She walked down the hall and went into the bathroom to prepare her bath. The old pipes groaned and shuddered when she turned on the water. Within minutes, the room was filled with the soft glow of the candles she’d lit and the scent of ocean breeze bath oil. She lay back in the tub and said aloud, “Relax. You need to forget about everything. You need to relax.” She closed her eyes, determined to put all thoughts out of her mind and tried to visualize the scenes on the postcards her sister had sent her.
They were all from South Carolina. There were pictures of white sailed shrimp boats, the Hunting Island lighthouse and a beautiful early 1800’s rice plantation at Mt. Pleasant with majestic, old live oak trees laden with Spanish moss.
Several of the postcards were scenes from Charleston where Marnie lived and worked as an attorney for a prestigious law firm. There were views of the picturesque harbor, of the horse drawn carriages driving by the many pastel colored homes that gave Rainbow Row its name and of the outdoor farmer’s market with a Gullah woman standing beside the sweet grass baskets she’d woven by hand.
Ann’s favorites were the scenes of Fripp Island, because, when she was five or six years old, their parents had taken the girls there. It was the only family vacation that she could remember. She smiled, recalling how she and her sister had walked along the beach, collecting seashells. She pictured the two of them together, so different in appearance and personality that people found it hard to believe they were sisters: shy little Annie with her dark brown hair in pigtails and her big brown eyes and vivacious Marnie with her long auburn hair and emerald eyes.
One day in particular stood out in her mind: the day she found the sand dollar. She’d reached down and picked up a large sand dollar, gently dusting the sand off of it. It was perfect; too perfect, she decided, as she flipped it over and gazed at the intricate, symmetrical black design that was etched into it.
“Marnie, look at this!” she shouted. “This is so beautiful! Who would draw this and then just leave it here?”
Ann grinned now, recalling how amazed she’d been when Marnie glanced down at the sand dollar, smiled at her little sister and replied, “God.”
Although she could only remember bits and pieces of their family vacation to Fripp Island, Marnie, only four years older than her, had never forgotten it. Marnie’s dream had always been to live near the ocean and she’d made that dream a reality. After law school in North Carolina, she’d taken the bar exam for South Carolina and, although she lived and worked in Charleston now, she spent most of her spare time at the beach. She said that the ocean gave her something that nothing else could: a sense of peace and serenity; that she felt closer to God there than anywhere else.
Marnie was constantly trying to persuade Ann and the kids to come down for a visit; she said they had an open invitation. One of these days, Ann thought, I’m going to take her up on it. I’ll walk barefoot along the water’s edge and sink my toes into the cool, soft sand. I’ll watch the pelicans fly and listen to the seagulls . . . .
She heard a noise and sat straight up, cocking her head toward the bathroom door. I could’ve sworn I heard the floorboards creaking, she thought. It sounded like someone was walking right outside the bathroom door. I know I locked the doors, she reassured herself. Is it one of the kids? She listened for another few seconds and, when she didn’t hear anything else, she told herself to calm down. It’s just the normal sounds of an old house. The doors are locked, the kids are sound asleep and David won’t be home for at least a couple of hours. She leaned back against the tub, letting the hot water soothe her aching muscles. You’ve got to relax; you need to be in the right mood for David.
David. She knew that, when he got home, he most likely would’ve been drinking. She pictured him stumbling around, mumbling to himself and she could almost smell the unmistakable odor of alcohol on his breath. I’ve got to get over this, she told herself. If things are ever going to be good with us again, I’ve got to get over this. She thought of all the times she’d rejected David when he’d been drinking. Just because my father … .
Her father seldom went to bars to drink, she remembered. He stayed at home most evenings, drinking beer after beer. If she closed her eyes, she could still see him, sitting in his favorite chair in front of the television set with a mug of cold beer in his hand.
He liked to play a little game with Marnie and Ann to trick them. Each time his mug was empty, he would say to the girls a variation of, “There’s some cookies in the kitchen. Don’t you want some?” The minute one of them stood up to go to the kitchen, their father would ask, “While you’re there, would you mind getting me a beer?” Marnie, the oldest, had caught on quickly and, although it took little Annie a bit longer, she eventually figured it out too. Nevertheless, they continued to play along. It became a nightly ritual.
As the evening went on, their father would begin to slur his words and then, inevitably, he would fall asleep, sitting up in his chair, holding the mug. Ann remembered how she and Marnie would watch him, waiting for the beer to spill at any moment but it never did. The fact that he held that mug all the while he slept, without spilling it, fascinated the girls.
The flashback to her childhood continued to play like a movie in her head. She saw herself as a little girl, sitting at the kitchen table in the house where she, her sister and their parents lived. It was early morning and she was eating a bowl of cereal before getting ready to go to school. Empty beer bottles from her father’s drinking the night before were lined up on the table beside her.
She counted the bottles. Counting the bottles had become a daily ritual for Annie. Today, there were eleven. Eleven bottles emitting the disgusting odor she’d come to recognize so well from the bottles and from her father’s breath as, each evening before she went to bed, he gave her a hug and a kiss goodnight. She scooted her bowl and her chair as far away from the bottles as she could. Oh, how she’d hated the smell of alcohol.
I still do, Ann thought, but I have to get past that. She shivered. The bath water was getting too cool. She turned the hot water tap on and let the scalding water trickle down. I will get past it, she resolved as, back in the present, she reminded herself once again to relax. She soaked for over an hour and then, as Dr. Thatcher had instructed her, she covered her body with a rich, softly scented lotion. She wrapped a towel around her and went down the hall to her bedroom.
She looked around the room and smiled. Shortly after they’d moved in, she had gotten Olivia’s permission to paint the apartment. Since then, she’d painted every room. She chose a pale, soothing shade called “Touch of Violet” for the walls of the master bedroom. She found exactly the material she was looking for at a local fabric store, a white background with tiny wild violets in shades of purples and greens that coordinated perfectly with the walls. She made the comforter, pillow shams, bed skirt and valances from the material. She hung panels of sheer white curtains at the windows along with the valances and placed a grouping of Monet prints in white frames on the wall above their bed. The table lamps on each side of the bed were antique brass. She’d found them at a yard sale at an incredibly reasonable price and purchased inexpensive, but pretty, new white shades for them. She’d wanted to create an atmosphere conducive to rest and relaxation. Tonight, she hoped it would also be conducive to romance.
She went over to her dresser and, in the back of her lingerie drawer, she found what she was looking for: a skimpy, deep purple nightie that she’d bought a long time ago at a lingerie party that one of the women in David’s office had thrown. But she’d never had the nerve to wear it. Until now. She liked the feel of the soft satin fabric against her skin as she guided her arms into the thin, spaghetti straps and let it slide down her body.
She looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of the closet door. “You’re too fat,” she said aloud. She sucked in her stomach and, taking a deep breath, pushed her shoulders back, thrusting her chest forward. “Now, if you really looked like that, it wouldn’t be
so bad.” She ran her hands through her hair. “Why do I have to look like this?” she asked no one in particular. “Why can’t I be tall, glamorous and sexy?”
She turned out the lights and got into bed, waiting for her husband to come home. For the next couple of hours, she dozed, off and on, and just before one a.m., she heard the click of the door as he entered their bedroom. Although it was too dark to see more than his silhouette, she knew exactly what he was doing. She heard the clink of change as he emptied the contents of his pants’ pockets onto the top of his dresser and she heard the sound of his zipper as he undressed. For a change, he wasn’t stumbling or bumping into the furniture. He’s not drunk, she realized, happily.
Finally, he got into bed beside her. He turned to his right side, facing away from her.
She was nervous as she turned toward David and snuggled up against him. She reached down, under the covers, and, as she kissed his neck and upper back, she began gently rubbing his thigh, starting above his knee and working her way slowly upward.
He flipped over onto his back. “What in the hell are you doing?” he demanded.
“I miss you,” she said, in her sexiest voice. “I want you.”
He grabbed her wrist and pulled her arm out from under the covers. “Why are you doing this? Are you trying to make me feel bad?”
“No, honey,” she said provocatively. “I want to make you feel good.”
“Stop it! Stop making a fool of yourself.”
“David, why? Why should I stop? I love you.”
“You’re gonna make me say it, aren’t you? You always make me out to be the bad guy.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“You know I don’t think of you that way. You’re the mother of my children, for God’s sake. Act like it!”
“But I’m your wife!” Shocked, hurt and angry, she shouted, “You never used to turn away from me and you sure don’t turn away from me when you’re drunk!”
“Well, what does that tell you, Ann? I have to be drunk to have sex with you. Think about it. Look, I’m sorry. I didn’t want to have to say that but you made me. I’m sorry. I’m always sorry.”
She turned away from him and pulled the covers up, over her head. Within a few minutes, she heard him snoring lightly but it was hours before she stopped crying and fell asleep.
Chapter 21
LAWRENCE WAS A NIGHT PERSON. Long after his mother had gone to bed, he would stay up, reading or watching television. He loved the peace and quiet. It was “his time.” He wasn’t “on call” for his mother and there weren’t any of the little disturbances there were during the day such as telemarketers calling, the annoying noise of lawn mowers, leaf blowers and cars honking their horns. At night, there were no interruptions; he could do what he wanted to do.
But tonight, for some reason, he felt restless and agitated. He flipped through the TV stations, finding nothing that he wanted to watch. “All these channels on cable,” he muttered, “and not a damn thing to watch.” He picked up the biography of Benjamin Franklin that he’d been reading but, even that, which he’d found fascinating, couldn’t hold his attention.
Ordinarily, he loved reading the stories of other people’s lives and he enjoyed the biographies that were featured on TV; he could sit for hours totally immersed in their lives, living vicariously through them. But, after a few minutes of reading, he realized that his mind wasn’t focused; he couldn’t remember a word of what he’d read.
He wasn’t sleepy so he knew there was no use in going to bed. All he would do, he knew, would be to toss and turn or, worse yet, stare at the ceiling, giving the negative thoughts space in his head. Once it started, it was difficult to stop. It all had to do with the meaning of his life. What had he done with his life so far? Sure, he took care of his mother but shouldn’t there be more to life than that?
Oh, he had his interests, even his passions. He was a long time member of the American Numismatic Association. He loved his coin collecting and he looked forward to his trips a few times a year to the various conventions and coin shows. He did most of his buying, selling and trading coins at the shows and he’d met some interesting people there.
Once, years ago, at a coin show in Dallas, he’d met a woman he liked. He thought she liked him too. The last day of the show, they left the convention center and walked a few blocks to a local coffee shop. He remembered how good it felt to talk about coins for hours with someone who shared his enthusiasm. He didn’t want the afternoon or the relationship to end. She’d seemed so nice, but unfortunately, that hadn’t worked out the way he’d hoped.
In addition to going to the shows, he enjoyed corresponding via email with other numismatists. Sometimes, they traded coins through “snail mail,” as they called it now, but he was very careful; he only dealt with people he knew and trusted. The coin collection that he’d started as a child was worth “a pretty penny,” as his mother was fond of saying; some of his mint condition coins were worth thousands of dollars each. Between his coin collecting and taking care of his mother, he stayed busy most of the time but, if he wasn’t careful, he could easily fall into depression, something he fought constantly.
He could begin to dwell on the fact that he often felt like life was passing him by; that he hadn’t really lived. Where had all the years gone? The hours had turned into days, the days to months and on and on. And, he had to face the fact that he was getting older. It wasn’t that many years ago that he’d awakened every day with an erection but that hadn’t happened in a long time. Already, his joints were often stiff in the morning and he wasn’t nearly as agile and fast as he’d once been. His strength was going too; he used to be able to lift his mother easily but now it took everything he had.
The aging process had definitely begun. He was used to the physical problems related to his disease and he had long ago accepted the fact that his albinism wasn’t anyone’s fault. He knew that it was caused by recessive genes from both of his parents that had remained dormant for generations. But he now had aches and pains that he’d never had before.
No, he didn’t have a whole lot of “good” years left and he wanted so badly to make the most of them. He gave himself a mental slap. Do not go there, he told himself. You have to stay away from the dark place; you have to stay positive.
But it was difficult, especially on nights like this, not to wish some things were different and not to have regrets. If only I’d known my father. If only I’d had a brother or sister, I wouldn’t have been so lonely growing up, he thought. If only I had a wife, a family and a home of my own … . This house is my mother’s and will be until the day she dies. I’ll inherit the house but then I’ll truly be alone.
The thought of Olivia dying terrified him. He must not think about that. He couldn’t stand it. He took care of his mother, but who would take care of him when he got old? You don’t have to worry about that, he reminded himself. That won’t happen for a long, long time. He knew that, although she was an invalid in a wheelchair, his mother was otherwise very healthy and incredibly strong.
He took a deep breath and smiled. With her upper body strength, she could probably still beat the tar out of me, he thought. Her doctor marvels at her because she doesn’t have to take any medications like most people her age; her blood pressure and cholesterol are always well within normal range.
I guess that’s due to the nutritious foods she eats and the natural herbs and vitamins she takes, he thought, grinning. I should know because she’s constantly sending me to the health store to pick up something or other. She always says that she’d rather spend her money on things that will keep her healthy rather than on prescriptions full of chemicals that will ultimately do her harm.
How many times had he heard her say, “An ounce of prevention is worth a pound of cure”? He pictured Olivia, sitting at their kitchen table, chopping carrots and celery, two of the ingredients that she used to make her “health drink,” as she called it. No, I don’t have to worry about my mother; sh
e’s doing a lot better than I am and she’ll most likely outlive me.
He began pacing back and forth from one end of his bedroom to the other. Occasionally, he would stop at his bedroom window, pull the curtain aside and gaze out into the dark. He considered sneaking out of the house and going for one of his long, solitary walks but even that didn’t appeal to him tonight. He couldn’t think of anything that would make him feel better.
A little before one a.m., he heard a car pull into the driveway. He parted the curtains and watched as David Kern got out of his car. I’ll bet he’s been at that bar again, he thought, remembering the scene he’d witnessed the night before when he was out walking. As he passed Whitey’s Tavern, he’d seen David standing in front of the door with a sleazy looking, bleached blonde rubbing up against him. He’d hurried past the bar. It was sickening; he couldn’t bear to see anymore.
He muttered to himself, “If Annie were my wife, I wouldn’t stay out till all hours of the night and I sure wouldn’t be fooling around with someone else. I’d be home with her.” He smiled as he pictured himself with her, lying in bed, their arms wrapped around each other. He imagined how her hair would feel brushing against his cheek as she nuzzled against him and how soft her skin would be when he touched her.
Should I tell Annie that David is cheating on her? he wondered. Maybe, if she knew that, she’d divorce him and, maybe she’d turn to me for comfort and support. Then, she’d see how much I care for her and we could start our life together. He sighed, imagining how wonderful that would be. But, he suddenly thought, what if she already knows? What if she’s decided to stay with him in spite of his cheating because of the kids? If that’s the case, she might be embarrassed that I know and feel uncomfortable around me. Then, she’d avoid me and I wouldn’t stand a chance with her. No, he decided, I’d better keep my mouth shut.
Mixed Messages (A Malone Mystery) Page 11
