Peter Abrahams - Crying Wolf

Nat ate more of his omelet, biting down on an onion-filled mouthful that tasted especially delicious.

“You didn’t think I was the twins’ mother, did you?”

“Oh, no,” said Nat. “If anything, I thought you were an older sister.” His true thought, but it sounded a little oily out there in the open.

“Aren’t you a charmer,” said Mrs. Zorn. “I’ll let you in on a secret. I work my ass off to stay like this, and it’s all fading fast, no matter what I do.”

Nat didn’t know what to say to that.

“Maybe not such a charmer,” said Mrs. Zorn. “You’re supposed to say something reassuring, like ‘not at all.’ ”.

“You’re… beautiful,” Nat said, and felt his ears reddening again. He’d never said that to a woman, or girl, before; so strange that the first one would be her, so stupid that his voice would crack on the phrase, like he was thirteen or something. “You must know that,” he added, making what he hoped was a mature recovery.

Mrs. Zorn smiled. “I know it officially. But it’s always nice to hear. How’s the omelet?”

“Fantastic.”

“Enjoy, as the locals like to say,” she said. She took another sip of her blue drink; he noticed it was turning her lips and teeth blue. “What do you know about the second Mrs. Z?” she said.

“Nothing.”

“No? She’s their mother. The girls, I’m talking about. Lives in Paris. A lifestyle you would not believe. What’s so funny?”

“Nothing. Sorry.”

“She was a model too,” Mrs. Zorn continued. “Wanted to be an actress. That became a problem, a marriage buster eventually, because she has a voice like Daffy Duck. With a head cold, but don’t tell the girls I said that.”

“Was she ever in any movies?”

“He financed one for her in the end.” Mrs. Zorn named it, a slasher sequel he’d seen one Friday night at the little two-screen cinema in his town.

“Was she the aerobics instructor?”

“Something like that.”

Nat remembered nothing remarkable about her voice.

“But that was it,” Mrs. Zorn said. “She overplayed her hand. He didn’t like being pressured, not by her, not by those Hollywood people.” Outside the sky darkened and lights went on in the kitchen automatically. “He doesn’t like being pressured by anybody.”

“What does Mr. Zorn do, if you don’t mind me asking?”

“It’s complicated,” said Mrs. Zorn. “Let’s just say he takes his cut.”

“Of what?”

“You name it.” She glanced at Nat’s plate, saw it was bare. “What else can I get you?” she said.

“Nothing,” he said. “It was great.”

“I’ve enjoyed our little breakfast, too,” said Mrs. Zorn, although she still hadn’t touched her food. She looked directly at him; she really was beautiful, if a little strange with the blue lips and teeth. “You could do me a favor, Nat.”

“I could?”

She reached across the table, touched his hand. If there was a scale of knowingness for a woman’s touch, with Grace much higher than Patti, then Mrs. Zorn was at least that much higher than Grace. “By not leaving,” she said.

“Not leaving?” Nat drew his hand away. She left hers where it was, a beautifully shaped hand, though it surprised him to see one or two liver spots on the back. “I’m sorry, I-”

“The girls seem to like your company. And now with Izzie so upset. We could all use a change of scene, if you want to know the truth. That’s why we’re flying down to the islands today. Please don’t say no.”

“Bora Bora?” said Nat, thinking of Lorenzo.

“Just the Caribbean.”

“I can’t.”

“Why not? You could bring your books, and if you need some more, that’s no problem-give Albert a list.”

“Thanks, but-”

“If you’re really set on Bora Bora, we might-”

“Oh, no. It’s not that. It’s just-the hotel, the airfare-I can’t afford it.” Mrs. Zorn started to speak; he held up his hand, not wanting to even hear her charitable offer. “I’d have to pay my own way, Mrs. Zorn, and since I can’t-don’t you see?”

She laughed. “Let’s not make this into a big production,” she said. “There is no hotel or airfare. It’s not that kind of thing.”

“But-”

“And it would be good for Izzie to have friends around right now.”

“Why? What’s happened?”

“I thought you were there.”

“Where?”

The maid entered. “Phone for you, sir,” she said, and handed a cordless one to Nat.

“Hello?”

“Nat? Merry Christmas.”

“Mom? I was going to call you.” And: “How did you get this number?”

“From information. Their name was on the card.”

“What card?”

“Don’t you know? It’s the sweetest thing. They sent flowers, your people. The Zorns. The most beautiful flowers I’ve ever seen in my life, Nat. Is Mrs. Zorn around, by any chance?”

“She’s right here.” He handed the phone to Mrs. Zorn. “My mom wants to talk to you.”

“Hello,” said Mrs. Zorn. She listened. From the expression on her face, Nat could tell that she knew nothing about the flowers; it must have been Albert’s doing. And must have happened many times before: Mrs. Zorn didn’t even stumble. “Oh, don’t be silly,” she said. “It’s our pleasure. And your son seems like such a wonderful young man.”

She handed the phone back to Nat. “Mom?”

“She sounds so nice, Nat. And so… grand.” Nat, recalling that Mrs. Zorn and his mom were both from Arvada, missed whatever she said next.

“What was that, Mom?”

“I said hang on. Patti’s here. She wants to say hi.”

“Nat? Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas.”

“Did you get my package?”

Nat remembered it, sitting unopened on his bed in room seventeen of Plessey Hall. “Yes,” he said. She waited for a reaction; he heard her breathing. “I wasn’t going to open it till Christmas.”

She laughed. “What day do you think it is, you goof?”

“No one’s opened anything yet.” He hadn’t even seen the Zorns’ tree, now that he thought about it.

“What’s it like there?”

“Nice.”

“Your mom says you’re staying with some college buddies?”

Nat didn’t reply.

“That was nice of them, inviting you.”

“Yeah.”

“Been to the Empire State Building yet?”

“No,” Nat said, glancing out the window; the top of it had been visible before the clouds rose.

“What have you been up to, then?”

“Not much.”

Pause. “Nat?”

“Yes?”

“I… I wish I could talk to you.”

“You can.”

“No. I… I just… miss you so much.” There was a muffled sound: she was crying. He caught a word or two-“sorry,” “Christmas”-felt Mrs. Zorn’s gaze on his face.

“Me too,” he said, which didn’t even make sense, and therefore couldn’t be a lie, even though she might have inferred that he missed her too. But he didn’t miss her.

“This is costing money,” Patti said, sniffling. “I should go. Love you.”

“Have a good Christmas,” Nat told her.

“Nat?” His mom.

“Hi.”

“Have a wonderful holiday. And do something nice for the Zorns, if you can.”

But I should go back to school, Mom. Or maybe home. Couldn’t say it, of course, for a number of reasons.

The maid took the phone away.

“Your mother sounds so nice,” said Mrs. Zorn.

“She is.” He thought he heard that strange, powerful tone in his voice again. Part of it was because she was so much more than that; the rest was the word nice itself. Nice, nice, nice: it was starting to grate on him.

“I’m sure of it,” said Mrs. Zorn.

Nat saw that she had finally eaten her little bit of omelet, finished the frothy blue drink.