by Joy Fielding
“I was so worried that he’d back out at the last minute,” Rita said. “Or that he’d get stage fright or start obsessing about there being enough oxygen in the auditorium.”
“It’s okay,” Sandy said. “It’s over now.”
“Yes, it is. It’s really over. Oh, God. I’ve been so scared.”
“Scared?” Sandy had been a little nervous for Megan too, but scared?
“I’m not talking about the play.”
“I don’t understand.”
Rita shook her head, as if to say, Not here. “Do you think we could go to my office for a minute before we see the kids?”
“Of course. Is something wrong?” The two women made their way up the aisle and pushed their way through the crowd milling about the back of the auditorium. Ian and Kerri were already leading Rose toward the dressing rooms. Hopefully by the time she returned, they’d have congratulated Megan and left. “What is it?” Sandy asked again as Rita unlocked the door to her office and they stepped inside.
Rita flipped on the overhead light, locked the door behind her, then burst into tears.
“Rita, what’s wrong?”
“I’m so stupid.”
“You’re not stupid.”
Rita grabbed a tissue from a nearby container, blew her nose, then dabbed at her heavily mascaraed eyes. “I’m sure you’ve noticed I’ve been a little standoffish for the last little while.”
Sandy made a face that said, No, you haven’t, and Rita countered with one that said, Yes, I have, and you know it.
“Well, maybe a little,” Sandy conceded. “I assumed you were mad at me about—”
“I wasn’t mad at you. I was mad at myself.” There was a slight pause. Rita raised her hands to her mouth, then lowered them, along with her voice. “I thought he did it.” The words hit the air like pebbles against glass.
“You thought who did what?”
“Brian.” Rita’s voice dropped even lower, so that she was whispering. “I thought he had something to do with Fiona Hamilton’s disappearance. Oh, God. I’ve been feeling so guilty. I actually thought my son might have killed Liana Martin.”
“What?” Sandy repeated, although in truth there were moments she’d thought the same thing herself.
“I’m such an awful person.”
“No, you’re not.”
“What kind of mother thinks her own son might be capable of murder?”
“You had reason to be concerned,” Sandy reminded her, thinking back to the evening of Rita’s frantic phone call. “He’d been acting very peculiar. You found him rinsing blood from his shirt.”
“Yes, I know I had good reason to be concerned. But even after the sheriff told me about Brian’s fight with Joey Balfour, a part of me still wasn’t convinced. Even after they found those things in Cal’s house and arrested Cal for murder, there was a small part of me that wondered…”
“It was a difficult time for all of us.”
“Ever since Brian’s father died,” Rita began, then stopped herself. “Ever since his father killed himself,” she stated bitterly, “and Brian found him hanging there—”
“Rita …”
The tears returned full force. “That selfish son of a bitch. If he wanted to hang himself, why couldn’t he have picked a nice big tree in the middle of the Everglades? Did he have to do it in our bathroom? Did he have to do it where his son would walk in and find him?”
“He wasn’t thinking clearly.”
“He wasn’t thinking at all, damn him.”
“He must have been in tremendous anguish.”
“Fuck that!” Rita said with surprising vehemence. “Fuck his anguish! What about his son? His son who walked into the bathroom and found him hanging there with his tongue sticking out and his face a decidedly unflattering shade of blue. No wonder the poor kid worries about there being enough oxygen!” She collapsed into Sandy’s outstretched arms. “He should have been here tonight. He should have been here for his son.”
They stood in the middle of the small office, Sandy’s arms wrapped around the tiny woman, as Rita cried. After a few moments, the sobs shuddered to a halt, and Rita pushed her shoulders back and lifted her head to smile at Sandy. “But it’s okay now. The nightmare’s finally over. Cal Hamilton is in jail. The murders have stopped. And my son—my beautiful, crazy boy—was great up there on that stage tonight.”
“He certainly was.”
“So what if he’s all fucked-up? At least he’s not a killer. Right?”
Sandy gave her friend another hug. “Teenagers are supposed to be all fucked-up. That’s their job.”
“Do we ever really grow up?” Rita asked, as they headed back down the hallway.
Sandy shook her head. “Beats me.”
“You were fantastic,” Rita gushed, pushing her way through the noisy throng of well-wishers filling the long, narrow corridor to take her son in her arms. Brian allowed himself to be hugged and kissed. “Thanks.”
“Aw, isn’t that sweet?” Joey Balfour said from somewhere nearby.
“You were wonderful, Brian,” Sandy said, shooting Joey a warning glance. “Congratulations.”
“Thank you.” Brian wiped his mother’s kisses off his cheek and glanced toward Perry Falco, who stood in the far corner of the hall, watching him. Brian hesitated, then signaled Perry over. “Mom, there’s somebody I’d like you to meet.”
Sandy excused herself to try to find her daughter. The area was packed with proud parents and assorted well-wishers. Cast members, most still in costume and full makeup, dashed in and out of the four small dressing rooms, accepting accolades and basking in the glow of their success. Sandy looked for Gordon Lipsman, hoping to congratulate him on a job well done. She’d misjudged and underestimated him, she was thinking. He might be prissy and pretentious, but he was also talented. He deserved a pat on the back, maybe even a hug. She didn’t care how many pictures of them ended up on the Internet. “Has anyone seen Mr. Lipsman?” she asked.
“I think he went home,” Victor Drummond said, emerging from the closest dressing room. “Said he wasn’t feeling well.”
Sandy almost didn’t recognize Victor without his white powder. He looked so different. We all look different without our masks, she thought. “You were great,” she told him honestly, feeling a tremendous sense of pride in all her students.
He nodded shyly. “Megan’s in the dressing room down the hall, second to the end.”
“Thank you.”
The hallway was so congested it took Sandy a full minute to get there. On the way, she exchanged superlatives with John and Pauline Weber as well as with the parents of Tanya McGovern and Ginger Perchak. Everyone agreed that everyone’s offspring had done a terrific job. Everyone except Greg Watt’s father, who was conspicuous in his absence. “Greg,” Sandy said, peeking into the middle dressing room where Greg sat alone, removing his makeup with cold cream. He glanced at her through the mirror as she stood in the doorway. “I just wanted to tell you what a wonderful job you did tonight. You should be very proud.”
He smiled. “Sorry about having to kiss your daughter,” he said with a sly grin. “Mr. Lipsman made me do it.”
“Yes, I could see how much you weren’t enjoying yourself.”
Joey Balfour was suddenly at Sandy’s side. “You’re such a faggot,” he yelled through the doorway at his friend.
Sandy thought of objecting, then thought better of it. “Congratulations, Greg,” she said instead, squeezing past Joey and continuing down the hall.
“So where’s the party at?” she heard Joey ask, although she didn’t catch Greg’s reply.
Sandy continued to the last dressing room, found it as crowded with people as the hall. She took a deep breath, prayed that Ian had already left. “Mom?”
Sandy turned toward the voice. “Tim. What are you doing here?”
He nodded toward Amber, who was already out of her costume and into her sweater and jeans, although she was still wearing most of he
r stage makeup. That makeup probably weighs more than she does, Sandy thought, as Tim shifted from one foot to the other self-consciously. “Amber invited me to the cast party,” he said, his chin down, the words floating into the air from the vicinity of his chest.
“Well, that was very nice,” Sandy said, trying not to sound too surprised. “Where is this party?”
Tim shrugged. “Someone’s house.”
“Good,” Sandy said, the slight sarcasm in her voice absorbed by the noise in the room.
“I’ll wait for you outside,” Tim told Amber, who smiled and fluttered her fingers in the air coquettishly.
Dear God, thought Sandy.
“See you later, Mom.”
“Try not to be too late.” She fought the urge to tell him to keep an eye on his sister.
“Mom, hi!” Megan called, pushing through the crowd to reach Sandy’s side.
Sandy threw her arms around her daughter, hugged her tightly. “Megan! You were so fabulous.”
“Careful. You’ll get makeup all over you.”
“Who cares? I am so proud of you.”
“It was great, wasn’t it?”
“It really was,” Sandy agreed. “I was just amazed. I mean, I knew it would be good, but I didn’t realize it would be that good.”
“Wasn’t Greg fantastic?”
“Fantastic,” Sandy agreed.
“Too bad his father wouldn’t come see him. He’s such an …a jerk.”
“I understand there’s a cast party.”
“Yeah, well, it’s closing night and everything.”
“Where is it?”
Megan shrugged. “Somebody’s house.”
“Great.”
“You can stop worrying, Mom. Cal Hamilton’s all locked up.”
“It’s not Cal Hamilton I’m worried about,” Sandy said pointedly.
Megan looked away, her face growing sullen.
“It’s just that it’s easy to get lost in the moment,” Sandy continued quietly.
“I won’t get lost,” Megan said.
“Promise?”
“Hey, Megan! Great job tonight,” someone called from the doorway.
“Thanks.” The smile returned to Megan’s face. “Stop worrying,” she told Sandy. “I’m a big girl. I can take care of myself.”
Sandy nodded, stroked her daughter’s beautiful long hair. “I know you can.”
“Mom?” Megan called as Sandy turned away. “You look really pretty tonight.”
Sandy’s hand flew self-consciously to her hair. She’d spent half an hour trying to smooth it out with Megan’s ceramic straightener, but the minute she’d stepped into the humidity, she’d felt the curls and ringlets starting to form. And she’d chewed off what was left of her new, peach-colored lipstick during Megan and Greg’s final embrace. “Thank you, sweetheart.”
“Mom …”
Sandy waited.
“I won’t be late.”
Sandy was smiling as she left Megan’s dressing room and started down the corridor. She had two beautiful children, she was thinking: a daughter who was as smart as she was talented, and a son who was as sweet as he was sensitive. Both on the verge of adulthood. Both with bright futures waiting to embrace them. She had good reason to be proud.
A familiar voice pierced her reveries. “But that’s not fair.” Delilah stormed out of the dressing room at the end of the hall. “Tell them it isn’t fair, Mrs. Crosbie,” she said, catching up to Sandy.
Reluctantly Sandy stopped and turned around. “What isn’t fair, Delilah?” Kerri Franklin entered Sandy’s line of vision, began walking toward her.
“My grandmother isn’t feeling well, so they want me to drive her home and make sure she gets into bed.”
“Delilah, this really isn’t anyone’s business,” Kerri scolded, as Ian appeared in the doorway of the dressing room.
“I’m going to the party,” Delilah insisted.
“You’re taking your grandmother home.”
“Why can’t you do it?”
“Because Ian and I have made other plans.” Kerri said this directly to Sandy. “Now don’t argue with me. After you get your grandmother settled, then you can go to the party.”
“Great.” Delilah didn’t move.
“The faster you get out of your costume and get your grandmother home,” Sandy said reluctantly, “the faster you’ll get to the party.” She looked up, saw Ian smiling at her.
“You look terrific,” he mouthed.
Before Sandy had time to digest the remark, he and Kerri had left the hallway.
TWENTY-NINE
So, a bunch of us are going over to Chester’s for a celebratory drink,” Rita was saying as they walked toward the teachers’ parking lot. “You game?”
Sandy shook her head. “I don’t think so.”
“Ah, come on.”
“I’m kind of tired.”
“No, you aren’t. You’re just upset because Ian—”
“I’m not upset,” Sandy said impatiently, replaying Ian’s unexpected compliment over and over in her mind, like a favorite song. What did it mean? Did it mean anything? “Look, I’m sorry. I’m just not in the mood, okay?”
Rita raised her hands into the air in a gesture of surrender. “Okay. Fine. You know where we are if you change your mind.”
“Have a good time.” Sandy watched Rita climb into her car. Around her, people were talking and laughing, car doors were opening and closing, engines were starting.
“Good night,” someone called, and Sandy turned toward the voice. But whomever it belonged to had disappeared, and by the time Sandy turned back toward Rita, her car was already pulling out of the parking lot. Rita honked her horn as she advanced onto the street, and Sandy waved.
“You know where to find us,” Rita called through her open window.
“I know where to find you,” Sandy repeated quietly, her words echoing against the suddenly still night air. “Alone at last,” she said as she walked toward her car. She wasn’t sure when she realized hers wasn’t the only car left in the lot, but she knew instantly whose old black Mercury it was. Hadn’t Victor Drummond told her Mr. Lipsman had already left, that he hadn’t been feeling well? What was his car still doing here? “Gordon?” she called out, slowly approaching the vehicle, her eyes flitting cautiously from side to side. “Gordon?”
There was no answer. In the distance she heard the sounds of tires squealing and students laughing. She hoped that everyone would drive safely and behave sensibly, and she said a silent thank-you to the star-filled sky that Cal Hamilton was behind bars and Torrance’s recent nightmare was over. One less thing to worry about, she thought gratefully.
Someone had probably offered to drive Gordon home, she decided as she reached his car and peeked inside. Which made perfect sense. He couldn’t very well drive himself home if he was feeling sick. Too bad, she thought. He’d worked too hard not to be able to wallow, at least for a short time, in all that admiration and applause. Everyone deserves a good wallow now and again, she thought.
“Sandy?” a voice whispered softly, so softly that Sandy wasn’t sure if the voice was real or imagined until she heard it again. “Sandy?”
Sandy’s head snapped toward the sound. It seemed to be coming from a row of brilliant red hibiscus bushes growing along the far side of the lot. “Who’s there?” Sandy asked, advancing gingerly.
“Help me,” the voice urged, floating toward her on soft ripples of air.
Sandy glanced around the now deserted parking lot. “Damn it,” she muttered under her breath, feeling frightened and debating whether to turn around and run. This is one of those moments, she was thinking. One of those moments that you see in the movies when the stupid heroine goes snooping where she shouldn’t be snooping, and the entire audience is yelling at her not to go, but she goes anyway, sticking her neck out just far enough for some deranged lunatic in a hockey mask to chop it off with a machete. Don’t go. Don’t go, she could hear the invisible
audience screaming as she approached the bushes and parted the bloodred blossoms.
“Sandy,” she heard again.
“Mr. Lipsman!” she cried out, discovering the drama teacher lying on his back on the ground.
“Please help me.” He tried extending his hands in her direction, but succeeded only in flailing about ineffectually, and almost slapping her in the face.
“For God’s sake, Gordon. What are you doing there?” Sandy grabbed hold of his hands and tried pulling him to his feet, but his clammy palms repeatedly slipped from hers, and he kept ending up on his back. Eventually he found his footing, only to teeter forward on his toes. His arms shot out at his sides as if he were navigating a tightrope, his body ultimately tumbling into hers. Sandy dug her heels into the pavement as he crashed into her, managing to remain upright from sheer force of will.
“Sorry about that,” Gordon said, trying to straighten his red-and-gold-striped tie.
“Are you all right?”
“I’m not feeling very well.” He grabbed a handful of hibiscus in an effort to steady himself. “I decided to lie down. Then I couldn’t get up.” He belched.
The pungent odor of whiskey immediately filled the air. “You’re drunk!” Sandy tried backing away from the unpleasant smell, but it had already surrounded her.
“You sound just like my mother.”
“Dear God.” Again Sandy looked around the empty lot, praying someone else might have lingered, knowing no one had. “Careful,” she said as Gordon tottered unsteadily toward her, his hand landing like a lion’s paw on her shoulder.
“Did you see Kate?” he asked.
It took Sandy several seconds to realize he was referring to the play and not an actual person. “I did. It was wonderful.”
“I thought it was smashing. Simply smashing,” he pronounced in his ersatz British accent. “Didn’t you?”
The only thing smashed here is you, Sandy thought but didn’t say. “Do you think you can manage to stay upright?” she asked instead, eager to remove his hand from her shoulder before his weight brought her to her knees.
