Three Times a Lady

Three Times a Lady - By Jon Osborne



PROLOGUE

Chicago, Illinois – 17 July 1971 – 9:04 a.m.

A dull-yellow stain spread slowly across Nicholas Preston’s crotch. His mother, Annabeth, watched it seep into the fabric of his underwear for a second or two before lifting her paralysing cobra stare and trapping her son completely in her unrelenting gaze. Bright green eyes that sparkled like heated emeralds burned matching, dime-sized holes through Nicholas’s skull.

‘Disgusting, foul little creature…’ she began, but Nicholas already knew the rest before the words were all the way out of her pretty mouth. They were the same words she spoke every time, delivered in the same condescending tone she always used, a tone that had always set Nicholas’s teeth on edge and made his brain want to explode inside his skull (as opposed to, thankfully, the outside of it). Honestly, though, what was new about any of this? It might have been a different day, sure, but it was still the same old crap – with the same crazy old woman who’d lost her mind years ago. The same crazy old woman whom the state had recently decided was a fit parent after all, even after the horrible thing she’d done.

Annabeth Preston lowered her gaze and studied Nicholas’s underwear some more, simultaneously wrinkling up her slender nose in revulsion, which somehow only made her look even prettier. ‘You’re almost nine years old already, for Christ’s sake,’ she continued. ‘When are you ever going to learn, boy?’

She paused and returned her stare to his. ‘You do know what this means, don’t you?’

Nicholas’s heart flipped over in his chest at his mother’s words. Of course he knew what it meant. Didn’t mean he had to like it, though. Closing his eyes tight, he breathed in deeply through his nostrils and wished like hell that he were somewhere else in the world other than in his bedroom right now. Anywhere else. In his mind’s eye, he floated away to his safe place: a beautiful forest clearing deep in the verdant woods where he could sit Indian-style on the ground beside a babbling brook and let the calming sounds of nature wash over him and soothe his soul. In this imaginary world of his – a world he’d created with the sole purpose of escaping the hellish reality of his everyday life – songbirds whistled their beautiful melodies in the swaying tree branches all around him while playful beavers splashed gleefully through the frothing white-capped waters, merrily going about their day’s work. More than anything else, this imaginary world of his was a nice place. A safe place.

But Annabeth Preston didn’t like nice or safe places. Never had and never would. To prove this point, she stepped forward quickly and jerked Nicholas physically out of his reverie, grabbing him roughly by the scruff of his scrawny neck and squeezing hard. ‘I asked you a question, son,’ she hissed at him through clenched teeth. ‘Answer me. You do know what this means, don’t you?’

Nicholas looked up at his mother with pleading eyes filled with tears while her sharp red fingernails dug even deeper into his tender skin and left half moon-shaped marks that wouldn’t disappear for at least an hour, trying his best to connect with his mother on some sort of soul-to-soul level but not having especially high hopes that it would work. Still, who knew? Maybe this time he could warm her heart and avoid the consequences. Maybe this time they could make a new start and try to love each other again. Stop being lunatics for a little while and start living normal lives again for a change. That wouldn’t be so bad, would it?

The cold, hard look of detachment in Annabeth Preston’s burning green eyes disabused Nicholas of this silly notion at once. Silly notions – among many other things in the house – were luxuries his mother never allowed. ‘It means a trip to the butcher’s shop,’ she went on sharply when Nicholas wasn’t quite able to make his swollen tongue work properly enough to form words. ‘Now get dressed.’

Finally released from her viselike grip, Nicholas rubbed at his throbbing neck where his mother’s fingernails had been just a moment before and did as he’d been instructed while five feet away Annabeth Preston tapped a high-heeled foot impatiently against the wooden floorboards in his bedroom – the same bedroom Nicholas had used to share with Timmy, though each and every last trace of his little brother had been erased now. No more of Timmy’s clothes or toys or bedding lying around. No toothbrush of his positioned next to Nicholas’s on the cracked bathroom sink. Not so much as a hint that the little boy who’d starred in no fewer than three-dozen national television commercials when he’d been alive had ever been there at all. Because the same day Timmy had died had been the same day that Annabeth Preston had sanitized their bedroom completely, along with the rest of their house, save for a single lonely picture that she’d slipped into a gilded silver frame and which now sat on a living-room end table with a long-ago-wilted solitary black rose stationed in front of it on a piece of her very best china. Where the videotapes of Timmy had gone was a complete mystery to Nicholas. Would probably always be a complete mystery to him. Who knew? Maybe she’d destroyed them. Just like she’d destroyed Timmy. Nicholas wouldn’t put it past her. Just like she’d undoubtedly destroy him too someday.

Like, maybe even today.

Walking over to the corner of his bedroom on shaking legs, Nicholas slid open the top drawer of his scarred oaken bureau and reached in before selecting a fresh pair of Hanes, at the same time drifting back mentally to the day of the ‘accident’. That’s what they called it, if the subject was ever spoken of at all, which, truth be told, didn’t happen very often these days.

The accident.

A funny way to describe bashing the front of your youngest child’s skull into the sharp edge of a porcelain bathroom sink and cracking it open like a ripe watermelon in a sickening explosion of red.

Nicholas shook his head to banish the unsettling memory to the special place inside his brain that he reserved for such things, knowing that it simply wouldn’t do to think about that horrible day right now, not with his mother standing so close. She’d sense it, like a rabid dog that had glimpsed a flash of bright red blood at a child’s pale white throat before succumbing to the overwhelming, inbred instinct to attack. Still, had he been older at the time, Nicholas might have laughed at the absurdity of it all. Decades before the empty political slogan had first been posited, he was the child who’d been left behind, both literally and figuratively. And he’d been left behind with a living, breathing monster. A monster with an almost-too-perfect body, a breathtaking face that could stop traffic clean in the middle of a New York City rush-hour and crystal-clear green eyes that could see right through his soul and recognise that he was a monster too.

Nicholas had one leg out of his soiled underwear when his mother corrected him for the first time that day.

‘No, keep those ones on,’ she said, clucking her small pink tongue against her perfect white teeth in exasperation. ‘It’ll remind you of the filthy little boy you’ve been here today and of the terrible sin that you’ve committed in the eyes of God. I’ll be waiting for you out in the car. Don’t make me wait long.’

With that, his mother pivoted on her well-turned ankles smartly enough to put a Waffen SS soldier to shame and marched out of his room. The gunshot sounds of her footsteps fading away down the long hallway were followed a moment later by the slamming of the front door in the distance, giving Nicholas’s heart a terrible start. Ten seconds later, he heard the car engine roar to life noisily out in the driveway.

When he felt absolutely certain she’d exited the house, Nicholas lifted his left wrist and checked his Mickey Mouse wristwatch. Never could be too safe about these sorts of the things, after all. Ever since the very beginning, ever since as far back as he could remember, his mother had always been the type of person who liked to watch others. To track their movements. To catch them off-guard whenever possible.

The type of person who liked to f*ck with others.

Nicholas stared down at his watch and felt his chest constrict with an overpowering mixture of rage and shame. He hated the mere sight of the thing, of course, but he knew that he could never take it off. Not while his mother was still alive, at least. That would just be asking for it. Because the watch had been a gift from Annabeth on his eighth birthday and she insisted that he wear it at all times. A little something to prove to the people from the state how much she truly cared about him. How she’d never intentionally hurt him. How she’d rather die than lose another child.

Nicholas laughed despite the circumstances. He just couldn’t help himself. What a joke that was, though. Because if the tens of thousands of dollars from companies such as Kraft and Kellogg’s and Pine-Sol hadn’t been enough to keep Timmy alive despite all the money that had been rolling in, what in the hell were Nicholas’s chances? Not good, to say the least. Like Annabeth Preston had always told him, Nicholas wasn’t worth one thin dime. Never had been and never would be.

Refocusing his vision on Mickey Mouse’s arms (which were cleverly pointing out the hour and minute) Nicholas realised that he’d better get a move on. And fast. He figured he had about thirty seconds left now if he was lucky before Annabeth Preston really blew her top. Patience might have been a virtue in the bible – which his mother read and quoted incessantly – but it sure as hell didn’t have any place in her personal psychological inventory. Then again, where lay the great surprise in that? All religious people hypocrites, weren’t they? Do-as-I-say-and-not-as-I-do types? Sure as hell seemed like it to him.

Pulling his wet underpants back up around his thin waist with a loud elastic snap, Nicholas slipped his legs into a pair of dark blue shorts so that prying eyes couldn’t see his shame. Much like upsetting his mother, it was never a good idea to embarrass her, either. There were consequences to that, too. Harsh consequences. Always had been and always would be.

Shame properly camouflaged, Nicholas hustled down the long hallway past all the framed pictures hanging on the wall and locked their heavy wooden front door behind him before double-timing it down the cracked walkway to their car. Climbing up into the back seat as quietly as he could, he pulled shut the door softly, being very careful to avoid making any sort of unnecessary noise. Annabeth Preston wasn’t the kind of woman who wasted her words. When she said that children existed to be seen and not heard she really meant it. It wasn’t just a silly cliché to her. Hell, she’d proved that much the day she’d split Timmy’s skull clean in two for committing the unforgivable sin of succeeding so wildly in an area in which she’d failed so miserably.

Nicholas winced at the excruciating memory of his little brother’s horrific death as his mother hummed softly to herself beneath her breath and backed their car carefully out of the driveway. Immediately after his little brother’s head had slammed down into the sink, Timmy’s big brown eyes had filled up completely with blood, making him look a lot more like some sort of deranged werewolf in a low-budget horror flick than a five-year-old actor who’d always seemed just as home in front of the television cameras as he’d been while playing with his older brother in their beloved sandbox out in the backyard.

Nicholas shifted uncomfortably in his seat from the icky feeling of his soiled underwear as his mother manoeuvred the car’s gear stick in a groan of missed gears for a moment or two before she finally managed to find the right one and pulled away from the house, cursing her hateful jealousy beneath his own breath. Because despite her many years of rigorous theatrical training at the prestigious Actors Academy in New York City, Annabeth Preston’s stage career had ended quite differently than had poor little Timmy’s. Had ended with a pathetic whimper rather than with the ear-shattering bang to which she’d subjected Nicholas’s unfortunate little brother. In the end, there had been no shouts of encore! for Annabeth Preston; no throwing of red roses at her feet; no breathless reviews in all the city’s biggest newspapers extolling her unparalleled thespian talents. Instead, the last time she’d been on stage had been when she’d portrayed ‘Maid Marian’ in an off-off-Broadway production of Robin Hood that hadn’t even completed its scheduled three-week run due to the laughably poor attendance. Ten years later – when Nicholas would find himself sitting alone in a darkened movie theater and watching Faye Dunaway chill people’s blood with her deliciously evil turn as Joan Crawford in a big-screen showing of Mommie Dearest – he’d catch himself thinking that the famously bitchy subject of the iconic film hadn’t been all that bad of a mother. Not really. Not anything with which Nicholas and Timmy wouldn’t have been able to put up, at least. After all, wire hangers were nothing to people like Annabeth Preston. Child’s play, really. To Nicholas and Timmy, they probably would’ve felt like feather pillows swung good-naturedly at each other’s heads, just a little lighthearted playtime before bed for two highly spirited boys who had their entire lives stretched out in front of them in a shimmering path that was paved with gold and led directly to superstardom.

Dreams, however – much like little brothers – had to die sometimes.

The oppressive atmosphere inside the car made it almost impossible for Nicholas to even breathe properly as Annabeth Preston weaved her way deftly through the busy city streets with all the windows rolled up, pausing occasionally only to honk her horn angrily at another driver whenever they had the temerity to get in her way. Nicholas shook his head at their stupidity. Fools. Didn’t they know that getting in Annabeth Preston’s way was always a bad idea?

Apparently not. But that particular lesson was coming for them. Soon. And in spades.

Just like it had come for Timmy. Just like it would come for Nicholas.

Maybe even today.

Twenty minutes seemed to crawl into eternity before Nicholas’s mother finally pulled their boat-like car into the small parking lot on the west side of the butcher’s shop on Bishop Elder Avenue. Not counting Nicholas himself (which his mother seldom did), the butcher’s shop marked the only thing Nicholas’s father had left behind following Timmy’s horrific death. And – as his mother was so fond of reminding him – just one of the two commodities possessed any real-world value, leaving it up to Nicholas to figure out the rest of it from there. Wasn’t a very difficult equation to solve, to say the least. Something one might lean during a second-year maths course.

Still not speaking to him, Nicholas’s mother put the car into park mode before exiting the vehicle and walking briskly around the side of the car. Flinging open the back door, she grabbed him roughly by the underside of his bony arm and extracted him from the car. Then she marched him directly up to the entrance of the butcher’s shop, digging in her sharp red fingernails once more and nearly tearing Nicholas’s right shoulder out of its socket in the process. Nicholas’s shoulder sang with high-pitched pain as his mother produced a small silver key from the left-hand side of her lacy black bra with her free hand before unlocking the front door and dragging him inside.

An intense scowl darkened Annabeth Preston’s pretty face as she led him solemnly into the back to where the walk-in freezer was located, each one of her steps punctuated by the staccato report of her high-heeled shoes clacking loudly against the freshly polished tiled floor. His mother had ordered the tiled floors installed a few years prior for a variety of reasons, not the least of which was to simplify the task of cleaning up any spilled blood. And why not? There was always a lot of spilled blood inside the butcher’s shop, wasn’t there? And not just from the cows and pigs, either. Especially when Nicholas and his mother were alone together inside.

His mother finally released his arm to open the freezer door. Nicholas rubbed at it gently as she placed her hands on her shapely hips and stepped to one side. Though he strained with all his might, but he wasn’t quite able to keep his gaze from drifting to the plunging neckline of her red Armani dress. A silver Tiffany heart necklace sat cushioned between her ample breasts. The lacy black bra from which she’d produced the key to the butcher’s shop a moment earlier supported perfect white globes. A small brown mole winked out at him from the left side of her chest.

Nicholas blinked rapidly in an effort to stop himself from staring but it didn’t work. Not even close. Even at eight years old, even he could see that his mother was a truly stunning woman. A real piece of ass, as he’d heard the grease monkeys whisper to one another at the gas station over on the corner of Michigan Avenue and Elm whenever they filled up her tank for her. A real fine piece of machinery they wouldn’t mind checking under the hood. To be fair, though, Annabeth Preston’s inviting cleavage could have caused even the most pious of the priests over at St Christopher’s to forget their vows for a moment and steal a quick peek, which they did more often than was comfortable for Nicholas each and every Sunday morning while he and his mother sat in their preferred pew up front.

‘Eyes up here,’ his mother said.

Nicholas lifted his stare to meet hers.

His mother gestured inside the cold space with one delicate hand, rattling the matching silver Tiffany charm bracelet adorning her right wrist. Inside the freezer, huge chunks of bloody red meat hung from sharp steel hooks stationed all around the room. ‘Now, get in,’ she instructed.

Nicholas did as he was told without question. Nobody ever questioned Annabeth Preston. Not if they wanted to keep breathing, at least. Heart in his throat, Nicholas took his position in the ‘correction’ spot with which he’d grown so familiar over the years in the centre of the room. The shiny metal floor beneath his feet had been worn dull from the sheer number of times he’d stood there in the past. Three feet away, a matching black circular patch on the floor marked the spot were Timmy had used to stand beside him. Unfortunately for them, they’d always been the kind of boys who’d required a lot of correction.

‘Now strip,’ his mother ordered.

Nicholas’s cheeks flushed hot. Still, he knew better than to protest, so he obediently removed his shoes and socks, then his shorts and shirt. The frigid metal floor beneath his bare feet froze him in place as he hesitated and looked up at his mother.

‘The underwear, too,’ she prompted.

Again, Nicholas did as he was told. What choice did he have in the matter? What choice had he ever had? Embarrassment coursed hot through his veins as he slipped out of his Fruit of the Looms – which were still wet and warm from his earlier accident – balancing on one foot and then the other in order to accomplish the tricky task. Icy blasts of air immediately gave birth to painful goose bumps that rocketed up and down his spindly arms and legs. The soles of his feet went numb; painfully at first, and then as though they’d never been attached to his body at all. Holding his underwear in one tiny hand, he looked up at his mother once more.

‘Now place them over your head,’ she ordered. ‘Wear them like a mask. Put the crotch over your mouth and nose. Breathe in your own waste. Taste your own sin.’

Again, Nicholas did as he was told. The sharp smell of his own urine filled his nostrils. The acidic taste of his own piss burned his tongue.

And then something very strange happened – something that Nicholas wouldn’t understand for many years to come. For the first time in his life, he felt his tiny member begin to grow slowly between his legs. Only a little at first, and then a bit more insistently, until it had become completely erect.

Nicholas could almost hear the smile in his mother’s voice as she stepped inside the freezer after him. ‘Well done, son,’ she said approvingly. ‘Very well done, indeed.’ Her throaty voice dripped like warm honey all over his naked body, making it feel progressively stickier with each one of her seductive words. ‘That’s exactly what I wanted to see. You’ve been a very good boy here today and now you deserve your reward for it. Tell me, son, are you ready for me? Are you ready to receive your mother’s love?’

Anticipation ripped like a bullet wound through Nicholas’s gut, taking away his breath and setting every last one of his senses on fire with excitement. This was it. Now the fun and games could really begin. He only wished that Timmy could have been around to see this. His little brother had always loved these moments almost as much Nicholas did. ‘Yes, Mother,’ Nicholas whispered, the pressure between his legs almost unbearable now and only growing stronger with each passing second. So much blood pumping down there that he thought the skin might split along the seam. ‘I’ve always been ready for you.’

The sounds of his mother’s high heels echoed against the freezer floor; joined a moment later by the sound of a wooden match striking to life. Even with the soiled underwear covering his eyes, Nicholas could see exactly what she was doing now. What she always did when the two of them were alone together inside the butcher’s shop.

When the smoke from the match reached its intended destination three seconds later, the fire sprinklers overhead turned on in an icy shower of water that drenched Nicholas’s entire body from head to toe. Moaning softly, he lifted up his face to the ceiling and stretched out his arms like Jesus Christ hanging on the cross, luxuriating in the exquisite pain.

Then his mother simply left the freezer, closing the heavy steel door behind her and sliding the metal locking pin into place. From outside the freezer door, she called out to him. ‘What do you say, son?’ she asked.

Shivering uncontrollably, Nicholas felt his testicles shrivel up and crawl deep inside his stomach for warmth – the kind of warmth he could never seem to find on the outside of his body, no matter how hard he looked.

‘Thank you, Mother,’ he said.

And the really sick part about the whole thing – the part that not even Nicholas himself would ever be able to understand – was that he’d actually meant it.