The Blue Hour

by Richard Teleky

  “You’ll do anything for a rest,” I tried to joke, for some lightness. “So, what happened?”

  “I was shot in the ass!”

  “What?”

  “You heard me. In my ass! Can you believe it?”

  “Slow down, Sheila. How’s that possible? Your mother said…”

  “Well, it happened. There’s a fancy medical name, and they call it the ‘buttock fold,’ but it’s my ass. Right before it hits the back of the thigh.”

  “That must be painful.”

  “The bullet penetrated dermis – another one of their words – but fortunately not muscle.” She began to laugh with a desperate edge. “You know, after a certain age a woman has to choose between her face and her butt. Carrying an extra ten pounds is better for the face, you won’t look gaunt, so it’s lucky that was my choice.”

  “Let’s go back to last night and start at the beginning.”

  “I’ve already told every cop in town. I was in the basement, getting stuff ready for the mall, when I heard a noise above me. In the living room. At first I figured it must be the cats chasing each other, but I didn’t call out to stop, I didn’t want to make matters worse. They’re sensitive, and they don’t listen anyway. But when I came upstairs I saw two creeps near the fireplace. They had on those ski masks that cover the face, you know, and one was carrying a cloth bag that looked like a pillowcase. You can imagine how pissed I was. So I screamed, ‘What the fuck are you doing?’ and grabbed the back of the dining-room chair. I was gonna go after the short one with the chair, and the other one, the taller one, pulled his gun – it was two guys, of course – and then I don’t know exactly what went on but I heard a bang and next thing I was on the floor and the front door slammed.”

  “You could’ve been killed!”

  “Sure. And I’ll bet those guys know Loretta.”

  “Oh, Sheila, they might’ve been anyone. Your neighbors see you going in and out all the time with antiques, maybe…”

  “Will you do a couple favors for me?”

  “If I can.”

  “First, I’d like you to call the police.”

  “What for?”

  “You know all about Loretta. I need you to tell them about her. In case they think I’m a nut.”

  “But why do you think Loretta has anything to do with it?”

  “If you don’t want to help me just say so.”

  Sheila usually had better street smarts. “I’ll phone them, sure, but it won’t do any good.”

  “Okay, you can do it from here. Use my cell phone.”

  “And then what?”

  “Just phone them. When you’re done I’ll tell you.”

  I dialed from her cell, and in no time a receptionist took my call, put me on hold, and then transferred me to someone named Lieutenant Foley. After identifying myself, I mentioned Sheila’s late-night harassment, her troubles with Brad and her fear of Loretta. The voice at the other end of the line was steady and encouraging. He urged me to keep in contact with Mrs. Carney because she’d been very distressed – his words. I gave him my telephone numbers at home and at the college, just in case. In case of what, I didn’t know.

  When I finished, Sheila seemed relieved. “Now you’ll hate this, but I can’t ask anyone else. Take my mother to church. She’s too strung out and she really needs the afternoon mass.” She grinned for a second. “The Saturday Old People’s Mass, that’s what we call it. And I’d like to be by myself. I’m really not her little girl anymore, I need some rest from her.”

  This wasn’t what I expected. “If it’ll help you,” I agreed, not mentioning the chapel downstairs.

  During our drive, Mrs. Carney chattered away, oblivious to anything but her daughter. Orange day lilies already bloomed along the roadside, a month too early. Sheila had no use for them – “they’re almost weeds,” she often said – when they opened by my garage, but I refused to let her dig them up. Their soft apricot petals, streaked with burnt orange, meant high summer to me, and the freedom of childhood’s long school vacations.

  Set back from the road at the edge of town, in an expanse of grass that resembled a golf course, Sacred Heart had been built in the 1950s. Originally a social hall, it was converted when the parish couldn’t raise enough money for another new church. The addition of stained-glass windows – bright abstract designs, each relating a parable – gave it a fanciful air.

  “Is this your church, too?” Mrs. Carney asked, as I pulled into the parking lot.

  “No,” I said. “I don’t have a church. But I’ve been here several times. For a colleague’s wedding and a few funerals.”

  “I prefer the old churches,” she said.

  I walked beside her and she matched her step to mine.

  I didn’t say that my mother had been buried from this church, or that memories of her funeral service were filling my head. It had taken place on a bitter November morning fifteen years ago, yet like yesterday. We’d had early snow flurries but both Nick and Hedy stood by me, though they’d been worried about the drive. Don’t go there, I warned myself.

  We made our way through the parking lot, then the foyer. I reached for a weekly bulletin, for anything to read, and looked about. Perhaps two dozen people filled the pews, nearly all over seventy. Mrs. Carney pointed at one of the old plaster statues that must have been set out to soften the church’s modern lines. Sunlight poured through the glittering windows and I tried to guess which parable was illustrated by a particularly beautiful blue blob. Chartres blue, I think it’s called. If you squinted, you could almost see it was the one about the mustard seed.

  “That’s my favorite window,” Mrs. Carney whispered.

  Several late-comers stopped to light votive candles beneath the sandaled feet of a large plaster Jesus. I turned to another window’s puzzle when I heard movement in the foyer.

  “They’re starting up,” she said.

  I hoped she wouldn’t offer a running commentary.

  “Sometimes that’s the best part, I’m not tired yet. All that kneeling later on, you know. The ups and downs.”

  Despite her chatter, a look of panic remained on her face, and her eyes were red; she’d had quite a scare. Was she imagining her daughter’s casket near the altar, draped with a spray of pink roses?

  Behind us, a gruff woman’s voice said, “But I told her you don’t have to get married.”

  “Ssshh,” her companion whispered.

  I tried to lose myself in the newsletter, though it wasn’t working, and started to wonder what Hedy would make of all this.

  “Don’t you shush me,” came from behind.

  THREE

  Which of you shall have a friend and shall go unto him

  at midnight and say unto him, Friend, lend me three loaves.

  And he from within shall answer and say, Trouble me not:

  the door is now shut; I cannot rise and give thee.

  I say unto you, though he will not rise and give him,

  because he is his friend, yet because of his importunity

  he will rise and give him as many as he needeth.

  —Luke, XI, v-viii

  18

  Saturday, June 9

  For a long time I thought this was the story of my friends. Now, I see that it belongs to me, too. It’s also the story of my failure to stand up to them, to speak out sooner and risk the loss of friendship. There’s plenty of evasion and lack of trust to go around. Maybe nothing would be different today, maybe we would have stopped speaking years ago, but I’ll never know. It’s hindsight, yes, though still true.

  “We heard about Sheila,” Hedy said flatly, as we settled at the picnic table behind the Antons’ garage. “I’m sorry. We know you like her.”

  Nick nodded while she spoke. They were of one accord.

  “It’s such a violent world,” she added, shaking her head.

  We’d come outside to admire the butterfly garden Nick had recently planted for Hedy on a spot where crab apples had dropped
last fall. He’d cleared a twelve-foot square and staked the small low plants at one-foot intervals, almost like a vegetable plot. In a few months it would be worth seeing, if the local deer didn’t finish it off first.

  Hedy was willing their lives back to some kind of routine. Since our last visit she’d been searching out estate sales and had also gone to several evening auctions. Somehow she would lead Nick into the future. And with speculations about the upcoming fall election louder each day now, I could expect more grievances from the Antons.

  “The mall contacted us,” Nick said. “They want all dealers to check their booths for missing items.”

  “But it doesn’t sound like anyone from the mall was involved.” We’d carried glasses of iced tea with us. It was a day of relentless sun.

  “You never know,” he replied. “We have to do an inventory, and that’s a big job.”

  “Did you hear from the police? They’re speaking to everyone who might have seen Sheila recently.”

  “At least she’s still alive,” Hedy said. “That’s karma for you.”

  “Some karma,” I said, immediately regretting my words. I didn’t want to spoil the afternoon before starting out. We’d planned a country drive with a little antiquing for good measure. Today, as I write this, I see that I was playing a make-believe game with myself, holding onto the past.

  “I wouldn’t want to be shot.” Hedy’s right hand touched her heart.

  “Don’t think about Sheila, hon,” Nick said protectively, and then turned to me. “Hedy’s so sensitive, you know that. She feels things deeply.”

  “I know,” I agreed.

  “Hey, fellas, don’t talk about me like I’m not here.”

  “You’re right,” I said, though she appeared to be pleased by Nick’s words. “Her mother’s pretty upset. Last week I drove her to mass, she couldn’t make it alone.”

  “I didn’t think Sheila was Catholic.”

  Hedy had been raised as a Methodist, and claimed it didn’t take.

  “She was very fond of Guy.”

  Both my friends bristled. “I’ve asked Nick to write a poem about him,” Hedy observed, smiling at her husband. “Just for me. Great poems can come from grief.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “Did you know that Sheila helped paint Guy’s kitchen cupboards before he moved in?”

  “No, I didn’t,” Hedy replied, raising an eyebrow.

  “She often speaks of Guy.” I was testing the water. “Since his death.”

  “Guy liked everyone at the mall,” Nick said.

  “She was quite impressed by his Civil War collection.”

  “I didn’t know she was interested in the Civil War,” Hedy said skeptically.

  What, I wondered, was going on in Nick’s head. I thought of Guy’s proud grin as he showed me his rented house, his first place of his own. “She and Guy talked about it a lot.”

  Nick leaned forward, his expression intent.

  “He told her all about his summer vacations with your mother, and the battlefields they saw together.”

  “Oh, God,” Nick groaned.

  Hedy had a way of arching an eyebrow that gave me pause. “What?” she asked.

  “Maybe I shouldn’t have mentioned it. Those restaurant glasses I packed…”

  “It’s my mother,” Nick said, a deep line crossing his forehead.

  “You don’t know the whole story,” Hedy said. She lifted her chin and looked me straight in the eyes. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  “She was impossible,” Nick explained. “I’ve told you that before. Manipulative and self-centered. The worst prima donna. Well, there’s more. She loved to interfere with people, to push them around. She liked things her way. When we bought this place she helped us out with some money. Some of it was a loan, some a gift. I shouldn’t have trusted her. I should have known better, but I wanted the best for my family. Then she started on Guy, influencing him away from us. When we share our beliefs with others it’s for their benefit, they’re free to believe what they want. My mother couldn’t accept that.”

  “I suppose some grandparents…” I began to say.

  “It was awful,” Hedy cut me short. “Questioning our values. We couldn’t trust her.” She reached for Nick’s hand. “Sometimes when Nick’s asleep he’s still fighting with her. I can tell from the way he’s tossing, from the sounds he makes. She was a powerful woman.”

  “That’s why she hated Hedy,” Nick said. “My wife saw through her. It’s been twenty years since we spoke with her last, but some nights it’s like yesterday. We had to get Guy away from her, she’d gone too far.”

  “I don’t understand.” I leaned my elbows against the table’s edge, and my eyes moved back and forth from Hedy to Nick.

  For a brief moment Hedy looked up into the sun. “One year, after he came back from their summer visit, we told him she’d died.”

  “She wasn’t dead?” I paused to take it in. I must have sounded unsympathetic because they glanced at each other.

  “You don’t understand her power,” Hedy said. “It was just after Labor Day. Guy was back in school and we’d had enough.”

  Nick took over. “I told her never to contact us again, that she was finished with me. And that’s how we went on. We got an unlisted phone number and watched for the mail in case she wrote to Guy.”

  As we talked they became increasingly agitated. “She sent a few cards,” Hedy reminded him. “For Guy’s birthday and Christmas. But I destroyed every one. It was for the best.”

  “And all these years he thought she was dead?”

  “There was nothing else for him to think,” Hedy said.

  “But you’ve always said she was dead.”

  “Dead to me,” Nick hedged. “And when we stopped hearing, she might as well have been.”

  “I don’t know what to say. It’s out of some Greek tragedy.”

  “That’s not the end of it,” Nick said, a quaver in his voice. “Should I tell him?” he asked Hedy, his tone of voice dropping softly.

  Him again. Like I wasn’t sitting across the table less than three feet away.

  Hedy swallowed her distress. “It doesn’t matter.”

  “My mother’s still alive,” he continued. “I heard from her last month. She was looking up old friends on the internet, googling names from the past, and some fool e-mailed her back. That’s the down side of the internet, there’s no privacy. And she’s found out about Guy, so she wants to see me.”

  “I told Nick to do what he needs to. I was always prepared to get along with her. But I don’t want to dig up the past.” Hedy turned to her husband.

  “It’s buried. I’m done with it. I told you that.”

  “Maybe she’s ill,” I suggested. “She must be over eighty by now.”

  “She’s big trouble, Hedy understands. You wouldn’t think that if you met her, she can be charming. Very charming. She must have run out of people to torment.”

  I began to recall Nick’s stories about his mother. She had married young, fresh out of high school, and given up her dream of singing in a nightclub when he was born. A common tale from the fifties, including her lack of real talent. With hair peroxided in a starlet’s style, she’d often lamented her unused gifts. Nick once thought her beautiful, and had been a devoted son.

  They’d lied to me for years. To everyone, maybe even themselves – no, I doubted that. And not a bland white lie, but a whopper.

  “She’s probably a psychopath,” Hedy suggested. “We’ve read books about psychopaths, trying to understand her.”

  “She was jealous of Hedy from the first day.”

  “I felt it immediately,” she explained, watching her husband intently. “The way she looked me over. Nick warned me but I couldn’t believe it. After we got married, I usually stayed home when Nick went for a visit. When Guy was born she seemed to soften around him, then she married again and we thought maybe she’d changed.”

  “We were so relieved wh
en she moved to Knoxville,” Nick said. “But she charmed Guy by telephone, she’d send him cards and presents. He thought she was special and we didn’t want to upset him.”

  None of this sounded sinister, even unusual, but my friends’ faces were filled with pain and anger.

  “You don’t know what she could be like.” Hedy’s remark was quick. “One summer she drove north for a visit. She stayed with some friends, said she didn’t want to be a burden, and then started in on Guy, taking him out for day trips, buying little gifts. The ideal grandmother. We could hardly object. It seemed innocent at first. And one night he came home from an outing – they’d been to an amusement park – and he said she’d invited him to drive back to Knoxville with her, for an adventure.”

  “He wouldn’t let go of it, he’d been seduced.” Nick paused for a moment and closed his eyes briefly. “We asked ourselves what harm it would do, she was his only living grandparent, he didn’t have any brothers or sisters. We were trapped.”

  “So, we let him go,” Hedy said. “And of course the next year he wanted to go again. It was just for a month, how could we object? We should have but we didn’t. She filled his head with nonsense but we didn’t stop it.”

  “What nonsense?” I asked.

  “Gradually Guy withdrew from us,” Hedy continued vehemently. “His grades fell, and he was always restless – you know teenage boys are unhappy. They have to rebel.”

  Just listen, I told myself. Keep still.

  “That’s part of growing up,” Hedy allowed. “We shouldn’t have let him go but it was the one thing he wanted. And when he came back he announced that he was moving to Knoxville, he wanted to live with Nick’s mother. Well, that was the end. I wasn’t going to give her my son.”

  “Is that when you told him she’d died?”

  “It had to stop. It was hard on us, but it had to end,” Hedy said, flustered.

  “And he believed you?”

  “I’m sure he did.” Nick said. “We monitored the phone and watched the mail. For a year we even had it delivered to a postbox so nothing would slip by us. We did everything possible. Everything.”