Cary headed for the den, but it, too, was empty of parents. "Mommie?" he called, "Dad?" Silence returned his call. Since they had no pets, it seemed quieter still. Cary would have loved to have his own dog, but his mother insisted they were dirty and they always had fleas, ticks, and mites, too. He promised to take of everything himself, but still it was no go.
Now Cary was getting suspicious. Were his parents in their bedroom, doing "it"? He smiled to himself as he tip-toed up the cream carpeted stairs. On the walls hung photos of Cary from infancy to the present. He passed by them without noticing, as he did every day. Why would he want to look at pictures of himself? Keeping his hand on the banister to keep himself steady, he continued stealthily upstairs. I'll bet they figured I'd be staying for the double-feature, he thought, snickering to himself. He wished Billy had come home with him. This was a rare opportunity, to catch one's parents in the act of doing "it" in the middle of the day. As he neared their bedroom door, he could hear Mommie making strange, mewling cries. His heart pounded with excitement as he carefully put his ear to the door.
"I wish I'd succeeded in killing him!" Cary heard his mother hiss quietly but vehemently.
Cary's heart skipped a beat. What were they talking about? This was certainly no kind of pillow talk he'd ever imagined. He strained to hear more, but his father's reply was too soft and muted to make out.
His mother began to sob, then she said, "I hate it here. I wish I'd never married you or had the baby."
"You don't mean that, Victoria," Dad said gently. "You're just feeling low."
Mommie didn't seem to hear what he had said. Her voice was lilting and had a faraway quality to it as she said, "I had so much promise when I was in college. I could have been an actress." She paused, then asked, "Don't you like my makeup? Aren't I the belle of the ball?"
"Yes, dear," Dad replied patiently.
"Let's go dancing!" Mommie said gaily, her voice coming closer now.
Before Cary could react, the door to his parent's bedroom burst open. Mommie came sweeping out. Cary fell back, but it was obvious he had been listening at the door.
Cary gasped at the sight of her. Her honey blonde hair, which was usually swept back in a pretty and neat French twist, was teased and ratted so that it stood out in all directions like a bad fright wig. She had lined her eyes with thick, black kohl, but her tears had made it run, causing cheetah-like markings to trail down her blushing cheeks. She'd put so much red lipstick on her lips that they more closely resembled a gaping, bloody knife wound than a woman's mouth. On her body she wore her old pink taffeta prom dress from high school. It no longer fit her, so the strapless bodice had been left unzipped, allowing her ample breasts to spill out from the top and sides. She wore no shoes.
His mother stopped in her tracks when she saw Cary and looked at him with what could only be termed as revulsion and slammed the door closed again. "Make him go away!" she screamed. "Make him go away!"
Cary heard a hard-slapping sound, and Mommie's shouts dissolved into suppressed sobs.
The door opened again. Dad, his face ashen and looking ten years older, came out. Cary caught a glimpse of his mother lying face-down on the bed, her head buried in the pillows. An absurd thought came to him: I wonder if the lipstick will come off the pillowcases in the wash?
"Son," his father said as he shut the door softly behind him. "Come downstairs with me." He took Cary's hand in his and firmly led him away until the cries could no longer be heard.
They entered the dim living room together and passed through without turning on the lights. The shadows of late afternoon cast long, foreboding figures on the far wall that seemed to flicker like furtive demons as the boy and his father passed.
Cary's father kept hold of his hand until they got into the kitchen. "Sit down," Dad said quietly. His voice was almost a monotone. Cary did as he was told. "Hungry?" Dad asked.
Cary shook his head. He wanted very much to ask what was wrong with Mommie, but he was afraid to. He knew that sometimes Mommie got sad for no reason and cried, but she had never, ever sobbed so wildly or looked so hysterical. Had he imagined her saying she had tried to kill someone? Who? And why had she looked at him like that? Like she didn't even know he was Cary, her son. Cary looked at his father in mute wonder.
Despite the lack of a reply from his son, Dad went to the refrigerator and took some bread out. He walked to the clear glass cupboard and opened it. He reached in and removed the jar of peanut butter and some grape jelly. Setting them gently on the counter, he still jumped involuntarily at the sound of the glass jars hitting tile in the otherwise unnaturally silent kitchen. He went to the doorway and snapped on the lights.
Cary sat at the table, eyes downcast and picking intently at a hangnail.
Dad got a butter knife and spread the jelly and peanut butter evenly, each on one slice of bread. He brought the slices together and handed the sandwich to Cary.
Cary took the sandwich and said tentatively, "May I have a plate?"
Dad smiled a strained, embarrassed smile. "Of course."
When Cary bit into his sandwich, Dad left the room. Cary stopped chewing and listened.
"It's Vickie again," Dad was saying. "Much worse this time...will have to go back to McKinley...I don't know...you'll have to take the boy for a few days...I love you, too, Mom."
Cary took a big bite and chewed noisily as his father entered the kitchen again. Dad was looking at him kind of funny-like. He wondered what was going to happen but didn't dare ask.
Jean-Claude Bouchard stood in the doorway, one arm supporting his weight against the jamb, the fluorescent kitchen light full in his wan face. He had thin, sandy hair and wore rectangular spectacles. He was dressed in an old pair of gray slacks, and his shirt sleeves were rolled up, as he had been working in the garage when he heard a loud crash followed by a scream from his wife. She had seemed so happy these last few months...but, he never could predict her strange mood swings. She hadn't been like that when they were dating, but after she'd had Cary, something in her body chemistry had changed; at least, that's how the doctors had described it after "The Incident." That was how he always thought it--just like that, complete with the capital letters.
The Incident had occurred about two weeks after Cary was born. Victoria cried every day. It didn't seem normal to be unhappy when she had just delivered an adorable, well-behaved and healthy baby boy. Jean-Claude had consulted his own mother, who told him not to worry; sometimes new mothers were like that, but she would get over it soon. Victoria did not get over it. Within a month of Cary's birth, she had tried to kill him.
Jean-Claude would never forget that day. He had gotten a call at work in the late afternoon from a woman who identified herself as "Mrs. Alvarez from down the street." She said she could not speak about the matter over the phone and told him it was quite urgent that he go home at once. Alarmed, he immediately did as she said, running to the parking lot of the factory like he was on fire. When he pulled into the driveway at home, Mrs. Alvarez came out his front door holding Cary in her arms.
"What's wrong? Is my wife all right?" he'd asked, full of dread. He had begun to fear that she might try and take her own life.
"She's fine. She's sleeping now," said Mrs. Alvarez, handing Cary to his father. She smoothed the front of her dress nervously and said, "Your wife tried to drown the baby."
"Wh-what?"
"In the park pond, just about an hour ago. I never would have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes. My friend and I managed to pull her out and save the baby. She was crying hysterically." She lowered her voice. "I'm afraid everyone within range saw and heard. I don't know if anyone called the police."
Jean-Claude was struck dumb, so Mrs. Alvarez continued. "After she came out of the water, she seemed to calm down. I know Vickie slightly, so I asked if she'd like for me to take her home. She said yes, so I walked with her, holding the baby myself. I don't think he was hurt. Just scared. When we got here, she went straight
up the stairs and never said a word. I didn't think it was a good idea to leave him alone with her, so I called you. Found a business card in the desk; I hope you don't think I was snooping."
"You did well. Thank you, Mrs. Alvarez," Jean-Claude said softly. His voice was calm, but he was holding Cary so tightly that the infant had begun to whimper. He relaxed his hold and said "Thank you" again. He could tell Mrs. Alvarez wanted an explanation of some sort, but he had none, so he turned and walked up the red brick path that bisected the lush green lawn and led to the front door. He walked through the front door and shut it behind him.
The next day Vickie was committed to the McKinley Sanitarium. She was diagnosed as borderline manic depressive and spent six months there before she was allowed to come home.
Cary had never known. But he would have to be told...only, not just now. Jean-Claude took a step closer to the circular Formica kitchen table and said, "Would you like another sandwich? Some milk?"
He was met with silence. There were many questions in his son's eyes, but thank God, he didn't ask them. Jean-Claude simply could not have dealt with them at the moment.
"Cary, Grandma is coming to pick you up. You'll be spending a few days with her because Mommie is feeling sick and needs to go to the doctor."
Tears welled up in Cary's bloodshot eyes. "Is she going to be okay?"
Jean-Claude hated the sight of tears. He'd put up with them for much too long with his weepy wife. She had always coddled the boy and encouraged his tears. "Of course," he said sharply. "Go upstairs and pack some clothes. And don't disturb Mommie."
They went up the stairs together. Jean-Claude went into the master bedroom, closing the door behind him, and Cary went on to his own room, three doors down.
He felt safe in his room. It was his private haven. Since he kept it clean himself, his parents rarely set foot in it, unlike his friends' parents. Billy's mom was always calling Billy's room "World War III." Cary's bed was against the far wall, and on it was a bedspread printed with a pattern depicting various fighter planes. A large model airplane Cary and his dad had put together over the winter was suspended from the ceiling in front of the window, like it was poised and ready for its virgin flight. There were two paintings on the walls, ones his mother had picked out. He thought they were babyish but didn't complain. His bookshelf was full of novels and comic books, and across from the bed was a dresser his dad had made. It had two model planes on it and a few comic books were neatly stacked to one side.
Cary walked to the closet and got his battered little suitcase from the far-right corner. He put it on his bed and opened it up. How much should he pack? Dad had said a few days, but what did that mean exactly? He thought better of going to ask and packed four pairs of pants, six shirts, four pairs of socks, and his pajamas. If he needed anything else, Dad could bring it.
Cary took his suitcase downstairs and sat on the sofa in the dark, waiting. About twenty minutes passed, then he heard the roar of a car engine in the driveway. Grandma honked the horn, and Cary rushed out the door, suitcase in hand. This was not unusual; Grandma didn't like Mommie for some reason and never came inside the house.
It was three days before Cary saw his father again. It was late evening when he came over, looking very, very tired.
Jean-Claude did not hug his son, or smile. There were no hellos or how are yous. When he walked through the doorway, all he said was, "We need to talk."
Grandma gave a nod of consent, as though she knew what the talk was to be about. Cary's stomach dropped; was Mommie dead?
Cary sat on the couch in Grandma's stuffy living room, and Grandma and Dad sat on either side him. There was no Grandpa; he'd died some years before when Cary was still a baby.
Dad began. "Cary, your mother is not well."
Good. So, she was still alive. "What's wrong?"
"She's sick. In the head. So she has to stay with the doctor for a while."
Cary's eyes widened in obvious alarm. Grandma took his hand and stroked it gently. "She'll be okay. It's not the first time she's had to...rest." Grandma sighed and looked at Dad. Dad nodded. "The first time was when you were just a baby. She was very sad and she tried to...hurt you."
Cary's father interjected, "But she loved you very much, and she still does. It's just that sometimes having a baby changes a woman's chemistry and makes them do strange things."
Cary looked over at Grandma. Her thin, wrinkled lips were pursed tight, and her brow furrowed. It was obvious she didn't agree with what Dad was saying. But she held her tongue.
Cary turned back to his father and said in a very small voice, "Then why did she say those things? I heard her say she wished I was dead." He tried not to cry. He'd thought about Mommie's words obsessively over the last few days...she could only have meant him when she'd said she wished she'd been successful in killing "him." Now, in light of the recent revelation, he knew beyond a shadow of a doubt that "he" had indeed been himself.
"She's not herself right now, Cary," Dad explained gently. "She loves you and me whole big bunches. We'll go and visit her in the hospital, and before you know it, she'll be home."
It had been eighteen months before Victoria Bouchard had come home...and she never was herself again. When Cary turned eighteen and announced that he was ready to leave home, his mother had set fire to the blue and yellow Victorian house while he and his father slept.
Cary had been the only one to make it out alive.
Chapter 7
Al Jackson's face was inches from his, and Cary could see the little beads of sweat on his forehead. Cary's mouth dropped open. "What?"
Al repeated his question very slowly, as if speaking to a simpleton. "Did you love your mother the day she tried to kill you?"
Which time? Cary wondered. The time she had tried to drown him had made it into the papers, as did the house burning. The cause of the fire had been immediately ascertained, as Victoria Bouchard had not made it far from the origin of the fire--she accidentally splashed some gasoline on herself. Or was it accidentally? Her insanity was common knowledge in the community, and her actions were immediately labeled as a murder-suicide by the local police.
"I'm waiting..." Al said. The audience jeered viciously and made obscene hand-gestures at Cary.
"I shall not dignify that question with a response."
Al jerked back as though physically struck and raised his eyebrows in mock alarm. "Oooh, you won't huh? Well, let me give the audience a little more background then." He looked into the camera again, his face a contorted mask of disgust and revulsion as he spoke. "This bowtie-wearing worm's first book, Vengeful Ghost, was about a mother who had killed her baby while in the throes of the baby blues. Mommy-dearest eventually offs herself and becomes a ghost who is searching for her lost child throughout the centuries. Sounds romantic and sad, huh? Well, guess what, kiddies? It's almost Cary Bouchard's autobiography.
"His own mother supposedly had post-partum depression--another bleeding heart liberal invention to explain away mental illness--and tried to kill him when he was only a few weeks old." Al turned to his guest. "Isn't that right, Mr. Bouchard?" He did not bother to wait for a reply. "She went to the nut house, then came home, went back to the nut house, back home, then tried it again. This time she burned the family home with everybody in it. How lucky for us that Mr. Bouchard here was the sole survivor. What would we do without this literary luminary in our midst?" The audience guffawed and sniggered. "Do you still say you loved your mother?" Al asked, turning back to Cary.
"I'm leaving," Cary announced firmly. "This is not an interview. It's a witch hunt."
Al smiled with satisfaction as Cary left the stage. He looked back into the camera and said, "I wonder, since Vengeful Ghost was obviously autobiographical, is The Brandie Killer as well? Only time will tell, but personally I don't think the guy has the guts." The audience cheered in agreement. "Well, since our fine guest has made an unexpectedly early departure, let's welcome our next victim. Audience, please give a wa
rm hello to Anna Goodwin of Women Against Fur. Personally, I like having a woman against fur. A fur rug is always best..."
Once Cary was off the stage, he ran and ran. He took in shocked faces as he passed them, but little else. Once he was outside, he didn't know what to do. Los Angeles was not like New York. No cabs roamed the streets looking for fares. One had to call for a cab in Los Angeles. But first, one had to find a phone booth. And, when one did find a phone or a call box, it was usually out of order thanks to vandalism.
It was late, and very chilly. There was an icy stillness to the air that made Cary's teeth chatter. He glanced back at the studio's exit door. All of his things, including his phone, were still inside, but he couldn't go back in there. Not after the way he had run out like such a fool. He had no choice but to walk until he found a working phone booth. He was scared. He was even more scared at night in Los Angeles than he was in New York; of course, at home he rarely ventured out after dark.
A few cars passed him as he walked down the lonely sidewalk, hands jammed in his suit pockets. He had left his overcoat behind in the studio, but at least he did have his wallet, as well as his room key. And the two Insta-Pics. He felt their sharp paper/plastic corners against the soft, fleshy palm of his left hand. The photos were warm, and they made his hand perspire. He felt an inexplicable pull to take them out and look at them, but he successfully fought the strange urge.
He passed many buildings, all of which had barred windows and doors, and were covered in a multitude of angular, Spanish-looking graffiti and bizarre, abstract drawings. Cary's eyes vigilantly scanned the sidewalk ahead of him. There were so many alleys between the buildings...his heart hammered as he passed each one of them. This was not a good neighborhood.
Cars continued to whiz by, just a few at a time, but aside from that, not a creature was stirring. Cary's footfalls echoed on the cement and bounced off the squat stucco structures that walled him in on either side. Still no phone booth. Cary could hear his own labored breathing and could have sworn he heard his heart pounding in his chest, too. What would he do if a gang member jumped out from one of the alleyways at him?
The Tragedy Man: A Serial Killer Thriller Page 11
