The Real Mother

by Judith Michael

  “I wish you still had your car,” Doug said.

  “I couldn’t drive anyway,” Abby said shortly. “I’m not sixteen.” She hated being reminded that she’d wrecked her beautiful red car, and that she wasn’t old enough to drive alone, anyway, and that Sara hadn’t said a word about letting her take the car out by herself after her birthday next week. Just because she’d let her drive to the gallery to get Doug’s carvings, it didn’t mean she’d let her drive alone. But why would Sara trust me? she thought despairingly. I did everything wrong.

  “What do you think he’s doing?” Doug asked as Abby opened the front door.

  Abby shook her head. “I don’t know and I don’t care. I don’t want to deal with him right now. Or ever. Maybe he’ll be gone by the time we come home.”

  Mack heard their voices, heard the front door close, could almost feel silence rise from the floor below and wrap around him, crushing him into a tiny space. He had started after Carrie when she fled, but he was not ready to face all three of them; he had to think. He could take them on; they were kids and he could get rid of them with no trouble, but first he had to have a plan. He always had a plan; that was why he was so good at whatever job he did; that was why he was indispensable to Lew.

  The name clanged inside him and he shrank even more. Bastard. Fucked me up. Blamed me for some shit I never heard of, never saw before. Fired me, the fucker.

  But I shouldn’t have …shouldn’t have…

  He forced himself to say it aloud. “Shouldn’t have killed him.”

  Shouldn’t have killed him, shouldn’t have killed him, shouldn’t have— It messed everything up. As soon as they found the body the cops would call him because he worked for Lew; they’d ask trick questions, try to pin it on him. He had to have answers; he had to have a plan. He paced around the room, muttering to himself.

  He had a clean record. They couldn’t touch him. Except…how much had the little bitch really heard in the nursing home? Whatever she heard it was probably too much; goddamn Mother got me talking. But… hold on a minute. What difference does it make? Nobody had a fucking thing on him. Everybody knows kids make things up, nobody believes them, they’re just trying to be important, the center of attention. But Tess…well, what the hell, nothing to worry about there, either. It didn’t matter what he’d told her or what she thought she heard, or what she told the cops (if she told the cops; how the fuck would she tell the cops anything?). She’d tell them about a gallery show for the kid. Big deal, a joke, not a crime. Drugs? Another joke; nobody could prove anything different. Something about suicide? Lew had that under control; it was finished. Would the cops believe a defective shut up in a nursing home, making up fantasies all day long? Nobody’d believe her any more than they’d believe the kid.

  He’d overreacted. He should have ignored the little bitch.

  But she’d said she told Sara. Well? So what? Her word against his. And who the hell was good sister Sara? A little cog in City Hall. While Mack Hayden was vice president of Corcoran Enterprises, and as soon as they built their casino he’d be running it, he’d be invited everywhere, his picture in the society pages—

  But he wouldn’t be running it. Lew had fired him. He wasn’t a vice president, either. Lew had promised to make him one when the casino was built. And it probably wouldn’t be built now. And it didn’t matter, because he wouldn’t be running it. All down the drain.

  Shouldn’t have killed him. Should have left and waited for him to cool down; I can talk my way out of anything.

  He had a gun.

  He shook his head. Wouldn’t have used it. He’s a coward.

  He used it on Pussy.

  This was different. This was me. Mack Hayden. He trusted me.

  Shouldn’t have killed him. Should have found another way.

  So, now what? He had to get the hell out of there before the cops came. But it was easier not to move from his bed, and finally he thought, Why the fuck should I let them chase me out of my own house? I’m smarter than all of them put together. I can handle this.

  But the kid, yelling about drugs and the gallery. The cops could put all that together and if Frank and the others talked…

  Have to get rid of the kid. She was lying, probably hasn’t told anybody. Unless she blabbed to the other two. Sure she did, the three of ’em, always blabbing together. So, get rid of all of ’em. Get them first, before they get me. Wait too long and they’d probably kill me in my sleep. Nobody believes you or likes you. So, do it. Tonight, before Sara gets home. What time was her plane? They hadn’t told him. She’d said she’d be back tonight, that was all. So he had to move fast. Figure out what to do, make a plan, make it look like an accident and be somewhere else, with somebody who can say I’d been there all afternoon, all night.

  Rosa. She’d say anything for me.

  The telephone rang, and Mack shrank from the sound. It was too quick; he wasn’t ready for the cops. Just ignore it. He listened to it ring, heard the telephone tape click on, and then silence. No message. Somebody didn’t want to leave a message. Somebody… who was after him.

  Or, what the hell, one of those assholes selling something.

  He clenched his fists. Why the fuck couldn’t he leave a message, whoever he was? What right did he have to hang up, leave just silence?

  He had to know…and he couldn’t know.

  Son of a bitch.

  He yanked his duffel from beneath the bed and flung clothes and shoes into it, shoving them down—more than I came with; all the things I bought because I was in business, a vice president—then swept his business cards and Swiss Army knife off the bureau and into the duffel. Last to topple in was a small wooden giraffe Doug had carved when Mack told him there really would be a gallery show. “Because I love you,” Doug had said, holding it out to Mack. And he had thrown his arms around him. “You’re a great brother.”

  Mack rubbed the giraffe between his palms, and collapsed on the floor, weeping. “I didn’t mean to,” he said. He had no idea what he meant, but he could not stop. “I didn’t mean to, I didn’t mean to…I don’t know what to do, tell me what to do. I don’t know what to do!”

  He yelled curses, but nothing was loud enough to banish the silence of the house. He was alone and he had no one to talk to. Nobody believes you or likes you… get out of our house; we don’t want—

  “Bitch!” he screamed at Carrie. “I won’t get out! This my house, my family, I have a key, I belong here—”

  He choked and coughed, huddling on the floor, gasping for breath, while everything inside him shrank from the truth: this was not his home, it was not his family. He had thrown them away.

  But he could not face that. The bitch did it. Spying on me, telling lies about me, not loving me. And did he mean Carrie? Or Sara? Or his mother? What difference does it make, he thought bitterly. They’re all against me.

  “Hey, Dad, come get me,” he said aloud, as he had said in years past, slumped in police stations until his father came and took responsibility for him. “Take me home, sorry about all this… didn’t mean to.”

  Crouching on the floor beside his duffel, he shook his head, trying to understand. Dad? What the hell was he talking about? His father had let him down, betrayed him. Lew let him down, too, betrayed him. They should have taken care of him, watched out for him, made sure he succeeded, that he had a smooth life; they should have acted like fathers. But the sons of bitches kicked him out of their way, like trash, didn’t give a damn what happened to him. Dad? Why the hell would he be calling for Dad? What was wrong with him?

  Going crazy, he thought; have to stop this, have to get my shit together.

  But he could not move; he crouched on the floor, his face resting on his duffel. His sobs had stopped, but raspy breaths exploded in little bursts from his open mouth, and now and then he swore at someone, at everyone. Faintly, he heard the front door open and the three kids talking as they came in. After a minute he heard the door close tightly and the upper lock
being turned. Didn’t even check to see if I was here. How would I get back in, with the door double-locked?

  They didn’t give a damn. Nobody gave a damn. He was alone like he’d always been alone, nobody to help him, nobody caring where he went or what he did. Then get out. Get out before they get the cops here; they’d do that just out of spite. And hate. Full of hate. Hateful kids. Hateful house.

  He shoved the carved giraffe among his clothes and shoes and zipped the duffel shut. Figure out a plan, then I’m gone.

  The telephone rang again. He dashed down the stairs, to listen. “Sara!” Abby cried. “Where are you?…We’re fine, you just talked to us in the restaurant, you don’t have to call every— No, we haven’t seen him; I guess he’s still upstairs, or maybe he’s gone out— Of course it’s locked!…We’re in the library, we’re going to finish our homework and then watch The Return of the King. Where are you?… Reuben’s apartment? What’s it like?”

  Who the hell cares, Mack fumed as the silence downstairs stretched out. When’s she coming back? What time’s her plane?

  “They’re fine, they’re doing homework, do you want to talk to them?… Okay, I’ll tell them. I love you, too. Talk to you soon. Bye.”

  Mack shook his head, as if to clear it. Why hadn’t Abby talked to Sara about her coming home? It was already… what time was it? He looked at his watch. Almost nine o’clock. She was supposed to be back tonight. And she was still in the boyfriend’s apartment? Was that in New York or Chicago? He closed his eyes. He hated being confused.

  “…left my math book in my room.” That was Carrie’s voice.

  “We’ll go with you,” Abby said, and in the next minute Mack heard them coming upstairs. He opened his eyes, and saw the three of them standing a few feet away—three witches, three evil spirits—staring at him.

  “Boo!” he shouted, and grinned when they jumped. The grin stretched his mouth, and he showed the witches his teeth. “Whaddya want? More presents? Presents all gone. Happy days all gone. You fucked it all up, little bitches, little bastard, couldn’t leave well enough alone, could you?”

  “What are you talking about?” Abby demanded. She had stepped in front of Doug and Carrie and was glaring at him.

  “It’s the famous driver talking!” Mack cried. “The super-duper driver can’t find her fucking way out of somebody’s front yard, has to take a tree with her and her little red car. Don’t tell me what to do, you bitch—”

  “Don’t you talk to Abby that way!” Carrie shouted. “You’re crazy, why don’t you get out of our house?”

  Mack lunged forward, and as the three of them scurried backward, Doug stumbled on the top step. “Abby, come on,” he said shakily. “Downstairs. I mean, let’s—”

  “The artist!” Mack cried gaily. “The artist and the writer! The famous pair! Let’s give a big hand to the famous artist and writer!”

  Doug ran downstairs.

  “And that leaves the witches!” Mack said wildly. His grin was gone, his gaiety was gone. “Witches, bitches, snitches, it’s all your fault; everything was fine, I was fine, I was getting around Sara, all of you thought I was God’s gift to the whole fucking family, but you couldn’t leave it alone, you had to tell lies and turn Sara against me, turn Lew against me, the whole world letting me down—”

  “We don’t know what you’re talking about,” Abby cried.

  “Get out, get out, get out!” Carrie screamed. “Nobody wants you! We hate you!”

  “Shut up! I’m not going anywhere! I live here. You shut up or you’ll be gone, not me”—his voice rose—“all of you, I’ll take care of that. Get out of my way!”

  The girls stood still, staring at him. They were not in his way; they were nowhere near him. Mack thrust his head forward. “I’ll take care of you,” he shouted, and turned and ran up the stairs.

  “What should we do?” Carrie whispered to Abby.

  “I don’t know.” Abby knew Carrie was waiting for a firm directive that would make her feel better, but she could not think of anything. I don’t want to be grown up, she suddenly thought. I don’t want to take care of people, I don’t want anybody leaning on me and asking me what to do… because I don’t know.

  But Carrie’s eyes had filled with tears, and Abby had seen the fear in Doug’s eyes, and she remembered Carrie saying Abby’ll be sixteen next week, and she knew she had to be in charge because there was nobody else. Sara must have felt like this when she had to come back and take care of us, she thought. I’ll never get mad at her for anything, ever again. She took a deep breath, and put her arm around Carrie, holding her close. “I’m sorry I yelled at you, sweetheart,” sounding like Sara, and suddenly proud of herself. “Don’t cry, don’t worry, we’ll figure things out. Come on, now, let’s go downstairs and see what Doug is doing.”

  “What about…” Carrie gestured toward the third floor.

  “He’ll probably stay up there and sulk.” She took Carrie’s hand and led her downstairs.

  Mack heard them go. He was sitting on his duffel, trying to make a plan, Carrie’s voice bouncing around in his head. Hate. Hate. Hate. Why would she say that? Nobody hated Mack; he was everybody’s friend, doing favors, making deliveries, giving presents. He was the one who had the people in River Bend following him like he was the Pied Piper. He was a king out there. The King of River Bend.

  That was when things were the best; those were the best days. Everything was terrific then: he had a real home, the kids loved him, Sara liked having him help her with the kids and the house, he was spending nights with Rosa, there was his lucrative sideline of supplying Frank and all his classy suburban friends, a network that grew larger all the time, and, best of all, Lew had big plans for him, treated him like a son. He’d called Mack, nobody else, to fix up the mess he’d made when he shot Pussy, that was how much he relied on Mack; he’d appointed Mack, nobody else, to organize River Bend, get the folks all worked up without ever knowing who was really behind it, and why; he’d named Mack, nobody else, the manager of the casino when it was built. Good times, Mack thought. Great times. Most of those days he felt okay: everything in place.

  Where had it all gone wrong? He liked having a home, where he had his own key and people always there for him. He liked buying things for the kids that made Sara’s eyes pop. He liked working for Lew, better than any job he’d ever had. He liked Rosa and being near the university and wearing neat clothes. Everything had been fine, and now it wasn’t.

  If he could figure it out, maybe he could repair the damage and start again, get back to the good days.

  But there wasn’t time. Those crazy kids were getting ready to call the cops, he knew they were, they’d say they were scared—they were scared; he’d scared the shit out of them—and then they’d tell the cops about… all of it. Everything the little bitch had heard about the gallery and Frank and drugs. And Pussy. And then the cops would dig up other stuff from New York once they got started…

  He stood in the doorway of his room, listening. Faint sounds from the library; they were watching a movie. He could go in there, shoot them all, and get the hell out.

  His cell phone rang. Don’t answer it. It rang three times. Rosa. He fumbled it out of his jacket pocket. “Rosa, I need to talk to—”

  “You fucking bastard, we’ll get you,” growled Corcoran, his voice rasping. “We’ll get—”

  Mack screamed. He hurled the phone across the room, then pushed both fists into his mouth. Can’t let them hear… But the screams went on inside him, burning in his throat, reverberating in his head. Raving, frenzied, he plunged onto his bed, pounding the mattress, screaming into his pillow, his head bursting.

  Didn’t kill him. Didn’t kill him. He’s there…He’s there…Didn’t kill him.

  His world was ripping apart, the pieces flying everywhere, too wildly for him to grab them, to try to put them together again. He struck the mattress again and again. Should have killed him. Should have killed him.

  SHOULD HAVE KILLED
HIM!

  Get out, get out, get out. Get away from here.

  He leaped up. No wait, the kids…Can’t just leave them here… drugs… deliveries…Pussy shot… you making it look like suicide … Little bitch, spying bitch. She knew too much. Told the others, too, no doubt about that. Can’t leave until they’re taken care of.

  He stood, indecisive, agonizing.

  Leave ’em alone; they can’t do anything.

  They get the cops after me, the cops’ll say I killed Lew.

  Didn’t kill him.

  What the fuck difference does it make? Almost killed him.

  Who cares, if you’re out of here?

  I don’t know! I can’t take the chance.

  Where will you go, anyway?

  I don’t know! Someplace safe. Nauru. I’ll go to Nauru. Safe little island nobody ever goes to. I’ve got money there, in the bank; they know me there; they like me. They’ll protect me. And nobody knows I’ve ever been there.

  The kids knew; all those stories about that funny little island.

  But they’ll be gone.

  Lew knew about the island. But Lew and his guys had laundered too much money through the Nauru banks; of all people they’d keep quiet about it.

  Anyway, the people would protect him. He’d bought them gifts, played cards with them. They loved him. They’d take care of him.

  First get rid of the kids. Then go to Nauru. Then I’ll be happy.

  He went to the stairs. Wait, it has to look like an accident. Mack Hayden far away. His legs suddenly weak, he sat down on the top step. He was trembling, unable to move, unable to decide anything. Make a plan! He lit a joint. Think of something. Not much time. Lew. The kids. An accident. He smoked the joint to a stub, and lit another, watching the smoke drift away. And then, suddenly, it was fine; he knew what he was going to do.

  “I smell smoke,” Carrie said beneath the music on the screen.

  “He smokes joints,” Doug said gloomily. “Sara told him not to, but he does anyway.”