Wicked Stepmother

by Michael McDowell

  “You have one hell of a nerve to pull something like this!”

  “Like what?!” cried Louise. “You keep saying I did something bad, and I didn’t. I just came to get a few of the things that are particularly dear to me because of your father.”

  “Dear is certainly the right word. You just carted away some of the most valuable pieces of furniture in the house.”

  Louise hesitated. “I didn’t know that. I don’t care about that. I just want them because they were your father’s.” She went to the window and looked out. She took a breath and then said with some satisfaction, “Anyway, it’s too late to do anything now, Jonathan. The moving van’s already driven off.”

  Jonathan, still standing in the doorway, was silent for a moment. He appeared to be gathering his thoughts as he looked over the empty room, and then back to Louise, who was lifting a corner of the carpet with the toe of her shoe. “Why didn’t you take the carpet too?” he asked sarcastically.

  “I don’t have a room big enough for it,” replied Louise absently.

  Jonathan shook his head. He looked at his stepmother and said quietly, “You have been using Father’s death as if it were a springboard. His name, our name, has given you social respectability, I guess—but it will never make you respectable. You got a little money, a little property, and you got the real-estate office—but you wanted more than that. You wanted our fortune, but it was tied up in trust. You wanted our house, but it belongs to the three of us. So now you’re going to loot it room by room, and then I guess you’ll try to take it away, stone by stone, brick by brick, and board by board.”

  Louise looked at Jonathan coolly. “You have a very nasty streak in you. You didn’t used to be this way. I’m going to ignore it. I know you’re still upset about your father’s death. We all are.”

  “Are we?”

  “What?”

  “Are we all upset?” asked Jonathan.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  Jonathan shrugged. “Yes, of course,” he said, “we’re all upset. It was horrible what happened to Father in Atlantic City. The way he died.”

  He smiled at Louise. Louise said nothing.

  “So suddenly,” Jonathan went on. “So strangely. So mysteriously.”

  “Heart attacks are terrible,” said Louise nervously. “How do you think I felt? Down there, away from home, on our honeymoon, for God’s sake!”

  “I wondered that myself,” said Jonathan.

  “Wondered what?”

  “Wondered how you felt when you found out Father was dead. Down there, away from home, on your honeymoon.”

  The mimicry hung in the air between them. Louise turned away and examined the family photographs on the wall.

  “Well,” said Jonathan, breaking the silence with a show of amiability, “I’m sorry that you went to this much trouble.”

  “Oh, it was no trouble—”

  “Well, it’s going to be. I want all those things returned. You have four months’ grace time—until the first of September, to be precise.”

  “Thank you very much,” Louise snorted, then asked warily. “Why September first? Why so exact?”

  “Because that’s when Apple and I are getting married.” He smiled broadly. “And moving into this house. And this room. With my mother’s furniture put back in it.”

  “You’re getting married?” Louise asked, her tone of anger instantly giving way to shock.

  “Yes.”

  Louise’s face froze. “I never heard about these plans.”

  “The date’s been set for a long time.”

  “You might have told me.”

  “We hardly need your permission. And I’m telling you now.”

  “Why don’t you keep your old apartment?”

  “It’s too small. Apple and I want to live here, in this house. And we’re going to, on September first.”

  “Then why,” Louise said distractedly, “why don’t you both live in your old room?”

  “Because,” said Jonathan carefully, “I’m coming back here with a wife. My old room doesn’t have a bath attached to it. And this room has a dressing room, a bath, and two walk-in closets. It’s perfect for Apple and me.”

  Louise stood very still at the corner of the Oriental rug. She toed a shard of the broken porcelain vase. “You want to bring a—a punk-rock singer to live in your father’s house?”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “I’m just wondering if you’ve really thought things through.”

  Jonathan looked at Louise closely. “You think I’d be injuring the reputation of the family if I married a woman who’s a rock singer?”

  “Apple’s smart, she’s a smart young woman, but she’s not. . .”

  “Not what?”

  Louise took a breath and then said pointedly, “Not up to the standards of this family.”

  Jonathan stared at Louise. Then he laughed, and there was amusement in his voice. “You’re saying Apple is not good enough to marry into this family. You!”

  “What’s that supposed to mean, Jonathan?”

  “What do you think it’s supposed to mean?”

  “You don’t think I’m good enough to carry your last name, is that it?”

  “No, as a matter of fact, I don’t, but I was referring to Eric, not to you.”

  “Eric?”

  “It’s not nearly as bad for me to be married to a rock musician as it is for Verity to be married to a drug dealer.”

  “What?” cried Louise, stepping forward, and crushing one of the shards of the broken porcelain vase beneath her foot. “What do you mean by that?”

  “I can hardly believe you don’t know anything about it, Louise.”

  “There’s nothing to know. Eric has never sold drugs. I know it for a fact. I guess he’s tried marijuana, most young people have. But I’ll bet you five dollars it was Verity who gave it to him.”

  “Call your son, Louise. Ask him how he pays rent on that apartment when he hasn’t had a real job for three years. Ask him why he pays for everything in cash.”

  Louise’s breath was deep and uneven. “I’m the one who provides him with money. Eric’s just a victim of the recession, that’s all. He’s certainly not dealing drugs.” She glared at Jonathan, who carefully adjusted the sleeves of his sport coat.

  “Sure, Louise. You know, one reason I’m marrying a punk-rock singer is that, after being shackled with you and Eric, I thought we’d need somebody to bring up the tone of the family a little.”

  11

  In the early evening of that same day, Cassandra and Rocco showed up at Jonathan and Apple’s apartment in the Prudential Towers. It was almost dark, and from the thirtieth floor, Back Bay lay like a map in shades of blue beneath them. Jonathan’s two-bedroom apartment was furnished in bright blue and steel gray, but all the lights were soft white and warm. Cassandra looked around. “Apple, are you sure you moved in today? I can’t see a thing that’s out of place.”

  “I like to travel light.”

  Jonathan looked at his fiancée. “I had a run-in with Louise this afternoon,” he said, starting to prepare drinks for them all. “Verity, did you tell her she could have all of Mother’s furniture?”

  “I told her not to bother me,” said Verity.

  “That was a very stupid thing to do. Louise interpreted that as permission.”

  “Is this a family conference?” asked Verity. “If this is going to be a family conference, I’m going to have to do some coke.”

  “This is a family conference,” said Jonathan, pouring himself a Scotch. He went to the window and looked out over the city. When he turned back he said: “We’re the Hawkes now.”

  “Not me,” Verity pointed out. “Technically, I mean.”

  Jonathan ignored her. “Before,” he went on, deliberately, “we were just the children—Mother and Father were the principal generation. Now that’s us.”

  “Don’t forget Louise,” said Cassandra.

 
“Does anybody else want a few lines?” asked Verity, looking up from her razor blade.

  “Verity, please,” said Cassandra.

  Jonathan said, “I’d like to know if anyone else thinks the will business is suspicious. The fact that Father made it out only two days after he was married, that he died two days later of mixing pills and liquor.”

  Verity sniffed loudly. “I’d like to have a little confidential chat with that Atlantic City coroner who didn’t see anything in it but an accident.”

  “So would I,” Jonathan agreed.

  “I’m sure Louise badgered Father into changing the will,” Verity went on blithely.

  Cassandra sat up straight, and interrupted: “Let’s please not get on that track again. I want to talk about something else that happened today.” She waited until she had everyone’s attention, and then began, “I went in those rooms over the garage this afternoon.”

  “Why on earth?” asked Verity.

  “I’ll get to that in a minute. Did you know that Louise has started fixing it up? Everything uncovered and rearranged, like a little apartment.”

  “You think she’s going to move in?” cried Verity. “Oh, God!”

  “No,” said Cassandra. “If she wanted to move in there, she wouldn’t have sent all that furniture over to her own apartment. I think she’s fixing it up for Eric.”

  “Worse,” breathed Verity.

  “Does she think we’re blind? Or stupid?” said Jonathan.

  “Obviously she thinks she can push us around,” said Verity. “Personally, I don’t care what she does, as long as she doesn’t talk to me.”

  “Verity,” said Jonathan, “how are you going to feel when Eric starts a drug-handling operation on the grounds?”

  “It would certainly save me a few trips into town.”

  “Come off it, Verity,” said Jonathan irritably.

  “Don’t worry,” said Cassandra. “Louise isn’t going to move anyone into that space. I’m seeing to that.”

  “What are you up to?” asked Jonathan.

  “I spoke to the contractors today.”

  “What contractors?” asked Verity.

  “The real reason I went over to look at those rooms over the garage,” said Cassandra slowly, glancing with a smile first at Rocco, and then at Apple, “is that I’m converting it into a rehearsal studio for People Buying Things.”

  Verity clapped her hands and breathed, “Wonderful! Louise will be livid.”

  Apple and Rocco were open-mouthed with astonishment. “Cassandra,” Rocco began.

  “I want to do it,” she said quickly, anticipating his objection. “You don’t have a regular rehearsal space, and I’ve seen how much of your time and energy is wasted in setting one up. There won’t be any neighbors to complain, you’ll have a place to leave all your things where you know they’ll be safe—there are a hundred reasons. Besides, in a few months, Apple will be family, and that’s even more reason to see that the band goes somewhere.”

  “Do you need any help?” asked Jonathan. “I’d be happy to help out some.”

  “I can take care of the construction,” said Cassandra crisply, “but if you want to put out for some new equipment and instruments and costumes, that’s fine.”

  “Why are you two doing all this?” asked Apple, who seemed shocked but very pleased.

  “I want to help too!” cried Verity. “I don’t know how, but I’ll do something.”

  “We appreciate this,” said Apple, “but I think you’re doing it all just to spite Louise.” She looked from Verity to Jonathan to Cassandra. “Isn’t that right?”

  “Can you think of a better reason to do it?” Verity asked seriously.

  Louise Larner’s apartment was second-floor front of a converted town house on the sunny side of Marlborough Street, between Arlington and Berkeley. If Louise had ever leaned out of her bowed window, she might have seen the Public Gardens fifty yards away. The address was fashionable, and so was the building. The Hawke Agency managed it, and Louise’s rent hadn’t gone up a penny since she had first gone to work for Richard Hawke fifteen years previously.

  The flat had one bedroom, a living room, an alcove that would have been termed a dining room in advertisements for the place, a kitchen, a bath, and a warren of closets. But all the rooms were tiny, and the ceilings low, so that the place seemed cramped. A dozen years ago, Louise had borrowed money from her future husband, and hired a decorator to do the place over. He had done it in his showiest, most uncomfortable manner. The apartment looked like a decorator’s model, not a home, and in twelve years, Louise hadn’t changed a single thing. She always left the front curtains open, even at night, for she liked the idea that passers-by would look into the place, and wonder at its pristine beauty. The apartment never failed to give the impression that it had just been photographed for a Sunday supplement the day before. It bore unmistakably the designer’s mark, but there was nothing of Louise in it. She had only her clothes, all hidden away in closets. When she was at home alone, Louise ate frozen dinners. Her freezer was filled, but the refrigerator and cabinets were empty.

  One evening about ten days after she had moved her husband’s bedroom furniture into her own apartment, Louise stood in her living room staring out at the street. She gnawed at her lower lip as she gazed through her own reflection in the dark window panes. By contrast with what Verity, Jonathan, and Cassandra possessed, Louise had received almost nothing at all. What irked most was that the house remained in possession of those three, who had no use for it, no appreciation of it, no moral right to it. After some time in such contemplations, she turned, swept across the room—which seemed tinier and more cramped than ever, with the ceiling bearing down upon her—took up the telephone receiver, and dialed rapidly.

  “I’m sorry I couldn’t come when you called, Louise,” said Eugene Strable, later that evening. “I was in the middle of dinner. I take it this is important.”

  He followed her down the hall and into the living room of her apartment.

  “I’m sorry to have bothered you,” said Louise absently, touching a hand to the ornamental comb nestled in her loose chignon. Her gaze became steady. “But it was urgent.”

  One of the windows of the living room had been pried open, and the room was damp and chill. Wisps of evening fog visibly drifted in. Louise didn’t seem to notice, and the lawyer made no remark.

  “Would you like a drink?” she asked.

  Eugene shook his head. Louise then seated herself at the desk near the cold and black hearth. Eugene sat at one end of the sofa, facing her.

  “Are you in some sort of trouble?” he asked, when she had made no motion to begin the conversation.

  Louise leaned forward, resting one elbow on the green desk blotter. She toyed with a silver letter opener. “How much did you know about Richard’s affairs?”

  “I knew as much as I needed to know, which, when it comes down to it, was not very much. Of course my firm represents the agency, Louise, but I didn’t often work directly with Richard. We were friends of course, good friends, and he often came to me for advice.”

  Louise nodded impatiently through this speech; it was evident this was not new information to her.

  “Did you know about the waterfront business?” she asked impetuously. “That’s what I want to know.”

  “I knew something about it. He had mentioned it. I believe he had one or two of the younger lawyers in the firm doing title searches and things like that. Why?”

  “Because,” said Louise, “before he died, it was the only thing on his mind. For the last six months, that waterfront business took up all of his time. I ran the agency.”

  Eugene Strable looked askance at this, but said nothing.

  “You know the new Marriott Hotel down on the waterfront?” Louise asked. “You know how successful it’s been since it opened?”

  “I do read the Globe, Louise. And their restaurant is quite decent,” said the lawyer, with an impatient clearing of his t
hroat. “The whole area is changing.”

  “Well,” said Louise, “there’s more in the works than most people know about.”

  “Well,” said the lawyer, “the waterfront is only so big. And the city owns a lot of it, so that—”

  Louise smiled. “The city is selling off their property.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “No one does.”

  “And Richard intended to buy it?”

  Louise nodded.

  “And do what with it?”

  Louise, as if reading down a list before her, ticked off: “The warehouses will be made into first-floor shops, second-floor restaurants, and upper-floor condos. Another hotel, at least five hundred rooms. A major convention center, bigger than Hynes. A Hyper-Market for every antique dealer in New England. An arts center with a nine-hundred seat theater, ten movie houses, and a Las Vegas-style cabaret. And two fifty-story apartment houses, with every apartment overlooking the bay.”

  Eugene, impressed, remarked, “That’s big-league.”

  Louise nodded.

  “Who’s doing it?” the lawyer inquired.

  Louise hesitated. “It’s a big secret. But I’ll tell you. It’s all Hong Kong money. They’re worried about being taken over by the Communists in nineteen ninety-seven, and so they’re looking for places to invest. But they try to keep everything secret. And Richard was helping them do just that. Richard had a reputation for discretion.”

  “Well deserved,” smiled the lawyer. “But what’s going to happen now?”

  “Now that Richard is dead? I’m going to handle it.”

  “Good,” said the lawyer, nodding. “Sometimes there’s a problem in transfer of power and responsibility. . . .”

  “I was Richard’s business partner before I was his wife,” said Louise. “I’ve already talked to the people involved. They’ll be working with me. Besides, they have to—Richard and I were investors.”