“Allison! That’s very unladylike. I hope you don’t talk like that at your job.”
“Absolutely not,” I said with sarcasm stretching over the mound of shit I was about to lay on her. “I’d get fired in a heartbeat for cursing in a New York City bar.”
My mom stared at the approaching hub of Lavitte, its skyline as exciting as a Lego piece. If not broken up by the occasional silo in the distance, one might mistake it for a bump in the road.
“Where shall we go for lunch, honey? Maybe somewhere not too crowded.”
Empty places, her solace. I never understood Lavitte’s attitude towards Mom. It wasn’t like she sent Dad off every morning with a peck on the cheek and a cheery Have a good day, Dear, and keep that murderous streak of yours in check. Did they assume that her willingness to suffer a few slaps at Artie’s hand had emboldened him to up the ante to murder? Not that anyone in Lavitte took a slap to the wife real seriously then. Or now. All the ladies knew how the system worked. Our humble hamlet had mastered social networking long before Mark Zuckerberg came along, and no woman could friend the exclusionary Good Ol’ Boys network. If Mom had gone to the police and complained that Artie had slapped her for burning a steak, the cops would have taken her statement and asked if she wanted to press charges that would put her man in jail. Then they’d remind her that if she did, old Artie wouldn’t be around to provide for her and them kids. Besides, who would fix the police cars while Artie was locked up in the clinker? Once they’d shamed her for showing her slightly bruised face at all, they’d laugh behind her back and say that if a goddamn woman had the nerve to burn up a fine cut of prime rib, she deserved more than a red cheek. Maybe there’d be one or two decent fellas among the crowd, like today’s Detective Blake Barkley, but they’d have been as likely to speak up as a goldfish at a piranha convention.
Screw them all. Mom and I were coming to town and she seemed to be in a great place today. I kept hoping that her whole memory thing was just the side effect of a passing virus and that she’d be back to normal in no time. But the bad spells came more frequently lately, and lasted longer. All the more reason to have some normal days while we could. Just let any of the locals mess with us. They’d find out I was no longer the confused girl forced to squelch her anger while eliciting sympathy from a jury. I’d love to get my hands on that jury today. They’d punted on their duty and they deserved to have someone call them on it.
“We’re pretty early for lunch,” I said. “We should be able to beat the crowd wherever we go. Then maybe we can catch a movie in a nice, cool theater.” Where we can sit in dark anonymity and avoid hostile stares.
“Oh good,” she said. “There’s a brand new theater. Four movies at once.”
We chose a new restaurant, The Cozy Chair—the fourth proprietor to occupy the same site in as many years. I gave it six months. Ironically, despite its name, the wrought iron seats of the establishment pressed into my legs and hips in all the wrong places, but the sandwiches were awesome. Whole grain bread, romaine lettuce, and a cucumber-ginger mayo. The place must have been named for the oversized, stuffed chair in the center of the room where a collection of glum dolls sat in a row, their unseeing eyes staring out at the diners as if longing for life. But it reminded me less of Pinocchio than it did of the Chucky movies. I shifted in my seat so their eyes couldn’t suck out my soul.
As I licked the final crumbs of sweet-potato chips from my fingers, I glanced across the street and down to Smitty’s house just as an ostentatious Cadillac pulled into the driveway. Mr. Abel Smith, no doubt. But not only Mr. Smith. When his passengers emerged, goose bumps crawled to life on my arms. Out of the front seat climbed Mrs. Smith, in a big hat and bug-eyed sunglasses, but out of the rear seat came the former mayor and his wife—Robert and Georgia Kettrick, Bobby’s parents.
Mayor Kettrick’s back bowed like a decrepit crypt keeper. He’d been an older dad to Bobby and the marriage had produced only the one child. Or maybe Bobby had been so wonderful in their eyes, they couldn’t imagine another. The former mayor must have been closing in on seventy-five by now. The ring of hair around the base of his head had turned a steely grey and he wore it just long enough to be unnerving, like a man with well-kept, lengthy fingernails—a conscious choice. Even with the hunched spine, Mayor Kettrick took up a lot of space. A big, burly guy at well over six feet, he was definitely the source of Bobby’s football-ready body.
Mrs. Kettrick, on the other hand, was a whisper of a woman. But sometimes a whisper, well-directed, carried better across a room than a shout. Despite her submissive standing to the mayor whenever they were out, tiny Georgia Kettrick dominated any room she entered with an upright posture and snooty nose to match. Maybe that bright blond topper she wore in a silky bob on her head gave her power like the cherry light atop a police car, the authority obvious with no need for a siren. In her petite, surely-manicured hands, she carried two bottles of wine. A gift for the Smiths, perhaps?
As if by telepathy, Mayor Kettrick’s drooping head rotated slowly and steadily like a roasting pig on a spit. He ground it to a halt as his eyes seemed to bore into me through the large window of The Cozy Chair. I jerked back, pressed a paper napkin to my face, and averted my eyes to the table.
“You okay, honey?” my mother asked, glancing out the window, but not far enough to see the mayor.
“Fine,” I said. “A crumb went down the wrong way.” I sipped my water, hiding behind the glass as I peered across the street. The mayor and his wife followed the Smiths into their house. My eyes might have been playing tricks, but I thought I saw Smitty standing behind the screen door as they approached, eagerly awaiting the visitors. A few moments after they all entered, Smitty emerged onto the porch, scanned the immediate area, and then vanished inside, closing the heavy wooden door behind him.
“Shall we get going?” my mother said.
I looked at her, this woman who’d shown more guts in her life than I could ever hope to. She seemed innocent, perhaps even happy. I didn’t want to mar the mood but who knew how long her clarity would last?
“Sure,” I said. “I saw a new shipment being delivered to North Carolina Antiques the other day. Want to check it out before the movie, see if they got anything that isn’t crap?”
“You’re getting a bar of soap to the mouth when we get home, young lady.” But she smiled when she said it. Then she muttered, “They really do get lots of crap.”
As we exited, I glanced at the Smiths’ house. “Looks like Mr. Smith has another new Caddy.”
“That’s like announcing a stray cat has kittens,” my mom said, and then spared me the conversational manipulations I’d been planning. “Mayor Kettrick used to resent Mr. Smith’s Cadillacs. He always wanted to be the big shot in town but his Lincoln Town Car would break down twice a month.”
“What happened to the Kettricks? I thought they moved.”
“Only to a bigger house on the west side of town. Lots of land. I’m not sure exactly where.” She gave me a look that lay somewhere between resentment and sorrow. “They didn’t exactly leave me a forwarding address.”
I wanted to stop asking questions, wanted to let my mom enjoy one day that didn’t revolve around that night. I remembered how she and Georgia Kettrick had been in the PTA together for years. They’d always organized the annual bake sale and had even co-chaired the local garden club, though Mrs. Kettrick surely resented the co- in front of her title. Never had been enough for Mrs. Kettrick to be Mrs. Mayor. In seventh grade, I’d helped my mom and Mrs. Kettrick plant a new flower bed at one of the local parks. The insignificant event had stayed with me because Mom had surprised me with my own spade—yellow and purple with a handle molded in a grippy rubber. Mrs. Kettrick, whose knees hadn’t touched the ground that day, chose which plants would go where while my mother and I had crouched, dug and perspired. Granted, Mrs. Kettrick knew her stuff, but only because she had more acreage to experiment with at her house. A magazine had even photographed her gardens once
for a feature article that should have been called The Gardens of Big Fish in Minuscule Ponds, but was instead called Notable Gardens of Small Town America. The title had irked her so much that she’d called the editor and said she never would have agreed to be featured in their tacky magazine had she been aware of the article’s insulting title. Georgia Kettrick may have lived in a small town, but she wasn’t small-town and she looked down her squared-off nose at anyone who insinuated she was, although she’d do it with the utmost courtesy and a sweet howdy-do.
My mother seemed energized by chatting about the neighbors, as if she were one of them again. It brought her back to a time when her biggest worries were who liked whom and whose children were up to bigger shenanigans than her own. I deemed it safe to take the conversation one step further because the visit across the street rubbed me the wrong way.
“The Smiths and Kettricks weren’t friendly, were they?”
“Goodness, no. The Smiths didn’t approve of their precious Smitty hanging out with that Bobby. They thought Bobby was a bad egg and a terrible influence.” She grabbed my elbow and leaned towards me with a sly grin. “But guess what? Mrs. Kettrick thought the same thing about Smitty. She’d say, ‘That Smith boy puts on a good face but it’s one of two he wears—and the second one is sneaky and mean.’”
I glanced at my mom and noticed a distant look entering her eyes. “Teenage boys,” she said, her voice floating above us. “Not many of them are bound to be good influences on each another. They have a tougher time than girls controlling their impulses.”
“Wonder if Mayor Kettrick and Mr. Smith cared who their boys hung out with, or if they were too involved in their pissing contest over the cars.”
“Mr. Smith and the mayor? No, they didn’t care for one another at all. At least… before that night.” The last few words came out with perceptible gaps in between, grief filling the voids. “But I remember, during the trial, the two of them sat together a few times. Seemed odd, but I guess Mr. Smith was able to offer some sort of comfort to Mayor Kettrick. Or he felt obliged to for some reason.”
My mom stopped in her tracks, holding onto a bench that no longer sat horizontally because of the persistent roots pushing against it. She let her head drop with a sigh, her energy dissipating so fast, it shocked me. “Tragedy makes for strange bedfellows, Allison.”
“Come on, Mom. Time to—”
“I’m tired, I’m afraid. Can we head home? I’d like to take a nap.”
“Don’t you want—”
“I’m so tired, honey. Where’s the car?”
I sighed. “Why don’t you sit here? I’ll go get the car.”
I walked the remaining block and turned the corner. Wanting to kick myself for ruining my mom’s day, I settled for the car tires instead. I took a moment to lean on the warm roof and wondered what the hell I was doing here. A place so insignificant it could fall off the face of the earth and no one would notice, yet it held enough power to destroy lives.
As I got in the driver’s seat and turned the key, I saw Smitty exit his house, a leather satchel slung across his arm, big enough to use as an overnight bag. He wore a pressed suit, odd for a Tuesday afternoon during a vacation. Urgent Pentagon business, perhaps?
He stepped into the green Jeep Grand Cherokee that was parked next to the Caddy, checked behind him and took off. I watched him go, wondering how much checking behind him Smitty was doing lately—and how much it explained the newfound bond between the Smiths and Kettricks.
Chapter 16
Allison… present
As Mom settled in for her nap, a knock on the back kitchen door frightened me more than it should have. Perhaps the recent sighting of Mayor Kettrick had settled into my bones like a disease waiting to launch its attack. There was no way a guy like that ripened into kindly old man status. The Mayor Kettricks of the world went in one direction. Cruel to crueler. Heartless to evil.
The knock came again, hyper and rhythmic. Unlike the peepholes of New York City that allowed the occupants the prerogative to answer, the inviting doorways of Lavitte, with their pretty curtains and wide windows, shouted Welcome! Not the sentiment I chose most days of the week but as soon as I stepped into the kitchen, relief washed over me. It was Charlie Loughney. Had to be. Same Beatles haircut from high school, same huge nose from third grade, and the identical lopsided grin that crossed the width of his bell-shaped face. At least he’d grown into the nose, and the hair hung like silk now, no doubt the result of celebrity-endorsed products with fancy names and big price tags.
I whipped the door open. “Charlie!” We hugged and it felt foreign. The Fennimores were not often embraced in Lavitte. “How’d you know I was here?”
“Certainly not from you calling to tell me,” he said while looking me up and down. “Don’t you age? You must have made a deal with the devil. Can I get his number?”
“My family made a deal somewhere along the way. Just not a very good one.”
“Ouch!” he said, empathizing with the family, I guess. “Look who’s all spry and snappy.”
He sauntered in like he owned the place, smelling of cinnamon and pizzazz as if the years and events since he’d last entered didn’t exist. Over his shoulder, he wore a striped red and white man-purse decorated with liberal blue stars. It swung in concert with his hips.
“Nice bag, Charlie. Looks like Evel Knievel exploded.”
“Ha! I’m gonna use that one. Got it in Vegas. Made my Elvis jumpsuit pop so much, it put Orville Redenbacher to shame.”
Then he actually snapped his fingers. Three times, Z formation.
Must have been around eighth grade when I began to suspect that my childhood buddy might be batting for the other team. Since I’d departed in ninth grade and never looked back, I didn’t know if he’d ever come out of the closet. In all honesty, I hadn’t thought about Charlie much in the intervening years. His happy-go-lucky demeanor no longer fit into my thought patterns. He evoked a carefree time and place that had been washed away by denial and blues, evasion and booze. There was no room for a Charlie in Allison’s warped world of drink-making, sarcasm, and reclusiveness, but here in Lavitte, we fit together like two tightly snapped puzzle pieces.
“I thought your family moved,” I said. “A few years after I left.”
“We did. No welcome mats in Lavitte for a hipster queer, you know.”
One bombshell removed from the proverbial closet. I turned a twisted grin in his direction. “I didn’t know, you know. Officially.”
He gasped. “You didn’t get the gilded announcement in the mail? I send it Certified and everything, little pink unicorns on the envelope.”
I slapped him on the arm, then grabbed the same appendage to lead him to the kitchen table. “You want something to drink? I’m fresh out of pink umbrellas and sugar-rimmed glasses, but I could whip up something smart.”
Charlie put his hands on his hips with exaggerated swagger. “Well, don’t hold back, Sweetheart. Jump right on that stereotyping bandwagon.”
“Thought I did.”
“And for your information, I prefer a salted rim.”
“I bet you do.” I wasn’t sure if we were dabbling in double entendre territory here, but the energy level in the house increased tenfold with Charlie’s arrival and I welcomed it.
I poured two sweet teas, and put out a plate of ladyfingers. Not all of my southern hospitality had gone missing. “So tell me about the life of Charlie. And include a detail or two about why you’d possibly be back in Lavitte.”
“The 15-year reunion, of course.”
“It’s not our year.”
“Networking is networking. I was two counties over for a conference anyway, so why not? I’ve been to reunions in Tennessee, Nebraska, even one in New Jersey where I had to pass as a 43-year-old.”
“Strange hobby.”
“I’m a headhunter in Charleston, mostly for the software industry, but also anything technology-related. You wouldn’t believe how easy it is to score
business cards and lunches with folks when they’ve had a few and think they already know you from the good old days.”
“Do you ever fess up?”
“Rarely. I say I went to school there from eighth to tenth grade. That way, I’m not in their senior yearbook. Or I just tell them I’m there with a friend. That’s true half the time anyway.” He slapped his hands on his thighs. “Boring! Tell me about you.”
A sigh told him enough. He jumped back in. “Listen, I’m not just here to shoot the bull. Although I’m loving it. The truth is I’m here to warn you.”
“About what?”
“Word is you’re digging up skeletons.”
I slanted my head, letting a long, slow blink say it’s a possibility.
“Don’t,” Charlie said.
“Why not? And who did you hear this from? Would it be insulting to call you a gossip queen?”
“Not at all. But you’ve clearly forgotten how small this town is. Smitty’s wife mentioned something to Larry. Remember Larry?”
I nodded.
“And Larry married Joanna from our class. Joanna couldn’t tell me fast enough. But whatever. Once Smitty’s mom finds something out, assume it’s all over town. Oh my God, have you seen her eyebrows? The poor woman must use the same expression for boredom as she does for orgasm. I swear to God, if she’s not a screamer, Mr. Smith’s not gonna know if he put her to sleep or gave her the best sex of her life.”
Charlie had not changed at all. How had I ever doubted his team loyalty?
“The Smiths’ sex life aside, tell me if I should be worried about someone tying cinder blocks to my feet and asking if I want to take a swim.”
“Yes.”
“Jesus, Charlie. Are you serious?” Shock and curiosity gripped hold of me, way ahead of fear.
“Here’s the thing. After you left and your brother took off and your mom became a hermit-slash-outcast, your whole family was kind of out of the loop.”
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