Robert Liston - The Tower of Evil

“I wanted…to see you…so much, DeeDee. I–I just knew-you’d…understand.”

DeeDee waited out another wail and spate of tears. “It must be so hard to lose an adult child. I can’t imagine losing one of mine.” Lorna Gould kept nodding her head as she blew into a tissue, then another. “You’ve raised them safely, they’ve survived the illnesses and accidents. You think they‘ll be okay now…you can stop worrying.” Suddenly her own eyes filled with tears, quite unbidden. “I think it would be easier to accept…when a child…is younger.”

“No parent should outlive her child, it isn’t right, it’s unnatural.”

DeeDee used a tissue for her own nose, took a moment to compose herself. She was supposed to be the comforter, not the comforted, after all. “Try not to dwell on it, Lorna, it won’t help. What happened? The radio never gives details.”

“That’s just it, I don’t know-o-ow anything really.” Lorna had a nasal voice, especially with her tears. “The police came and said Harry apparently shot himself. That’s impossible! Harry doesn’t even own a gun!

“Did you tell the police that?”

“Of course, but they practically scoffed at me.“ She waved her hand to demonstrate how the police had dismissed her. “What do I know, I’m just a mother.”

“They didn’t believe you?”

“They didn’t say so, not in so many words, but that’s what they meant. Couldn’t my son have purchased a gun without my knowing it? Of course he could, but why would he? He had no enemies, no use for a pistol, let alone-what did they call it? — a weekend gun or something.”

“It’s called a Saturday night special, Lorna. It’s a cheap handgun, easily available from stores and catalogs.”

Lorna dismissed that information with another wave. “Harry loathed violence, ever since his father committed suicide ten, no twelve years ago. Harry even belonged to some group urging gun control. He opposed the death penalty.”

Lorna got up, stalked across the room, poured into the snifter again. At least she had stopped crying. “You tell me, DeeDee, does Harry sound like someone who’d buy some cheap Saturday night gun, put it to his temple and pull the trigger?”

“I must say he does not.”

“The police say he left a note, something to the effect he was sorry, but he couldn’t take it any more. This was the only way out.” Lorna looked at her. “Harry only passed the bar last year. He had just hung out his shingle. He’d gotten his first important client. He was so happy and excited-not despondent and suicidal.”

“You’ve certainly convinced me, Lorna. Did you tell all this to the police?”

“Some of it, but I was in too much shock to think. But believe me, I will. I intend to give them a piece of my mind.” She picked up the bottle again. “Would you like some, DeeDee?”

“No thank you.” She thought about cautioning her friend about getting plastered. Why not, if it helped her?

“I just thought of another thing, DeeDee. An old college chum was in town visiting him. He was very excited about that.”

“And would hardly take his own life. Where did Harry go to school?”

“UCSB, then Stanford Law.”

“Did he have a family?”

“Of course, he had-oh, you mean that kind of family. No, Harry never married-he was only twenty-seven, for crissake. I don’t think he even dated anyone seriously. He was all into the law and getting himself established.”

“Where did he live?”

“Here with me, naturally.” Her expression turned defensive, her voice shrill. “I know, it’s supposed to be a bad sign when a young man continues to live at home. But he wasn’t a mama’s boy. It was simply convenient for him. He paid what rent he could and helped with the expenses. He came and went as he pleased. There were days when I hardly saw him.”

“Stop, Lorna.” DeeDee smiled at her. “You don’t have to convince me. I think it’s wonderful that you and Harry had such a close relationship.”

"Oh, DeeDee, you’re so understanding, such a comfort to me.”

“Have you someone to stay with you?”

“My sister is driving up from LA. She should be here soon.” Lorna smiled. “I’m better now, thanks to you, DeeDee.”

“I didn’t do anything.”

“Yes, you did. You were a sympathetic ear.”

“Not sympathetic, believing.”

Lorna crossed the room and hugged her. “That’s what makes you so special. I’ll be okay, really, you needn’t stay if you have something to do.”

DeeDee glanced at her watch. “I did promise to baby-sit for one of my employees.”

“Then by all means keep your promise.”

Walter Byerly parked his car beside Doreen’s, then strolled out the driveway to the mailbox. Doreen always left this task for him, because she knew he liked to ponder their good fortune to live on beautiful Monarch Lane.

Named for the butterfly which nested in nearby trees in the spring, the street was a cul-de-sac off Butterfly Beach with a dozen or so homes, each distinctive in style and color. Their place was only a story and a half, a cottage really. Supposedly painted Federal blue, but somebody got the mix wrong. He called it secessionist teal. They bought it a decade ago, when real estate prices were depressed. Now in a booming market it could go for a million dollars.

“No mail today, not a syllable.”

Byerly looked across the road at his neighbor. Never could remember his name. “The purveyors of junk mail are surely derelict.”

“Don’t you dare tell them.” The neighbor hesitated. “Say, Byerly, isn’t that bougainvillea of yours getting a bit out of hand?”

He turned to look back. The magenta-colored vine covered the whole side of the house facing the street. He had to keep a tunnel cut through her so they could use the kitchen entrance. “I call her Big Bertha. If you don’t see me for a few days, you’ll know she ate me.”

No laughter. His neighbor was a bit on the literal side.

“I’ve always wondered, Byerly, is that the front or the back door to your house?”

“I’ve never figured it out. There’s another door to the right, down the drive, but nobody ever uses it. We always go in and out through the kitchen. Big Bertha wouldn’t have it any other way, she gets lonesome.” He chuckled. “Stop in sometime, I’ll show you around.”

Byerly walked back up the drive, checking out his landscaping. In truth he was amazed. Apparently one could stick anything in the ground in California and have it grow. That poinsettia was a Christmas gift years ago. Now Carmen was a high as his head.

He wasn’t sure how he got started naming plants. Probably a sign of approaching dementia, but they sure thrived on it. The verdant hibiscus with the yellow blossoms was Flossie, the rambling morning glory on the fence was Gladys. Gus, the huge live oak, towered overhead. The grass was Hector. Thirsty all the time and terribly vain about his crewcut. “You look fine, Hector, don’t rush it.” He sometimes thought of hiring a gardener, or someone to help him, but he wouldn’t till he was forced to. Mowing and pruning kept him out of trouble.

Byerly passed through the tunnel in Bertha and at once heard happy squeals and laughter. He found Doreen in the kitchen with two male toddlers. She wore sneaks, jeans, a baggy sweatshirt, and looked frazzled.

“I used to be a good grandmother. I’d sit Billy and Robin for hours, no trouble at all.” She made a gesture of futility. “I’ve had these two less than an hour and I’m worn out, can’t keep up.”

“How old were our grandsons when you worked these wonders?”

“This age. Billy was three and Robin four.”