Puppet

by Joy Fielding

  Her mother stared at her with eyes as cold as steel. “Well,” she said, pouring herself another drink, “with a daughter like you, no wonder your father had a heart attack.”

  “How are you, Amanda?” her mother asks now, her voice so quiet, it takes Amanda several seconds to realize she’s spoken at all.

  “I’m fine,” Amanda answers from her corner of the room, not sure how else to respond, her heart beating so wildly, it feels as if she is being pummeled from the inside out by an army of tiny fists.

  “Ben,” her mother says, acknowledging him with an almost imperceptible nod of her head.

  “How are you feeling today, Mrs. Price?”

  “I’m well, Ben, thank you.”

  “You slept okay? Your cellmates not giving you any more problems?”

  “What kind of problems?” Amanda asks.

  “The first few nights your mother was here, one of the women in her cell was coming down off drugs, and she kept everyone up all night.”

  “Scrubbing and cleaning. You should have seen her. She couldn’t sit still. She was up pacing and scouring the cell the whole night. It was quite unsettling.”

  “As opposed to killing a man in cold blood,” Amanda says.

  “But last night was better?” Ben asks, his eyes warning Amanda to back off.

  “Yes, I slept very well.”

  “You slept very well,” Amanda repeats incredulously, unable to restrain herself. “You’re in jail, for God’s sake. You shot a man. I would think that alone should be enough to keep you awake at night.”

  “Amanda, please,” Ben cautions.

  “It’s all right,” her mother says. “She’s understandably upset.”

  Her mother’s seeming serenity only serves to increase Amanda’s agitation. “Oh, good. The voice of reason.”

  “Maybe you should sit down,” Ben advises.

  “I don’t want to sit down.”

  Ben turns his attention back to her mother. “Are they giving you your medication?”

  “What medication?” Amanda asks.

  Her mother shakes her head. “Just something for my osteoporosis. It’s nothing to worry about.”

  “Who said I was worried?”

  “Yes, they made sure I got my medication,” Gwen Price answers, a slight twitch in the left corner of her mouth her only reaction to Amanda’s sarcasm.

  So her mother is mortal after all, Amanda thinks, with no small degree of satisfaction. Even a little ordinary. Like thousands of other women her age, she is suffering from a deterioration of her bones, a common and relatively mundane affliction. Amanda is surprised at the lack of drama. Don’t the gods know whom they’re dealing with?

  “I’m sorry you had to fly all the way up here,” her mother is saying.

  “So am I,” Amanda answers.

  “It really wasn’t necessary.”

  “You killed a man, Mother.”

  Gwen Price looks slowly around the room, although there is absolutely nothing to see. The gray walls are bare. No interesting rugs dot the concrete floor. “You don’t have much of a tan for someone who lives in Florida,” she says without looking at Amanda.

  Amanda looks imploringly at Ben. What are we doing here? her eyes ask.

  Humor her, his eyes respond. Go with the flow.

  Amanda closes her eyes, sees her mother sitting on her living-room sofa, staring at the roaring fire in the fireplace, seemingly oblivious to the sparks spraying toward her feet. Okay, she decides, slowly reopening her eyes. I’ve questioned difficult witnesses before. Sometimes it’s necessary to come in the back door, catch them off guard. “I’m not one for lying in the sun,” she offers.

  “A little bit of sun never hurt anyone.”

  “I guess.” Not like three bullets to the heart.

  “They say the sun is good for the soul, that people who are deprived of it for long periods of time can suffer from serious depression.”

  “Was that your problem?”

  “Amanda …,” Ben cautions.

  “I could never sit in the sun for very long,” her mother continues. “With my pale skin, I burned to a crisp. But you have your father’s complexion. I would have thought you’d tan rather nicely.”

  Amanda stares at her mother in amazement, thinking this is probably the longest conversation she has had with the woman in her entire life.

  “So, who is this guy you shot, Mother?” she asks impatiently. So much for coming in the back door.

  Her mother shakes her head. “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t want to talk about it?”

  “Mrs. Price,” Ben begins, “we can’t help you if you won’t talk to us.”

  “I don’t want your help.”

  Amanda throws up her arms in frustration. “Why doesn’t that surprise me?”

  “It’s not that I’m not grateful.”

  “Grateful? Give me a break.”

  “I don’t expect you to understand.”

  “You don’t want me to understand.”

  “Just tell us what happened, Mrs. Price.”

  “I shot a man.”

  “We know that much,” Amanda says. “What we don’t know is why you shot him.”

  “It doesn’t matter why.”

  “It does matter. You don’t go around killing people for no reason. Even you, with your stupid curses, always had a reason. Who is this man?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What was your relationship?”

  “There was no relationship.”

  “You expect us to believe you shot and killed a total stranger, someone you’d never seen before in your life?”

  “I don’t expect you to believe anything.”

  “Good, because we don’t believe you.”

  “That’s fine.”

  “It’s not fine. There are witnesses who say you’d been sitting in the lobby of that hotel all day.”

  “That’s true.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s a very nice hotel. They have a lovely lobby.”

  “What!”

  “Amanda,” Ben warns. “Calm down.”

  “You’re saying you were sitting in the hotel lobby because it’s a nice place to sit?”

  Her mother nods.

  “And you just happened to have a loaded gun in your purse.”

  “I often carry it with me.”

  “You often walk around with a loaded gun in your purse?”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “The city is a dangerous place.”

  “Not if people don’t walk around with guns.”

  Her mother almost smiles. “Ben, is this really necessary?”

  “Is it necessary?” Amanda asks, her voice rising.

  “I just don’t see the relevance, considering …”

  “Considering what?”

  “Considering I’m going to plead guilty on Tuesday.”

  “You’re going to plead her guilty?” Amanda demands of her former husband.

  “I am guilty,” her mother reminds her.

  “Not if you’re insane.”

  “You think I’m insane?”

  “I think you’re nuttier than a fruitcake in January.”

  “Amanda …”

  “I assure you, I’m quite sane,” her mother says calmly. “I knew exactly what I was doing when I shot that man, and I knew it was wrong. Isn’t that the legal definition of sanity?”

  “Sane people don’t go around shooting total strangers.”

  “Maybe they do.”

  Amanda turns to Ben. “You can’t seriously be planning to let her plead guilty.”

  “Believe me, it’s not my choice.”

  “He has no choice,” Gwen Price states. “And neither do you. I shot and killed a man, and I’m prepared to accept the consequences. It’s really very simple.”

  “Nothing about you has ever been simple.”

  “Be that as it may,” her moth
er replies. “It’s still my decision.”

  “Who was John Mallins, Mother?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “How did you know him?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “Then why were you waiting for him?”

  “I wasn’t.”

  “You just happened to be sitting in the hotel lobby with a loaded gun in your purse when he walked in,” Amanda says for what feels like the hundredth time.

  “That’s right.”

  “And you got up from your chair, cut across the lobby, and shot him.”

  “Yes. Three times, I believe.”

  “For no reason.”

  “Yes.”

  “Because you felt like it.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t know why. Maybe I didn’t like his mustache.”

  “You didn’t like his mustache!”

  “It’s as good a reason as any,” her mother says.

  “Don’t mock me.”

  “I’m sorry, Puppet. That wasn’t my intention.”

  “What?” Amanda stumbles backward, as if she’s been struck.

  “I didn’t mean to mock you. It’s just that—”

  “Don’t ever call me that.”

  Her mother looks genuinely chagrined. “I’m sorry.”

  “All right, look,” Ben intervenes. “Let’s get back on track, shall we?”

  “There’s only one track here,” Gwen tells them. “And it leads directly to a prison cell. Now I understand your curiosity and I appreciate your wanting to help, but …”

  “But what?” Amanda demands. “What about John Mallins’s family, Mother? Don’t you think his two children deserve an explanation for why you murdered their father? Don’t you owe John Mallins’s widow at least a hint of closure?”

  “I’m very sorry for their pain,” Gwen Price says, her eyes suddenly clouding over with tears.

  What the hell is this? Amanda wonders, more terrified by her mother’s unexpected tears than she ever was by her anger. Who is this woman? she thinks. What is she trying to pull now? “Who was John Mallins, Mother? Why did you shoot him?”

  Her mother says nothing.

  “The police will investigate, you know,” Amanda tells her. “They’ll get to the bottom of this.”

  A flicker of fear cuts across Gwen’s face, then disappears. “They won’t need to get to the bottom of anything once I plead guilty. They already have my confession, the murder weapon, and a lobbyful of eyewitnesses. Nobody cares why I shot the man as long as the prosecutors have their conviction.”

  “I care,” Amanda says softly.

  “I’m sorry,” her mother says again.

  Amanda rubs her forehead, looks toward the ceiling, takes a long, deep breath. “Okay, you win.” She moves quickly to the door. “We’re wasting our time here, Ben. Let’s go.”

  “Mrs. Price, please,” Ben urges.

  “Let it go, Ben,” Amanda snaps. “I refuse to play these stupid games. Her mind is obviously made up. She wants to rot in jail for the rest of her life. I say, let her.” She pulls open the door.

  “Amanda.” Her mother’s voice stops her cold.

  Amanda swivels around, her hands clutching the door handle behind her back.

  “I don’t think I’ve ever told you how beautiful you are,” her mother says.

  Amanda doesn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She runs from the room before she can do either.

  TWELVE

  DID you hear what she said?” Amanda bursts through the outside doors of the prison, begins angrily slogging her way through the slush-covered parking lot. “I can’t believe she had the gall to say that to me.”

  “Amanda, slow down.”

  “The woman is a sadist. An amoral, card-carrying sadist.”

  “Amanda, where are you going?”

  Amanda braces herself against the gusting wind, wet snowflakes pelting her cheeks and clinging to her eyes, like an extra layer of lashes. “What right does she have to say things like that? I don’t think I’ve ever told you how beautiful you are?! What the hell is that? She knows damn well she’s never told me I’m beautiful. ‘Useless,’ definitely. ‘Worthless,’ a million times. ‘A blight on her existence,’ more often than I can count. So, where does she get off? Tell me. Where does she get off?” Amanda spins around in helpless circles. “Where the hell is the fucking car?”

  Ben points toward the far end of the lot.

  “Well, who parked it way the hell over there anyway?” Amanda propels herself toward it.

  “Amanda, be careful. It’s icy underneath—”

  Amanda hears his warning just as the heel of her boot connects with a hidden patch of ice. All at once she feels as if she is being simultaneously yanked back and pushed forward, as if invisible hands have grabbed onto the collar of her coat, while unseen feet are kicking her legs out from under her. Her body catapults into the air, and for an instant, she feels as if she is floating on a magic carpet. And then suddenly she is twisting in the frigid air, the magic carpet collapsing under her weight, and she falls to the pavement, like a puppet whose strings have been cruelly severed. Puppet, she hears her mother say as she hits the ground, and she bursts into a flood of bitter tears.

  Ben is immediately at her side, solicitous hands on her arms, helping her to her feet. “Amanda, are you all right?”

  “I’m fine.” She brushes several clumps of wet snow from the side of her coat and refuses to look at him. “I’m fucking fine.”

  “Are you sure? That was some fall.”

  “I said I’m fine.”

  “Do you want to go back inside, sit down for a while?”

  “Go back in there? Are you kidding me? I want to get away from this miserable place as fast as humanly possible.”

  “Okay.” He takes her elbow, leads her gingerly toward the car. “Be careful.”

  “Goddamn boots.”

  He unlocks the car door, helps her inside. “You’ll probably be pretty stiff later on. You might want to take a hot bath when you get back to the hotel.”

  Amanda nods without speaking, leans her head against the side window as Ben pulls the car out of the lot and onto Disco Road.

  “Are you okay?”

  “No.”

  “You think something might be broken?”

  “No. And not my heart either, in case you’re prone to thinking in clichés. Sorry,” she apologizes immediately. “You didn’t deserve that.”

  “You’re angry. It’s understandable.”

  “Really? And just what is it you understand?”

  “You haven’t seen your mother in years, and to see her now, under these circumstances …”

  “She looks pretty damn good, don’t you think? I mean, considering she’s wearing the ugliest shade of green on the planet and she hasn’t had her hair done in a couple of days. But hey, she’s still slim and attractive and, let’s not forget, she’s sleeping well.”

  “You’d like to see her suffer more?”

  “I’d like to see her burn in hell.”

  “Because she killed a man or because she said you look beautiful?”

  Amanda’s head snaps toward her former husband. “Oh, please.”

  “What has you so upset, Amanda?”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Could it be because my mother is in jail for murder?”

  “Old news,” Ben says dismissively. “Besides, I would have thought you’d relish the idea of your mother locked away in a cell somewhere. It might not be hellfire and brimstone, but it’s pretty damn close.”

  “Did she look like she’s suffering to you?” Amanda swipes at her running nose with the back of her hand. “Because she didn’t look like she’s suffering to me. And you know why?” she asks, not waiting for an answer. “Because she isn’t. She’s not remotely sorry for what she did. You can see it in her eyes, in her posture. Did you notice how still she sits? There’s a calmness about her. A serenity. As if …”

  �
�As if what?”

  “I don’t know.” Amanda stares out the front window, following the arc of the windshield wipers as they swoop against the falling snow. “It’s almost as if her demons have finally been stilled.”

  Ben glances toward her. “You’re saying John Mallins was a demon?”

  “I don’t know what I’m saying.”

  “We’ll try again tomorrow.”

  “What? You’re kidding, right? No way I’m going back there.” Amanda reaches down to massage her knee.

  “Sore?”

  “Furious,” she responds, grateful when he laughs. “You’re not really going to let her plead guilty on Tuesday, are you?”

  “I’m not sure I can stop her.”

  Amanda shakes her head in frustration. “She’s obviously insane.”

  “You heard the woman. She knew what she was doing, and she knew it was wrong.”

  “Temporary insanity then.”

  “Hard to plead temporary insanity when she was waiting for the man all afternoon with a gun. It bespeaks a certain measure of premeditation, don’t you think?”

  “Not guilty by reason of mental defect?”

  “What defect?”

  “That she’s mental?” This time they both laugh. “You think the prosecution might be willing to cut a deal?”

  “Why would they? They have an airtight case.”

  “They don’t have a motive.”

  “They don’t need one,” he reminds her.

  “What if I do?”

  “Then I guess you’ll just have to stick around a few more days and see what we can come up with.”

  “Shit.” Amanda massages the back of her neck. Ben was right—already she’s starting to stiffen up. “What the hell. Let her plead guilty, if that’s what she wants. I don’t care.”

  A faint ringing echoes through the car, ricochets off the windows. Ben reaches inside his leather jacket and pulls out his cell phone, answering it in the middle of its second ring. “Hello.” He looks down, listens intently. “When did this happen?”

  Amanda observes the intensity of his concentration as he listens, remembering such intensity was always one of his most attractive qualities. He had a way of making you feel as if you were the only person in the room who mattered, she thinks, hearing the faint echo of a woman’s voice in the receiver, and experiencing a sharp stab of jealousy.