it hadn’t really penetrated till now. Chauncey and his goddamn secrets, his twisted hypocrisy, his vaulting ambition—the things he had done to Henry and Bitty were no less than unspeakable. Surely only good could come from his long-overdue absence. In unguarded moments, though, Tolliver felt a chill of fear, his mind turning crazily to thoughts of Pandora. If only the demons would stay in the damn box!
Marcelle approached with a big girl in a gray suit, the girl Henry had followed. “Mother, it’s Skippy in mufti—Dr. Langdon’s daughter.” Tolliver thought Marcelle did well to prompt Bitty, who in turn would be doing well to identify Marcelle herself, thanks to none other than Skippy’s quack of a dad.
“Hello, officer,” said Henry. “Going to put us in your report?”
The girl looked confused.
“How about this?” said Henry. “Two of the suspects, Mrs. Bitty St. Amant and her son, Henry, were fried to the gills on the Wednesday following the crime. Oh, and maybe you could make a little note to the side in parentheses: ‘As usual,’ you could say. Then you could say, ‘After prolonged surveillance, reporting officer noticed Marcelle Gaudet, the former Mrs. Lionel Gaudet, aka Marcelle St. Amant, flirting with three or four guys old enough to be her father, who was conspicuous by his absence.’
“And maybe then you could mention something about how you searched my father’s study without a warrant. Would you mind doing that, officer? Would that little thing be too much trouble?”
Until then, everyone had remained frozen, unable to believe what was happening. Tolliver felt suddenly very dizzy. His body jerked, giving one of those half-asleep lurches, except that this was daylight and he was standing up.
Bitty kept her face a mask—probably was barely able to move a muscle in it anyway—but she dabbed at her eyes, as if that were all she had energy for.
“Time,” asked Marcelle, “for Henry’s nap?”
Without a word, Tolliver put an arm around Henry’s shoulders and marched him gingerly toward the stairs. He didn’t trust his legs, hoped he wasn’t going to blow it. He’d forgotten again to take a pill. His head was whirling. Henry was worse, and no wonder—he was fried to the marrow, not the gills. His knees were wobbling badly.
Dammit, Henry, walk! I’m going to die on the staircase if I don’t get my pills
. He thought it, but he didn’t say it.
4
Marcelle knelt beside her mother and held both her hands. “It’s okay, Mother. I’m here.”
Bitty’s eyes overflowed. “Skippy,” she said, “I do apologize for Henry. We’re all so very upset today.”
Skip murmured something and started to wander off. “Skippy,” said Marcelle. “Please don’t leave. I’ll just stay with Mother a minute.”
She didn’t know why. Bitty wasn’t going to fall out of her chair, and apparently couldn’t care less whether Marcelle stayed with her or not. But Marcelle couldn’t be sure. Maybe that detached manner of hers was just the drugs. Still, she hadn’t responded to Marcelle when Henry and Tolliver left.
She has a lot on her mind, Marcelle reminded herself. She’s doing well just to remain sitting. But she wished she were able to comfort her mother the way Henry and Tolliver did. She couldn’t get Bitty’s attention—she’d never been able to.
She knew Bitty hadn’t yet become a drunk when she was born, hadn’t till she was three years old, but she might as well have been one all along—all Marcelle could remember of her early childhood were her mother’s “sick days,” the way she smelled of sherry and Bloody Marys, and the old sandbox Chauncey and Bitty had built out behind the house for Henry.
Oh, dear God. I hope I can be a better mother to André than she was to me. If I do nothing else on this Earth, please let me do that. And the way things are going, it doesn’t look like I’ll do another damn thing.
André was upstairs now, watching a movie with some
Marcelle approached with a big girl in a gray suit, the girl Henry had followed. “Mother, it’s Skippy in mufti—Dr. Langdon’s daughter.” Tolliver thought Marcelle did well to prompt Bitty, who in turn would be doing well to identify Marcelle herself, thanks to none other than Skippy’s quack of a dad.
“Hello, officer,” said Henry. “Going to put us in your report?”
The girl looked confused.
“How about this?” said Henry. “Two of the suspects, Mrs. Bitty St. Amant and her son, Henry, were fried to the gills on the Wednesday following the crime. Oh, and maybe you could make a little note to the side in parentheses: ‘As usual,’ you could say. Then you could say, ‘After prolonged surveillance, reporting officer noticed Marcelle Gaudet, the former Mrs. Lionel Gaudet, aka Marcelle St. Amant, flirting with three or four guys old enough to be her father, who was conspicuous by his absence.’
“And maybe then you could mention something about how you searched my father’s study without a warrant. Would you mind doing that, officer? Would that little thing be too much trouble?”
Until then, everyone had remained frozen, unable to believe what was happening. Tolliver felt suddenly very dizzy. His body jerked, giving one of those half-asleep lurches, except that this was daylight and he was standing up.
Bitty kept her face a mask—probably was barely able to move a muscle in it anyway—but she dabbed at her eyes, as if that were all she had energy for.
“Time,” asked Marcelle, “for Henry’s nap?”
Without a word, Tolliver put an arm around Henry’s shoulders and marched him gingerly toward the stairs. He didn’t trust his legs, hoped he wasn’t going to blow it. He’d forgotten again to take a pill. His head was whirling. Henry was worse, and no wonder—he was fried to the marrow, not the gills. His knees were wobbling badly.
Dammit, Henry, walk! I’m going to die on the staircase if I don’t get my pills
. He thought it, but he didn’t say it.
4
Marcelle knelt beside her mother and held both her hands. “It’s okay, Mother. I’m here.”
Bitty’s eyes overflowed. “Skippy,” she said, “I do apologize for Henry. We’re all so very upset today.”
Skip murmured something and started to wander off. “Skippy,” said Marcelle. “Please don’t leave. I’ll just stay with Mother a minute.”
She didn’t know why. Bitty wasn’t going to fall out of her chair, and apparently couldn’t care less whether Marcelle stayed with her or not. But Marcelle couldn’t be sure. Maybe that detached manner of hers was just the drugs. Still, she hadn’t responded to Marcelle when Henry and Tolliver left.
She has a lot on her mind, Marcelle reminded herself. She’s doing well just to remain sitting. But she wished she were able to comfort her mother the way Henry and Tolliver did. She couldn’t get Bitty’s attention—she’d never been able to.
She knew Bitty hadn’t yet become a drunk when she was born, hadn’t till she was three years old, but she might as well have been one all along—all Marcelle could remember of her early childhood were her mother’s “sick days,” the way she smelled of sherry and Bloody Marys, and the old sandbox Chauncey and Bitty had built out behind the house for Henry.
Oh, dear God. I hope I can be a better mother to André than she was to me. If I do nothing else on this Earth, please let me do that. And the way things are going, it doesn’t look like I’ll do another damn thing.
André was upstairs now, watching a movie with some
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