Mary Mack

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Chapter 1

 

Shelby Doe – Age 38

After

 

Dependable coffee: better than any human relationship I've ever had. Probably because I don't have any specific requirements regarding people. If they aren't total dicks, they'll do. Men included. I must get this from my mother.

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My mother. What can I say? Well, here’s something: She won first place in a county beauty pageant when she was eighteen and could have gone on to become Miss New York State had she not gotten knocked up a few months later. She loves reminding me of this, her little factoid: how it is somehow my fault she couldn't keep her panties on. Whatever.

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As to my father, I never knew the man so, yes, it's safe to assume I may have some daddy issues. Or, perhaps, just plain old mother issues of which there is no shortage. Maybe both.

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When I think of my father, I picture someone like the lead singer of The Bad Seeds. Dark. Mysterious. Unapproachable. But I find myself wondering the most mundane things about this anonymous man: Was he addicted to coffee, too? If so, did he like it straight up or with heavy cream? No fancy lattes or organic teas for us, thank you very much! It would have been nice to know these little tidbits, amongst many others. What is his name? Did he love my mother? Is he still alive? I’ll probably never know.

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Anyway, back to coffee. From an early age, I've depended on it to get me through the day. I'm talking about the age of eleven here. Probably because that's when everything went to shit in my life. Luckily, my mother didn't tell me what—or what not—to do after the whole 'What's-His-Name' fiasco. She wouldn't have dared! What a mess. I pretty much owned her after that day. We all did; me and my two younger brothers. But that's all behind us now, as they say. What’s done is done.

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This is what I was thinking when I stepped out of my office for another cup of pick-me-up, just as my desk phone began to ring. Maybe I'm psychic. Who knows?

 

"It's only half-past seven. Who would be calling this early?" I was talking in the direction of the elevators where my new assistant, Luke, was exiting. "I haven't even had my second cup yet."

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"Could be someone from overseas. Should I answer it?" Luke asked, setting his breakfast down at his desk.

 

"Sure. Thanks."

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While I emptied a generous amount of sugar from a cardboard cylinder into my giant coffee mug, I could hear Luke doing his thing from his cubicle. He was a real pro. "Good morning, Shelby Doe's office. Thank you for calling Dreamline Cruises. What's your pleasure?"

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What's your pleasure? What a stupid, fucking tagline. Another bright idea handed down from some corporate douchebag which, subsequently, became mandatory telephone etiquette across the globe. What a crock. That's what I was thinking as I walked to Luke's desk still stirring the sugar into my coffee.

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"May I ask who's calling? All right, please hold." Luke placed the caller on hold. "It's a woman by the name of Arleen Bogdan. She wants to speak to you right away. She sounds pretty intense."

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"Seriously? I was just thinking about her." I set my mug down on the shelf attached to Luke's cubicle. "Arleen Bogdan is my mother, by the way. And she's always intense."

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"Oh, I see." He took a quick sip of his chai. "Do you want me to tell her you'll have to call her back?"

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"Aaahh, yeah… but, no. She'll never believe that I'm busy at this time of day. She's a sly one, Luke. You should know this." I began drumming my fingers on the laminated surface of his shelf. "That's why she called this early; figured she'd get me before I got too far into my day."

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"Sly..."

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"As. A. Fox. Consider yourself warned, Luke. I'll take it in my office."

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"Thanks. I'll remember that: Mom's an intense, sly fox by the name of Arleen Bogdan who's currently holding on line one," he said, smirking.

 

"And don't you forget it," I said, smiling, before closing my door behind me.

 

Once settled behind my desk again, I pushed the button for line one. "Good morning, Mother. What's your pleasure?"

 

"What horse's ass came up with that one?"

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"Hell if I know, but it's a safe bet that he or she makes at least three times as much as I."

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"Most likely a man."

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"Yeah, probably. What's up?"

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"What do you mean, 'what's up?' Can't a mother simply call her daughter first thing in the morning to say hello?"

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"Yes, but we both know you didn't, so let's cut right into the meat of… whatever this is and save us both some time. Shall we?"

 

"All right then." Mother cleared her throat. "Your brother called me out of the blue last night."

 

Once again, I needed time to think. Not enough coffee. Staying two steps ahead of Mother remains critical, even after all these years. Has it been one or two years since Richard has spoken to Mother? I wasn't sure. And why didn't Richard call me directly if something was amiss? If nothing else, my younger brother and I are accustomed to leaning on one another, whenever needed. Especially if it has anything to do with Mother, which it typically does. "So, what did he want? Is he okay?"

 

"He's fine, but all out of sorts over losing the house."

 

"Losing the house! Why? Is he behind on the mortgage?"

 

"No, I don't think so. He didn't mention it anyway."

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I drew a deep breath. Talking to Mother is often like pulling teeth with tiny toy plyers. "Mother, are you planning on telling me in this century or the next why Richard thinks he may be losing his house?"

 

"Eminent domain."

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I reclined further back in my chair. "That sounds like straight-up western New York State bullshit. He needs to fight back."

 

"He already tried, along with a few of his neighbors."

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"How?"

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"Do you remember Ralphie Price?"

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I chuckled remembering our goofy next-door neighbor in Farmersville. "Of course. How could I forget four-eyed Ralphie! Poor kid. Ever since that Christmas movie became popular, what was the name of it?"

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"A Christmas Story. It came out the same year you were born, in 82."

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"Yeah, that's right, A Christmas Story. We all started calling Ralph Price 'Ralphie'. 'You're going to shoot your eye out, kid!' Still cracks me up."

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"Funny."

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"Yeah, but what does Ralphie Price have to do with Richard losing the house?"

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"Seems that Ralphie is a big-time lawyer now. Got himself an office in town and everything."

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"Get out! Ralphie's an attorney?"

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"Yep. And according to Dickie, Ralphie said the city's got an open and shut case. Seems the city council has been petitioning the state for years to run pipelines throughout Cattaraugus County so that all its residents can finally heat their homes with natural gas. Said pipeline is to run right through the far east corner of the county where…"

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"…the old house is located."

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"Bingo."

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"That stinks. How much time does he have before all this happens?"

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"Two months. They've offered him a fair price at least, but he needs to be out by December 15th."

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"Nice. Just in time for Christmas."

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"Right. The whole lot of them, nothing but bastards."

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I decided not to remind her that since I never knew my own father's name it technically makes me a bastard. No reason to reopen old wounds, I thought, taking another gulp of coffee. "Does Richard need a place to stay for a little while? If so, he's always welcome to come stay with me in the city."

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"Ha! That's a hoot. Can you imagine farm boy Dickie living in New York City! No way."

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"I guess you're right. He hates city life."

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"Besides, that's not why he called me. He's already got his eye on a little cabin near Ellicott. Something off the beaten path."

 

"Sounds perfect for Richard."

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"Yeah, it sure does."

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There was another long pause before I eventually decided to break the awkward silence. Again. "Well, what does he need, Mother? I mean, why did he call you?"

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"You can't guess?"

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I checked the time. "No, Mother, I really can't guess, and I have a meeting to attend in less than ten minutes. I need to hang up soon. Please. Tell me what Richard needs."

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Mother then began to talk in a tone so reminiscent of my crummy childhood that the mere sound of the familiar, sibilant whisper sent a cold chill up my spine. "He needs help digging up the body, Shelby," she began. "He… we, need to move it… somewhere, anywhere, before December 15th. Naturally, we can't risk leaving it behind." There was another long pause. "Did you hear me, Shelby? We need to dig up the body."

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Silence.

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"Shelby?"

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"Yes, I fucking heard you, Mother! But I can't believe you called me at work to discuss this. That's low. Even for you. So, let me make this clear. I will NOT talk to you about this now. Especially not over the phone!"

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I slammed the phone back into its cradle and yanked open the bottom right-hand drawer of my desk. I fished around inside with my fingertips, keeping both eyes fixed on the door. Somewhere beneath the clutter of manila folders, boxes of ballpoint pens, staples, paperclips, an old roll of antacids, I would eventually find the additional help I needed. Sometimes, coffee just isn't enough.

Once I finally found it, my trusty flask—the one once belonging to my unknown father, according to my mother, who isn't exactly a reliable source, I enjoy thinking he, too, once drank from it—I brought it to my lips and sent a shot of 12-year-old brandy down my throat.

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And then another.

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Soon, no longer feeling the urge to scream, I allowed myself to sit back in my chair and rest awhile. I had five more minutes before the weekly manager's meeting was scheduled to begin.

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Before long, I was back in my happy place: My twelve-year-old self and two younger brothers, Richard, 10, and Jackson, 9, were digging a large hole in the back yard just like Mother had instructed. One big enough to plant a new cherry tree, Mother had said. It was springtime. The sun was shining, the birds were chirping when suddenly… this is where my memory gets a little fuzzy.

 

According to Mother, I suffered from some sort of amnesia. Post-traumatic, she called it. But nobody knows for sure because she couldn't risk taking me to a doctor. What if I were suddenly able to remember my two kid brothers dragging the lifeless body of Mother's boyfriend towards the hole in the back yard, dug for an imaginary cherry tree and told all? No, that wouldn't do.

 

The good news—or bad—is that I eventually regained my memory a week later. That's how long Mother kept me home from school, one week. I guess that's how much time it took my brain to remember witnessing my mother kill her lover in a fit of rage with her Saturday Night Special.

 

It all flooded back to me in hues of red and gold on the following Sunday morning, over pancakes. So much blood. So much sun. Such a shallow fucking grave.

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I returned to school the following day, all better now, sworn to secrecy like my brothers before me. A thermos of sweet, black coffee tucked inside my backpack.

 

After a few minutes longer, I returned the flask to its hiding spot. Resolved, once again, to push the miserable secrets of my despicable family back into the recesses of my mind, where they belonged.

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Before leaving my office, I combed a few stray hairs away from my face with my fingers and grabbed my coffee mug. Luke wasn't the only pro in the building, I reminded myself, sashaying out of my office and past his desk. I paused only to lick a drop of brandy from my lips before entering the meeting room wearing a smile.