Wicked Stepmother

by Michael McDowell

  She banged the receiver down in the cradle.

  Verity, with a second drink in hand, wandered listlessly about the house, still trying to decide whether or not to go out. Passing through the hallway, she noted a large manila envelope on the marble half-table below the mirror; it was marked Jonathan’s Mail in Apple’s script. Idly, Verity carried the package into the study, turned on the light, and spilled out the contents. She looked cursorily at the forty or so envelopes there, immediately tossed out the fliers and charity requests, and separated the personal letters from the bills. She opened the three personal letters and read them through, wondering if she would cry or not, thinking of Jonathan. She managed not to. Then she started to open the bills, but was stopped with amazement at the very first. She looked carefully at the masthead, at the breakdown of the services that had been provided Jonathan, and then she picked up the telephone and dialed a New York number.

  “Could I speak to Mr. Norman, please,” she said to the woman who answered.

  The young woman was only the answering service, and Mr. Norman had already gone home for the day.

  “Give me his home phone, then,” said Verity calmly. “Mr. Norman was doing some work for my brother, Jonathan Hawke.”

  The young woman at the answering service refused to comply.

  “Because of the information he got, my brother was murdered,” said Verity calmly. “I have to find out what Mr. Norman told him.”

  A moment later, Verity wrote down the detective’s home tele­phone number, and promised never to tell where she had gotten it.

  22

  After dinner together at the Café Budapest, sans Jeannette, Eugene Strable and Louise Hawke attended a ball at the Copley Plaza Hotel. The lawyer had been reluctant to appear in so public a place in Louise’s sole company, but Louise had insisted with such vigor that he could not easily refuse. They were seated at a small table next to a window overlooking brightly lighted Copley Square. Absently fingering a pearl stud on his dress shirt, and with a troubled expression, Eugene stared down into the concrete plaza crowded with revelers. Louise’s face was turned toward the much more fashionable crowd inside the ballroom. She tapped one slippered foot in time with the orchestra playing a medley of Glenn Miller favorites. Her black hair was pulled severely back into a French twist. An ivory cameo on a velvet ribbon bound her neck, and she wore a sleeveless black velvet gown with a butterfly bodice. Her black evening gloves rested beside the paper party hats, horns, and streamers neatly lined on the edge of the table. An opened bottle of Veuve Clicquot nestled in a silver ice bucket.

  Louise touched Eugene’s elbow to get his attention. He turned and smiled wanly.

  “Could you pour some more champagne, please?” she asked.

  He did so, and they raised their glasses in a silent toast.

  “What’s wrong?” said Louise, lowering her glass.

  “Nothing.”

  “This is New Year’s Eve,” Louise persisted, “and you are not celebrating. What are you thinking about?”

  “My divorce.”

  Louise tapped a painted nail against the base of her glass.

  “I received notice this morning that Jeannette has instituted proceedings.”

  “She doesn’t let the grass grow under her feet, does she?”

  “Her lawyer called me up. He said to be prepared.”

  “Prepared for what?”

  “Prepared for a soaking. She wants everything. And with her ‘evidence of my misconduct,’ she can probably get it.”

  Louise paused and considered this. She said in a low voice, “Does she know anything about the waterfront investment?”

  “No, of course not. Not even my secretary knows about it—why do you think I asked you to type all the documents?”

  “Well, if Jeannette doesn’t know anything, you’ll be fine. Let her take everything. You and I are going to make more money on this deal than anybody with a clean heart has a right to make.”

  “I hope so,” said Strable glumly, staring out the window again.

  “Now what’s the matter?”

  He looked up at her. “I’m not so sure this whole business was such a good idea, putting all that money in this thing.”

  “Why do you say that now?”

  “I’m saying it,” Strable went on, “because Verity’s twenty-ninth birthday is only six weeks away.”

  “So what?”

  “So she’s supposed to get half the capital of that trust fund then. And all that capital is invested in this . . . this scheme. If Verity says, ‘I don’t want to be in that, give me cash,’ then I don’t know what we’re going to do.”

  “Eugene, we’ve already been over this. Let me take care of Verity.”

  “How will you do that?”

  “I have a little plan.”

  “What kind of ‘little plan’?”

  “Verity and my little plan are probably out at some very romantic bar together right this very minute,” said Louise, with a self-satisfied smile. “Now come on, they’re playing ‘Stardust’ and I’ve made a vow to dance holes in my shoes tonight. . . .”

  Verity and Eric were only a couple of blocks away from the Copley Plaza, at Jason’s on Clarendon Street. At nine o’clock, Eric had appeared at the door of the Brookline mansion bearing champagne, flowers, and two grams of cocaine. He wore Jonathan’s altered trousers, Jonathan’s gray alpaca sweater, and Jonathan’s sport coat, with the sleeves shortened an inch. While he was drawing out lines of coke in the living room, Verity put the flowers in water and opened the champagne. They did four lines of coke, drank half the bottle of champagne, and did two more lines.

  “Let’s go out,” suggested Eric.

  “All right,” agreed Verity. “Someplace where they serve food. I’m not hungry now, but when the coke wears off, I will be.”

  He suggested Jason’s, and there they were. The kitchen had closed fifteen minutes before their arrival. Verity made him order another bottle of champagne, and a basket of dry breads. She wore a wine-red forties evening dress with several strands of silver chain around her neck and wrist, and had fastened to her waist a gardenia from the bouquet Eric had brought.

  Jason’s was a singles bar for the upwardly mobile. In the parking lot overlooking the expressway, Verity’s classic Lotus was dwarfed by all the New Yorkers and Continentals. The young crowd inside was dressed in its sharpest, newest, most expensive styles. The deejay’s selections were a blend of forties big-band music and familiar rock. Hundreds of white balloons were encased in loose netting at the ceiling, waiting to be released at the stroke of midnight. Multicolored streamers trailed from the netting to the carpeted floor. By eleven o’clock, Jason’s was jammed. Lines had formed in front of the doors of both restrooms. Raucous laughter and good-natured drunken conversation rose and crested about Verity and Eric at their small round table near the edge of the dance floor.

  Eric poured out the last of the champagne. “Do you want more?” he asked hesitantly.

  “Of course,” Verity replied.

  “Uh,” he said, “this stuff is forty dollars a bottle. I’m sort of—”

  “Ask the bartender if he’ll barter for coke,” she suggested.

  “I can’t do that!”

  Verity laughed, and opened her pocketbook. She took out three twenties, and gave them to Eric. He took them and smiled. “Hey, I’m really glad we came out tonight, aren’t you?”

  Verity looked at him, and said, “Eric, I think there’s something I ought to tell you.”

  “What?”

  She motioned him to lean forward over the table. He did so, and turned his head. Verity spoke in a low voice, directly in his ear.

  “Darling,” she said, “I know that your coming over to the house with champagne, and flowers, and coke, was all part of Louise’s five-year plan for our reconciliation. I might as well tell you now: it won’t work. I let you in not because of the champagne and flowers, not because it’s New Year’s Eve, not because it’s the
first time in five years I’ve seen you decently dressed, but because you never come over without bringing along some coke. And the reason I came out tonight is that I have a little something to celebrate.”

  “What’s that?” asked Eric.

  “You’ll find out soon enough,” said Verity, with a grim smile.

  “It has something to do with me?”

  “Possibly,” said Verity. “I don’t know yet. But I’ll find out first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “I don’t understand what you’re talking about.”

  “You don’t need to,” said Verity. “Just go get the champagne.”

  At half past three in the morning, Eric pulled Verity’s Lotus into a space in front of the house. The radio was on and playing loudly as Verity nodded her head in time with the song.

  “This station hasn’t played People Buying Things once,” she complained, and hiccupped. “Not once,” she repeated with emphasis.

  “You’ve only been listening for twenty minutes. Probably they were playing it earlier. Anyway, how can you tell? All that new stuff sounds alike.”

  “You’re absolutely—” She hiccupped several times. She took a deep breath, held it, and then exhaled slowly. “Father always said to hold your breath for ten minutes and walk backward to stop hiccupping.”

  “Ten seconds,” said Eric, killing the ignition. “Not ten minutes.”

  Verity jerked sideways and looked at him seriously. She knitted her brow. “What are you doing here anyway?”

  “I drove you home,” he said slowly. “Here we are.” He pointed at the door of the house, ten feet away.

  “I mean,” said Verity carefully, “how are you going to get home? I don’t want to drive you—”

  “I wouldn’t let you, not in your condition.”

  “—I’ll give you money for a taxi, that’s what . . .”

  Eric got out of the car, went around, and helped Verity out. She rummaged for her keys, but had some difficulty in fitting them into the lock. Eric took the keys from her and assisted. The door swung open onto darkness. Verity stumbled into the hallway. She struggled out of her coat, and threw it and her clutch bag onto a chair. “I’m exhausted,” she announced, switching on a light above the hall mirror. She glanced one moment at her reflection, winced both at her appearance and the brightness of the light, and switched it off again.

  “You’re so beautiful,” whispered Eric, standing behind her.

  “Not at this point,” she returned ruefully.

  “Can we sit up and talk for a while?” he asked as she stumbled past the living room door. “I’ll draw out some more coke.”

  Verity continued toward the stairs. “No, I’m going to sleep. My nose and the rest of me are done for tonight. Take a twenty out of my bag and call a taxi. Good night, Eric,” she said, mounting the stairs. “Thanks for a splendid evening.”

  She was very nearly to the top, when Eric ran up the stairs behind her. He grabbed her arm, squeezing both her wrist and the silver bracelets around it. She turned and peered at him in the darkness. “Eric, I told you—”

  “We had such a good time tonight,” he pleaded. “It was the best time we’ve had in years.” He paused. “Verity, I still love

  you.”

  Verity sighed deeply. “It was a pleasant evening, Eric. But you just ruined it.” She tried to pull away and continue to the top of the stairs. He held her still.

  “Just one more thing. Just one more thing and I won’t say any more.”

  Verity didn’t reply, but she turned to look down into his face.

  “I want to kiss you,” he whispered. “I just want to kiss you once.”

  “You already did, at midnight.”

  “That was in a crowd. Everybody was kissing. I want to kiss you here in the dark, on the stairs.”

  Verity fell unsteadily against the wall, sinking down a little. “God, I’m tired. All right, one kiss, Eric. Then it’s beddy-bye.”

  Eric came up two steps so that they were even. He slipped his arms about her and they kissed. He moaned deeply and pressed closer to her. The moment became extended until Verity at last jerked her head back and hiccupped several times in rapid succession. She slipped her hands between his encircling arms, and pushed him away.

  “Beddy-bye,” she murmured, with sleepy insistence.

  “Didn’t you feel that?” he asked.

  “If I hadn’t hiccupped, I would have fallen asleep.”

  He leaned forward, overcoming the pressure of her hands against his chest. He pressed his mouth over hers.

  She turned her face aside. “Eric, you promised.”

  “I want you, Verity.” His voice was low and his eyes bored into hers.

  “No,” she said, with a sudden cold sobriety.

  “Just tonight. Just this once.” He pulled her tighter against himself, pressing his crotch against her thigh. “Old times’ sake. Auld lang syne. Feel how bad I want you.”

  “Get out,” she whispered. “Let me go.”

  “I need you. I want to be inside you and make love to you, I want—”

  She had continued to push against him. He released her waist and grabbed her wrists.

  “Please,” he whispered, and began to press her against the wall, and then down.

  “I hate it when you whimper,” she said frostily. “I hate it when you whine and beg. . . .”

  He flung her wrists free with such violence that she lost her balance and slid down the staircase wall. Eric lifted his arm, and brought the back of his hand across her face. Verity tumbled sideways on the stairs. One of her stockings caught on a carpet nail and was ripped open. Eric stepped hurriedly down several stairs, and then fell forward so that he was sprawled atop her. She hiccupped again. He raised himself, and with one hand ripped open the front of her dress. She struggled but he slapped her again, harder. He tore the dress almost down to its hem. She tried to struggle out from under him, but couldn’t catch her footing on the steps. His hand clawed at her underpants and ripped them down.

  “No, no,” Verity muttered. She could feel warm blood on her lips. “Eric, please . . .”

  He deftly undid his pants and drove into her with such sudden violence that Verity cried out in shock as much as in pain. He clamped his hand over her mouth, smearing the blood across her lips. He slammed his hips relentlessly between her legs, and every thrust was accompanied by a ladder of sharp pain as her body crashed rhythmically into the edges of the steps on which she lay. After a short while a guttural sound began to build in his throat. The veins of his neck strained against his sweat-filmed skin. He bared his clenched teeth, shut his eyes tightly, and reached orgasm with a long, attenuated gasp as his body buckled atop her. He pressed her shoulders against the edge of one of the stair steps until it seemed to Verity that her spine would break.

  Verity lifted her head and opened her mouth wide. She sank her teeth into the palm of his right hand, not breaking the skin but with such force that he yelped and yanked back, stumbling to the side, and cracking one of the balusters there.

  The hard breathing of both was the only sound in the darkened stairwell. Verity put her hands beneath her and began to push herself up the stairs. “You pig,” she whispered huskily. “You groveling pig.”

  She crept over to the banister, and pulled herself painfully up. Eric rose, too, reached out as if to assist her. She slapped his hand away. She stumbled up the stairs and down the hallway to her bedroom. She slammed the door behind her.

  Eric crept after her, and knocked at her door. “Verity, are you all right in there?” he called.

  He heard running water from within. He went back and sat in the darkness at the top of the stairs.

  He looked up a moment later at the sound of a door being opened. Louise, in a flowing black robe, her hair loose about her shoulders, stood in the doorway of the master bedroom.

  “Eric?” she said softly. “Is that you?”

  He stood up, and leaned against the banister. “Who the fuck do
you think it is?” he demanded in a husky, savage voice.

  “Shut up!” she hissed. “What did you do to her out here?”

  “You were in there the whole time,” he snapped. “You heard everything.”

  Louise started to come out into the hallway, but paused as Verity’s bedroom door opened. Wearing jeans and a plaid shirt, Verity stood backlighted by the harsh light from her bathroom.

  “Oh, Verity,” said Louise, “I’m glad it’s you and Eric. I was afraid burglars might have gotten in. New Year’s Eve is one of their favorite—”

  “Eric,” Verity said, cutting Louise off, “give me the car keys.”

  “Is there anything wrong?” asked Louise solicitously.

  “Yes, there is,” said Verity, brushing back her hair, and leaning against the doorjamb for support.

  “Where are you going at this time of night?” asked Louise suspiciously.

  “To the hospital,” returned Verity, snatching the keys out of Eric’s hand. “I’m bleeding.”

  23

  Six hours later, from her bed at Beth Israel Hospital, Verity tele­phoned Eugene Strable at home. “I’m in Room Four-oh-six. Get over here. Right now.” She hung up, without answering any of the questions he began to babble.

  He was there within twenty minutes, with a very worried expression on his face.

  “Verity,” he said, “I am so sorry to see you here. What happened to you?”