White Oleander - Janet Fitch [153]
“That’s not true,” Hannah said. Shook her head, shook it again, as if she could clear my words out of it. “It isn’t.” She was asking me to tell her it wasn’t.
“I was there,” I told her. “I saw her mix up the medicine. She ’s not what she seems.”
“She’s still a great poet,” Julie said.
“Yes,” I say. “A killer and a poet.”
Hannah played with a button on the front of her gray dress, and it popped off in her hand. She stared at it in her palm, her face stained red as beet borscht. “She must have had her reasons. Maybe he was beating her.”
“He wasn’t beating her,” I said. I put my hands on my knees and pushed myself into a standing position. I felt suddenly very tired. Maybe there was still some stash in Niki’s room.
Julie looked up at me, brown eyes serious and calm. I would have thought her more sensible than Hannah, less likely to have been taken in by my mother’s spell. “Why’d she do it, then?”
“Why do people kill people who leave them?” I said. “Because they feel hurt and angry and they can’t stand that feeling.”
“I’ve felt that way,” Hannah said. The lowering light of the sun was touching the curly escaped ends of her hair, making a frizzy halo around her fair head.
“But you didn’t kill anyone,” I said.
“I wanted to.”
I looked at her, twisting the hem of her vintage dress with the small flowers, the front gapping open where the button fell off, her stomach was rosy. “Sure. Maybe you even fantasized about how you would do it. You didn’t do it. There’s a huge difference.”
A mockingbird sang in the yucca tree next door, a spill of liquid sound.
“Maybe not so big a difference,” Julie said. “Some people are just more impulsive than others.”
I slapped the magazine against the leg of my jeans. They were going to justify her some way. Protect the Goddess Beauty no matter what. They are willing to forgive me anything. “Look, thanks for coming, but I have to go in.”
“I wrote my number on the back of the magazine,” Hannah said, rising. “Call if you, you know. Want to.”
Her new children. I stood on the porch and watched them go back to their car. Julie was driving. It was a green Olds station wagon, vintage, so big it had skylights. It made a ringing sound as she drove away. I took the magazine and threw it in the trash. Trying to pass her lies off, like some elderly Salome hiding behind her veils. I could have told her children a thing or two about my mother. I could have told them they would never find the woman inside that shimmering cloth, smelling of mold and violets. There were always more veils underneath. They would have to tear them away like cobwebs, fiercely, and more would come as fast as they stripped them away. Eventually, she would spin them into her silk like flies, to digest at her leisure, and shroud her face again, a moon in a cloud.
28
NIKI TORE OFF a square of the acid and put it on my tongue, then one for her. It came on small sheets of paper printed with pink flamingos on motorcycles. We sat on the porch, looking at the wreck of the neighbor’s old Riviera parked up on blocks. The weather was heating up, hazing over, tepid as bathwater, moist as a wet sock. I felt nothing at all. “Maybe we should take another one.” If I was going to do it, I wanted to make sure I’d get off. Yvonne thought we were crazy to mess with our heads this way, but I was just crazy enough now. Susan D. Valeris had called me three times already. I stopped answering the phone, told Rena to hang up on anyone asking for me.
“It takes a while,” Niki said. “You’ll know when it happens. Believe me, you won’t sleep through it.”
Nothing happened for almost an hour, I was sure the stuff was no good, but then it came on, all at once, like an elevator. Niki laughed and waved her hand in front of my face, the fingers leaving trails behind them. “High enough now?”
My skin felt hot and prickly, like