Don’t Close Your Eyes

by Carlene Thompson

  There were windows high in the walls that let in some daylight, but Papa still flipped a switch and a fluorescent bulb hummed to life. Then they descended the steps and he groaned, looking at water flowing across the floor. “Dammit, we just had the washer fixed two weeks ago. I knew that repairman didn’t know what he was doing.” He sighed. “I’m going to fix this myself.”

  “Do you know how?” Alison had asked, wanting to run away from the water that looked dark and scary like snakes or alligators might lie in its depths.

  “It’s probably just a hose on the washer that fool didn’t tighten,” Papa said. “I think I can fix something that simple. Sit on the stairs, honey.”

  So Alison had sat down and Papa had placed the laundry basket beside her. Then he had waded into the water. His shoes made squishy sounds and he muttered and fussed and uttered words Alison knew he wasn’t supposed to say in front of her. She twisted a lock of her silky white-blond hair around her finger the way that always annoyed Mama.

  “Okay, you infernal beast,” he said dramatically to the washer, making Alison giggle, “let’s see who’s boss.”

  Papa stepped behind the washer, facing her, and leaned on the machine. Abruptly blue-red light flared around him. The fluorescent light dimmed. Papa went rigid. A small, agonized sound escaped the rictus in his face, his body shook, and his eyes looked as if they were going to explode from his head. Alison heard a clicking sound nearby. The fluorescent bulb shut off. Papa fell on the concrete floor, his head making a sickening thud as his skull fractured and skin split. Blood rushed out and mixed with water swirling around his motionless body.

  Slowly the world went fuzzy for Alison. She felt as if a heavy, swirling fog enveloped her. She loved the fog because it shut out the awful sight of Papa.

  A day later, when Viveca returned from her trip, she found her husband in full rigor mortis, a stiffened corpse collapsed beside the washing machine. Her little girl sat on the basement stairs, rocking back and forth, twisting her hair around her finger. She’d soiled her clothes and her lips were chapped from dehydration. But the worst, what had choked off Viveca’s horrified scream, was the child’s eyes—wide, vacant, unblinking. Viveca had rushed her to the hospital. Alison remained unresponsive for nearly a week. Afterward came years of psychiatric care—clinics, medication, endless analysis, even hypnotherapy. But Alison had never been the same since that day in the basement when Papa had tried to fix the washer.

  “Are you going to wear black to Tamara’s funeral?”

  Viveca looked up from the magazine she’d been staring at blindly. Whenever Alison mentally left this world, Viveca sat patiently waiting for her to return. Sometimes it took a few seconds. Sometimes it took hours. Today it had been fifteen minutes.

  “I think I’ll wear navy blue.”

  “I’m wearing black. Even black jewelry. My marcasite and onyx brooch that belonged to Ariel.”

  The brooch had not belonged to Ariel, but Alison could not be convinced of this. It didn’t matter. It made her happy to think she owned a piece of Ariel’s jewelry. But Alison’s train of thought was disturbing.

  “Dear, I’ve been thinking,” Viveca said carefully. “Tamara’s funeral might be too depressing for you. Perhaps you should stay home.”

  Alison looked outraged. “Stay home! I can’t. Warren will need me.”

  Viveca had been increasingly aware of Alison’s interest in Warren. At first she’d been pleased. Alison had hated all of her doctors. Then through Oliver’s daughter Tamara she’d met Warren Hunt and wanted to be treated by him. Viveca didn’t like Warren, but Alison violently refused to continue with her present psychiatrist or any other. Viveca realized she would either have to relent about Warren or send Alison off to a clinic once more.

  Alison seemed to improve for a while. Then Alison began talking about Ariel again. After her father’s death, she talked incessantly of Ariel and even believed she was Ariel. Time and drugs seemed to alleviate the delusion and finally she had completely stopped talking about Ariel. Until lately. First Alison had found a brooch in Lily Peyton’s antique shop she was certain belonged to Ariel Saunders and insisted her mother buy it. Last week Viveca had found a book on reincarnation in Alison’s room.

  Now there was her preoccupation with Warren Hunt. There was something in the way she said his name, an almost caressing quality, that tripped alarm bells in Viveca’s mind. And in the last few months Alison had grown cooler toward Tamara. In fact, cool was too mild a word. Almost hostile was more like it. Hostile and—Viveca cringed at the word—competitive.

  “Dear, Warren will have plenty of moral support,” Viveca said soothingly. “He wouldn’t want you to go. Funerals are so sad.”

  “You mean like Papa’s?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Eugene’s?”

  Viveca’s face tightened. “You were not supposed to attend Eugene Farley’s funeral. You did that against my strict orders.”

  “I think it’s terrible that you didn’t go. After all, he was one of your boyfriends.”

  “Alison!”

  “Why do you keep squawking ‘Alison!’ at me? He was your boyfriend. What are you so embarrassed about? That he was young enough to be your son or that he got convicted of embezzlement and killed himself?”

  “He was not young enough to be my son,” Viveca said tiredly. “And his death was tragic, but we were no longer together. I really don’t want to talk about that sad time.”

  “No wonder. You deserted him. I didn’t. I loved him.”

  “I know. He was like a brother to you.”

  Alison let out a peal of laughter with a note of hysteria beneath it. “I did not think of him as a brother, Mama.”

  Viveca had trouble conceiving of Alison as anything except a child. The idea of her having a sexual interest in anyone was repugnant, like picturing a five-year-old girl lusting after an adult man. But as much as she hated to admit it, Alison had a libido. Maybe an overactive libido.

  She had first noticed it when Alison was around Eugene Farley. Eugene had been the head accountant at the Bishop Corporation. Handsome, intelligent, funny, he had been sought after by all the single females at Bishop and some of the married ones, too. Before long and against her better judgment, Viveca found she couldn’t resist him, either.

  He’d come to her home several times and treated Alison like any normal young woman. He’d talked about literature and music with her, trading books and CD’s. They laughed and the girl seemed to blossom. Viveca had thought they acted like brother and sister and she was delighted. She didn’t even care that Eugene indulged Alison’s taste for rock music.

  Then Viveca saw the way Alison looked at Eugene. A crush she told herself, but self-deception had never been her forte. She couldn’t hide from the truth. Her perpetually, innocent child looked at Viveca’s lover with a naked carnality that made her sick.

  Eugene was gone now. First she’d banished him from her life and then he had taken his own. As bad as Viveca felt about Eugene’s death, she had been relieved to see the hunger vanish from Alison’s eyes. But now it was back, flaring uncontrollably whenever Warren Hunt’s name was mentioned.

  “Mama, you will let me go to Tamara’s funeral, won’t you?”

  It wasn’t really the question it seemed. It was a threat. When Alison did not get her way, she would inflict the punishment of her illness on her mother, and it always worked. Viveca’s guilt over Alison’s emotional state was crushing because she had not been attending a meeting when her husband died. She had gone off for a weekend with another man and in the throes of her passion, she had not bothered to call home during the twenty-eight hours when Alison sat on the basement steps staring at her father’s body as she slowly descended into the mental hell from which she would never rise.

  “Of course you may go, Alison.”

  “Good. Warren needs me now.” Her lips twitched. “Especially now that she’s gone.” Viveca stiffened but before she could reply, Alison announc
ed, “I’m going to my room.”

  To do what? Viveca wondered. The girl was getting agitated. “Alison, why don’t I make tea and heat up some croissants and we can have a girl talk?” she tried feebly.

  “I don’t know how to make girl talk. You never let me have friends. You’ve always kept me a prisoner.” Alison rose from the piano bench and stomped up the stairs to her room. She was prone to sudden rages and the look in her eyes was dangerous. Viveca stood, anxiously fingering her topaz pendant until she heard Alison’s door slam.

  What would happen tonight was anyone’s guess.

  II

  MONDAY NIGHT

  Warren didn’t like the marina at night. He didn’t like it in the day, either. Frankly, he hated the water and boats, but you just didn’t admit that around here where everyone was mad for Lake Erie. He certainly wouldn’t admit it to Charlotte, whose father owned the biggest craft in the marina and of course named it the Charlotte. They always met on the Charlotte. Warren would rather they went to a secluded motel, but being with Charlotte was worth an evening on a boat.

  Slip Thirty-four was the home of the Charlotte. Custom-built, it sat smugly majestic in the moonlight, eighty-five feet of white aluminum, housing four staterooms, a formal dining room, a sky lounge with an entertainment center, a flying bridge with sunning and seating areas, a wet bar, and a saloon with a home theater system and projection unit that dropped from the ceiling. Charlotte said Max had wanted something big and elaborate for corporate cruises. Warren thought Max Bishop just wanted something ostentatious to show how rich he was and that his corporation dominated Port Ariel just as his yacht dominated the marina. The Charlotte was certainly a tribute to conspicuous consumption, Warren thought, and Charlotte loved it.

  Warren threw another furtive look over his shoulder. He always imagined people were looking out the windows of darkened boat cabins, identifying him, noting his destination. The marina was too public, even around midnight. And what if he was spotted tonight, forty-eight hours after his wife’s murder? His reputation would be ruined. Worse yet, that damned Meredith would be all over him. The guy was itching to nail him for Tamara’s murder. Today he had looked at Warren as if he were a stuck bug. He only prayed Lorraine Glover would back up his alibi. She hadn’t sounded too willing over the phone when he’d called right after Meredith left, but Lorraine was scared. He’d lied to Meredith. Lorraine’s wealthy husband didn’t know she’d been having an affair, but Warren could see to it that Alfred Glover found out. Even if Lorraine corroborated his alibi, though, discovering he was having an affair with Charlotte Bishop would give Meredith a motive to pin on him.

  Then there was that annoying deputy who kept looking at the ship model Charlotte had given him. Warren didn’t care a thing about Port Ariel history, but he didn’t tell her. He’d kept the model at his office. One day Tamara had dropped by unexpectedly, seen it, and insisted on taking it home. When she spotted the initials, he’d truthfully claimed ignorance and she didn’t seem bothered. He’d been uncomfortable every time he looked at it sitting on the mantel, though. And today that deputy had spotted something.

  I shouldn’t have come, Warren thought abruptly. What had he been thinking? Yes, he wanted to be with Charlotte. Yes, he knew she needed his reassurance, but this meeting was not a smart move. Why had he let her talk him into it?

  He stopped as panic grew. He would go home immediately. Charlotte would be furious, but he could smooth it over somehow, make her see reason, convince her not to call the house again. But right now he had to leave—

  “Warren!”

  Charlotte was leaning over the side of the yacht. Her soprano voice seemed to shrill through the night. Warren flinched and quelled an impulse to loudly shush her. Instead he darted forward.

  “Hi, sweetheart,” he said softly. “You know, I’m not sure this is—”

  “You’re late! I thought you weren’t coming!”

  Her volume hadn’t lowered. Warren looked at her closely. Even in the bleaching light of the moon he could see her flushed cheeks. She’d been drinking. He’d never seen her take more than one glass of wine. “I’m only ten minutes late, darling,” he said just above a whisper. “As I was saying, this isn’t a good idea tonight. I had a grueling session with Sheriff Meredith today and—”

  “Meredith is an ass!”

  Warren winced. “Charlotte, the whole marina will hear you.”

  “Get on board.” She extended her hand invitingly, but there was steel in her voice. “Please.”

  His heart raced. He could stand here and argue, with Charlotte getting angrier and louder by the minute, or he could board the yacht and disappear inside. He wanted to be with her. Besides, it was a little late to worry about being seen.

  Five minutes later Charlotte poured him a glass of champagne. She’d already finished half the bottle. She insisted they toast to “new beginnings.” Warren’s stomach tightened. His wife of six years was dead. How could he be here with his lover toasting to the future? Because until a few weeks ago the future had stretched before him like an endless desert? Because the thought of enduring Tamara for even one more year had become unbearable?

  “You’re not drinking,” Charlotte said, her beautiful gold-flecked eyes glittering up at him. She wore tight white slacks and a filmy blouse with no bra underneath. “This is very good champagne. Don’t let it go to waste.” He took a sip and she smiled. “All right, tell me about the great Nicholas Meredith’s visit.”

  “He’s very suspicious.”

  Charlotte’s pupils seemed to dilate. “Does he know about us?” she asked sharply.

  “No.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Yes. He would have hit me with it if he did. But he had some questions about my alibi.”

  “Which you answered to his satisfaction.”

  “Yes. I think so.”

  “What do you mean, you think so?”

  “I meant yes. Period.” He could not tell her about Lorraine Glover. He’d sworn to her that he’d never had an affair before she came along. Nor could he let Charlotte find out about Tamara’s pregnancy. He’d also sworn to her he hadn’t slept with Tamara for a year. “Meredith had a deputy who was looking at the model of the Mercy with a lot of interest. Hysell.”

  “Ted Hysell? The guy we saw at The Hearth?”

  Warren was stricken. “I didn’t recognize him.”

  “Don’t worry. He’s an idiot.”

  “But he’s seen us together.”

  “Forget him. Listen, Warren, now is not the time to get rattled,” she said calmly, “although I wish Sheriff Purdue were still in office. He was a great friend of Daddy’s. He was also too lazy to do much investigating.”

  “He’d have to do something in a murder case.”

  “Nothing productive, I assure you.” She smiled brightly. “You look so unhappy. Drink up, darling. You’ll feel better.”

  Two glasses of champagne later he did feel better. Charlotte opened a second bottle of champagne. When he protested, she insisted they both needed it to relax. The champagne did not seem to relax her—just the opposite. With each glass she grew more animated. This was an unfamiliar Charlotte. Warren decided nerves were responsible for the drinking. She didn’t want to admit Tamara’s murder worried her, so she hid the anxiety beneath alcohol. Drunk or not, she was still charming. Charming, delightful, completely irresistible.

  Warren took her oval face in his hands. He kissed her forehead, her eyelids, her nose, each flushed cheek. “I love you, Charlotte,” he said urgently. “God, I love you.”

  She made a sound like a contented cat purring, then pulled down his head, pressing their lips together briefly. Then she pushed him farther down until his lips touched the cleft between her small, firm breasts. “You’re a free man now,” she breathed. “Make love to me as a free man.”

  They always made love in the master stateroom on the bed Warren was sure Max Bishop meant only for his personal pleasure. Charlotte said tha
t before his strokes, her father frequently “entertained” women in the stateroom. Now that Max’s right side was seventy-five percent immobilized, Charlotte had appropriated the room. Max was stuck at home with poor faithful Muriel who’d overlooked his many affairs. The lavish stateroom belonged to Charlotte. And him.

  Mine, Warren thought in the midst of their abandoned lovemaking. This beautiful, exciting woman, this excessive but impressive yacht, this privileged life Charlotte’s money could buy. All his. That would make his father sit up and take notice. The future no longer looked endless and bleak to Warren. The future looked like a city shimmering on the horizon. The Emerald City, he thought, although he’d always hated The Wizard of Oz. Snagging Charlotte was like Dorothy reaching the Emerald City.

  They made love twice, then lay spent, Warren on his back, Charlotte on her abdomen with an arm thrown across his chest. Water lapped at the sides of the Charlotte. Warren smiled, realizing that for the first time in his life he didn’t mind being on a boat. The funeral and everything else that must be done for Tamara in the next few weeks didn’t seem insurmountable now. He would get through it because he had something wonderful waiting for him . . . over the rainbow.

  Warren burst out snickering. What was wrong with him tonight? Wizard of Oz on the brain. He must be drunk. He felt young and floating and a trifle silly. And sleepy. How tempting it was to just relax into the thick down pillows and drift off. But that would be a disaster. Imagine waking up at eight in the morning when the marina was coming to life. He couldn’t stay on board for the rest of the night. He must wake up in his own bed and carry through with the day as people expected. He had to leave.

  “Charlotte,” he said softly. No response. “Charlotte.”

  She breathed heavily beside him. She had dozed with him before, but this was deep sleep. Too much champagne. He jiggled her. Nothing. She was all right but certainly not able to rise, dress, and go home. Oh, well, he needn’t worry about Charlotte. She often spent the night on the yacht, so her family wouldn’t be concerned if she wasn’t home in the morning. He wasn’t so lucky.