Family Matters

by New York Tri-State Chapter of Sisters in Crime

  I worried that George’s cut would become infected in that dirty cellar. I grabbed the handy sample-sized bottle of peroxide I kept under the counter. He never could ask for help. I was sure he’d appreciate my care. I bet that’s why he left the door ajar. The cellar steps creaked, even though I stepped very quietly and slowly. I knew he’d forgive my intrusion. He knew how much I loved him.

  I stood in the center of the cellar, listening to the hum of his machines. They were computers. I knew that much. The flash of color on the screens reflected on the faces of the clocks on the wall opposite, fifty-two, one for each week of the year. How clever! Amazing. There were no other sounds, except the whirr of an air conditioner he’d told me he needed when I showed him the electric bill. Apparently, that machinery needed to be kept cool.

  He’d organized a marvel of computer terminals and monitors, as he called them. They ran along three walls of the cellar, flashing with numbers and graphs I’d never for a moment pretended to understand. Such a bright boy. Everything neat. A credit to my parenting. I have my boxes, and he has his computers; organization is all. The iron door to the coal cellar was on the fourth wall. It was slightly open. I’d never been in there. But why would I have wanted to?

  Upstairs, someone was knocking on the front door.

  It was a steady racket, so I went to the bottom of the stairs to make out who was knocking. Maybe Shirley had come to apologize. But no. The police had returned. So tiresome.

  “Police. Open up, Ma’am.”

  They’d have to wait. I had more important things to do. Their silly investigation had nothing to do with me. I turned again to the coal cellar door. “George? George?” I called. “It’s Mother, dear.”

  I took the flashlight from the shelf above the file cabinet next to the door.

  The cellar hadn’t smelled good since our dog, Lady, died in the corner behind the pile of old TVs. She’d been almost a skeleton. But George had reassured me that she’d died of old age, not starvation. Such a thoughtful son.

  I pushed the iron door open. The beam of light barely pierced the darkness beyond. I hesitated on the threshold, stopped by the strong smell of Pine Sol, the stronger smell of ammonia, and something else like moldy dirt.

  “Mother,” George whispered, stepping behind me, giving me a gentle push. “I’ve been expecting you.”

  “Oh. You startled me.” I looked up. I only came to his armpit. In the pale light I saw gray in the stubble on his chin. “You smell like Lady,” I said.

  He turned me around, squeezing my arms too hard, then covered my eyes with his dirty hands.

  “Now, Son, you are making me lose my temper.”

  He uncovered my eyes. “Admire this,” he said with what can only be described as a snarl.

  The overhead light flashed on. It was too bright at first, but I could make out a band saw, lots of tools on the bench in the center of the room and a utility sink in the corner. The old coal cellar was never big, just ten-by-ten and too dirty to put in a washer or dryer. “What have you been up to, dear boy?”

  “I’ve saved a place for you,” he said, pushing me to the center of the room where I could see neatly arranged shelves at the back wall. Four skulls with patches of long black hair were stacked neatly on a red box as if on a stage. Skeletal feet were on the shelf beneath. Skeletal hands were in a cubby next to them. White knobby backbones were stacked in a wide horizontal space above the skulls.

  “These are naughty ladies who tried to mess me up,” George growled. He stepped around me and pointed to an empty shelf halfway between the ceiling and the cement floor. “This is the place I’ve saved for you, Ma.”

  “This isn’t real. Is it?” The words stuck in my throat. It took a long time to spit them out.

  George was grinning at me.

  “Ahhh! It’s a joke,” I sighed, feeling a tiny spark of relief.

  “I don’t joke,” he said. He picked up a knife.

  I backed away. My body felt heavy as if in a dream, trying to move quickly, but unable to run. I backed up against the band saw.

  The sound of feet pounding down the cellar stairs made George’s eyes flash with fury. He kicked the coal cellar door shut with his foot, glaring at me the whole time. Then he stared, as the door was pushed cautiously open. Two guns appeared in the opening.

  “Police,” the cops shouted. Then two officers stepped into the coal cellar, guns pointing at us.

  “Drop the weapon,” one shouted.

  George reached for me and turned us both to face the cops. He pulled my back against his chest. His heart was hammering, his breath shallow, panting like the old dog. I tried to get away, but he grabbed harder, taking my breast in his big, scarred hand, the one I’d held to the flame of the front burner that time he’d lied again and again. He held so tight it hurt. He squeezed, making me cry out. I was his mother. I didn’t understand.

  His knife to my throat, he sidled around the band saw.

  The police were frozen, guns pointing at us. One of them shouted, “Let the lady go.”

  George grunted. “Into the coal chute,” he whispered in my ear.

  Now that dirty tunnel wouldn’t do. I stomped on his foot with my heel. His grip loosened. I pulled away. I let my body go slack, a dead weight. He dropped me, roared, and charged the cops, brandishing the knife.

  The cops opened fire. So loud. So many shots.

  I wished I was already stacked in the place he’d saved for me, so I didn’t have to see him lying on the cold cellar floor, his eyes rolled back, white and still, blood running from his mouth, his legs twitching, scuffing the dust into little clouds.

  THEY settled me at Bellevue in a ward with people who didn’t care about their appearance or their hygiene. Until they interviewed me, they’d said. But that was two weeks ago, and they’d only changed the sheets twice. I didn’t know what to make of it. Keep a diary, they’d suggested. “That would help,” they’d said.

  I’m doing as I am told, but what does it mean? This is the tenth time I have written about what happened. But I can’t get it perfectly right. I’ll try again tomorrow. Meanwhile, each version is labeled neatly so everything is in proper order. It will help me to understand Georgie. The nurses here are very nice, but I don’t want them accusing me of being untidy.

  THE JULY REBELLION

  Kate Lincoln

  I COULDN’T see or speak, but I could hear footsteps creeping toward my hospital bed. Slower than careful, they sounded evil. My heart pounded, I swear, though I couldn’t feel it. The steps inched closer—and vanished when my favorite nurse’s squeaky shoes started down the hall to my room.

  “Hey, girl,” she said, nearing my bed.

  Swirls of creamy blue and yellow filled my head as she rolled me like a log in water. If only I could ask about those footsteps. I know she’d tell. I’d been lying in Downtown Hospital long enough to know who cared. Other nurses never spoke when they turned me, just ambushed. For my comfort, maybe, but I never felt comfortable—or anything else. I couldn’t feel a thing.

  I wished I could see. Everyone kept raving about my view of the Brooklyn Bridge while I wanted to look west to Tribeca, our apartment in 7 Herbert near the Holland Tunnel. I wanted to hang on our terrace and watch the sun set on New Jersey.

  My favorite’s shoes squeaked out of the room, fading down the corridor.

  After the bathroom door creaked, those other steps returned. I would’ve stopped breathing if the ventilator had let me. The feet did stop, waiting.

  Then they came toward me—crap, where was she?

  I heard a faint thrum . . .

  It was Dad—his fingers drumming his chest. Matching that sound to a face without visuals, like his gray hair or tatty Velvet Underground T-shirt, wasn’t easy. Not that I’d had loads of practice.

  “Mornin’, Mr. Lockes,” said my favorite as her shoes squeaked back into my room. Dad must’ve pulled out an ear bud, because Lou Reed’s voice was spilling out as she added, “Your girl’s feelin
’ good today. Don’t be surprised if she starts movin’.”

  “Okay, Shania.”

  “Shokeela, Mr. Lockes. Same as yesterday an’ the day before.”

  “Right. Sho-kee-la,” he repeated, like that would help him remember.

  “Visitors comin’, baby,” she said close to my ear as she adjusted something. “So let’s moisten those eyes, in case you gonna see.” A moment later, she explained she was closing my lids. I liked to think she stroked my cheek, maybe laid a hand on my arm. Not that I’d know. Cloth rustled and a cord flapped against something metal. “I’m gonna comb back that hair, show your pretty face.” Comb? My hair was way too long for—oh my god, they must have chopped it all off. Shit.

  When Shokeela murmured, “Alright, baby, you lookin’ good,” I caught the scrape of a chair and pictured Dad pushing it farther back, to casual-acquaintance distance. A second later I heard tinny, ancient rock. He must’ve jacked the volume on his iPod to drown out the sounds of people actually working.

  “What time is it?” Dad asked, loud, like he didn’t bother removing the earpiece.

  “Almos’ lunch, a quarter to one.”

  Focused on a mystery sound—Dad’s stomach rumbling?— and her shoes squeaking out of the room, I didn’t expect what came next.

  “Mr. Rambellais-Lockes?” The unknown voice swirled into my head in a mix of faded rose and murky blue.

  “Just Lockes,” he said, irritated. So typical that he’d get annoyed at people messing up his name when he never remembered anyone else’s.

  “I’m sorry. Obviously I had your daughter, Ecstasy, in mind—” “And I don’t?”

  The fake outrage in his voice made it lucky for Dad I couldn’t laugh. Keeping me in mind usually meant keeping an eye out while he stole one of my Oxys.

  “No, of course. It’s the caseload. This is my ninth patient already today—”

  “So save yourself time—go.”

  But she said my name. I wanted her to stay.

  “Is Ms. Rambellais here?”

  “Do you see her?” I pictured the sweep of an arm that would accompany his sarcasm.

  “I’ll come back. I need both your signatures.”

  “Signatures? What for?”

  Her footsteps already gone, the music vanished next. Dad had plugged in again.

  LAST New Year’s Eve, I’d been leaning against the pipe railing that ran around our fourth-floor terrace at 7 Herbert Street. The sky was black, freezing rain falling hard. Leftover Christmas tree lights twinkled in windows blocks away. I’d been waiting forever like that dog carved on the old American Express building across the street. Glancing west down Laight, I could just make out that white building across the Hudson that looked like a dog. I zipped up the sequined-and-studded gold jacket, a relic of my mother’s glam rock days.

  Dad cracked open a French door from the dining room.

  “Ecs,” he said, “you’re scaring me.”

  “What else is new?” After fifteen years, Dad needed to get the fuck over it.

  The terrace was icy—perfect. My mother, famously successful Judy Rambellais, needed to be sorry forever. Breaking a hip wouldn’t be punishment enough for what she’d done to Quigley.

  She’d never liked my parrot. The first time she announced he had to go, I reminded her I’d bought him with my own money. Quigley was worth every penny. In two hours, I taught him to say “Judy sucks.” I made that the ring tone for when she called. She probably dumped that phone along with my other stuff. It didn’t include Quigley, but I’ll get to that.

  I taught him to speak only to her. She’d come into the apartment, and from my room, loud and clear, would hear “Judy’s from New Jersey” or “Judy’s a total fuck.” Quigley kept me laughing.

  At first, a red-and-green parrot swooping through our all-white apartment impressed even Judy. That ended the afternoon he pooped on her favorite billionaire designer, killing any chance he’d ever buy from her again. Dad’s response? He bought a palm tree, thinking Quigley would hang there, but Quig ignored it. Anyway, it died.

  It was months before my mother noticed Quig had also crapped on her million-dollar portrait by that English guy who’d made her look like a dead, cross-dressing hooker. Judy about had a heart attack and called a conservator from MOMA to deal with it. He got the shit off, which doesn’t explain why she swore us to secrecy. She’d say it was so she could control the flow of information.

  Best, though, was the night of her gallery opening for some asshole who was supposed to be the next Damien Hirst. Our maid, Carmen, left Judy’s clothes hanging on her closet door as usual. I let Quig out, chasing him around the apartment until he let loose a crap as big as a fist down the front of her silk Versace. When she saw it, she started screaming.

  “Cut it out and frame it,” I told her. “It looks exactly like that shit you’re selling.”

  “I will kill that fucking bird.”

  “Over my dead body,” I said. She didn’t wait that long.

  IT took me a while to catch the sound of Downtown Hospital’s elevator. The ping when it arrived was hard to hear from my room, unless it announced my mother. Then it boomed like a gong. Since I’d landed here, her noises sounded ten times louder than anyone else’s. That’s how I heard her feet hesitate when she got off the elevator. She probably couldn’t remember whether to go left or right.

  “Where’s that woman?” she demanded, her Christian Louboutin’s clacking into the room.

  Dad, ear bud out with what he called his “suicide music” playing, said, “She left.”

  “Left?” Judy’s Bulgari bracelets crashed like cymbals. I wondered if she still wore Proenza Schouler or had reverted to Dolce & Gabbana. “Get her back here,” she ordered Dad.

  “Why me?” I guess he’d taken over my role: pissed-off, fifteen.

  “You know what she looks like—go.” A familiar hum announced a text on her phone. Dad mostly used his to watch porn.

  Sixteen or seventeen texts later, I heard him return with that lady, Rose-and-Blue.

  “What the hell, Judy.”

  Dad, angry at her? It was usually the other way round. Rose-and-Blue must have said whatever set him off, but what?

  “We talked—”

  “About moving her to chronic care in Long Island,” he said, “not killing her.”

  Jesus. My parents were fighting over whether to kill me.

  Thoughts slammed around my head like pinballs where no bells sounded and nothing lit up. With my senses gone, it was like they didn’t really count. I was desperate to feel them somewhere.

  “Look at her, Dennis,” she said to him.

  “She’s not dead.”

  “Oh, right, like you’ll be having a heart-to-heart anytime soon. Go ahead, tell us what you’d planned for her birthday.”

  July fourteenth—shit, I’d been here six months? Thoughts ricocheted faster now, but were almost meaningless; my nerves couldn’t send them anywhere useful.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Lockes—”

  “I am not Mrs. Lockes.” That always iced Judy. She said she fought too hard for success to share by answering to his name.

  “Whatever, let her say what she’s here to say.” I heard Dad flop into the chair.

  Rose-and-Blue said, “My name is Marbeline Franks. I’m here to speak about your daughter, Ecstasy, and your choices.”

  “Get on with it.” Mother, always impatient.

  “Dr. Helmer will bring you up to date on Ecstasy’s status,” Marbeline Franks began. Her swirling colors distracted me until I heard her say, “I’ll be right back with the doctor.” Her footsteps faded down the corridor.

  “Jude, we can’t do this.” Dad sounded desperate. “That’s why we need to . . . not pull the plug,” he said, and my brain froze. “I mean, even Long Island. We’ll never see her.”

  “That’s bullshit, Dennis. You’ve got plenty of photos, and they look more like her than this does.” I could imagine her hand aiming at me, palm open, as if
toward a wasted effort.

  “Stop, Ecs has—”

  “You stop! I’m the one working my ass off, not you,” she said. “That body will suck every penny I make. What happens then? Are you going to live in a box on the street? Go ahead, but no way am I going to do that.”

  “Jude,” he said, and she exhaled an angry sigh. “No, I’m working on a new book.”

  “Oh my god, hell’s frozen over.”

  “It’s about my time in a coma—”

  “She’s in the coma, badass, not you.”

  “I’ll incorporate Bucky’s trip, that Oz debacle featuring the Wicked Witch? It’s based on that time I—”

  “You were unconscious for two days.”

  “Yes, and came back. I can write about that using Ecs.”

  Great. He wanted to make money off me like that novel he wrote using his friend’s drug escapades. Dad had logged them all—oh my god. He was the one creeping around this morning. I wanted nothing more than to feel every ounce of fury.

  “DR. HELMER, this is Judy Rambellais and Dennis Lockes, Ecstasy’s parents.” Marbeline Franks made the introductions sounding proud, like she knew who Judy was, the creep.

  “Will she wake up?” Dad, wanting to hear how his book would end.

  “It’s impossible to say.” The doctor’s voice was a dirty swirl of peach, maroon, and gray. “A caloric reflex test confirmed the brain-stem remains largely intact, but—”

  “What does that mean?” asked my mother.

  “The brainstem is largely intact,” said the doctor, gray totally taking over.

  “Don’t repeat, clarify—you get paid enough,” Judy’s voice boomed.

  “Let’s step into the hall.” Peach, giant stabs of peach.

  “All right, but remember, I’ve got a decision to make.”

  “We’ve got,” muttered Dad, as I heard them leave the room, “a decision.” One guess who wore the leather pants in our family. Our alpha dog was an alpha bitch. I hated when she threw her weight around.