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Maybe the police? Or someone else who actually cares?
No answer.
I’m running out of patience, and my nerves are shot as it is. My whole body is reeling with the news about Dad.
“Look, either you answer or I kick down the door.”
The cries are harder now. Uncontrollable. I take a step back for momentum and kick the door open. It flies off its hinges, slamming against the large cubicle wall like a casualty in a gory action film.
But I don’t find a baby or an injured animal.
Just one Winnifred Ashcroft, curled over the toilet tank in her red dress, makeup smeared all over her face, drinking wine straight from the bottle. Her hair is a mess, and she is shaking like a leaf.
Isn’t she pregnant?
Poor Oatmeal Paul. Can’t even get himself a sensible trophy wife.
Tears run down her cheeks. She put a good dent on that bottle. It’s half-finished. We both stare at one another silently, engaged in some fucked-up contest. Only now, it’s clear she doesn’t expect me to ask her what’s wrong.
“Are you in trouble?” I spit out, asking mainly because it is my civic duty. “Is he hurting you? Abusing you?”
She shakes her head. “You’ll never be half the man he is!”
There goes my lifelong mission.
I glance around us, waiting for her to pick herself up and evacuate the toilet. She’s the most bizarre creature I’ve ever met.
“My husband is amazing,” she stresses, getting riled up, like I’m the one crying into a bottle of alcohol atop a germ colony.
“Your husband is as unremarkable as my least favorite pair of socks, but that’s not a conversation I’m interested in having now,” I counter. “Now, if there’s nothing I can do—”
“Yes, there’s nothing. Even if I did need help, I wouldn’t turn to you for it. You’re stuck up higher than a light pole.” She wipes her nose with the back of her arm, sniffling. “Beat it.”
“Now, now, Winnifred. I thought all southern belles were sweet and agreeable.”
“Go away already!” She jumps to her feet and slams the door in my face, or whatever’s left of the unhinged door, anyway.
For a brief moment, I contemplate giving her my number, in case Paul does abuse her. But then I remember my plate is full of my own shit to deal with, including Doug’s death, Grace’s wishy-washy attitude, my career, and so forth.
I turn around and walk away.
To tell Gracelynn Langston that Stepdaddy Dearest has finally kicked the bucket.
CHAPTER THREE
ARSÈNE
Then
Like all cautionary tales, my story began in a big, sprawling mansion. With stained glass windows, pointed arches, ribbed vaults, and flying buttresses.
Painted murals, hand-carved marble chess pieces, and grand curved staircases.
With an evil stepmother and a snotty stepsister.
The night that changed everything started out normally, as all disasters do.
Dad and Miranda drove into the city to see Chekhov’sThe Seagullpremiere in Calypso Hall Theater and left us behind. They did it often. Miranda enjoyed art, and Dad enjoyed Miranda. No one enjoyed us, though, so it was our job to entertain one another.
