Mother (19 page)

Jason took a tentative step inside and approached, touching her as if she were a fragile piece of art in a museum.
 

“I’m so sorry, Jason.” She’d rarely cried -
until recently
- and Jason’s face betrayed his thoughts.
He thinks I’m a basket case.

But to her relief, he pulled her close and let her cry.

Humiliated, she wept into his shoulder.
Yep. He thinks I’m losing my grip.
And maybe I am.

“It’s just your hormones,” he said into her hair. “Once the baby comes, you’ll be your old self in no time.”

She cried harder.

“Come on, let’s get to bed. It’s been a long day. We’ll research later.”

Ooh, Barracuda!

“I think we ought to write a very stern letter to Earl Dean and have everyone on the cul-de-sac sign it,” Priscilla Martin announced as the yard and bake sale went on around them. “His disgusting actions will not be tolerated on Morning Glory Circle. I also believe that, as one of our own, it behooves Officer Crocker to deliver it to him personally. The nerve of that
filthy
Dean creature! He contributes nothing to this street’s welfare in the first place - he neither participates in our events - including this one - nor does he have the courtesy to allow us to at least put a giant candy cane on his lawn. He actually ripped it out and set it in the trash when we tried last year, even though we put it up
for
him! And now he’s urinating outside where everyone has to see him? I won’t stand for it!” Prissy crossed her arms and stomped her foot. “None of us will!”

Aida Portendorfer had been enjoying spreading the news of Earl Dean’s midnight indecency, but now she cringed under Prissy Martin’s diatribe. “Pris, he urinated in his own backyard. Only I saw it. No one else did.”

“I’m sorry you had to witness that, Aida, but remember, you’re every bit as important as anyone else on this street. We must stop him! You have a right to look out your window without having to look at
that!
”

Feeling terrible, Aida refrained from mentioning that if she hadn’t been looking through binoculars, she’d never have known.
 

“Aida,” Prissy said, warily eyeing the baskets and tins of cookies on the Portendorfer table. “Why don’t you write that letter up, since you were the victim in all this?”

Aida looked her straight in the eye for as long as she dared, then studied her own hands. “I’m a terrible, terrible, writer,” she lied. “I barely passed English. I don’t even like to read.”
Did I overdo that?
“I’m not qualified.” She glanced up, saw Prissy’s sneer of disgust and looked away again. “We can’t all be scholars, you know.”

“I suppose not. I’ll have Barbara do it. At least you’re able to make good cookies, dear.” Priscilla snatched one up, then glanced toward Stan’s little table of yard sale goodies - mostly garden gnomes and undershirts - then continued her stroll down the street to see what all the other peasants had to offer.
 

Aida watched her go, unhappy with herself. She’d gotten straight As in English at UC Berkeley, and she loved to read. She should have known better than to bring up Earl Dean’s late-night indiscretion.
 

Stan walked up, carrying his boom box. “What’s your pleasure, today, Aida-honey? Acid? Rockabilly? Van Halen?”

Aida smiled at him. “You’re so thoughtful. Let’s have some metal, shall we? Prissy particularly hates Black Sabbath.”

Stan bent and kissed her cheek. “I love you, Aida-honey. ”

“Have you heard the news, Bertha?”

Bertie Dunworth wished to God her sister Nelly hadn’t chosen this moment to tour the cul-de-sac on her EZ Scooter, leaving her alone with Prissy. “News?” she asked in her smooth, sweet voice.

Priscilla sighed. “It seems
your
neighbor, Earl Dean, has been exposing himself.”

“Aida told me he peed in his backyard. He’s exposing himself, too?”

“Urinated,” Prissy corrected.
 

“Whatever.”
Jesus, everything offends her.
Bertie tried to squelch an incipient smile, but failed. “We’ve already sold nearly all our pies.”
Good save.
 

“Well, you should have made more. It’s not even eleven yet.” She paused. “Or is Eleanor inside baking now?”

“Who?”

“Your sister.”

“Her name is Nelly, not Eleanor, and no, she’s not baking. She’s is touring the cul-de-sac, hoping to find a nice garden hose on the cheap.”

“I see. Now, about Earl Dean. Have you witnessed any of his indiscretions?”

“No, why?”

“I need evidence to present to the proper authorities.”
 

“Well, I’d rather not get involved if it’s all the same to you. Honestly, I don’t care if the man shits out there, as long as it’s on his property.” She laughed, enjoying Priscilla’s pinched face.

“I believe the word you’re looking for, Bertha, is
defecate.
”

Bertie shrugged. “As long as he does his business in
his
yard, I don’t care if he shits
or
defecates.”

Priscilla clucked her tongue and looked at the two remaining pies. “As chairman of the Morning Glory Circle Yard and Bake Sale, I appreciate your efforts, but this just isn’t enough product to put you on the short list for an animatronic Santa this year.” She glanced around, her face squinched up as if she were smelling dog shit.
 

Bertie smiled, buoyed by the tune the Portendorfers were rocking. Sabbath’s
Children of the Grave.
 

“To qualify,” continued Priscilla, “you also need to get your yard properly landscaped.”

“Not all of us can afford that kind of Astroturf.”
 

Priscilla sniffed. “You use the Sachs boy to mow your lawn. Why not have him edge it, and plant some flowers for you?”

“If you want to pay him, we’re happy to have him do those things. We spent all of our disposable income - and then some - buying ingredients for these damned pies. You can’t have it both ways.”

Prissy opened her mouth.

“And we don’t want an animatronic Santa, thank you very much.”

“You ought to consider your words more carefully. Words hurt, you know. Good day, Bertha.” Throwing a sneer toward the low fence where Bertie and her sister had hung old shirts and skirts and pants as yard sale offerings, she glanced back. “You’ll never make back the money you spent on those pies if you can’t find something nicer to sell.”

“Thank you, Priscilla. I’ll go out to Nordstrom’s and buy some new clothes right now.”

Priscilla Martin kept going. Bertie stared at the two pies, then stuck a plump finger in one and sucked away the chocolate. “Mmm. You’re not going anywhere but back into our fridge.” And if the other pie lasted until Nelly returned, it was going to stay home, too.
Fuck you, Priscilla Martin.

“How long have you been out here, Jason?”

“Not long. Just since your mother texted and asked me to watch her bake table while she checks on things around the cul-de-sac.”

Claire stood on tiptoe and kissed her husband. “Thank you for letting me sleep in.”

He laughed. “I was sleeping in, too, until she texted. Boy, when your mother wants something, she wants it
now!
I was in such a rush to get out here that I’m going commando.”

Claire laughed and patted his butt. “Has she sold any cannoli yet?”

“She said she’s sold six boxes of six for fifteen bucks a box. She told me, I can also sell singles for five dollars apiece.”

“That’s Mother. If she thought she could get twenty, she’d ask that.” Claire reached out and took a single cannoli, unwrapped and munched it. “Mmm, yummy. You should have one, too.”

“We can’t afford these!”

“Who’s going to tell her?”

“She’ll know.”

Claire stuffed half the cannoli in her mouth. “She won’t know who, though.”

“True enough … and I haven’t had breakfast.”

“Right!”

Jason devoured a pastry, then handed both wrappers to Claire. “Here. Get rid of the evidence. Better take them to someone else’s trash can!”

“I’ll take them next door. Be right back.” She headed toward the Pepto pink Sachs house.

Jason watched her chat with Candy and her son, Billy, then toss the refuse into a small trash can next to their table. Candy handed Claire two cupcakes.

“How much?” Jason asked when she returned and proffered a big chocolate frosted confection to him.
 

“Free. Candy is lots nicer than Mother.” She bit into her cake, got frosting on her nose. “Yum. These are way better than cannoli.”

Jason reached out, swiped the frosting off and licked his finger clean. “Simple pleasures are the best.” He grinned.

“They are.” Claire glanced at the little card table a couple of feet from the bake table. On it were several Mason jars, two yellowed boxes half-full of canning jar rings and lids, a yellow plastic flashlight without batteries, a Gideon bible, two trial-size tubes of toothpaste, and a cellophane-wrapped toothbrush, the kind given out in lieu of candy at the dentist’s. There was also a trial-size box of dental floss, a pen that said
“Snapdragon Bank and Trust,”
and one that said
“Collins’ Fine Furniture.”
 “That’s quite a haul.” Claire examined the final item, a can of fruit cocktail only seven years out of date.

“The way you talked, I’m surprised she put anything out.”

“Me, too. So how long ago did she leave?”

“Nearly twenty minutes, now.”

“Plenty of time.” Claire scanned the street. “I’m going to go get the hangers.”

“Really?”

“You don’t want me to?”

“Go for it, but hurry. You don’t want to still be setting up when she returns.”

“Be right back!”
 

The knock at the door brought Bettyanne into the living room where Roddy was relaxing in his recliner, watching the game.

She peered cautiously out the curtains. “It’s Priscilla Martin, Roddy,” she whispered, eyes wide.

Roddy looked up at the clock over the fireplace. “Jesus Christ, it’s not even eleven.”
 

“What should we do?” asked Bettyanne, wringing her hands. “I have to leave for the airport in fifteen minutes.”

“Open the door, I suppose.” Roddy aimed the remote at the screen and muted the game.

“But what if she asks why we’re not participating today?”

Roddy stood, groaning as he extracted himself from the warmth of his recliner. “I’ll handle her.” He pecked Bettyanne on the cheek. He loved his wife, but she was a timid little thing. It was a quality he’d generally found endearing, but at times, it was equally frustrating.
Times like this.
“We don’t answer to her, Betty.”

She nodded. “I know, but-”

Another hard knock sounded. “Helloooo,” came Prissy’s sugarcoated falsetto.

Roddy shook his head and opened the door. “Priscilla,” he said. “What brings you here?”

She batted her lashes at him, her snaky smile splitting her face like a red gash. “I just thought I’d stop by and give you another invitation to the yard and bake sale. We certainly don’t want you to feel left out.” Tendrils of her cloying perfume reached through the doorway like ghostly hands going for his sinuses. Roddy had been blessed - or cursed - with a nearly superhuman sense of smell. He was known around the police station as The Bloodhound. His abnormally keen sense of smell often came in handy, but at times like this, he wished he had a head cold. It would be less painful.
 

“We’re busy, Priscilla, but thank you for asking.”
 

She peered around him into the living room. “Bettyanne?”
 

Roddy turned to his wife, who stood in the background, shaking her head.

“Would she like to-”

“I’m afraid she has a plane to catch, Priscilla.” Roddy used his cop voice - but
good
cop, not bad. Yet. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

Priscilla clearly caught his no-nonsense tone and the twinkle in her eyes almost went out. Almost. “Actually, there is.” She frowned. “It seems we’re having a little problem with one of our residents.”

Jesus Christ. What’s bothering her now?
He raised his brows in question, already too exhausted by the woman to bother with words.

“It’s Earl Dean.” Prissy spoke low and she looked around conspiratorially. “He’s been exposing himself to Aida Portendorfer.”

Roddy started to laugh, but quickly disguised it as a cough. “Exposing himself?” The corners of his mouth twitched, threatening betrayal.

She nodded. “Mm-hmm. He was urinating out of doors, where anyone could have seen him. I’m preparing a formal letter of complaint right now-”

“Outside? Where?”

Priscilla Martin frowned. “In his backyard. Aida just happened to be looking out her window and caught him.”

“She happened to be looking out her window, you say?” He knew Old Lady Portendorfer never just
happened
to see
anything
in this neighborhood; he’d seen her himself more than once, binoculars raised, nose pressed to the window.
 

“Yes, and she was scandalized - just
scandalized
- by what she saw!” Her jaw tightened. “As I said, I’m writing a formal complaint-”

Roddy held a hand up. “Don’t trouble yourself, Mrs. Martin. I’ll talk to him.”

“You will? I hate to be a bother, Roderick, it’s just that I don’t think we should have to worry about seeing …”

Earl Dean’s Tonsil Tickler,
he wanted to finish for her.
 

“
That.
” She looked satisfied, having finally found just the right word.

“Indeed,” said Roddy, his poker face intact. “First thing Monday morning, I’ll have a chat with him.”
Hey Earl, Aida watches you pee outside. Just so you know.
“Now, if there’s nothing else, I’m afraid I have to get going. Bettyanne has a plane to catch, and I need to do some housework while she’s gone.” It was a lie. He needed to finish the game and drink a few more beers, but he had no problem lying to Priscilla Martin.
 

“Well, if you finish your chores and find yourself looking for something to do, we can always use your help at the sale.” Her words were casual, but Roddy heard the direct order beneath them. And he didn’t take orders.