Lying With The Dead Part 18

Back then, he was always talking. He joked and jabbered and made the rest of us laugh. Now he doesn't talk so much, except for his questions last night. They spun in my brain, like when you flip a bicycle upside down and spin the tire till the spokes blur into a circle that makes your eyes ache. You want to turn away, but you can't. Quinn asked so many questions I couldn't keep them straight and after he fell asleep, the blurry wheel went on spinning in the dark.

"Candy asked me to drop you at Mom's," Quinn says. "When you're finished there, call her and she'll pick you up."

"Finished what?"

"Whatever Mom has in mind."

Without the berries on top, I don't care for the color of my pancakes. They have the brown look of clay and taste like dirt until I pour on the syrup. Then they taste like sugar. "What's Mom have in her mind?" I ask.

"Oh, you know Mom. She's always thinking." He smiles, handing the waitress his card. "Didn't you say she had something to tell you and something to give you?"

"That's what she said on the phone."

"Well, you'll soon find out. Mom has Candy's numbers. If she's not at work, call her at home."

"Where will you be?"

"Candy's house. Which reminds me. Lemme have the key."

"Aren't you coming with me to Mom's?" The key is in my jeans, in the pocket with the toy bus and the rubber turtle. I stand up and squeeze my hand in there.

"She'd rather talk to you alone, like she did with me yesterday."

"What did she tell you? Maybe it's the same thing she'll tell me."

"We'll compare notes later."

After the waitress brings back his card and Quinn signs, we step outside and my shadow on the parking lot is blacker than the blacktop. I'm relieved when Quinn lets me into the car until he switches the radio on. No music, only talk about terror and war and weapons. Listening to that, I can't keep straight what Mom might have to say.

The sunlight on her house is silver gray, the same color as the unshaved whiskers on my chin. The place needs painting and res.h.i.+ngling. There's rust dripping down the boards from the roof. My guess is the rain spouts are plugged with leaves. I could unplug them and paint and fix the wood. And Mom's wreck of a car in the driveway, I could fix that too. It'd be no trouble to change the tires and oil and start the engine running again. But in this family n.o.body asks me to do the jobs I know how to do.

"I'll walk you to the door," Quinn says.

"I see it from here."

"You know, Mom won't answer unless you use the code."

"Three knocks, then one."

"You're set."

My feet are in my shadow until it floods under the shade of the front porch. I feel Quinn's eyes on me. I bang on the door, and his eyes bang on the back of my head. Then Mom opens up a crack, and I hear the car drive away. She tilts her head like an owl in a tree, leading with her big eye, the left one. She holds shut the collar of her housecoat and the sweater she wears on top of it. There's a broom in her other hand, and without unchaining the door, she sticks it through the crack, straw end first.

"That spiderweb in the corner of the porch," she says. "Up there between the post and the roof. I've been after Candy for months to sweep it down. I'm afraid the spider'll bite somebody."

"The cold kills them in winter."

"Don't count on it. Anyway, the sight of it makes me nauseous. Knock it down."

It's a tent caterpillar nest, not a spiderweb. I stab the broom at it. The gray sack splits open and out spill bits and pieces, dark as the overcooked bacon on Quinn's plate. It's baby caterpillars, all dead. I sweep them off the porch under the rosebushes, and Mom lets me in and leans the broom in a corner of the hallway.

She sits on the couch and folds her feet in her slippers up under her housecoat. I sit where Quinn sat yesterday, in the rocking chair. The smell is everyplace, and my hair is sticky like it has strings of caterpillar nest stuck in it.

"Are you enjoying your visit?" she says.

I tell her I am.

"I guess it's different in California."

I tell her it is.

"Me, I'd miss the change of seasons."

I tell her I do, too, even though I don't, except for snow.

"Do you have friends out there?"

"Nicky's my friend."

"Man or woman?"

"Woman."

"You oughta get married, a handsome fellow like you. Find a gal to look after you. Have a family. It's never too late for a man."

"I'm friendly with the Mexicans, too. They take me to church."

"Careful who you chum around with." She lights a cigarette. That helps the smell. "Speaking of church, it wouldn't surprise me if Candy married Lawrence soon. What do you think?"

"About what?" Her questions spin the bicycle tire, blurring the spokes in a bright circle.

"Think he'll make a good husband?"

"I don't know what makes a good husband."

"Me neither." Mom laughs and coughs into a Kleenex. "We sure as h.e.l.l never saw one around this house, did we?"

"I need to check on my boat."

"Your what?" She squinches her face, and the gla.s.ses slide down her nose.

"The boat I built in the attic. Is it still up there?"

"d.a.m.ned if I know. It's been years since I risked that ladder."

"Be right back."

"Can't it wait? We've got things to talk about."

I head for the staircase, and she says, "I never did understand how you intended to haul it from the attic. It'd be like pulling a model boat out of a bottle. Something's bound to break."

On the second floor, I yank the cord that lowers the ladder. The spring groans loud like Quinn did last night, and the steps creak as I climb. I push open the hatch and switch on the bulb. It's hard to see through the dust. I want to hide here from Mom, like I did in the old days, staring up at the slanted roof and the s.h.i.+ny nail points. But the nails are rusty now and the boat is rotten down to its keel and ribs, like a cow skeleton in the desert. One touch and the last of the wood'll collapse in a puff. If I wanted to haul it from the attic, all I'd need is a broom. It'd sweep away as easy as the dead caterpillars. I close the hatch and go downstairs to listen to what Mom has to say.

She's flat on the sofa, a pillow under her head and another one on top of her chest with her arms crossed over it. She did that at Patuxent when Quinn was in her belly-crossed her arms over the big b.u.mp that Candy said moved from the baby's kicking.

"Sit beside me, sweetheart."

"I like the rocking chair," I say.

"No, I want you near me."

I do what she tells me, crouching at the edge of the sofa like I did on Quinn's bed last night. But I don't cup my hand to her head.

"It's been so nice having you home," she says. "Normally I don't have company."

"You have Candy."

"She's busy with Lawrence. Once they marry, they'll move away and play golf. You know what that means?"

I shake my head that I don't. I've seen golf on TV. I like the sound of the club hitting the ball. Nicky tried, but couldn't teach me how to keep score.

"They won't take me with them," Mom says.

"They told you that?"

"Not in so many words. But I wouldn't go even if they asked me to. I'm too old for North Carolina. I don't know a soul down there. I intend to die in my own house. Candy's been babysitting me long enough. She deserves to have her own life."

Half my b.u.t.t has fallen asleep. The other half hanging over the edge starts to ache.

"That leaves me all alone," Mom says.

I begin to think this is the thing she called me to Maryland to tell me. I see what I have to do. "I'll talk to Nicky," I say. "She has s.p.a.ce. You could live in her house. Or we could rent a trailer."

She jabs her gla.s.ses back up her nose. "I don't feature spending my last days in Slab City."

"It's nice in winter."

"Thanks anyway, sweetie. That's not for me."

"Then what'll you do?'

"Candy and Quinn plan to dump me in a.s.sisted living. If it's not bad enough dying in a roach nest, it costs money. I'll have to sell the house and waste my savings. There'll be nothing left for you. I told you I have something to give you. But if I go to a.s.sisted living, it'll eat up your money."

The bicycle tire is spinning faster. "You oughta live with Quinn in London."

"Fat chance! All his fancy friends around, he doesn't want to be stuck with an old woman that looks like death warmed over. Doesn't it burn your a.s.s to lose the money I saved for you?"

"That's all right."

"I wanted to leave some for Candy too. Now she'll miss out."

"Lawrence is a dentist. He makes money."

"It's good for a married woman to have her own."

"Give her mine."

"What a love you are. But there won't be a penny left." One of her hands slips off the pillow and onto my arm. I pull back, but she holds tight. "You've always been so generous. Even as a little boy you shared everything with Candy. And you loved and helped me. I didn't have to ask. When I was in trouble, you protected me. You knew what to do then. You know now."

"No, I don't."

"Sure, you do. I need to die so Quinn can fly back to London and Candy can marry Lawrence and you can have the money that belongs to you."

"I don't want the money."

"Don't just think of yourself, dammit." Her different-colored eyes flash at me, and her fingernails dig into my arm. "Have some sympathy for Candy. Have some mercy on me."

"I don't understand."

"Yes, you do."

"I'll fix your car and paint your house, and we'll live here together."

"No, you're better off in California with Nicky. And I'll be better off once you take this pillow and press it over my face."

"I can't do that." My head starts to float with what she says.

"Why not?"

"You're my mother."

"You killed Dad."

"This is different." I feel like I need to get down on the floor.

"You killed your father but you won't kill me?" she shouts.

"I can't. I love you."

"Then do it for love."

I stand up and almost tip over.

"Sit down," she says real loud so that her big voice and her skinny body don't match.

"My head is messing with my brain."

"Trust me." She pats the sofa. "Sit down and let's talk this over. There's nothing to be scared of. I'm dying already. Let's just get it done with. I'd do it myself, but then they won't pay my insurance and I'll go to h.e.l.l."