stared into the hall closet crammed with bags, boots, and winter coats. From the top shelf she extracted a black, beaded evening bag and stared. “Do you remember the year Linda gave me this for Christmas? She saved up her baby-sitting money for it.”

  Bill looked at his watch and then glanced at the bag in his mother’s hand. “I don’t know,” he said. “All those Christmases run together in my mind.”

  Alice smiled wistfully. “I never had anywhere to wear it. Your father wasn’t one for going out fancy.” She shook her head. “I don’t know why she picked this. She knew we never got dressed up like this. Probably something she saw in a movie made her think of it.”

  “Maybe,” said Bill. “I don’t know.”

  “I think I’ll carry this,” Alice said.

  “Mother, that’s an evening bag. It’s not meant for a funeral.”

  “I know that,” said Alice stubbornly. “But I’m going to carry it.”

  “All right,” said Bill. “Fine. But we’d better hurry.”

  Alice’s hands trembled as she fumbled with the clasp on the bag.

  “What are you doing?” he said.

  “I have to put my things in here,” said Alice. She pointed to her worn, brown pocketbook, which sat squatly on top of the console TV. “Hand me my other bag, will you?”

  Suppressing a sigh, Bill walked over and pulled the bag off the TV by its strap. A lipstick tube, a half-eaten roll of Life Savers, some coins, and a couple of wadded tissues spilled out onto the floor. Bill knelt and stuffed them back inside. He stood up and held out the bag to his mother. “It’s just that people are going to be waiting,” he said.

  Alice began to sort through her brown pocketbook, extracting items and placing them in the evening bag. “Let them wait,” she said. She lifted out the pocket date book and examined it thoughtfully.

  “I don’t think you’ll be needing all that stuff, Mother. Besides, it probably won’t all fit in there,” he said tactfully.

  Alice continued methodically to repack her purse. She did not look at Bill. “I should never have listened to you,” she said. “I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.”

  Bill’s eyes flashed, but he spoke in an even tone. “No one forced you to do anything.”

  Alice’s voice was thick with emotion as she pressed her ubiquitous tissues into the corners of the black bag.

  “I turned her out. My own daughter. I never even got a chance to speak to her again.”

  “We had no way of knowing this was going to happen,” said Bill.

  “You were so determined to have your way,” said Alice, stuffing a tiny change purse into the black bag. “I felt like if I didn’t do what you wanted, you would turn against me, too.”

  Bill clenched his fists and walked over to the front window, pulling back the curtain. Glenda had stepped out of the car and was signaling him to come. “We have to go,” he said.

  Alice looked up at him, shaking her head. “Don’t you even care? Your own sister?”

  “I don’t care to be your scapegoat,” he said.

  “Bill,” Alice exclaimed, “that’s an awful thing to say.”

  Bill walked over to the front door and called out, “We’re coming
.”

  Alice put on her hat and pulled the black veil down over her forehead and glasses. “Are the children in the car?” she asked distractedly.

  “I told you twice already,” Bill snapped. “They’re with a neighbor. They’re too young for this.”

  “They never even knew their aunt Linda,” Alice said, awkwardly fishing a tissue from the cramped black bag. She wiped her eyes and tucked the bag securely under her arm, cradling it there.

  “Whose fault is that?” Bill muttered.

  “What?” Alice asked, turning back to him.

  “Nothing,” he said. “Let’s go.”

  Considering how long she had been away from Bayland, Linda Emery drew a substantial crowd to her funeral. Few of those who gathered, however, were actual mourners. There was a clutter of reporters and an assortment of the morbidly curious. Many had come hoping to see the reaction of Linda’s long-lost child—the child whose father had been accused of Linda’s murder and escaped. Those who did were disappointed. Karen had forbidden Jenny to attend for just that reason—that her presence might result in circus antics at the solemn occasion.

  Because of the rain, the graveside service was brief. Mary Duncan, shielded from the weather by an umbrella held by her husband, dabbed at her eyes with a handkerchief as the priest intoned the final words of interment. She could see Linda’s mother looking dazed and bewildered as she threw a rose onto the casket. Mary could scarcely imagine the sorrow of losing her daughter and her husband, all in a matter of months. Mary’s gaze traveled to Bill Emery, who dutifully threw in a flower after his mother, his face impassive. Mary had already noted the coltish, honey-haired young girl in dark glasses who seemed to be following Bill’s every move like an ardent fan at a sporting event. She wondered if Glenda had noticed. How could she not? Mary thought, feeling a little sick. Well, sometimes the wife was the last to know.