When was the last time she went shopping for groceries? There isn’t even any milk, for Pete’s sake.
What kind of mother is she, she doesn’t make sure there’s any milk for the baby?
“Luckily, I don’t have a baby,” Amanda states, as if pleading her case. Carrying her wineglass in one hand and the bottle in the other, she walks into the living room. “See? No baby.” She takes another sip of wine, kicks off her shoes, and flops down on her white canvas sofa, downing half the glass in one prolonged gulp, the way her mother used to do.
It’s not really surprising that Ben hasn’t called, she decides. He was never one of those men who couldn’t take a hint. He always knew when to stop, when to give up, when to cut his losses and run.
What is surprising is that he called her at all.
Amanda giggles. Of course the circumstances are rather unusual. It’s not every day your mother commits murder.
Then again, who knows how many people her mother has killed over the years. John Mallins may be the first man she’s dispatched so publicly, but Amanda is convinced there are bodies everywhere.
She downs the rest of her drink, then pours herself another, spilling a few drops on the white tile at her feet, and just missing the corner of her black-bordered white rug. She should really get a few more pieces of furniture for this room. Another chair to fill the empty space bythe left wall, perhaps a coffee table, another lamp. Her apartment has always looked vaguely unfinished, as if someone were just preparing to move in. Or out.
Just the way I like it, she thinks, taking another swallow of her wine as she examines the bare white walls, feeling her shoulders finally starting to relax. “To the man in the moon,” she says, nodding toward it, and taking a sip. “And to Ben, my first ex-husband.” Another sip, longer this time. “And to Sean, my second.” Another sip, and then another. “Hell, to all my ex-husbands, past and future.” She tops up her glass, raises it in the air. “And to all my mother’s unsuspecting victims: Old Mr. Walsh. John Mallins. My father,” she whispers, struggling to her feet. “Oh, no. We are not going there. We are definitely not going anywhere near there.”
The doorbell rings. Amanda stares at the door without moving. After several seconds, it rings again.
“Come on, open up,” a woman’s voice commands.
Amanda goes to the door and opens it without asking who it is. “Janet,” she says to the woman whose light brown bangs all but swamp her forehead. What’s the point of having your brow lifted, she wonders, if you’re going to cover the whole thing up? She thinks of asking, To what do I owe the honor?—but decides she already knows. Instead she settles on, “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Amanda smiles and pours what’s left in the bottle into her glass.
“Can I come in?”
Amanda steps back to allow Janet entry, follows her into the living room, motions toward the sofa. “Please sit down.”
“No, thank you. I won’t be staying long.”
Then why did you ask to come in? Amanda wonders, but decides not to ask. She is too busy staring at Janet’s unnaturally swollen lips. What possesses attractive women like Janet to do such horrible things to themselves? she wonders, then stops herself because she knows the answer. The answer is women like herself. Amanda takes another sip of her drink.
“I’m sure you know why I’m here.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been meaning to return your call. It’s just that I’ve been so busy—”
“You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”
“I think I better sit down.” Amanda sinks down into her sofa, feels the room spinning around her.
“I know about you and my husband.”
Amanda says nothing. She remembers something about the best defense being a good offense, but has neither the energy nor the willpower to engage in a debate.
“Victor told me all about your little affair.”
Amanda shakes her
What kind of mother is she, she doesn’t make sure there’s any milk for the baby?
“Luckily, I don’t have a baby,” Amanda states, as if pleading her case. Carrying her wineglass in one hand and the bottle in the other, she walks into the living room. “See? No baby.” She takes another sip of wine, kicks off her shoes, and flops down on her white canvas sofa, downing half the glass in one prolonged gulp, the way her mother used to do.
It’s not really surprising that Ben hasn’t called, she decides. He was never one of those men who couldn’t take a hint. He always knew when to stop, when to give up, when to cut his losses and run.
What is surprising is that he called her at all.
Amanda giggles. Of course the circumstances are rather unusual. It’s not every day your mother commits murder.
Then again, who knows how many people her mother has killed over the years. John Mallins may be the first man she’s dispatched so publicly, but Amanda is convinced there are bodies everywhere.
She downs the rest of her drink, then pours herself another, spilling a few drops on the white tile at her feet, and just missing the corner of her black-bordered white rug. She should really get a few more pieces of furniture for this room. Another chair to fill the empty space bythe left wall, perhaps a coffee table, another lamp. Her apartment has always looked vaguely unfinished, as if someone were just preparing to move in. Or out.
Just the way I like it, she thinks, taking another swallow of her wine as she examines the bare white walls, feeling her shoulders finally starting to relax. “To the man in the moon,” she says, nodding toward it, and taking a sip. “And to Ben, my first ex-husband.” Another sip, longer this time. “And to Sean, my second.” Another sip, and then another. “Hell, to all my ex-husbands, past and future.” She tops up her glass, raises it in the air. “And to all my mother’s unsuspecting victims: Old Mr. Walsh. John Mallins. My father,” she whispers, struggling to her feet. “Oh, no. We are not going there. We are definitely not going anywhere near there.”
The doorbell rings. Amanda stares at the door without moving. After several seconds, it rings again.
“Come on, open up,” a woman’s voice commands.
Amanda goes to the door and opens it without asking who it is. “Janet,” she says to the woman whose light brown bangs all but swamp her forehead. What’s the point of having your brow lifted, she wonders, if you’re going to cover the whole thing up? She thinks of asking, To what do I owe the honor?—but decides she already knows. Instead she settles on, “Would you like a drink?”
“No, thank you.”
Amanda smiles and pours what’s left in the bottle into her glass.
“Can I come in?”
Amanda steps back to allow Janet entry, follows her into the living room, motions toward the sofa. “Please sit down.”
“No, thank you. I won’t be staying long.”
Then why did you ask to come in? Amanda wonders, but decides not to ask. She is too busy staring at Janet’s unnaturally swollen lips. What possesses attractive women like Janet to do such horrible things to themselves? she wonders, then stops herself because she knows the answer. The answer is women like herself. Amanda takes another sip of her drink.
“I’m sure you know why I’m here.”
“I’m sorry. I’ve been meaning to return your call. It’s just that I’ve been so busy—”
“You’re not fooling anyone, you know.”
“I think I better sit down.” Amanda sinks down into her sofa, feels the room spinning around her.
“I know about you and my husband.”
Amanda says nothing. She remembers something about the best defense being a good offense, but has neither the energy nor the willpower to engage in a debate.
“Victor told me all about your little affair.”
Amanda shakes her
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