Picture Perfect

by Fern Michaels

  A soft cough from Davey’s room drew his attention. He smiled as he thought of his son. Andrew didn’t share Sara’s reservations about Davey’s growing dependence on Lorrie, but he didn’t disagree either. Sara, as his mother, was much closer to Davey and his needs than he was; he would rely on her instincts.

  Andrew and Sara had been married nearly fifteen years before Davey was born. They had been resigned to never having a child when the miracle was announced. Methodical thinkers both, they spent the time prior to Davey’s birth discussing and rediscussing their ideas of child rearing. Happily, they’d found they agreed on almost every point. At the time, they had been teaching in a small college in upstate New York, their professional lives neatly blending with their home life. It had been an idyllic time, filled with scholastic achievements and music and love. And even though both were just past forty, they were certain that their long-awaited child could only enhance their lives.

  Shortly after Davey’s birth they had learned he was a hemophiliac. When he was nine months old, Sara had discovered a swelling near the base of his spine. When the doctor entered the examination room, the first thing he’d asked was, “How long has he been this color?” Andrew remembered how upset Sara had been, feeling she had been remiss, but neither one of them had noticed a change in the baby’s complexion. Thinking about what had happened next still caused Andrew to break out in a sweat. After a preliminary blood test the doctor had informed them: “This baby is dying. Get him to the hospital, fast! Your son is a hemophiliac and his condition is critical.”

  That immediate crisis had passed, but it had launched a whole new lifestyle for the Taylors, one predicated on preventing Davey suffering even the slightest injury. Simple things would send them rushing to the hospital emergency room—bumps, bruises, cutting baby teeth, Davey biting his tongue when he fell taking his first steps.

  Those had been bitter days and Sara, in particular, had agonized over the situation. Hemophilia was a blood disorder passed from mother to son. Having no brothers or uncles on her maternal side, Sara had been completely ignorant of the fact that she carried the gene. She was burdened with a guilt that could never be overcome. It was her fault that Davey was imperfect. She had immediately planned a campaign to protect her son in every way possible. The baby’s crib and play areas were padded. Expensive special shoes with rubber soles were purchased so Davey wouldn’t slip. Occasionally braces were necessary to assure that his limbs grew straight. Each little episode bordered on catastrophe. In addition to dealing with the harrowing medical problems of hemophilia, the Taylors had to live with anxiety and uncertainty every day. And still accidents would occur. Because of Davey’s young age, his tiny veins sometimes could not accommodate transfusion equipment, and he would have to be strapped to a hospital bed for hours.

  Sara’s strength of will kept the family on as even a keel as was possible. She could ease Andrew’s mind and offer hope when there was none, holding out for the day when Davey could be put on an antigen program. Before researchers had succeeded in isolating the two anti-hemophilic factors—Factor VIII and Factor IX—patients with bleeding had to lie in bed while bottles of plasma containing clotting factors were dripped into their veins. Then pharmaceutical companies had developed a way to freeze and concentrate the factors, making it possible for patients to self-administer the drug with daily shots. Unfortunately, Davey had developed antibodies against Factor VIII. It took more and more of the concentrate to block his bleeding, and Sara and Andrew feared that he would die from his next injury or spontaneous bleed. So when he was accepted into the antigen program researching suppression of antibodies, his parents were relieved. As long as Davey received an uninterrupted daily dosage of antigen, he would be able to live a normal life.

  That word “uninterrupted” still made Andrew uneasy. In this life of uncertainties, was that really possible? It had to be. At this point, Davey’s hemophilia was controlled. But, by the very nature of the antigen, it was possible that Davey’s own body defenses could reject the drug. Then it would be useless, and the only treatment that would be effective would entail hours strapped to transfusion devices. Sara and Andrew had been instructed how vitally important it was that Davey received the antigen at the same time every single day. Even one day without the injection could set up a chemical reaction in his body, whereby the drug would be rejected and rendered useless forever. There would be no turning back. Once a week, Davey’s antigen level had to be checked; it was imperative that it be kept at a level which coincided with his growth.

  Sara’s sister, Lorrie, was a doctor; she realized the problem. So well, in fact, that she had made a decision not to have children, knowing the odds were against her since she, too, carried the hemophiliac gene. Lorrie had happily anticipated getting married and having a family until Davey’s condition was discovered. After that she’d devoted herself to her pediatric practice.

  Sara threw her arm over her husband’s chest and Andrew nuzzled against her, aware of the fresh scent of her shampoo which lingered in her hair. Trying to set his worries aside, he settled into an uneasy sleep.

  Cudge sat beside Elva on the daybed. He was certain he had used the right words to settle her down and make her help him. She’d come up with an idea for disposing of Lenny’s body; though he’d never admit it, it was more than he could have done.

  “Question is, how do we get him downstairs to the camper?” Cudge touched Elva’s cheek, brushing back a strand of hair. “We can’t just drag him down the stairs and pretend he’s drunk. Not with his face all . . .”

  Elva’s eyes scanned the room and came to rest on the three paper bags that held the laundry. A small bottle of fabric softener and a box of detergent were beside the bags. Frowning, she saw the rusty ironing board with its scorched, dirty gray cover leaning against the wall. She forced her eyes to go to Lenny’s body and then back to the ironing board. “I got an idea, Cudge.”

  “Yeah? What?” He knew it was going to be something stupid but he’d better hear her out and make her feel important. This wasn’t the time to fight with her and get her screaming loud enough to wake the dead.

  “Like you said, we can’t just take him down the stairs and pretend he’s drunk or sick or something. That nosy old Mrs. Fortunati is awake and she already told me she was thinking of calling the cops because of the noise coming from our apartment. That must have been when you were hitting Lenny and—”

  Cudge’s hair almost stood on end; the black look in his eyes stopped Elva’s flow of words. He clenched his hands to keep them from shaking. “What did that old snoop say she heard, Elva?” It was a monumental effort to keep his voice steady.

  “Nothing. She just said it sounded like you were tearing the place apart.” Elva saw him relax. That wasn’t anything new with the landlady. She was always saying she was going to call the cops, and she even did once because the baby in 4B was sick and cried all night long. “Anyway, I was thinking we could put Lenny on the ironing board, pile the dirty clothes on top of him and pretend we’re going to the laundromat. Then you can put him in the camper and drive him away somewhere.”

  Cudge’s eyes widened. “Sometimes you ain’t so stupid after all. It just might work. Hey, you look like you’re gonna be sick. If you gotta puke, do it in the toilet.”

  “I ain’t gonna puke. I just don’t like seeing dead people. It reminds me of . . . They look like chalk, and they don’t move no more. Not ever.”

  The regret in her voice was lost on Cudge who was busy putting the ironing board next to the body to measure it. “He’ll fit. Come on, don’t just sit there, give me a hand.”

  “Cudge, I . . . I can’t touch him,” Elva cried.

  “Move it, Elva!”

  Elva shuffled over to the body and bent down to grasp the legs while Cudge took hold of it under the armpits. Lenny landed with a thump on the rickety board. Elva backed away, her hands going to her mouth to stifle a retch.

  “We’ll tie him on it. I don’t want him rolli
ng off in front of Mrs. Fortunati’s apartment door.”

  “I don’t like that Mrs. Fortunati. She’s got little beady eyes that see everything.”

  Cudge ignored Elva and began to heap dirty clothes over Lenny’s body. Beads of perspiration dotted his upper lip as he leaned back against the table. “Okay, that was the first step. Now we gotta clean out this place and make tracks. Get your junk together.”

  “I got it all in a paper bag. The rest is on top of your friend. Now what?” Elva asked, moving as far away as possible from the ironing board.

  “Get everything together. We ain’t coming back here ever again. Take all the food and then clean up this mess.” He gestured to the pool of blood under the table. “Make damn sure you do a good job. First thing I’ll take down to the camper is the TV.”

  “Cudge, I hate blood. It makes me sick. I can’t do it!”

  “You’re going to do it and you’ll do it now, before I punch a hole in that thing you call a head. Move it!”

  “I always get the shitty jobs,” Elva protested as she kicked at a filthy dish towel. With the toe of her shoe she picked up the rag and dropped it into a supermarket grocery bag. The towel was so threadbare it barely soaked up any of the blood. Not wanting to be alone with Lenny in the kitchen, she raced to the bathroom and waited till Cudge came back into the apartment. A roll of toilet paper in her hand, she walked back to the dingy kitchen. She unrolled the sheets and wiped the mess up with her foot. Satisfied that the blood had been wiped up, she poured a glass of water on the floor and repeated her actions. It was kinda sad, she thought, one roll of toilet paper was all it took to wipe up a man’s life.

  “You got everything?” Cudge asked belligerently.

  Elva was tossing food from the refrigerator into a paper bag. “Should I take the eggs?”

  He rolled his eyes. “Yes, you should take the eggs,” he mimicked. “Take everything. Come on, we ain’t got all night. We’ll take him down first, but I want to make sure the coast is clear. I left the back of the camper open—all we have to do is stuff him in.”

  Elva gritted her teeth before picking up her end of the ironing board. “Wait! We have to put the detergent and softener on top to make it look real.”

  “Christ, Elva, we ain’t really going to the laundry. Leave the damn stuff.”

  Elva was not to be deterred. The detergent and fabric softener were plopped on top of Lenny’s stomach. Halting abruptly in mid stride, Elva’s voice was a high-pitched stuttering squeak. “You can’t, you just can’t . . . We have to spray him with something.”

  Cudge’s fists were white-knuckled tight. “Why?”

  Elva gulped. “Be-because he’ll smell. Dead bodies smell. They start to . . . to rot or something. I’m telling you what to do—I didn’t say I knew what to use,” she blurted. Her toothache was pounding away like a trip hammer.

  Cudge stared at Elva. His voice was almost patient. “I ain’t exactly planning on carrying Lenny around for very long. I don’t think he’ll have a chance to smell.”

  “Soon as he gets stiff, he’ll smell.”

  Cudge hated the certainty in Elva’s voice. “We don’t have anything around to spray him with. Come on, grab your end.”

  “What about . . . what about the mothballs in the bottom of the sink? That’s enough to kill any kind of smell. You could stick some in Lenny’s coat pockets.”

  It was evident to Elva that Cudge was going to go along with her idea by the way his gaze shifted to the bottom of the sink. She darted between the table and the body. Her skinny arm was trembling so badly that Cudge jerked the container of mothballs from her hand. “This better work, you dizball.”

  Elva backed away till she was standing in the dingy living room. Cudge sneezed four times in rapid succession as he stuffed the white pellets into Lenny’s pockets. “Okay, he’s preserved now. You got any more crazy ideas, now is the time to spit ’em out. I ain’t planning on touching him again. Let’s go. Get back over here—you think I can do this myself?”

  Elva advanced one step then backed up two. “I can’t, Cudge, I just can’t do it,” she whined.

  “Listen, you’re the one who came up with this whole idea. Now grab hold of the damn thing and let’s get him down to the camper.”

  She stared at Cudge. As usual he was right. The ironing board and the mothballs had been her idea. It never occurred to her that if Cudge hadn’t lost his temper and killed Lenny, she wouldn’t be standing here now, ready to cart a dead body down to the street.

  “Grab hold, and God help you if you let him slip,” Cudge snarled.

  Elva shivered as she picked up the narrow end of the board. Her hold secure, she stopped again, the wide end of the board jamming Cudge in the small of his back.

  “What now?”

  “The detergent and bottle of softener,” she explained. With a mighty effort, she reached to the top of the sink.

  All the way out of the apartment and up to the top of the stairs, Lenny’s body jounced with each step they took. Elva tried to look anywhere but at the ironing board. Halfway down the stairs she spotted the feathery trail of soap powder spilling onto the steps. Maybe if she didn’t say anything, Cudge wouldn’t notice. She repeated the thought over and over again, thinking about the trailing powder, remembering the fairy tale about the children who left a trail of bread crumbs in the forest so they could find their way back home. Elva St. John had had a home once, but something told her she never would again.

  A sound like rain pelting on a roof made Cudge stop at the fourth step from the bottom. Elva’s eyes popped open as she toppled over the ironing board. Cudge lost his hold and the load slid down the remaining steps. Bile rose in Elva’s throat and soured her mouth. “Oh, my God, quick, pick him up! Somebody might hear! Pick him up!”

  Cudge moved swiftly to right the board and rearrange the laundry on top of its burden. “I guess you know that funny noise was those damn mothballs falling out of his pockets. Run around here and get that front door open.”

  Elva obeyed, never letting her eyes rest on the bundled board. Cudge grimaced with effort as he dragged the board forward, holding the door open with his shoulder. “Get around and grab the other end. You and your bright ideas.”

  Huffing at her end of the board, Elva whispered, “I ain’t even sure they’ll work in his pockets anyway. Maybe you should’ve stuffed them in his ears.” She could almost see the stubble stand on end on the back of Cudge’s neck.

  “Either you shut up, Elva, or you’re gonna be in the back with Lenny, and it’s you who’s gonna get mothballs in the ears. Dumb shit!”

  His voice was tight and choked. Elva smiled to herself. She could risk being smug. With her own eyes she’d seen Cudge gag while he was stuffing the pellets into Lenny’s pockets. It was nice to know that Cudge was afraid. “I’m just trying to help,” she whined. “I keep tellin’ you, I ain’t smart. I just know things.”

  “Right the first time,” Balog grunted, bearing almost the full weight of the board and Lenny down the front steps and out to the curb. “Okay, now when I say ‘shove’ you push your end in. You got that?”

  Elva let her breath out in a sob the minute the camper was closed and the top half lowered. She could imagine poor Lenny squashed in there, in the darkness. “Cudge?” she said hesitantly.

  “Jeez, what do I have to do to make you shut up? What?” His tone was hushed, little more than a whisper instead of his usual yelling. Elva liked that; it was the one good thing that had happened all night.

  “Should we go back and pick up the mothballs?”

  “I’m going back in to get the food and make sure you didn’t leave anything. You wait right here and don’t go getting any ideas about taking off. You go when I say you go. Got that? And quit your worrying about the mothballs.”

  It was spooky sometimes the way Cudge could read her mind. No matter what he said, she wasn’t getting into the cab of the pickup until he was right there beside her. She didn’t know what hurt
her more—her shoulders from carrying Lenny down two flights of stairs, or her tooth.

  The streetlight seemed friendly as Elva leaned against the pole. Her thoughts, however, were gray. She’d been this close to death before, only this time it was easier. She didn’t really care about Lenny Lombardi, not the way she had about little BJ. She couldn’t cry for Lenny—she had spent all her tears on her little brother. And she didn’t feel guilty either. She hadn’t even been there when Cudge killed Lenny. Not like with BJ when, if she hadn’t been so scared for herself, she might have been able to do something to save him.

  The worst behind him, Cudge looked around the apartment and felt nothing except relief. There were no visible signs that anything had happened in the kitchen. He walked through the apartment, taking his time to see that nothing had been left behind. If—and it was a big if—they had to come back for any reason, they could just walk in the door. The rent had been paid for the next month; there was no reason why anyone should come nosing around.

  Cudge made his way down the dim stairway. The mothballs littered the filthy stair treads and, unconsciously, he counted them. When he reached the fourth step from the bottom, he stopped and inched his way closer to the greasy wall. It hit him then. He was a murderer. He felt like a land mine ready to explode. A grin spread across his face, easing the tension between his shoulders. He was the only one who knew he was a murderer—he and Elva. Nine mothballs. Wiseass Elva would have to go. It would be his secret then; no one would ever know. One balled fist smacked into the other.

  He was still grinning when he loped down the steps to the sidewalk. The camper looked just fine, and Elva was leaning against the telephone pole. “Get in, Elva, and don’t you so much as blubber. Not even once, hear me?”

  Elva’s toothache was getting worse. If only she could fall asleep and wake up when the pain was gone. If there was someone who could promise her that, she might give up one of her Elvis tapes.