Mother (16 page)

“I’m sure. Fuck her.” Claire took another bite. “Needless to say, I’ve started looking at new places. There are definitely some possibilities.” She paused to chew. “Most of them are on the outskirts of town.”

“We’ll start saving up. I think we can have the money in a couple of months.”

Claire watched him a moment. “I wasn’t going to tell you until it was final, but I’m ninety-nine percent sure I’ve acquired a new client. A big one.”

“That’s great, sweetheart! Who is it?”

She told him about her new customer as they devoured the Chinese food - which was every bit as good as Paul had said it would be.
 

“What about you?” Claire asked. “How was your day?”

He told her more about the job and Paul Schuyler and his Stearman. She listened in that way he loved - like she was
really
listening, not just being polite.

“That’s great, Magic Man. You should ask him to take you flying sometime.”

Paul was a great guy and they’d hit it off, but Jason wasn’t fond of the idea of inviting himself along on sky-rides for tourists. Also, he wasn’t sure how he’d feel about not being able to pilot the plane.
 

“I think it would be good for you.” Claire seemed to have read his thoughts.

“Yeah,” he said. “Maybe someday I’ll ask him about it.”

Claire smiled. “You can’t stay out of the sky forever, Jason. It just wouldn’t be you. Even if you can’t pilot, I know you’re itching to get back up there. Am I right or am I right?”

She was right.

There was a long silence before Claire spoke. “I want to go see Dad again. Maybe tomorrow.”

Jason finished his dinner and pushed his plate aside. “Do you think your mother will allow it?”

“I don’t know and I don’t care.” She reached into the sack and withdrew two fortune cookies. She slid one to Jason and cracked hers open. Pulling the strip of paper out, she frowned. “‘
Next to God, Thy Parents,’
” she read. “What kind of Chinese place is this? When did
God
start making appearances in fortune cookies?”

Jason shrugged and read his own. “‘
Family is Forever.’
”

Claire opened her eyes wide and spoke in a slow, mock-lunatic cadence. “And ever and ever and
ever
…” The overall effect was indeed quite eerie.
 

He laughed then patted his belly. “I’m stuffed.”

“Me, too.” Claire started closing the white containers and Jason, groaning with satisfaction, took them to the fridge. “There’s another entire dinner here.” Jason rinsed his hands and returned to the dining room. “So, what did you do with the rotten cans?”

“In a garbage bag, awaiting proper disposal. Let’s go for a ride.”

“Hmm?”

“They’ll just reappear if we throw them out here again, so let’s take them to a public dumpster.”

“But she’s got lots more in the basement.”

“Then we’ll keep throwing them out until there aren’t any left.”

Jason nodded and grabbed the keys. He didn’t want to fan the flames, but knowing Prissy had let herself into their apartment unannounced ate at him. “What about the hangers? Shouldn’t we dump them, too?”

A mischievous grin brightened Claire’s face. “The hangers? No way. Those are for the yard sale!”

Jason laughed. “You’re serious about that, aren’t you?”

She nodded. “I’m as serious as a Mormon on a mission. Mother will come
unglued!
”

He smiled, rather enjoying this vindictive side of her.

PART TWO
 

We’re All Mad Here

 
“But I don’t want to go among mad people,” Alice remarked.

“Oh, you can’t help that,” said the Cat, “we’re all mad here.”

Late Night With Morning Glory Circle

Claire and Jason lay in a tangle of limbs and sheets, fast asleep, firmly in love, and very satisfied. Mother did not invade their sweet dreams, but Claire dreamed of the day her big brother, Tim, and his girlfriend, Steffie, had taken her to the carnival at the fairgrounds and pretended they were her parents. They rode the Ferris wheel and the Wild Mouse, had cotton candy and hot dogs and soda pop. It had been one of the best days of her life. In her sleep, Claire smiled.
 

The smile faltered when a coil of nylon rope entered the dream. Again she saw the looming shadow, heard the hissing whisper, and felt the pain blaze in her shoulder. She saw Timothy - a tear slipped from his blue eye … and then the rope became a noose around his neck.

“Touch them!”

She did as she was told.

“Now open your hand, Carlene …”

In her sleep, Claire whimpered.

“Now close your hand.”

Claire closed her fist tight.
 

Clyde Stine, dutifully carrying out his weekly husbandly duties, grunted on top of his wife, Phyllis. It was a bony, clanky affair that required acrobatics to avoid ending up black and blue where her hipbones ground into him. Luckily, he had plenty of extra padding
.
He looked down at his wife of thirty years, her eyes rolled up behind brow-high blue shadow, her plastic earrings bouncing in time with his thrusts, as her gnarled hands squeezed his ample backside, urging him on. He picked up the pace, wondering if Aida Portendorfer was going to bake more of her delicious snickerdoodles for the sale this weekend.
 

“Oh, Clyde,” groaned Phyllis. “Harder.”

Clyde sighed and put a little more spirit into it. He thought of their neighbor, Candy Sachs, and her double-Ds. He envisioned her in those sweet little hot pink shorts and matching frilly crop-top she’d worn last summer -
I’d love to get into those, oh boy!
 

He finished the job in record time.

Earl Dean waited until Earlene was sawing logs before he quietly left their bed and padded down the hall, past Daphene and Delphine’s room, the bathroom, and into the kitchen, where he turned off the alarm and let himself out into their vast backyard. Looking up, he saw the Portendorfers’ bedroom lights were still on.
But that just makes it more fun.
Earlene had seen Aida with those new binoculars of hers trying to see into their house just two days ago, and Earl was pretty damned pissed off about it. He neared the fence and pulled his cock out of his pajamas. “You wanna take a gander at this, Aida?”

He uncoiled his snake and hosed down the fence. He never understood why people preferred bathrooms to nature.

Without bothering to look up, he packed his dick away and returned to bed. In five minutes, he was asleep and dreaming his favorite dream: the one where he was Willy Wonka and everyone wanted a pack of his fudge.

Wide awake, Aida Portendorfer gasped and thrust the binoculars away from her face.
Of all the disgusting, putrid, unseemly things!
She brought the spyglasses back to her eyes and leaned closer to the window. There was no mistaking it: Earl Dean was urinating on the fence! She stole a glance at his manhood, which was substantially larger than Stan’s, and again gasped at the filth of it all. Without so much as a glance around, Earl Dean shook it off, tucked it in, and headed inside. Disappointment flooded her.
Next time I’ll have the camera ready!
She hefted herself from her swivel chair, eager to get to bed. She had a busy day ahead of her; by tomorrow afternoon, Morning Glory Circle would be abuzz, and Aida would be at the center of it all. She smiled, lay down next to Stan, and closed her eyes. In the dark, she reached down and touched her lady garden, just a little, giggling at the thought of telling her friends what she’d seen.
 

Ace Etheridge squirmed in his sleep. His daughter Iris had told him about her run-in with Priscilla Martin at the grocery store.
“Read any good books, lately?”
she’d said.
“I hear you’re a fan of romance novels.”
That was the part that hit him hard. It had troubled him even more than it had Iris.
Priscilla couldn’t possibly know, could she?
All evening, it had worried him, and he dreamed that he had eaten too much at the yard and bake sale and was waddling toward the Martin house to confront Priscilla about upsetting Iris. Everybody thought Aida Portendorfer was the neighborhood snoop - and they were all wrong.
 

He sampled his neighbors’ wares as he walked.
I must taste everything because I have to give an honest report in the newspaper. I can lose the weight again.
He had bought things from various yard sales, too. Roddy Crocker had put his badge and a billy club out on his sale table, along with some cat toys, comic books, and Bettyanne’s underpants. After careful consideration, Ace bought the badge and the underpants and changed into them as he walked, because he’d gotten so fat from eating all the cookies and cakes, he’d outgrown his pants. The panties, sporting the badge, were stretchy and comfortable and people nodded politely as they passed him.
They respect the badge, just like Roddy said they would.

At the end of the circle, he really had to take a leak, so he approached Priscilla Martin, who manned a table full of tribbles. She said William Shatner had given them to her, then offered Ace one, but he waved the tribble away. He meant to inquire if she had any romance novels for sale, but found himself instead asking if he might use her restroom. “Go on in,” she told him with a winning smile, “But don’t step on the tribbles!”

Ace woke up suddenly with a burning need to pee.
Damned middle-aged bladder!
He got up to relieve himself. He’d really wanted to see the inside of Priscilla Martin’s home. He wanted to set fire to her collection of tribbles, once and for all.
 

Quinton Everett, dressed in flowing white lace, was trying to show little Jimmy Baxter how to hit the softball. Each time it came his way, however, Quinton missed. Over and over, he missed.
 

Suddenly, he lay on the red carpet in the vault at Snapdragon Bank & Trust, his nude body inexplicably tattooed with lipstick. He looked down at the craven images drawn on his skin, from the bottoms of his feet to his tender inner thighs. Now, in his dream, his taint was painted Cherry Blossom Pink and had been man-jazzled by Jennifer Love-Hewitt, who had entered his dream when he wasn’t looking. But it was all good. She was trimming his pubes into a buzzy, musky dollar sign and was about to apply gold sequins and green glitter -
the color of money
- to Quinton Junior, who stood as tall and proud as the National Monument. “Next,” she whispered as she turned Junior into a true Glitterati, “I’ll paint Masonic eyes on your nipples.”

Burke Collins was passed out on the sofa, an empty tumbler of Scotch on the floor beside him, the stink of alcoholic sweat wafting from his pores, fermenting the room. Geneva-Marie clicked the television off and stared at her unconscious husband with disdain, hoping he could feel the laser-like beams of hate she shot from her eyes.
 

Finally, she traipsed upstairs to the bedroom.
Another night alone.
At the edge of the bed, she pulled her red satin robe tight, and stared at her reflection in the mirror, wondering where she’d gone wrong. But she already knew and, in truth, had never regretted it and would never tell him. He’d never find out. Besides, Geneva-Marie wasn’t a fool. Burke had plenty of indiscretions of his own. Her only regret was in marrying him in the first place.

He’d always been a drinker, but these past few months it had escalated. The furniture business was going under and, instead of fixing the problem, Burke was drinking it away. She didn’t know how much longer he’d be able to function without making a spectacle of the entire family.
You’d better be sober for the yard and bake sale, Burke Collins.
It wouldn’t do for the neighbors - Prissy Martin in particular - to know that Geneva-Marie’s life was splitting at the seams.
Prissy’d enjoy every minute of it if she ever found out!
Geneva-Marie buried her face in her hands and wept.
 

Babs Vandercooth wished her Ambien would kick in. It was after midnight and Carl had been softly snoring beside her for ninety minutes now.
Not a care in the world.
 

Babs was exhausted. She’d spent the evening baking some of the dozens and dozens of fruit and chocolate bars she’d promised for the yard and bake sale. After cooling the day’s batches, she’d cut them in squares, wrapped each individual bar in plastic wrap, and placed them all in the freezer.
Prissy would have a fit if she knew I froze them.
 

She was irritated with her friend tonight; her friend who dictated what everyone else on the street should bake while buying her cannoli at Bartoli’s Deli and passing them off as homemade.
There are no secrets on Morning Glory Circle, Prissy. Everyone knows. Everyone. They’re just too afraid of you to say anything.

And that’s why she was so disgusted - she had taken on far more baking than she wanted, just to make up for the neighbors who didn’t want to participate - like the Crockers, who wouldn’t be home, and the Deans, who never donated. She didn’t do it for the neighbors, but she didn’t do it out of guilt, either. She did it to stop Prissy’s constant judgmental comments.
 

She glanced over at Carl. Priscilla was the reason she and Carl owned this house; she’d loaned them half the down payment and smoothed things at the bank so loan officer Quinton Everett - now the president - would okay the loan. Pris had even co-signed. When Carl developed his gambling addiction and lost their car, his job, and their savings, Prissy had stepped in and not only saved the house, but helped them buy another car - which she’d co-signed on, as well.

Carl had long since gotten help and hadn’t gambled again - he was smart enough to understand his problem was immense - but Prissy had never stopped reminding him of it, even after fifteen years.
 

Thanks to Carl’s problem, Prissy had not only remained a cosigner on their house but had guaranteed the loans on their next two cars. The cars had been paid off and were long gone and their newer ones had been free and clear of Priscilla Martin from day one, but Prissy never forgot. And she never quite let go of their house, either; every time they made a move to take her name off the loan, Prissy found a reason to remain. And when she’d run out of good reasons, Pris had gone behind Babs’ back and talked to Quinton Everett. Babs was certain Pris had told Mr. Everett about Carl’s gambling - and failed to mention he’d gotten help. Babs hadn’t felt the same about Prissy since.