Family Matters

by New York Tri-State Chapter of Sisters in Crime

  “Then why is she trying to get out here to stop you? She doesn’t need this, Clay. It’s obvious she’s having a bad day. She’s in a lot of pain. Just give her the keys and leave it alone tonight.”

  I watched as his face reddened with temper. He shoved me down and gave me a rough kick.

  “Stay out of my business. Stay out of my way. Stay out of my life, you interfering bitch.”

  As he walked toward the car, he began waving his hands in front of his face and backing up. He stumbled and fell down and yelled in pain. “Get my EpiPen, Mary, I’ve been stung.”

  “You’re supposed to keep it with you, idiot.”

  Clay was allergic to yellow jackets, and they were rampant around here. Though my leg was throbbing, I hurried into the kitchen. Rummaging through the cabinet where Mom kept her medications, I found the pens, grabbed one, and ran. As angry as I was, I wasn’t going to let him die in the front yard.

  I crouched beside Clay, whose lips were blue. His breathing was shallow and uneven. I jabbed the needle into his leg. In seconds, he began to breathe deeper and color returned to his cheeks. He lay still until his breathing stabilized, and then sat up.

  “Thanks. That was a close one.”

  “Anytime,” I said. “Come in and rest a minute. I know these incidents really take it out of you.”

  “Nah, I’ve got to get away for a while. Ma’s driving me crazy,” he said and stood. “I’ll be back later.”

  “She doesn’t want you to take the car tonight. She needs it for her doctor’s appointment.”

  “I won’t use all her gas. She just likes to bitch at me.” He walked to the car.

  My own anger was out of control now. I was screaming like a banshee. “Get your own damn car. Find your own place to live, and let Mother be in peace!”

  “And what are you going to do if I don’t?” He had his face so close to mine, the rancid tobacco, corn chips, and beer on his breath choked me.

  “I’ll kill you,” I said. “I’ll kill you and heave a big sigh of relief when you’re dead.”

  He laughed and opened the car door. I threw the empty EpiPen at him and it bounced off the roof and into the car without hitting him. When he lunged for me again, I sidestepped and grabbed the keys out of his hand, pushing him back.

  “You’ve got somewhere to go tonight? You walk. Mother doesn’t want you to take her car.” I punched the lock button and turned toward the garage.

  “You bitch!” He yelled.

  I feared he might come after me, but he stomped down the driveway, cursing me loudly. He finally pulled out his cell phone and called someone.

  I didn’t realize how loud we’d been until I saw Mrs. Rosetti, our next-door neighbor, put a hand to her mouth in shock. When I looked around, I found several of the neighbors out on their stoops. Mother was probably horrified. If there was anything she took great pride in, it was being a good neighbor.

  I hung my head, wishing I were anywhere but here. Once again, I’d stooped to my brother’s level. I felt my knees go weak and let myself slide down the wall.

  A hand reached out to help me up. I was surprised to see it was Mrs. Rosetti. “That was wasted effort, Mary,” she said with a chuckle. “You okay?”

  “I’m fine.” I smoothed my skirt to calm myself. “Thanks.”

  “What will happen to you two when I’m gone?” Mother said wearily, leaning heavily on her cane as she walked down the driveway toward me. “I can’t believe he hit you.”

  “I’m sorry, Mother, but there won’t be we two. There will be me, living my life, and him, living his. I won’t be his enabler.”

  Mrs. Rosetti shook her head as she walked back to her yard. I helped my mother into the house. Tears ran down her cheeks, but she said nothing.

  I stayed with Mother until it was time to catch the last ferry home. I was very depressed by the time I made my way from the subway exit to my apartment. Nothing brought depression on quicker than the intense anger I felt with my brother. Sometimes, I felt ill for days. I wanted to hate him, but the truth was I’d had so many altercations with him that I felt nothing but emptiness. I just wanted him out of my life . . . away from my mother.

  The next afternoon, I was in my office in the Flatiron Building when I received a call that Mother was on her way to the Island Medical Center. The police officer said Clay had been in a car accident, and my mother collapsed when she identified the body.

  Clay was dead?

  I couldn’t breathe or think. I needed to get to Staten Island immediately.

  “My . . . my mother has been taken to the hospital,” I told my boss. “And my brother has been in an accident. I need to leave now. I’ll be taking some bereavement leave. I’ll call later with details.”

  Getting out of the office was a hassle, and by the time I reached the medical center, I was a wreck and not in a good state to receive more bad news. Mother had suffered a massive stroke in the ER and died before I arrived. The staff was very kind and let me spend some time alone with her. I held her still-warm hand and wondered how it was I’d lost my entire family in only a few hours.

  I don’t remember much about the funeral except the outpouring of love and condolences from my mother’s church friends and neighbors. She was beloved in the neighborhood, and the food and cards seemed never ending.

  The police were still investigating the accident. They also still had the car. I wondered if it was fixable. Though it would cost a small fortune for space in a garage, it would be nice to have a car in the city when I needed one.

  The Saturday after Mother’s funeral, I was dressed in jeans, a T-shirt, and a hoodie to go to her house and begin the process of letting go. I had ordered a dumpster, knowing there was no chance I’d ever go back to live amid the fractured memories of that old house.

  When I got off the elevator in my lobby, two men holding up badges stepped into my path.

  “Mary Morgan?”

  “Yes.”

  “We’d like to talk to you about your brother’s death. May we go back upstairs?”

  I looked from one to the other, but their faces gave away nothing. We stepped into the elevator and the journey up was silent.

  I offered coffee, but they refused. I sat on the edge of a chair, and they sat together on the loveseat.

  “How can I help you?” I asked, feeling uneasy.

  “I’m Detective Fields, and this is Detective Hardison.”

  I tried to breathe normally while they questioned me about Clay’s allergy to yellow jackets.

  Yes, I knew he was severely allergic. Yes, I knew it could be lethal. Yes, I knew his EpiPens were in the kitchen cabinet. Yes, I administered one of the pens on his behalf last night.

  “Neighbors say you and your brother were arguing loudly in the front yard?”

  I felt the first stab of cold fear. “Yes. Why?”

  “According to neighbors, you threatened to kill him.”

  I stopped breathing and mumbled, “Yes.”

  “Your brother’s death wasn’t the result of the accident,” Fields said. “His death caused the car accident.”

  I stared at him in mute shock.

  “Did you know your brother used the ashtray in the car?”

  My answer was automatic. “Of course. Mother complained about it all the time. She said he left it full of stinking ashes and butts.”

  “So you knew if it was empty and closed, he would open it?”

  “Yes. He always did. He never rolled down the windows. He was afraid something would fly into the car.”

  “Ms. Morgan, did you use yellow jackets to murder your brother?”

  Once again, I sat with my mouth open, my shock so great I didn’t know what to say. “Uh . . . how—”

  “Our forensics people found honey and yellow jackets in the car’s ashtray. Your brother had fifteen yellow jacket stings on his body.”

  “Oh my god, oh my god,” I said. Yellow jackets trapped inside the car. Clay never had a chance.

&n
bsp; “We understand you took the car keys from Mr. Morgan, and he walked away from the house.”

  “Yes, my mother didn’t want him to take her car. She had a doctor’s appointment the next day.”

  “What time did you leave your mother’s house?”

  “It was late. I caught the last ferry back to Manhattan.”

  “So you could have planted the yellow jackets in the car?”

  “No!” I stood.

  “Sit down, Ms. Morgan.” Fields’ voice was firm and commanding.

  I sat. “No, I wouldn’t do that.”

  “You were heard saying you’d kill your brother and be relieved when he was gone.”

  “I was angry at him. He was behaving like an idiot. I was crazy mad at him. Why would I save my brother’s life and then kill him later? I could have been five seconds more getting back to him in the front yard, and no one would have questioned his death.”

  At last the tears for Clay came. I wiped them away and took a deep breath.

  The two men asked to look around my apartment. I told them it was okay and asked them to be neat. Sitting in the living room listening to them open my drawers and invade my life, I tried to make sense of all this.

  When they came back to the living room, they told me they might have to search again later.

  “Please don’t leave town, Ms. Morgan. We’re also getting a search warrant for your mother’s house. We’ll be over there this afternoon.”

  “Do you need a key?” I stood and went to my kitchen junk drawer and retrieved the key Mother had given me. “Actually, would it be okay if I was there?”

  “Yes, but you won’t be allowed to interfere.”

  “Of course. I can sit on the patio. Three o’clock?”

  “Sure.”

  It was a gorgeous day on Staten Island, and I tried to enjoy the balmy breeze in the backyard of my family home. Dad always regretted we weren’t close to the water, but I loved it here. It wasn’t fancy, but Mother had flowers and benches and chairs in shady nooks that made it a backyard retreat.

  I couldn’t imagine what the cops were looking for, but there were several of them searching every room. I couldn’t resist a smile. This wouldn’t be easy for them. My mother tended to keep everything. She had bags of empty margarine and Cool Whip containers, every paper her insurance company had sent her in the past two years, and she kept every charity request in the hopes she’d get enough money to send them a few dollars.

  I was wishing for a Diet Coke when Detective Fields sat down across from me at the patio table.

  “We’ve found something you should see.”

  He had the envelope Clay had sent to me with my heads in it, but what he pulled out was a piece of my mother’s stationery.

  I’d given her the lilac letterhead years ago. She loved writing letters to friends on the old Royal manual typewriter she still had. She sent letters out every week until the arthritis made it too difficult to type.

  Opening the familiar paper, I found a handwritten letter to me. I wept as I read my mother’s shaky scrawl.

  Dear Mary,

  My darling daughter, you are the light of my life. I’ve left this for you, so you’d know the truth even if no one else did. I loved Clay dearly, but he made it so very difficult. He stole my pain pills and took money from my checking account all the time. He hadn’t earned a dollar in two years and he kept stealing my car. I lost all hope when I saw him hit you.

  The first thing you need to know is that the attic is infested with yellow jackets. They’ve been there a while, and I kept meaning to call the exterminator, but it’s so expensive. They never really bothered us, and Clay was so watchful I chose to ignore them.

  Last night, Clay told me he was going to take a job in upstate New York and take my car with him. He had no worries about leaving me without transportation. I guess that was the straw that broke the camel’s back. It suddenly became clear he would never care for anyone but himself.

  I caught the yellow jackets with saucers of sugar water and honey. I went out in the middle of the night and put honey in the ashtray. My little captives went right into it.

  I’m sorry, but I guess even God couldn’t change my Clay. And I just couldn’t take him anymore.

  Hopefully you and I had some good times before I joined Clay.

  All my love,

  Mother

  MY poor mother, to feel such a lack of hope. No wonder she’d had a stroke. Her poor body couldn’t handle the stress.

  My heart was broken. My mother was gone. My brother had won.

  ROADS

  Eileen Dunbaugh

  GABRIELLA’s feet throbbed. She hadn’t had her weight off them all day, and now they’d swelled over the tops of her loafers. But there, at last, was Josephine’s blue awning.

  When Gabriella pushed through the door, the beautician was manicuring the stubby fingers of a fat man in a business suit. Gabriella settled on a chair to wait, only half listening as Josephine chatted with the man, tapping his arm with her nail file occasionally to emphasize a point.

  It was well past Gabriella’s appointment time before the man finally rose and adjusted his shirt cuffs, and the door clanged shut behind him.

  “Hey, whatsa matter? His wife make him wash too many dishes?” Gabriella said.

  “You find it funny that he comes here, Mrs. Bellini?”

  She directed Gabriella to a chair, adding, “I’m sorry you had to wait, but we had some important business to discuss.” In a moment, she wrapped hot towels around Gabriella’s face, ending the conversation by encasing her like a mummy.

  The heat traveled down Gabriella’s spine, reaching her feet and transforming the throbbing in them to a soft, bellow-like pulse. She wiggled her toes and remembered how firm the pavements had felt beneath her feet on this day thirty years ago, when she’d stepped off the plane at JFK.

  She submitted to a little rough handling as Josephine removed blackheads, applied a stinging astringent to her face, and moved her to the shampooing chair. Two hours later, she emerged from the salon feeling transformed, with her hair puffed into a smooth pageboy.

  Mario knew she’d be late. She’d told him to get his own dinner, and from the corner, she could see him unfolding lawn chairs.

  She touched her hair to make sure it was in place, wishing the delay at the salon hadn’t prevented her from getting home in time to change. But at that moment, Suzie appeared on the steps of her parents’ house next door and stole the show anyway. She wobbled in her platform sandals, placing each foot delicately on the walk.

  Gabriella hung back until Mario wrenched his eyes away from the girl and went into their own house to get some snacks, remembering how it had felt when that look had been for her.

  She met Suzie, followed by her parents, at the gate, and the girl pressed a container of iced coffee into her hands. Its cold condensation wet Gabriella’s blouse, making her shiver. As quickly as she could, she set it down, watching as Suzie floated gracefully through the gloom serving biscotti, the softening light making her look like some kind of benign aquatic creature.

  And then Mario reappeared with a bowl of pretzels, pivoted, and saw Gabriella.

  “Oh my god! You spooked me!” he said, the false little laugh Gabriella hated punctuating the words. “How long you been here?”

  “Long enough,” she said. She took a seat in the chair furthest from the others and breathed deeply, reminding herself that this was her special day, the anniversary of her arrival in America. If Mario had forgotten, she’d mention it herself.

  But the right moment never came. Deceptively gentle-looking in the deepening dusk, Suzie talked about one thing after another that pertained to herself. She’d like to move to Florida once her divorce was final, she said, maybe leave her son, asleep now next door, with her parents for a while. As she elaborated on her dream, she flipped her mane of hair, as if she could already feel the wind racing over her, top down, on a long stretch of highway to Miami or Palm Beach.
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  Her fantasy was so seductive, it made Mario want to go, too. Gabriella saw it in his face.

  And so, finally, instead of accepting congratulations from the others, Gabriella lifted her coffee in a salute to Suzie and her parents, saying how glad she and Mario were that Suzie had come home.

  A few minutes later, a dog barked in the alley, and Gabriella realized she’d lost track of what Mario and the others were saying. No matter. She’d just sit quietly in the shadows and watch.

  THE next morning, after a fitful sleep, Gabriella got up late for work. Leaving Mario sleeping to the insulating hum of the air conditioner, she padded quietly out the door. She touched her hair where it turned under, stiff with hairspray, and remembered those first days in this country, when even the air around her seemed to have substance—impeding her, like water, the honking horns, the thick whiffs of car exhaust, the heat shimmering knee-high above the asphalt. After a while, she no longer heard or saw or smelled it. But in those first days, it distorted her senses so that she could hardly make sense of the shouts and pushes of strangers, the hugs and admonitions of Mario’s family, or the new language and tempo of her life.

  She’d wanted to stay in the kitchen of the tiny apartment Mario had rented and cook the things her mother had taught her to cook. To sweep the floor and wash their clothes at home. But Mario would watch her stretch their clothes across the bathtub as if he wondered whom he’d hobbled himself to. Seeing her in this new setting, she realized, he was ashamed of her.

  The long walk along Twenty-third Street seemed interminable this morning, but finally she turned onto Ditmars and saw the yuppie commuters in their suits filing to the elevated tracks. So different from those days, when the American girls wore Rolling Stones T-shirts, hemp carryalls slung over their shoulders. They used backpacks to take their clothes to a Laundromat, instead of washing and wringing and hanging them at home. When Mario finally got her to go to the storefront with the rows of screeching washers and rumbling dryers, she bought the kind of shopping cart used by black-clad old crones to transport their things, and that made it worse for him. Then the whole neighborhood could see her for the peasant she was.