by Marge Piercy
“What about golf clubs?”
“Take them. Anything that can be resold. Just don’t let anybody see you. Mess up drawers and toss things around. You want it to look like they don’t know where things are.” Tommy put his hand on her shoulder. “If we had the cash, we could just put out a contract on him. But people get blackmailed that way. Do it yourself and do it right. You can’t do it too soon for me. It makes me nervous, him walking around ready to blow the whistle on me. I don’t need that piece of crap on my case.”
“It’s my only chance in the world, Tommy. He wants to take everything away from me I’ve worked so hard to get.”
“The kid, he can drive? He’s got a license?”
“Sure. He just hasn’t got a car.”
“’Cause the last thing we need is him wracking up the car, rear-ending somebody or taking a curve fast and ending up in some picture window. He’s got to drive careful. Can he do that?”
“He’s the careful type, Tommy. He’s a good kid and he’s crazy about me. He’ll do what I tell him to.”
“That’s the way we like them, you and me.” He squeezed her shoulder hard. “Good luck, Becca. We both have to take on things we never thought we’d have to do, just to keep from drowning. It’s a nasty life and they don’t give us a thing. I’ll be seeing you.”
Monday noon she mixed two sleeping pills into the soup she was heating for Terry. Then she rushed back to work. She had chosen Monday, because in mid-afternoon she had to pick up two thousand new brochures from the little print-Xerox shop they used. They were offering cable service to a new area. With luck, nobody would notice exactly how long she was gone. Also she didn’t want to give Sam enough time to brood, to change his mind. She was sure he could talk himself into inaction. She headed straight for her condo but parked before she got there and went in to the back of the building. Sam was waiting just inside. She had had a key made for him. “Whenever you look at that key and think of putting it into a lock, think about putting your sweet cock into me,” she said, squeezing his balls gently as she kissed him. Sam was sweating, although the day was only mild.
“We can’t do this. I mean, not for real.” He grabbed her arm tight.
“No?” She glared at him. “Then stop toying with me. You don’t care. Just go and leave me to him. Go!”
She thought for a minute he might leave. He looked miserable. He kept wringing his hands till she felt like kicking him, but she remained huddled against the wall.
“Becky,” he moaned. “Becky, we can’t do this.”
“If we do it, I’ll be able to see you whenever you want. I’ll have enough money to follow you up to school.” She flung herself forward and threw her arms around his neck, grinding her body into his. “We have to do it! We have to!”
He held her tight against him, half sobbing into her hair. Embracing him, she could feel the hammer she had told him to bring inside his jacket She ran her hand along the hammer and then down to his prick through the rough tent of jeans. “We’ll be together, Sam. For us! Because I love you. Because you love me.” She pulled free, stepping back. “We have to hurry. We can’t afford to loiter on this.” Without looking back, she took the chance of starting upstairs. Then she heard him behind her.
She opened the door cautiously and peered out As she had expected, nobody was around. No one was home in the daytime except Helen, and she could explain away anything to Helen. Helen was conniving at the affair. Helen would hear nothing suspicious, she was sure. She went quietly along the corridor and up the steps at the far end. Their door was the second. She unlocked it and motioned Sam inside. Then she pushed past him. Inside she could hear the sounds of a soap opera from the TV in the bedroom. She hoped Terry had fallen asleep watching the soap. The pills should have knocked him out. She hoped he’d be laid out snoring.
She was terrified as she stood just inside the living room with Sam behind her. What she was doing seemed absurd. She could not possibly do it. She felt vulnerable taking another step toward the bedroom, where the TV was blaring. Helen had told her that Terry watched soap operas half the day, but she had thought that Helen was exaggerating. Terry acted so damned superior to Tommy, but Tommy was out there scalloping, which was no picnic, ever, and if he was bringing in drugs for The Guys, it was only for his family. People did what they had to do to make a living, the way Joey and her uncle had gone out in bad weather, because they needed to. Only Terry was too good to take any job that wasn’t fancy enough for him. His parents slipped him money. His parents told him to ditch her and let her drown, sell the condo and run back home. Terry would not work and he would steal from her the fruit of her work. But she could turn him into money. She turned and glared at Sam. “Now!” she mouthed. “Fast. There’s no going back. Now.”
Sam looked as if he might get sick. He swallowed. He stood as if all his muscles had seized up, one foot forward, his arm slightly raised from his side.
“Take out the hammer,” she muttered. She found Terry’s golf clubs in the front closet. She took a big one with a metal end. Let him be asleep. With two sleeping pills in him, he ought to be out. She had a moment’s terror that Heather might be with him, but she was sure the woman had a job. He wasn’t going to take up with anyone who didn’t have income. Sam was following her as she crept toward the open bedroom door. In her head she could see Terry sprawled on his back on the bed with his arms flung out, the way he slept, his mouth open, snoring softly. Sam would bring the hammer down on his head. He would never waken. It would be over. A quick and merciful death. He would never see what hit him. The whole thing would happen under the cover of “General Hospital.” Then they would fake the robbery and clear out. Swift and clean. Five minutes and it would be done.
FIFTY-ONE
Leila
Leila spent the last night in a Sheraton near the San Diego airport, since her plane left at eight in the morning, and she would have had to rise at four to be driven in. She felt ashamed at her contentment, putting on her silk kimono and ordering room service, turning on the TV to “Sixty Minutes” and running a deep bath. The hotel seemed peaceful after Debbie’s house, the room sinfully ample. She felt herself slowly uncurling from the defensive posture she assumed around her sister. Everything about her had been on display, from the robe she wore to the coffee she drank and the eggs she did not eat.
On the plane she prepared for classes and went over the interview notes she had printed out before leaving home. She was exhausted, for she had slept badly at Debbie’s, where she was sharing a bed with Robin. She longed to be home. Mrs. Burke was reliable about feeding Vronsky, but she worried about Waif. Kittens at that age were fragile, and this one had suffered quite enough. There was no way the kitten would be fed the number of times a day she really needed, but at least the food should be put out in ample portions.
The ride was rough and disagreeable. The connection left late and arrived in Boston late. The cold seized around her as she looked for her car. She had missed rush hour, so she made decent time through the tunnel and to Cambridge. The light was on in the vestibule, as she always left it. Vronsky greeted her in a state of high agitation. She did not see Waif. “Where’s your kitten?” she asked him.
He took her immediately to the kitchen, where Waif lay on the stove, curled up to a pilot light. She looked ghastly. There was no food down. The bowls had been licked clean. A bag of dry food was lying on the floor. Obviously Vronsky had pulled the bag over and out. However, the kitten probably could not chew the dry food. She was breathing slowly, dehydrated too, for the water dish was empty.
“What happened to that fucking woman?” Leila said to Vronsky. “You poor creatures! I can’t stand people who don’t carry through their responsibilities to children and animals. She’s fired!” She filled a water dish. She ran into the downstairs bathroom for a medicine dropper. She began putting water down Waif’s throat. Waif could swallow. She mewed faintly.
Letting her luggage stand, her coat lay where it had dropped, Lei
la fed Vronsky regular cat food. Then she opened a can of chicken and turned it into mush with water in the blender. She began dabbing it into Waif’s mouth, holding her on her lap at the table. The kitten swallowed. She began to lick her chops. Little rascal wanted to live. She was extremely weak but she began lapping the watery chicken mash. She ate and ate until she was exhausted and fell asleep.
Leila stopped in her office to listen to her messages. Jane. A student begging an extension on an overdue paper. Phyllis wanting to know if she was back yet. Zak. A polite query if she was available for dinner a day before. Oh dear. Cathy, very upset about something. No Mrs. Burke. The woman had not had the courtesy to call in and say she couldn’t make it, although, when Leila thought about it, it was pretty silly to call an empty house and say you couldn’t come. Who would the message be for, the starving cats?
Vronsky was still talking. He ran upstairs complaining. Leila followed him with her suitcase, driven to unpack at once, so that she could return to her life rapidly. Something smelled bad. There was an odor—urine, vomit, something burned. Had the cats been sick? It was stronger as she approached her bedroom. She heard a sound, a moan. She froze. Vronsky ran ahead of her into the bedroom, calling her loudly, an impatient mrowing. Cautiously she proceeded, pausing in the doorway. The bed was made but someone was lying on it in David’s sleeping bag, the one that had been missing. It was filthy and looked as if it had been in a fire. It was Mrs. Burke lying on the bed.
Mrs. Burke opened her eyes and tried to sit up but obviously could not. She moaned again, her head tossing back and forth. The room reeked of something charred and a strong odor of sickness. The woman was wearing a nightgown with her arm in a dirty bandage. As Mrs. Burke stirred, she began to cough spasmodically, deep choking coughs from the bottom of her lungs. Leila, stunned by the sight of Mrs. Burke in her bed, could find nothing whatsoever to say. Guardedly she touched Mrs. Burke’s sweaty forehead. Burning up with fever.
“Water,” Mrs. Burke managed to spit out. “Sick.”
Leila brought her a glass of water. Discreetly she picked up Mrs. Burke’s enormous purse and carried it out of the room with her. “I’ll be back with some soup. Do you think you can keep it down?”
She opened a can of chicken soup. She checked on Waif and moved her to a pillow by a radiator, turning up the heat, giving her a little more chicken mash. While the soup heated, she sat at the kitchen table and began going through Mrs. Burke’s large purse. Makeup in an old jar, scarves, some large underpants, two bras, socks, pantyhose, gloves and mittens, a long slip, two rolled blouses, aspirin, safety pins pinned together, a hand mirror and hairbrush, a receipt from the emergency department of Boston City Hospital, marked paid cash for treatment of burns incurred in a fire. That was dated the night before Leila left for San Diego.
She began to guess what had happened. Mrs. Burke must have been in a fire at her daughter’s house—that’s right, she lived with her daughter. Her married daughter who was ashamed of her mother’s cleaning. Obviously after the fire, Mrs. Burke had decided to go to work anyhow and then had collapsed. She looked for the daughter in the shabby address book. Most of the addresses were in the Washington area. The only Burkes were a Jim Burke in Virginia and a Jaime Burke in Honolulu. The daughter was obviously married and had taken her husband’s name. She phoned the cleaning service. She got an answering machine and left a message.
All right, once Mrs. Burke was coherent, she could get the daughter’s phone number. Right now a doctor was required. She called Emily.
“In your bed. That must have been a shocker. Something like the three bears coming home, but this was hardly Goldilocks. It sounds like pneumonia to me. Tell you what. I’ll come by in half an hour with my little black bag and take a look. In the meantime, you should go on trying to find the woman’s family. I wonder if they reported her missing.”
She fed the soup to Mrs. Burke, whose head could scarcely remain upright. “A doctor friend of mine is coming. She thinks you may have pneumonia.”
“Got to get up,” Mrs. Burke managed to say, between coughing fits. She was coughing up a terrible green scum. Leila felt a little ill, but she held on. Mrs. Burke, her bed, the entire room reeked.
The only thing to do was call Honolulu. It must be afternoon there. She got an answering machine. “My name is Leila Landsman,” she said, giving her phone number. “This is about your mother, Mary Burke. She’s very ill. Please call me as soon as possible. It’s very important.”
She spooned a little more mash into Waif and tucked her into her blouse. Then she sat down and ate the rest of the soup. It did look as if Mrs. Burke had cleaned the house before she collapsed. She gave Waif to Vronsky to wash and made up the bed in David’s room, where it appeared she would be spending the night. As she was finishing, the doorbell rang.
Emily was gentle and efficient. “One oh four point eight It’s pneumonia all right. I’ll give you some antibiotics, Mary. What’s the burn from?”
“Fire,” Mrs. Burke said. “Building on fire.”
“Your daughter’s home?” Leila asked.
Mrs. Burke did not answer. She only coughed.
Leila wanted to ask Mrs. Burke what she was doing with David’s sleeping bag, but it hardly seemed an appropriate time. She did not want to embarrass Mrs. Burke in front of Emily. It was possible that Mrs. Burke had taken advantage of her absence to search for the missing sleeping bag, had found it and then, when she collapsed upon returning to feed the cats, had made use of it as bedding. Perhaps it would be best to agree on that story and not find out if Mrs. Burke had stolen the sleeping bag. She hardly seemed the type to go off on weekend camping trips.
Emily gave Mrs. Burke an injection of penicillin. She worked the dressing off the injured arm and put on some ointment, bandaging it again. She left three prescriptions with Leila, whom she motioned downstairs. “Something’s not right here. She has signs of mild frostbite on hands and feet. Her body is covered with old scars, sores that healed badly. Her feet are incredibly swollen. Those are all signs of a hard life, and I do mean, hard.”
“Do you think her daughter abuses her?”
“I don’t know what to think. Keep her in bed. See if you can locate her family, but check them out. There’s something off. Maybe her daughter was hurt in the fire. Maybe she was killed. I never read the papers except on Sunday. Otherwise, why haven’t they gotten hold of her? They must know where she goes to work. Normal people leave their schedule, phone numbers, in case the daughter has to reach her in an emergency. Maybe they’re in the hospital.”
“Maybe they’re out of town. On vacation. At a convention.”
“What does her daughter do?”
“I haven’t the faintest idea. Mary Burke was not one of your casual chatterers. She protects her privacy something fierce. The only time she ever opened up to me at all was around the time a homeless woman she knew was brutally attacked.”
“I remember that case. Raped too.” Emily rubbed her nose thoughtfully. “It just seems odd that her daughter doesn’t have the police breaking down the door.”
“I’m beginning to wonder if the daughter exists, or if there’s some secret. The daughter’s a prostitute, say. Something like that.” Leila tried to pay Emily, but Emily refused.
“I don’t do house calls for money. Only for friends. Besides, I think you’ve got yourself a whole lot of hassle. I think she’s in real trouble.”
“Is she in danger? Should I put her in the hospital?”
“Better to take care of her, or find the missing daughter. The pneumonia should start responding to antibiotics. She’s a tough old bird, Leila. I’d like to talk to her when the fever comes down. I’ll try to come by tomorrow at noon. If you find the daughter, call me at my office and let me know.”
After Emily had left, Leila sat in her study with her head in her hands. It was nine already. She called Zak, half expecting to get his answering machine. Nobody in the world was home or bothering to respond to her queri
es. She tried to think of something nice to do for Emily. Something for the boys?
“Zak Solomon here.”
“I just got back from California—my sister had a crisis. I walked in tonight to find my cleaning lady in my bed with raging pneumonia and no way to contact her family. And my new kitten was almost dead of starvation and dehydration. So you see my overture wasn’t hollow. I just got derailed.”
“I thought you’d changed your mind.”
“No.”
“A sick cleaning lady in your bed, a sick kitten and a sick sister? What are you, Typhoid Mary?” He was laughing.
“I don’t always live in a state of crisis. I think of myself as a rather dull woman. My sister tells me I’m scared to take a chance on anything.”
“When I met you, you were just starting divorce proceedings.”
“I won’t comment on your family. And yes, I’m feeling swamped.”
“All right, what did you do for the kitten?” He waited while she described her attentions. “Tell you what. Invite me to supper tomorrow night. Even if your cleaning lady is still occupying your bed. Maybe you should get a nurse in temporarily. It seems you’re footing the bills anyhow.”
“I have to go to school tomorrow. Come at seven … Zak? I’ll be very glad to see you. This has been a rough period.”
She called Emily back for a nursing recommendation, called a woman Emily knew, got shunted to somebody else who might be available, and finally, forty minutes later, she had a nurse coming in the morning. Then she ran a bath and afterward, sat with a bottle of Beaujolais and began idly reading through the newspapers of the last five days, delivered but untouched.
She was catching up on the political news, but also she was watching for items about fires. It was after eleven, but she was still on West Coast time. She started with the most recent paper and worked her way back. She was on Friday when the phone rang.
“Yeah, is this Leila Land? Your message said this was about my mother.”
She told him briefly. She had not got far when he interrupted. “No, you got it all wrong. Are you sure this is my mother?”