The Sitter Page 22

  Still...what if he was hurt, God forbid? What if--at this very moment--he was lying in a heap somewhere, desperately trying to reach her?

  “A plan is what's needed,” she said to herself, and proceeded to make one. If, she reasoned, he had simply forgotten the time and was all apologies when he got home, she would simply have him sit down while she--

  The front door came open abruptly, and Larry stumbled into the living room. At least she thought it was him. A sorrier sight, a dirtier Larry Cutler, she had never had the misfortune to see. Chest heaving, face a gloomy mask of fatigue, he stood before her. He was incredibly muddy, shirt and pants unrecognizable. And his shoes. She noticed then that he was bloody. Arms and hands...

  “You're hurt!” she cried and rushed to him. Catherine hugged her boy gingerly, afraid of hurting him further. The fact that he allowed this told her the situation was indeed serious. “Come into the bathroom, Larry-dear,” she cooed as if talking to a sick child. “A nice bath, Larry Sweetheart.” She pulled him gently into the hall.

  His breathing was calming, Catherine noticed as she led him to his room, and then into the bathroom. Obediently, he raised his arms so she could lift the soggy T-shirt off over his head. It had a filthy, almost gamy stench to it that she couldn't put a name to. As if it had been...underground...for a long a time. Wrinkling her nose in distaste, she threw it into the wastebasket.

  “What happened, Sweetheart?” she asked. Before he could answer, she put a hand firmly across his mouth.

  Don't tell me! It's something terrible, I just know it is!

  “Tell me later, Larry-dear. When you're stronger.” She removed her hand and he stood before her, his eyes docile and vacant. She pulled his gloves off his hands, and didn't dare examine them. She tossed them into the wastebasket.

  “Poor baby,” Catherine murmured. “Just look at you! Arms all bloody... ” And his chest was marked with harsh, red marks, as if he'd been gouged with something. She dampened a wash cloth and dabbed at the raw marks, afraid to apply much pressure. “I'll just tidy you up a bit Larry-dear.” She gently swabbed at the smears of mud and...whatever was on his arms, moving the wash cloth up to more of that reddish stuff on his neck.

  “You'll be good as new.” she said, with an optimistic cheerfulness she was a far cry from actually feeling. She rinsed the cloth and went on to his face, scrubbing up into his hair. “Yessir-ee good as new!”

  Larry stood sluggish and impassive while his mother loosened his belt and then knelt to untie his mud-caked shoes. Catherine lowered the toilet lid and pushed him gently onto it. Have a seat here, Larry!” she cried merrily. He leaned back against the tank. “We'll get those awful tennies off now, Sweetie.” Scattering mud clumps onto the floor. She pulled his Nikes off. “Well, now, these are new and they aren't so bad--I'll bet they'll clean up just fine!” Trying to hide her disgust, she peeled off his socks and threw them into the wastebasket. “Oh my, Larry...”

  Catherine sensed her boy's body softening. He was responding to her--beginning to relax.

  She tugged the still soggy jeans down over his lean hips. “Raise your bottom up a little, Larry.” He quickly complied and a wonderful feeling of power came over Catherine.

  Such a feeling! Her boy was hurt and he needed his mother, as he hadn't in a very long time. When Larry was little, she remembered, he'd been plagued one spring with a cough so nagging and persistent he simply couldn't sleep the night through. Night after night he'd awaken crying with discomfort, and Catherine would crawl into his little bed with him, elevate his head with her arm and shoulder, and sing to him. She had a regular repertory she would run through, and he loved it. Many precious nights they had fallen asleep together with him cradled gently against her.

  Tears came into her eyes now as she began to croon one of their long ago favorites. “Bo-diddly, Bo-diddly, where have you been? I've been around the world and I'm gonna go again.” At the sound of her voice, Larry focused on her, and began to weep. Silently. Then he put his hands to his eyes and sobbed aloud, shoulders heaving. He sounded as if his heart were breaking.

  “Oh, my dear boy,” Catherine cried, putting her arms around him, her face next to his. “You've come undone.”

  *****

  It's raining. Why am I here in the rain? Why... am I here at all? I open the screen door—peer in. The store. The Jarvis brothers beaming at me... am I expected? A third man...smiles at me. Looks just like Colin and Frank--has to be related. “Aaron?” I ask, absurdly pleased that I remember his name. The lost brother. The little man nods happily.

  ”How wonderful to see you,” I say. And it is.

  “Wonderful,” says Colin, wringing his hands.

  “Rare,” says Frank Jarvis, “when a lost one returns.” Tears glisten in his eyes. Colin bobs his head up and down.

  “Stevie's still gone,” I remark, my tone casual... as if his stay away has been unaccountably extended. “Poor-Larry-Cutler, he's the one responsible.” Ahh...so good to say the truth right out loud!

  Aaron floats toward me--a benign smile--affectionate. His feet are bare--they don't touch the floor. Strange, I think, but I'm not afraid. He wears red suspenders, like his brothers.

  “Larry...the one who was excited?” he asks.

  “Yes. Excited by calamity. Thrilled...Can you imagine?”

  “No bad boys,” recites Frank. “There are no bad boys.” He is kindly patient, as if he loves me even though I'm slow.

  “Not so sure about that Frank.” I say, strangely at ease with the brothers.

  I can barely hear my words...the rain is picking up--it clatters onto the metal roof like coins.

  Bertie then, along with this sudden squall. Bertie?

  She bursts into the store, scatters my thoughts. She brings with her a damp, gusting wind. Wet beyond wet--she's drenched! And, so muddy, she is caked with it! She comes toward me...her eyes on mine. But...they are strange and vacant, as if she's had a stroke. She frightens me.

  “Bertie...what?”

  She doesn't answer.

  A cold hand on my bare arm-- icy water runs down from her hand onto my arm. I'm so cold now--shaking with it.

  “There are no bad boys,” Frank says again, his softness gone.

  “Silly fool,” Bertie says. “Silly old man.”

  Crazy. Bizarre...no logic to this. Maybe I'm crazy. I want to scream.

  Bertie squeezes my arm. Too hard. “Bertie, don't!”

  “Do you understand, Jeannie? DO YOU?”

  “You're hurting my arm, Bertie... ”

  “Jeannie,” I hear Steven say. He's shaking me, his hand on my arm. He's hurting my arm.

  “Oh God,” I say, pulling away from his grasp. “Dream. Thank God...just a dream.”

  “You scared me.”

  “I'm sure I did.” I hear the rain pattering on the skylight as I turn onto my side. “Sorry about that.”

  “S'okay,” he murmurs. I feel his body close to my back, his arms around me.

  My return to sleep is elusive. My dream had been too vivid, and I am shaken. Knowing the sound of my friend's voice will put me at ease, I will call Bertie first thing in the morning.

  Thursday, December 14th

  Catherine tiptoed out of the house, careful not to wake Larry because she knew he needed his sleep. They would deal with the unsettling events of last night later. When they both were stronger.

  She was getting into her car to drive to Emma's when the notion hit her. She had to then, had to have a peek into the trunk of her car. Just to be sure, she told herself, that it was clear of any rubble in case she and Emma had to go shopping later.

  At first her key would not go into the trunk lock, her hand was shaking so badly. At last she maneuvered the key correctly and the lid swung open. Peering inside, Catherine was somewhat relieved to see just some muddy tools and a dirty duffle bag. So... she mused, eyeing the muck covered shovel, he's been out...what? Digging? Strange, perhaps, but not exactly against the law. Some of the dirt on the
shovel, she noticed, was rusty-red. Clay? Now where was that from? And, the duffle had some of the same reddish stains.

  With sinking heart and a return of shaking hands, she knew she had to look inside that duffle--simply had to. She pulled it open to reveal rope, some green garbage sacks, a flashlight and a...oh my! A wicked looking hatchet. It had the same rusty red on it, along with bits and shreds of--what? Catherine put a hand to her mouth, her head reeling.

  Lor-dee...Oh, my, my...!

  She knew it was nothing--knew there was a reasonable explanation. Perhaps he had hit an animal of some kind. And then buried it. That would explain the reddish stains and of course his emotional state. Larry loved animals.

  But...did he? Catherine couldn't remember any indication of his love for animals now that she thought about it. But surely there was a logical reason for the shovel and that awful hatchet-looking thing. She removed the tools and duffle, and put them in the garage. She closed the trunk carefully, thinking it certainly wouldn't do to jump to uninformed conclusions. Catherine would simply have to keep all this to herself for the time being. She knew Emma would run with this data--right off into one of those mental toots of hers again.

  The morning went well and Emma surprised her with a delicious tomato aspic. Catherine's throat, however, kept closing up on her. She was miserable, the bizarre events of last night and this morning catching up to her. She sat at the table doing her best to choke the aspic down.

  “I found some...strange tools in the trunk of my car this morning,” she said, finally, and her throat began to open. “I think Larry may have had some trouble last night. The tools look like they may have blood on them and I think he might have hit an animal. And then buried it. He was very upset when he got home.”

  Emma stopped spooning the aspic down and gave Catherine her full attention.

  “Sometimes life can be very difficult for the young, you know?”

  Even though this confession of sorts made Catherine feel somewhat better, she knew she had opened the door for Emma to rush in with her usual judgmental opinion.

  “What kind of tools?” Emma asked.

  Catherine thought a moment. “Gardening, I guess. Or something like that. A pick and a shovel and some sort of hatchet-type thing.” Now, why did she have to mention the hatchet? She took a breath and hurried on. “I know there's a good reason for having those things in my trunk...but I didn't want to press Larry on what ever happened. I thought he should sleep first. Emma, I have never seen Larry that exhausted.”

  “Cathy—”

  “I don't know why I'm going on so about this, I really don't. Nothing's really wrong exactly... ”

  “Something is rotten in Denmark, Cathy-girl,” Emma said. “Very rotten.” Abruptly, she leaned across the table and grasped Catherine's wrist, causing her to drop her spoon. “Bloody tools?”

  “I wouldn't call them bloody exactly... ”

  “I think you should call the police,” Emma said.

  “The police? Whatever for?” Catherine heard her voice rising. “I don't know that anything's really happened! Sometimes Emma, you go too far!” Her heart was pounding. Catherine absolutely hated confrontation! “Maybe it isn't even blood. Or maybe Larry had to kill an animal for some reason.”

  As she spoke, the handsome, caring face of that deputy sheriff came into her head. What a relief it would be to give it all up and tell this story to that lawman--what was his name? That man of authority, that officer whose duty it was to create order from all the confusion and chaos skittering around in her head.

  “There is, you know Emma, a reasonable explanation for--”

  “But, what, Cathy-girl?” Her voice was soothing--soft as goose down--and Catherine's eyes filled with tears. “How could a bloody hatchet be reasonable?”

  How indeed?

  Catherine sat motionless, lost in dark thought. Emma stood and walked to the sideboard. After a moment she came back to the table and placed an amber-filled glass in front of her friend. Catherine took a grateful swallow as she felt Emma's arm go round her shoulders.

  “It isn't like there's been no clues, Cathy-girl. You've been...uneasy about that boy's behavior for a long time now.”

  Oh, yes. Her heart sank at the truth of Emma's words.

  And scared, my friend...sometimes I'm just plain scared.

  “There's an aspect of this situation you really have to address,” Emma continued while Catherine took another swallow of her drink. Scotch, bourbon, brandy...she had no idea what it was, just that it burned her throat as it slid down, and then warmed her belly. “Knowing what you know,” Emma whispered fiercely, and not going to the police or some sort of authority...would be a sin!”

  Catherine stared at her friend.

  “Yes, yes it would, an absolute sin!” Emma nodded her head so vehemently her jowls shook. “And, you know what that would mean,” she said as if the answer to that question was common knowledge.

  The silence in the room was heavy as the two women stared at each other.

  “Purgatory!” Emma hissed. “Plain and simple. You would be stuck in Purgatory! Oh, Cathy-girl, it wouldn't matter how much blood Personal Peace sacrificed for you!” Tears sprang into the old lady's eyes as she spoke, and again into Catherine's. They fell together, arms around each other, and wept.

  Catherine felt herself slipping down into black despair.

  How can this be happening? How can my baby boy and I survive? She wanted so to give it all up and just lie down somewhere.

  “But, wait-wait,” She cried, pulling away from Emma and smacking her forehead with a fist. Both women were startled by this outburst and Emma jumped back in alarm. “I don't even know what's happened! If anything! I can't just toss my son to the wolves.” Catherine scrubbed at her eyes, trying to think. One thing then became crystal clear. “I can't do that, Emma,” she said loudly. “I won't! I won't call the police!”

  Emma sighed. “You may be right. Perhaps Larry hasn't done anything dreadful,” she said in that patient, reasonable voice of hers. “But, you have to protect yourself against the possibility...you see?”

  “Here's what I see, Emma Murphy. I see that I have to protect my son.” Emma opened her mouth to speak, but Catherine hurried on. “Like you protected Ned. He was your flesh and blood and you lied for him.”

  “Yes, but--”

  “You told the police an out and out lie,” Catherine said firmly, feeling much better now.

  Emma sat quietly, her expression settling into patient acceptance.

  “I'm going to go home now and have a talk with Larry,” Catherine said, hating herself for the shuddering ripple of fear that went through her as she spoke. “We'll...get this all sorted out.”

  Emma studied her a moment. Then, “Of course you will.” Catherine rose stiffly; she felt very old and tired. “Are we still on for rehearsal tonight?” Emma asked.

  Oh! She had forgotten about the Christmas choir's get together at Personal Peace. “Of course!“ She cried, cheered to think she and Emma would be attending. It gave her something to look forward to.

  “You go on home now, Cathy-girl. And, remember, I'm just a phone call away.”

  The two shared a heartfelt hug. “I'll be by for you at 5:15,” Catherine promised.

  Larry wasn't home and Catherine, in spite of her resolve to talk with him, was relieved. So much so, she wondered for a brief moment what it might be like if Larry never came home. She quickly banished that traitorous thought from her mind. His bed was made and the bathroom was spotless; he had even emptied the wastebasket. Later. She would speak with him when he came home. Emma was at least partially right about Larry and about her. She was concerned about Larry's behavior. Decidedly so. Speaking with him about those tools was something she simply had to do.

  She took off her shoes, disrobed and went into the bathroom where she ran a hot tub and slipped gratefully into it. After a calming soak, she toweled off, put on her flannel robe and padded into the kitchen for a bit of whisk
ey. She got out the ice, the Bushmills and added a dash of tap water. Sipping at her drink, Catherine decided she was ready for her chat with Larry.

  The doorbell rang, startling her. Fastening her robe more securely across her stomach, she opened the door. A young woman stood there, blond, very attractive. She had a splash of freckles across her nose and cheeks.

  “Hi...Mrs. Cutler?” The woman smiled and in doing so, became quite pretty.

  Catherine nodded.

  “I'm Jeannie Connor,” she said, extending her hand.

  “Oh!” Catherine was surprised and flustered. And pleased. She opened the door wider and took the woman's hand. “Please, please, come in!”

  “Thank you. I apologize for not calling first, Mrs. Cutler--”

  “Not a problem! And please, call me Catherine. Will you...join me?” she indicated the glass in her hand. “This is Bushmills but I have bourbon if you prefer... ”

  The woman considered for a moment. “Bushmills is fine, thank you. With water, please.”

  Catherine was delighted, already thinking of this woman as a possible friend. “Come on into the kitchen,” she said. Jeannie followed her and Catherine gestured toward the kitchen table. “Please sit down.” Images flooded her mind's eye...the two of them becoming good friends, spending time together, talking about their sons. Fanciful images to be sure, but why not? Lord knew, she thought while fixing Jeannie Connor's drink, she could use a friend. And, she liked this woman the first minute she saw her.

  “Cheers!” Catherine cried as she joined her new pal at the table. Before launching into pleasant sociability, Catherine felt she must comment on the recent tragedy. “How...how are you doing these days? You and little Kevin and Mr. Connor?”

  “We're doing well, I think,” Jeannie said. She looked down into her glass. “It takes time.”

  Catherine's hand shot out and grasped Jeannie's wrist. “Oh, I hope I haven't...I hope I--”