didn’t have to close her eyes to see herself lying in the darkness in her little bed, listening with growing dread and heaviness for her father’s footsteps outside her door, to hear it open, to feel her bed sag with his weight. "Don’t tell anyone, Myra, honey. This is our little secret. No one will believe you, anyway."
And he was right; they hadn’t.
She’d been a basket case when she went to Ellen for counseling. Ellen had given her back her life. And now her friend was in trouble, and there was nothing she could do to help. She’d sounded so weird on the phone, talking about the blood and skin under Gail’s fingernails. It had made Myra’s own skin crawl, she hardly knew what to say. When she asked her how she could be so objective, Ellen had replied simply, "I have to be." Then she told her she was going to that place where Gail had worked, The Shelton Room , and asking questions. She wished she could fly to New York and be with her, but it was impossible.
She looked around at her cozy yellow and white, if slightly messy, kitchen. It was Ellen who was directly responsible for them having this place. It was an old, fix-it-upper they’d snapped up at once. Myra had been pregnant with Joey at the time. The retired couple who’d owned it was spending their declining years in Florida.
She began clearing the table. Taking the carton of milk to the fridge, she was met with Joey’s artwork papering the door. No sign here of the black-crayoned, disturbing works of her own childhood, but houses with smoke curling from chimneys, trees in full bloom, bright suns smiling down. Joey leaned toward reds and yellows. A couple of the pictures had stick figures standing in the yard—five in all. Joey’s family.
She was putting milk in the fridge as Joey came bounding down the stairs and into the kitchen. He stopped when he saw her. The wary look he gave her made her heart clench with guilt.
"I’m so sorry I was rough on you, sweetie," she said, helping him zip up his snowsuit, smoothing the red and blue knitted toque over his ears.
"That’s okay, Mom," he said, standing still for her fussing, hugging her back when she hugged him. "Aunt Ellen is sad because the bad man kilt her sister, isn’t she, Mom?" Joey said quietly.
Kneeling, Myra hugged him more closely to her, feeling his slight, little-boy frame snug inside the snowsuit. He smelled of soap and cheeseburger. "Yes, Joey, she is."
"I would be sad if Todd or Kevin got kilt," he said, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "I would cry."
"So would I, baby," she said, feeling a cold panic at the thought of anything happening to any of them. "So would I." That’s how it is with Ellen, she thought. Gail had been every bit as much Ellen’s child as Joey was hers. Giving birth had little to do with it.
"I gotta go now, Mom," Joey said, squirming out of her too-tight embrace.
~ * ~
Within twenty minutes of backing out of his drive, Carl Thompson arrived at the McLeod building, a six-story, faded brick on King Street. Glancing at the name on the order form, he took the ancient elevator up to the fourth floor. Turning left, he strode down the corridor to the office of Anderson Insurance.
A young blond girl teetering on spiked heels, wearing a short, black leather skirt and dangling horseshoe earrings damn near big enough to pitch, distractedly showed him where they wanted the phones. There were two new people starting on Monday, she said and left him to join the small group already gathered around the man in the fishnet sweater who was down on one knee beside a stack of canvases.
"We’ve got a real good buy on this one," he said, referring to a seascape, assuring them that this was one of his most "popular" works. When he got no takers he moved on to the next, turning back the canvases, one by one, like he was selling wallpaper. Most of the interest seemed to be coming from the women in the office while the men were standing around with their hands in
And he was right; they hadn’t.
She’d been a basket case when she went to Ellen for counseling. Ellen had given her back her life. And now her friend was in trouble, and there was nothing she could do to help. She’d sounded so weird on the phone, talking about the blood and skin under Gail’s fingernails. It had made Myra’s own skin crawl, she hardly knew what to say. When she asked her how she could be so objective, Ellen had replied simply, "I have to be." Then she told her she was going to that place where Gail had worked, The Shelton Room , and asking questions. She wished she could fly to New York and be with her, but it was impossible.
She looked around at her cozy yellow and white, if slightly messy, kitchen. It was Ellen who was directly responsible for them having this place. It was an old, fix-it-upper they’d snapped up at once. Myra had been pregnant with Joey at the time. The retired couple who’d owned it was spending their declining years in Florida.
She began clearing the table. Taking the carton of milk to the fridge, she was met with Joey’s artwork papering the door. No sign here of the black-crayoned, disturbing works of her own childhood, but houses with smoke curling from chimneys, trees in full bloom, bright suns smiling down. Joey leaned toward reds and yellows. A couple of the pictures had stick figures standing in the yard—five in all. Joey’s family.
She was putting milk in the fridge as Joey came bounding down the stairs and into the kitchen. He stopped when he saw her. The wary look he gave her made her heart clench with guilt.
"I’m so sorry I was rough on you, sweetie," she said, helping him zip up his snowsuit, smoothing the red and blue knitted toque over his ears.
"That’s okay, Mom," he said, standing still for her fussing, hugging her back when she hugged him. "Aunt Ellen is sad because the bad man kilt her sister, isn’t she, Mom?" Joey said quietly.
Kneeling, Myra hugged him more closely to her, feeling his slight, little-boy frame snug inside the snowsuit. He smelled of soap and cheeseburger. "Yes, Joey, she is."
"I would be sad if Todd or Kevin got kilt," he said, his voice muffled against her shoulder. "I would cry."
"So would I, baby," she said, feeling a cold panic at the thought of anything happening to any of them. "So would I." That’s how it is with Ellen, she thought. Gail had been every bit as much Ellen’s child as Joey was hers. Giving birth had little to do with it.
"I gotta go now, Mom," Joey said, squirming out of her too-tight embrace.
~ * ~
Within twenty minutes of backing out of his drive, Carl Thompson arrived at the McLeod building, a six-story, faded brick on King Street. Glancing at the name on the order form, he took the ancient elevator up to the fourth floor. Turning left, he strode down the corridor to the office of Anderson Insurance.
A young blond girl teetering on spiked heels, wearing a short, black leather skirt and dangling horseshoe earrings damn near big enough to pitch, distractedly showed him where they wanted the phones. There were two new people starting on Monday, she said and left him to join the small group already gathered around the man in the fishnet sweater who was down on one knee beside a stack of canvases.
"We’ve got a real good buy on this one," he said, referring to a seascape, assuring them that this was one of his most "popular" works. When he got no takers he moved on to the next, turning back the canvases, one by one, like he was selling wallpaper. Most of the interest seemed to be coming from the women in the office while the men were standing around with their hands in
Similar Books
