Richard Laymon - The Lake

He had sounded as if he really meant it, as if he cared. And somehow as if his lecture, though addressed to Deana, was actually spoken for Mom’s benefit. Something going on there. A subtle undercurrent.

It must have made an impression on Mom. Calling him Mace.

Deana opened the front door, pulled it shut behind her, and stepped over the San Francisco Sunday Examiner and Chronicle . She looked back at the paper. Part of her routine was to bring it down from the top of the driveway each morning when she finished her run. She always found it near the top of the driveway—sometimes hidden in the geraniums. This was strange. No matter how good his arm, the paper man couldn’t possibly have winged the Chronicle all the way to the front stoop. You can’t even see the stoop from the road. He had either driven or walked down the steep driveway to get it here. Really going for brownie points. Christmas is six months away. Maybe it’s somebody new.

Maybe he did it.

Deana felt a chill crawl up the back of her neck.

Paranoia must be contagious. Like the flu.

She scanned the ice-plant-covered slope across the yard, the hedge at the top, and the weed-choked stretch of hillside behind the Matson house. It all looked normal. The hedge up there was a bit too skimpy to conceal anyone.

At least this is taking your mind off Allan.

She walked past the kitchen windows and stopped on the broad, concrete apron in front of the garage.

The paper man got ambitious, that’s all.

One steep mother of a driveway. Narrow, too.

She shook her head.

The geraniums along the sides of the driveway were not skimpy.

Get off it.

Deana stepped closer to the garage. Facing the driveway, she took a deep breath. The morning air smelled sweet and clean. She did a few jumping jacks. When she started the toe-touching exercises, her rump brushed the garage door.

Thataway, back to the wall. Nobody’s gonna sneak up on you . No-sirree.

Chicken shit.

She took five steps forward—count ’em, five.

That’s better.

That wasn’t better. She felt exposed.

What’s keeping Mom?

You wanted to go running alone, remember?

She sat down. The concrete, still in shadow, was cold through her shorts and worse against the backs of her legs. She leaned forward, stretching, grabbing her shoes.

I would have been just fine except for Mom’s little talk. And she had to remind me of what Harrison said.

The way you wear your hair.

Bull.

She touched her forehead between her knees.

Saw a madman in a chef’s cap bounding down the driveway waving a meat cleaver, and looked up fast and saw no one.

Where’d you get this chef’s cap nonsense?

Oh yeah, the dream.

Lovely little dream—and all that weird shit the night before.

Legs spread wide, she leaned forward, touched her right hand to her left toe, left hand to right toe. The stretching muscles felt good.

She flinched at a sudden bumping sound, then realized it was only the front door shutting. Mom. That was pretty quick, actually. She got to her feet and hitched up the shorts that had been inching down her rump during the exercises.

“What took you so long?” Deana asked.

“Are you kidding? I’m still wet.”

Deana stared. Mom looked so normal. So good . As if this were just any other fabulous Marin County morning. Except for the blue ballcap covering her pinned-up hair, she was dressed in white—knit shirt, shorts, socks and shoes, all white. Which made her fair skin look almost bronze.

Deana had rarely seen her with her hair up.

“My gosh, Mom, you’ve got ears.”

“Anything wrong with them?”

“They’re rather large, is all.”

Mom grinned. “Have you looked in a mirror lately?”

Deana’s own smile slipped.

Sure have, Mom.

She remembered it well. A red-eyed girl clutching gym shorts.

“Not to change the subject or anything, I thought you promised to stay down here.”

“I did.”

Mom raised an eyebrow. Then she swept down from the waist, touched her toes, and made a quick catch as her ballcap dropped.

“Oh, you mean the newspaper.”

“That’s right, Watson. Here, hold this.”

Deana took the hat.

Mom resumed touching her toes. She had a few drops of water on the backs of her legs. No cellulite. She was in terrific shape. Always had been. Maybe that was one reason why Deana started running last year. She’d been getting a bit pudgy, and it was damned embarrassing to have a mother who looked better than you in a bikini. Some of her boyfriends—take Herb Klein, for instance—spent more time ogling Mom than…

“At least you didn’t leave without me,” Mom said.

“I didn’t bring down the newspaper. I didn’t touch it.”

“How did it get there?”

“I suppose the delivery guy was feeling energetic.”

“Geez,” Mom said, “and Christmas isn’t for six months.”

“Maybe he’s angling for a Fourth of July tip.”

“Weird.” Mom swung her arms around, then took the hat from Deana and flopped it onto her head with the bill high. She squinted up the driveway. Looked at Deana. Raised one side of her upper lip to show her distaste for the chore ahead. “Well, I’m ready when you are.”

“I’ll take it easy on you.”

“Oh, thanks. You’re so thoughtful.”

Deana started up the driveway, leaning into its slope, not pushing. Mom stayed at her side.

It was like climbing a stairway. Taking the stairs two at a time.

She thought of the stairs at the start of the Dipsey Trail. They sure nailed Allan. Let’s try not to think about Allan for a while. Let’s just think about running, the good feel of working muscles. And getting closer to the top.

Halfway there.

Three quarters. No sweat. She glanced at Mom. Mom smiled.

The mailbox at the top came into view.

Then the car.

Mom said, “That’s a great place… to leave a car.”

It didn’t block the driveway. It was parked on the other side of the street. But nobody ever parked there because of the blind curves.

Deana didn’t see anyone inside.

She stopped at the edge of the street.

“What’s the matter? Pooped?”

“Mom.”

The tone of Deana’s voice turned her mother’s face strange.

Deana’s gaze swept the street and hillside as she walked on numb legs toward the old, red Pontiac Firebird. She stepped in front of it. The grille and headlight on its right side were smashed in. “My God,” she muttered.

Mom grabbed her arm, pulled her. “Quick. Back to the house.”

They ran.

“It needs something.”

“ You need something,” she said. “A frontal lobotomy.”

“That’s no way to talk to the man who’s going to immortalize you.”

“My foot,” she said.

“Precisely.”

“You’d better hurry. If I fall in, I’ll tear your face off.”

“Behave.” Still squatting on the bank of the stream, he raised the Nikon to his eye and studied the situation again. “Nah, no good.”

“Kee-rist.”

He stood up. “I’ve got it. Come on back.”

Mattie reached out her hand. He grabbed it and pulled as she leaped across the running water. Her bare feet landed on twigs, and she winced.

“Right back.”

“Where are you going?” she asked.

“My first-aid kit’s in the car.”

“Good idea, Charlie. You may need it.”

“Buck up. We’ll be done shortly.”

Mattie rolled her eyes upward and planted her fists on her hips. “You know,” she called at his back, “real models get big beans for this kind of shitski.”