Mabel Winifred Comfort—Maw to those who knew and loved her, or anyway knew her—was in a particularly fine mood on this sunny Monday morning in June.
On Friday, an associate in the fencing operation had provided to-and-from transport to Curl Up & Dye in Jefferson City, to get her hair fixed, and now her skull cap of permed gray curls looked almost nice enough to be a wig. On Saturday, the colored girl had been in to clean, and the interior of the old farmhouse was spic and span, every velvet painting straightened, shag carpeting swept, the clear vinyl covers on the living room furniture fairly shining from their damp-cloth wipe-down.
The smell of lasagna cooking in the oven in the now spotless kitchen was pleasantly permeating the downstairs—Daniel’s childhood favorite. Her secret was combining one pound of sweet Italian sausage and three-quarters pound of lean ground beef, and really hitting the garlic hard. No Hungry Man TV dinner for her boy today! All she had left to do was set the table—the little Negro gal from town had already cleared the counters, filling cabinets with clean dishes and Hefty bags with garbage.
The meal would be ready by noon. She figured Daniel would be here by then. For the first time in forever, she was looking forward to seeing him.
Yesterday, when they’d talked on the phone, Daniel had told her, “They’re back in their house. So I’m going to do it tonight.”
“Good. Good.”
“Maw, can we skip the one part?”
He didn’t answer, not directly. He just said, “That basket is very pretty. Shame to waste it. I could just give it to Heather and she could fill it with flowers and make a centerpiece out of it.”
“No! You want your Maw to bail you out of the mess you’re in, you be a good boy and please her!”
“…Okay.”
“Be strong, son. I know waitin’ around while those two are off in Vegas playing hide the salami hasn’t been easy. But patience is a virtue, the Good Book says.”
“I’m not sure that’s in the Bible, Maw.”
“Well, it should be! Don’t you be afraid. You’re showing yourself to be a real Comfort. What you been doin’ shows spine and what you’re gonna do’ll show the world you got balls as big as your brothers.”
“Thank you, Maw.”
She’d kept the pep talk up a while, then the call was over, and she wound up feeling more sure of the boy than ever before. Sure, he had his doubts; sure, he had some shivers. But Daniel had rolled with the punches and was prepared to do what she said, like a good son.
Last night, she’d had trouble getting to sleep, just thinking about it. She was fixated on finally getting some closure where Cole was concerned—she was as convinced her middle boy was dead as she could be, short of actually knowing.
Now she would.
And Nolan would suffer before he died, which was the cherry on the sundae. He would see the woman he loved in bed next to him, shot to shit, and he would be wounded painfully to keep him in line while the truth about Cole got squeezed out of him.
She wished she could be there.
That was why she needed her trophy. She wanted to see that man d-e-a-d dead. If she still had a garden, which she didn’t, she would put that bastard’s fucking head on a pike to scare off the crows. But she figured she’d just wait till it began to stink and bury it out back somewhere.
The other thing that had kept her awake was unexpected: a sense of pride for her youngest son. She knew damn well this experience would be the best thing in the world for him. That he would come back stronger, of mind and stomach and testicle, and he would at last be back in the fold.
She began to fantasize—but a fantasy she felt could be realized—that Daniel would walk away from that straight-ass city job and join her here in the country. She wasn’t going to live forever, after all, and Daniel would have earned the right to sit by her side, and learn the ways of the trade, and take over when she was gone.
As for that little slut of his, Heather, well, she’d be welcome, too. Maw figured to give the girl the upstairs to do with what she wanted. And if the couple wanted to build their own place, as fancy as the one they put up in St. Lou that got them in financial difficulties, why, that was fine, too. Maybe Daniel could knock the bitch up and give Maw some fresh grandkids to help raise right. Give them a real sense of family pride.
These thoughts had kept her up last night—must have been almost half an hour before she finally got to sleep—but she hadn’t slept in, this morning. No. She had showered and got freshened up and powdered and everything, and into her best floral muumuu, big pastel blossoms that looked like Hawaii, or anyway made her think of the only Hawaii she knew, the one in that Elvis movie.
Getting antsy, she used the walker to get herself into the living room, where she plopped into the recliner and watched Home Shopping for a while. Suzanne Somers was selling her ThighMaster for $19.95 plus postage and handling. Maw would have to order one of those when some new stolen credit cards came in.
As noon approached, Maw and her walker trundled out to the kitchen, where she set the table for two using the new cute kitties plastic placemats she ordered out of the Fingerhut Christmas catalogue. From a cabinet, she selected un-chipped matching plates and glass tumblers just right to pour beer in. She wanted this almost…elegant.
This was a special homecoming.
Maw had the table exactly how she wanted it when she heard the stir of gravel outside. She trudged with her walker back to the living room and opened the front door. A car she didn’t recognize was in the drive, a Dodge wasn’t it? An in-between shade of blue. She pushed through the door out onto the stoop to where she could see in the car—but no one was in it.
Then she smiled, remembering that Daniel had mentioned that the car he’d got from Eddie’s Motors in St. Lou was a Dodge, and that it had driven fine with a working air conditioner and radio and everything.
So her boy was home.
But where was he? Maybe come in the back way, through the kitchen. To surprise her. The scamp.
So she waddled back in there and saw, on the table, arranged in the middle like a centerpiece, that lidded basket she had given Daniel to fill. Her face split in a smile and she pushed her walker aside and, moving like a toddler, she took the last few steps between her and the table. Then she leaned in and, thinking what a fine son Daniel had turned out to be after all, lifted the lid from the basket she’d woven.
Daniel’s eyes looked up at her. His mouth was open but no words were coming out. In the middle of his forehead was a black-crusted, slightly irregular hole. Where his neck had been cut, it was one quick clean stroke.
Maw backed away from the head in a basket, horrified, a scream curdling, and she made it all the way into the living room, without her walker, before she flopped onto her back, hitting hard enough that the nearby Duke and Elvis paintings shivered.
Gasping, she held onto the center of her chest, wadding the muumuu fabric between clutching fingers. She felt as though a blade had been thrust through her heart, and she was trying to catch her breath as she looked up at a man who seemed impossibly tall, hovering over her. He was all in black and mustached like a Mexican and he had a long-barreled revolver in his hand. His expression was impassive though he was watching her close.
Nolan, she thought.
Nearby, while the old woman was dying, the Home Shopping Network took orders for a Prayer Boy doll, a sleeping little baby sucking his thumb.