Mother (38 page)

He picked up on the second ring. “Paul Schuyler.”

“Paul, it’s Claire. Holbrook.” She spoke softly, her back to the vent in case Mother was listening.
 

“Hello there, Claire. You just missed Jason. He’s on his way home.”

“I know. I wanted to speak with you.”

Paul’s warm chuckle put her at ease - at least a little bit. “I’m honored. How are you feeling? Jason says he thinks you’ll be able to move in soon!”

“I’m fine, and yes, I’m going to ask my doctor about it - I think I’m ready. I’d move tonight if I could. But that’s not why I called.”

“What can I do for you?”

“Well, I wanted to ask you some questions about my brother… and I’d like to get in touch with Steffie Banks. Remember her?”

“Of course. If it hadn’t been for Tim, I would have courted her like bees court flowers.”

“Really? That’s so sweet! Are you still in touch with her?”

“It’s been a while. She’s a psychiatrist now, in a little burg in Arizona.”

She lowered her voice. “I’ve been reading Tim’s journals and … I’d love to talk to her about Tim. Maybe she can tell me some stories.”
 

“I’m happy to answer questions and contact Stephanie. I’ll bet she’s got some good stories. I’ll see if I can hunt her down this evening.”

“I’d really appreciate it.” Claire gave him her email address to pass on to Steffie. “Paul, this may sound weird, but please don’t mention this to Jason.”

“Sure, but why? I can’t imagine he’d disapprove.”

“I can’t either, but he worries that I’m living in the past, trying to find out more about Tim. It’s a little weird because I have to keep the journals hidden from Mother and he thinks that’s excessive.”

“Of course you must hide them. She’ll take them otherwise. I can explain that to him.”

Relief swept over her - Paul was the right person to talk to. “I might take you up on that later, but for now, I’d rather you kept mum.”

“Your wish is my command. If you want, I can pay a lunchtime visit any day this week. I’ll bring burgers. We can talk.”

“Paul, I think you’ll understand this. Mother is likely to get interested if you come to visit me. Maybe we should wait till I’m out of the house to actually get together in person.”

“Good idea. Can I try and answer anything for you now? One burning question?”

Claire lowered her voice to a near-whisper. “Did Tim truly hate our mother?”

“With bells on,” Paul told her. “I don’t remember a time when he said anything good about her, not even in grade school. Even when we were only eight or nine, I had the feeling he was terrified of her. He never said much about her, but by high school, he openly admitted to hating her. He couldn’t wait to get away. His only concern was you. He didn’t want to leave you alone with her. The night before he followed Steffie to Arizona, he told me they were going to work, save money, get a place together and bring you to live with them.”

Claire’s eyes filled with tears. “He was going to do that?”
 

“He was. He said your mother ignored you.”

“She did ignore me. I was like a piece of property - or one of her stuffed dogs.”

“What?”

“Remember her shih tzus?”

“I do.”

“They’re stuffed now. She keeps them on her bed - I hear her talking to them at night.”

“That’s creepy. Tim and I mostly hung out at my house, but sometimes she’d insist he bring his friends over to play. Those dogs yipped non-stop and tried to hump everything that moved. Once, she yelled at me because I had the nerve to shake one off my leg!”

Claire laughed. “She yelled at me, too. They were allowed to do whatever they wanted. Including copulating with the company.” A memory tumbled into her mind - mother watching the dog hump her leg. Smiling and encouraging it. She pushed it out of her head.
 

Now Paul laughed. “Well, I’ll let you know as soon as I get hold of Steffie. Sound good?”

“That would be great. Thank you, Paul. After we’ve moved in, I hope you’ll let me cook you dinner at least once a week.”

“You know it. You couldn’t keep me away.”

Flash Funeral

On Saturday morning, Father Andy peered out from the sacristy at the crowded pews of Holy Sacramental. “It’s standing room only out there,” he told Dave Flannigan, who was still adjusting his cassock. “There’s not a seat anywhere, even in the balcony, and people are lined up several deep along the walls. There must be another hundred standing in the rear.”

“Just so the fire marshal doesn’t find out.” Dave smoothed his silver hair. “I’m glad I’m only assisting - a crowd this big would give me stage fright.”

Andy checked his watch; five more minutes before he could start the funeral mass. “It’s a shame this scandal is what made people flock to the church.”

“It is. But it’s to be expected. I’d imagine there’ll be plenty of gawkers out there very disappointed that it’s not an open casket.” Dave shook his head. “I remember back in 1968, when I was still wet behind the ears, a husband shot the milkman and his wife while she was, uh, milking him. Killed them, then went on the lam. The funeral was nothing like this, but the pews were packed. Reporters kept taking flash pictures for the paper. It was a zoo.”

“Hmm. I hadn’t thought about that. There are probably plenty of news people out there today.”

“Yes, but don’t worry about it. Can’t do a thing to control it anyway.”

Mabel Thompson, the church organist, played the first chords of the processional. The congregation quieted, all eyes on the three caskets in front of the chancel. The adult-sized ones hugged the smaller one and all were covered with masses of red and white flowers - they looked like bloodstained snow. Andy crossed himself, nodded at Dave, and walked to the podium. As the music played he looked out upon the congregation. People stared, some dry-eyed and fascinated, some with horror on their faces, many weeping. Silently, Andy said a prayer, asking for strength to get through the service.

When the music ended, he led a prayer, then the choir sang
Ave Maria
a cappella, a song that always made him want to weep for its sheer beauty and grace. Today, he barely held himself together. He’d witnessed these tragedies, given last rites to all four, though only Burke Collins had been alive for his. Burke’s body wasn’t here - he’d been cremated and his ashes sent out to sea days before. Only Geneva-Marie’s side was represented, older, stern-faced men and women occupying half the front pew. It was hard to imagine sweet Geneva-Marie being related to the stony group; only one elderly woman dabbed her eyes now and then.
 

When he’d met with the relatives - two aunts and uncles - Andy knew there would be no forgiveness for Burke Collins from them; indeed, they seemed almost as unimpressed with Geneva-Marie.
She had it coming for marrying below her station,
whispered the most severe aunt. She looked like she had sucked the sour off a barrel of pickles. Bart Underhill, the mortician, confided that the relatives had sprung for the most expensive coffins and ordered the finest flowers. This made Andy sad as well - these things were for show, not for Geneva-Marie and her sons.

The song ended; Mabel struck the first chords of
How Great Thou Art
and the choir joined in. It was beautiful. Andy looked out at the faces. In the second and third rows, most of Morning Glory Circle gathered together, though Priscilla Martin, in her pink-and-black JFK assassination suit, sat with Claire’s husband Jason in the front pew, directly before the podium. Claire was still on bed rest, and Andy was glad she didn’t have to be here. He wished Priscilla had worn black, this suit of hers always caused chatter, but at a funeral it would cause a minor scandal. He wondered what she had up her sleeve to turn the scandal in her favor - or if she was simply so self-involved it didn’t occur to her this was an inappropriate outfit.
 

Andy felt sorry for Jason, who looked ill at ease.
 

Jason Holbrook tugged at the stiff collar of his starched white shirt. The church was hot and Priscilla’s extra helping of perfume nauseated him. He hadn’t wanted to attend the funeral - it wasn’t as if he’d known the deceased - but when Prissy practically begged him, to escort her, he couldn’t refuse.
 

Father Andy took a long solemn look around the room, cleared his throat, opened a bible, and began to read from Psalms 23:4: “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death …”
As the priest went on, Jason stole glances around the church.

He was worried about Claire. Though her leg was healing well, she remained on bed rest, and Jason felt a guilty relief to be out of the house - and away from her. As time passed at Prissy’s, his wife was becoming dangerously stir-crazy.
Or something.
Her edginess wore on him. She wasn’t herself.

Jason hoped like hell they could get into their own place quickly … and without incident. Claire was convinced her mother would make it difficult to leave - she was convinced of a lot odd things lately. Jason couldn’t foresee any trouble from Prissy, but he harbored a secret worry that something might go wrong. Perhaps Paul would get tired of his house sitting empty. And what if Claire’s pregnancy became more precarious? He’d been plagued by fears since the day of Claire’s accident.

Meanwhile, Claire was obsessing over every move her mother made, every word she uttered, and Prissy herself spoke in a way that made it clear she hadn’t yet accepted that he and Claire were going anywhere at all. This made him nervous. Not because she could stop them, but because a small superstitious part of him couldn’t help seeing Prissy’s attitude as an omen of some kind.

From somewhere behind him, a mewling moan came, followed by a clutch of breathy sobs. He glanced back to see Phyllis Stine, her makeup-streaked face buried in her husband’s chest as her body shook with grief. Clyde patted her shoulder and stifled a yawn.

Clyde Stine wished he hadn’t worn the red thong and matching demi-bra. They were a little tight and after leaving the house, he realized the crimson bra was visible through his white shirt, so he had to keep his jacket on even though it was stifling in the church.

Clyde never dressed in full female uniform in public, of course, but he liked the way most feminine garments felt next to his skin. And he liked knowing that he - and Phyllis - were the only ones who had any clue what he wore beneath his undeniably masculine clothing. He chuckled to himself and disguised it as a cough.

Phyllis, who had always been competitive, took this as a challenge and sobbed louder. “There, there,” he whispered, patting her bony shoulder, and wishing like hell he’d married Tonya Watson, his high school sweetheart. She was a quiet gal; she never would have caused the kinds of scenes Phyllis did. But Phyllis, older and more experienced, had been good in the sack and that had gone a long way with Clyde. At the time, anyway. These days, his only interest in sex was the little thrill he got when he slipped into a silky pair of tiny panties. And despite her histrionics and addiction to plastic surgery, Phyllis was tops about that, bringing him new undergarments and enthusiastically taking the role of photographer while he modeled. Doubting Tonya Watson would have been so supportive, he hugged Phyllis closer. He still loved the old girl. She’d turned out to be a pretty good wife for a woman he’d picked up dancing in a cage at the Whisky a Go Go all those decades ago.
   

As Father Andrew read another bible passage, Clyde Stine’s manhood stirred, twitched. Another wail from Phyllis withered it right up, though. He sneaked a glance at his watch and suppressed a sigh. It was going to be a long day. He wondered if anyone else shared his sentiments. He looked at the back of Babs Vandercooth’s head - which nodded in agreement with Father Andy’s words - and felt utterly alone in his misery.
 

Between Phyllis’ non-stop sobbing behind her and Prissy’s horrible pink suit in front of her, Babs wasn’t sure if she was sad or angry. Both women were so caught up in themselves that they didn’t care what kind of impression they made. The funeral was about Geneva-Marie, Barry, and poor little Chris. It was not about drawing attention to oneself.
 

Babs dabbed away fresh tears.
Those poor children, poor Geneva-Marie
. She even felt sorry for Burke.
What demons must have chased him to cause him to commit such a terrible act?
Things had been looking up for the family. Geneva-Marie had told her Burke was living in an apartment and going to AA meetings once, sometimes twice, a day. He was determined to turn himself around, and was already talking with a business advisor, aiming to get the furniture store back in the black. It had all been good - and then this happened.
Why?
she wondered.
Why?

Beside her, Carl sniffed and wiped his nose. He and Burke had been friends once, fishing on the lake, hosting barbecues, even managing a kids’ soccer team together. But that was all in the past, before Burke got lost in the bottle. Babs wiped away fresh tears.
 

Those poor boys.
Cut down so young. It wasn’t fair. Her gaze drifted back to Prissy in her obscene pink suit. Prissy’s son, Timothy, hadn’t had much of a chance either.
But Claire’s boy - he’s going to make it - he has a fine mother and father, both.
 

She was determined to visit Claire soon - while Prissy was away. They had things to talk about. She looked daggers at the back of Prissy’s head. Prissy didn’t care that Geneva-Marie and her sons were dead. Pris turned around and glanced at her, an odd look on her face.
Maybe she felt the daggers.
 

How have I remained friends with her all these years? I was her lapdog, her toady. I allowed her to use me. How could I have been so stupid?
But she knew the answer.

Blackmail was a powerful thing. Thank God Quinton Everett had gotten their home out of Prissy’s name and she had no leverage over them now … and that was a game changer.
 

Realizing the room had gone silent, Babs looked up.