Mother (14 page)

He sipped the dregs of his Orange Crush.
Keep Prissy Martin happy, and your events will practically run themselves,
Flannigan had once told him. It seemed an innocent statement at the time, but now Andy couldn’t help wondering exactly what he’d meant.

Dave Flannigan had said more on the night of his farewell party, but Andy couldn’t remember much.
Keep her happy, don’t cross her if you disagree, just turn the other cheek, and find another way around it. Keep her purring, Andy, but never get too close.

He hadn’t talked with Dave Flannigan in far too long. He glanced at the phone, but it was late and the old priest was probably asleep by now.
Time enough to talk later.
He rose and headed upstairs for a couple more Excedrin and a few hours of sleep.

This was not how Tim had kept his room. Her brother was twenty when he’d died and she’d never seen an American flag, baseball pennant, or football poster anywhere. This was the bedroom of a boy no older than ten - Claire assumed this was how it might have looked before she’d come along, and he’d been an only child - pushed by Mother to be an all-American little boy.
 

On the shelves of a wooden headboard were a series of books:
The Hardy Boys
, the scriptures, and a few installments of James Howe’s
Bunnicula
series. Front and center atop the highest shelf was a bold golden crucifix, Jesus seeming to stare down at the pillow as he grimaced from the cross.
 

The bedspread was light blue, and a pillowcase sported grinning
Peanuts
characters.
 

Whether the chill came from within the room or from within herself, Claire didn’t know, but she shuddered.

“This is a little boy’s room,” said Jason. “I thought Timothy was older when …”

“He was. Clearly Mother has redecorated.” Claire’s eyes slid to the closet. She nodded toward it. “That’s where he …” She couldn’t bring herself to say it.

Jason put an arm around her shoulder. “Do you want to leave?”

She shook her head and steeled herself, ignoring the tears that pricked her eyes. She broke from Jason’s touch and moved toward the closet. Opening the door, her heart sank, and the beginnings of a dark rage threatened to overcome her. From hangers hung the clothes of a young boy, ranging from toddler-size and stopping before puberty. She recognized some of the shirts from photographs she’d seen over the years, and knew these were clothes from his boyhood.
She’s sick. She’s a sick, twisted woman.
 

Jason stepped over but kept a distance, remaining silent as Claire slid the clothing on the rod. She looked down and saw masses of shoe boxes neatly stacked on the floor. Inside were Timothy’s old shoes - dozens of pairs, beginning with baby booties and ending, again, just before his teenage years. Claire stood and stepped back. On a shelf above the clothing rod were six little green G.I. Joe action figures, weapons in hand, huddled together as if having a meeting. Beyond them was a stack of board games, all for the age group of six to twelve years old.
 

“This is her way of making sure he never grows up in her mind.” Her voice shook.

“This is crazy, Claire. I think we need to leave.” Jason’s tone was solemn; she could tell he knew she was upset, and that bothered her. She cleared her throat and blinked away incipient tears before facing him.

“I’m okay, Jason. It’s just hard to see. I never knew Tim when he was a boy. He was ten when I was born, so this isn’t how I remember him. I never even knew he liked to play with toy soldiers.”

Jason nodded, worry on his face. “I think we should go.”

Claire opened her mouth to agree, but suddenly, from nowhere, a memory floated into her awareness.
The secret place. Tim’s secret place.
He’d let her hide her favorite toy there when Mother had gone on a rampage.
Mr. Anton! How did I forget about Mr. Anton?
Claire had only been five or six and she’d talked back to Mother at the dinner table. Mother informed her that after the meal, she’d be holding Claire’s toys for a month as punishment. Claire began to cry and while Mother lectured her, Timothy excused himself and sneaked into Claire’s room, taking her stuffed golden bear, Mr. Anton. He stashed it away in his secret hiding place and let Claire come in and play with it when Mother wasn’t looking.
 

Timothy used the hidey-hole for belongings he wanted to keep from Mother’s prying eyes and hands: books she wouldn’t approve of, drawings he knew she’d take away. Once, Claire even found a pack of cigarettes and some dirty magazines in there. That’s when she’d stopped snooping. Curious as she’d been, there were certain things she hadn’t needed to know about her brother.

She wondered now if Mother had ever found his hiding place.

“I just want to check one more thing.” She crouched and reached under Timothy’s bed and found the corner of loose carpet. She lifted a piece of the floor up and hesitated before reaching inside. She said a silent prayer that Mother hadn’t discovered it and filled it with items of
her
choosing.

Her hand found something cool and smooth. She gripped it and lifted out a wireless notebook. A crude pencil drawing of a naked woman graced the front page. Flipping through, she noted the dates at the top of the entries. “It’s a journal!” She felt around and discovered several more, excitement growing. “Tim’s journals!”

There was a loud
thunk!
from outside and then headlights bobbed as they shot through the window.

Jason turned the light off then peered outside. “Shit! She’s home!” He squinted past the baby-blue curtains. “And I think she hit the curb!”

Claire’s heart raced. “Damn it!” They had to get out now. Mother would flip if she caught them in Tim’s room. Unable to bring herself to invade what little was left of her brother’s privacy, she let go of the journal, replaced the floor and carpet over the hole, and got to her feet, just as a car door slammed shut outside. A powerful jolt of dizziness threatened her balance. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Come on!” Claire grabbed Jason’s hand and they fled the room and raced down the hall. They made their way down the stairs and into the kitchen.
 

“Oh, shit. The hangers!” Jason grabbed the black bag and he and Claire slipped out the back door.
 

Only to see the front of Mother’s BMW, its lights blazing against the garage door. The car door slammed. They could hear Mother muttering to herself, and then the click of her high heels. “Hide!” Claire pointed at the potting shed to their left. “Behind there. She won’t see us.”

They scurried to the far side of the shed and waited for Mother to go indoors. But she didn’t. She unlocked the potting shed instead. Lights blazed.

Jason grimaced at Claire and she put her finger to her lips. They were stuck until Mother went in the house.
 

“She’s drunk,” Claire whispered, her voice giddy with amusement as Prissy muttered inside the potting shed.
 

Jason nodded and whispered in Claire’s ear, “Maybe she’s talking with her garden gnomes.” He felt ten years old again, like when he eavesdropped on his parents after bedtime. It had always made him feel wonderful and wicked, and a little bit guilty, even though he’d never heard anything scandalous.
 

Claire stifled a giggle as the mumbling continued.
 

“Maybe she’s got a bottle of the good stuff stashed in there.” Jason spoke softly. He loved seeing Claire happy after all the depressing things they’d encountered upstairs.

“Stop it! She’ll hear us!” Claire put one hand over her mouth, the other over his.

It didn’t help; they were both shaking with pent-up laughter now. It felt really good.
And so what if she hears us? She’s drunk. Who cares?
 

Prissy’s voice rose through the night. “Well,
there
you are!”
 

Jason wondered who on earth Prissy had on the phone at this hour. He could tell Claire was just as baffled.
 

“Well, I had quite an eventful day.” Prissy’s voice was loud, her words slurred.
 

“She’s drunk-dialing!” whispered Jason. “Is she a heavy drinker?”

Claire shrugged. “She didn’t used to be.”

The one-sided conversation continued. “Father David Flannigan, you remember, silly. He was the priest you liked to talk to. Yes, Father Flannigan, right. Yes, he was nice to me - and you - for a time.”

Claire leaned in close to Jason. “Father Flannigan was the head of Holy Sacramental when I was a kid.”

“Well, young Father Andrew isn’t nearly as agreeable.” Prissy laughed, low and throaty. “No, I doubt he’s a gay, he’s just
so
earnest. I don’t think he’s ever been with a woman - let alone a man, Angelheart.”

“Oh, my God.” Claire’s smile crashed and her eyes went wide. Amusement drained from her face. She looked stricken, unbelieving ...
stunned
.

“Claire?”

She ignored him.

Prissy laughed. “And he doesn’t drink like a proper priest … I know … He didn’t even touch the wine. He drank an orange soda, of all things - can you imagine? - and he wouldn’t commit to any of our ideas.”
 

Claire’s eyes were fathomless. Jason moved closer to her. “Is something-”

“Shh!”

Prissy giggled. “So, what do you think, Angelheart? Will our snapdragons win the contest this year?” There was a pause. “Yes, I agree, they’re still too small to be sure … Don’t you remember? They’re pastels - baby blue like your eyes, pink like your lips.” She giggled again. “Peach, lavender, white, pale green, and yellow. I have bright colors to define the faces and shapes … What? You remember, I already told you - my theme is ‘A Day at the Zoo’ and there will be all
kinds
of flower animals.” She laughed. “Yes, dragons, too. Snapdragons!” Another pause. “You’re certainly right about that. Aida Portendorfer will be livid!” Her voice lowered to a confidential tone. “Phyllis Stine says Aida’s planting an American flag motif. Isn’t that the tackiest thing ever? We’ll do much better than that! I don’t think Geneva-Marie will even try - not with the trouble she’s having at home.” Prissy giggled. It was an ugly sound. “It’s marvelous, isn’t it?” A long pause. “No, Barbara isn’t an issue. She knows better. I have no doubt we’ll win the street
and
the city-wide contest again this year.”

Claire’s face was paper white. She raised a hand to her breast and Jason saw the tremble in her fingers.
She looks like she’s going to throw up!
 

“I think we should go,” Jason whispered.

She shook her head.
 

“This Sunday, right after church,” Prissy continued. “I’m bringing this pot of wild violets. They’re frost resistant and will be nice until the snapdragons are ready … Yes, I know you do. That’s why I chose them, silly. You’ve always liked them.” There was a long pause, then Prissy’s voice went soft, sad almost. “My little Angelheart, let Mommy fix your shirt collar. It’s all rucked up again … There, that’s better. Isn’t that better, Timmy?”

Jason’s heart froze in his throat.
Timmy? As in Timothy?

Claire looked into his eyes and nodded.

“She doted on my brother,” Claire said once they were safely in the apartment.

“Have you ever heard her, uh, talk to him before?”

“Not like that.” Claire’s gaze was far away. “‘Angelheart’ was her pet name for him. I haven’t heard that term in years …” She shook her head. “It’s sick. The whole thing is just sick.” She touched her belly protectively. “We need to get out of here, Jason.”

He swallowed. “Let’s start looking around right away and we’ll move as soon as it’s feasible.”
 

“I’ve already looked online. It’s surprising how cheap it is to live here compared to the city.”

“Yes, but I’m making a lot less, so unfortunately, it evens out.”

“I’ve been spending most of my time updating my website and getting clients lined up. I’m hoping to make enough money to help us move as soon as possible.”

They sat together on the couch, their hands clasped. They’d hid behind the shed another ten minutes while Prissy finished talking to her dead son. It had been a long, cold wait. As soon as Claire and Jason got upstairs, they turned up the heat and lowered the blinds, cocooning themselves from the madness.

The silence hung, thick and loaded. Jason had believed Claire’s stories about her mother but he’d never imagined …
this.
It was unreal.
“She probably just drank too much, Claire. We’re overthinking things.”
 

“This goes beyond a few too many drinks, Jason. She hates silence - I thought that’s why she’s always talked to herself. It was never a two-way conversation, even when she seemed to be talking to Tim.” She shook her head. “She’s gotten crazier since I left. After Tim died, I spent most of my time trying to avoid her. I remember wishing I could shut my door, but ...”
 

“But what?”

“I didn’t have one.”

“What? What do you mean, you didn’t have a door?”

“She removed my bedroom door, just like she had Timothy’s. We didn’t have doors. We weren’t allowed.” Claire stared at him. “God, I’d forgotten all about that. At least she’s put them back on.”

“You probably needed to forget it, Claire.”

“I wonder what else I’ve forgotten.”

“Good question. I wonder what’s in the potting shed.”

“Why? Tim’s certainly not in there.”

“But maybe there’s a reason she
thinks
he is.”

“Unless …” Claire gave him a peculiar smile. “Maybe she had him freeze-dried like the dogs and keeps him in the potting shed.”

“Claire, you’re not ser-”

She started laughing. “No, but I wouldn’t put it past her. I mean, the evidence is all there - those poor dead dogs on her bed-”

Her laughter spiraled and her face turned red, tears streaming, her hand slapping the couch in glee. It was as if something inside of her had snapped. Jason had never seen her like this. He moved close and held her. Finally, the hysteria passed and the real tears came. He had rarely seen her cry before. Now there was a flood.