"God," she said, "I hope to hell I don't look that bad."
Norm managed a wan smile after wiping his face with a palm, and quickly relieved her of one of the bags. Trailing after her into the kitchen, he asked about her day, helped her place cans and boxes in the cupboards, and finally wondered aloud what was eating their son.
"So ask him," she said, snatching a saucepan from under the sink. "You speak the language of the young, the last I heard."
"Hey, touchy today, aren't you," he said, but without his usual bitterness.
She watched him drop into a chair, light a cigarette, and stare at the smoke until it had vanished. "My day was shitty, but yours must have been hell."
"To put it mildly," he said.
And as she prepared them a quick meal, something they could eat in five minutes and have no complaints about not feeling full, she listened while he told her about Hedley's bitching about a prank someone had pulled at his place over the weekend, about the coaches whining about the teachers who were in a conspiracy to hold back their best players and ruin the Big Game coming up Friday night against Ashford North, and about the teachers themselves and that sonofabitch Falcone and his threat to take the faculty out for a walk in only two days.
She said nothing because a single wrong word would set off his temper.
The signs were there. And she knew he had deliberately held back the news about Harry until he'd reached the end of his weary tirade. Maybe he'd thought to catch her off guard; maybe he thought she would fly to the man's defense and reveal herself as his not-so-secret lover.
And maybe he didn't think anything of the sort and was only rambling, hoping to get this day off his chest before he could relax and start thinking about tomorrow.
Three cigarettes later he was done, and the silence made her nervous.
She turned from the stove, and he was staring at her.
"Sorry about dinner," she said, waving toward the soup and sandwiches.
"There's a—"
"Committee meeting tonight," he finished for her. "I know."
"Well, there is," she insisted without wanting to. "My god, things start on Wednesday, you know."
"I know."
"And as long as you're here, I might as well tell you that that so-called bandmaster of yours is being a real prick, Norm. He acts like he's in charge of the New York Philharmonic, for Christ's sake. It's not like we're asking for his blood, for crying out loud. And he's even talking about extra pay!"
"I know."
She slapped at the counter. "Will you please stop saying that? If you know so damned much, why the hell don't you talk to him like I've asked you a hundred times already?"
"Three hundred, but who's counting," he said.
"Jesus."
She put her back to him and stirred the soup, her free hand pulling her ponytail over her shoulder to stroke it, to calm her, to figure out a way to get him to talk to Donald—right, Joyce, his name is Donald. She couldn't do it herself. When she'd looked in on him on Sunday and he had looked at her that way, she knew she couldn't have a decent conversation with him without running from the room.
It was horrible.
It was unnatural.
But after seeing him like that, not sick but something else, she was ashamed to admit that she was afraid of him.
"Did you talk to Don?" she asked at last, her voice sounding too small, making her clear her throat and ask the question again.
"No. I just walked in the door when you came."
"Then will you?"
"When I'm ready."
The spoon clanged against the side of the pot.
"If you want to know the truth," he said, sounding less angry but no less tired, "I think the kid needs a spanking, but he's too big for it. If I tried it, he'd probably bash in my teeth."
Last year, last month, last week, she would have turned on him furiously for even suggesting such a thing; tonight, however, she only nodded without letting him see her expression.
"Actually, I think he's in love."
She lifted the spoon from the soup, tested for warmth, and returned to her stirring. "You think so?"
"Yep. I think he has the hots for the Quintero girl. The cop's kid."
"Norman, I wish you wouldn't talk like that."
"Like what?" Perfectly innocent, and uncaring.
"Like saying Don has the hots for someone. If he's in love, he's in love, and it doesn't necessarily have anything to do with having sex with the child."
But he isn't in love, she thought, half-hoping he would read her mind.
He isn't. I know. I'm his mother, and I know.
"Well, maybe," he conceded. "And another thing."
"What?"
"If you don't let up on that spoon, we're going to have butter for supper."
It wasn't all that funny, but she laughed anyway as she went to the foyer and called up to her son, telling him supper was ready and he'd best get down here before it got cold. There was no response. She called again and wished he had turned out more like Sam, who had never had to be called twice, never got into trouble.
"Donald!"
She heard the door open, heard his footsteps in the hall, and smiled as well as she could when he appeared on the landing.
"I'm not really hungry, Mother," he said.
"Well, you'd better come down and eat what you can. It can't hurt, and I don't want you sick for all the fun this week."
"Yeah," he said, looked back up toward his room, and started down.
Slowly. His hand dusting the banister until he was less than a foot from her. The smile held, but she could see his eyes now, could see the look in them, the dark look that made her feel as if she were an ant to be stepped on, or not, at the whim of a perfectly ordinary and inexplicably terrifying young man.
"Come on," she said brusquely and walked away. He followed and she walked faster, and barely suppressed a relieved sigh when she saw Norm still at the table. Even a fight, now, would be better than nothing.
But Norm only nodded, and Don only nodded back, and during the meal they exchanged words so polite, so noncommittal, so infuriatingly inane that she wished for the first time that Harry were here. He would know what to do. He was, despite his dress and his manner with his students, an old-fashioned type when it came to dealing with children, and he would know how to handle this stranger who was her son.
And when the meal was over and she was piling the dishes in the sink, Don said, "Are you two getting a divorce?"
She spun around, a bowl clattering to the floor unbroken. "My god, Donald, what a thing to say!"
"Go to your room," Norman ordered in a strained voice.
"Just asking," Don said with a shrug. Then he rose, folded his paper napkin, and walked out.
"Jesus," Norm said, pulling a beer from the refrigerator.
"Norm, what are we going to do?"
He looked at her, drank, and forced himself to belch. "Seems to me," he said as he headed for the TV room, "that's your problem. You're the one who doesn't think I love you, remember?"
"But—"
And she was alone, hands tangled in a dishtowel, lips moving soundlessly, her dream of running away with Harry for some remote paradise suddenly more the dream of an old woman still a spinster.
Then she saw the clock and knew she was going to be late. Oh, shit, she thought, threw the towel on the floor, stomped to the doorway, and said, "I'm going. I'll be back around eleven."
"I'll be here."
"Talk to Don, okay?"
He lifted a hand—maybe, maybe not.
Damn you, she thought, and managed to get behind the wheel before she started to cry. Not long, and not loud. Just enough to prove she could still do it, and still cared enough to want to in spite of the daydreams and in spite of Falcone. It wasn't easy; she had admitted weeks ago he meant nothing to her, not even as a port in her private storm. He meant, if she were going to be honest, even less than that lawyer she'd taken up with shortly after Sam had
died. That episode had been a search for meaning, or so she claimed, and so Norman said he believed in his forgiving; this was a search for something else, something she couldn't define and was growing weary of trying. What it probably was, she thought bitterly, was a woman on the verge of menopause, looking for her teenaged self in a mirror that lied.
She snorted a laugh at the image and backed out into the street, driving off with the resolve to get home as soon as possible. Maybe then they could talk, the three of them, about what was going on, and what they could do, and how much they really loved each other. They had to. Don's question tonight proved it.
Something moved in the shadows.
"You know my father's gonna kill me," Tracey said, walking as fast as she could, her shoulders lifted against the cold that had come with Monday's dark.
"God, you're not that late," Amanda told her. Her long black hair was tied back with a black ribbon, her school jacket open to the night's chill. "God, you'd think, he was your keeper or something."
"Sometimes he thinks he is," she said, though with a smile that made Amanda frown and shake her head. "It's just a pain how old-fashioned he is sometimes, you know? But ... well, he's just afraid for me, that's all. Because of the Howler."
"Well, for god's sake, that slime's probably a million miles away by now. He can't be stupid enough to hang around, right? Christ, he's probably all the way to Ohio or someplace." She giggled. "Damned fuzz can't find the lint on their shoulders."
"Hey," Tracey said softly.
"Oh. Sorry." Without regret, only a shrug and a lengthening of her stride.
"Sure."
"No, I mean it."
Tracey waved off the weak apology and readjusted the notebooks she carried in her hand.
Amanda began humming, and cut herself short. "I wonder if old Tube's gonna be up all night again."
"Again?"
"Yeah, sure. Didn't you hear Brian today? He said the old fart was up all night yesterday scrubbing his porch. He had one light, a flashlight, and when Brian drove by, he turned it off. I guess he didn't want anyone to see what he was doing. I'll bet he used some of that crap from his lab, y'know? Homemade bleach." She giggled and mimed a scientist pouring a solution from one beaker to another. "Maybe he drank some of it. Maybe he thinks it'll give him more hair."
"All night, huh? No kidding?"
"I'll tell you," Amanda said, moving closer and lowering her voice. "I'm glad Fleet wasn't there. With his luck they would have been caught, suspended, and thrown in jail." She sniffed and looked behind her. "The old fart had it coming though. He's been busting our asses since school started. I don't think he wants us to graduate." A laugh, and a slap at Tracey's arm. "He really hates it that Fleet's getting straight A's, y'know? He thinks Fleet oughta be dumb just because he plays football. Maybe he has the hots for him, y'know?" She laughed again, harder, when Tracey looked away, embarrassed.
The boulevard was empty of everything but its streetlamps and shadows, and it wasn't hard for Amanda to hear footsteps behind her. She looked, and saw nothing.
Tracey saw the move. "Me too," she said, and they moved closer to the curb, ready to dash across to the other side should they need to run.
"Dumb."
"What?"
"This," Amanda said, nodding to the way they were almost tight-roping the curb. "He's a million miles from here."
"Sure," Tracey agreed.
"Besides, I'd kick his balls in if he tried anything with me."
Tracey nodded, patting the purse she held close to her side. "I've got a piece of pipe in here. I'd bash his brains in."
"Pipe?" Amanda was impressed. "No shit?"
"Dad makes me carry it."
"Well, hell, sure he does. He's a cop."
"I don't know if I could use it though."
"What?" Amanda stopped, staring her disbelief. "You're nuts, Trace. You're ... nuts! Of course you can use it! You think you're gonna die, you'll bite the bastard back if you have to."
Tracey considered, then nodded. "I guess."
Another block, and the chill deepened, sharpening the sound of their feet on the sidewalk, giving the light from the streetlamps a sharp, shimmering edge.
They walked arm to arm.
The boulevard was still empty.
"You know what?" Amanda whispered.
"What?"
She looked around and lifted her head. "The fucker is dumb, that's what!" she said loudly.
"Dumber!" Tracey yelled.
"Dumber than shit!" Amanda screamed.
"Dumbshit!" Tracey shouted, and broke into a fit of giggling that soon had her choking.
And Tanker laughed with them silently, watching as they rushed along the pavement, almost running as they headed toward the park and the shops' lights beyond and keeping themselves brave by daring the dark. He knew that method well, had used it himself a number of times when he was tramping through enemy territory and didn't want to die.
The difference here was simple.
He hadn't died.
And they were going to.
He kept to the treed islands in the middle of the wide avenue, staying almost directly opposite them, herding them with his presence though he didn't show himself, didn't make a sound, only curling a lip when they almost broke into a headlong dash once the shorter girl stopped choking.
It was tempting, taking two whores on at once, and the shakes were on him bad enough to make his legs cramp and his hair feel as if it were being torn from his scalp. It hadn't been this bad in a long time, and he was glad the clouds had thinned a little, to let out the moon; he was glad, too, of the rain over the weekend. It had kept his friend hidden while he was in that pissant jail, him and a handful of other men, Bums picked up on Saturday night by two cops in plain clothes, one of whom, a dark little creep who looked like a snotty spic, actually looked more frightened than stern. Tanker hadn't tried to run away though, because they didn't know what he looked like, didn't know who he was, didn't know what he had done. He had gone along, acting like he was weak and smaller than he was, saying "sir" every time he spoke, giving them a phony name, sleeping on their damned cots and eating their damned food, which wasn't all that bad, all things considered.
But this morning he had been released, and cautioned, not very gently, not to hang around anymore, not at the food joints, or the movie house, or the park, or even the goddamned churches. Babyfuck reasons to run him out of town. Two of the other guys headed directly for the city limits, one for the nearest bar, and Tanker had smoothed and combed and neatened himself up as best he could and stood at the bus stop right in front of the station. He knew they were watching him, and he gave them a little wave when he stepped into the bus and let it take him as far as the park.
Shitheads didn't even check to see where he had gone.
It was close. God, how he'd wanted to howl when he walked out the station door, to see them shit in their pants at what they had missed.
But he had been strong because the shakes were coming on, and he needed to do it, and he figured they figured he was halfway to California by now, just like those assholes in Yonkers, and New York, and Binghamton had figured he was someplace else when he was right there all the time.
Idiots. True and real idiots, and he had helped them get that way.
One of the whores laughed again, nervously, and finally he couldn't take it anymore. They were exactly where he wanted them to be, and so he drew himself up and ran out into the middle of the deserted street.
The shorter bitch saw him first, screamed, and started to run, her notebooks falling onto the sidewalk; one popped open, pages tumbling toward the gutter. The other one turned and gaped at him, heard her friend's frantic call and began to run a few seconds later.
But she was too far behind, and Tanker angled to position himself in front of her, pushing her closer to the park wall, closer, grinning as he loped until she shrieked a name and darted through the open gates.
The first whore stopped when s
he saw Tanker race for the opening, but a feint and snarl had her off again, her voice shrill and laced with tears. He didn't care. By the time she got help the shakes would be gone.
He ran. Easily. Up on his toes. Silently. Ducking into the brush as soon as he was through the gates, following the babyfuck whore by the sound of her shoes and the sound of her breathing and the sound of her tremulous prayers for someone to hear her.
At the oval pond he broke out and grabbed her.
She screamed so loudly he winced, and before he could stop her she had raked the side of his face with her nails. Shrieking. Kicking, aiming for his groin. Screeching when he slapped her, and clawing at him again until he grabbed her wrists and pulled her forward, spun around once and dumped her into the water.
She gasped as she struggled back to the surface and stood, water dripping from her eyebrows, from her jaw, backing away as he stepped calmly in to join her.
"No," she said.
He only grinned and moved in.
Amanda leapt for the apron and fell when her wet soles slipped out from under her. Tanker was on her back before she could regain her balance, and with a sad shake of his head he slammed her face into the concrete.
"Whore," he said, baring his teeth.
Amanda groaned and coughed blood.
He drove her face down again, his hands snarled in her wet hair, one knee jammed in the small of her back.
"Whore."
She groaned again, and fell silent.
"Whore," he said a third time, and dragged her by the hair into the bushes. Then he tore off her jacket and tossed it aside, rolled her onto her back and stood over her. He was right, as usual, a whore. He could tell by the way the sweater clung to her breasts, the way the tiny gold cross on the fine gold chain around her neck mocked the religion she supposedly believed in; he could tell by the way she bled from the gouges in her forehead and chin.
She was a whore, and Tanker was hungry, and with a grateful look to the unseen moon he dropped beside her, put a hand to her cheek, and licked his lips twice before tearing out her throat.
The Pet Page 13
