“No way.” Rick held out his glass. He was looking dapper, genial.
“He was a police officer, too,” Mitch said, taking a plate of cake from Debra. “Retired. He had the same kind of presence as Grandpa. You’d never guess he was ninety-one. You know what he’s seeing me for? Sex addiction.”
Dr. Nash, bald except for a fringe around his ears, said, “Is there such a thing?”
Rick laughed. “Grandpa was a big man like Mitch here. He had his own way of dealing with criminals and they respected him for it. Seaton Grove was his turf and I’d hazard a guess that after he died, crime jumped by ten percent. He was at the Christie Pits riot.”
“Really. My father was too,” Dan said, and offered Sharon a taste of his cake.
“When the girls were small, Rick used to tell them that if they didn’t behave, Grandpa Amos would make them,” Debra said. Her cheeks and nose were rosy as if she wasn’t used to drinking. “It worked better than a wooden spoon. Rick?” Her husband was clucking his tongue against the roof of his mouth. It was a small sound, hardly audible, but enough to make her put down her wine glass, a flash of heat spreading from her cheeks to her forehead and chin.
“There were ten thousand people going berserk all around Christie Pits,” he continued, “and just a few police officers. But they imposed the law and there’s never been anything like it since.”
Debra turned away from the men, busying herself with the ice bucket, which was on one of the little tables that had marvellously slid out of concealed places in the living room. “Ice?” she asked the women.
“No, I’m good.” Yvonne shook the gin in her glass.
Dr. Kim (Ruth, Sharon reminded herself, who somehow looked ultra-feminine in jeans) said, “For me please. How’s the baby sleeping?”
“Very well. About four hours between feedings at night.”
“Still, that must be tiring,” Sharon said.
“I hope so. It ought to be. Cathy’s the one getting up. She needs to know how much work a baby is.” Debra put a hand to her throat, stroking her neck, calming herself until she was in control again. “Let’s call it an inoculation. Don’t you think it should be in the high school curriculum?”
The women gravitated toward one end of the living room, talking about children, the heels of their shoes leaving tracks in the cream carpet. Debra supplied details: the baby could coo vowels like “ohhh” and “ahhhh.” And sometimes she actually said “goo-goo ga-ga.” On her tummy she could lift her head or turn it to the side. She preferred the right side. She smiled but not if she was tickled. These were the things that Debra said, always referring to her as “the baby,” never “my granddaughter.”
They were standing near the bay window at the front of the house and through the sheer curtains Sharon could see the motion detectors turn on, lighting up the yard and the tree with last year’s nest in it. So when the bell rang, it was Debra, closest to the door, who went to answer it, her voice easily heard even by the men, distracted from their laughter. “Yes?”
“I’ve got our notice here.” That was Ingrid with her slight western accent. She might have heard the party from the house next door. The living room walls were back to back. The two semis shared a single chimney.
The sound of an envelope ripped open, a paper unfolded. “Two months.”
“Yes—according to the lease.”
“You have some nerve staying at all.” Debra’s back was reflected in the hall mirror, her fair hair in a French knot, her neck rigid, tension riding down her back, arching it.
“We have to find another place.” The voice strained, apologetic.
Yvonne pressed in close to Sharon, the grains of face powder that had settled in the lines above her lip visible as she whispered, “Debra was amazing after Heather died. The way she took charge. But now that Rick’s doing better, she’s gone downhill.”
“Really,” Sharon muttered, taking a step back but there was nowhere to go other than the window seat. She sat and Yvonne bent toward her.
“Mitch says she’s having a delayed reaction. He called it something else. I forget what. You know that jargon.” Yvonne smiled, showing her gums, then covered her mouth with her hand because her husband didn’t think gums were attractive. “Well, I shouldn’t say this, but Debra’s coming apart at the seams.” Yvonne took a swallow of the gin and tonic. “So if she says something, don’t take it personally, okay?”
“Okay.” In her mind’s eye Sharon saw a jacket with sleeves basted and stapled into shoulders, which were thickly padded. Now why would she think of that? A style that was going out when Heather was born. It must be a metaphor, a symbol of her hostess’s state of mind. That was probably what Dr. Mitch would say.
“My husband is on the board of Families Against Guns,” Debra was saying. “There is a reason that organization was established. You should have been charged.”
“What for? I didn’t do anything.”
“Aren’t there laws about leaving guns lying around?”
“It wasn’t lying around. I keep …”
“You keep away from my kids. Any kids, that’s what.”
A pause. Then Ingrid’s voice, a bit muffled. “You’ve got my notice.”
“Don’t turn your back on me.” Debra shut the door and in a moment she reappeared in the living room, throwing the envelope and letter on a table, picking up her plate, smiling tightly.
“The baby was six pounds, three ounces at birth,” she said. “But she’s in the fiftieth percentile for weight now.” She wasn’t wearing a jacket, just a V-neck dress, and her neck looked stringy when she turned her head to one side. “That dessert was fabulous. What is it?”
“Three-layer cherry cake. I thought Cathy would like it,” Sharon said. “Could I bring her a slice?”
“She’s upstairs. Studying.” Debra frowned.
“I’ll just run up.” As she moved to put her glass down, Debra put a hand on her arm. The fingernails were rounded, manicured, faintly coloured.
“Don’t bother.”
“Pardon?” Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Yvonne mouthing “see” and Sharon steeled herself for unpleasantness.
But Debra let go of her arm and said, “We had an intercom put in. You do enough for her already. I’ll call her down. I want you to see the baby.”
Cathy came down with the baby in her arms. The baby’s face had rounded, her chubby hands waved, her gummy smile was vague and indiscriminate. The women clustered around her, touching the baby’s hands with a finger, cooing over her, imitating her: ooooh, ahhhhh, you’re a sweet little girl, yes you are, you smell so good. The baby’s eyes were unfocused, her gaze not following theirs but open, large, taking in the light around objects as much as the objects themselves, for she was still closer to the source of life than the material world.
“This is Madeline,” Debra said, taking the baby with ease, holding her in the crook of her arm.
Cathy was dressed to look sweet, too, in pink and white like her niece, lacking only the frilly cap. Sharon smiled at her, but she didn’t smile back.
“Can I go now?” Cathy asked, glancing from one parent to the other.
“Wait until your mother’s ready,” Rick said.
Cathy’s hair was mussed as if she’d been sleeping, but her eyes were alert, darting around the room, taking everything in though she stood quite still. There was nothing civil in her smirk. She took a pack of gum from her pocket, unwrapped a wedge and popped it in her mouth. The men were laughing at Mitch’s story of a female patient who had a fear of leprechauns. The women were mesmerized in the baby’s smile. Cathy chewed her gum loudly, open-mouthed, cracking it, snapping bubbles.
“Catherine.” Her father looked over his shoulder at her. “That’s rude and I don’t appreciate it,” he said in a tone that made Sharon start though it wasn’t loud. “Get rid of the gum.” Cathy spit it into her hand, cupping the chewed-up wad as she straightened up.
If that tone could be patented and sold
to parents of teens everywhere, it would make the owner of it rich. A smile plastered itself onto Sharon’s face.
“I will have something to say to you later. Now. Kitchen. March.” Rick pointed and his daughter marched.
Sharon did what she always did when she was uncomfortable: found something to clean. Picking up discarded plates and a couple of glasses, Sharon followed. In the kitchen Cathy opened the cupboard under the sink and tossed her gum in the trash. Then the girl put her hands on the edge of the sink, her forearms trembling as she stood facing the window.
“What’s the matter?” Sharon asked. The kitchen gleamed, it smelled of chlorine cleanser. A pair of yellow rubber gloves were draped over the faucet. Size, small. As Sharon put the dishes in the sink, Cathy stepped back and crossed her arms, hiding her hands, gathering herself in.
“It’s just, like …” Her voice trailed off, her arms still shaking, though she had them pressed against her chest. “You know.” Eyes looking up and to one side as if in the air above Sharon’s left shoulder there were words to mollify an adult, some feeble explanation to catch on the hook of her thoughts and reel in, for adults were stupid enough to believe anything was a fish. The shaking stopped. “I’ve got cramps,” she said. “I want to lie down, but I have to wait so I can take the baby when they’re done.”
“It’s all right. You can go. I don’t mind bringing her up. I love holding babies.”
Cathy hesitated, her blue eyes flicking left and right. “They won’t want you upstairs.”
“Why not?”
She shrugged. “It’s a mess?” The trembling had begun again.
“Is it that bad?” Sharon asked, meaning the mess, as nothing else occurred to her, though if she’d been listening inside something might. For example she could have asked how the gun got into Cathy’s house. Or what she was afraid of. Or even why chewing gum could be an act of bravery. But denying the existence of everyone inside was an old habit for Sharon, listening a new one. And so she didn’t ask anything more.
“Uh huh,” Cathy said
“It can’t be worse than my dining room.” Sharon watched her son’s girlfriend, puzzled. What could be upsetting her so badly? Teenagers! Obnoxious, oblivious, yet pale and sensitive as cave fish.
“It’s not fit to be seen.” Cathy sounded so much like her mother that Sharon laughed. She was sorry she did because Cathy slipped away, first behind shuttered eyes, and then out to the hallway, where she sat on a stair. She kicked off her shoes. Her socks were white with pink hearts, a hole in the toe, and she picked at it, stretching it, her head bent so that her hair hung down on either side of her face, a golden shade, waiting for her father to say that she could go.
INSIDE
It was the voice that brought the Overseer running up the stairs. The tone was unmistakable. Riveted, he moved as close as he could get to the Outside so he could see who spoke in that way, but people were standing all around Sharon. The voice had been male—to which of those men did it belong? He watched, listening until he heard it again. There—the man who spoke with such authority wasn’t tall, but held himself as if he were. People called him Rick; he was the centre of their attention. When he clucked his tongue, his wife blushed. He pointed and his child trembled. He didn’t raise his voice; he didn’t call notice to them in public. That was the way to do it.
The father used to say that the Mafia and other gangs were sheep in wolves’ clothing. They waved their guns around where anyone could see and if they got caught and went to jail, they thought it was something to be proud of, dancing around for the sheep in their wolves’ clothes. A man who was master of himself was the master of others and didn’t need to do more than look at someone to show his power.
The Overseer had not mewled and puked when the father had beat him. He had counted the stripes in the wallpaper. It was a contest. The father said he would make the child scream. The child counted until the father’s arm grew tired. That was how he’d proven his worth, and because of it, the father had taken care not to cut his back with the belt so there would be no scars. Afterward, his father would say, You’re my favourite. I know I can depend on you.
It had been so long since he’d heard his father’s voice. All this time, the Overseer had done his duty, trying to keep the others inside from telling his family’s business to strangers. He was stronger than they were. He was bigger. He alone had kept them in line after they’d blocked their family’s phone numbers. But he hadn’t been able to get them to return home, to see, again, their own flesh and blood. For all his efforts, they spoke to the therapist. One by one they moved farther away from him, until he was the only one who stood between order and chaos.
Worst of all was the Housekeeper, who had banished him to the basement.
“Let me out!” he shouted at the doorway to the kitchen.
“I’m right here. All you have to do is come in,” the Housekeeper said.
Not through there. Never. He turned to the left, then the right, trying to move down the hallway past the kitchen, but the Housekeeper was quicker, blocking his way. Nothing made sense. Insiders had become outsiders, the weak took charge, a voice of authority had called him closer, and it was not his father’s. But he wouldn’t give in. Though his eyes leaked in the burning light that came from the kitchen, he stayed and he pushed.
CHAPTER
FOURTEEN
“Who’s here now?” the therapist asked. Brigitte was allowed to ask, the only one who was. They had tested her. Sworn at her. Sat silent. Arrived early; arrived late. And no punishment had ensued. If only she could have been their mom! A longing surged forward, with a wish to suck on a thumb. One of the child alters. She was pulled back inside, the wish, the thought dismissed. Impossible. Forbidden.
“I am.” Callisto looked around the basement office. It had been over a year since she’d been out in therapy, not since the session with Dan. The carpet was thicker than she remembered. The walls were still turquoise, posters in bright colours except for Monet’s water lilies. A hint of lavender, which the therapist put in her vacuum cleaner bag. It was supposed to be calming but Callisto had her doubts about its efficacy. Shells had been added to the serenity fountain. There was now an aquarium with many coloured fish. “That’s new.”
“I wanted something alive, but a basement is not suitable for plants.” Brigitte was leaning back in the recliner, her slippered feet up on the footrest, her white hair in a bun, wearing an embroidered vest and balloon pants. When Callisto had first come forward, she’d thought that Brigitte’s kind face must hide cruelty. She had discovered instead that it hid a sharp intellect.
“It’s Callisto here. We have a concern about our son’s girlfriend.” Callisto paused to order the thoughts coming at her from all directions inside. “We believe something is not as it appears.”
“How so?”
“Her mother did a Caesarean in the moments after Heather died. We realize that Debra is a doctor but even so that’s unfeeling. Heather was always cold—that was why we knitted her the sweater—yet her house was cold when we visited unexpectedly. Cathy was dressed in light clothes, not what she wears when she goes to school, but clothes that show her skin. Also she changes. We don’t wish to say she switched. But she changes. And Sharon will not listen. She says Cathy is being a teenager.”
The therapist was nodding, making notes. “Go on.”
“It’s more than mood. Her face, her words, her manners change. She is frightened of her father. At first it seemed like the mother was in charge. She has a sharp tongue, but even she backed down when he looked at her. And another odd thing: she said that threatening the children with words was better than a wooden spoon. A spoon is used for cooking or perhaps she meant a spoon used for beating. Why would she think of this? Why would she say this as if it’s something to laugh about? Also this: she told us that she’d sent her daughter to a top psychiatrist. We found out it was the father’s cousin.”
“He or she might have been the best available.
”
“He. Perhaps. Or perhaps if their daughter said anything they didn’t want her to, the cousin would tell her she was imagining things or lying.”
“Did that happen to you?” Brigitte asked, her owl eyes alert.
“Yes.”
“Do you think you might be projecting? This is a gruesome tragedy and close to home. It would be understandable for you to be triggered and for your own history to get entangled with the present reality.”
“We considered this and it’s why we have waited and watched. We don’t know what is going on but all of these things together—they feel wrong. And to the Overseer they feel right.”
“I see.” And Brigitte did.
The change was abrupt. They often closed their eyes when they switched in therapy. Not because they needed to, but for privacy, or while they spoke inside. But on hearing his name, the Overseer had pushed hard. When the Housekeeper had suddenly moved out of his way, he’d been flung forward.
“Who are you?” The voice was harsh, head thrown back, shoulders squared, hands on knees, eyes narrowed and cold, the eyes of war.
“I’m Brigitte. And you are?”
“The Overseer.” Without moving, he took in everything that was here. Things with no names, their functions unknown to him. And an unfamiliar smell. From inside came a word: lavender. He did not need that word. He did not need the others’ knowledge. This was the world of the weak.
“I’ve heard the others speak of you. I’m the therapist,” Brigitte said calmly. “Do you know what that is?”
He gave the barest nod as he studied her. Watching intently. Listening intently. Wishing for the only world that he knew, where all that mattered took place. His home. Why had the Housekeeper let him out here? “You’re the one they speak to. I don’t know why.”
“It provides relief of pain, anger, fear. Is there something you’d like to tell me? All of you are welcome to speak here.”
Web of Angels Page 11
