Wicked Stepmother

by Michael McDowell

  Verity pushed the doors of the dining room shut behind her. She slid her hands into the pockets of her slacks and waited for someone to speak.

  “All right,” she said. “I know. I missed the party. I’m sorry.”

  Verity pushed at the bridge of her dark glasses and looked her sister over. Cassandra was dressed in a white silk high-necked blouse with ribs of lace down the front. Her black skirt uncharacteristically touched just above the calf. She wore conservative gray-toned hose and square-toed, heavy-heeled shoes of black leather. Her thick auburn waves were brushed back from her pale, sharp-featured face.

  “We’ve just come back from Mount Auburn,” said Eugene Strable.

  “The cemetery?” asked Verity in a small voice. She was suddenly aware that the family lawyer seemed much older than when she’d last seen him. The lines about his mouth and forehead were more pronounced and his short dark hair had grayed at the temple.

  Cassandra moved across the room toward her sister, but Verity became suddenly very stiff. “Am I going to have to play Twenty Questions?” she asked, then demanded, “Where’s Father?”

  “Father died on Wednesday night,” said Cassandra. “In Atlantic City.”

  “Atlantic City!” repeated Verity in surprise.

  “Father and Louise went down for a three-day convention of real-estate brokers,” Cassandra explained.

  Verity turned to Louise Larner, who had remained seated at the head of the table.

  “Brokers of luxury properties,” added Louise, her expression betraying no emotion.

  Louise was tall and slender with a ruddy, smooth complexion. Her figure was shapely, and she did not show all of her forty-five years. Her hair was jet black, glossy, and fell in thick waves that just brushed her shoulders. Louise spent at least two lunch hours a week in a fashionable beauty salon three doors down from the Hawke Associates Realty Company.

  “How did Father die, Louise?” Verity asked levelly.

  “It was his heart,” Louise returned quickly, “but you see . . .” Louise looked at the three Hawkes, and went suddenly silent. She slipped forward a little in her chair, as if waiting anxiously to be prodded to speak more.

  “His heart?” Verity cried. “He never—”

  “It was completely unexpected,” Eugene Strable said gently. His eye, however, was on Louise. “It took us all by surprise. When I heard . . .”

  Verity moved distractedly away from her sister, shunning her touch. At the French doors, she stopped and turned back to the lawyer. Then she looked at Louise. “Tell me how it happened.”

  Louise began to speak, but Jonathan stood up from the hearth, where the fire had begun to blaze. “Now isn’t the time, Verity,” he said.

  Louise sat back in the chair. She tugged at one of her wide shirt cuffs.

  Verity looked up at him. “Now is the time. I want to know exactly what happened.” Verity closed her eyes a moment, then sat down at the end of the table, directly opposite Louise Larner. Cassandra came forward and placed her hand on her elder sister’s shoulder, but Verity writhed out from under it.

  “I think,” the lawyer said to no one in particular, “she probably should hear about Richard, even though . . .”

  “Even though what?” demanded Verity. “Why isn’t anyone speaking?” Verity looked straight at each person in the room.

  “Your father and I flew down to Atlantic City last Monday,” Louise began, before anyone else spoke. “Richard and I have been involved for some time in a big new development project. So much of our time has been spent in lining up investors—wooing them, Richard called it. And as it turned out, two of our biggest prospects are real dyed-in-the-wool gamblers, so Richard thought it would be a good idea if we met them down at Atlantic City, so—”

  “For God’s sake, Louise!” snapped Verity. “Nobody cares about that!”

  Louise took a noisy little breath expressive of having taken offense, but she went on more to the point: “Anyway, Richard and I were in Atlantic City, on business. And you know how your father was when he traveled—no matter how tired he was, it was almost impossible for him to get to sleep. Wednesday night we had dinner and your father wanted to get up early the next morning so he went to bed and took sleeping pills. Sleeping pills don’t always work, you know, and this time they didn’t work at all. I guess he took some more of them, without thinking, of course, and they still didn’t work, so he got up and dressed and went down to the lobby to have a few drinks and do a little gambling.”

  Louise paused in a show of consternation.

  “Go on,” said Verity.

  “He had a heart attack,” said Louise slowly. She touched a hand to her neck, fingering the large onyx broach there. “At the blackjack table,” she added with a grimace.

  “My God,” whispered Verity faintly and sadly. “Where were you? Why didn’t you stop him from drinking after he took those pills; he—”

  “Verity, I didn’t know he had done it! I was so exhausted by all the meetings that day. I didn’t find out about it until they came upstairs to get me. I don’t need to tell you that I was devastated! I still am.” Her voice rose in pitch and strength: “Especially since—” Louise left off abruptly, and glanced questioningly at the lawyer. “I think now is the time to tell them, don’t you?” she said in a low voice. “Now that Verity’s here?”

  “Tell us what?” demanded Verity. “There’s more? What more could there be? Father’s dead.”

  “Now,” sighed the lawyer.

  Cassandra and Jonathan exchanged puzzled looks. Eugene Strable stepped up to the table and rested his hands on the back of a chair. Louise sat up straight and stiff. Her stockings whined as she uncrossed her legs.

  “Louise and your father were married last Saturday,” said Eugene Strable. “It was a civil ceremony in the Brookline town hall. Jeannette and I were witnesses.” There was a long moment of stunned silence.

  “It was very solemn and lovely,” said Louise quietly. She folded one hand over the other in her lap.

  Jonathan sat slowly in one of the wingbacks by the hearth. Cassandra drew her breath loudly. Verity mumbled, “Oh, Jesus! Last week?”

  Louise nodded. “The trip to Atlantic City was business, of course, but it was a sort of honeymoon too. We were going to announce the marriage at Cassandra’s party. Then of course Richard died. We couldn’t find you, Verity, because you were on the road, but you promised to be here in time for the party. That’s why we scheduled the funeral today,” she added with a touch of reproach, “because you had promised you’d be back.” She looked from one to the other of Richard’s children. “I know this won’t mean much to you right now, but I want you all to know that Richard was very, very happy this past week. We only had four days together—but they were perfect days.”

  The fire popped and crackled, and quickly the room became too warm. Louise sat very still and expectant, most evidently waiting for someone to speak words of welcome to the family, or words of consolation on the loss of her husband. Jonathan, Verity, and Cassandra all maintained their silence, until it became oppressive. Louise rose and hurried through the swinging door into the kitchen. Verity sat at one end of the Sheraton dining table, well away from the fire. Cassandra took the chair next to her. Jonathan described the well-attended public funeral and the private graveside service at Mount Auburn.

  When he was done, Eugene Strable turned so that he faced the three of them. There was genuine concern in his pale gray eyes. “I want you to do me and yourselves a favor. The three of you have lost your father, and I’ve lost my best friend—but Louise has lost her husband. She’s trying hard to maintain her composure, but I know for a fact that she is deeply grieved. I know that there’s been a little friction between you and Louise, but I’m going to ask you to put that aside for now.” He looked from one to the other.

  “I can’t deal with this,” said Verity, turning away.

  A moment later, Louise came back into the dining room, bearing a large silver tray la
den with cups, a steaming silver pot, half a dozen tiny spoons, and a silver sugar and creamer. The tray was obviously heavy. Eugene Strable made a quick movement to assist her, but she motioned him out of the way. She placed the tray on one corner of the table.

  “I thought we all could use a little bolstering,” she announced with cold dignity. “The cemetery was very damp, after all.”

  Cassandra made a distracted, almost imperceptible nod of her head.

  Louise poured and Eugene passed out cups. When everyone had been served, Verity took a single sip from her cup and grimaced. “God,” she said, “this tastes like creosote.”

  “It’s Lapsang Souchong,” said Louise defensively. “It’s all I could find. I’m not as familiar with the house as I should be . . .”

  A few minutes later, Eugene Strable got up to go. Verity politely stood and shook his hand. Grasping her hand in both of his, he again offered his sympathy and his regret that it had all come as such a shock to her. He left, refusing Louise’s offer to see him to the door.

  Richard Hawke’s three children and his widow remained in a rigid and lengthening silence in the dining room.

  “You haven’t asked about Eric,” Louise said to Verity at last.

  “I didn’t intend to.”

  “He was at the funeral, of course. I’ll be seeing him again this evening. I’ll tell him to be sure and call you tonight.”

  “Please don’t, Louise. I’ve had enough to contend with

  today.”

  “All right, dear.” Louise was silent a moment, then said, “But I’ll leave his number on the hall table, in case you change your mind. He lives in Cambridge now.”

  When she still got no reaction, Louise went on, in a slightly offended voice. “I think you owe it to Eric. Owe it to him for what happened at the funeral today. He was horribly embarrassed.”

  Jonathan and Cassandra looked up sharply and questioningly at this.

  “What on earth happened?” asked Verity curiously. “I’ve never seen Eric embarrassed.”

  “That man you had an affair with showed up at the cemetery, looking for you.”

  “Which one?” Verity pursued dryly.

  “Ben James,” said Cassandra. “Louise, Ben James was a friend of Father’s. That’s why he was at the funeral.”

  Ben James had been at Harvard with Richard Hawke, and his daughter had been Verity’s Bennington roommate. His affair with Verity had ended shortly before her marriage.

  “I told him you were out of town,” said Louise. Then she sighed. “It was a terrible moment for Eric.”

  “I told Ben to call tomorrow,” said Jonathan.

  “Good,” said Verity, smiling at her brother.

  “I’m going to run out to the greengrocer’s now,” said Louise, standing. “I volunteered to fix dinner for the four of us this evening.”

  “Where’s Ida?” asked Verity. “And Serena? And Cara?”

  “The servants are off, of course,” replied Louise. “I suggested Cassandra let them have the day off to mourn in their own fashion­.”

  “I see,” said Verity.

  “Is there anything you want me to pick up?”

  Cassandra and Jonathan replied in the negative, and Louise started out. She had just opened the double doors and was stepping through, when Verity’s voice halted her. “Oh, Louise!”

  “Yes?”

  “I think my car’s blocking yours. The keys are in the hall basket. Don’t bother about the bags in the backseat, I’ll have someone bring them in later.”

  Cassandra stepped closer to the fire, staring into the flames for a long moment before shifting her glance to her sister. The fire was reflected in the large dark lenses of Verity’s glasses.

  Verity smiled ruefully. “I feel as if I’ve just been trampled by all ten thousand runners in the Boston Marathon.”

  “I need a drink,” said Jonathan. He knelt before a Chippendale commode and opened the doors. Second of the three children, he was twenty-seven, tall, thin, and clean-shaven, with sandy hair a shade lighter than Verity’s. When he smiled he was almost handsome, for a smile showed off his perfectly aligned teeth and gave definition to his jaw. He had the same sharp nose and highly defined cheek lines of his sisters—these they had all inherited from their mother. “Who else wants one?”

  “I do,” said Verity. “A vodka gimlet.”

  “I don’t know how to mix that.”

  “Then Canadian Club and Seven. Light on the Seven and skip the ice.”

  “Verity,” Jonathan said, rummaging for the whiskey, “I get the distinct idea that you saw the inside of a lot of bars in Kansas City.”

  “I did. Bar crawling is the favored sport of the elite in Kansas City.”

  “Are you going back?” Cassandra asked.

  “I would rather walk naked through the fires of hell on a Saturday night than go back to Missouri.” She took a long swallow of the drink.

  “So you’ll stay on for a while?” Jonathan asked.

  “At least until the reading of the will, I guess.”

  Cassandra seated herself on the floor beside her sister’s chair, her legs folded beneath her. The firelight played about her face and made glossy highlights in her hair. Verity absently reached down and grazed her sister’s cheek with the back of her hand.

  “I could get you a good position in the company,” Jonathan offered. His company was the Commonwealth & Providential Life Assurance Corporation, headquartered in Boston. For the last three years he had had a job as an assistant director of personnel; he had already found cushy jobs for half-a-dozen Exeter and Harvard classmates.

  “Thank you, Jonathan. Really,” said Verity after a disapproving moment. “But I’ve suffered terrible job burnout recently, and it may take me a while to get over it.”

  “Cassandra, do you want a drink?” asked Jonathan.

  “Sherry,” she replied.

  Verity shook her head. “So, what are we going to do about dinner?”

  “Louise is fixing dinner,” said Cassandra.

  “Not for me, she’s not. She going to show up with Eric and an armful of broccoli. I’m going out; who’s going with me?”

  “I will,” said Jonathan.

  They both turned to Cassandra. “It wouldn’t be right,” she said. “Not this evening.”

  Verity shrugged. “If you think I’m going to spend this evening watching Louise smile bravely in her tacky widow’s weeds, you’re out of your head. I certainly do not want to hear her version of the last four days of Father’s life.”

  Cassandra tossed her hair and looked up at her sister and brother, Jonathan standing with his back to the fire, his shadow falling across Verity’s face. “All right, we’ll go out. After all, it’s not Father’s death that’s upset me so much, it’s the prospect of having Louise underfoot from now on.” She took a breath, and said, “Poor Father.” But there was no regret or remorse in her voice. “I haven’t been able to mourn him at all yet. I guess I keep expecting him to come back from Atlantic City. I don’t know who I thought it was they were burying in that casket today! The funeral home put rouge on his cheeks, and they parted his hair on the wrong side.”

  “Do you know what I’m going to miss most?” said Jonathan. “I’m going to miss the calls to tell me there’s a sale on at Louis or at Brooks Brothers.”

  Cassandra’s laugh was short and bitter. “And his giving me advice on how to hire and fire.”

  “He didn’t actually know us very well,” mused Verity. “Nor we him.”

  “I wonder what’s in the will?” said Jonathan.

  “Knowing Louise,” said Verity, “don’t you imagine that she got Father to change it in her favor?”

  “They were only married for four days,” exclaimed Cassandra. “There wouldn’t have been time.”

  “Well,” said Jonathan reassuringly, “even if Father left everything he had to Louise, none of us is going to be left out in the cold exactly. Father’s death doesn’t affect the trust f
und.” He paused a moment, and then glanced at his sisters. “At least I don’t think it does. We should be all right, even if worst comes to worst and Father didn’t leave us anything at all.”

  “Don’t say that,” said Verity. “Father did leave us something—something very important.”

  “What?” asked both Jonathan and Cassandra.

  “Well,” said Verity bitterly, “Father’s left us Louise Larner Hawke—our very own wicked stepmother.”

  3

  “I can’t help feeling guilty,” Cassandra admitted.

  “Guilty?” asked Verity. “About what?”

  They were seated in the curve of a red-leather booth in a small Middle Eastern restaurant nestled beneath the elevated subway tracks in Boston’s South End. Business was slow this evening, and now that some secretary’s farewell party had staggered out after consuming a quarter of an hour trying to divide the check, there was only one other table occupied, and that was on the other side of the room. The lighting was so soft that Verity had removed her dark glasses. Her eyes were large, pale blue, and a little unfocused. Jonathan had left the table in order to make a telephone call.