The Sitter Page 23

  “It's quite all right,” Jeannie said, her smile quick and warm. “It's kind of you to ask.” She took a sip of her drink. “I wanted to ask you... ” she hesitated, looked away. The poor thing seemed confused. “... ask if you're all right with Larry spending so much time with us lately. I hope we're not taking advantage... ”

  Catherine was not given to the analysis of conversational subtleties, but she sensed this friendly chat was becoming difficult for Jeannie.

  ”Of course not!” she said, hoping to put her guest at ease. “Larry loves you folks. He's never happier than when he's with you...your family.” Surprised to hear herself make that statement, she realized with a sad, sinking feeling that what she just said was very much the truth. Her boy was happier with the Connor family than with his mother. She covered her dismay with a healthy swallow from her glass, while Jeannie considered her remarks.

  “I'm sure you're exaggerating,” she said, not sounding sure at all. “Catherine,” she continued, deadly serious, “I would hope that isn't the case. I don't think feeling that way about us would be really good for Larry, do you? I mean, we are not his family... after all. And, we might not always be as available to him as we are now. I mean with Kevin getting older and all.”

  Catherine was confused. As far as she knew Kevin Connor was young...like four or five. Was Jeannie telling her she didn't want Larry to sit for them anymore? Because of that horrible accident? The drowning?

  “Well...it is a job, of course,” she said. “But it's a job he really likes!”

  Catherine astonished herself then by bursting into tears. “Oh, dear,” she mumbled, covering her face with her hands.

  “I'm sorry...” Jeannie said, and Catherine felt her hand on her arm, patting.

  “No, no...not your fault,” said Catherine, searching her mind desperately for some way to explain her outburst. “It's just the time of year, I guess.” Through her tears she saw Jeannie's blurry, concerned face. “I get so emotional at Christmas time,” she explained. And then, as if she hadn't already messed up the conversation enough, she heard herself launch into a hurried and emotional description of her involvement with the Church of Personal Peace and the Chorale.

  “Christmas music is so heartfelt, so...rending, don't you think?” Catherine's voice sounded pleading, as if for her very life.

  “Yes,” Jeannie replied uncertainly. She took Catherine's hands in hers and held them firmly.

  Into her churning, troubled mind came the question, could she talk truthfully with Jeannie? Oh what blessed, welcome relief that would be! Jeannie with a son of her own; surely she would have sensible input about Larry and his somewhat peculiar actions of late. What a help that would be!

  “Jeannie, the truth is--” she began, and then stopped. What on earth was she thinking? She couldn't just blurt out that her boy had come home covered in mud and perhaps blood and that she had come to the horrible realization that she was afraid of him...could she? Afraid of her own son? Oh, but she did so want to!

  Jeannie was staring at her--she had to say something. Maybe if she just hinted at the problem...

  “Larry seems so distant these days. And sometimes I get the feeling he isn't telling me the--” She broke off abruptly, her heart beginning to race.

  What is that sound? A floorboard?

  Fear fluttered through her body and she was instantly covered in goose bumps. There was someone...Larry...standing just outside the open kitchen door. Oh, dear!

  “Larry?” Her voice quavered. “Is that you?” A pause, a heavy silence. The two women stared at the doorway.

  Poor-Larry-Cutler walked into the kitchen, smiling. His smile looked odd to Catherine...strained. “Hi ladies,” he said cheerfully.

  Were you listening to us just now?

  Catherine couldn't bring herself to ask him. He might get mad, and she certainly didn't want that to happen in front of company.

  “Hello Larry,” Jeannie said easily as Catherine pulled her hands from Jeannie's.

  “Larry.” Catherine couldn't think of anything to say.

  “You've come to see my mother,” Larry said to Jeannie, still with that weird smile on his face. To Catherine, his tone was less than cordial. Almost accusing.

  “Yes,” Jeannie said. “Do you know, Larry, in all the time I've known you, I've never met your mother?”

  Catherine watched as Larry's gaze took in the two partially filled glasses on the table, and the bottle of Bushmills on the counter.

  “No kidding,” he said. Her boy looked much older today. His face was pale and drawn--his dark eyes were tired and sunken. He was wearing a long-sleeved flannel shirt, probably to hide those hideous marks on his arms, she guessed. One ragged scratch was still visible on his right wrist.

  “No kidding,” said Jeannie, and Larry's eyes snapped to her. She was smiling, but there was something in her tone... “I thought I'd rectify that situation.”

  “And I'm so glad you did!” Catherine said to Jeannie, forcing a smile. But it was all gone, she saw. The moment of intimacy that comes now and then between people. People who might become friends. But moments like that had to be nurtured. Larry's face was flushed as he stared down at the table.

  “Thanks for the lovely time,” Jeannie said, rising. “I must go now.” She walked around the table, leaned down and put her smooth cheek next to Catherine's. “We'll talk again soon.” she said in a low, confidential tone.

  “Oh, yes!” Catherine cried, happy at that prospect. Maybe they would be friends after all! She struggled to her feet, intending to walk her guest to the door.

  “I'll find my way out, thanks,” Jeannie said, a friendly hand on Catherine's arm. “Goodbye Larry.” She smiled at them both and went out of the room.

  Catherine freshened her drink and got dressed, thinking how best to approach Larry. The whiskey was helping her, helping her to be brave. She knew she was afraid of Larry and that situation had to change. He was her son, for heaven's sake! He had no right to behave so strangely and scare his mother, no right at all!

  She knocked on his door and there was no answer but she felt sure he was there so she took a breath and opened the door. He was on his bed, reading a magazine.

  “Jesus, Ma, you come right in? Can't I get a little privacy?”

  “Not today, no,” Catherine heard herself say. “We have to talk Larry. Now.” She approached his bed. “Move your feet,” she said. “So I can sit down.” He frowned but made room for her. “You come home covered in mud and God knows what else. I need to know what happened last night. And I need to know about those messy tools in my trunk. You owe me an explanation!”

  His face registered surprise at her attitude and Catherine was pleased. She wasn't going to be a soft touch. Not this time. He pushed himself up into a sitting position and rubbed a hand over his face.

  “Ma, can't this wait? I'm beat.”

  “No, it cannot. What happened last night?”

  “Well...this guy. I know I shouldn't hang out with him--he always messes up and gets us in trouble.” Larry screwed his face up like he was trying to think and Catherine was sure he was trying to come up with a lie he thought she would believe. “Jesus, Ma, I hate to go over this. It was ...terrible.”

  “What was?”

  “I was driving him over to a friend of his and...I hit a dog. I killed it, Ma!” He covered his eyes with his hands. We...we had to bury him. It was awful.”

  “You used my shovel?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did you happen to have my shovel in the car?”

  “I...I was going to help this guy with his girl friend's garden.”

  Catherine almost laughed.

  “I know that sounds weird, but he wanted to impress this girl, and he asked for my help.”

  “And that hatchet thing?”

  He glared at her. “God damn, Ma, there might be brush we'd need to clear.”

  “Quit taking the son of God's name in vain, Larry. And, your story is ridiculous.”<
br />
  “And you, Ma, you quit calling me a liar!”

  “Do you know, Larry, that my friend Emma thinks I should call the police?”

  Larry's face went pale. “The police! What for?” Her son was looking at her with pure hatred and her heart began to race. Had she really said that? Threatened him with the police? It was as if she was in a runaway locomotive and it was taking her...nowhere she wanted to go. But she couldn't backtrack, not now. She had gone too far for that.

  “Those tools, Larry...they look as if there's blood on them.”

  “Dogs bleed, you know, Ma. Just like us.” His face was drawn, eyes gleaming with hostility. “Especially when they've been hit by a car.”

  Catherine nodded as if his explanation was believable, as if she bought it. She took a deep breath and stood. “We'll talk more about this later, Larry,” she said, and went to the doorway.

  “Ma? Please don't call the police. I can explain all this more when we've had a chance to talk...okay?”

  He was pleading with her and Catherine had to give him at least a somewhat positive response. “All right,” she said.

  “You promise?”

  She was uneasy with his request, but nodded her head. She was relieved to leave the room.

  *****

  Worried was too mild a word for what Larry was feeling. Too many things were closing in on him, out of his control. Even if he could somehow convince his mother that he hadn't done anything wrong, she was too suspicious, her and that nosy bitch, Emma.

  The police thing terrified him. If his mother got drunk and called the police...

  I cannot allow that to happen!

  He was so near his goal, all he had worked toward. He knew Kevin was with him, and probably Steven as well, and he felt certain he could convince Jeannie to trust him again. Larry could almost feel the joy of her acceptance of him, and then the incredible happiness of being allowed into his new family!

  But...if his mother forgets her promise... That was too horrific to even imagine.

  *****

  Where the hell are you, Bertie?

  I listen to Bertie's recorded voice telling me once again that she is unable to answer the phone just now, and to please leave a message. Unnerved by my visit to the Cutler's, I want to tell Bertie about it--see what she thinks. It was spooky, downright eerie. I kind of like Catherine, though. But something's wrong. There is something unwholesome between those two.

  When Larry came into the kitchen, I felt the whole ambience of the room change from friendly warmth to a room charged with fear. The fear had emanated from Catherine--in almost palpable waves. It is more than clear to me that Catherine is afraid of her son.

  Later, after dinner and Kevin's bedtime story, I try Bertie's number again. And again. No answer. Odd, I think, because Bertie hadn't mentioned any plans she had for tonight. I'm still bothered by Larry and his mother, and I go upstairs to the studio to find Steven. He's spending more time there lately, and I'm pleased that he's able to get back to work.

  I hear music--something classical--as I go in. He is slouched in the chair at his wall-desk, facing me, feet sprawled out in front of him. He has a hand behind his head, cradling his neck. His eyes are closed, and I think he's asleep. He stirs though, sits up in the chair and smiles lazily at me.

  “Prokofiev,” he states.

  A nearly empty bottle of Dewar's stands on the desk behind him and in his hand is a short tumbler half-filled with Scotch whiskey. I feel sick and off balance as if I'm going to tip over. I reach for Steven's desk and lean against it to steady myself.

  “It's 'Lieutenant Kiji'. You like?”

  I nod, as if I care about the music which suddenly takes off into a merry ride of sleigh bells and excitement.

  Because I don't want to look at my husband, I look around the room. A random disorder meets my gaze; it looks like the studio is in the throes of a casual slide into disuse. I walk to the CD player and turn it off.

  Steven looks at me, his smile fading.

  “Did Bertie call today?”

  He thinks a moment, then shakes his head. “Not that I know of. You check the machine?”

  “Of course. I can't figure out where she is.” I pause. “Today, Steven, I--” This is absurd. I can't tell this man about Larry and his mother. I can't tell him anything. I thought he was getting back to normal. Apparently he's just changed his evening drinking location from the living room to the studio. “You're drinking too much, Steven,” I point out.

  “Well... ” He looks away from me.

  I'll wait for Bertie. Aside from being bombed, this man still thinks Larry Cutler is a poor misunderstood kid.

  The phone rings as I doze in front of the TV. I answer and Leo's voice cuts into my head,

  “Where the hell is my wife? I've been trying her all night! She with you?”

  “No, she isn't.” I look at my watch. It's 10:25. Steven must have gone to bed. “You know Leo; I've tried her a few times myself.”

  “The only thing I could think of was maybe you two were out together,” he said. “You think our phone is out of order?”

  “Well... ” I didn't think so. “Could be, I suppose. I'll go over there and have a look.”

  “Oh, Jeannie, that's not necessary. Go in the morning though, ok?”

  Poor Leo. Hung up in San Francisco with a client and worried sick about Bertie. “I'm going now, Leo. I'll call you when I get back.”

  I don't need my key; the place is wide open. A light is on in the living room and the TV as well. No Bertie, and just as ominous, No Louie. The thing that really fills me with icy dread, however, is the sense that Bertie has just stepped out. She's saying, 'I'll be right back'.

  In the kitchen I find the makings of a salad set out on the counter and a half glass of red wine. The faint print of Bertie's lipstick is on the glass, and Louie's dish is half-full of kibble. I pick up the cordless phone lying on the counter and try to dial 911. My fingers don't work properly and I drop it. I bend to retrieve it and a wave of dizziness comes over me. I drop the phone again. I stare down at it.

  Am I safe? What if I'm not alone here?

  I turn and run into the living room. The TV is giving endless news as I race out the front door. I run home as fast as I can.

  “Deputy Albert Schmidt,” I pant into my phone.

  Be there, damn it, be there!

  He isn't. I am offered a Deputy Manuel Vasquez instead, who tells me he will relay all my information to Schmidt in the morning. With heated insistence I am finally able to convince Deputy Vasquez to check out the McQueen residence for himself tonight.

  “You work in pairs, don't you?” I ask him.

  Silence from Manuel.

  “I think...it might be dangerous.” More silence. “I think something is very wrong there. Very.”

  “Yeah,” he says at last. “Pairs.”

  I give him my address as well as Bertie's and he assures me that he and his partner will come by here after they have checked out the McQueen house and grounds. Feeling only somewhat better, I go upstairs to wake Steven. I'll fill him in on everything, and then we'll call Leo back while we wait for the Deputies.

  *****

  Catherine didn't want anything more to drink, not really. What she wanted, for heaven's sake, was the blessed relief the drink usually brought. But it wasn't working tonight.

  Choir practice had been by far the most pleasant part of the evening. It had been more inspirational to Catherine than the service itself, which tonight had consisted of one small goat. He'd sent up a wail that she fancied she could still hear.

  Offered the gleaming razor to kill the goat, Catherine had once again become faint at the prospect. The ever faithful Emma, however, had leapt at the chance with her customary enthusiasm and dispatched the little fellow with skill and aplomb. She finished the lethal stroke at the animal's neck with such a dramatic flourish, it reminded Catherine of a concert pianist lifting a graceful hand at the end of a stirring selection. The arc of bloo
d, the applause, the passing of the chalice; it had all been depressing to Catherine.

  Now, she dejectedly poured two fingers of Bushmills into a glass and sat down at the kitchen table. The Scotch wasn't going to sit well on top of all that punch, but she didn't care whether she got sick or not. Matter of fact, Catherine thought, she wouldn't mind getting sick. Staying in bed tomorrow--what was it, Friday the 13th? Hah! A good day to spend in bed. Tomorrow, of course, was the day she had to continue her confrontation of Larry. That was a task she did so dread.

  Catherine drifted into a gratifying reverie remembering how it had been getting sick when she was just a girl. Every year she got the flu--regular as clockwork, and Mommy and Daddy would wait on her. She'd get to stay home from school, spending a few delightful, lazy days in bed, her body all warm and achy from a slight temperature. Mommy would make strawberry jello for her and when she was feeling better she would make tapioca pudding, Catherine's absolute favorite.

  But it was dear Daddy she remembered most fondly. He brought her comic books and coloring books and picture puzzles where she had to find a whole list of things that were hidden in the pictures. He brought her hours of cozy pleasure. And he didn't just leave her on her own, no siree! When he came home from work he'd high tail it right into her room and settle himself on the edge of her bed and together they would color and read the comics and she would show him all the goodies she had found in the puzzle pictures. Wonderful, good, good times.

  Well... all that's gone now.

  Catherine rubbed at her temples with the heels of her hands--she was so very tired. And alone. Never mind that her son was asleep just a few feet away--he was no longer the shining light of her life. Larry had done something...something bad she had no doubt. And tomorrow she would have to find out what that was.

  I wish I could talk to someone--not Emma! The Connor woman. I wish I could talk to Jeannie Connor.

  Just thinking of Jeannie cheered Catherine somewhat, and she decided to call her tomorrow, just to check in, to hear a friendly voice. She would do that after her talk with Larry.

  'Drink 'er down Sis!' Catherine could almost hear her daddy call out to her as she drained her glass. Rinsing it out, she put it and the bottle back into the cupboard.