“Hey, Viv,” Christine said as she stepped inside and closed the door. She carried a large white plastic bag in one hand and a sturdy cardboard cup holder with two large Styrofoam cups in the other hand. The heady aroma of spicy sauces, stir-fried chicken, and steamed vegetables seeped from the bag.
“I’m back,” Christine said. “I got us some stir-fry chicken dinner and some soda from the Thai food joint in Sherman Oaks, in case you didn’t have your sandwich yet.”
Vivian sat on the edge of the loveseat next to the end table by the phone and sobbed.
“What now?” Christine asked, annoyed and irritated.
“I don’t know how much more I can take,” Vivian said as she choked between sobs and gasped for air. “It just gets worse and worse.”
“What do you mean?”
“I just got off the phone a while ago with Blaine’s wife, Mary Beth. Blaine’s dead.”
The blood drained from Christine’s face.
“He was shot and killed about eight weeks ago,” Vivian said, “approximately a week before you arrived in LA.”
“Nooo . . .” Christine said. “He can’t be! What happened?”
“After you left, it dawned on me that I was forgetting something. I stood over there in the middle of the room . . .”
Vivian looked around, sifted through boxes yet to be unpacked. She took her time and organized her thoughts. While she went through parts of the new residence, she envisioned where some of the items and furniture would go.
She decided to give her mind a rest from all that had happened with Rose. Vivian figured she would get as much taken care of tomorrow with her mind more alert. She had been in the mood to do some needlepoint work for a while.
Vivian looked through some of the boxes and found her embroidery bag with her cross-stitching and needlepoint materials. But, the canvas with the two roses could not be found anywhere.
Where is it? Vivian thought. I guess the better question is: Where did it go?
She sifted through several bags and went through some boxes once more. She couldn’t imagine where it had gone. She thought it had been in the first box she looked at where she found her embroidery bag.
“Could I have misplaced it?” Vivian said to herself. “I know some things get lost when moving. Hope I didn’t lose that canvas.” Her stomach growled with hunger. “Well, I better fix a sandwich now or else I’ll get a headache. I’ll just have to look for it later.”
As Vivian went into the small kitchen, it dawned on her that she had meant to get around to calling Blaine.
Darn it, she thought, how could I almost forget?
Vivian sat on the edge of the loveseat and held the folded slip of paper in her hand. She contemplated what she would say. She exhaled a nervous sigh and unfolded the paper, then picked up the phone and dialed the number. After three rings, a woman answered.
“Uh, hello,” Vivian said. “May I speak with Blaine, please? Blaine Hutchins?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Vivian. Vivian Hutchins. I’m Blaine’s sister. Hello? Hello? Are you there?”
“This is his wife, Mary Beth,” the woman said.
“Oh, hi, Mary Beth. Christine had mentioned that you are Blaine’s wife.”
“Blaine and Christine had mentioned you from time to time. As for Blaine, he’s dead. He was shot and killed eight weeks ago.”
This bit of news stunned Vivian.
“What happened? It was my understanding that Blaine was fine, according to Christine when she saw him last before coming to LA. I’m just trying to get in touch with him after twenty-two years, and I wanted to let him know about a number of things that had been going on from my end.”
Vivian heard Mary Beth sniffle.
“He was shot twice in the back, Mary Beth said. “This happened at an outdoor ATM not far from our house. It was a drive-by shooting, they say. ‘They’ being the police, of course. Happened in daylight, would you believe? During the lunch hour. Apparently, robbery wasn’t the motive, since nothing had been taken. Not his wallet, not his money or credit cards, not even his gold watch. They think it was a random act of violence by some gang member. They don’t have any leads or suspects yet, but they’re still looking.
“Blaine’s funeral was held one week after he was killed,” Mary Beth said. “My husband had no enemies to speak of. He was a good man, a very good man, a wonderful guy.”
Vivian could hear Mary Beth crying.
“He was very well-liked by many and easy to get along with. Maybe it’s true what they say about the good ones, that the Lord takes the good ones and . . . and leaves the bad ones behind.”
Vivian heard Mary Beth blow her nose.
“Pardon me,” Mary Beth said. “I’m sorry . . . I’m sorry I had to be the one to tell you. In fact, I tried looking for some way to get in touch with Blaine’s next of kin.”
“Christine said she has his number,” Vivian said, “but wasn’t able to find it yet. I know it sounds ridiculous, but are you absolutely sure about Blaine? It was him and not someone else?”
“Oh, I’m sure,” Mary Beth said. “I was the one who made a positive ID of him at the morgue. The police came to my place about an hour or so after my husband was killed. I know it seems surreal. It’s still surreal with me, even eight weeks later.”
“Apparently, Christine doesn’t know that Blaine had been killed,” Vivian said, distraught.
“This happened about a half-hour after Christine had left. She stopped by for a bit to say good-bye before driving out to LA.”
“I see. Well, I’ll let Christine know what you just told me and take it from there.”
After Vivian hung up, she sobbed until Christine returned.
“Apparently, you didn’t know about it,” Vivian said to Christine now, “which means you had left some time after Blaine was shot and killed. I guess you were on your way to LA when it happened.”
“I’m surprised you’d stoop that low and snoop around my personal stuff!” Christine said. “How dare you!”
Christine’s unexpected reaction surprised Vivian.
“I wasn’t snooping around, Christine. I’d been meaning to ask you for his number, but I kept forgetting, what with so much going on lately. I just happened to come across his number the morning of the earthquake.”
Curious about the ceiling debris that had fallen on Christine’s comforter, Vivian decided to see how much damage had been done to the ceiling. She went into the guest room and looked at the comforter. She saw powdery bits of fragmentary plaster and stucco on the comforter, then looked at the ceiling which had cracks in it.
Vivian looked around the room and saw some crumbled retail receipts, personal notes, and slips of paper with names and addresses on the night table. She noticed one piece of paper with Blaine’s name and number written on it, which caught her attention. She had made a mental note to get in touch with him as soon as possible. Impulsively, Vivian took the slip of paper, folded it, and placed it in the front pocket of her jeans.
“I had completely forgotten about it,” Vivian said now, “even though it was way in the back of my mind until I remembered to make the call.”
“Well, if you had remembered to remind me again,” Christine said, “I would’ve gladly given it to you! I don’t appreciate this at all!”
“Come on, Christine! This is our brother we’re talking about! Have some compassion and respect, will you?”
“I don’t see where you had any respect when you sneaked into my room and got Blaine’s number!”
“Christine, what’s with you, huh? You haven’t even shed a tear. Don’t you even care?”
“I do,” Christine said. “I loved him, of course. I had no idea this happened.”
“Well, he’s gone now. Twenty-two years of hoping to get in touch with him, hoping to see him again, and he’s gone.” Vivian shook her head wearily.
“I’m sorry,” Christine said. “I’m sorry for the way I reacted. I didn’t mean to snap at you like that. There’s just been so much crap lately and my nerves are shot.”
“I know. C’mere.” Vivian said as she held out her arms. “It’s just you and me now.”
They didn’t eat the stir-fry chicken dinner. Vivian put it in the fridge, then went upstairs to bed, and Christine went to the guest room to watch some TV for a while, then dozed off.
Christine envisioned herself walking up the path to the front door of Rose Hutchins’s residence. She rapped on the door. The door opened and Rose stood with a sneer. Christine sucker-punched Rose and broke her jaw—
The door opened and Christine threw a jar of sulfuric acid on Rose’s face. Rose howled in agony as her face burned and dissolved like molten putty—
Christine thrust a large butcher knife into Rose’s solar plexus—
Raised a carpenter’s ax and swiftly brought it down. It cut the air between her and Rose as the blade fell toward the top of Rose’s cranium—
Opened the lid of a small wooden box which contained a few scorpions and jerked it toward Rose—
Tossed a Burmese python—
Shot flames from a military-grade flamethrower—
Fired her .38 caliber gun—
“Bleedin’ bitch . . . bleedin’ bitch . . .” Christine said in her sleep. “Bleedin’ bitch . . .”