respects.”
Charlotte wonders again how long it will be before Shelly splits, leaving her all alone in the Russo home. Their mother has pleaded with the two girls to stay on for a while—at least until Carla’s future is known.
“But it’s difficult, you know, to live with someone who’s not really here,” Charlotte continues. “Oh you’re here, all right. I can see you. And we’ve just had this heartwarming dinner together full of bright conversational insights—”
“Charlotte, I’m sorry,” Shelly says, helping herself to more figs. Amid further apologies, Charlotte realizes what she needs. She needs to call Cass Murphy.
He answers, thank God.
“I’ve got to see her,” Charlotte says, “Carla. I’m not sure exactly why; the whole thing is just too weird. I need to make some kind of sense out of it, and I want you to come with me.”
“Well …”
“I think it will help me if I see her. To understand.”
“A visit may not help you at all, Charlotte, but I’ll be happy to go with you.”
THURSDAY
The small room is all in gray, stark and depressing. So what did I expect in a jail anyway, sunshine and flowers? Carla sits across from us at a wooden table that has been sloppily painted a too-bright green. The chairs are uncomfortable, a cold gray metal. Fluorescent tubes, dim and flickering like strobe lights, illuminate the windowless room. A deputy sheriff stands near Carla, behind her. Surreal, I’m thinking, a grim and hopeless scene.
“How are you, Aunt Carla?” Charlotte says, her voice trembling. I slide my chair closer to her and put my arm around her shoulders.
“They’re treating me well enough, I guess. Food’s terrible. But what can you expect?” She speaks with calm authority, as if commenting on a shoddy new restaurant in town. She has a rosy-cheeked look, her wild hair is combed back from her face, and she wears a dark navy jumpsuit. Her eyes have an odd milky cast to them behind her silver-rimmed grandma readers.
“Carla … why?” Charlotte asks. “Why did this happen?”
Carla’s lips part in puzzlement. “Why?” She seems at a loss, makes some kind of mental adjustment, and then flashes us a bright smile.
“Why what?”
Her yo-yo change in mood affects me like a sledge to my gut.
“Why did you kill Uncle Dante?”
“Kill …?”
Has this madwoman forgotten?
I feel Charlotte pull my hand from her shoulder, and I realize I’ve been squeezing it.
Another jarring shift then as Carla gives us a sweet, cloying smile—a naughty-little-girl-grin.
“He deserved it that’s why! Dante wasn’t what he seemed, you know.” With her tousled white hair and the light glinting off her glasses, she’s pretty … an angelic grandma of the year. “You girls can stay on for a while, can’t you?” Carla says to Charlotte. “I don’t know how long I’ll be kept here.”
“A few more days, probably. Will there be a trial … or … what?”
“I’m not sure,” Carla says. “I don’t think the idiots here know what they’re doing. When I know what’s going on, I’ll let you know.” She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. “You ask me why. The thing is, Dante was a prick,” she says as if stating a well-known fact.
“Oh. But Carla,” Charlotte cries, “I just can’t believe—”
“Well, you believe it, dearie. A woman can take only so much.”
“What exactly did you have to take, Carla?” I ask. This woman is nothing like the kind and caring Carla I remember.
“You mind your own fucking business, Cassidy Mur—” She stops as if she’s run into a wall, her brows convulsing in an ugly frown. “How? How could I have killed him? My dear Dante?”
But her eyes cloud over and
Carla the Remorseful
is gone. She’s yanked back into her madness, and the other Carla is with us once again. The killer. What has caused this cruel change in the woman I once knew as a second mom?
“He got what was coming to him,” she says with a
Charlotte wonders again how long it will be before Shelly splits, leaving her all alone in the Russo home. Their mother has pleaded with the two girls to stay on for a while—at least until Carla’s future is known.
“But it’s difficult, you know, to live with someone who’s not really here,” Charlotte continues. “Oh you’re here, all right. I can see you. And we’ve just had this heartwarming dinner together full of bright conversational insights—”
“Charlotte, I’m sorry,” Shelly says, helping herself to more figs. Amid further apologies, Charlotte realizes what she needs. She needs to call Cass Murphy.
He answers, thank God.
“I’ve got to see her,” Charlotte says, “Carla. I’m not sure exactly why; the whole thing is just too weird. I need to make some kind of sense out of it, and I want you to come with me.”
“Well …”
“I think it will help me if I see her. To understand.”
“A visit may not help you at all, Charlotte, but I’ll be happy to go with you.”
THURSDAY
The small room is all in gray, stark and depressing. So what did I expect in a jail anyway, sunshine and flowers? Carla sits across from us at a wooden table that has been sloppily painted a too-bright green. The chairs are uncomfortable, a cold gray metal. Fluorescent tubes, dim and flickering like strobe lights, illuminate the windowless room. A deputy sheriff stands near Carla, behind her. Surreal, I’m thinking, a grim and hopeless scene.
“How are you, Aunt Carla?” Charlotte says, her voice trembling. I slide my chair closer to her and put my arm around her shoulders.
“They’re treating me well enough, I guess. Food’s terrible. But what can you expect?” She speaks with calm authority, as if commenting on a shoddy new restaurant in town. She has a rosy-cheeked look, her wild hair is combed back from her face, and she wears a dark navy jumpsuit. Her eyes have an odd milky cast to them behind her silver-rimmed grandma readers.
“Carla … why?” Charlotte asks. “Why did this happen?”
Carla’s lips part in puzzlement. “Why?” She seems at a loss, makes some kind of mental adjustment, and then flashes us a bright smile.
“Why what?”
Her yo-yo change in mood affects me like a sledge to my gut.
“Why did you kill Uncle Dante?”
“Kill …?”
Has this madwoman forgotten?
I feel Charlotte pull my hand from her shoulder, and I realize I’ve been squeezing it.
Another jarring shift then as Carla gives us a sweet, cloying smile—a naughty-little-girl-grin.
“He deserved it that’s why! Dante wasn’t what he seemed, you know.” With her tousled white hair and the light glinting off her glasses, she’s pretty … an angelic grandma of the year. “You girls can stay on for a while, can’t you?” Carla says to Charlotte. “I don’t know how long I’ll be kept here.”
“A few more days, probably. Will there be a trial … or … what?”
“I’m not sure,” Carla says. “I don’t think the idiots here know what they’re doing. When I know what’s going on, I’ll let you know.” She sighs and runs her fingers through her hair. “You ask me why. The thing is, Dante was a prick,” she says as if stating a well-known fact.
“Oh. But Carla,” Charlotte cries, “I just can’t believe—”
“Well, you believe it, dearie. A woman can take only so much.”
“What exactly did you have to take, Carla?” I ask. This woman is nothing like the kind and caring Carla I remember.
“You mind your own fucking business, Cassidy Mur—” She stops as if she’s run into a wall, her brows convulsing in an ugly frown. “How? How could I have killed him? My dear Dante?”
But her eyes cloud over and
Carla the Remorseful
is gone. She’s yanked back into her madness, and the other Carla is with us once again. The killer. What has caused this cruel change in the woman I once knew as a second mom?
“He got what was coming to him,” she says with a
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