by T. M. Wright
He disliked the room. It was too big, and it smelled of dust and age. (His grandmother smelled that way, he remembered, but hers was really a different smell, a nicer smell.) And the bedsheets and blankets were stiff and cool, which, he supposed, would have been all right if the room hadn't been so cold. But it was cold. It faced the wind and its radiator was on the fritz, so it was cold. He was glad his mother had brought him his coat and gloves.
He wondered when she'd come back. And why, exactly, she'd locked the door. She hadn't told him she was going to lock it. She'd delivered the coat and gloves, said "I'll see you later," and left. Then she'd locked the door.
("It's either this, Brett, or. . . .")
The memory made Greg wince. It had to do with that other night his mother had put him in here, that night so long ago that he remembered looking up at her from just above the level of her waist. The image frightened him. He fought it down and busied himself with an examination of the room.
Because it faced north, the room never got any direct sunlight. He thought about putting his little Norfolk Island pine in here and decided it would die in no time. He thought about listening to his record player in here and decided the music would sound hollow, because the room was so big.
"You're selfish, Brett. You're greedy!"
"Why? Because we may have to move out of this monstrosity you call a house and into something a little more reasonable?"
"It's your damned ego that's going to make us move out of here!"
Greg listened to the words playing back; he thought how clear they were, as if they'd been said only minutes before.
And he hated them. They wrapped up something nasty, something that hurt. Which was why, he knew, be hated this room. Because this is where he had listened to those words.
He sat dolefully in a big brown leather chair. Why had she locked the door? he wondered again. When would she unlock it? He glanced about. He felt tears starting and fought them back. He was getting a little too old for tears.
Becky Foster stepped back as Christine pushed the door open. "Morning, neighbor," Becky said. "Nice morning, wouldn't you say?"
"Good morning," Christine said.
Becky noticed something—impatience?—in her tone. Undaunted, she went on: "I was hoping you could do a little shopping with me. Window-shopping, actually. Who has money to shop with, right? But it's a way to get you out of the house. What do you say?"
"Thanks, Becky, but I can't. Marilyn called a little while ago."
Stiffly: "Marilyn Courtney?"
"Yes. She said she needed to talk to someone."
"You're pretty tight with her, huh?" Becky regretted the words immediately. "No, I'm sorry, Christine. Forgive me."
"It's okay, Becky." (Becky could tell that it wasn't.) "No, we're not . . . tight. She just needed someone to talk to and I was elected. Maybe we can go shopping another day."
"Sure, okay," Becky said, backing down the porch. She turned, started for her house, waved back. "Some other day," she called.
Christine closed the door.
"I thought I knew him." Marilyn leaned forward a little in her chair. "Are you sure you're comfortable, Christine? It must take a long time to get used to that thing." She nodded at the wheelchair.
"Yes," Christine answered. "I'm fine."
Marilyn sat back, held her cup of tea near her mouth as she spoke: "Because, when you live with a person, you assume that you know him, especially after sixteen years." She sipped the tea delicately. "That's how long we were married. Did you know that?"
"No, I didn't."
"Sixteen years," Marilyn repeated. "A long, long time to be deceived, though, of course, I didn't know I was being deceived until yesterday, when he finally confessed his little escapades. It seems he's been whoring around for quite some time. He didn't say exactly how long, but he didn't need to. It's been years, literally years." She set her cup of tea on an end table. "He even said he was going to take Greg away from me." She shook her head slowly, in disbelief. "I told him that it would be impossible, that even if he denied his affairs—which would come down to his word against mine—I've got proof: concrete proof." She paused dramatically. "I was packing a bag for him and I found these." She withdrew several sheets of paper from the pocket of her housedress, waved them around, then put them back in her pocket. Saw the puzzlement on Christine's face. "They're notes, Christine—notes from him to his latest ladylove. Her name's Andrea; he told me that. There are no names on the notes, of course—he's too smart for that—but the handwriting is unmistakably his." She grinned victoriously. "Let the bastard try and take Greg away."
"You helped make him, so now you owe him. And you owe me!"
"That's fucking pathetic, Marilyn."
"Listen, buddy boy, it wasn't you who went through all that goddamned pain, and it wasn't you who cleaned up his crap when it was all over the crib, and it wasn't you who had to give him his goddamned bottle in the middle of the goddamned night. . . ."
With great effort, Greg shut the memory off. He let the tears come.
"You know where it all happened, Christine?"
"No. Tell me." Christine heard the eagerness in her voice; it surprised her.
"It happened at our cottage on Canandaigua Lake. Do you know where that is—Canandaigua Lake, I mean?"
"I think so."
"I've got it all right here." She patted the pocket of her housedress. "'The cottage. At four,' one of the notes says. That's all—just 'The cottage. At four.' Why he didn't get rid of these notes, I'll never understand. Maybe he wanted to be caught. Do you think that's possible, Christine?" It was a rhetorical question; Christine didn't answer it. Marilyn picked up her cup of tea. "I never really needed him, you know. As long as he makes the proper support payments, Greg and I can be very happy here together."
Christine wheeled her chair forward a few inches and cocked her head to one side. "Is that crying I hear, Marilyn? It sounds like someone's crying."
Marilyn rolled her eyes as if in exasperation. "That boy!" She sipped her tea, dabbed at her lips with a napkin. "He's being punished. He said a word I do not approve of, so I sent him to his room. I've tried to break him of that infantile crying habit again and again, but he persists. He's extremely bullheaded, but then, so was I when I was his age."
Greg hated his tears as much as he hated the room, as much as he hated the memories that seemed to flow from the walls of the room. He tried hard to quiet his sobbing: Baby! he called himself, but it didn't work.
He rolled over, tried to bury his face in the pillow, hoping that would snuff out the tears. He soon found that he couldn't breathe. He lifted his head.
And realized the truth, at last: He would let her do whatever she wanted to do. She was his mother. She had raised him. She fed him, protected him. He would wander blindly into traffic without her. He was helpless without her.
She was his mother! And that was something almost holy. If she wanted to shut him in this room without food or water or warmth, he would let her.
It was her right.
"What word did he say, Marilyn?"
Marilyn looked confused by the question. She thought a moment, remembered. "It's a four-letter word for intercourse. You know the word."
"Yes, I do."
"So, naturally, I had to punish him. I sent him to his room. He'll stay there for a while." She paused. "Brett would have encouraged him in such language, I'm sure. He would have called it manly. Well, he'll no longer be able to exercise his vile, corrupting—"
The scream surprised them both. Marilyn jumped to her feet, a quivering, nervous smile on her lips. "Excuse me, Christine." She started out of the room. "I won't be long."
"Yes," Christine said. "Take your time."
Greg had heard himself scream and had been disgusted by it, shocked by it, strangely relieved by it—as if something somewhere inside him, some small, self-protective creature that rarely showed itself, had decided that things had gone too far. He would let her shut him up in this awful room,
okay—but not without some kind of protest.
But now, the creature had retreated, and Greg's relief was quickly being replaced by a deep and aching embarrassment. Whatever she did to him now, he deserved. If she wanted to whip him with six feet of barbed wire, it would not be too big a punishment for his stupid, stupid scream. . . . But maybe she would think of something else—something not quite so painful as barbed wire.
Marilyn unlocked the door with one quick movement. She pushed it open sharply and glared at Greg sitting on the edge of the bed. "I have company," she said. "Mrs. Bennet from next door. And she's a very, very sensitive woman. You've seen her. She's a cripple. In a wheelchair. And when she heard you scream, she started crying from the shock. Do you want to make her cry?"
She waited. Greg said nothing. His lower lip quivered.
"I repeat, do you want to make her cry?"
"No."
"She said what a nice boy she thinks you are. Let's not prove her wrong."
Marilyn left the room and locked the door behind her.
Greg screamed again. Mentally. Loud and long. The effort threw him against the door. He crumpled there, sobbing.
At least she hadn't used barbed wire.
"Is he okay?" Christine asked.
Marilyn returned to her wing chair. She crossed her legs, pulled her housedress over her knees, smiled apologetically. "He's okay. A nightmare—he had a nightmare." She glanced at her cup on the end table. "Some more tea, Christine?"
"No, thank you, Marilyn. I should be going. Tim will be home soon."
Marilyn stood to escort Christine to the door. "May I?" She indicated the chair's push bars.
Christine smiled. "Of course."
Marilyn pushed her slowly from the room. She stopped in the hallway. "You know, Christine, our little talk has been quite therapeutic for me."
"It was my pleasure, Marilyn. Anytime."
"Can I take that as a promise?"
"Yes—please do."
"Because, as you can imagine—and regardless of the bastard he turned out to be—it's going to get a little lonely here without Brett. This is quite a large house—"
"I've noticed."
"And Greg certainly isn't . . . well, adult companionship. It would be nice if you and I could be friends."
"Yes, that would be nice, Marilyn."
"I don't have many friends, you know."
"I wouldn't have guessed."
"Lots of opportunities, naturally, but very few real friends. I've never had the time for them. Or the patience. People can be such idiots."
"Yes, they can."
"But I like you, Christine. I like you very much." Christine turned her head and smiled warmly.
"Thank you, Marilyn." She turned her head back. "Tim must be sending the dogs out for me by now." "Oh, yes. Forgive me."
She pushed Christine briskly to the side door. There was only one, short step down to it, and with Marilyn's help, Christine negotiated it easily. Marilyn opened the door, held it:
"Maybe I could get an estimate on a small ramp, Christine—something like what you've got at your front door."
Christine turned her chair around to face her. She reached out, touched her hand. "Thank you, Marilyn, but it's not necessary. That step's not bad." She withdrew her hand, started down the driveway.
"Be careful," Marilyn called after her.
Chapter 26
"How does this place look?" Marilyn said.
Christine addressed Marilyn's reflection in the shop window: "Expensive."
"It's my treat today, Christine." Marilyn's reflection smiled generously. "A hat, gloves, whatever—it's my treat."
"Marilyn, that's awfully nice, but—"
"And another day it can be your treat."
Christine thought a moment. "Okay," she said. "But nothing too expensive."
Marilyn wheeled her into the shop. A clerk came forward. Marilyn said, "This is my friend, Christine Bennet."
The clerk—a tall, thin, middle-aged woman—nodded and smiled solicitously.
"And since today is her birthday," Marilyn went on, "I'm giving her her pick of anything in the store."
"Marilyn, my birthday's not for eight months."
"That means it's only four months past."
Christine laughed. "That's one way of looking at it."
"Anything," Marilyn repeated. "I'm feeling quite generous."
The clerk gestured toward a display case nearby. "Perhaps some jewelry?"
Christine studied the case a moment. "No, I'm not much for jewelry."
"I have it," Marilyn announced. She turned Christine's chair around, started for the door. She looked back at the clerk. "I'm sorry, dear, but this place is awfully stuffy." She laughed. Then, to Christine: "I just remembered, there's this little art supply shop only a block down the street. . . ."
Pain shot through Brett's testicles. He winced, doubled over. The pain slowly dissipated. He breathed long, slow breaths. "She didn't hit them straight on, apparently," he remembered the doctor telling him. "If she had—this is going to be hard to believe, but it's true—if she had hit them straight on, the pain would have been even more intense. As it is, you'll probably have occasional pain in the area for several months, perhaps longer."
Brett put his hand against the wall, expecting another attack of pain. He waited. There was a burning sensation in his lower abdomen, but it finished quickly. He continued moving down the hallway toward what had been Greg's bedroom. "Greg?" It was possible, though not likely, that she had put him back in it—because he'd complained about a strange room. She couldn't stand it when he complained; she called it whining. He remembered the time Greg had broken a toe and kept it from them both for a week, not wanting to be scolded for complaining about it.
That was the kind of boy she had turned him into —a scared little boy. Scared to go outside without her permission, scared to play without her permission, scared to do much of anything without her permission, or without, at least, the knowledge that she didn't object. He wasn't the classic "mama's boy": That phrase indicated something that had never existed between Marilyn and Greg—love (even the possessive, cloyingly sweet love that Brett had experienced with his own mother). Marilyn loved Greg no more than she loved her Queen Anne chair or her Duncan Phyfe table. She possessed them; she possessed Greg. And, though it was a damnable and shameful truth, she had possessed him—Brett.
"Greg?" he called. He leaned against Greg's bedroom door, turned the knob. "Greg, are you in there?" He pushed on the door. It swung open.
The room was empty. No bed. No dresser or lamps or bookcase. Just bare walls and bare floor. The aura of hurried abandonment was heavy in the air.
"Goddamnit!" The word came quickly, hollowly back at him and reinforced his sudden anger. He slammed his fist hard into the wall above the light switch. He heard plaster inside the wall crack and fall.
"Goddamnit, Marilyn, goddamnit! You don't have the right, you don't have the fucking right—"
He turned, stepped out of the room, slammed the door shut.
And headed for what had once been his and Marilyn's bedroom.
"This is the first time I've been in here, Christine," Marilyn said quietly, as if she might offend someone with what she was saying. "Though I never really had the need. I adore art, certainly—you know that; you've been in my house—but as far as creating it. . . ."
"It's my first time, too," Christine told her, grinning conspiratorially.
"Good," Marilyn said, still quietly. "That makes me feel better." She glanced around. "It's awfully close in here, isn't it?"
"It's a little small; most art stores are."
"Never mind. You pick out something, anything: a new set of paints—what do you use, oil paints?—an easel, a canvas, anything."
"Marilyn, are you sure about this?"
"Of course." She paused, glanced around again. Then, as if to herself: "Almost scandalously small. How's a person supposed to make his way around, for God's sake?"
>
Christine reached for Marilyn's hand. "Marilyn, are you all right? Do you want to leave?"
"I'm okay," Marilyn answered hesitantly. "I have this little problem—"
"Claustrophobia?"
Marilyn stiffened visibly. "No," she snapped. "Of course not. It's nothing like that at all. Not at all." She paused, breathed deeply. Then: "Anything, Christine. Anything. My treat."
"Let's go, Marilyn. You look uncomfortable."
"I said anything. Do I have to pick it out for you?" Despite herself, Christine smiled—perhaps, she thought, to help put Marilyn at ease. "Okay, Marilyn, a small canvas, nine by eleven. I need one."
"Nine by eleven?"
"Yes, I can stretch it myself."
"I don't understand."
Christine withdrew her hand and motioned to a clerk nearby. "Just give me a moment."
"Yes, ma'am?" the clerk said.
"Could you tell us where your canvases are, please?"
"Us?"
"My friend and me." She gestured behind her, turned her head slightly.
Marilyn was gone. Christine turned her head further, saw her just outside the door. Marilyn's back was to it. She was shivering violently.
Brett doubled over. He fell to his knees. Waited. Eventually, the pain faded. He stood, cursed himself, though gently. He'd have to watch his temper; it seemed to have a lot to do with the onrush of pain, and if he was going to double over every five minutes because a room he looked into happened not to contain Greg, then he'd be here a long, long time.
A whisper of pain lingered in his lower abdomen. He took a step, felt the pain widen, as if it had been a needle and now was a small nail. He lowered himself to a sitting position in the hallway, chanced a long, slow, deep breath. The pain vanished. "Thank God," he murmured.
He stood. "Greg?" he called. He looked right, then left, unsure of where he had just been. On impulse, he turned left. The attic stairway was ahead, at the end of the hall, and, before that, two rooms he hadn't yet checked. "Greg, please answer me," he called. "Please. . . . It's me, your father." He waited. There was no response. "Greg?" Again nothing. He wondered idly if she'd taken him out of the house altogether.