House Broken (15 page)

When Eustace came upstairs, she told him flat-out he had no right to fire Louisa.

“No right? I am her employer.”

“But she's been with us for so long!”

“Too long. You don't pay any attention, but she's been snooping around where she doesn't belong.”

“Snooping? Snooping where?”

In two steps he crossed the room and loomed over her. “Who are you to question me? You'd be wise to check the silver and your jewelry.”

She opened her mouth to protest, but closed it right quick. Eustace didn't need a reason to fire Louisa. He could pull one out of thin air. No one would ever take the word of a black housekeeper over that of the mayor. It might have been 1981 other places, but in Aliceville it was pretty near 1951.

Helen took a deep breath. “Eustace, if you believe Louisa saw something and got the wrong impression . . .”

He set his jaw. “Wrong impression? Of what, exactly?”

“Well, I only thought she might be mistaken.”

“About what, Helen?”

She turned from him and stared out the window. Three illuminated reindeer with red bows around their necks stood in the front yard.

“Never mind.”

• • •

The next day she called Louisa but she didn't answer. She tried again the next day, and the next. Just before Christmas, she drove across town to Louisa's house and knocked on the door. A dog barked inside. Helen stood shivering on the porch for a long time. Finally, she put the poinsettia and the wrapped present on the doormat and drove home.

She saw Louisa at a distance from time to time, and ran into her once at the grocery store. Louisa said, “I'm sorry,” spun around, and wheeled her cart down the aisle.

GENEVA

G
eneva's cab drove past the La Brea Tar Pits and deposited her in front of the Page Museum. At the edge of the main pit, a pair of fiberglass mastodons faced a fiberglass mammoth sinking into the bubbling tar. The mammoth's trunk was curled up against its forehead, and its mouth lay open in mid-scream. Geneva paid the driver and entered the museum.

She had met Dublin here before. It was his son Jack's favorite place. Jack could be entertained for an hour or two by the fishbowl—a glass-walled paleontology lab where he could watch scientists clean and prepare Ice Age fossils. He was less interested in the reconstructed skeletons on display than in the process of unearthing bones and teeth from the hardened asphalt. The tedium of the work fascinated him. Jack also loved the display of
thousands of dire wolf skulls along one wall of the museum. This was Geneva's favorite exhibit, as well, and where they had arranged to meet.

Dublin stood in front of the skulls, shoulder to shoulder with his older son, Whit. Jack crouched next to Whit, his face almost touching the glass. The amber backlighting from the display shone on all three faces. Geneva admired them for a moment and savored the realization that these were members of her family with whom she felt no conflict.

She touched Dublin on the shoulder. “Studying the dire situation?”

He grinned and gave her a hug. She waved hello to her nephews, knowing one was at the awkward age for hugs and the other had always been.

“This one,” Jack said, pointing at the skull in front of him, “has smaller canines than average.”

Geneva bent down next to him. “Show me.”

Dublin said, “You've probably noticed Paris isn't here yet.”

“She doesn't exist,” Whit said.

“There's no proof,” Jack added.

“You're right about the tooth, Jack.” She stood up. “Haven't you boys seen pictures of Paris?”

“Dad totally Photoshopped those,” Whit said.

“Using whose face?”

He thought about this. “Nana's. When she was young.”

“That would probably work.” She turned to her brother. “Is there money riding on this?”

“You have to ask? If she doesn't show, I'm out big bucks.”

Over his shoulder, Geneva watched a woman cross the room
toward them. The woman caught her eye and lifted a hand, then dropped it, as if she had had a question, then decided not to ask.

“You boys better get ready to pay up,” Geneva said.

Paris, now forty-six, still resembled Helen but could never have been mistaken for her. Her hair was no longer blond, but light brown and graying, and cut bluntly at chin length. She wore a navy T-shirt, a couple of sizes too large, tan cargo pants, and running shoes stained with red African clay. Her hands were stuffed into her pockets, with her elbows turned in, a posture both defiant and awkward. Last night Geneva had examined photos of her sister's youthful face. The face before her was lined and dull, the lips no longer full, the cheeks without a trace of pink. The transformation was unsettling. Nevertheless, Helen's blue eyes stared out at her.

“Hello, everyone,” Paris said.

Dublin stepped forward and put his arms around her. She patted his shoulder. Geneva placed her hand on her sister's arm and quickly kissed her cheek. She smelled of hotel soap. As she stepped back, Geneva noticed Paris's only jewelry—the Tiffany heart necklace their father had given her for her sixteenth birthday. Had she always worn it?

Dublin made a sweeping gesture with his arm. “Whit, Jack, may I present to you, Ms. Paris Riley!”

Whit stood with his mouth open. Dublin kicked him lightly in the shin. Whit stuck out his hand and said, “Nice to meet you.”

Jack glanced at Paris, then resumed studying the wolves.

She frowned.

“Jack,” Dublin said, “let's check out the fishbowl. You can watch the scientists.”

“I'm not very good with kids,” Paris said. “Especially not American ones.”

They found a place to sit while the boys went to see the lab. Geneva asked Paris about the conference she was attending. She explained her involvement with a variety of foundations that provided funding for basic sanitation systems in remote portions of East Africa. She acted both as a liaison between the foundations and local groups, and as a watchdog to ensure the money ended up in the right place.

“Sounds dangerous,” Dublin said.

“I suppose. But there's no point in fighting for clean water and basic hygiene and then watching the money siphoned off for useless luxuries for the tribal chief.”

“Can't argue with that,” Geneva said.

She had long admired her sister's dedication to difficult goals, and felt guilty she had never been motivated to improve basic human conditions in the same way. Instead, she provided medical services and behavioral therapy to pampered pets. The work at the shelter was her only contribution to the community, unless one counted the enlightened self-interest of helping in the schools. Listening to her sister talk, she realized even the shelter animals lived under better conditions than the people Paris assisted.

Yet, as Paris answered their questions about her work, her tone became increasingly strident and preachy. She had her cause—a righteous one—and that was all that mattered to her. Geneva saw for the first time how black-and-white the world appeared to her sister, how she stubbornly, albeit valiantly, pursued her work goals. And, as far as Geneva could tell, there was nothing else in her life other than work. No husband, no boyfriend, no relationships beyond those necessitated by her position. She hadn't traveled except
as her job required, and she had no hobbies. She was beyond single-minded. She was obsessive.

Why hadn't Geneva noticed this before? The last time they had seen each other was in New York. Dublin hadn't been able to come because Whit had been born a few days before. Geneva wasn't going to travel across the country for a three-hour visit, but Tom found a cheap flight and insisted she go. The three sisters had coffee, then walked through Central Park as snow fell lightly around them. Once the small talk expired, Florence asked Paris whether she planned to return for her wedding, in eight months' time.

“Not if our mother will be there.”

An argument had ensued, in which Florence told Paris to “get over herself.” Paris retorted that Florence's preoccupation with sports and her body revealed she had never left behind the adolescent persona of high school jock. She was buying in to the same Cinderella complex their mother had perfected, only glorifying muscle instead of breast tissue. A different sort of vanity, but vanity nevertheless. Geneva didn't say a word. At the time, she thought each sister had a point. Moreover, they had squabbled constantly growing up, so why would they relent now? The episode saddened her though, as she had hoped they could have moved on from their childhoods. She was sorry she'd come.

Sitting on a bench in the Page museum, Geneva saw her eldest sister in a new light. Until now, Paris had always been the girl their father adored, who had for some mysterious reason broken off from the rest of the family to help the people of Africa. That girl had been beautiful and captivating and selfless. Now, as Geneva listened to her lecture Dublin on how Hollywood—his industry—corrupted the wealthy by entertaining them instead of
opening their hearts to the plight of the downtrodden, she thought her sister was simply strange.

• • •

Dublin's boys complained of hunger, so while he shepherded them to the cafeteria, Geneva and Paris went outside to the Pleistocene Garden. As they walked the crushed gravel paths, the midday sun pulled the musky scent of sage into the air. The crowded plantings of sedges, buckwheat, and wormwood spilled over the borders and grew in between small pools of tar, nearly hiding them. Whether in modern L.A. or in the Pleistocene, Geneva thought, you had to be careful where you stepped.

“Did Dublin mention that Mom has been staying with me?”

“No. He knows better than to bring her up.” Paris slowed her step. “I thought you didn't get along with her. Or has that changed?”

“Not really. She had a car accident and needed a place to mend. I only mention it because having her around has made me think about our childhood.”

“Geneva, don't spoil this.”

She stopped in the shade of a sycamore and firmed her resolve. “Mom may be unstable and unreasonable, but I'm not. You've chosen not to interact with her. But you called Dublin and let him know you were in town, and you knew he'd call me. So if you're not willing to write all of us off, you're going to have to give a little.”

Her sister's expression was wary. “Give a little what?”

“Of yourself. Help me understand.”

“What exactly?”

“Us. Our family. Look, I was eleven when Dad died. You were
already gone. But things between you and Mom had been tense for a while before you left, right?”

She let out a little snort. “You could say that.”

“Ella is sixteen. Believe me when I say I have firsthand experience of what that developmental period is like.”

“Developmental period? You think I had some version of your suburban teenager's rebellion?”

Geneva brushed off the slight with a shrug. “How should I know? That's my point. My daughter's anger feels very real to her—and justified. I'm certain of it.” As soon as she said this, she realized she'd never acknowledged this to Ella, and winced inwardly at her own insensitivity. How could she have ignored this essential fact?

Paris stared at her, as if waiting for her to talk about something more compelling than her daughter's feelings.

Geneva was determined to make good on her promise not to let her sister off the hook. “Your anger at Mom seems real to me, too, Paris. I don't know you at all well, but you're my sister. I won't give up on what I don't understand. I'm not designed like that.”

“And I assume Mom won't tell you anything.”

“No.”

“What does that say? Because the only reason I'm not telling you is because you and Dublin and Florence seem to have some connection with her.”

“So it's her secret, not yours?”

She laughed bitterly. “Funny enough, it's the only thing we share.”

Frustration grew inside Geneva. Why did Paris have to speak in riddles? She could tell Paris had reached her limit and was
about to clam up. Geneva was sorting through the jumble of questions in her mind when her sister spoke.

“When I left for UNC, I didn't think Daddy would come apart the way he did.”

“Didn't you?” She had no idea where Paris was headed.

“Florence was impossible, of course. Always had been. And I suppose, if I'd thought it through, I'd have realized you were far too young.” She fingered the heart pendant at her throat and gazed dreamily into the middle distance. “You loved Daddy, didn't you?”

“Yes, of course I loved him.”

Her sister gave her an appraising look and smiled. In that moment, the years fell away and Paris became again the girl at sixteen—regal, contained, self-assured. “Not like I did.”

HELEN

T
uesday morning, coming home from physical therapy, Tom informed Helen he had to visit the rain forest man to show him the handrail he'd finished and to take more measurements. When he said he'd be gone a few hours, she saw her chance. The kids were in school and Geneva was at work, so she'd finally be on her own. Time to go hunting.

She was getting around better. She still had to be careful not to put too much weight on her bad leg, but the pain would remind her when she'd done too much. The physical therapist told her at every visit it was important not to favor it more than she had to, as that would make trouble on the other side, and the bad knee would never get better unless it got stronger. But for today she'd hobble around however she could and worry about the
consequences another time. Come hell or high water, she was going to find the stash of booze.

Here it was Tuesday and she hadn't had a drink since Friday. Friday! Might have been her imagination, but it appeared Charlie was avoiding her. Probably afraid of getting caught now that his parents had the measure of her motivation. She'd covered for him by making up the story about sneaking vodka from the party, but he wasn't showing his appreciation. Or maybe he was busy with that band of his, with the contest coming up tomorrow. Whatever the reason, she was left to fend for herself.

She waited a half an hour after Tom left, in case he forgot something and came back, and used the time to formulate a hunting plan. Ella's bedroom and the den, where Charlie was sleeping, were out, and so was the kitchen since she'd already searched it, except the cabinets at the tippy top. Her daughter would've counted on her exploring the easy places anyway. Helen started with Geneva and Tom's bedroom. When she opened the door, Diesel got up from his mat to see what she was up to.

She patted the top of his head. “Don't you tell on me, boy.”

She found her way to the closet. She might've felt sorry for invading their privacy, except this counted as an emergency. Geneva's neatness worked against her in this instance, as it was easy for Helen to see where a few bottles might hide among the tidy piles of sweaters and row of storage boxes. She didn't have to open anything, just pushed the boxes and bins to see if they were heavier than they ought to be. Sadly, they weren't. She made sure everything was good and straight before she left.

Diesel followed her around to the last few places she'd thought of in the house. That left the garage and the barn. She figured the barn was more likely, as it was farther away. And Tom probably
did the carrying, and that's where he'd put it. He had a habit of locking the barn whenever he left, but she'd seen Ella take a key from the kitchen drawer when she wanted to sit in her chair out there. Helen found the key and headed outside. Diesel wanted to come, too, but she wasn't going to have him running off, so she made him sit on his mat.

Tom's workshop wasn't as neat as the house, but it wasn't a mess either. There were three tall cabinets on one wall and another set under a long counter on the other side. She stumped her walker toward the low cabinets but, in her enthusiasm, missed seeing a metal knob sticking out from a piece of equipment. It caught her hip and she cried out. She wiggled her hip around a little to see if it still worked. It did. There'd be a big old bruise, but she figured she'd live, so she kept on with her search.

Good thing, too, because in the second cabinet, under an old blanket, she struck gold. Tempted as she was to take a swig then and there, she didn't want to be falling down in the driveway and held off. After inspecting a few bottles, she selected the vodka and the gin, each more than half full, and blessed her daughter for buying top-shelf brands. She put the bottles into the grocery bag she'd brought, locked up the barn, and returned to the house to scare up some mixers.

Helen had a drink in the kitchen, because no one was there to see, other than Diesel. She didn't like drinking alone, never had, but it beat not drinking by a mile. She missed her friends in L.A.—the bridge ladies, the neighbors she sat with at the pool, even the doddery old coots at the senior center. They weren't bosom buddies, but they were better to drink with than a dog. Worse, Diesel kept reminding her of Argus, Paris's shepherd, and that naturally led to thinking about Eustace and Paris. Once she started down
that road, it was hard to stop, so she poured another inch of vodka.

• • •

She didn't have a clear idea of what Eustace was up to with Paris, but if he fired Louisa for seeing it, it was more than nothing. But Louisa wasn't inclined to talk, and without ever having seen anything herself, Helen had no cause to go running to the police. What would she tell them? Her husband tickled her daughter? Even if she had seen an untoward act with her own eyes, she doubted anyone would believe her. Her husband was the mayor and from an influential family, and she was, and always would be, the girl from the other side of the tracks who had been lucky to snag him. If only Paris had the sense God gave her, but Helen could see Eustace had the girl under a spell. Her daughter might've listened to her if they'd ever been close, but they hadn't, and it was too late for that now.

Still, Paris was her flesh and blood, and Helen wasn't the type to give up easy. The idea of getting the girl a dog came to her after she had read about a German shepherd in a book. A killer was on the loose in a small town, and the dog figured out who it was before anyone else. The shepherd protected its owner, a young woman living on her own, from ending up dead same as the rest of them. That was only a story, but she figured a guard dog might teach Eustace to keep his hands to himself. Because even a dog can sniff out when things are dead wrong.

Helen had never so much as twitched her nose without consulting her husband, so when she came through the door on Christmas Eve with Argus, she was as nervous as a cat in a room full of rocking chairs. But what could he do? Paris took to the dog
right away and, for the first time in ages, smiled at her mother sincerely. Eustace was steamed, that was plain, and quit the room directly. Geneva was nearly as bothered as her father, seeing as she'd been asking for a dog since she could talk, but Helen had her priorities. Wouldn't be long before Paris was off to college, and if Geneva wanted Argus to be hers then, Helen wouldn't mind a bit.

The dog slept on the floor beside Paris, just as Helen had planned. By the time Christmas break was over, he was following her around the house, sitting behind her seat at the table and lying by the door with his head on his paws when she was out. Helen relaxed a little.

She should've known better. Eustace didn't roll over easy. A few days before Easter, she came down the walk with her arms full of groceries and nearly got run over by Argus, pulling Geneva to the curb.

“Sorry, Mama,” she called over her shoulder.

“Where in heaven's name are you going with that dog?”

“Argus!” The dog let up. “Daddy asked me to walk him.”

“Why doesn't Paris do it?”

“He said she's busy. I don't mind.” And off she went.

Helen didn't know whether she wanted to go in the house at all. But the ice cream was melting, so she did, making more noise than she needed to. She put the ice cream away, then called down the hall for Paris to help her with the rest. Took her a couple minutes, but she came.

Not long after, the dog didn't finish his supper three evenings running. She couldn't see anything wrong with him, and went so far as to investigate his stools after Paris took him out to do his business.

“What are you doing, Mama?”

“Argus hasn't been finishing his kibble.” She pointed to the lump on the grass. “And doesn't this look darker than his usual?”

Paris made a face. “I'm not looking at that. And I don't need to. It's probably because Daddy's giving him steak.”

“Steak?”

“Yup. He wants to be better friends with Argus. Isn't that sweet?”

Helen shook her head, then went to get a shovel from the shed to clear up the mess.

Paris called after her, “There's nothing Daddy can do that's all right with you, is there? You're so pathetic, you get jealous of a dog!”

• • •

That summer the heat broke records. Nearly every day, Helen left Argus in the shady backyard with plenty of water and drove the children to the club pool. She secretly hoped one of the young men might strike Paris's fancy. The girl was a flower full of nectar with boys buzzing around her. She ignored the furtive glances of the shy ones, which was most of them. A handful of the braver ones squatted in the grass by her lounge chair, trying to fire up a conversation, but she only yawned and peered lazily over their shoulders, as if expecting someone more interesting, so they drifted off.

Eustace joined the family occasionally. He'd pull a chair up next to Paris's and chat with her and read the newspaper. Not a soul approached her then, and he stared down those foolish enough to look twice.

One day, Florence stood in the shallow end and threw coins in the deeper water for Dublin and Geneva to fish off the bottom. Eustace put down his newspaper and watched her throwing and running through the water.

“Florence is getting to look like a prizefighter.”

Helen shielded her eyes from the sun and appraised her daughter. At fifteen, she was five-foot-eight, long-legged, and still growing. She wore a bikini, same as all the girls, and her brown hair was pulled into a low ponytail. The muscles in her arms and legs stood out some, but the way the girl exercised, she wasn't surprised. And maybe her hipbones and ribs poked out more than Paris's did, but nothing was wrong with her appetite. Florence had played varsity basketball all winter and varsity soccer in the spring. She loved running, even in the heat. Helen thought she looked just fine and said so.

“Fine? Helen, too many muscles on a girl isn't fine. And she's flat as a pancake on top. She needs to eat more and run less. Otherwise, no man but a blind one will have her.”

She looked from her daughter to her husband and back again. Prizefighter, he reckoned? Not yet, but she'd see what she could do. She didn't figure on Florence being Eustace's type, but she wasn't taking any chances.