Mother (46 page)

But the house was silent.

A Dragon Named Priscilla

“We haven’t spent enough time planning the potluck,” Priscilla told Babs. They sat at the kitchen table drinking coffee as
Apple Tree
played on and on in the living room.

“We put out flyers announcing it’s this weekend,” Babs said. “Everyone knows. You don’t need to worry.” She had reluctantly answered Prissy’s command to come over and plan the yearly potluck that celebrated spring’s imminent arrival, the block party that meant the Snapdragon Festival was only a few weeks away. Though it was still very cold at night, the snapdragons were already beginning to bloom all around the sac. It promised to be a beautiful spring.

“Without plans, things fall apart,” Prissy said. “You know that, Barbara. Why-”

“Of course,” Babs cut in. “All I’m saying is that it doesn’t need to be policed. I think people should bring whatever they want. There’s no need to dictate to them. It takes all the fun out of it.”

“And we’ll end up with six bowls of potato salad and a few plates of cookies. People need variety, Barbara Rose!” Pris paused. “Without Burke Collins and his barbecue, we don’t even have his famous hamburgers. Everyone loved them. Burke wasn’t good for much, but those burgers of his were a real treat.”

“We don’t have burgers,” Babs said, “but Carl is going to barbecue. He’ll be grilling hot dogs.”

“Hot dogs are disgusting,” Pris said. “Have you ever read what’s in them?”

“People love hot dogs.”

“But-”

Out of patience, Babs sat up straight and looked Pris in the eye. “Take them or leave them, Prissy.”

“Couldn’t Carl consider making hamburgers?”

“No, Priscilla. Be happy he’s willing to make hot dogs. And can’t we listen to something other than that song? I swear, I hear it in my sleep. It’s probably doing something awful to Claire’s baby.”

“What
are
you babbling about, Barbara? It’s a lovely song. My favorite. It’s so happy, it can only be good for a fetus to listen to.”

Babs sighed. Priscilla had always been ridiculously attached to that damned old song. Even as a child, she played it. Babs had asked Pris why, but all she’d ever said was that it was her father’s favorite, and that he played it every time they were alone together. It was “their” song. Prissy’s relationship with her father had always been a strange one, though. They were closer than most fathers and daughters.
Too
close, if Babs were to be honest. Right up until he dropped dead.
 

“How’s Claire doing? I’d certainly like to visit with her when we’re done.” Babs watched Priscilla closely.
 

“But you just visited her yesterday, Barbara. Remember? While I was at the Auxiliary luncheon you skipped because you had a repairman coming over?”

Babs didn’t believe Claire had told her mother about the visit, but of course she knew. Pris always knew. Looking her straight in the eye, she spoke. “Yes, I looked in on her yesterday and I’m very concerned for her well-being.”

“No need, she’s fine. You’re not her mother, after all. Now let’s get back to work-”

“I feel like her mother, Pris. She was at my house as often as at home. She came to me for help with everything from making her Halloween costumes to doing her homework. She came to me to talk about growing up, about boys, and just about everything else, including you.”

“Well then,” Pris huffed. “She was using you because she came to me about all those things, too, including
you
. But I didn’t spoil her by giving her bags of overpriced cookies nearly every time I saw her.”

The Chesapeakes. Pris saw the bag - that’s how she knows
. Chesapeakes had been something Babs and Claire had shared since she was a little girl.
 

“You have no need to worry about Carlene,” Pris was saying. “She’s
my
daughter, not yours.”

“I’ll worry about whomever I please. You don’t own Claire. Why, you can’t even be bothered to remember to call her by the name she has chosen.”

“That ungrateful girl,” Pris said. “How dare she - how
dare
she just throw out the name
I
bequeathed her when she was born. It’s
my
middle name and she’s
my
daughter. She has no respect for me, none at all!”
 

Tears shone in Prissy’s eyes as she waited for Babs to tell her it wasn’t her fault, that Claire was just a headstrong young woman and she shouldn’t take it personally. That’s what she would have done even a month ago, but Babs’ dislike of Pris had been growing, going into full bloom when Geneva-Marie was murdered and all Pris Martin did was celebrate the fact that her competition for Auxiliary president had vanished.
 

“I can’t believe how ungrateful my daughter is,” Priscilla was saying. “And here I’ve taken her in and fed her and tended to her …” She hitched a sob. “I just don’t understand her. Timothy was so sweet and good, but Carlene-”

“Claire, Priscilla. Her name is Claire. You complain that she doesn’t respect your wishes, why don’t you try respecting hers?”

Prissy’s eyes widened. “What? You’re on
her
side? She didn’t care how much changing her name hurt me, she did it anyway.”

“Get over it, Pris. She didn’t like your middle name, and as I recall, when we were children, you complained about it, too. You wished you had a better middle name. And a different first name. You used to say you wanted to be Anastasia Marie Baker-Wellbourne. You kept telling me you were going to change it when you grew up.”

“I was just a silly child.” Prissy’s face was white with red spots on her cheeks. “You can’t compare childish fantasies to what Carlene did.”

“
Claire
carried through on the name change. You didn’t.”

“Because I grew up and respected the names
my
mother chose for me.”
 

Pris’ hand shook, slopping coffee, and Babs pushed down the instinct to make nice. “Fine. Let’s get finished with this potluck nonsense. I have other things to attend to.”

Pris stared at her. “What’s so important that you call our potluck nonsense? Don’t you care about our street’s welfare?”

“I’m having lunch with Father Andy,” Babs said, rising. “I don’t want to be late.” It was a fib, but she hoped it wouldn’t be for long.

“Oh?” Prissy looked surprised, her manufactured tears forgotten. “Whatever for?”

“I’m thinking of running for president of the Ladies’ Auxiliary.”

“Against
me
?” Priscilla’s face flushed as she pushed away from the table.
 

“Yes. It’s time for a change and since poor Geneva-Marie can’t do it, I will.”

Priscilla followed Babs to the front door. “How dare you? I’m your best friend!”

“Priscilla, friends care about one another. You only care about yourself.”
 

Pris spoke through clenched teeth. “How
dare
you? After all I’ve done for you, after all the help I gave you and Carl when he almost lost your house to his gambling addiction.”

Babs, her hand on the door handle, looked at Prissy. “We appreciated your help and we thanked you many times. And that was a long time ago - and even then I knew why you really helped us.” She depressed the latch.

“Because you were my friend and I was looking out for you.”

“No, Prissy, that’s not why. You did it so you could keep me - and Carl - in your pocket. And it worked. I’ve spent years helping you carry out your street parties and just about everything else you plan, and I did it without expectations beyond civility. And how many times did Carl clean out your gutters and help you around the yard? You even asked him to put up your Christmas lights last year. And Carl did it with a smile. But plan on hiring someone this year because when Geneva-Marie was sprawled out there dead in the street, her head blown into a million pieces, all you could do was crow that you didn’t have to worry about an opponent this election. I couldn’t keep my blinders on any longer. I saw you as you really are. You’re ugly, Priscilla. Your soul is ugly. I feel sorry for you. You care about no one but yourself!”

Priscilla’s mouth worked, but nothing came out.

“You’re only president because everyone is afraid of you, and you know it. You’re the only one who wants to put a homeless camp out by the airport, where they’re so isolated that they can’t even try to get work. You’re the only one who wants that, Priscilla. Most of the time, you do right by the auxiliary, but moving the homeless just so you don’t have to look at them is too much. You were ice cold about Geneva-Marie and her family, and you’re ice cold about the homeless. No one like you should ever be in charge of anything beyond neighborhood potlucks!
That
is why I’m running against you.”

“Wait-”

“I’ll only wait if you let me go upstairs to visit Claire.”

“She’s asleep.”

“And Frederick? It’s been years since I’ve laid eyes on him. I’d like to see him, too. Is he asleep, as well?”

Priscilla blanched. “He always has a long nap after breakfast! You know that. The poor man,” she said, adding a quaver to her voice. “I take the best care of him I can ...”

“Goodbye, Priscilla.” Babs left, shutting the door quietly behind her because slamming it would please Prissy. And before she’d even got back to her own house, she’d made a lunch date with Father Andy.

All those years.
All those years kowtowing to Priscilla and keeping quiet, just to avoid the inevitable confrontation if she so much as questioned what the woman said. Babs had spent years eating her own words, pushing away anger and resentment.
No more.
She marched into her house and made a cup of coffee - she only drank tea because Prissy did.
Prissy Prissy Prissy
! No more.
 

She thought of Claire, sweet Claire, stuck up there in that bedroom like a princess in a castle, guarded by a dragon. She had to talk with Jason; he needed to get his wife out of Priscilla’s house. If Paul Schuyler’s rental wasn’t ready, the young couple could stay with her and Carl until it was.
 

Claire, feeling hopeful for the first time since her accident, returned to her desk, intending to go back to work, but she kept thinking about what she had heard through the vent. Sweet Aunt Babs’ tone was what first caught her attention and made her move to listen in, straining to hear over the Andrews Sisters; she’d never heard Babs raise her voice before. And she’d raised it to Mother.

At first, it made her happy that Babs wouldn’t let Mother push her around. It made her want to cheer. Then, when Babs stood up for Claire, she had to fight back tears.
 

Maybe I’m not losing my mind after all
. Smiling to herself, she realized she wasn’t as alone as she’d thought.
 

She made herself return to work, but kept yawning and finally decided a nap before lunch was in order.
 

The feel of the plane as its wheels lifted from the runway gave Jason a bump of excitement. It wasn’t as thrilling as piloting, but still, there was nothing quite like being airborne. He felt like a little boy again. He always did.

He watched out the window as the buildings grew smaller, listened to the muted roar of the plane’s engines, and imagined he was in the pilot seat of a 747.

And then Jake Fairview shattered the fantasy by saying, “Denver. Christ, I hate Denver,” in that frog-like croak of his.

Jason forced a friendly smile. “Oh yeah? Why’s that?”

“I can tell you’ve never been there in winter, which, by the way, lasts way too long.”

Though in no mood for small talk, Jason didn’t see how he could ignore the guy without being rude. “Only to the airport. I’ve never been there long enough to explore the city.”

“Well, you’re not missing anything. And don’t let them fool you with their talk of clean air, green mountains, and legalized marijuana cigarettes. Colorado is just a slightly less Midwestern version of the Bible Belt. And you know how I feel about that.” He barked a humorless laugh.
 

Jason didn’t know how Jake felt about the Bible Belt, as a matter of fact, and he wasn’t about to ask.

“And Denver is the worst of all.” Jake turned in his seat, an undignified pose given his ample size, to stare at Jason with wide, blazing eyes. “Those motherfuckers get eight feet of snow half the year -
half
the got-damn year - and they don’t even have the sense to plow the got-damn roads. Hmmph.” He straightened in his seat. “Not in the budget, they say. Must be all the marijuana.”

“Must be.” Jason stared out the window, at the blue-green earth thousands of feet below, and enjoyed a sense of freedom he hadn’t experienced in too long.
No wonder they say heaven is in the sky.

“You know what I think needs to happen,” said Jake.

“What’s that?”

“I think those fancy Coloradans need to raise the taxes on their handy-dandy legalized pot a little more and use the money to plow the got-damn roads.”

Jason chuckled. “You may be onto someth-”

“It’s common sense that when it snows, you plow. What kind of fool-idiots build a city in the middle of the got-damn mountains and don’t plan for snow? You don’t see
that
kind of nonsense in Snapdragon, or anywhere in California. Of course, it doesn’t really
snow
in California, not in the cities, anyway, but if it
did
I’d bet my pension
someone
would be plowing the roads …” and on he went.

Clearly, no amount of apathy was going to stop him. There would be no enjoying this flight and as the man prattled away, Jason found himself suppressing sigh after sigh.

“ … and what
should
have been a
fifteen-
minute drive to the Molly Brown House took forty-five minutes, all because those lazy got-damn sonsabitches can’t plow … ”

Jason had an idea. Nothing said
leave me alone
like reading. He reached behind his seat, withdrew one of Timothy’s journals, and hoped Jake would take the hint.

“What you reading?” Jake frowned at the journal.

“Uh, it’s a … manuscript my wife wrote. I promised to look it over before she … sends it to the publishers … and I really need to get it done.”