by Joy Fielding
“I hadn’t realized you knew Joan,” Bonnie began, not sure where, in fact, she was heading with this.
“Sam is in one of my classes.”
“Yes, I know.” Bonnie waited for him to say more, but he didn’t. She felt a hand on her elbow, turned, saw Diana.
“I’ll call you later,” Diana said, kissing her on the cheek, not really stopping as she continued toward the parking lot.
Bonnie returned her attention to Josh Freeman, focusing on his brown eyes, lighter and clearer than Rod’s. His hair was wavy and slightly tousled, as if he’d struggled with it and lost, but it suited the sly curve of his lips and the slightly crooked line of his nose. “Were you and Joan friends?” she asked, trying not to stare.
“Yes,” he said. Then again, nothing further.
“Do you think we could talk about her some time?” Why had she asked that? What did she want to talk about?
“I’m not sure what there is to say,” he said, his words echoing her thoughts.
“Please.”
He nodded. “You’ll be back in school soon?”
“Monday.”
“I’ll see you then.”
“Wasn’t that a wonderful eulogy?” Marla Brenzelle was asking loudly. Bonnie turned toward the voice as Marla, looking like a giant cone of cotton candy, extended her arms toward Rod’s children. “You must be Lorne and Samantha.”
“Sam and Lauren,” Bonnie corrected, turning back to Josh Freeman. But he was already gone.
“I’m so sorry about your loss,” Marla continued, undaunted.
“Thank you,” Lauren said.
“I finally got a chance to meet your brother a few weeks ago,” Marla said.
It took Bonnie a moment to realize that Marla wasn’t talking to Lauren, but to her. “I’m sorry. What did you say?”
“Can my friend have your autograph?” Sam asked suddenly.
Marla’s face lit up, as if someone had just shone a spotlight on her. “Of course.”
Bonnie looked over at Haze, who stood there grinning, Magic Marker in hand.
“You could just sign here,” he said, handing Marla the marker and holding up one tattooed arm. MUFF, the tattoo proclaimed above a picture of a beaver. DIVER, it said below.
“Haze,” Marla repeated, after asking his name and how to spell it. “That’s an interesting name.”
What’s going on here? Bonnie wondered, waiting impatiently while Marla added the le that transformed Brenzel to Brenzelle, with an exaggerated flourish. “What do you mean you met my brother?”
Marla flashed her a perfectly capped smile. “Well, I never did get to meet him in high school. I’d already graduated by the time he got there. But I remember hearing stories about how wild he was, how hot, as the kids would say today. So I’ve always been curious about him, especially since you’ve always been such a goody two-shoes.”
Bonnie ignored the slight, intended or otherwise. “How did you meet my brother?”
“He came by the studio to talk to Rod. Didn’t Rod tell you?”
Bonnie spun around, looking for her husband, but he was speaking to one of the undertakers beside the chapel door. Rod had met with her brother without telling her? Why?
“Apparently he had some crazy idea for a series,” Marla said, answering Bonnie’s silent question. “Rod told him it would never fly, but I think I may have talked him into appearing on one of our shows. I think he’d make a great guest, don’t you? He’s very good-looking, and so charming.”
“My brother is a crook and a con artist,” Bonnie said flatly, wanting only to get away from this woman as fast as she could.
“Exactly my point.”
“I really have to get going,” Bonnie told her, moving briskly from her side. “Thanks for coming,” she added, tossing the words over her shoulder like a crumpled piece of paper.
“Hopefully, the next time we see each other will be under pleasanter circumstances,” Marla called after her.
Don’t count on it, Bonnie thought.
“Why didn’t you tell me you’d seen Nick?” Bonnie asked, watching as her husband spread numerous cartons of Chinese food across the round white kitchen table. The room was longer than it was wide, and opened into an eating area at the front of the house, overlooking the street. The cabinets were bleached oak, the tile floor and appliances almond, the walls white. A Chagall lithograph of a cow suspended upside down over a rooftop hung on one wall; Amanda’s painting of a group of people with square heads hung on another.
“You talked to Marla,” Rod stated, his voice calm, his manner unruffled.
“I don’t understand, Rod.”
He placed the last carton on the table, absently licked his fingers. “It’s simple, sweetheart. Your brother dropped into the studio a few weeks back, without an appointment, of course. He had some crazy idea for a series. I had to tell him it wouldn’t work.”
“Fly,” Bonnie corrected.
“What?”
“Marla said you told him it wouldn’t fly,” she said testily, tears of anger springing to her eyes. How could he not have told her?
Rod crossed to where Bonnie stood leaning against the warm oven door. “Ah come on, honey. It was no big deal. I didn’t tell you because I knew how much it would upset you.”
“As opposed to the way I’m feeling now?”
He lowered his head. “It was stupid not to tell you. I’m sorry.”
“So, you’d already seen him when the police found his name in Joan’s address book,” she stated more than asked, trying to get the facts straight in her mind. “Why didn’t you say something then?”
“What was I supposed to say? ‘Oh, by the way, your brother came to see me last week’? It didn’t seem relevant.”
“What about later, when I was trying to reach him?”
“I thought about telling you.”
“But you didn’t. Not even after I spoke to him.”
“I didn’t see what good it would do. The whole thing was starting to feel very complicated. I still say if he’s involved in any way in Joan’s death, we should let the police handle it.”
“That’s not the point,” Bonnie cried.
“What is the point?” Rod asked, his eyes moving into the hall, obviously concerned that his children might overhear them.
Bonnie instantly lowered her voice. “The point is that you should have told me.”
“Agreed,” he said. “But I didn’t. I don’t know why. Probably I was trying to avoid exactly the kind of scene we’re having now.”
There was silence.
“The food’s getting cold,” Rod ventured.
“Did you know he was staying at my father’s?” Bonnie asked, as if he hadn’t spoken.
“No. I didn’t ask and he didn’t say.”
“Did you talk about Joan?”
“Why in God’s name would we talk about Joan?”
“Why would his name be in her address book?”
“I repeat,” Rod said, his square jaw clenched tight, clipping the ends off his words, like garden shears, “let’s let the police deal with this.”
“Did you know that stupid woman has asked him to be a guest on your show?” Bonnie asked, switching gears.
“Marla?” Rod laughed.
“You think it’s funny?”
“He won’t do it.”
“Of course he’ll do it. If only to aggravate me.”
“Then don’t let it.” Rod kissed the tip of her nose. “Come on, honey. Don’t let them get to you. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you. Really, I am.”
Sam casually sauntered into the room, his sister trailing after him. “You think Marla Brenzelle is stupid?” he asked, the laces of his sneakers dragging across the ceramic tiles of the floor.
Bonnie wondered how much of the conversation they had overheard. “Let’s just say the woman has a poorly defined sense of irony.”
“What’s that?” Sam folded his long body inside one of the tall wicker chairs.
“That.” Sam pointed toward one of the plastic containers.
“Lemon chicken,” Rod told him. “Help yourself.”
“I think she’s cool,” Lauren said, sitting down and spooning a large helping of fried rice onto her plate.
“You do?” Bonnie made no effort to contain her surprise. “What about her do you find ‘cool’?”
Lauren shrugged. “I think she helps people.”
“Helps them? How—by exploiting them in front of millions of people?”
“How is she exploiting them?” Lauren asked.
“Can you pass the chow mein?” Sam said.
“She exploits them because she misleads them into thinking that by confessing their problems in front of millions of people, they can solve them. She offers thirty-second sound bites as solutions. And she provides a forum for every kook and exhibitionist in the country. She legitimizes their highly questionable behavior by making it sound like the norm, which it definitely is not.” Bonnie paused, her mind still reeling from her earlier confrontation with Rod, anger fueling her words. “How many twin lesbians are out there who have seduced their mother’s boyfriends, for God’s sake? Or Peeping Toms who married their first cousins after spying them making love to their fathers? Do you think that’s normal? Do you think that by having these people on her show that Marla Brenzelle, whom I used to know as Marlene Brenzel, by the way, is interested in helping anyone other than herself and her precious ratings? I mean, whatever happened to discretion? Whatever happened to common sense?”
Her unexpected outburst brought silence to the room.
“That was some speech,” Rod said quietly.
“I’m sorry,” Bonnie quickly apologized. “I’m not sure where that came from. I didn’t mean to sound so—”
“Disdainful?” Rod asked, pointedly.
“I’m sorry. I really didn’t mean…”
“I hadn’t realized you had such strong feelings about what I do every day,” Rod said.
“When did you know Marla Brenzelle?” Sam asked.
“We went to school together,” Bonnie told him, eyes on Rod.
“Cool,” Sam said.
“Look,” Bonnie said to her husband, “I wasn’t trying to denigrate what you do….”
“Good thing you weren’t trying,” he said.
“She asked me if I’d like to come on the show someday,” Lauren said, dragging a forkful of long yellow noodles into her mouth. “She said it might help me come to terms with what’s happened if I were to talk about it.”
“It would certainly help you to talk to someone, yes,” Bonnie quickly agreed. “But talk to your father. Talk to a therapist. Talk to me,” she offered.
“Why would I want to talk to you?” Lauren asked.
“Lauren,” Rod cautioned. “Take it easy.”
“Well,” Bonnie began, the words emerging painfully, scratching against the sides of her throat, “I know what it’s like to lose a mother you love.”
“I didn’t lose my mother. She was murdered. Was yours?” Lauren asked provocatively.
“No,” Bonnie said. Not exactly, she thought.
“Then you don’t know anything.” Lauren pushed her chair away from the table. “I’m not very hungry. Can I be excused?” In the next instant, she was gone.
Rod reached across the table to pat Bonnie’s hand. “Sorry, honey. You didn’t deserve that.” He lay down his fork, stared out the front window at the quiet suburban street. “It’s been a horrible day for everyone.” He ran his hand through his hair, pushed his plate away. “I’m not that hungry either.” He stood up, stretched. “Actually, I’m kind of restless. Would you mind if I went out for a bit?”
“Now? It’s after nine o’clock.”
“Just for a short drive. I won’t be long.” He was already on his way out of the kitchen. Bonnie quickly followed him into the hall. “I just need some time to clear my head,” he said at the front door.
“Rod, I’m sorry,” Bonnie began. “You know I didn’t mean to criticize you.”
“You have nothing to be sorry for.” He kissed her gently on the mouth, one hand reaching behind him to open the door. “Want to come along?” he offered suddenly.
“How can I leave Amanda?” Bonnie pictured her daughter asleep in her bed.
“Sam and Lauren are here,” Rod reminded her.
Bonnie looked toward the staircase, thought of Sam in the kitchen and Lauren in her room. “Don’t even think of using my kids as baby-sitters. They’re not here for your convenience,” Joan had berated her one memorable evening soon after Amanda’s birth.
“I better not,” Bonnie said, thinking of how Joan had done everything in her power to keep Sam and Lauren from knowing their half sister. How spiteful and mean and cruel she had been. Certainly not the paragon of virtue Bonnie had heard eulogized this afternoon.
“Be back soon,” Rod said, shutting the door after him.
Sam was still sitting at the table, hunched over his food, the light from the overhead fixture picking up the midnight blue of his hair, when Bonnie returned to the kitchen.
“I’m glad that someone has an appetite,” she said.
Sam turned around, orange sauce coating his lips like a heavy lipstick, the same shade his mother used to wear, the same shade she’d been wearing when she died.
Bonnie took an involuntary step back, as if she’d seen a ghost. Sam smiled, something dangling from his right hand, like a pocket watch on a chain, except this wasn’t a chain, Bonnie realized, clutching her stomach. It was a tail.
“Oh God,” she said. “Tell me that’s not what I think it is.”
“It’s just a little white rat,” Sam said, laughing. “I let him nibble on some sweet-and-sour pork. Kind of a last meal sort of thing before I feed him to L’il Abner.” He stood up, and Bonnie tried not to notice the slight orange halo around the doomed rat’s twitching nose and mouth. “Want to watch?”
“No thank you,” Bonnie whispered, as Sam left the room. Then she sank down into one of the kitchen chairs, across from Joan’s ghost, and waited for Rod to come home.
9
Bonnie pulled her car into the staff parking lot at the front of Weston Secondary at exactly seven twenty-nine the following Monday morning. “The clock in my car is digital,” she remembered telling the police not long ago. And then she’d laughed. Not long, not loud. Just long enough to increase their curiosity, just loud enough to arouse their suspicions. They’d been back over the weekend to question her again, covering the same familiar territory, probably hoping she’d contradict herself, say something suitably incriminating, enough to justify Captain Mahoney clamping the pair of handcuffs always dangling from his belt around her wrists, and taking her away. They seemed unconcerned about whatever danger she and her daughter might be in, the danger Joan had warned her against. They probably think I made the whole thing up, Bonnie thought, frustrated by how little the police had revealed about their investigation, other than the coroner’s conclusion that Joan had been killed by a bullet from a .38-caliber revolver, quite possibly the one still registered to Rod.
“Yo, Mrs. Wheeler,” someone called as Bonnie reached the front door of the one-and-a-half-story reddish brick building. “Let me get that for you.”
Bonnie turned to see Haze running toward her. Well no, not exactly running, she thought, watching him, mesmerized by the easy insolence of his gait. More like loping. A sleek, muscular, white stallion, dressed all in black, and totally tuned to his own body rhythms.
“You look real nice today, Mrs. Wheeler,” he said, pulling open the heavy door and standing off to one side so that Bonnie could enter first. “Nice to see you back,” he said as they stepped into the cafeteria.
Bonnie smiled. “And what can I do for you, Haze?”
Haze lowered his head, his voice teasingly soft, so that she had to lean forward to hear him. “You’re not still expecting that essay for today, are you?” he asked.
“I’m afraid I am,” she told him, the noise and smells of the room crowding around her. “You’ve had over a month.”
Haze said nothing, a subtle smirk replacing his frozen smile, as he slowly backed into a group of students hovering nearby. Bonnie watched him disappear, the rat being swallowed by the giant snake, she thought, feeling somewhat unsettled by their encounter, although she wasn’t sure why. She proceeded out of the cafeteria, nodding at several boys roughhousing in one corner, and walked briskly down the corridor. A long fluorescent light ran down the center of the high ceiling, like a single line on a highway, casting shadows on the yellow brick walls, lending an eerie glow to a large framed photograph of recent graduates, their smiling heads severed and mounted in a series of small neat ovals, hanging outside the door to the staff room. Bonnie pushed open the door, heading straight for the pot of coffee percolating on the side counter, quickly pouring herself a cup.
“Hi there, everyone,” she said to no one in particular, walking to a chair by the long wall of windows. The view—a small inner courtyard with a single tree—was something less than spectacular.
There were perhaps half a dozen teachers scattered about the predominantly blue and beige room, several grouped in conversation around the water cooler, others seemingly absorbed in the morning paper, all a careful study of casual nonchalance. A smattering of hi’s reached her ears. Someone asked how she was; she said okay. “It’s nice to be back,” Bonnie volunteered, noting that Josh Freeman was nowhere around.
“It must have been horrible,” Maureen Templeton, a science teacher with frizzy yellow hair and a pronounced overbite, offered, and everyone nodded, further embellishment not required.
“Yes, it was,” Bonnie agreed.
“Do the police—?”
“Nothing yet,” Bonnie said.
“Rough week?” asked Tom O’Brian, the suitably brooding dramatic arts teacher.
“The pits.”
“Well, anything we can do to help….” Maureen Templeton offered, while the rest nodded.