The Real Mother

by Judith Michael

  A gay little song ran through his head. Number two and number three, how exciting that will be! One at the front, one at the back, and an exit they will lack!

  He heard voices in the library. People here? At five in the morning? He peered around the doorjamb. The witches, all three of them, asleep. A movie playing to no audience. Three witches, alone in the house, and sound asleep.

  Time to leave, not to cleave, a chance to fleeve, you better believe. Giggles bubbled in his throat. He was better than all of them, cleverer, funnier, smarter. Nobody stood a chance against him. The giggles tickled his tongue and spilled out. The sound of it shocked him. Careful, careful, mustn’t wake up the witches.

  In the kitchen, he piled newspapers, paper towels, kitchen towels, a couple of cookbooks haphazardly against the back door. Fire, fire, never tire; they’ll wake up to something dire. He pulled a book of matches from his pocket.

  Stop! Can’t do that!

  Who the hell—? No one. No one was there. But from somewhere inside him, a voice had ordered him to stop.

  Why should I?

  The voice cut through the cacophony of ditties and rhymes clanging in his head. An accident. You forgot that. It has to look like an accident.

  That was the plan. Make it look like an accident. Kids dead; nobody telling the cops about his dealing or fixing up Pussy what’s-hername’s suicide. House burned down, accident, nobody looking for Mack. But… nobody’d be looking anyway; kids dead, no reason to look for Mack.

  So why make it look like an accident? What difference did it make? Who cared?

  You care.

  And he knew that he did. He knew that Mack Hayden could not stand it if everyone in the world believed he had deliberately burned down a house with three children in it. He’d be gone; who else would they blame?

  But then, where was his plan? He had to have a plan; he always had a plan; it kept him ahead of everybody else. Where was his plan?

  Set three fires. That was the plan.

  Make it look like an accident. That was the plan.

  Can’t do both.

  Frantically, his thoughts bounced around, trapped. Within the space of a few seconds, he knew that his infallible plan was actually a mess.

  He thought he smelled smoke from the third floor. An accident. Nothing else was left of all his planning. In a frenzy, he shoved the newspapers back into the recycling box, tossed the paper towels onto the counter, returned the kitchen towels to the drawer. He pushed the drawer shut, and it slammed into place, echoing like a shot through the silent house.

  “Who’s there?” called Abby. “Sara? Are you home?”

  Get out, get out, get out. The words hammered inside Mack’s head.

  But I’m not finished, have to fix the fucking—

  You shouldn’t talk like that. Sara doesn’t like it.

  Listen, you little cunt, you can’t tell me how to—

  It isn’t nice, it’s not the way nice people talk, people who aren’t ignorant and crude.

  Get away from me! Leave me alone! Have to get out, get to Nauru!

  Briefly, he could feel the heat of the Nauru sun on his bare back, see the welcoming smiles of the protective people who loved him. No one would find him there, no one would ever touch him there, his memories would fade away, and he’d finally forget this house and everybody in it.

  He looked around the kitchen to see if he had forgotten anything, his gaze catching on the armchairs where he and Sara had had espresso and she had welcomed him home. That was a good night, one of the best, that was a time when he’d been almost content. Too late, too late, it was all gone. He reached for the back door.

  No, wait. Almost forgot…go the other way—

  He dashed through the house to the front door, thinking of only one thing, all other thoughts, all his plans, shut down. The giraffe. Doug had carved it, polished it, given it to him. Because I love you. Mack remembered putting it in the duffel; it had to be there, couldn’t have fallen out, it was there, and he had to get it. He did not stop to ask why; he only knew he had to take it with him. Focused on that, he jerked open the front door and slipped out—get going, get moving, sun’s almost up, it’s already light—pulling it shut behind him.

  The door slammed, and Abby said again, “Sara?” When there was no answer, she thought she must have dreamed it, or maybe it was part of the movie that was still on. She blinked at the screen, two people talking, cars in the background, no doors slamming. She looked at Doug and Carrie, sound asleep, curled up at each end of the couch. They hadn’t heard anything, so maybe there hadn’t been anything.

  Abby had been fighting all night to stay awake; three times she had made coffee, but all it did was make her jumpy and sleepy at the same time. Vaguely she remembered someone giggling, and then two loud noises, but she wasn’t sure she’d really heard them.

  Faintly, she smelled smoke. He was still awake up there in his room, awake and smoking. What had happened to him that he was so awful today? Worse than he’d ever been before. Almost out of his mind. Abby didn’t really have any idea what people were like when they were out of their minds, but the phrase had popped into her slow, groggy thoughts, and it seemed to fit Mack, at least today. Every time Sara had called, just about every hour, and asked what Mack was doing, Abby always said he wasn’t doing anything. “I guess he hasn’t left the house; I would have heard him. So he’s still up there. Probably sleeping. Or smoking. Where are you?”

  And Sara said, at first, New Jersey, and then Pennsylvania. Whatever she said, it always seemed a long way from the library where Abby kept watch over Doug and Carrie, and one movie flowed into another on the television set.

  She knew Sara and Reuben were taking turns driving, to get home faster, and a little while ago she called them, Reuben answered. “Here, you want to talk to Sara,” he said, but, surprising herself, Abby said quickly, “No, it’s okay. Where are you?”

  “Indiana, near a town called Elkhart. Shall I tell you what it’s like?”

  “Yes, please.” How amazing; he knows I want to keep talking. Maybe he knows a lot of things, maybe that’s why Sara loves him. “I’m trying to stay awake. What time is it?”

  “Almost four-thirty in the morning. You could sleep for a while.”

  “I’m taking care of Doug and Carrie. Tell me what it’s like there.”

  Reuben settled the phone in its cradle, turned up the volume so Sara could hear both sides of the conversation.

  He looked through the window. “It’s still dark, so we have to do a considerable amount of imagining. We’ve just crossed the St. Joseph River, and we’re driving due west, paralleling the border with Michigan. There are a few lights, insomniacs or very early risers in farmhouses and the small towns that flash by so quickly we barely glimpse them before they’re behind us. Your sister Sara is an amazing driver; she likes speed and she has great concentration and reflexes.”

  A small gasp came from Abby, and Sara gave Reuben a quick glance.

  “But it took lots of practice to get this good,” he went on smoothly. “Practice, and thinking about what she was doing. She told me you’re a good driver, by the way; you’ll be as good as she is, as long as you make good decisions. Which is true of all of us, at any age, wouldn’t you say?”

  There was a pause. “Thanks,” Abby breathed. “I mean… thanks.”

  “Anyway, this is fine countryside; flourishing fields, orchards, neat farmhouses, groves of trees along the rivers. It’s like a tapestry, or a mosaic of shapes and colors. And there are sand dunes—”

  “Oh, we’ve been there! Sara took us a couple of times, her friends have a weekend house in Lakeside, and our school had a field trip. But”—her words were slow and sleepy—“tell me what they’re like anyway.”

  “Okay, and you tell me what you remember. First of all, they’re enormous—people are dwarfed by them—huge rounded hills of sand all flowing into each other, stretching almost to the lake, wild grasses and trees and bushes growing up a
nd down the slopes, with rippling sand between them sculpted by wind and rain. The area has bogs and wetlands, too, almost swamps, and forests…”

  He described the area to Abby as if he could see it alongside the highway instead of as he remembered it from a visit long ago. “And farms, of course. The Amish are here—”

  “We studied them. Sara bought an Amish quilt from Indiana once.”

  “They make wonderful quilts, some of the best. I have one…had one.” He paused briefly, then took a chance. “I’d like another; maybe we’ll drive out here one weekend and do some exploring. If you find one you like, we’ll buy you one, too. You’ll like the Amish farms; they’re very beautiful, homey and orderly, with trim buildings and picket fences, and the furniture in their houses is wonderfully simple and perfectly proportioned.”

  He described Amish furniture and the life of the farms: buggies and tools in the yards, the first hay bales of fall, squash vines, and apple and cherry orchards. “Perfectly spaced rows of primitive-looking trees like abstract art, gnarled, almost grotesque but quite dignified.”

  “How can they be dignified if they’re gnarled and grotesque?”

  “Staunch, solid, striving up and outward, seemingly unshakable in a shaky and changing world. And the apples have won prizes, according to my atlas, which makes the orchards even more respectable.” Reuben paused, then took another chance. “When we come back looking for quilts, if it’s autumn we can pick our own apples, and try out the cider and apple butter, and you can decide how well I described it.”

  “You said you were imagining it.”

  “If I can’t see beauty around me, I try to imagine it. Don’t you?”

  There was a silence. “I like that,” Abby said. “Did you say—?” She stopped, and Reuben closed his eyes and waited. “You said we’d all go there. Quilts and apples. Are you and Sara getting married?”

  Reuben looked at Sara. Had he ever asked her? Had she asked him? Their eyes met and they both remembered the quiet evening, a deluge outside, his study warm and sheltering, when they had known they would share their lives. Only two nights ago, he thought, but it had been so clear and obvious that it seemed, now, as if it always had been that way. Briefly taking her eyes from the highway, Sara smiled at Reuben and reached out to touch his hand before turning back as she said, “Yes, Abby, we are.”

  “Sara? I didn’t know you were there. I mean, I knew you were there, but not listening.”

  “Sara is driving at a speed that does not allow conversation,” said Reuben. “All she can do is eavesdrop while we do the talking.”

  “Oh.” There was a pause. “When are you …?”

  “We haven’t set a date. All of us have to sit down and find the best time for everyone.”

  “Oh. You mean …you want us to be part of it? The wedding?”

  “You are part of it. How could we get married without you? And your mother; she has to be there, too.”

  “Oh.”

  “What do all those ohs mean, Abby?” Sara asked.

  “I don’t know. I mean, I thought you’d broken up and then all of a sudden …you’re getting married.”

  “We’ve talked a lot,” said Reuben, “and been through a lot in the past couple of days. Sometimes you just know what’s right for you. No more doubts.”

  “I never had that.”

  “You will; give it time.” Reuben winced, remembering his own irritation every time his father had said those words to him. I have to learn to be a different kind of father, he thought, and was instantly amused, knowing that, already, he was sounding like other parents, everywhere.

  “That’s what everybody says when you’re fifteen.” Abby was so sleepy it was hard to keep her head up, but she knew if she lay down she would really and truly fall asleep. “When will you be home?”

  “Two hours, maybe. Three at the most. Is everything quiet?”

  “Yes, I can smell him smoking; he hasn’t come downstairs at all.”

  “Call us anytime,” Sara said. “If something’s bothering you, don’t wait, just call. Anytime.”

  After that Abby had been unable to stay awake and had slept until she heard the noises and thought Sara was home. It was probably the movie, she thought, and then she smelled the smoke again, and realized, for the first time, that it was not marijuana. “Something’s burning,” she said aloud.

  Carrie opened her eyes. “What?”

  “Something’s burning,” Abby repeated. “Doug, wake up. There’s a fire.”

  “He’s smoking,” Doug mumbled. “Leave me alone.”

  “Get up! We have to find out what it is, and I don’t want to go up there alone.”

  “You’re supposed to take care of us.”

  “Up! Now!” Abby snapped.

  “I don’t want to go up there,” Carrie said.

  “We’re going. All of us. Doug, get up.”

  Prodding and pushing, she got them into the hall and up the stairs to the second floor. “I smell smoke,” Doug said.

  “No kidding.” Holding their hands, Abby led the way to the third-floor stairs.

  The smell was stronger, acrid, stinging their noses, and as they climbed the stairs they saw gray filaments of smoke crawling along the ceiling of Mack’s room and into the stairway. “Mack!” Doug shouted. “He’ll burn up!” Pulling his hand free, he dashed the rest of the way up the stairs.

  “Doug!” Abby ran after him. “Get out of there!”

  “The fire extinguisher!” Carrie cried, and ran back down to the second floor.

  “No, call 911!” Abby called after her, but Carrie was already pulling the fire extinguisher from its clamp on the wall.

  “Come on, Doug, Carrie’s calling—” Abby stopped. She was standing in the doorway beside the tumbled burlap curtain Carrie had pulled down earlier. Across the room Doug was dancing around Mack’s bed, coughing, kept back by flames shooting up beneath a cumulus of gray and black smoke. Some of the flames had traveled down a sheet that dragged on the floor, and were licking at a small throw rug and a crumpled cigarette pack lying on its fringe. On the other side of the bed, flames had consumed the burlap curtains at the windows and were clawing at the wood frames.

  “He’s in there!” Doug gasped between coughs. “Burning up! We have to get him out!”

  Abby squinted at the bunched-up shape in the center of the bed. It could be Mack, or just a pile of blankets and sheets. She moved closer. Amid the flames she could see only rumpled shreds of a sheet and blanket. Coughing in the smoke, she grabbed Doug’s arm. “There’s nobody there, it’s just—”

  “Here!” Carrie cried, running up with the fire extinguisher held in both arms. “You do it, Abby.”

  “Did you call 911?”

  “No, I thought—” Carrie saw Abby’s face and burst into tears and then began to cough. “I thought we’d just put it out!” She dropped the fire extinguisher and looked at the bed. “He’s in there!”

  Doug was coughing and jumping up and down, trying to pull away from Abby’s grip, when the small throw rug burst into flames. They all leaped back as the rug was engulfed, smoke billowing through the room. There was a terrible smell, and burning bits of the rug’s fringe floated in the smoke, landing in their hair.

  Doug screeched and he and Carrie frantically slapped their heads where they felt burning in their hair. Abby grabbed their hands, and coughing, her eyes stinging, she pulled them to the stairs.

  “No, no!” Carrie shrieked. She was afraid and excited at the same time. “The fire! Abby, put out the fire! Our house can’t burn, it’s— Abby, do something!”

  “He’ll die!” Doug said, and began to cry. “He’s my brother!”

  “We’re not killing ourselves for Mack,” Abby snapped. “Or a house,” she muttered. She shoved the two of them ahead of her and down the stairs and pinned them to the wall as she punched in the numbers on the telephone. “Our house is on fire,” she cried as soon as it was answered, trying not to cough as she rapidly went throug
h their name and address. Slamming down the receiver, she said angrily to Carrie, “I told you to call them!”

  “I’m sorry!” Carrie wailed. “I thought it was just a little—”

  A loud ripping sound made them all look up, just as the ceiling gave way and pieces of plaster and burning wood fell around them, striking their faces. “My hair!” Doug yelled, and tried to cover his head with his arms. A splinter of burning wood caught on a silk chair beside the telephone, and then the fringe of the rug running down the center of the hall began to smolder. Carrie screamed and Abby grabbed their hands again and pulled them down the wide stairs to the first floor.

  “No, wait,” Carrie cried, “my journal! It’s in my—” She tried to pull away from Abby, but Abby, furious and afraid, tightened her grip, dragging her toward the front door. “Abby, my journal!”

  “Damn it, you’ll write a new one. Don’t be stupid.”

  “But my drawings!” yelled Doug. “They’ll burn up—” He yanked his hand from Abby’s and started for the stairs.

  “Stop, you’re crazy!” Abby screamed. She shoved Carrie out the front door and went after Doug, hauling him back down the stairs. They could see flames in the hallway where they had just been standing. “They’ll burn up!” Doug yelled.

  “You can make more; you can’t if you’re dead!” He was too heavy to pull; Abby got behind him and shoved as hard as she could.

  Doug tumbled over, howling, and while he was scrambling to his feet, Abby shoved him again, through the front door. She was crying and coughing and couldn’t see where she was going, but she was so angry and afraid she just kept going. Away, away, away. Nothing else mattered. “You’re an idiot, you’re both idiots, how can you be so stupid? Get outside, move, damn it, damn it, move!”