With an Extreme Burning

FOUR

Six o'clock. And Amy still wasn't home yet.

Cecca was in the kitchen with Owen Gregory, making a fruit salad for supper, trying not to worry. It wasn't that late, still broad daylight—but her eyes kept straying to the wall clock. Do you know where Amy is, Francesca? Do you have any idea what's happening to that little bitch of yours this very minute? Subtle torture, without any foundation whatsoever. That was what these telephone freaks counted on, wasn't it? The victim torturing herself?

Amy said she'd be home around four. Why isn't she here yet?

Owen's presence should have helped keep her calm, but it was having the opposite effect. He'd stopped by at five-thirty, unannounced, to bring her the photos of the Andersen farm in Hamlin Valley, her newest listing. He did most of the brochure photography for Better Lands, and he'd done his usual expert job of making a property look better than it really was, focusing on the Andersen place's hilly backdrop and that impressive line of old eucalyptus that flanked the access drive. The color shots were crystal-clear, yet you couldn't tell that the house and barn were in poor repair. But he could have dropped the prints off at the office or waited to give them to her on Monday. They were an excuse, of course. To see her. To sit and make small talk and gaze at her with his big, sad, worshipful eyes.

Those eyes were what had led her to sleep with him that night last summer. It was flattering to be the object of someone's passion, even if it wasn't reciprocated; and she'd been tight and Amy had been staying at a friend's house, and it had been so long since she'd had sex, and when she looked into those worshipful eyes … bad judgment, a foolish mistake. It had given Owen false hope that it could happen again, that there could be something serious between them. The morning after, she'd told him the truth in the gentlest possible terms: She cared for him but she didn't love him, they could go on being friends but nothing more. He'd said he understood, but it didn't keep him from pursuing her in his low-key way. She liked him, she really did. He was kind, gentle, attractive. But she felt more sorry for him than anything else. And he got on her nerves sometimes, like right now—

“Cecca.”

She turned her head. He was sitting at the table, his long legs stretched out, rolling the bottle of Coors she'd given him between his hands. His dark hair was its usual mop, damp and lank now from the heat, a long wisp plastered over one eyebrow. The tail of his shirt was untucked. There was a grass stain on the knee of his cords. Thirty-seven going on twelve, she thought. It was a wonder he'd never married. God knew, he'd had opportunities; maternal women loved him to pieces. But he didn't want a mother figure. He wanted the ex-wife of Chet Bracco, and had even when she was married. Poor Owen, because the ex-wife of Chet Bracco wanted a man, not a little boy.

“What's the matter?” he asked her. “You keep looking at the clock.”

“Just wondering where Amy is. She should be home by now.”

“Where'd she go after work?”

“I'm not sure. Some errands, she said.”

“Kids. I wouldn't want to be a teenager these days.”

“Why do you say that?”

“Oh, you know, all the problems and pressures.”

“What does that have to do with her being late?”

“Nothing. I was making an observation—”

“My daughter's a good girl, Owen.”

“I know that. Lord, Cecca, I didn't mean to imply—”

“Damn!” The potato peeler she'd been using to core strawberries had slipped and nicked her finger. She sucked at the drop of blood that appeared.

Owen was on his feet, petting her arm. “Hurt yourself?”

“It's nothing,” she said. “I'm sorry I snapped at you. I'm feeling a little prickly today.”

“It's the heat.”

“Yes. The heat. Owen … I'd ask you stay for supper, but—”

“No, that's all right. Date tonight?”

“No. I just don't feel up to company.”

“I understand.”

No, you don't, she thought. “All I want to do is eat and take a long, cool bath and zone out in front of the TV.”

“Sounds good. I'll probably do the same.”

She finished the strawberries, started to cut up a peach. Owen stood watching her, making no move to leave. Like an adoring puppy. Can't you take a hint, Owen? Go home!

Lights slid across the kitchen window as a car swung into the driveway. Amy's Honda—that little engine had a whiny rumble that was unmistakable.

“There she is,” Owen said.

Cecca felt a greater relief than the situation called for. That damned telephone freak … if he knew how deep under her skin he'd gotten, he'd be thrilled. He'd probably come all over himself.

The back door banged and Amy slouched in carrying three bulging shopping bags. She looked wilted but pleased with herself. “Whew,” she said, “what a day. Oh, hi, Owen.”

“Hi yourself,” Owen said, smiling.

Amy dumped the bags on the kitchen table, dragged open the refrigerator. “Iced tea, good.” She took the pitcher out.

Cecca said, “Where have you been?” The words came out sharper than she'd intended.

“Oh God,” Amy said, “you're pissed.”

“I'm not. I expected you hours ago, that's all.”

“Well, it was crowded at the malls.”

“Is that where you've been?”

“Shopping. Me and Kimberley.”

“Kimberley and I,” Cecca said automatically.

“I know that.” Impish grin. “I'm a journalism major, remember?”

“Just the two of you? Shopping?”

“Isn't that what I just said?”

“Amy …”

“School's about to start. Foxy new outfits this fall.”

Cecca tried to lighten her voice as she said, “Looks like you bought every one in stock,” but the words sounded forced even to her.

“Dad gave me a hundred dollars to match the hundred you said I could spend. I paid for the rest with my own money, don't worry.”

“When did your dad give you a hundred dollars?”

“When I saw him last week.”

“You didn't ask him for it?”

“No, I didn't ask him. He gave it to me.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I didn't think it was exactly cosmic news,” Amy said. “Why're you making such a big deal out of nothing?”

“I'm not making …” Cecca let the rest of the sentence die. She was making a big deal out of nothing. And Owen, standing there with his big ears flapping, was not helping matters. She said, “Owen, if you don't mind?”

“Sure,” he said, “I'm out of here.” He came over and kissed her cheek. Then he said to Amy, “See you later, foxy.”

She wrinkled her nose at him.

The silence following Owen's departure had a strained quality. Amy poured a glass of iced tea, drank half of it. “Fruit salad,” she said then. “Is that all we're having?”

“Too hot to cook.”

“I guess. I'm going up and take a shower, if that's okay with you.”

“Amy, don't be angry. It's been a long day.…”

“For me too. What time are we eating?”

“I don't know, seven or seven-thirty.”

“I'm picking Kim up at seven-thirty.”

“Going out again tonight?”

“It's Saturday night, Mom. Just because you don't go out doesn't mean I have to stay home, too.”

“That's a cheap shot. I stay home by choice.”

“And I go out by choice, okay?”

“You have a date?”

“I told you, I'm picking Kim up. We're going to a movie.”

“Just the two of you?”

“What is it with you, Mom? You know I'm not seeing anybody right now. Not since Davey and I broke up.”

“You've had plenty of dates since then—”

“Dates, sure, big deal.”

“There's nobody you're interested in?”

“No. Who would I be interested in?”

“I don't know. That's why I asked.”

“Well, there's nobody.”

“There must be dozens of boys who are interested in you.”

“Boys,” Amy said, “my God. I'm tired of boys.'”

“Now, what does that mean?”

“It means I'm tired of boys, that's what it means.”

“You're not seeing somebody older—?”

“I'm not seeing anybody, for God's sake! How many times do you want me to tell you that?”

“Then why are you carrying condoms in your purse?”

The question surprised her as much as it did her daughter. She hadn't intended to ask it, it had just come spitting out. Amy was staring at her openmouthed, color staining her cheeks—embarrassed and angry. She had Chet's dark good looks and smoky eyes, and at moments like this she looked just like him. Acted like him, too: flew off the handle, became aggressively defensive. The time Cecca had caught Chet with the waitress from LeGrande's … his expression of flustered outrage had been the same as Amy's was now.

“You've been in my purse. How could you do that?”

“No, I haven't. You left it on the dining room table the other afternoon, right on the edge. I brushed against it accidentally and things spilled out when it fell.”

“Oh, sure, right. Accidentally.”

“I'm not lying to you. Now don't you lie to me. Why're you carrying condoms around with you?”

“What's the next question? Am I still a virgin?”

“That isn't the point—”

“Isn't it? Sure it is. But I'm not going to tell you. What I carry in my purse is my business and what I do with my body is my business. Okay? All right? And don't you ever go through my personal stuff again. Don't you ever!”

“Listen to me—”

“No,” Amy said, and grabbed up her shopping bags and stormed out of the kitchen.

Cecca sat at the table. She'd handled things badly; Eileen would probably say she couldn't have handled them any worse. It had taken so long to mend the painful rift that the divorce had caused, and now she'd let that damned phone call rip it open again. Why hadn't she just told Amy the truth instead of letting herself slide into the mother-from-hell role?

Too late to tell her now? Maybe not. She took another minute to compose herself and then went upstairs to Amy's room. The door was shut; she knocked and tried the knob. It wasn't locked.

Amy was in her bra and panties. The shopping bags and their contents were all over the room, as if she'd hurled them around in a demonstration of her anger. Glaring, she said, “Now what? You want to search my room, too?”

“No. I want to apologize.”

“Oh, you do? Isn't it a little late for that?”

“I don't mean about your purse. That really was an accident; I wasn't snooping. And you're right, your personal life is your own and you're entitled to your privacy. If you want to tell me about the condoms, fine, but I won't ask you again. Is that fair?”

“… I guess.” But Amy wasn't mollified. When she felt wronged she had a tendency to nurse her anger. Just like her father in that respect, too.

Cecca said, “I shouldn't have snapped at you. I'm sorry for that, too. But I had a reason.”

“What reason?”

“Another one of those calls this afternoon. Only this time he said something that upset me. Something ugly.”

“What did he say?”

Cecca told her.

“God, what a dickhead creep,” Amy said. She plunked herself down on the edge of her bed. “But you should have known it was just crap.”

“I can't help worrying. I love you, you know that. The thought of anything happening to you …”

“Nothing's going to happen to me. I mean, he wanted you to worry. That's how those weirdos get off.”

“I know that.”

“So don't let him get to you, okay? If he calls again, which he probably will.”

“If he does and you answer, don't say anything to him.”

“Why not? I'd like to tell him some things.”

“We talked about this before. Talking back will only provoke him. Promise me you'll just hang up.”

Amy scowled. But then she said, “All right. It's no big deal anyway. He'll go away eventually. Chris Ullman's mother had an obscene caller last year and he said all kinds of crazy things to her. And he went away after a few weeks. This one will, too.”

Will he? Cecca thought as she returned to the kitchen. Yes, probably. Except that he's not a random caller. He knows my name, he knows Amy's name, he knows where we live.

What if he's more than just a telephone freak?

What if he's some kind of psycho?

They went to the new Tom Cruise movie. Kimberley wanted to see it, she was a big Tom Cruise fan, and there wasn't anything else playing that excited Amy much. It was all right. Funny in parts; once Amy even laughed out loud. Lots of sex. But every other word was “fuck” or “shit,” like a lot of movies you went to, and it got to be pretty monotonous and silly. People didn't really talk like that, and if they did, who wanted to listen to them? It just wasn't very intelligent. Kids' stuff. She wasn't a kid anymore, even if Mom insisted on treating her like one sometimes. Like tonight. Big scene in the kitchen with Owen there, and then going ballistic about the rubbers. And all because the creep on the phone had upset her and she'd been worried. There wasn't anything to worry about, for God's sake. Besides, she could take care of herself. The divorce had turned her into an adult a long time ago, more than three years ago. The divorce, and then Davey Penner.

After the movie Amy wanted to go to Big Red's for something to eat, but Kimberley didn't. Kim thought she was getting fat. She wasn't, she was positively anorexic, but that was the way she was. So they drove around instead. Cruising (Tom Cruising, Kim said, ha-ha), which was technically illegal in Los Alegres, but the cops didn't hassle you as long as you didn't ride in packs. Amy didn't mind. She liked to drive. In fact, she loved it. The Honda handled like a dream. Not much power, but she wasn't into fast driving like some of her friends were. That was kids' stuff, too. Adults, if they had any brains, didn't drive like maniacs and endanger other people's lives.

They went over to the east side once, to see if anything was going on at Sonny's Pizza Shack (nothing was), but mostly they cruised the full two-mile length of the Main Street. Not much was happening there either. Kimberley thought Brian might be out cruising, too, but he wasn't. Amy knew it wouldn't have mattered much if he had been, even if Kim didn't know it, but there wasn't anything else to do and she didn't mind playing the game. Let Kim go on thinking she and Brian were going to get back together if it made her happy. Everybody knew they weren't. Not with Brian making it with Tara Sims. If you could believe the skinny—and Amy believed it—Tara did things with guys that Kimberley never even dreamed of.

“That Tom Cruise,” Kim said for about the hundredth time. “Man, what a hunk.”

Amy didn't think he was much of a hunk at all. But she didn't say anything.

“I'll bet he's hung like a horse.”

Who cares? Amy thought. “Probably,” she said.

“If I ever saw it, I'd probably die. Right on the spot.”

“Probably.”

“Wouldn't you? I mean, Tom Cruise's dick!”

Silly, Amy thought.

“The only one I've ever seen is Brian's,” Kimberley said. “It was kind of disappointing, you know? Not nearly as big as I thought it would be.”

“Mmm.”

“What about Davey's? You never said what it was like.”

“I don't want to talk about Davey.”

“Come on, Amy, tell me. Was it big?”

Amy sighed. “Huge,” she said.

“Didn't it hurt a lot?”

The radio was playing a rap song. Ice-T or somebody. Amy reached out and fiddled with the dial and got an oldies station.

“Why'd you do that?” Kim asked. “I like rap.”

“I don't.”

“Well, excuse me.”

“Oh God, Kim, don't you get pissy.”

“I'm not pissy. You're the one who's pissy. The way you've been lately, it's been like going around with my mother.”

“Thanks a lot.”

“Well? You don't want to talk about anything, you don't want to do anything, you just want to mope around, looking deep.”

“I haven't been moping around.”

“Well, you have been deep. Half buried.”

“I've got things on my mind.”

“Like what?”

“Like things, different things.”

“Davey?”

“Davey and I are history.”

“Then what? Some other guy?”

“No.”

“I'll bet it is. Some other guy, right?”

“No.”

“What's his name?”

“Oh, balls, Kim.”

“Come on, what's his name?”

“Wouldn't you like to know?” And wouldn't you just crap if I told you?

“Steve Payton? I saw you talking to him at Safeway the other day.”

“Steve Payton's a nerd.”

“Then what were you talking to him about?”

“Ice cream, if you have to know. Tom and Jerry's versus Häagen-Dazs. Big deal.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Think what you want. I don't care what you think.”

“So who is he, really?” Kimberley asked.

“Who?”

“Your mystery lover.”

“I don't have a mystery lover.”

“But you'd like to, right?”

Maybe, Amy thought. Maybe I would.

“Well?”

“Look,” Amy said abruptly, “there's Brian!”

“Oh, shit, where?”

“In that Ford that just passed. In the backseat.”

“Turn around, quick!”

Amy drove around the block instead of making an illegal U-turn; she wanted the Ford to get far ahead of them so it would take time to catch up to it. Brian wasn't in it; Brian was probably parked somewhere by now, screwing Tara Sims's brains out with his not-nearly-as-big-as-Kim-thought dick. But for a while, at least, she wouldn't have to fend off any more of Kimberley's questions.

She wasn't about to tell Kim about him, not now and probably not ever.

Kim would think she was crazy.

Maybe she was.

She worried her lower lip, wondering again if she could be wrong about the way he felt about her. No, she was sure she wasn't. The looks he gave her, the smiles, the occasional wink … and the warmth in his voice when he was alone with her … and the time he'd held her hand for a few seconds and it had been like electricity shooting up her arm .. it was body heat, pure and simple. She'd sent out signals, too, in spite of herself at first and then, lately, on purpose. So what if he was old enough to be her father? What difference did that make anyway, people's ages? The important thing was how they felt about each other. He didn't treat her like a kid, either; he treated her like a woman. Thought of her as a woman. That was plain, too, in everything he said and did, in every look and smile.

Of course, he hadn't tried to hit on her yet. Not yet. And he'd have to be the one because she wasn't that bold, or that sure of herself. What if she made the first move and she was wrong after all and he blew her off cold? He might even tell Mom. God, she'd die of mortification.

Would he come on to her?

The idea thrilled and frightened her at the same time. What would she do if he did? Say yes right away? Play hard to get? Lose her nerve and blow him off cold? Did she even want him to make a move? Because if he did, and she melted, it meant going all the way. All the way.

Her thoughts shifted to the package of rubbers in her purse. She'd got them from the machine in the women's rest room at Big Red's, right after the last time with Davey. The first three times he'd had rubbers, so there was no problem, but not that last time. She hadn't wanted to let him then, but he'd kept playing with her, getting her hotter and hotter, and finally she'd given in. I won't come inside you, he'd promised. Hah. Boys were such liars. So then she'd had to worry about AIDS and getting pregnant and she'd vowed it would never happen again without protection and then they'd had that big fight about Davey doing coke and broke up. Four months ago, and the package of rubbers was still unopened. She wasn't going to do it with just anybody, no matter what Mom might think. It had to be somebody she cared about, somebody who cared about her.

Him?

“There's the Ford!” Kimberley shouted. “Pull up alongside, I want to see if Brian's with that bitch Tara.”

Silly. So silly.

Kids' stuff.