Puppet

by Joy Fielding

The next two drawers are filled with ordinary kitchen items: stainless-steel cutlery; colorful, cotton dish towels; round, plastic place mats covered with pictures of succulent purple and red berries; white paper napkins, trimmed in blue and pink swirls. There’s a drawer filled to bursting with instructions for operating the various kitchen appliances, along with their accompanying warrantees, and another drawer weighted down with saved wooden chopsticks and plastic cutlery from various take-out restaurants. A telephone-address book sits on top of a large manila folder in the drawer directly underneath the phone, and Amanda flips through the book’s pages, not surprised to find most of the pages blank. Nothing under M for Mallins. Nothing under T for Turk. Although Corinne Nash is listed under both C and N. On impulse, she checks the A’s, and gasps when she sees AMANDA printed large across the middle of two pages, AMA on one side, NDA on the other. Beneath both halves of her name is a list of all the phone numbers she’s had since she moved away, as if her mother has been following her from place to place, and from man to man, up to and including her current home and office numbers in Florida, although her mother has never called her at any of these numbers. Amanda makes a dismissive clicking noise with her tongue, then tosses the book back inside the drawer, about to close it when she decides to check inside the large manila folder.

  “I’m wasting my time,” she says, remembering that Ben has already searched through these very drawers and come up empty-handed. Still, that was before she’d spoken to Rachel Mallins, before they’d heard of a man named Turk, before the puzzling autopsy report had come back. It’s entirely possible that Ben, having no idea what he was looking for, might have missed something. She opens the folder, turns it sideways to get a better look at the papers inside.

  Report cards, she realizes, lowering herself to the bench along the wall of the little breakfast nook, and spreading the report cards across the laminated tabletop. PALMERSTON PUBLIC SCHOOL. Name: Amanda Price. Key to Grading: A = excellent, B = good, C = average, D = unsatisfactory, NA = not applicable. And then a list of marks: A’s in reading, creative writing, handwriting, spelling, and math. A’s in School Citizenship and Study Skills, although only C’s for Participation in Class Discussion.

  Amanda is a quiet and conscientious student, always a pleasure to have in the class. Again this term, she has produced excellent written work, and her stories are both fanciful and well told. However, I wish she would speak up more in class.

  I am very pleased with Amanda’s progress. Her homework is always done and presented on time, and her book reports are done with care, although she needs to proofread her work so that unnecessary errors could be avoided. She’s very quiet in class, although she seems to get along well with the other children.

  Amanda is a quiet, pleasant, hardworking individual and I very much enjoy having her in my grade five class. Her project on Japan was well researched and interestingly presented.

  “What the hell?” Amanda asks out loud, scanning the seemingly endless supply of reports, from junior kindergarten on up. “She saved them all? No, of course she didn’t,” she says, answering her own question. “It was my father who saved them. She just couldn’t be bothered throwing them away.”

  Once again, I was simply too much of an effort, she thinks, perusing the rest of the report cards, noting the concern in the teachers’ comments that started to appear when she transferred into junior high—Even though her grades are good, I’m a little worried about Amanda’s attitude—and the impatience that was evident in their comments by the time she reached high school. Amanda would benefit from a stronger work ethic. She prefers to coast on her natural ability and lacks discipline. Her attendance in class also leaves something to be desired.

  “Passed, didn’t I?” Amanda demands, slapping the folder shut and jumping to her feet, then dumping the folder with all its report cards into the garbage bin underneath the sink. “Made it into law school, didn’t I? Near perfect LSATs. Hah!” What the hell am I doing? she wonders, quickly retrieving the report cards from the garbage and picking off several wilted lettuce leaves before returning the folder to its former resting place in the drawer. I’m going crazy, that’s what I’m doing. And why not? “It runs in the family,” she announces to the empty house. She returns to the foyer, throws her purse over one shoulder and her overnight bag over the other, and totes them up the stairs, pushing one weary leg in front of the other, hearing her muscles groan, as if she is navigating a steep mountain. Might as well go back to bed, she decides, suddenly overwhelmed with fatigue.

  Maybe I’m coming down with something, she thinks. Maybe I picked something up on the plane. Everyone knows planes are hotbeds for germs. All that stale air. People cramped together in a narrow, confined space, coughing and sneezing. And then the extreme change in the weather, the cold air she’s no longer used to. Not to mention the circumstances that have brought her here, the reunion with her mother and former husband, the unpleasant reminders of a past she thought she’d put behind her. It was enough to make anyone tired. Plus all that damn snow she shoveled. No wonder her arms ache and her back is stiff. No wonder she’s exhausted. No wonder all she wants to do is climb into bed and go back to sleep.

  The light is still on in her old bedroom. She moves directly to the window and stares out at the driveway that runs between her mother’s house and the house next door, thinking of poor old Mr. Walsh and trying to recall the details of his face. But beyond the wrinkles that drooped across his face like heavy curtains, and the limp strings of white hair that fell across the top of his mostly bald head, all she can see is the massive stomach that strained at the buttons of his short-sleeved shirts and poured over the tops of his perpetually stained Bermuda shorts in summer. While the setting is clear, the man’s features are fuzzy and indistinct, like a photograph in which the background is in focus but the main subject is a frustrating blur. Amanda can picture a dark green sedan pulling to a stop in the middle of their mutual driveway; she can see a giant walrus of a man pushing himself out of the car; she can make out the sweat dripping off his forehead as he casts a furtive glance over his shoulder toward her mother’s house and hears his derisive snort. For an instant, Amanda even thinks she sees a sneer playing with the corners of his lips. “Why, you miserable son of a bitch,” she says out loud. “You parked there on purpose.” No wonder my mother put a curse on you.

  “Please don’t tell me I’m actually sympathizing with my mother,” Amanda moans loudly, unpacking her few belongings and spreading them across the bed. “Now I know I’m sick.” Certainly I must have been suffering from some sort of delirium when I bought this, she thinks, holding her new purple sweater out in front of her. Purple, for God’s sake. And mohair. When is she ever going to wear it? “I’ll wear it to bed,” she decides, stripping off her clothes and pulling the sweater over her head, feeling it toasty and warm against her bare skin.

  She grabs her toothbrush and walks into the bathroom, stares at herself in the mirror over the sink, surprised to see how good the purple sweater looks on her, how nicely it meshes with her blond hair and compliments the delicate blush in her cheeks.

  I don’t think I’ve ever told you how beautiful you are.

  I certainly don’t look very beautiful now, Amanda thinks, brushing her teeth and washing her face, then pushing her face close to the glass, examining her skin for tiny lines. “You’re never too young to start moisturizing,” she tells her reflection, opening the medicine cabinet and staring in openmouthed amazement at the rows of pill bottles that line the shelves.

  Scattered among the usual over-the-counter medications, she finds numerous bottles of Tylenol 3 and Percodan, as well as prescriptions for a host of well-known antidepressants, several of which have lately been found to induce psychosis in an alarming number of people. Is her mother one of those people? Was she under the influence of one or more of these powerful narcotics when she shot and killed John Mallins? Amanda checks the dates on the various bottles, noting that each has long since exp
ired. Is it possible her mother had been taking these drugs for a long time, then stopped cold turkey, resulting in a chemical imbalance that rendered her incapable of rational thought, thus making her a victim of diminished capacity and clearly not responsible for her actions?

  Amanda races back into her bedroom, grabs her cell phone from her purse, about to call Ben and share with him her latest discovery and apologize profusely for having failed to check the medicine cabinet the last time they were here. What was the matter with her? How could she have missed anything so obvious?

  Except:

  What difference does it make that her mother might have been abusing prescription drugs, if her mother persists in claiming she knew what she was doing and knew it to be wrong? What difference does it make if her mother went off the drugs cold turkey, or that she was taking drugs that had long since passed their expiry date, if her mother refused to consider a plea of diminished capacity, which she undoubtedly would?

  Still …

  Amanda presses in Ben’s telephone number, listens to its repeated rings, and hangs up before Ben’s voice mail can click on. No point in leaving a message. She’ll probably be asleep by the time he gets home. With Jennifer undoubtedly glued to his side. And why not? Why shouldn’t they be together? Jennifer is attractive and smart, and it’s unlikely her mother goes around shooting people in hotel lobbies. Clearly, she’s a much saner choice, a much safer bet. Undoubtedly, Ben’s mother would have approved. And his father, she thinks, picturing the handsome, senior Mr. Myers, now on his honeymoon with her former history teacher.

  So funny how things work out.

  Ben’s father is about the same age as her ex-husband, Sean, she realizes, grimacing at the disconcerting thought as she wanders into her mother’s bedroom and flips on the light. Whatever had possessed her to marry Sean anyway? More to the point, what had possessed Sean to marry her? True, she was young and pretty, but Florida was full of young and pretty women, and smart and sophisticated men like Sean weren’t easily impressed. So what had he seen in her? And how could he love her—how could any man really love her?—when her own father had been so indifferent? When her own mother had looked at her and seen right through her, deemed her unfit to love?

  Amanda walks toward the alcove beside her mother’s bed, her eyes scanning the miniature crystal knickknacks sitting on the shelf, her fingers gently caressing a small glass poodle with tiny black beads that serve as its eyes and nose. “Okay, enough of this. This is getting us nowhere.” She marches over to her mother’s dresser, begins rummaging impatiently through the drawers. “Same stuff that was here last time I looked,” she mutters, closing the last of the drawers and glancing out the window, staring at Mrs. MacGiver’s house across the street.

  Someone is standing in the upstairs window, Amanda realizes, taking a step back even as her body leans forward to catch a better glimpse. “Mrs. MacGiver, is that you?” she whispers, inching back toward the window, leaning her forehead against the cold pane of glass. The figure in the opposite window retreats, disappearing behind layers of curtains. Seconds later, the lights in the room go out.

  Amanda stands for several minutes staring into the darkness, wondering how many of her old neighbors are still around, if any of them is watching her now. Maybe she should canvass the street tomorrow, talk to people who know her mother. It’s possible someone might be able to shed some light on the situation. People often know more than they think they do. Although experience has taught her they generally know less.

  “Okay, enough of this,” she says to anyone who might be watching. “For all those who are interested, I’m going to bed now. How does everyone like my new sweater, by the way? You like the color? Don’t think purple’s too much? Good. Okay. Well, sleep tight, and pleasant dreams.” She flips off the light, returns to her old room, and crawls into bed. “Who am I kidding? I’ll never fall asleep,” she says, the words barely out of her mouth before she drifts into unconsciousness.

  Amanda?

  Amanda opens her eyes to see a skinny boy with a big wooden head and a high pompadour of black painted-on hair walking toward her. He is wearing a crisp white shirt tucked inside a pair of stiff denim jeans, and his eyes are as green as his smile is wide.

  Dance with me, he says, his hands jerking into position in front of him.

  Amanda climbs out of bed and curtsies, the boy responding with a low bow. Seconds later, she is securely fastened inside the boy’s wooden arms, and he is spinning her around a tall stage.

  I like your new sweater, he tells her as a gust of cold air blows against her face, freezing her smile, and causing her skin to harden, like ice. Her arms and legs begin moving in careless abandon, without thought or grace. First her right knee lifts into the air, then her left hand, then both legs together. Then her right arm shoots out to one side, her mouth opening and closing, although the voice that emerges is no longer her own.

  Puppet, puppet, the unfamiliar voice chants, the muscles in her back starting to twitch, as if a fishhook were lodged between her shoulder blades. Who’s my little puppet?

  “Shit,” Amanda says, jumping up and reaching for the lamp beside the bed, watching the dream evaporate in a burst of bright light. She runs her hand through her hair and tries to calm the wild beating of her heart, every muscle in her body starting to ache. “Should never have shoveled all that damn snow.” Despite the fact she’s now wide-awake, the strange voice continues to reverberate in the recesses of her mind. Whose voice? she wonders, pushing herself out of bed, and walking into the hall, shaking her shoulders in an effort to free herself from the uncomfortable feeling that someone is still pulling her strings.

  TWENTY-THREE

  AMANDA shuffles into the bathroom, where she turns on the tap and splashes several handfuls of cold water across her face, a face that she is startled to realize is already wet with tears. “What the hell am I crying about?” she asks her reflection impatiently, watching the familiar shake of her head in the glass, her head continuing to twist feverishly back and forth until her hair wraps itself around her eyes, like a surprise pair of hands—“Guess who?”—and the offending image disappears. She stands this way for several seconds, her head bowed, her hair clinging to her damp skin, her breathing punctuated by a rhythmic series of stillborn cries that threaten to burst from her body, like the final ticks of a bomb strapped uncomfortably around her chest. Her left hand reaches blindly toward the towel rack, her veiled eyes noting the time on the watch she forgot to remove when she crawled into bed. She’s surprised to realize it’s just past eleven o’clock. “Not even midnight,” she grouses, drying her face with a scratchy white towel, and filling the pink plastic glass at the side of the sink with water, drinking it down in one long gulp. “What am I supposed to do till morning?”

  She thinks of going downstairs and getting something to eat, but then she remembers the state of her mother’s fridge and decides that Granny Smith apples don’t exactly cut it as comfort food. Too healthy. Too good for you to be of any good to you in times of crises, when what you crave is something rich and gooey and overflowing with calories, like the macaroni and cheese she has already dispensed with. Of course, she could get dressed and try to find an all-night grocery store, although she’s not sure Toronto even has such things. Or she could simply order a pizza. Surely there are restaurants that are still open and prepared to deliver at this hour. It’s hardly the middle of the night. Or better yet, she could call Swiss Chalet. How long has it been since she had one of their half-chicken dinners with french fries smothered in tangy barbecue sauce? Much too long, she decides, returning to the bedroom and reaching inside her purse for her cell phone, already feeling her mouth watering in anticipation. She flips open her phone, is about to call information for the restaurant chain’s number, when she sees she has a message waiting.

  “Hi. It’s me. Ben,” his recorded message states without emotion, although the fact he deemed it necessary to add his name carries an inherent hint of recrimin
ation. “I just wondered how you were doing, but since you’re out and about, I guess you’re fine.” A slight pause, then: “Call me in the morning.”

  “Out and about,” Amanda repeats in Ben’s Canadian twang, so that the words emerge as oot and aboot. “Yes, I’m oot and aboot all right.” Oot and aboot in nothing but my new mohair sweater, wandering the upstairs halls of my mother’s house, like some big purple ghost, she continues silently. Salivating over the thought of a greasy fast-food dinner, my second of the night, incidentally, so quite obviously, there’s nothing wrong with my appetite, which I guess means I’m doing fine, thank you so much for your concern.

  She replays Ben’s message three times before erasing it. “When did you call anyway?” she asks the tiny phone, angry at herself for going to bed so early, for not taking the damn thing out of her purse, for not hearing it ring. She checks her watch again, decides it’s not too late to call him back. Surely he doesn’t go to bed before midnight.

  Call me later?

  Absolutely.

  Amanda presses in Ben’s number, her finger poised to disconnect should his answering machine pick up.

  “Hello?” Ben asks before the first ring is completed. His voice is warm, welcoming. She wants to curl up inside it.

  “It’s me.” Unlike her former husband, she doesn’t bother to clarify who “me” is. “I just got your message.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Home,” she says, the word teetering awkwardly on her tongue. “My mother’s,” she corrects instantly. “When did you call?”

  “A few hours ago.”

  “I fell asleep. I didn’t hear my phone ring.”

  “You feeling all right?”

  “Yeah. A little hungry.”

  He laughs.

  “I don’t suppose you feel like going out for something to eat?”

  “Can’t,” he says without further explanation.