She had almost reached the top of the stairs when Conchita said, “Is that you, Puffy?”
Oh my God.
Conchita had heard her.
“Puffy? Are you being a bad kitty again?”
Still on her throne in there.
Had to try it. Had to move.
Tiptoes again.
She took the stairs one tortured step at a time. From the bathroom, nothing.
“Puffy?”
But this time she sounded doubtful it was Puffy.
“Hello?” she said.
And then the toilet was flushing suddenly.
Helen hastened down the rest of the steps. Hurry. Had to hurry.
She had just rounded the downstairs corner when Conchita reached the top step.
“Hello?” she said again.
Helen was in the kitchen now, eyeing the back door. Was she going to make it?
That was when the phone rang.
Conchita said, “Oh, shit, how can I do two things at once?”
Was she going to come down the stairs or was she going to answer the phone?
Helen hurried to the back door, opened it up, and then heard, from upstairs, Conchita saying, “Hello, this is the Fuller residence.”
She was icy with sweat and terror, and she carried both with her as she reached the fresh air of the backyard.
God, that was a close call. So close.
She allowed herself a full minute of relaxing. Everything was fine now. True, she hadn’t gotten what she’d come for. But at least Conchita hadn’t caught her. Thank God for flatulence.
She took a moment to appreciate the orange butterflies, the red summer flowers, the blue sky. She wanted to be a girl again, lying on the banks of Prairie Creek, reading her Nancy Drews and petting Andy, her sweet old border collie. When she looked back on it, those had been the best days of her life.
She had just reached the alley when somebody said, “Say, wait a minute, will you?”
Panic.
Run or stay?
She looked around and as soon as she saw who was calling to her, she once again felt sick to her stomach.
The woman walking toward her...
What kind of terrible coincidence could this be?
The woman walking toward her was Lilly Swanson, one of her old schoolmates.
My God, even with the disguise on Helen was going to be recognized.
Lilly was one of the biggest gossips in town.
By sundown, Lilly would have told half of Crystal Falls that she’d seen Helen in this really weird disguise sneaking away from the Fuller home.
Run or stay?
Panic.
“I’m sorry to trouble you,” Lilly said, coming ever closer. “But I wondered if you could help me with something?”
Then Lilly stood right next to her.
And was saying, “Say, you look sort of familiar. Do I know you?”
4
Darcy was smirking when she walked up to Amy, obviously taking pleasure in seeing the older woman upset.
When Darcy reached Amy, she said, “You’ve got a very nice brother there.”
Then she turned around, her breasts straining against her white summery blouse, and said, “See you tonight, Richie.”
Another smirk for the benefit of Amy, and then Darcy was gone.
Amy listened to the girl’s footsteps quicken as they reached the stairway. Then the footsteps disappeared into the general hum of noise — distant lawn mower, dog, cars entering and leaving the parking lot.
Richie was wearing his tennis whites. He had a great tan and the whites made him look just that much better. He was a handsome kid, but it was a reckless kind of handsomeness, the reckless kind that had always gotten him into so much trouble, and given him the sense that the rules applied to everybody but him.
He stood with one Reeboked foot on the front bumper of a Jeep station wagon, his head hanging low.
He looked up at her suddenly and said, “I know you’re pissed, Amy.”
“ ‘Pissed’ isn’t the right word.”
She walked away into the garage. The smells of car oil and trapped heat were stronger. She could also smell dead grass on the blades of two Lawn-Boys standing in the corner.
“I take it you know how old that girl is, Richie.”
“It isn’t anything serious.”
“It doesn’t have to be anything serious for her father to bring charges. Or for you to get fired.”
He shrugged. “She just comes around sometimes.”
“During a school day?”
He looked at her directly. He was obviously miserable with hangover, his eyes red, his cheeks blanched, his mouth sullen. “I fucked up, all right? I’m sorry. I won’t see her anymore.”
“I just can’t believe you.”
He said, very quietly, “I’m tired of your sermons, Amy.”
“Well, I’m tired of you being so irresponsible.”
She took two steps forward and was then able to confirm her worst suspicions.
He smelled of whiskey.
“You want to come a little closer and get a real good whiff of it?”
“You’re drinking again.”
“I’d say that’s my fucking business, not yours.”
“You’re my brother. So that makes it my business.”
He shook his head wearily. “Even if I told you the truth, Amy, you wouldn’t believe it.”
“And what’s the ‘truth,’ Richie?”
There was defiance in his blue eyes, the defiance of a sullen teenager.
“That I can handle it now.”
“Booze?”
“Yeah,” he said, “booze.”
“It’s not even two o’clock in the afternoon, Richie, and you smell like a bar already. That’s ‘handling it’?”
“You’re not my fucking keeper,” he said, and brought his foot down from the bumper.
“After they fire you here, then what?”
The look of defiance was still on his face. “I’m going to LA.”
She almost laughed.
Every teenage boy and girl who wanted to escape some hard moments in Iowa always fled to LA. This had been going on since at least the twenties. Amy remembered seeing a photograph from 1921 or so, this huge billboard reading: There Is No California. Stay In Iowa.
Now Richie, half in the bag already today, was going to give it a try himself.
She felt anger and pity in equal amounts. She could see how ashamed he was. She could also see how much he was hurting. She wanted to slap him and hold him at the same time.
“Richie,” she said. “You’re not only kidding me, you’re kidding yourself. You’ve got to get back to those AA meetings.”
“Oh, yeah,” he said, “I sure wouldn’t want to miss those. A bunch of fucking whining bastards bitching about their lives all the time.” He grinned coldly. “Believe it or not, big sister, those meetings actually drive some people to drink. Including me.”
Then he took several steps forward and put his hands on her arms.
“Listen to me, Amy. Listen to me carefully. I’ve learned how to handle it now. I really have.”
There was nothing to say.
Millions of alcoholics around the world sang this same pathetic song.
I’m not really an alcoholic. Not me. He is maybe. But not me. Not me.
“And, believe it or not, the bartender here told me that they’re probably going to give me a raise, that they really like the work I’ve been doing here.”
He had charm, he had poise, he had cunning — though not nearly as much as he thought he had — but he had never been able to tell a lie worth a damn.
“I thought you were going to California,” she said. “So why would you, worry about a raise here?”
She knew instantly she shouldn’t have been so catty. He deserved to be pushed around a little but not by her. No matter what, she loved him too much for that. Tough love was well and good in theory. It was a real bitch to pull off without making yourself feel terrible.