by Joy Fielding
Or maybe she wasn’t home, Jamie thought, hopefully. Maybe she was on vacation somewhere with Mark, or with one of the women with whom she played bridge every week, maybe even the whole damn bunch of them. They’d always talked about taking a trip together one day, going off to some bridge tournament to earn some much desired master points, whatever that meant, so maybe that’s exactly what they’d finally done, and so the house was empty, there was no need for her to be worrying herself almost sick, the wicked witch had hopped on her broomstick and taken off for parts and bridge hands unknown.
Except she hadn’t.
Because if she had, who was that woman Jamie had seen standing at her bedroom window earlier in the evening? No, Mrs. Dennison was here all right. Jamie could feel her presence in the etherlike pall of the air. The poison filled her nostrils and invaded her lungs, making every breath not only painful, but also dangerous. Brad tugged gently on her hand, pulling her forward, even as her body continued angling toward the door. “Brad,” Jamie began as he suddenly dropped her hand and abruptly left her side. She watched him skip up the three carpeted steps into the main part of the house. Fearless, she was thinking. In the next second she was racing up the three steps after him.
Even in the dark, Jamie could clearly make out every piece of furniture in the large living room. There was the pink-and-white chintz sofa in front of a long front window, framed by matching drapes, a green-and-white-striped wing chair to either side of it, and a light pine coffee table in front of it. A huge brick fireplace occupied much of the opposite wall, two dark green, embroidered Queen Anne chairs in front of it. A black baby grand piano was stuffed into a far corner, facing toward the center of the room. To Jamie’s knowledge, nobody had ever played it. Nor had anyone ever used the gorgeous ivory chess set, imported from Italy, that sat in the middle of the pine coffee table, or the beautiful set of brass candlestick holders that stood on top of the mantel next to an empty, pink-striped, glass fruit bowl and several framed photographs of mother and son. The walls were white, as was the thick pile rug. The artwork consisted of two muted landscapes, one on either side of the fireplace. There were silk pink and purple orchids everywhere. Mrs. Dennison had regularly boasted that no one could distinguish them from the real thing.
“Brad, let’s get out of here.”
“A white rug,” Brad remarked, as if she hadn’t spoken. “Pretty brave or pretty stupid.” Slowly and deliberately, he kicked the dirt from his sneakers onto the side of the rug.
“Brad, don’t.”
“Why not?”
“Because she’ll know someone was here.”
“Someone was here.”
“I know, but—”
“Hand me one of those things.” He pointed toward the mantelpiece.
“What?”
“One of the candlestick holders.”
“Why?”
“I have an idea.”
“What sort of idea?” Jamie’s voice echoed against her ears, like a shout, and she winced. Her former mother-in-law might be a sound sleeper, but there were limits to everything. The less they talked, the better. The sooner they were out of here, the better.
“Trust me,” he said.
Jamie reluctantly lifted a candlestick holder from the mantel. It was heavier than she anticipated and it almost slipped from her fingers.
“Careful,” Brad warned.
Jamie tightened her grip. “What are you going to do?”
“Put it over there.” He pointed at the piano.
“Why?”
“Just do it.”
“I don’t understand.”
“Put it on top of the piano. Yeah, right there,” he said as Jamie deposited the candlestick holder on the closed top of the ebony piano. “The old bat’ll spend days wondering how the hell it got there,” he said, answering her silent question.
“She’ll probably just fire the cleaning lady,” Jamie said, already feeling guilty.
“What’s through here?”
“Brad, no. Let’s just …” But Brad was already pushing open the swinging door into the dining room.
A traditional walnut table surrounded by eight, high-backed wooden chairs, upholstered in blood-red leather, occupied the center of the rectangular room. A tall, matching walnut cabinet stood against one wall, filled with expensive china and glassware. Brad glanced casually in the cabinet’s direction before pushing through the next set of swinging doors to the kitchen.
“I’m really thirsty,” he said, striding toward the refrigerator.
Jamie followed after him, peeking back over her shoulder. “Brad, I really think we should get out of here.”
“I could use a glass of milk.”
“Milk?”
He pulled open the refrigerator door, leaned forward, began inspecting the contents of the fridge. “Let’s see. There’s orange juice, eggs, cranberry juice, a plate of what looks like leftover spaghetti.” A flash of white glistened in the dark. It was at that moment Jamie realized Brad was wearing latex gloves.
“You’re wearing gloves?” she asked incredulously.
He pulled a carton of 2 percent milk from the top shelf. “Where does she keep her glasses?” he asked, ignoring her question.
“Where did you get the gloves?” Jamie persisted.
Brad shrugged, as if the question was as irrelevant as it was unimportant. “The glasses?” he asked, opening the closest set of cupboard doors.
“Over there.” Jamie pointed to the correct cupboard on his right above the stovetop. “Brad, what are you doing?”
“Having a glass of milk.” He retrieved a glass, filled it with milk. “You want some?”
“What I want is to get out of here.”
“And we will. Just let me finish this milk.” He gulped it quickly down, deposited the glass in the sink.
What the hell was going on? What was he doing? Why was he wearing gloves? “Brad, I don’t like this. I’m leaving.”
Instantly he was at her side, taking her in his arms and kissing her. She tasted the milk on his tongue as he transferred it to hers. “No,” he whispered. “You can’t leave yet. Not yet.” His hands reached for her buttocks and he pressed her to him. “Fun’s just starting.”
Jamie’s head was spinning. Only several days ago she’d been a relatively ordinary young woman working at a boring, unfulfilling job and involved in an everyday affair with a run-of-the-mill married man. Then, in rapid succession, she’d picked up a handsome stranger in a bar, quit her job, and taken off for the open road. And now she was making love in public restrooms and breaking into people’s houses. Somewhere along the interstate, Jamie Kellogg—daughter of Anne, sister of Cynthia, a judge and a lawyer, for God’s sake—had gotten lost. She no longer had any sense of who she was or what she was doing, almost as if some alien force had taken over her body and seized control of her brain.
No, she heard her mother scold. You’re not getting off that easily.
When are you going to start accepting responsibility for your actions? her sister asked.
Jamie put her hands over her ears. “Brad, I want to go. Please. I’m tired.”
“My baby’s tired?”
“Exhausted.”
“Okay.”
“Okay? We’ll leave?”
“Soon as we get what we came for.” He pulled away, disappeared from her side, returned to the dining room.
Jamie was right behind him. “Brad, please. I’m a little dizzy.…”
“It’s just stage fright.” Already he was past the dining room and halfway out the living room, heading for the stairs to the bedrooms. “Okay. Stay put. Wait for me there.” He stopped at the foot of the stairs. “Of course, since I don’t know where she keeps the damn earrings, I’ll have to go through everything, and who knows how long that might take. She might wake up, and then I’ll get caught, probably spend the rest of my life behind bars, all for the woman I love,” he continued, teasing her now. “Come on, Jamie. You don’t want to see me
spend the rest of my life in jail, do you?”
“I just want to get out of here before it’s too late.”
“It’s already too late,” he said, taking the stairs two at a time.
Run, Jamie thought. Get out of here. Get out while you still can.
It’s already too late.
He stood waiting for her at the top of the landing, his eyes pulling her toward him as steadily as a fisherman reeling in a prize catch. Jamie felt one foot lifting in front of the other as she mounted the first step, her hand tightly gripping the wooden banister, the imprint of her sweaty fingers staining the dark wood. He’s wearing latex gloves, she reminded herself. Why? Where did he get them? When did he get them?
Who is this man? she wondered, inching her way up the stairs.
He’s the devil.
“Which way?” the devil asked when she reached the top.
Jamie glanced to her right. She might not be sure exactly what she was doing or how she’d gotten herself into this predicament, but one thing was certain, she was in it up to her eyeballs, and she might as well get it over with as soon as possible. The sooner they located the damn earrings, the sooner they’d be out of here, the sooner she’d be back in the safety of the motel room, and she could get some sleep, clear her head, and decide in the morning what to do next. Clearly, Brad Fisher wasn’t the man she’d thought he was. Computer experts, software designers, wealthy businessmen didn’t go around breaking into people’s houses in the middle of the night. They didn’t know how to open a locked door with a credit card. They didn’t keep switchblades or a spare set of latex gloves in their pockets. Who are you? she wondered, watching Brad tiptoe down the hall and stop in front of Mrs. Dennison’s closed bedroom door. Who the hell are you?
“Coming?” he asked, his hand on the knob.
Jamie didn’t move.
Brad twisted the knob, pushed open the bedroom door, extended his hand toward her.
Jamie took a deep breath, forced one foot in front of the other, and then followed him inside.
Instantly the smell of Laura Dennison’s perfume filled her nostrils. That awful, cloying scent of too many gardenias pushed its way down her throat, like a finger, and she gasped to keep from gagging.
“Ssh,” Brad cautioned, tiptoeing toward the queen-size, four-poster bed with the lace canopy and staring down at its occupant.
Mrs. Dennison was asleep on her back, her head turned to her left, her face all but hidden behind a large, black mask that covered her eyes and most of her forehead, her auburn hair longer than Jamie remembered it, her white roots visible even in the dark. Jamie stared down at her former nemesis, her body filling with loathing and revulsion. Would it have been so difficult for you to be nice to me? she demanded silently of the sleeping woman. Did you have to go out of your way to be so mean, to make my life miserable?
“Ugly old thing, isn’t she?” Brad said with a sneer.
Jamie’s eyes widened with alarm at the sound of his voice. She raised her fingers to her lips in an effort to silence him.
“It’s okay,” he said easily, his gloved fingers motioning toward Laura Dennison’s face. “See? She’s wearing earplugs.”
“What?”
“Look for yourself.”
Brad was right. Stuffed into each ear was a tiny sponge. No wonder the woman never had any trouble sleeping. Between the mask and the earplugs, she really was “dead to the world.” How I despise you, Jamie thought, overwhelmed by the unexpected intensity of her feelings.
“Think she sleeps in the nude?” Brad was already nudging the covers down from around the woman’s neck.
“Brad, don’t.”
“Just a little peek.”
“Please. She could wake up.…”
She didn’t, although she stirred slightly, her right shoulder twitching as Brad drew the heavy, down comforter toward her chest. “Figures,” he said, sneering at the long-sleeved, blue nightgown Laura Dennison was wearing. “Guess we should be grateful.” He chuckled.
Jamie was dismayed to hear herself chuckling along with him. You hateful old witch, she was thinking, her mind flooded with almost two years’ worth of indignities and slights—the time her mother-in-law had refused to eat more than two bites of the dinner Jamie had painstakingly prepared, then claimed the next morning those few nibbles had made her violently ill; the time she’d pointedly “forgotten” to introduce her to some old friends they’d run into when Jamie had taken her out for lunch; the way she looked just past her whenever she deigned to speak to her; the condescension in her voice; the subtle put-downs; the unrelenting undermining of Jamie’s position in the family; the constant competition for her son’s attention and affection; the escalating animosity; all of it culminating in that awful, final night.
Jamie shook her head in an effort not to remember it, but already the cast of characters was moving into position, and the scene was being replayed before her tired eyes: In another of her ill-advised, last-ditch efforts to save her marriage, Jamie had invited friends of Mark’s—Bob and Sharon Lasky, Pam and Ron Hutchinson—over for dinner. Naturally Mark was late, having stopped off at his mother’s first. “I come bearing gifts,” he’d explained to their guests as he strolled casually into their apartment half an hour after they’d arrived. “My mother’s famous lemon meringue pie.”
“Only my favorite thing on earth,” Bob said.
Jamie had smiled, relegating the chocolate cake she’d made that afternoon to the freezer, determined to give her mother-in-law the benefit of the doubt, to prove to her husband that she was capable of compromise.
After dinner, they’d sat around talking and watching the Miss America pageant on TV. Mark had made some stupid comment about wanting to go out with one of the contestants, a big-haired, big-bosomed campaigner for world peace whose enormous dimples bracketed a mouth filled with Chiclets-size teeth.
“You’re kidding me,” Pam had said, laughing. “What on earth would you talk about?”
Mark had looked genuinely horrified. “I don’t want to talk to her,” he’d exclaimed to much laughter.
“Did you like dinner?” Jamie had asked later, after everyone had gone and they were getting ready for bed. She’d made a chicken with cumberland sauce, and everyone, including Mark, had had second helpings.
“It was okay.”
“Just okay?”
“What is this, a fishing expedition? You looking for compliments?”
“Just that you never said anything.”
“I said it was okay. Dessert was fabulous,” he added, climbing into bed and pulling the blanket up around his shoulders, a clear signal he wasn’t interested in making love. “Don’t forget to call and thank my mother.”
“She knew I was making a chocolate cake.”
“What?”
“I spoke to her today. I told her we were having company tonight and that I was making a chocolate cake for dessert.”
“What are you saying? That she did it on purpose?”
“Why would she make a dessert when she already knew I was making one?” Jamie persisted.
“I don’t know. Maybe to be nice? Because she knows it’s Bob’s favorite? Because she figured you’d fuck it up.”
“I didn’t fuck it up.”
“You fuck everything up.”
“That’s not fair.”
“That’s not fair?” he repeated. “What are you—five years old? Christ, Jamie, do you ever listen to some of the stupid things you say?” He was suddenly out of bed, pacing the floor in the boxer shorts he’d begun wearing to bed every night. Another signal he wasn’t interested in making love. “My mother makes you a fabulous dessert, which most people would accept for the kind gesture it was, and you make it out to be an act of sabotage. Hell, she goes out of her way to be nice to you.…”
“She goes out of her way to make me look incompetent.”
“You are incompetent,” Mark shouted. “Besides being an ungrateful bitch.”
The
words slapped at Jamie’s cheeks, brought tears to her eyes.
There followed more words, more accusations, more tears. Finally, mercifully, there was silence. Ultimately Mark had gotten dressed, thrown some clothes into an overnight bag, and stormed from the apartment. No need to ask him where he’s going, Jamie thought, falling into bed, eventually drifting into a restless sleep.
The twisting of a key in the front door woke her about an hour later. “Mark?” she asked, sitting up in bed, her eyes swollen almost shut with her tears.
Without a word, Laura Dennison walked into the bedroom and flipped on the overhead light. “I’ve come for my jewelry,” she said, as if this were the most natural of announcements.
Jamie couldn’t believe her ears. She must be dreaming, she thought, pinching herself underneath her blankets.
“What?”
“The wedding ring, the bracelet, the earrings,” Mrs. Dennison enumerated.
“Surely this can wait till morning.”
“I’d rather get this out of the way now, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind.”
“They’re family heirlooms, as you know. I’ll sue you if you try to keep them.”
Numb with anger, fatigue, and disbelief, Jamie climbed out of bed, pulling off her wedding band as she walked toward the dresser. Wordlessly, she dropped the ring into her mother-in-law’s outstretched palm, along with the gold bracelet and the pearl-and-gold earrings she’d worn just this evening. I do mind, she repeated silently as her mother-in-law dropped the jewelry into her purse and marched from the room.
