by Joy Fielding
“Maybe you should go home and get some rest,” the young doctor advised.
Susan shook her head, clung tightly to Vicki’s hand.
“Susan?”
“Yes, Mom?”
But her mother had already drifted off to sleep. Susan leaned forward, adjusted her mother’s wig, brought the sheets up under her chin. Then she sank back down, Vicki’s hand resting on her shoulder, and watched her mother breathe. “I’m here, Mom,” she whispered. “I’m here.”
Twenty-Five
Susan’s mother died four days later.
Both Susan and her brother wanted to hold the funeral as soon as possible, but they had to delay it a week to give their sister time to drive in from California. Actually, she didn’t drive. She took the train. “It was horrible,” Diane told everyone who’d listen. “I didn’t sleep for three days. I’m still completely nauseous. The thought of the return trip …” She broke off, as if the thought were just too much to bear.
She’d been complaining ever since Susan had picked her up at the station. She refused to visit the funeral home, dismissing such displays as barbaric and insensitive. Besides, she was too broken up, she said, taking to her bed in Susan’s guest room. Of course the bed was too small, the mattress too soft, and Ariel played her music much too loud. “I knew there was a reason I didn’t have children,” Diane said more than once, although she thought nothing of asking Whitney to get her a drink, a sandwich, a magazine. “God, these magazines are so old,” she said instead of thank you.
The funeral was more of the same. Diane wore black from head to toe, including heavy dark stockings and a floppy, feather-strewn hat whose translucent veil completely covered her face, despite the heat of the August day.
“Where’d your sister find that hat?” Barbara asked Susan at the chapel.
“I think she’s been living in Hollywood too long,” Chris said.
“You’re sure she’s not an Arab terrorist?” Vicki asked.
Somehow, even the funeral was all about Diane. While Susan and Kenny shared fond memories of their mother with the other mourners, and even Ariel, relatively cleaned up and soft-spoken, delivered a touching tribute to the grandmother she’d adored, Diane eulogized herself, discussing her various triumphs over adversity, of which her mother’s death was only the latest in a long line of crosses to bear. “Would you like a copy of my speech?” she asked Susan at the conclusion of the service, and again at the cemetery.
“Would you like a copy of my speech?” Susan heard her asking Kenny’s wife, Marilyn, back at the house. Susan had invited everyone over after the ceremony for coffee and cake, and as she scurried around making sure everything was running smoothly, Diane held court in the center of the living room. “The train ride was pure hell,” Susan heard her expounding. “All that stopping and starting. And those damn whistles. I don’t think I slept a total of two hours in three nights.”
“She’s so self-absorbed,” Barbara commented.
“She’s having trouble coping with her grief,” Chris allowed.
“She’s a cunt,” Vicki said.
“Ssh!” Chris and Barbara squealed, almost in unison. “Don’t let Susan hear you say things like that.”
“Too late,” Susan said, entering her kitchen, grateful beyond words to see her three best friends huddled together in front of the food-laden counter. Chris, Barbara, and Vicki had been over every day since her mother’s death, keeping her company, holding her hand, listening when she wanted to talk, sitting quietly beside her when she needed to be still, crying with her, making her laugh. They sent food, made coffee, got the house ready for visitors. Diane, of course, did nothing. She was too upset. She was nauseated. She was useless, Susan decided. “Vicki’s right,” Susan said now. “She’s a cunt.”
Again Chris squealed, the sound a curious mix of outrage and admiration. She giggled. “You know I’ve never said that word out loud.”
“Get out of here,” Vicki said. “Say it now.”
“I can’t.”
Vicki looked astonished. “After everything you’ve been through with that cocksucking, motherfucking, son-of-a-bitch ex-husband of yours, you’re embarrassed to say the word cunt?”
Chris buried her face in her hands. “I don’t believe you just said that.”
“What? Cocksucking, motherfucking, son-of-a-bitch, or cunt?”
“Stop it!”
“Look at you.” Vicki laughed. “You’re blushing like a little kid. Say it.”
“I can’t.”
“I’ve never said it either,” Barbara admitted sheepishly.
“You’ve never said cunt? I don’t believe you two. Come on, say it. It’s very liberating. You’ll see. Say it together if you can’t say it alone.”
“Susan, where are you?” The sound of Diane’s voice assaulted Susan’s ears from the other room.
“Say it,” Susan told her friends. “I dare you.”
“I double dare you,” echoed Vicki.
Chris and Barbara grabbed hands, as if they were about to plunge off a high cliff. “Cunt!” they cried in unison, as the door to the kitchen swung open and Ariel appeared, stunned, in the doorway.
“Excuse me?” She was wearing a plaid skirt with a white blouse, and except for the spiky shock of pink-and-purple hair, looked astonishingly like a normal teenager, home from boarding school and waiting for her milk and cookies.
The four women collapsed in helpless laughter.
“Mom? Mom, are you all right?”
Susan couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Ariel so concerned about her well-being. It made her laugh even harder. “I’m fine, sweetheart. Is there something you need?”
“Diane wants another cup of coffee.” Ariel moved warily toward the coffee machine on the counter.
“I thought your speech was wonderful,” Chris said in the abnormally high-pitched voice of someone trying desperately not to laugh.
Ariel regarded the women suspiciously, as if they were about to pounce. “Thank you,” she said, although she clearly wasn’t sure.
“We weren’t talking about you,” Vicki said, as if to reassure her, and once again, the other women doubled over laughing.
“What’s going on in here?” another voice demanded. The voice was so sharp it hurt the ear.
Susan watched her younger sister sweep into the room, like a deranged beekeeper mourning the loss of her hive. Her veil was pushed back to reveal a thin face framed by straight, yellow-blond hair. Bright red lips flamed out from an otherwise colorless complexion. Dark eyes radiated indignation. Immediately the laughter froze in Susan’s throat.
“Really, Susan, we just buried our mother. How can you show her such disrespect? We could hear you laughing from the next room.”
Susan felt the stinging rebuke like a slap to her face.
“Respect is something you show the living,” Vicki said.
“Sometimes laughter eases the pain,” Chris added.
“Aren’t you awfully hot in that hat?” Barbara asked.
“Cunt,” Ariel muttered under her breath.
“What?” Diane stammered. “What did you say?”
“I said ‘cup.’ As in cup or mug.” Ariel held up the pot of freshly brewed coffee. “Which would you prefer?”
“Oh. Oh, yes. A mug will be fine. I’m feeling a little shaky. All these people to entertain.” Diane adjusted her hat. The veil came loose and fell across her face. Diane impatiently whipped it back up.
“I don’t think anyone expects to be entertained,” Susan said.
“Well, one does what one can. Anyway, hopefully everyone will leave soon.” Diane stared pointedly at Susan’s three friends. “I can rest then.”
“Yes, you’re looking a little tired,” Barbara said.
“I am?”
“Everyone was commenting,” Vicki added.
“Must have been that awful train trip,” Chris said.
Ariel approached her aunt, holding out the steaming mug of c
offee. “Here’s your coffee. Black, right?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Diane took the coffee without saying thanks. “Well, I guess I should get back to our guests.” She didn’t move. “I need a cigarette.” With her free hand, she reached inside the small black purse dangling from her wrist.
Susan thought of objecting, but decided against it. Diane knew Susan’s feelings about smoking. Diane knew Owen didn’t allow smoking in the house. She obviously didn’t care. What the hell, Susan decided. Her sister would be gone in a few days. It wasn’t worth creating a scene.
“No smoking in the house,” Ariel admonished.
Susan smiled at her older daughter, fighting the urge to smother the top of her purple-and-pink hair with kisses.
Diane impatiently waved Ariel’s statement aside as she drew a cigarette out of its package and raised it to her lips.
“I’m sorry,” Susan told her. “I’m afraid you’ll have to smoke that outside.”
“I’m surprised you smoke,” Chris said.
“It’s a filthy habit.” Vicki shook her head disapprovingly.
“It causes wrinkles.” Barbara motioned toward her own unlined face.
Diane looked at the ceiling as if hoping for divine intervention. When none was forthcoming, she tossed the cigarette back into her purse and headed for the door. “Fine. I’ll go out front. You might think about seeing to our other guests.” Purse in one hand, coffee in the other, she used her hip to push through the door into the living room.
The four friends watched her leave, then turned to one another. “Cunt,” they mouthed in unison.
“I heard that,” Ariel said with a laugh. “God, some example you guys are setting.”
“Thanks, sweetie,” Susan said.
“For what?”
For not giving me a hard time. For acting like a human being. For being young and alive and healthy. For being mine. “For the nice things you said about Grandma at the funeral.”
Ariel nodded, swaying toward her mother, stopping as the kitchen door swung back open and Barbara’s daughter, Tracey, poked her head inside the room.
“There you are,” Tracey said, quickly at her mother’s side, her arm snaking around her waist as Barbara kissed her forehead. “I wondered where you guys disappeared. Hi, Ariel.”
Ariel grunted something unintelligible in reply.
Susan’s eyes moved warily between the two girls, trying to squeeze them together in her mind, to borrow a little from one to give to the other, to mix and match the best qualities of each. To Ariel, she’d give Tracey’s maturity and good manners. To Tracey, she’d lend Ariel’s spirit and sense of adventure. She’d temper Ariel’s rebelliousness with a helping of Tracey’s respect for her elders; she’d enhance Tracey’s quiet reserve with a dash of Ariel’s outspoken fearlessness. Tracey was a big girl, the kind of girl Susan’s mother would have described as big-boned. Pretty face, though she’d never be as beautiful as her mother. Maybe if she cut her hair, punked it up a little, maybe added a few pink streaks. Susan almost laughed out loud. My God, what was she thinking?
“How’s Kirsten?” Tracey asked Vicki.
“Great. She’s a counselor at Camp Walkie-Talkie, or whatever they call the damn place. Loves it.”
Tracey looked over at Chris, hesitated. “How are you, Mrs. Malarek?”
“Fine, thank you, Tracey.” No one ever asked Chris about Montana anymore.
“Are you ready to go yet?” Tracey whispered to her mother.
“Not yet,” Barbara said.
“Oh, no, please,” Susan said quickly. “You guys don’t have to stick around all afternoon. I know you have other things to do. Please. You’ve already done so much.”
“You think we’re going to leave you alone with Cunt Dracula?” Vicki asked, as the women once again collapsed in helpless laughter.
“You guys are really bad,” Ariel said, shaking her head.
“I don’t get it,” Tracey said. “What’s so funny?”
“That’s what I’d like to know,” Diane said, reentering the kitchen with a sharp push on the door, trailing an almost visible line of smoke in her wake.
“That was a fast cigarette,” Vicki observed.
“I only smoke them half the way down. Besides, I met someone outside. Handsome man. Nicely dressed. He was coming up the front steps just as I was going out. Apparently nobody told him about the funeral.” She glared accusingly at Susan, glanced back at the door. “He’s very intent on paying his respects.”
There was a slight commotion in the other room, the sound of voices. (“What are you doing here?” “I don’t think this is a very good idea.” “Now isn’t the time or place.”) And then the kitchen door swung open and Tony Malarek pushed his way inside.
“Oh, God,” Chris moaned, backing into a corner, automatically grabbing the hair at the back of her neck.
Susan stared at Tony without speaking. If she didn’t know him better, she might have described him exactly as her sister had. Handsome, in a rough-and-tumble sort of way, nicely dressed in black pants and black, short-sleeved shirt. His hair was close-cropped and salted with flecks of gray, his face and heavily muscled arms deeply tanned. He looked well-rested, confident. Even happy, Susan thought with a shudder, wondering what he was doing here, what his next move would be.
“Okay, Tony,” Owen said, entering the kitchen, Jeremy Latimer at his side. “We don’t want any trouble here.”
“What’s going on?” Diane asked, wary eyes darting from man to man.
“Relax,” Tony said, his eyes coming to rest on his former wife. “I didn’t come to make trouble.”
“Who is this man?” Diane asked.
“I just came to pay my respects.”
“That’s not necessary.”
“I think it is.”
“Then why don’t you say what you came to say and leave.” Susan struggled to keep her voice steady.
“Ah, the voice of reason. As usual.” Tony’s voice dripped sarcasm as thick as melted toffee. “Sorry about your mother, Susan,” he said, his eyes never leaving Chris.
Susan nodded, said nothing.
“I’m Tony Malarek, by the way,” Tony answered Diane, as if suddenly remembering her question. “This pathetic little creature is my wife, Chris.”
“Ex-wife,” Chris said, her voice surprisingly strong.
“Ex-wife.” Tony reached out his hand, his fingers folding into the shape of a gun aimed directly at his wife’s head. “Guess she wasn’t paying attention when the judge said, ‘Till death do you part.’ ” His fingers pulled the imaginary trigger.
“Okay, that’s enough,” Jeremy Latimer exclaimed, knocking Tony’s hand to his side as he and Owen pushed Tony toward the kitchen door.
“Asshole,” Barbara muttered under her breath.
“Cocksucker,” Vicki said out loud.
“Careful, girls,” Tony called back. “This gun’s got lots of bullets.” His laugh echoed through the house. Seconds later, the front door opened and slammed shut.
For a minute, nobody seemed to breathe.
“My God, what kind of friends do you have?” Diane demanded.
Susan ignored her sister, moved quickly to Chris’s side. “Are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” Chris said. “I’m just so sorry. I never thought he’d come here.”
“Is everything all right?” a voice asked from the doorway.
“Should we call the police?” another voice asked.
“Yes,” Susan said.
“No,” Chris countered.
“Why not?”
“They won’t do anything.”
“He threatened your life, for God’s sake. We were all witnesses.”
“I didn’t see anything,” Diane said quickly.
“The police won’t help,” Chris said with quiet resolve.
Susan’s shoulders slumped. “At the very least, you’ll stay here tonight,” she insisted.
“Where will she sleep?” Di
ane asked.
“It’s all right. I’ll be fine.”
“You can’t ignore him, Chris. He’s a ticking time bomb.”
“I can’t run from him forever. I’m through running.”
“Not forever,” Susan told her. “Just a few more nights. Till he calms down.”
“It’s all right,” Barbara interjected. “I’m taking Chris home with me. No arguments.”
Chris smiled her assent, as if she knew it was pointless to argue.
I can’t run from him forever. I’m through running.
Susan replayed Chris’s words over and over in her head after everyone had gone. She heard them twisting through Diane’s voice as her sister finalized the arrangements for her return trip to California. She could still hear them bouncing around in her brain later that night, when she crawled into bed beside Owen and closed her eyes, drifting in and out of sleep. They were the voice behind her restless dreams. Dreams of naked women running in helpless circles, of lost children wandering through dense jungles. I can’t run from him forever. I’m through running.
The phone rang.
Owen sat up in bed as Susan groped for the phone in the dark. The clock on the bedside table said 4:42. The phone rang again. “Oh, God,” Susan said instead of hello, crying even before she heard the voice on the other end of the line.
“Susan? Susan, is that you?”
“Yes, it’s me.” Who was she talking to? Susan struggled to recognize the voice. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”
“Help me. You have to help me.”
“What happened? What’s going on?”
“Oh God, oh God, oh God,” the young girl wailed between anguished sobs, and only then did Susan recognize the familiar timbre of Tracey’s voice.
“Tracey, what’s the matter? Tell me!”