Wicked Stepmother

by Michael McDowell

  “And we both have the same mother now, too.”

  “That is a revolting thing to say when I have food in my mouth.”

  “You’re my stepsister,” said Eric. “As well as my wife.”

  “I am not amused.”

  “I still need to ask you something,” said Eric.

  “What?”

  “Can you take care of the check?”

  PART TWO: The Only Son

  9

  “Just what the hell do you know about real art?”

  Cassandra swiveled her chair around. Mary Scott-Trout stood framed in the office doorway, trembling with rage. Her feet were implanted against the doorframe.

  “You look like Samson,” remarked Cassandra, “about to destroy the temple.”

  Mary Scott-Trout was in her late forties, solidly built, with her gray-streaked hair cut into a no-nonsense page boy. She wore no makeup, and nobody could be sure whether—considering the harsh features of her face—this was a good thing or a bad. Her wardrobe invariably consisted of a white blouse, a gray skirt, dark hose, and low-heeled pumps.

  Mary Scott-Trout pulled a crumpled envelope from her purse and flung it across the room at Cassandra. Cassandra didn’t even flinch, and the letter fell far short.

  “You didn’t even have the decency to return my poems. Not the decency,” she repeated with savage emphasis.

  “You didn’t include return postage,” Cassandra explained.

  “I didn’t think I’d need return postage when I had already been assured that you’d take the poems.” She stalked into the room, and threw herself into a chair opposite Cassandra’s desk. “I feel betrayed. You know what it’s like to feel betrayed? You feel like shit!”

  Cassandra said nothing for a moment, then she asked, “Why are you here?”

  “To find out what this means.” She picked up the crumpled envelope from the floor and smoothed it out on Cassandra’s

  desk.

  “It’s a rejection letter. The one I sent to you on your most recent cycle of poems. It says that we won’t publish them. I’m sorry, I thought the letter was quite straightforward.”

  Mary Scott-Trout sneered. “Wait’ll I tell PEN what you did to me. There’ll be an investigation, a real investigation into why a twenty-five-year-old girl without any previous publishing experience is allowed to edit a poetry magazine. We’ll see what PEN has to say. I’d advise you not to be at the next meeting, that’s what I’d advise.”

  “I never attend PEN meetings,” said Cassandra. “I’m usually too busy reading manuscripts. Mary, I’m still not quite sure I understand. Just what is it I’ve done to you? How have I ‘betrayed’ you? Writers get rejection letters all the time. They don’t usually storm the editor’s office and threaten legal action.”

  “You promised! I told the Globe—”

  “I didn’t promise,” said Cassandra calmly. “I didn’t even know you had written the poems till I found them on my desk.”

  “You did promise,” snarled Mary Scott-Trout. “Louise told me—”

  “Louise?”

  Mary Scott-Trout nodded with satisfaction. “Louise told me you said you’d be proud to publish anything I submitted, and the longer the better.”

  “When did Louise say this to you, Mary?”

  “When I bought my condo from her last month.”

  “I see,” said Cassandra quietly. “Well, Mary, I have to tell you something. Louise Larner—Hawke, excuse me—is not the editor of Iphigenia. I am the editor. In your case, I exercised my right to reject manuscripts.”

  “What about the Globe? I told the Globe you were going to publish the poems. You’ll look stupid, really stupid when you don’t.”

  “I’m not the one who’s going to look stupid,” said Cassandra. “If anyone asks me about the poems, I’ll just tell them that the poems were not worth printing, and that you spoke out of line. That’s all.”

  “And I’ll tell them about your stepmother, I’ll tell them that—”

  “My stepmother is hardly a spokeswoman for Menelaus Press,” interrupted Cassandra. “You were very foolish to listen to anything she had to say on the subject. And if you tell the story, that’s what other people are going to think, too. Now, I’m very busy, and you came in without an appointment, Mary. If you’ll speak to Sarah there in the outer office, I think she’ll be able to give you your poems back. Good-bye, Mary.”

  “Well,” said Eugene Strable, “I think this was a very pleasant idea.”

  He and Louise were sitting in a cozy, remote corner of the Café Lananas, well away from the other guests and the well-trodden paths of the waiters in the intimate basement restaurant on Newbury Street.

  “Oh,” said Louise gaily, “I’m so busy these days, running the office all alone, that I hardly ever have time for more than a sandwich. This is quite a treat for me. And I haven’t seen you since the reading of the will.” A somber expression, as if in remembrance of her dead husband, flitted across Louise’s features. She wore a slate-gray dress with a high collar and pleated front. Her black hair was swept back from her face, and she had on tiny black pearl earrings.

  Eugene Strable smiled a doleful smile of consolation. The waiter brought menus and took their orders for drinks. Louise looked around the restaurant and then back to Eugene. Her expression had become troubled.

  “Is something wrong?” the lawyer asked.

  “I’ve had something on my mind I wanted to discuss with you, but I don’t want to spoil the afternoon by talking about it now. . . .”

  “Please go on. If there’s anything I can help you with . . .”

  “It’s Verity. I’m worried about her.”

  “How so?”

  “Well,” said Louise, “I’ve been dropping by the house in the afternoons—just to make sure everything’s going along all right. I feel such responsibility toward Verity and Jonathan and Cassandra, and—”

  “Isn’t Cassandra taking care of the running of the house?” interrupted Eugene. “She did that even while Richard was alive. He didn’t bother with any of that, I don’t think.”

  “Cassandra’s preoccupied these days,” said Louise carefully. “With that Italian.” She clucked her tongue. “She’s let the ser­vants get slack in their work. I drop by now and again to let them know they can’t get away with everything.”

  “Oh? But what about Verity?”

  Louise murmured thanks to the waiter who brought her martini. When he went away, Louise said, “Verity gets up at three or four in the afternoon. She doesn’t even bother to get dressed then. She wanders downstairs, makes herself a drink, and sits out in the garden, or in the living room, until Cassandra comes in and tells her to get dressed for dinner. Then she stays out half the night. Still married to Eric and she stays out half the night drinking with strange men.” Louise took a deep breath. “She could very easily become an alcoholic.”

  Eugene nodded slowly. “Verity was probably very upset by Richard’s death. It takes some people longer to deal with grief than others. I’m sure that’s all it is,” he added reassuringly.

  “I don’t think so,” said Louise, shaking her head. “I think it’s more. I know it’s more than that by the way she treats me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “If Verity’s problem were just the grief she felt for Richard’s death, then she’d be treating me a whole lot better than she does. All three of them, in fact, would be treating me better. I don’t think they loved Richard at all.”

  “Louise—”

  “They resent me. They resent me horribly. And they don’t hesitate to let me know it, either. I’m embarrassed for them, for their behavior.”

  “Your marriage came as such a surprise,” Eugene pointed out. “Maybe if they had found out about it before Richard died.”

  Louise, clearly preferring not to hear this explanation, offered her own: “I think Verity’s real problem is something else altogether. I think her drinking problem has been brought on by her faile
d marriage. In fact, I’m almost sure of it.”

  Eugene Strable wasn’t able to disguise a glint of skepticism in his eye.

  Louise saw it and said, “No, you don’t know her the way I do, Eugene. She’s proud and vain and she’d never admit that it’s her fault her marriage went on the rocks. I think what Verity really needs is to get back together with Eric.”

  “Louise,” the lawyer began hesitantly, then paused altogether when the waiter brought their appetizers.

  “What?” said Louise when the waiter had gone away.

  “There’s something I think you should know about your son. I hadn’t wanted to have to tell you. . . .”

  “Tell me,” said Louise, her mouth set.

  “Last week,” said Strable, “a friend of mine came to me and said he had discovered that his daughter was using cocaine. He had also found out where she got it. He wanted my advice on the best way of turning the dealer in.”

  Louise picked at her shrimp with a fork. “Yes?” she said. “What has this got to do with Eric?”

  “Eric was the dealer he wanted to turn in to the police.”

  Louise looked up quickly. “What did you tell him to do?”

  “I talked him out of it. I didn’t tell him that I knew Eric either. I don’t need that kind of reputation among my clients. Louise, did you know that your son was selling drugs?”

  Louise hesitated. “This girl must have been a friend of Eric’s, and he got it for her as a favor. I’m sure that’s all it was. Eric is not a professional at this. I’m sure it was just Eric doing this girl a favor.”

  “Are you sure he’s not working on a slightly larger scale than that?”

  Louise grimaced. “Yes. If he were doing it on any scale at all, he’d be making a fortune. As it is, he comes to me for money.”

  Eugene spoke with a cynicism to match Louise’s: “You ought to have a talk with him. Either get him to stop doing ‘favors’ for friends, or have him go into this business all the way. If he’s caught, he’ll do ten to twenty years—so he might as well get rich.”

  Louise looked up astonished. “Are you joking?”

  The lawyer paused and smiled before answering. “Of course,” he said. “I would never advise anyone to break the law.”

  “Of course not. But you see what my problem is. He’s a grown man now. I can’t stand him in the corner because he’s selling hard drugs. That’s why I’m so anxious for him and Verity to get their marriage together again.”

  “An alcoholic and a drug dealer?”

  With affronted dignity, Louise replied, “That’s cruel. They’re just young people with problems. I think they could help each other out. I don’t know why you’re so down on Eric. I know he thinks very highly of you, Eugene.”

  “I’m sorry, Louise. I do realize the value of their trying to resuscitate the marriage.”

  “Then you’ll speak to Verity?”

  The lawyer laughed. “I thought you said you knew Verity. There’s no talking to her about something like that. She has to see it for herself. If I were you, I’d leave the whole business alone, and let it evolve. Verity hasn’t left town. So far as I’m concerned, that’s a very good sign. And Eric’s gone to see her, hasn’t he?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then I’d leave it at that. I wouldn’t say anything to Verity, Louise. You might just set her off. Don’t antagonize her. Just try to make yourself as pleasant as possible. Richard wasn’t an interfering father. Those kids are used to doing pretty much what they want to.”

  After a moment, Louise said, “Maybe you’re right. I won’t push it—for now.”

  “But if I were you, Louise—”

  “Yes?”

  “I would speak to Eric. I’d tell him to be more careful in choosing his clientele.”

  When Cassandra came home from work that afternoon, she stopped in the kitchen to speak to Ida. She found the cook standing near the kitchen ovens, with her heavy arms crossed and a perplexed expression on her face. Louise sat perched over the vast butcher-block worktable that was at the center of the room. She was trying to cut small red radishes into the semblance of roses with a shiny new implement meant precisely for that purpose. Beside her was a large orange casserole dish, already filled with some blend of foods that was pale yellow with flecks of orange. Opened cans and discarded packages suggested that the casserole dish might contain a combination of pineapple, carrots, and grapefruit juice. Cassandra’s mouth tightened and her eyes hardened, but she said nothing at first.

  Louise looked up. “I can’t get the hang of this.” She held up her latest experiment. It didn’t look at all like a rose—in fact, it didn’t even look like a radish anymore. Louise went over to the sink and dropped it into the disposal.

  She turned back to Cassandra. “I guess we’ll have to have the casserole without the garnish.” She nodded in the direction of the pot on the table. “I’m just waiting for the oven to get to the right temperature. Ida, what’s the thermometer say?”

  Ida turned, opened the door of one of the three ovens in the wall, and mumbled, “Three seventy-five.” Clearly agitated, she let the door slam shut. She fussed with a strand of white hair that had come loose from the tight bun at the back of her head.

  “A few minutes more,” said Louise. “The casserole should cook at four hundred.”

  “It’s carrots and pineapple?” asked Cassandra after a moment, and glancing at Ida.

  “I found the recipe in this month’s Bon Appétit.”

  “Louise,” said Cassandra, with a perplexed brow, “why are you making a casserole?”

  “Helping Ida, of course,” said Louise with a smile. “We’ve been getting along fine all afternoon—haven’t we, Ida?”

  Ida made a vague noise of agreement.

  “No,” said Cassandra. “What I mean is, why are you here in the kitchen at all?”

  Ida sighed loudly.

  “For dinner, of course! I thought it was time we all sat down together and talked things out.” She picked up another whole radish and looked at it speculatively. “Maybe I should try once more. . . .”

  Cassandra blinked rapidly. “Louise,” she said calmly, “you have no business being in here.”

  Louise’s mouth twitched. “I’m trying to help out, Cassandra.”

  “Ida is here,” said Cassandra. “Serena is polishing the woodwork in the study. Cara is upstairs doing the bathrooms. If we had anybody else ‘helping out,’ we’d have to build a new wing.”

  “A household gets out of kilter . . . ,” said Louise.

  “Out of kilter?”

  “After a death,” Louise continued tonelessly. “Especially when you’re not here half the time.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “Your bed wasn’t slept in at all last night.”

  Cassandra didn’t reply to this charge directly. “Why aren’t you at the office?” she asked.

  “I took the afternoon off.”

  “Well,” said Cassandra after a moment, “if the realty office can run without your assistance, Louise, so can this house. Verity and I are quite capable of taking care of things.” She went to the refrigerator, opened it, and looked inside. “I know exactly what to do. Besides, you’re wasting your time with this dinner.”

  Louise put the radish cutter down with a bang. “What do you mean?”

  “Verity has a dinner date.”

  “With who?” Louise demanded angrily.

  “With Eric,” replied Cassandra with a sly smile.

  “And it’s not their first, either,” said Louise, mollified. “I guess it’ll be just you and me.”

  Cassandra turned with a carton of milk in her hand. “No,” she said coolly, “I’ll be out too.”

  Ida, flushed, hurried through the swinging door into the dining room.

  Cassandra watched her go, sighed, and poured milk into a glass she took from the cabinet. She had her back to Louise.

  “This past week,” Louise said matter-of-fact
ly, “you and Jonathan and Verity have gone out of your way to be rude to me.”

  Cassandra turned and looked at Louise over the rim of her glass. She did not answer.

  “I’m thinking of what your father would have said about the way you three have been treating me,” said Louise, letting her voice drop.

  “I’m thinking of what Father would have said if he had known you were interfering in my work at the press.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It means that you told Mary Scott-Trout that I would be happy to publish her poems.”

  Louise was silent a moment, then she said, “I didn’t tell her that.”

  “You obviously did, Louise. Otherwise, she certainly wouldn’t have mentioned it to the Globe. You sold her a condominium last month, didn’t you?”

  “Yes. It had only been on the market for three—”

  “And you told her that I’d publish her poems—as an inducement to buy, right?”

  “Of course not! I just told her—”

  “Told her what?” prompted Cassandra.

  “That you had mentioned her in conversation,” said Louise carefully, “and that you liked her work, and would like to publish her sometime. As soon as you could.” Then, more sure of her ground, Louise went on quickly: “She misunderstood me. She did it on purpose. It wasn’t my fault, Cassandra. She deliberately took what I said and twisted it, and now she’s made a real fool out of you, but it’s not my fault.”

  Cassandra smiled. “She hasn’t made a fool out of me. But I’d be very surprised if you don’t hear from her in the next few days, Louise. So you better get your story straight for her.”

  Cassandra drained the glass and placed it in the sink. She went to a drawer on the other side of the room, and fished about among the utensils there. She didn’t find what she wanted, and opened another drawer next to it.

  Louise in the meantime went over to the sink, turned on the hot water, dribbled a little soap into the glass, washed it, rinsed it out with cold water, and then dried it with a towel. She placed it upside down in the rack. “You know, Cassandra, I’d do anything for this family.”