William Bernhardt - Cruel Justice

Praise the Lord. She rocked him a bit longer, then set him down in his laundry-basket-cum-crib. What an ordeal. A few more experiences like that and she could almost stop regretting her decision to—

No. Even just thinking to herself, Christina couldn’t make herself believe that lie. She would regret that decision for the rest of her life.

She went to the bathroom and splashed some revitalizing cold water on her face. She was burning up. The temperature was dancing around a hundred and five, and no big surprise, the air-conditioning in Ben’s apartment was on the fritz. She cranked the thermostat down to sixty-five, but it didn’t help.

She suddenly realized she had never gotten that shower and shampoo she had wanted. When better than now? She decided to take a quick, quiet soak before the tyrannical tyke returned to the world of the waking.

She peeled off her clothes and stepped into the shower. The cool beads of water flowed down her body, providing almost instant relief from the heat and stress of the morning. What a splendid invention showers were. What did people do before? She sang a quiet chorus of “Annie Laurie,” just for her own benefit, then borrowed some of Ben’s Pert Plus and washed her hair.

When she was finished, she dried off and wrapped a white towel around her body and another one around her wet hair. Just as she twisted the towel into place she heard the front door buzzer.

Isn’t this always the way it goes? she thought. Just great.

Mrs. Marmelstein, no doubt. She probably heard me singing and ran up to make sure I wasn’t holding an orgy or anything.

Christina trudged into the front parlor, wearing only her two towels, and opened the front door.

The woman on the other side of the door was in her mid-sixties, although she was quite well preserved and almost wrinkle free. She was dressed in an elegant, obviously expensive pant suit. She clutched a Gucci purse and wore a diamond ring the size of a quarter.

Christina pressed her hand against the towel covering her torso. “Oh, my gosh. You must be Mrs. Kincaid. Ben’s mother.”

The older woman nodded slightly.

“Omigosh. Oh my gosh. ” She tugged desperately at her towel, trying to make sure she was amply covered. To her dismay, the knot came apart and the towel started to fall. She clutched it desperately to her chest. The back flopped open, exposing her pink wet backside.

“I bet you’re wondering who I am,” Christina said, trying to pull the towel closed in back with her free hand.

Mrs. Kincaid nodded again, even more imperceptibly than before. “I must admit to a soupçon of curiosity. …”

“I … well, gosh …” As Christina spoke, the towel around her hair began to slip down her forehead, covering her forehead, then her eyes. She wanted to push the towel back up, but she couldn’t take her hands off the lower towel without exposing herself. She tried to blow the towel back up, but it didn’t work. The towel drooped down farther, over her nose.

“I’m Christina McCall,” she said, trying to ignore the towel obscuring her vision. “I’m … well, I’m Ben’s friend. His … good friend.”

“But of course you are, my dear.” Mrs. Kincaid brushed past Christina and entered the apartment.

“No—I mean—you don’t understand.” Christina suddenly realized she was standing in front of the open door half-naked. She pushed it closed with her foot. “I work for Ben.”

Mrs. Kincaid positioned herself on the natty sofa in the center of Ben’s living room. “You mean he pays you?”

“Yes. Exactly. That’s it.”

Mrs. Kincaid shook her head and made a tsking noise. “It’s come to that, then. What a pity.”

Christina realized she couldn’t go on conversing with this towel hanging over her eyes, so she shook the towel off her head. Her damp red hair cascaded around her shoulders. “I still don’t think you’ve quite got it. I’m a legal assistant. I work for Ben. In his office. I help him with his legal practice.” She looked at Mrs. Kincaid pleadingly. “I’m a professional !”

Beads of water flew from Christina’s wet head into Mrs. Kincaid’s face. The older woman raised a hand and pointedly wiped away the drops. “And precisely what professional services are you rendering today?” she asked, scrutinizing Christina.

“I was taking a shower,” Christina said, totally exasperated. “I was hot and sticky because, as you’ll soon realize, Ben’s air conditioner doesn’t work, and I wanted to wash off while the baby was still asleep—”

“The baby!” Mrs. Kincaid’s face suddenly became animated. “Then he’s here?”

“Yes,” Christina said. “That’s why I’m here. I’m babysitting.”

Mrs. Kincaid rose to her feet. “May I see him?”

“Of course. He’s in Ben’s bedroom in his, er, crib.” Christina showed Mrs. Kincaid to the back room.

There, Mrs. Kincaid cracked open the door and peeked in at the slumbering child. He was lying on his back; a soft whistle streamed out of his mouth with each breath.

Mrs. Kincaid did not actually smile, but her eyes crinkled and glowed. “That’s my grandchild, you know,” she whispered. They tiptoed back to the front room. “My only one.”

“Yeah.” Christina laughed. “Unless there’s something Ben hasn’t gotten around to telling you yet.”

Mrs. Kincaid whirled on her. “What do you mean? Do you know something?”

Christina flustered. “No, no. It was just a joke. Really. I don’t know why I said that. What a stupid thing to say.” Stupid, stupid, stupid.

“Oh.” With a quick, almost invisible gesture, Mrs. Kincaid smoothed the crease of her slacks, whisking away several cat hairs she had acquired on the sofa, and reseated herself. “Pardon me if I overreacted.”

The two women sat in silence. Christina knew Mrs. Kincaid was eyeing her, like a scientist analyzing a strange new specimen. She felt extremely uncomfortable. “Well, perhaps I should get dressed—”

“So this is Ben’s apartment,” Mrs. Kincaid said.

“Yup.” Christina knotted her fingers awkwardly. “Chez Kincaid. Have you never been here before?”

“No. Never.” Her eyes drank in the room. “I’m beginning to understand why he hasn’t invited me to visit.” She pulled out a sofa cushion and stared at the considerable accretion of cookie crumbs, change, and chewed-up ballpoint pens. Wordlessly, she dropped the cushion back into place.

“Ben’s been pretty short on cash these past few years,” Christina said in his defense.

“I’ve offered him money a dozen times,” Mrs. Kincaid replied. “But he refuses to take it.”

“Yeah. I know.”

Mrs. Kincaid entered the kitchen, opened the refrigerator, and inventoried the contents. Two cases of Coke Classic, two large cartons of chocolate milk, a half-empty bottle of white milk that had expired three weeks before, and a stick of butter covered with toast crumbs.

“Some things never change.” She pushed the fridge closed. “And so nutritious. I assume the white milk is for the cat?”

“Cap’n Crunch cereal,” Christina said. “Although sometimes he eats it straight out of the box.”

Mrs. Kincaid’s eyelashes fluttered. “His diet hasn’t altered in twenty-five years.”

“Yeah, well, he gets takeout a lot.”

Mrs. Kincaid noticed a spot of unidentified grunge on the kitchen counter and wiped it away with a quick and precise sweep of her hand. While she was at it she rolled up the paper towels and rearranged the canisters.

“Uh, ma’am, I’m sure Ben wouldn’t want you to—”

Mrs. Kincaid brushed past Christina and looked into the sink. She gasped. The sink was filled with plates, glasses, and silverware, all encrusted with dried food (takeout, probably) and unrecognizable goop. On the bottom layer of plates, a gray fungus was growing.