Andrew, said a voice. Her voice. You were always a killer.
The face in the mirror turned sickly pale. He wheeled around and looked. He was sure he had heard it. It was so loud. But there was no one there. He steadied himself, reminding himself that she was not there. Hurrying into the light of the parlor, he began to pick up, removing the evidence of what had been. He had just turned on the TV when he heard footsteps on the porch and a knock at the door.
Andrew’s heart leaped in his chest. It was too soon. The police couldn’t be here already. Impossible. They must have been right behind him. They must have seen him. Seen everything. They knew everything that had happened, and they were here to arrest him. If he opened the door, they would get him.
The pounding on the door came again. Andrew’s stomach flopped around helplessly like a fish in a boat. He rubbed his clammy hands together. He had to open it. They knew he was here. He could not remember the story he was going to tell. It had left him completely. His legs were stifle. Too stiff to move. He made himself go forward and reach for the doorknob. He closed his eyes, like a man about to face a firing squad, and opened the door a few inches, picturing the badges, the guns.
Instead, he heard a woeful voice, slurring his name. Andrew pulled the door open wider and looked out. Noah stood on the steps, looking around, a large paper bag balanced on his hip, a beer can in one hand.
Andrew’s heart flopped over again, this time with relief. At the same time he felt enraged at Noah’s arrival. The terrible timing was just what he might have expected from Noah.
“What do you want?” Andrew asked harshly.
Noah wiped his hair off his forehead with his wrist, and some beer slopped onto the fake fur collar of his jacket. “I gotta talk to you, buddy. Somethin’s up.”
Andrew felt his usual irritation at the way Noah tried to sound cool. He was such an insignificant asshole. Besides, he was still dirty from the garage and probably germ-laden too. “I’m busy,” said Andrew.
“No, man,” Noah insisted. “This is important.” He patted the bag on his hip. “I brought some brews,” he said in a wheedling voice.
Judging from the bleary, mournful look in Noah’s eyes, Andrew figured that he had already gotten a long head start on the beer. And now he was here with some stupid problem he wanted to maunder on about. Andrew felt like slamming the door on him, but a cautious voice inside reminded him that Noah’s presence might look favorable for him should the police arrive anytime soon. Screwing up his face in distaste, he pulled the door open.
“Come on in.”
“Thanks, buddy.” Noah seemed to have forgotten their fight in the garage and the smashed guitar as he thumped Andrew on the shoulder and shuffled into the parlor, fishing in the bag for a couple of beer cans. He handed one to Andrew, shook off his jacket onto the floor; and then sank down onto the sofa, popping the lid. Suddenly he sat up.
“Is your mother home?” he asked in a loud whisper.
Andrew shook his head, feeling his chest tighten in alarm at the question. He willed his voice to be calm. “No, she got pissed at me over some stupid thing and stormed out of here awhile ago. Drove off in a huff. She’s probably out getting loaded somewhere.”
Noah nodded understandingly. “Probably. Well, just as well. I know she’s not big on company.”
Andrew nodded, feeling a little surge of triumph. The story had fooled Noah easily. Of course, it would be different with the cops. They wouldn’t be drunk—or simple-minded. Still, it had sounded good, convincing. It had made sense to him as he said it.
Noah was leaning forward, his arms resting on his knees. He shook his head sadly. “Buddy, I got big problems, and I had to unload them somewhere. So I came to you.”
Andrew took a swig of beer and made a face. He didn’t want to get drunk, but he wanted to seem normal. He forgot, until the beer hit his growling stomach, that he had not eaten since the sardine and cookie breakfast. He wiped his mouth as if to wipe away the taste. “All right,” he said impatiently. “What is it?”
“I can’t believe it,” said Noah, leaping up and shaking his fist at the heavens. “I just can’t believe it.”
“Cut the crap, will you? Don’t turn this into a fucking soap opera.”
Noah turned on him and looked at him petulantly. “I’m trying to tell you how I feel.”
Andrew shook his head in exasperation and chugged some more beer. It churned in his stomach like brackish water. “You haven’t said anything yet. You’re just proving how juvenile you can be.”
Noah resumed his slumped position on the couch. “My folks lowered the boom tonight at dinner.” He sighed and shook his head.
Andrew got up and turned up the volume on the TV. Then he sat down in the chair and began to stare at it.
“Okay, okay,” Noah cried. “They’re retiring.”
Andrew kept his eyes on the screen. “So?”
“Will you turn that down?” Noah pleaded, holding out another beer. Andrew snapped the set off and glowered down at Noah.
“They’re moving away. To North Carolina. My dad is leaving me the business.”
Andrew snorted. “That’s the big tragedy?”
“But my tunes,” Noah wailed. “The music business. I was already thinking about going to Nashville. Now how can I?”
“You never would have gone,” Andrew assured him.
“I would. I was gonna,” Noah insisted, thumping his fist on his knees and spilling beer on the carpet. He was immediately apologetic, getting down on the floor and wiping it up with his old red and white handkerchief. “Do you think your mother will notice this?”
“No,” said Andrew.
Noah sat back down. “I can’t believe it, man. I’m gonna spend the rest of my life under a car. The best years of my life. When I could really make it in music. I know I could have.”
The image of an upended, burning wreck of a car seemed to flame before Andrew’s eyes. He felt a little light-headed, and his disgust for Noah felt less immediate. He swallowed some more beer. “There’s no one who wants to stay in this stinking town, that’s for sure,” he said.
“That’s right,” said Noah. “I figured you’d understand. But what am I gonna do?”
Andrew frowned. “What’s that?”
Noah sighed. “It’s a car. Must be your mother coming back. We better clean these up. He began stashing the empty cans into his brown bag as Andrew stood listening, his heart thumping wildly. It was a car. Stopped outside the house.
“I better go,” said Noah. “She’s gonna be pissed to see me here. Why don’t you come out with me? We can talk over at the garage.” He began to teeter to his feet and fumble for his coat.
“Just sit there,” Andrew hissed.
Noah took this as an invitation. He wiped his pale face on his sleeve and began to rearrange his ponytail. “I don’t know. I probably should be mad at you after what you did to my guitar. But you’ve been my buddy for a long time, and friends are hard to come by in this town—”
The knock at the door made Andrew jump, even though he had been expecting it and had known it would come. Noah turned and blinked at the door as if he had completely forgotten that he had heard the car. “Who’s that?”
“How should I know?” Andrew said, getting up and wiping his hands on his trousers as he headed for the hallway.
“Your mother’s gonna have a fit,” Noah predicted.
For one moment, as he pulled the door open, Andrew pictured her standing there, battered and burned, glaring at him, the ultimate triumph in her eyes.
“Andrew Vincent?” asked the cop who stood on the porch steps. He had a red mustache frosted with gray and tired eyes. The collar of his uniform coat was turned up around his ears against the night air. Behind him stood another, younger officer, staring uneasily away from Andrew.
Andrew nodded. “Yes?”
“Sorry to bother you. May we come in?”
Andrew shrugged and stepped aside.
Noah jumped up and jammed his hands in his pockets. Then his face lit up as he recognized the older officer. “Hey, Burt. How ya doin’?”
Burt looked over at Noah and greeted him solemnly. Then he turned back to Andrew before Noah could attempt to continue the conversation.
“Andrew, we have some bad news for you, son.”
Andrew frowned.
“Leonora Vincent is your mother?”
“Yes.”
“Well, son, I’m sorry to tell you this, but there was a bad accident up on Hawk’s Ridge. Apparently your mother drove her car right off the road.”
Andrew’s eyes widened. “Is she all right?”
The cop pressed his lips together and shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said.
Noah let out a soft whistle. “Jeez…”
Andrew clapped his hand to his head. He could feel himself sweating, the blood draining from his face. His head started to throb. “What happened?” he whispered.
“We don’t know for sure. Either she lost control of it, or she couldn’t tell where she was going in the dark. There weren’t any skid marks on the road. But that’s a treacherous strip up there.”
“It’s impossible,” said Andrew.
“Do you know what she was doing driving around up there at this time of night?”
“No,” said Andrew. “Well, I don’t know. We had an argument—”
“She went out in a huff,” Noah said helpfully, as if he had seen her go. “You know, people should not get into cars when they’re mad. I don’t know how many times we’ve towed a wreck over at the station that started out with someone being mad.” Noah shook his head. “His mother never drove that much anyway.”
Andrew kept a hand over his eyes and felt a surge of adrenaline course through him as he heard Noah, in his ineffectual, plodding way, giving all the credence he needed to the story.
“Is there anything we can do for you, young man?” asked the officer named Burt.
Andrew shook his head.
“Jeez, Andrew,” said Noah, coming up and gripping his shoulder, “I’m so sorry.”
“I shouldn’t have let her leave like that. You’re right.”
“No, no. C’mon. You didn’t know this would happen.”
The whine in Noah’s voice and the sour beer on his breath made Andrew want to turn away from him, but he forced himself humbly to accept the condolences. He could feel sweat popping out at his hairline and trickling down his sides inside his shirt. His knees had begun to wobble underneath him.
“Can I use your phone?” asked Burt.
Andrew nodded and then clutched his stomach. “I don’t feel well,” he said. And it was true. The beer in his empty stomach, aggravated by the stress, was suddenly revolting on him. “I’m gonna be sick.”
Freeing himself from Noah’s treacly attentions, he bolted for the front door. The clap of cold air felt wonderful, but it was too late to help his stomach. Grabbing the porch railing, he leaned over and began to heave up the rancid mix of beer and stomach acid.
The younger cop, who had been standing awkwardly to one side until that moment, rushed out after him, followed by Noah. One stood on either side of Andrew as he retched into the bushes below. Once the heaving had started, it was uncontrollable. Andrew wanted to scream at them to get away from him. Their nearness to him only made it worse.
Over Andrew’s bent form the young policeman and Noah exchanged an anxious glance. “Poor kid,” said the cop. “It’s tough.”
“Just let it out,” Noah advised.
Noah reached over and patted Andrew on the back, murmuring encouragement.
Fools. You believed it, Andrew thought triumphantly as his stomach turned inside out on him again, and he gagged, sweating and moaning, in the chilly night air.
BETH woke at dawn, awash in uneasiness,
as if she had had a bad dream that she couldn’t remember. Mike slept quietly beside her. She felt like reaching out for him, but she didn’t want to wake him. With his exhausting schedule he needed all the sleep he could get. She lay back and closed her eyes, waiting for the night terror to subside and for sleep to overtake her again.
It must be the traveling, she thought. It was hard to get a good night’s sleep when you knew you had to travel that day. That’s it, she thought. The traveling. Her thoughts turned to Francie. Once she got her settled at Aunt May’s and got the house put up for sale, she could come home. But perhaps she could get back up there to visit Francie one of these days. Or maybe Francie could come down to Philly and stay in the guest room. She tried to imagine herself proposing this to Francie and was struck by how unrealistic a plan it seemed. They had little common ground between them. Once this settling up was over, they would have even less.
She tried to change the subject mentally, making lists of things she had to do when they got back. It would be a busy few days. The prospect of it filled her with dread. You’re just exhausted, she told herself. That’s the problem. You’re overtired. You’ve been trying to do too much. She thought of Francie, sleeping soundly down the hall. Well, you’ve taken most of the burden of this off her. At least you did that for her.
All of a sudden she heard the sound of the medicine chest squeaking and then the rush of the tap in the bathroom. After a moment she heard Francie’s footsteps padding back to her room. She can’t sleep either, Beth suddenly realized. Probably taking an aspirin. She could picture her sister, lying there awake, fretting about the trip back. For some reason the thought made her eyes fill up with tears. She’s anxious, Beth thought. We’re both anxious.
But instead of troubling her, that realization was oddly comforting. In a few minutes she had fallen asleep again.
The second time she awoke, there was sunlight coming through the slats of the pine shutters and Mike was leaning over to kiss her good-bye. Beth clung to his fingers and kissed him repeatedly until he laughed and told her he had to go. Reluctantly she let go of his hand.
“When will you be back?” he asked.
“Soon. A couple of days.”
“Good,” he whispered. “Tell Francie I’ll see her soon.” He slipped out the door with a wave.
“I love you,” said Beth. She wondered briefly what he meant by seeing Francie soon. Probably the wedding, she thought. He always found a way to bring that up. She smiled and stretched. She hated getting out of the warm bed, but it was time to get started. It wasn’t as warm, anyway, with Mike gone.