I applied a cold, damp cloth to Mrs. Carter’s wounds. They didn’t look quite as bad as I expected. Nothing a little Neosporin and a Band-Aid couldn’t handle. Unfortunately, I had neither, so the damp cloth would have to do.
I thought she would wake up, but after twenty minutes she was still sound asleep. I was convinced that’s all this was, sleep. Shock is nothing more than a defense mechanism orchestrated by the body. Things get a little hairy, and the body flips the off switch to compensate. Combine that with the enormous amounts of adrenaline released by the medulla just before, which caused her metabolism to go into overdrive, and you have got a recipe for an epic crash.
She would rest, then she would wake.
I found a blanket atop the washing machine and draped it over her small frame, then went upstairs.
I found Father passed out on the couch, a bourbon bottle lying empty on the floor beside him. I crept past without so much as a squeak of the floorboards, ducked into my room, and closed the door.
I stood there, my forehead resting against the door, eyes closed. I had never felt so tired.
“Did you tell him about the picture?”
I spun around and found Mother standing in the corner, her features obscured by shadows, her body a mere outline in the dark.
“Did you tell him about the picture?” she asked again, her voice low, full of gravel.
“No,” I said, my own voice sounding far more timid than I intended. “Not yet,” I added, attempting to sound tougher than I felt.
She stepped toward me, and I realized she carried a knife, one of the large ones from the butcher block in the kitchen. I wasn’t allowed to play with those.
“What did she tell your father?” The blade caught the moonlight and glistened as she twisted it in her hand. “Does he know?”
I shook my head. “He thinks you were sleeping with Mr. Carter.”
I’m not sure where I learned the term sleeping used in this manner, and even though I was certain I used the word properly, it felt funny coming out of my mouth. “He was . . . persuasive, but she didn’t tell.”
“What did he do?”
I told her, leaving out the fact that a rat was still running around the basement. Can rats climb stairs?
“And you won’t tell him, will you? It will be our little secret?”
To this I said nothing.
Mother raised the blade and stepped into the moonlight. Her eyes were red and puffy. Had she been crying?
“If you don’t tell him, I’ll let you do things to Mrs. Carter. Private things. Things boys your age only dream about. Would you like that?”
Again I said nothing. My eyes were fixed on the blade. “You know what your father will do to me if he finds out, right? What he’ll do to Mrs. Carter? You don’t want to be responsible for that, do you?”
“I cannot lie, Mother.” The words came from my mouth before I realized I spoke them, before I realized my error.
Mother lunged at me, the knife held high, stopping mere inches from my face. “You will keep this from him, or I will gut you like a fucking pig while you sleep. Do you understand me? I will carve out your eyes with a sugar spoon and shove them down your little throat until you swallow them whole, like two ripe grapes fresh off the vine.”
The knife was so close to the tip of my nose, I saw two of them.
Mother had never touched me before.
Never hurt me.
But I believed her now.
I believed every word of it.
She went on, her voice hushed, yet so, so loud. “If you tell him anything, I’ll tell him you were there too. Many times. I’ll explain how you stood in the corner with your man parts out like a monkey at the zoo, drooling over your dear Mrs. Carter. How you watched your own mother through her bedroom window in the most secret of moments. You should be ashamed for your behavior, you despicable, deplorable child.”
I wasn’t about to let her intimidate me. Not this time. “Who took the picture, Mother?”
“What?”
“I think you heard me. Who took the picture? Was it Mr. Carter? Is Father right? Was there something going on between the two of you before yesterday? Is that why he followed you so easily?”
The hand wielding the knife shook as her anger grew. I knew I was pushing her, I knew I should stop, but I could not. “Somebody had to work the camera, and I’m willing to bet it was Mr. Carter. Is that why you killed him, Mother? You didn’t lure him over here to protect Mrs. Carter. You just wanted to cover your own tracks. Father will find the truth—you’d best prepare for that. You know he won’t stop until he has all the answers. You’re supposed to be faithful, Mother— that’s what married people do, not sneak around doing who-knows-what with who-knows-who.”
Her face was flushed. “Speak no evil, my son.”
“Do no evil, Mother,” I retorted. “We’ve all broken rules tonight.”
She flipped the knife over and dropped it. The blade missed my foot by less than an inch and buried itself in the floorboard, then she pulled open my door and stormed out into the hallway toward her room. Father remained motionless on the couch, oblivious to all, snoring deeply.
I plucked the knife from the floor, closed my door, and shoved my desk chair under the knob, securing it as best I could. The door had a lock, but Father had taught me to pick it when I was only five, and I was sure a simple Kwikset lock wouldn’t slow Mother, either, as she was no doubt a recipient of the same lessons. I closed and locked my windows as well. It was a sweltering night, but I had little choice. My mind’s eye could picture Mother climbing in and crossing to my bed, a spoon in one hand and the knife in the other. “Good morning, champ. Ready for breakfast?” I heard her say before she thrust the spoon into my eye socket while plunging the large blade into my abdomen with a twist. “We’re having your favorite.”
I shook away the thought, then pulled the blanket and pillow from my bed and carried them over to my closet, where I curled up on the floor amid the clutter of tennis shoes, soccer ball, and assorted odds and ends of a young boy.
I didn’t want to sleep but knew I should. This was far from over, and I needed the rest.
I couldn’t sleep with my eyes open, but I sure did try, dark dreams finding me as I stared blankly at my bedroom door, waiting for the monster to return, the butcher knife held firmly in my grasp.
50
Porter
Day 2 ? 8:56 a.m.
“You can ask me, you know.”
Watson turned to Porter, then returned his gaze to the road ahead. “I figured if you wanted to talk about it, you would. You don’t have to.” He paused for a long moment, then hesitantly went on. “I heard bits and pieces, from Nash mostly. I’ve been meaning to tell you how sorry I am, but the right opportunity hasn’t come up. I’m sorry.”
“You’re sorry you didn’t get to tell me, or you’re sorry my wife is dead?”