Эд Макбейн - Mothers and Daughters

“Odds,” Matthew said. He clenched his fist.

“Evens,” David said.

They faced each other in the darkness of the parking lot, their fists clenched, watching each other shrewdly, staggering a bit.

“Once, twice, three, shoot! ” Matthew said. He threw out his hand just as David threw out his.

“I can’t see the fingers,” David said.

“It’s mine,” Matthew said. “Ready? Once, twice, three, shoot! ” He looked at the extended fingers. “Yours. Ready? Once, twice, three, shoot! ” He looked again at the fingers. “What did I have? Odds or evens?”

“Who knows? Listen, Matthew, I’ll follow you , okay?”

“Good. That settles it.”

“Good night, Matthew.”

“Good night, David. Give my love, okay?”

“Okay.”

“That’s the secret,” Matthew said, and he walked into the night.

David watched him a moment, and then waved into the darkness and walked to the Alfa. Love, he thought. That’s no secret at all.

“Are you drunk?” Amanda asked.

“Who? Who, me?” Matthew said.

“Oh, Matthew, how did you manage to...?”

“Nobody’s drank,” he said, “so shhh, shhh, shhhh, you’ll wake the kiddies.”

“Did you find David?”

“I found David.”

“Did you take him home?”

“No. I left him to wallow in sin and corruption.”

“Matthew, Julia asked you to take him home. ”

“I took him home. I took him home.”

“What are you doing there?”

“I’m trying to take off my pants, that’s what I’m doing. What does it look like I’m doing?”

“Let me help you,” Amanda said. She got out of bed and walked to where he was hopping on one foot.

“Hey, leggo,” he said.

“Matthew, stop being so silly. I hate it when you’re drunk.”

“So who’s drunk?”

“You are.”

“I can certainly lower my own zipper.”

“Move your hand.”

“Amanda, do you love me?” he asked seriously.

“Yes. Sit down, Matthew, I’ll take off your shoes.”

“I want to die with my boots on,” he said, and threw himself across the bed.

“Was David as drunk as you are?”

“He was as sober as I am,” Matthew said with dignity.

“Who drove?”

“We both drove.”

“Where did you find him?”

“In a bar.”

“Which bar?”

“Who knows? The Bar X.”

“Matthew!”

“The Bar Sinister, who knows?” Matthew said, and he laughed. “Iron bars do not a prism make.” He laughed again.

Amanda sighed and went to the closet with his trousers. Carefully, she folded them over a hanger. When she turned back to the bed, Matthew was nearly asleep. She went to the bed and took off his socks. Struggling with his long legs, she finally got him under the covers.

“The big brass bed,” Matthew mumbled.

“What?”

“Love,” he mumbled and rolled over, suddenly opening his eyes. “Hey, he knows Gillian.”

“Matthew, will you please...?”

“ David knows Gillian ,” he said firmly, nodding.

Amanda looked at him in silence for a moment. Then she said, “Where is she?”

“Didn’t say.”

“Is she in New York?”

“Didn’t say.”

“Well, Matthew, why didn’t you ask him?”

“Because she killed the poor bastard.”

“What?”

“Oh, Amanda, would you please shut up?”

“I wonder where she is,” Amanda said thoughtfully.

“Asleep, probably, which is... where... any... sensible...” and his voice trailed off.

I wonder where she is, Amanda thought, and a sudden pang touched her. She looked at Matthew asleep on the bed, his arm twisted around the pillow. She stood by the bed in her nightgown, and she thought of Gillian, and wondered again where she was, and felt suddenly empty, and thought, You have everything, Amanda, you have a husband and two children and a beautiful house, you have everything. And remembered suddenly a day when her mother had asked her, “Do you have the talent, Amanda?”

She got into bed beside Matthew and lay staring into the darkness for a long time before sleep finally claimed her.

She had heard the Alfa pull into the driveway, had heard her son slamming the door of the car, and then swearing as he stumbled over something in the darkness. She had listened to his noisy progress to the front door, heard him fumbling with his key until he realized the door was unlocked, and then heard more swearing as he made his way to his room. She lay in bed now with the night noises all around her, the sound of the lake, and the sound of a thousand crickets, and she thought, I shouldn’t have told him, it does not pay to tell them, I shouldn’t have told him.

She had told Arthur in the bedroom of the Talmadge house as they were dressing to go out. She had been sitting before the mirror in her slip when Arthur came in from the bathroom, wearing a robe and drying his head with a towel. She watched him in the mirror as she brushed her hair, counting the strokes, thirty-one, thirty-two, watching Arthur as he hummed and rubbed his head briskly, thirty-three, thirty-four, a smile on his face, throwing the towel onto the bed, turning to look at Julia. She felt a sudden chill in that room. She suddenly knew what was coming. Thirty-six, she put down the brush.

Arthur watched her with his head cocked to one side, humming. She picked up her bottle of nail polish, unscrewed the top, wiped the excess polish on the lip of the bottle, and applied the brush to her left thumb.

“How does it feel to be home?” Arthur asked.

“Wonderful,” she answered.

Her hand was trembling. She smeared polish onto her cuticle, wiped it off with a piece of cotton, and then picked up the brush again. She had no reason to believe this would turn into anything more than a normal discussion, and yet she sensed that it would. And sensing it, perhaps willed it. Or perhaps willing it, only then assumed she sensed something out of the ordinary. If only it were over and done with, she thought. If only the duplicity were finished. She should not have come back at all. The boy, the boy, David, ah yes, a mother cannot simply vanish. She sighed and concentrated on her nails, steadily applying the blood-red polish in a smooth even coat.

Arthur walked to the dressing table. He watched her in the mirror.

“You smell good,” he said. “I forgot what you smelled like. I’d know you were back in the house again, Julia, if only by the scent of your perfume and cosmetics. Even if I couldn’t see you. Even if I couldn’t touch you.” He raised his hands and put them on her naked shoulders, lightly, gently.

“Don’t.”

He did not answer. He met her eyes in the mirror. She lowered them quickly.

“I’m polishing my nails. I don’t want to smear them.”

He did not remove his hands from her shoulders. She ignored him studiously, but she could feel the weight of his hands on her, even though he exerted no pressure, even though they rested there so lightly, she could feel their weight. She concentrated on her nails, refusing to meet his eyes in the mirror, refusing to acknowledge the weight of his hands on her shoulders. He stood behind her silently, unmoving, as if challenging her to reject him, as if waiting silently and stiffly for her to say “Don’t!” once more.

“Aren’t you going to dress?” she asked casually.

“It’s only seven-thirty,” Arthur said. “We’re not due for an hour.”

“Have you shaved already?”

“Yes.”

“Still, don’t you think...”

“I can be ready in five minutes.”

“It’ll take me much longer than that.”

“I’ve seen you dress very quickly when you wanted to,” Arthur said. His hands were still on her shoulders.