Blood Red

by Wendy Corsi Staub

  Why is it, Mick wonders, that whenever he wouldn’t mind having the house to himself—­which is pretty much all day, every day—­his parents are around, yet the one day it would have been useful to have at least one of them home, they’re both gone?

  He’d woken up early planning to go on his morning run, but rolled over and went back to sleep when he saw the crummy weather. Hours later, he re-­awakened to his dad calling through the bedroom door that he was heading out to run some errands.

  “Where’s Mom?” he asked groggily.

  “At the mall.”

  “When will she be back?”

  “Not till tonight.”

  “How about you?”

  “Later” was the vague reply.

  Mick fell back to sleep for another hour. When he finally got out of bed, he realized he’d have to ride his bike into town. Not fun even on a nice autumn day when you’re sixteen years old and have a driver’s permit, but positively torturous in this icy December rain.

  But he’s determined to carry out the plan that popped into his head last Monday night when he should have been working on his homework.

  Operation Secret Santa, he calls it—­not that he’s even shared it with his friends. Well aware that he’s walking the fine line between pathetic loser and romantic hero, he figures no one will be the wiser if the plan fails. But if it works out, he’ll tell the world what he did, and the world will think he’s a genius.

  Better yet, Brianna Armbruster will have fallen head over heels in love with him and dumped the college guy Zach told him about.

  When that happens, everything—­even spending all the tip money he was saving for his ski trip and pedaling this uphill mile in freezing rain—­will be worthwhile.

  Mick warms himself with thoughts of the future. When he and Brianna are married with kids, they’ll talk about Operation Secret Santa the way his own parents often talk about the good old days when they first fell in love.

  It’s hard for Mick to even imagine Mom and Dad meeting and dating back when they were only a little older than his brother and sister are now. But he’s heard the story often enough—­about how they were both home in Mundy’s Landing for Christmas, and Dad was in Vernon’s Apothecary looking for a present for Grandma Mundy, and Mom was there buying “something embarrassing,” as she always puts it. Even if Mick had the slightest desire to know what it was, there’s no interrupting his parents when they volley the story back and forth.

  “She heard me telling the saleswoman that I was browsing for something for my mom,” Dad says, “and for some reason, she decided to put her two cents in.”

  “Because he was looking at the gaudiest earrings you ever saw.”

  “And you wanted me to buy her perfume that stunk to high heaven.”

  “It was Giorgio Armani. Your mother loves it.”

  “Now she does—­”

  “Thanks to me.”

  “Thanks to you,” Dad agrees, “but I still think it stinks.”

  “But you bought it for her. And you bought me a beer that night when we ran into each other again down at the Windmill.” That’s a local pub.

  “And you dumped it on my lap.”

  Mom would insist that it was an accident, and Dad would say it was on purpose. Then they’d argue about whose idea it was to go see a movie together on Christmas Day, because neither of them bothered to make sure the theater would be open. It wasn’t; nor were any of the restaurants in town. To salvage the date, they went skating on Milkweed Pond behind the high school. Mom remembers that they had the ice all to themselves and that it was snowing; Dad is convinced there were other skaters and that there was no snow.

  The only detail that was never disputed by either of them: that even on that first date, they knew they would be together forever.

  Mick locks his bike on the rack in front of the library and walks toward the shops and restaurants that line the village square. The Windmill is still there, a few doors down from Marrana’s.

  Someday, he and Brianna will go there, and they’ll skate together on Milkweed Pond, and they’ll share their love story with their kids. It’ll start with the moment Mick fell off his bike in front of her that summer before freshman year—­they’ll leave out the fact that she was with another guy who called Mick a carrot top. The next part will be about how he left her anonymous little Secret Santa gifts every day for a week, and on Friday came the big gift, the one that won her heart . . .

  What will it be?

  Not a twenty-­five-­dollar gift certificate to Marrana’s, that’s for sure.

  But he has a pocket full of tip money and all afternoon to figure it out.

  Vast and iconic, the white-­columned James A. Farley post office branch is always extra-­crowded in December, not just with ­people mailing holiday cards and packages but also with hordes of Good Samaritans. This is where Operation Santa Claus began over a century ago, with ­people picking up letters from needy children and anonymously buying gifts for them.

  The tradition is going strong on this rainy Manhattan Saturday. Casey has to weave past crowds of do-­gooders to join hundreds of customers on the long line that snakes toward the ser­vice counter.

  No one amid this chaos is likely to question—­or later remember—­a plain brown-­paper-­wrapped package.

  It takes nearly an hour to reach the counter, but that’s just fine. There’s a redheaded woman standing just a few ­people ahead in the line, her long hair a tantalizing reminder of the pleasures that lie in store very soon . . .

  As a child, even during the hardest years, Casey was always anxious for Christmas. But that giddy anticipation was nothing compared to this.

  Another stand-­in might be necessary after all. Not here, though. That would break all the rules of the game, rules that are there for very good reasons.

  If something were to go wrong now, then none of this will have any meaning. Casey’s efforts will amount to nothing, and a guilty woman will go unpunished.

  I couldn’t bear that. I can’t take any chances. I have to stick with the plan, follow the rules, wait it out.

  It’s the redhead’s turn to step forward to the counter. As she moves out of reach, Casey fists fingers that long to grasp that beautiful hair and yank her backward.

  “Next!”

  Casey places the package on the counter, keeping an eye on the redhead a short distance away.

  “Is there anything fragile, liquid, or perishable inside?” the postal clerk asks.

  “No.” A lie.

  “Do you want insurance or tracking or delivery confirmation?”

  “No thanks.”

  “You sure?”

  “Positive.”

  The clerk, a diminutive Asian woman, takes her sweet time typing on her keyboard with glossy purple fingernails that clash with her close-­cropped red hair.

  Casey’s hands clench and unclench, clench and unclench.

  She slaps a label on the box.

  “When will it get there? Do you know?”

  The clerk glances at the label. “I doubt Monday, but you never know. Probably Tuesday. Wednesday or Thursday at the latest.”

  “That’s not very specific.”

  “You could have sent it priority so that it’s traceable or—­”

  “I didn’t want to do that.”

  “Then you take your chances. It’s Christmastime. Things are crazy here.”

  Yeah. No kidding.

  Everything about her is irritating. What a pleasure it would be to slice into her belly and see her flesh rip open, oozing gobs of white fat and red blood.

  But it wouldn’t bring pleasure in the usual way.

  She’s all wrong. Her dye job is unnatural, and her hair is short. Things would be different if it were long and silky like Rowan’s, or like that of the young woman standi
ng nearby . . .

  The woman who’s going to get away if this bitch doesn’t speed things up.

  Dispatching the clerk would be strictly business, resulting in the same perfunctory pleasure you get when you’ve finally swatted a fly that’s been buzzing around the house.

  “That’ll be six dollars and five cents.”

  Seething with impatience, Casey hands over a twenty-­dollar bill.

  “Do you have a nickel?”

  “No.”

  Wearing a disapproving expression, she takes change from her drawer, counting it twice before handing it over. “Have a good weekend.”

  “Oh, I will.” Believe me.

  Casey pockets the money and turns to see that the redhead—­the other redhead, the potential stand-­in—­is just finishing up, too.

  Yes, it would be against the rules, self-­imposed or not.

  But as the saying goes—­and as Rowan herself clearly agrees—­rules were made to be broken.

  From the Mundy’s Landing Tribune Archives

  Community Notebook

  July 1, 2004

  New Hires at Local Schools

  At Mundy’s Landing Elementary, a new fourth-­grade teacher will replace retiring teacher Eloise Duncan in the upcoming school year. Born and raised in the village, Rowan Carmichael Mundy attended MLES and was a student in Mrs. Duncan’s classroom just over twenty-­five years ago, as was her husband, Jake. The ­couple moved back to their mutual hometown in 2002 and live on Riverview Drive with their three children, all of whom are students in the public school district. Asked how she feels about being employed at her alma mater, Ms. Mundy smiled and stated simply, “It’s home, and I’m glad to be back.”

  Chapter 5

  On Saturday evening, when Rowan drives around the bend and her house comes into view, she knows immediately that something is terribly wrong.

  Night fell over an hour ago, but the windows are dark from attic to basement, and the porch light and lamppost are off.

  She’d exchanged text messages with both Jake and Mick shortly before leaving Central Valley to make the long drive home. Mick was already gone, out for pizza with friends before tonight’s varsity hockey game, but Jake was home and suggested that they go out to dinner.

  Date night? Marrana’s?

  Sounds great! she’d responded even though it’s the last thing she feels like doing.

  She has to force herself to keep driving toward the dark house, her heart pounding wildly as her mind flits through the possibilities, each horrific in its own way.

  Jake knew she’d lied about where she was going this morning and decided to give her a taste of her own medicine, or . . .

  Or he’d found the burnt cookies in the attic and figured out what had happened between her and Rick fourteen years ago and had walked out on her, or . . .

  Or someone broke into the house and attacked him . . .

  Or . . .

  Or he dozed off watching TV before it got dark, she realizes with relief as she turns into the driveway and spots a telltale faint blue flicker in the living room window.

  Ironic that her mind didn’t even go to that innocuous scenario despite the fact that it happens regularly.

  It’s because her guilt has been festering all day.

  As she was driving back from Manhattan, she’d worked herself into a panic about the box in the attic, worried that Jake might have decided to put up the outdoor Christmas lights this afternoon to surprise her.

  They’re also stored in the attic—­yes, on the opposite end, but still . . .

  Every year, she has to nag him to string the lights in the shrubs and along the porch eaves. This year—­the one year she’s been trying to keep him out of the attic and thus hasn’t mentioned it at all—­would be the one year he’d do it.

  And if he’d gone poking around up there and found the package . . .

  Oh, come on. One plus one doesn’t add up to five.

  She tried to convince herself that a box filled with burnt cookies and old newspaper couldn’t possibly lead Jake to conclude that she’d been unfaithful. But by the time she arrived at the mall, paranoia had gotten the better of her.

  She tried to call Noreen, but her sister didn’t pick up her cell or at the house. She left a message, trying to sound casual: “Loved your Christmas card. Call me back whenever you have a chance.”

  Noreen is one of those ­people who walks around with her phone in her pocket when it isn’t in her hand. She always returns calls promptly. This time, she didn’t.

  Maybe she’s busy.

  Of course she’s busy; she’s always busy.

  Rowan takes a deep breath as she pulls around to the back of the house and parks beside Jake’s Jeep. After turning off the engine, she rests her forehead against the steering wheel for a moment, spent.

  You’re okay. Pull yourself together. You’ve got this.

  She gets out of the minivan and grabs the shopping bags from the back. She’d more or less raced through the outlet center snatching up things she thought Jake and the kids might like for Christmas, along with a belated engagement gift for her nephew Andrew and his fiancée, who live in Chicago near her oldest brother, Mitch.

  Her efforts resulted in a convincing pile of paper shopping bags and the promise of hefty store credit card bills come January.

  By then, though, this will all be behind her. She’ll have figured out which of two possible scenarios is the more likely.

  Either Rick was playing out an elaborate charade today, lying about having sent the package or at least about having told someone what had happened between them years ago, or . . .

  Or the one person in whom Rowan confided is responsible in some way for the burnt cookies.

  But Rowan just can’t imagine it. Her sister is much too classy—­not to mention too busy—­to pull something like that. Besides, although Noreen might be sanctimonious at times, she would never deliberately hurt Rowan.

  It’s far more likely that Rick is behind this.

  He seemed earnest today—­for the most part—­but how well does she know him, really?

  Not well at all, anymore. There had been a time when she knew him as well as she knew her own husband, but ­people change.

  I need to talk to Noreen, she thinks as she juggles the shopping bags to unlock the back door. I’ll call her again, and if she doesn’t pick up, I’ll tell her it’s really urgent.

  There’s a brand-­new garbage can sitting beside the back steps, the latch firmly in place. Now she can get rid of the evidence at last.

  In the dark living room, she finds Jake dozing on the couch in front of a college basketball game. There’s a bag of chips and a soda can on the coffee table—­sans coaster, as usual, but she’s not about to chide him for that. Not today.

  “Hey,” she says, startling him. “Sorry. I’m home.”

  “Welcome back.” He yawns, stretches. “How was the mall?”

  “Great.” She holds up her bags. “How was your day?”

  “Great.”

  “What’d you do?”

  “This, pretty much. And some errands.”

  “Did you have a chance to refill your prescription?” He’s been on medication to lower his cholesterol since his last physical, much to his dismay, and he keeps allowing it to run out.

  “Forgot.”

  “Did you remember to pick up some dog food?” She’d texted him that they were running low.

  “Forgot,” he says again, “But I did buy a new trash can and drop off my shirts at the dry cleaner.”

  “Terrific. No more rancid garbage in the backyard, plus you’ll look nice and spiffy while your cholesterol is spiking and the dog is starving to death.”

  “Spiffy? Who says spiffy?” he retorts, but in his usual good-­natured way.

  She smiles
, glad things are back to normal, then reminds herself that things were never not normal. Not on Jake’s end.

  And that’s the way it’s going to stay, she vows, drinking in the gallery of happy family photographs beside the stairs as she heads up to change for dinner.

  The call to her sister will have to wait until later, or tomorrow morning. Tonight is date night with her husband, and Jake deserves her undivided attention at last.

  Noreen is finally finished driving the kids around.

  For today, anyway. What a whirlwind. She just dropped Sabrina and her friends at a bat mitzvah in Great Neck, and someone else’s mom is picking them up at midnight. She ran to the mall with Samantha to get a birthday gift for a friend, then delivered her and the gift and a trio of other girls to the birthday girl’s sleepover. Shannon won’t be home until tomorrow and Sean won’t be home until Christmas and Kevin is still at the hospital and God only knows when he’ll be home.

  She texted him earlier to make sure he’d seen the billing statement for Sean’s spring semester tuition. No response. He’s probably in the OR. She’s used to that. He nearly missed the delivery of their fourth child because he was miles away in surgery when her water broke. The contractions progressed so quickly that she was pushing by the time he got her message.

  The labor room nurses reassured her that he’d be there on time for the birth—­and in the end, they were right—­but everyone else seemed more disturbed by her husband’s absence than she was.

  I can take care of myself. I’ve never needed anyone there holding my hand or, God forbid, looking over my shoulder . . .

  Rowan called her cell phone twice today; called the house, too. Not urgent, according to her messages.

  As always, the thought of her younger sister is accompanied by an intermingling of nostalgia, affection, and deep-­seated antagonism. Her relationship with Rowan is perhaps the most complicated one in her life—­and considering the state of her life at the moment, she’s in no hurry to return her sister’s call.

  In the master bedroom, she folds the jeans she’d worn today back into the bureau drawer and hangs her silk blouse in her walk-­in closet. She pulls on a cozy long-­sleeved T-­shirt, a pair of fleece-­lined yoga pants, and soft yarn socks. At times like this, small doses of comfort go a long way.