Flying Shoes

by Lisa Howorth

  “It’s darker than Egypt,” he said to himself. All the broken pine and cedar made the air smell like Christmas. Lovely! He sailed down the long street. Hans Brinker on the canal, on his way to put a finger in, well, he hoped not a dyke.

  He turned a corner onto the side street where the party was supposed to be. He saw the party house, softly lit, the last bungalow on a dead end. It looked like home, and he couldn’t wait to get out of the cold and confrontation. He could see a few people outside but they looked very small. Damn, he thought, this had better not be a platoon of mini-tards or something. It was three kids—little dudes frozen in place, arms held out stiffly from their sides by overbundling. They stared at the gun. Happy that he wasn’t going to be fucked with, he said, “What are you kids doing out here?” Maybe they were actually frozen. “I’m a nice guy. I’m not going to mess with you.” Ernest opened his long overcoat and stashed the gun in its droopy holster. He pulled out the Kahlúa, guzzled the last of it, and threw the bottle in the bushes where it shattered glassily.

  “What’s the matter? Tongues all froze up?” He grinned, a substance-driven rictus of teeth and gum, and wagged his own tongue to amuse them.

  Their eyes widened, and one little boy spoke up. “We … we’re going home. We were just looking for good places to sled tomorrow. There’s a good hill behind that house.” The boy gestured with one inflated Michelin Man arm at the party house.

  “Huh,” Ernest said. “Well, maybe you guys want to come inside and get warm? There’s a party in there. There’s beer.” He laughed, a high-lonesome sort of whinny.

  “Um,” the boy said. “We’ve got to go home now.”

  “Well, okay then. If you’re sure.”

  “Okay,” said the little boy. He swatted one of the other boys, and they began back-stepping off the sidewalk, into the brush, turning and breaking into a run, scrabbling through branches and tinkling ice.

  Ernest tried to think of a cool sendoff that the boys would appreciate, coming up with “My dear penguins, we stand on a great threshold! It’s okay to be scared, many of you won’t be coming back. Thanks to Batman, the time has come to punish all God’s children!”

  The boys were quickly out of sight, although he heard one screech, “Williams, wait up! Don’t ditch me!”

  He didn’t really get kids. They always seemed so unsociable.

  Nine

  All the lights were on at her mother’s; the sunroom shone blue from the eternally-on TV. Mary Byrd’s mother’s neighborhood was exclusive but not really ritzy, but the country club and the Presbyterian church were not far, and this set the tone for the subdivision. Her mom didn’t care about all the WASPy and clubby crap, she just wanted security, a nice yard to root around in, and to be close to Nick and James. She didn’t really know her neighbors. The homely colonial-ish house had been chosen because it had a small, manageable backyard for her birding and gardening, and its rooms were small, uncomplicated boxes.

  Marisa D’Abruzzi Rhinehart opened the door to her daughter with a hug and a kiss. Mary Byrd was anxious to get the inevitable beat-down over with as quickly as possible and pulled back a little. It was also a little awkward to hug her mom because she was so tiny, just under five feet and shrinking, and Mary Byrd, feeling enormous, had to bend over for the hug, sticking her butt out.

  “Eeew,” her mother said. “You smell like cigarettes.”

  “I know,” Mary Byrd said. “I’m sorry.”

  Her mother still looked beautiful, even though she insisted on so much tanning that her naturally burnished olive skin had become opaque. But her silver hair, loosely gathered into a bun, set off her pale green eyes, astonishing in such a dark face. She was wearing silky green pajamas.

  The familiar scent of cat box and tuna was just discernible under the stronger aroma of garlic and olive oil. Eliza and William referred to their grandmother’s basement, where the cat box was, as “Teetee World.” Her mother’s cats weren’t allowed to go outside because “too many bad things could happen,” and they’d eat her birds. Mary Byrd set down her duffel, removed a personal-size bottle of Sutter Home cab— not the martini she craved, but thank god she had it—and went straight to the refrigerator, the age-old homecoming ritual of all children, no matter what age. Her mother followed. Mary Byrd was more desperate for a drink than for food. She looked around in the fridge, taking out a jar of pepperoncini and fishing one out with her finger.

  “Did you really ride up here with a trucker?” her mom asked, the same contemptuous smirk on her face that she’d had the last time they had seen each other and she had plucked at Mary Byrd’s ratty Levi’s jacket, a favorite that had been Charles’s in junior high, and said, “Are you still wearing this? You might think that this jacket is cool, but it’s not.”

  “Yes, Mama. He’s a guy we know who works for Valentine Chickens, Mann’s company. It was fine. It was actually kind of interesting.”

  “I just think it’s very weird that you did it.”

  “Ma, it’s good to do weird things sometimes. Besides, it didn’t cost anything, and because of the weather I never would have gotten out of Memphis if I’d tried to fly, which you know I hate anyway. And you do weird stuff all the time.” Mary Byrd was suddenly really tired.

  “Not that weird. And Charles wasn’t happy about it either. I made that hummus just for you.”

  “Yum. Thanks. Charles is never happy about stuff I do. How do you know? Did you talk to him?” She sank down at the table and poured the cheap red wine into a glass, restraining herself from taking a giant gulp. Her mother was a teetotaler.

  “I called this morning to see when you were coming, since you hadn’t called me. You’d left practically in the middle of the night, Charles said.” Her mother paused for emphasis. “Here’s some wonderful olive bread. Put the hummus on that. And I made podotoli soup. Your favorite.”

  “I tried to call Charles but it just rings and rings,” Mary Byrd said around a mouthful of bread and smushed chickpeas. “You know they’re having a huge ice storm down there. The phone lines are probably down.” She was glad to have the conversation change course. What she really wanted was to drink and go to sleep.

  As her mother went to the stove Mary Byrd noticed that she limped a little. “What’s wrong with your leg, Ma?”

  “Oh,” her mother laughed. “I have gouty tophus on my toe. It sounds like something out of Dickens, doesn’t it?”

  Or out of William Byrd’s diary. “Does it hurt?”

  “Not much; it’s just ugly,” her mother said happily, showing her the big knob. She loved medical crap.

  “Yuck, Mom!”

  Her mother dished up some soup and set it, a spoon, and a napkin in front of her daughter. “Here’s the grated cheese. It’s delicious.”

  Meatball soup wasn’t her favorite, it was Nick’s, but she dutifully spooned up the meatballs, carrots, celery, and macaroni. It was super-delicious and Mary Byrd said so. Her mother was the greatest cook. “Thanks. I’m eating this and then I’m going to bed. I’m exhausted.”

  “Nick and James will be over tomorrow afternoon. They didn’t know if they’d get to see much of you.” She sighed. “I wish Pete were here.” There was never any question of Pete coming. He’d been a baby, and though what had happened had clouded his life in many ways, he didn’t even remember Pop. He wanted it all behind him, and had moved far away, to Portland, as soon as he could. That Pete was probably gay—they knew so little about his life—could only have deepened his estrangement and unease within the family.

  “If you’d get over that flying hang-up,” her mother went on, “you and the children could come up more often. We’re never together anymore.”

  “I know, Mom,” said Mary Byrd. “I’m sorry. But I’ve got to go right back. Eliza’s in a play. She’d be really upset if I missed it. And we’ve got to do something to help Evagreen. I guess Charles told you about that.”

  “Yes, it’s just terrible. I wouldn’t have thought Evagreen and her f
amily were … those types,” her mother said. “You’re not going back in that truck, I hope.”

  “Mom,” she warned. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do. Maybe I will fly if the Memphis airport is open.” Annoyance added a little defiance to her voice. “So how will this meeting work on Monday?”

  “Who knows?” her mother said, shaking her head as she cleared up dishes. “Who knows. That’s such a shame about Evagreen. Charles said he’s going to try to find a good lawyer for her daughter. I told him what they need is that Johnnie Cochran guy who got that big … jerk off the hook.”

  “Well, that won’t be happening unless Evagreen wins the lottery. But what about us? What about this meeting? Is this going to be over now, do you think?”

  “I don’t know. They certainly seem in a hurry all of a sudden. I don’t know if it’s because of this reporter who wants to write a book about the case, or because they’ve figured out how to finally charge Ned Tuttle.”

  An enormous Maine Coon cat, wide as a hassock, waddled into the room and bunted the backs of her mother’s green pjs, leaving a visible swipe of fur. “Oh, Mrs. B! There you are! Mary Byrd is here to see you!” she said in the high, enthusiastic voice she used for cat-talking. She picked up the always-open can of human-grade tuna in the sink and put some in the kitty dish.

  Mary Byrd’s face flushed at the mention of Tuttle. She didn’t even know for sure if her mother had ever known what the police had suggested about her cock-teasing Tuttle. She didn’t know if her mother had seen her diaries, either. If she weren’t such a pussy, she’d ask. She got up to pet Mrs. B, who gave her an accusing look and lumbered off, probably to hide in the basement wall where she spent most of her time. “Isn’t there some sort of statute of limitations on this kind of stuff?” she asked.

  “It doesn’t really matter, if what they’re worried about is this reporter scooping the story and solving it herself, which would make them look terrible. James says there’s not a statute of limitations on murder.” Her mother scraped more tuna into the cat’s dish. “I guess she was expecting ham,” she said sadly.

  “They already look pretty terrible,” Mary Byrd said, stretching out her legs. “If all this time they’ve thought it was Tuttle and haven’t been able to charge him before now.” She added, “That kitty does not need more food, Ma.”

  “But maybe that’s what’s going to happen. Maybe they can do the DNA thing or something. I hope that doesn’t mean … exhumation, though. And that kitty is still just a kitten. She’s growing.” Her mother huffed indignantly.

  “Jeez, Mama, surely not!” she said. “Do we even know who Linda Fyce is? Is she from Richmond? Do we really have to talk to her again, too?”

  “Oh, you’d remember some of her articles—I’ve sent a few clippings to you. She wrote for the Times-Dispatch, then for the New York Times. Local color stories about, oh, you know, ‘Southern things.’”

  Mary Byrd said, “Oh, I know who you mean. She’s a … quaint-hound—does stories on barbecue and inbreds who drive Trans Ams and handle snakes.” She pulled impatiently at her boot laces. “Stuff that people in New York and California get all excited about so they can have things to talk about at dinner parties. What Meemaw and Peepaw and them down there are up to now. That sucks.”

  Her mother said, “Do you need to say that?”

  “Yes, I do,” Mary Byrd said. “Someone needs to.”

  “Well, anyway, she’s one of those Fyces from over in Fewtheyville, the ones who have that big mobile home dealership out on the highway, I think. I talked to her a little bit, although Detective Stith asked that we not talk to anybody until we’d talked to them—him—first.” Her mother thought of herself as a respecter of titles and authority as long as those people agreed with her.

  Stith. So that was the guy’s name. Mary Byrd started peeling off her boots and socks. “That’s what he said to me, too, so I didn’t talk to her. So why did you, Mom? Do we really want this to be a book, or on TV or something?”

  “Well, she called me first. And as far as I’m concerned, I don’t really care who finally figures it out and gets whoever convicted, just so someone does.” Her mother began deconstructing her hair for the night. “I think it would make an interesting book or something. She told me she’s working on that show, Medical Detectives, about solving crimes. I love that show. They’re filming an episode right now on the Southside Strangler. They finally executed that man, you know.” She put the tuna can in the trash. “But I didn’t talk to her very much.”

  “But, Ma, it will never go away then. If it’s on TV, or whatever, it will be right in our faces all the time. We will have to be that poor family again. What do we have to gain by that?”

  “Oh, I think the truth is always important to tell. And from my point of view, the story has an interesting psychological angle,” she said, pausing provocatively, her head down while she fiddled with her bun. A pile of hairpins had accumulated on the table.

  “What do you mean?” Mary Byrd asked cautiously. A throw coated in cat fur was draped on the chair next to her and she pulled it over her. The sneezing would begin any minute. She was only allergic to her mother’s cats.

  “I was … relieved,” her mother said, slightly rueful, but also slightly triumphant.

  “What are you saying?” Mary Byrd asked. She felt the hair on the back of her neck—her hackles—rising.

  “I was relieved that he was gone.” Her mother raised her head to look directly at Mary Byrd.

  “Mom, Mom, why would you say that?” Mary Byrd wailed, covering her eyes with her hands.

  “Because it’s true.”

  “Even if it’s true, why would you say it?”

  “Because I need to be honest with myself.”

  “Okay, that’s yourself,” Mary Byrd cried. “You don’t have to tell every true thing that you feel, do you?” She thought she knew where this was coming from. If her mother thought that her higher power meant for her to take twelve steps into a vat of boiling monkey vomit, she’d do it. She wondered if her mom went to some church-basement meeting, everybody proudly confessing their worst shit to each other, the air thick with affirmation and cigarette smoke. “Don’t you think there are just some things that are better left unsaid?”

  “Stevie created so many problems with Pop,” her mother went on. “I resented the fact that Pop favored him over you and Nick. And over me.”

  “Mom, Pop was a widower with a three-year-old,” Mary Byrd protested. “Of course he favored Stevie over me and Nick. Even back then, we got that.”

  “Well, maybe it’s just this mean streak that my sisters and I all have.” She shrugged, pulling at her bun.

  Maybe what her mother wanted was the melodrama, or to be upbraided for having low self-esteem, or some other pop psych garbage. Mary Byrd wasn’t taking the bait. Her mother’s self-esteem was fine.

  “Maybe Pop was just trying to protect Stevie from us. Nick and I tortured him so much.” Had they? Maybe they’d teased him a little too relentlessly, but it had seemed like normal sibling abuse at the time. She and Nick had done far more sadistic things to each other than the teasing they had subjected Stevie to.

  “Oh, Pop knew how I felt,” her mother said. “Those terrible rages when he was drunk.”

  “Well, I never saw it from you. I mean, that Pop favored Stevie and resented us, I saw. But I never saw any mean stuff from you.”

  “I was good at hiding things,” she said. “Like my drinking. Anyway, that’s how I felt. It was very hard for me having Stevie in the family. I did try. I went to a therapist for a long time.”

  “Uhhh,” Mary Byrd moaned. “God, Mama. I hope you didn’t say anything like that to that woman.”

  She looked Mary Byrd in the eye. “I only said that we each had our own issues to deal with about what happened.” She tossed the hairpiece on the table, where it lay like an arctic gerbil.

  Mary Byrd scrubbed at her eyes with her fingers, dislodging a contact. “Well, will y
ou please not bring this up with the detective? It has nothing to do with the case.” She popped out the other contact, absently wiping them both into her napkin. “It can’t help anything.”

  “Okay,” her mother said, shrugging. “I just thought you should know.”

  Her mother’s revelation made the squirrel executions seem charming and warm-hearted. Mary Byrd couldn’t hear anymore. “Okay. I’ve got to go to sleep. See you in the morning.” Mary Byrd gathered her socks and boots and duffel, heading for the guest room. At the kitchen door, she turned abruptly, went to her mother, and kissed the brown cheek that was offered. There was nothing else to say, and nothing to be done until Monday.

  “’Night, darling. I’m glad you’re here. I love you,” her mother said pleasantly, as if they’d just been sitting around watching Seinfeld or the Animal Channel.

  “’Night, Ma. Luvyatoo,” she said, but thought, ’Night, you scary mother.

  In the guest room, Mary Byrd popped half a Xanax, even though being at her mother’s usually made her sleepy and she always slept well, even on the thin, shifty mattress and even when there was disturbing stuff in the air, like tonight. She wasn’t sure why she slept so well here; at home it was lightly and fitfully. Maybe the relief from responsibility: this was her mother’s domain and all problems here were hers to deal with. Or maybe it was the lack of annoying disturbances like a husband, children, and pets. Her mom had the cats, but they had “emotional problems” and hid out when anyone was around, so they wouldn’t be scrabbling at her door or patting her face in the morning like Iggy and Irene did. Maybe it was just because here she was always a child, and always would be, even if she was doddering around at seventy-five and her mother a ninety-three-year-old crone in a wheelchair. Better to be on the safe side with the seepy-seep pill than to toss and turn all night, worrying. Or dreaming, god forbid. She suddenly sneezed three times.