by Sonja Yoerg
The fuss around April Honeycutt’s accident was ridiculous. You’d think the woman had been raised from the dead, and having the entire LaPorte family at the center of it made it that much worse. For a week no one talked about anything else: April this and Warren that and poor little Alison and her brave mother. To be honest, Janine hadn’t thought her sister had the guts for that sort of stunt. And Warren. Why couldn’t he just have been a little less heroic, or just a minute slower? That’s all it would’ve taken to finish off April Honeycutt, or leave her a cabbage. No such luck.
April appeared in the school office ten days after the accident. The staff flocked around her. Janine stood—she couldn’t very well sit there—and moved closer. Her mouth dropped open. April’s hair was no more than a couple of inches long all over, except for the completely bald patch where they’d stitched up her skull.
April touched her head. “I know. It’s drastic. But they shaved so much off, I decided just to go with it.”
“It’s very chic,” another teacher said.
And, damn it, it was. It might have been the hairstyle—or the “brush with death,” as that idiot Kawolski called it—but April Honeycutt had lost her sacred wholesomeness. She’d acquired the merest edge to her, a glint of tragedy, and it brought her beauty into sharper focus.
Janine couldn’t stand to look at her.
As soon as Janine got home, she kicked off her shoes, poured herself a glass of Chablis, drained it and poured another. It was becoming an afternoon habit and she really didn’t give a damn. Greg called partway through the second glass.
“Hey, Janine. You got a sec?”
“Sure. What’s up? We still good for tomorrow?” They were going to hear a band at a bar in Burlington. She had gotten tickets while April was languishing in the hospital. Janine was dying to know whether Greg could dance.
“That’s partly why I’m calling. It has to do with April. You know, the special ed teacher.”
“I’m the secretary, Greg.”
“Right. Well, I don’t quite know how to tell you this.”
Over the phone, like a coward. “Tell me what?”
“I’ve been seeing April.”
“Seeing her?” Part of Janine was enjoying how awkward this was making him—she’d done her job—and the other part wanted to climb through the phone line and wring his neck.
“Yeah. I thought maybe you knew. In fact, I thought maybe you’d be cool with it.”
She finished her wine and poured the rest of the bottle into her glass. “Where are we going with this, Greg? Are you playing eenie meenie miney mo?”
He let out a nervous laugh. “No, not that. I had an epiphany of sorts.”
Janine hated epiphanies. And what was an “epiphany of sorts”? This was what was wrong with Greg. This was what she could fix if he gave her the chance.
He went on. “When April was in the hospital, I realized how much an accident, or anything out of the blue, could change a relationship. I mean, we were sleeping together, and she almost died, and it didn’t matter as much as it should have.”
“It didn’t?” The words came out before she could think.
“No. And it made me rethink not just April and me, but you and me, too.”
Hope fluttered in her chest. She drank some wine. They were finally getting somewhere. “Greg, I want to hear about us.”
“Oh, Janine. That’s just it. It’s the same. Me and April. Me and you. I should take things more seriously, because, you know, sometimes life does get serious. I’m not saying I don’t have feelings for you. You know I do—”
“Deep feelings take time.”
“Sure. But here’s the other thing. You both work at school. It’s really not cool.”
“We’ve been careful, haven’t we?” Unlike that little blonde slut who allowed herself to be pushed up against the wall like a ten-dollar hooker.
“Yes, but that’s not the point.”
Patience was leaking out of her. Why didn’t he spit it out?
An agonized sigh came through the phone. This epiphany was not sitting quite right with him, or else he would’ve said what he wanted to say and hung up.
Finally, he said, “Here it is, Janine. I’m not going to be involved anymore with someone I don’t feel deeply about, especially not someone who works at school. That goes for April and it goes for you. I’m sorry.”
Janine froze with her wineglass an inch from her lips. She waited for the next line, the one that would prove he meant it.
“You’re such a great gal, Janine.”
“Fuck you, too, Greg.”
She slammed down the phone, threw the glass across the room and kicked the table leg with her bare foot. A jolt of pain shot up her leg. She cried out and tears flooded her nose, welled in her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She allowed herself to cry for ten minutes, or maybe a bit longer, then went to the bathroom to splash cold water on her face. She’d been a fool, a complete and utter fool.
• • •
The following Monday after work, Janine parked her car next to her sister’s and entered the garage office. The door chime sounded. Walt was leaning against the front of the counter, rubbing grease cleanser into his hands. He picked up a rag and wiped his fingers one at a time. Something about his posture stopped her from speaking first, and she stayed near the door. Walt finished with one hand and started on the other. He was three fingers in before he spoke, and even then he kept his eyes on the rag.
“Afternoon, Janine.”
“Hi, Walt. How’d you know it was me?”
“I think I know that car by now.”
“Right.” She approached him. Once she was in motion, the rudeness of his refusal to look at her registered. She was already irked by his attitude in summoning her in the first place, an annoyance layered on top of the injustice, the stupidity of what had happened with Greg. She wanted to punch someone. Not once, but again and again. Really pummel the crap out of them. Or cry. Both. She wanted to make someone hurt, make them hurt everywhere, then shut the door on them and cry. Again.
Instead, she walked past Walt toward the door to the kitchen. “Let’s have some coffee, and you can tell me why I’m here.”
He spun and grabbed her arm, stopping her.
“Walt!” Janine spun to face him. His expression was stony, his eyes cold. She drew back.
“This isn’t a talk for coffee.” He let go and lowered himself onto the swivel chair behind the desk. There was a chair behind her but she remained standing, out of defiance and so she could flee.
He read her easily. “I don’t care if you sit or not, Janine.”
“Walt, I don’t know what’s going—”
“Which is why I aim to do the bulk of the talking.”
Janine sighed impatiently and took a seat.
Walt rested his elbows on the chair arms and interlaced his fingers. “The police have been going over Miss Honeycutt’s vehicle, looking to see why the brakes failed. And yesterday they came over here asking about the service we’d done right before it happened.”
Janine adjusted her handbag on her shoulder. “What’s this got to do with me, Walt?”
“I’m getting to it. We stand by our work, that’s what I told Bill. Bill Tuttle, he’s the sheriff. We go back a ways. I told him we changed her oil and adjusted the brakes. He wanted to know who did the work.” He leaned forward, forearms on his knees. “It was Lester. He’s been doing simple brake work for a while now. Good at it, too. But I think you know all about it.”
Her mouth filled with cotton. “Me?”
“Bill asked Lester about the job, whether there’d been any problems. Lester told him it’d gone just fine. After Bill left, Lester said he didn’t have any problem remembering the job because you’d come around near the end and he’d showed you what he was doing.”
�
�Well, sure I was here. I dropped Alison off after we went to see my mother at Underhill. And Lester—”
Walt raised a hand to stop her, his mouth a taut line. “That’s plenty. This isn’t a conversation. I can put together what happened. The brake line blew out on that car. She wasn’t gonna stop until she hit something. Bill didn’t think for a minute Lester’d done it—why would he?—but he did get it in his head that a mechanic ought to check the brake lines if they’re in the neighborhood. Lester says he did. Said they were fine. Got right upset about it.” He stared at her. “And I believe him.”
She fought the urge to squirm in her chair. “I hope Lester’s not in trouble.”
“He doesn’t appear to be. Line broke at the bracket. Not the easiest place to see a problem.”
Janine forced a smile. “So Lester’s fine, then. That’s good.”
Walt slapped the side of his thigh and Janine jumped. “It sure as hell is.” He glowered at her. “Lucky for you. If it weren’t for Carole, I’d point the sheriff in your direction, not that they’d have much to go by, other than Lester telling me you asked him about the brake line. Funny you asking him that. Never showed much interest in mechanics, far as I can tell. Maybe the police would find something else funny. I can’t say and I don’t rightly care. But I’ll tell you this, Janine. You could’ve killed my daughter, and that teacher, too, and put Lester and the rest of us in an ungodly mess.”
He wheeled the chair toward her until their knees were nearly touching. Her heart beat in her ears. The look in his eye was terrifying.
“Walt, I don’t know what you are talking about. Honest.”
“Honest? I think you need the dictionary for that one.” He laughed bitterly and scooted back to the desk. He opened the top drawer, removed a pen and searched under the piles of paper. “Here’s the deal, Janine, so listen up. I don’t want you around, knowing what you likely did and not knowing what you might do next. I can’t run you out of town, though, on account of Carole. She doesn’t know a thing about any of this and she’s not going to. Pretty quick, I need you to make up a story about getting a job—a good job—someplace else. Someplace far, you got me?”
“A job? Where?”
“I don’t care. Ah, here we go.” He plucked a checkbook from the mess and showed it to her. “Will five thousand set you up all right?”
Janine froze. “Where would you get that sort of money?”
“Remember when your Aunt Regina passed two years ago? Carole never said anything because she didn’t want to upset you, but Regina left her a sum of money. It came down from your father, after he died in the war. Not as much as you might expect. I imagine Regina dipped into it whenever it suited her. Carole was supposed to have it some time ago but Regina held on to it like it was hers.”
This was the first she’d heard of an inheritance. Every time she’d asked Carole about it—starting in her teens—Carole said if there was money, she didn’t want it, which made no sense at all. Everyone wants money. And now Carole had some. “He was my father, too. It all went to Carole? That’s not fair!”
Walt stilled. “I’ll tell you what’s not fair. Getting goddamn schizophrenia’s not fair.” He let that sink in. Janine looked at her lap. “Anyway, you’re getting your share now. Another thing Carole doesn’t need to know or worry about. As long as there’s plenty for whatever Lester might need, and something for Warren, too, if he needs it, and college for Alison. Extra expenses maybe for Carole being sick. We don’t need more than that. And we’ve got plenty.” He opened the checkbook and held the pen over it. “So, five thousand it is.”
It was a lot of money, more than she ever expected to have again, not counting what a husband might provide. It would get her away from Greg, out of Adams, out of Vermont.
“Make it six.”
He gave her a long, steely look. She didn’t flinch.
He wrote the check, tore it from the book and reached it across. She tried to take it from him, but he held on, stared her down again. “Carole will want you to visit. You’ll be far away, you’ll be busy. You’ll call, send cards. Carole loves to get cards. You’ll be goddamn happy. But you won’t come back hardly at all. You got that?”
“Sure, Walt.”
He released the check.
She folded it in half, slipped it into her handbag and stood, smoothing her skirt. A series of retorts, curses, promises and lies marched through her head, but she didn’t waste her breath. “Good-bye, Walt.”
Her back straight, she strode out of the office. As she approached her car, she admitted Walt had surprised her, rattled her even. He had more backbone than she’d credited him with. Carole was lucky; Walt would stick by her no matter how crazy she was.
But he’d gone too far in blaming Janine for what had happened. It wasn’t her fault her niece was in that car. She had nothing against the kid, and like Walt said, there would have been serious grief for a lot of people if anyone had died. She’d have felt terrible about that. Except, of course, if it had been April Honeycutt.
Janine slipped behind the wheel and pushed all such useless thoughts from her mind. She had what she wanted, at least for now.
39
Carole
Walt got up from the kitchen table, refilled Carole’s water glass and set it in front of her.
“Practically a full-time job.” He winked at her.
“I can’t believe how thirsty I am all the time.”
She’d been taking the antipsychotic medication for more than a month now. Her mouth was constantly dry, and she felt dizzy and groggy much of the time. The doctor advised her to be patient, saying he would adjust the dose as necessary.
Alison’s near drowning had set off a terrifying episode. She’d stayed in the hospital for more than a week. When she wasn’t heavily sedated, she was confused and scared. The voices and paranoia followed her home, and she’d often refused to take the pills, sure they were poison. Walt, and sometimes Alison and the boys, would have to soothe her and reason with her before she would relent. Carole found out later Walt had twice resorted to putting the medicine in her food, which made the treatment take longer to work.
But, eventually, it did. Little by little, the voices receded, as if her mind were a train, underway at last, leaving unwelcome passengers stranded on the platform. She’d become so accustomed to the voices, the quiet in her mind was unsettling, her natural inner voice unfamiliar. Carole’s paranoia abated, and she was restored to herself, but not completely. Her thoughts were like bricks she had to push around in her mind. Although she couldn’t recall precisely how she had felt before this disease overtook her, she knew it was not like this, one foot poised on quicksand.
Walt took a swig from his beer and stabbed the last piece of pork chop on his plate. Carole sipped her water and studied him. He’d been unusually quiet the past week or so. She had a hunch about the reason, and tonight, with Alison at her friend Caroline’s house and the boys at a basketball game, was as good a time as any to talk.
“Walt.”
He looked at her, steady as always, but holding back a little, too. “What’s on your mind?”
“I’m sorry.”
“What for?”
“I should’ve told you. About the voices and the rest.”
He pressed his lips together, considering. “Well, not trusting is part of it, isn’t it?”
He was giving her an out. And it was true that shortly before the accident, her net of suspicion had widened to include him. But that wasn’t the whole story.
“It is. But I had a lot of chances to tell you, and I should’ve.” She reached for his hand, damp from the perspiring beer can. “I should’ve had faith that you’d do the best for me. You always have.”
He squeezed her hand and smiled, the blue of his eyes deepening. “I like to keep my promises.”
“I know.” Her voice caught in her t
hroat. “I was so scared.”
Walt nodded. “Knowing something was wrong with you and keeping all of it to yourself. No one’s that strong.” He looked down and gently spun her wedding band between his fingers. “Not alone.”
• • •
A week before Christmas, Walt took Carole to the medical center in Burlington to see her psychiatrist. After Dr. Friedman gave her a physical exam, he invited Walt to join them to discuss how Carole was faring.
Dr. Friedman jotted notes in the file. “I’m pleased the Thorazine is working so well for you. Usually an early positive response means it’ll keep on working, but of course we’ll be monitoring you closely.” He flipped to another page. “I’ve been waiting for you to feel better before bringing this up.”
Carole glanced at Walt, who lifted his hands an inch to say he was in the dark, too.
The doctor continued. “When you were first admitted, I asked your husband about any family history of mental illness, and he shared with me your mother’s condition. Because it’s an important part of your history, I requested her records from Underhill State Hospital. Carole, do you know why your mother was admitted there?”
“I never got a clear answer. Hysteria, I think.”
“I see. In 1938, the term ‘hysteria’ was an umbrella term for all sorts of symptoms and conditions. Your mother’s physical exam showed nothing of interest other than that she’d recently given birth and was very thin. Her history of mental or behavioral problems was vague and brief. Do you remember anything?”
Carole couldn’t see where this was leading. “Only that she didn’t leave the house much during her pregnancy. Once my sister was born, she became agitated.” She thought about adding that her mother had run away, but since she’d only been going to her mother’s, Carole wasn’t sure. So much of what happened then still confused her. “I always assumed she had a breakdown—something more than what I saw, or remember.”
The doctor pointed at his notes. “There was a notation on her admittance report saying ‘Husband requests committal.’”