The Cruel Mother

The Cruel Mother

Katherine E. Lampe

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2015 Katherine E. Lampe

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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By Katherine Lampe

The Caitlin Ross Series

The Unquiet Grave

She Moved Through the Fair

A Maid in Bedlam

The Parting Glass

The Cruel Mother

Demon Lover

The Fits o’ the Season

Other

Dragons of the Mind: Seven Fairy Tales

THE CRUEL MOTHER

A Caitlin Ross Adventure

Second Edition Copyright © 2015 by Katherine E. Lampe. All rights reserved. For reprint information, please contact the author, PO Box 1471, Paonia, CO 81428.

Cover Art by Matt Davis, [email protected]

All songs traditional. This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance by the characters depicted herein to any person living or dead is purely the work of Fate.

THE CRUEL MOTHER

A Caitlin Ross Adventure

Katherine Lampe

For Noël

The Fairy of Lafayette Park

"‘Oh, sweet babies, if you were mine,

I’d give you bread and I’d give you wine.’

All alone and a lonely-oh

‘Oh, cruel mother, when we were thine

Around our necks you pulled the twine.’

Down by the bonny greenwood-sidey, oh."

The Cruel Mother–Traditional

Prologue

When the call came on our home phone, I knew it had to be bad news. All our friends had our cell numbers and almost nobody used our landline anymore. It also happened to be Mabon, the fall equinox. Almost everyone we knew in Gordarosa practiced some form of alternative spirituality. Even the nominal Christians often acknowledged the old holidays in some way, if only as an excuse to take the day off and drink a few more beers than usual. Knowing Timber and I fell outside the norm in some indefinable way, most assumed—correctly—that we did the same. And this year the holiday fell on a Sunday. Adding up all the facts, I came to the inevitable conclusion that the person on the other end of the jangling line was someone to whom I did not want to speak.

I’ll get it. My husband, Timber MacDuff, started to rise from his chair on the front porch, where we’d been spending a peaceful afternoon hour soaking up the autumn sun. His abrupt movement unseated the calico cat sleeping in his lap. Zathras made an indignant noise at finding herself on the ground and took a swipe at Timber’s leg. Behave, you, he said to the cat.

The phone rang again, sending a shiver of apprehension down my spine.

Let the voice mail get it. I closed my eyes as if blinding myself would shut out the incessant din. Pictures played over the backs of their lids, nebulous images painted in fire and blood. I did not want to see them.

No, I’d better pick up. It could be about work. Back in May, Timber had started construction on a custom home on Pine Mesa, south of town. The project was his first as a general contractor, and though he never admitted it out loud I knew he worried over it.

Your crew would call your cell.

Aye, perhaps. Still, he said, going in the door.

I stayed in my chair, trying not to prick my ears toward the interior of the house. It didn’t help. In a minute the ringing stopped as Timber picked up the extension in the living room, and through the wide open windows I heard him answer.

MacDuff here.

A long silence. All of a sudden the air around me felt heavier, as if a thunderstorm were rolling in. I opened my eyes, but the sky above town remained clear and not a breath of wind stirred the poplars in front of the house. In a flash of unwanted vision, I saw my husband standing near the fireplace, phone receiver to his ear, his mouth harsh and unwelcoming.

I dinna believe she wants to speak to ye. The thickening of his Scots burr betrayed his emotion.

Another silence, then my husband grunted as if he had received a punch in the gut and exhaled in a long gust.

All right. Just a minute.

I closed my eyes again, pressing them tight enough to block out anything but dark. The front door creaked open. Boots shuffled across the porch, and Timber took my hand.

It’s for you, love. His voice was gentle, and a knot of fear constricted in my stomach. I think you’d better take it.

I looked at him. He’d hunkered down on his heels before me. His face held a weird mixture of pity and anger, and shadows filled his twilight blue eyes. The sick feeling in my stomach intensified. I already knew.

Nodding, I got up and went into the house. I found the phone on its little table between the fireplace and the big tweed chair, receiver lying off the hook like the corpse of a small animal beside its den. I picked it up, put it to my ear.

Hello?

Caitlin. You need to come home.

I sank onto the edge of the tweed chair, swallowing against another surge of nausea, my hand clenching on the phone cord. I hadn’t heard the voice in over a decade, but I knew it. Only someone in my family could wrap so much disapproval in six words. My sister, Una.

What is it? I didn’t need to ask. The last time we’d spoken, we’d fought over my grandmother Ross’s will. Grandmother Ross, for reasons I never understood, had left me the bulk of her sizeable estate, with small bequests going to each of my sisters. They’d tried to have her declared incompetent after the fact and have the will nullified. The judge had ruled in my favor. I hadn’t been back east since, and neither of my sisters had come to my wedding. Just one thing could make Una call me now.

Mom’s dying.

I listened hard for grief. For a catch in her voice, or even the blank tone that hides sorrow. But I only heard irritation at the inconvenience.

Her maid found her lying in the living room a few weeks ago and took her to the hospital, Una went on, and now I had to stifle outrage. My mother had been in the hospital for a month and no one had seen fit to inform me? True, we hadn’t a great relationship or much of one at all, but she was my mother. I should have been told at the outset, not summoned at the last minute like an errant dog. I supposed I should count myself fortunate Una had called me at all.

Pneumonia, Una said. When she didn’t respond to the antibiotics as well as they expected, they did some tests. She has advanced bone cancer. She must have been in pain for a while.

Well, that was like my mother. Soldiering on without asking anyone for help because she didn’t want to be a bother, and besides, the doctors probably couldn’t do much anyway.

How long? I asked, wondering what I felt.

A week. Ten days. You should come home.

The word again. No good to tell Una that Michigan was not my home, had not been my home in decades, if ever. Home was where people loved you, and mine was here, with my husband, with our unborn child. Just the week before, I’d bought my first pair of maternity jeans, and I looked forward to a normal, uneventful pregnancy. But, like the rest of my immediate family, Una spoke a language comprised of social constructs devoid of deeper meaning, syllables imbued with guilt and divorced from truth. Like my mother, like our sister Mairghread, she’d do her stoic duty without discernible complaint, swallow her bile, and later take out her sense of injustice on someone else.

I’ll get a flight as soon as I can. Today, if I can make it, I said.

Good. I imagined her pursing her lips, the thin, colorless lips she’d inherited from our mother. It’s about time you did something right in your life, Caitlin.

She rang off. I dropped my hand into my lap still holding the receiver and sat staring at it until it began to scream. As I roused myself to hang it up, a big hand took it from me and replaced it in its cradle.

We’re going, then, Timber said. I had no idea how long he’d been standing there, or how much he’d overheard. Enough to guess what I intended, it appeared.

You don’t have to. You have work. My voice rang hollow in my ears.

Caitlin. He hunkered down in front of me. The crew can do without me for a time. I’m not about to let you face this alone.

Okay. A lump rose in my throat. I didn’t understand it.

Strong arms encircled me, pulled me close. I rested my forehead on a muscled chest.

It’s all right, my husband murmured. All right to grieve. Let it out.

But I didn’t feel grief. Not for my mother. Not for a woman I had fought and feared and sometimes despised for more years than I could remember. How could I? Her blood ran in my veins, but I had no connection to her, none at all. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have thought the fairies had left me on her doorstep, for all the sympathy between us. Except, if my mother had found a child on her doorstep, she’d likely have called Social Services and thought no more about it. Any grief in my heart was for something that had never been, never would be. Perhaps for a kinder person it would have been enough. But I was not kind. I knew myself well enough to know that much.

Hush, Timber crooned, although I had made no sound. Hush.

I allowed him to hold me for a time. After a while, dry-eyed, I disengaged myself and got up to search the internet for a flight to Detroit.

Chapter One

The red-eye from Denver touched down at Detroit Metropolitan Airport on a muggy, grey morning of rain squalls and fitful wind, and I felt as if I had stepped into different world. I’d lived in a couple of big cities in my time and visited a few others, but none of them had the same seedy atmosphere. Everything in the airport concourse had a tired, used look, the look of things someone should have replaced years past, if anyone had cared enough to do so. Cracked seats, chipped linoleum, smeared glass which gave a hazy view of nothing in particular. And the smell: stagnant lake water, exhaust, burnt rubber and apathy with just enough of a whiff of cleaning solution from the janitor’s mop bucket so passengers arriving from outside the Motor City could pretend they’d come someplace civilized.

Timber’s nostrils flared as he glanced around the lobby of the gate where we’d disembarked.

We’ve been out of the world for a time, aye? he remarked, taking in the scene.

I nodded mute agreement. Fifteen years in Colorado had made me forget to notice how clean it was, and how white. The skins around me were all colors skin could be, cream and yellow; mahogany and olive; ivory, ebony, café-au-lait, and every combination under the sun. An unaccustomed thrill of xenophobia ran through me before I could shake it off. I’d been sequestered in a small town far too long.

How’re you doing? my husband asked, seeing it.

Fine.

Tired? Sick?

I slept on the plane.

Timber ran a jaundiced eye over me, unwilling to take me at my word. He hadn’t said anything, but I knew he worried over how the trip back east and all it involved would affect my health. The previous spring I’d almost died miscarrying our first child, and the experience had marked us both. This time around, however, everything had gone with absurd ease. I hadn’t even suffered much in the way of morning sickness.

The baby chose that moment to give the flutter I had come to recognize as movement. Not a real kick, not yet. I pressed my hand to my belly with a smile which vanished the instant I remembered where I was and why I had come there.

I’m fine, I said in flat tones. Let’s get out of here.

Hoisting his backpack and my duffle bag over one shoulder and the garment bag holding a few fancier items over the other, Timber set off through the business-class crowd. I followed hard on his heels, glad of his presence; in urban areas, I often attracted unwanted attention. Panhandlers, guys trying to hit me up, old men lonely for conversation—for some reason, they all gravitated toward me. If I had to I could shield myself from notice, but going invisible in the middle of a metropolitan airport didn’t seem like a good idea. Fortunately, one look at my husband’s stern face and muscular physique sent everyone in our path scurrying aside.

We didn’t need to go through the baggage claim. Not counting on a long stay, we’d brought only carry-on luggage. Timber, of course, always traveled light and I didn’t need much more than he did. I’d worn a nice dress on the flight, a deep blue chiffon with princess seams and a V-neck. I supposed if I had to I could wear it for the funeral.

I missed my step and stumbled into Timber’s back. He paused to steady me, glancing down at me in inquiry.

Nothing. I motioned for him to continue.

Forty-five minutes and a van ride later found us in possession of a rented Jeep Cherokee.

You’d better let me drive, I said as Timber loaded our bags into the back. Some of the freeway interchanges around downtown are a bit tricky.

Isn’t it a straight shot to the hotel? he asked, loath to turn over the keys. He hated being a passenger.

Unless you want the scenic route.

We’re not here to see the sights, love.

I stared at him until he sighed and tossed me the Hertz rentals ring with its two lone keys and walked around to the passenger side of the vehicle. I got into the driver’s seat and, after taking a minute to make sure I could locate all the controls, pulled us out of the lot and into the sparse traffic.

This isn’t bad, I said after merging onto the Detroit Industrial Expressway, otherwise known as Interstate 94. This car, I mean.

Timber stared out the window and didn’t answer.

You know, we’ll need something else when the baby comes. A car seat won’t fit in your truck with both of us. And I’d like something of my own. I don’t want to be stuck if you’re not home and there’s an emergency.

Bad gas mileage on this kind of thing, he grunted, not taking his eyes off the passing scenery.

Maybe there’s a hybrid version. Again, he made no reply. What are you thinking?

It’s so green. He turned toward me, the ghost of a wry smile on his lips. I’d forgotten what it’s like where there’s water. Stupid thing to have on my mind.

Not so stupid. I’d noticed the same thing. The trees had begun to turn, but their leaves still seemed thicker and brighter than back home. Even along the highway, the grass looked plush, the intensity of its color surreal. The sight tickled something unpleasant in my chest. A memory I didn’t want to have, an emotion I didn’t want to feel.

And it’s not the wasteland I’d heard, Timber went on, and I recalled that despite being well-traveled he’d never visited Detroit.

I doubt we’ll have occasion to go to the wasteland, I said. Except the wasteland in my heart.

We’d booked a room at a hotel in Roseville, a few miles from my mother’s house. Not the house I had grown up in. That had been a post-war mock Tudor in Indian Village. I supposed it still stood; Indian Village was one of the nicer areas of the city, where most of the residents had the money to keep things up. After I had left home, however, with my dad’s health in decline, my parents had moved to a bungalow in the Grosse Pointe Woods suburbs. Not far from my old high school, as a matter of fact. I’d stayed there twice, for a couple of weeks each time: once on the way to New York, and once on the way to Colorado. It seemed an aeon ago.

The wet pavement unrolled beneath the wheels with a swishing sound, past car lots and industrial parks and big box stores that hadn’t been there when I’d left. Because I’d always looked for it as a kid, I kept my eye out for the giant Uniroyal tire, finally spotting it just outside the Ford plant in Dearborn; I’d tried to place it closer to the airport. Then the Industrial Expressway turned into the Ford Freeway, and we hit Detroit proper, six lanes whizzing past exits with names etched in my memory: Warren, Cass Avenue, Woodward and John R, interspersed with other freeways named after cars and men long dead. We rose on pylons and fell into a canyon where run-down buildings with blown-out windows loomed on either side like glacial rock, and then we passed Outer Drive and hit the suburbs. It all came back as if I had never left. I knew which exit to take if I wanted to go to my mother’s house, and that she’d probably be in Saint John’s Hospital on Moross Road. I could smell the popcorn and Coney Island perfume of the shopping mall where I’d sometimes hung out, and see the theater where I’d first gone to a movie on my own. I had to remind myself I was driving and could not close my eyes.

Then the green and white sign over the road told me to expect Twelve Mile in five hundred feet. I took the exit on autopilot, hung a left past the Roseville Shopping Center and a right on Gratiot, and in another mile we pulled into the lot of a modest motor lodge. We’d arrived. I stopped the car. Timber let out his breath in an audible sigh, and I jumped. I’d almost forgotten he was there.

I’m not a bad driver. I bridled at his implicit criticism.

I didn’t say you are.

Why the noise, then?

He shrugged. It’s been a long while since I visited a big city. I feel…hemmed in.

Get used to it, I grumbled. It goes with the territory. For myself, I felt as if I had been bricked into a narrow space, like the poor fellow in the Poe story. Breathless, with walls pressing in on me. I hadn’t expected it to be so strong. After tiny, insular Gordarosa, the urban sprawl should have felt liberating. But already the old system, with its old attitudes, was starting to beat me into the ground.

Are you going to be in a temper the whole time we’re here, then? Timber raised an eyebrow in my direction. I’d like to know.

For gods’ sakes, what do you think? I snapped. My mother is dying and I’ve had to come to a place I never wanted to see again. How would you like to be forced back to some of your old haunts? Maybe the squat Mitch dragged you out of when you were seventeen?

He flinched. Aye, I deserved that. I’m sorry.

I’ll try not to take it out on you too much, but I can’t promise anything.

I expect I’m strong enough to take what you need me to. It’s why I came, after all. He reached over to pat my hand. Come on, let’s get checked in and get to our room. You’ll feel better for a lie down in a real bed.

We got out of the Jeep. During our drive the skies had cleared, as much as they ever cleared in the Great Lakes State, but the air still felt like a wet washcloth against my skin. I broke out into a sweat before I’d taken two steps across the parking lot. The air conditioning in the motel lobby came as a welcome relief at first, but all too soon made me shiver and sneeze. I’d forgotten that, too.

It’s a wonder the entire population doesn’t die of an ague, going from hot to cold all day, Timber muttered.

You’ve lived in humid areas. What did you do?

Bore it like a man, of course.

Taking my elbow, he steered me across the lobby toward the front desk. I started to fumble in my purse—I’d brought my single good one on the trip—but before I managed to extricate my wallet, Timber dropped our bags and reached into his back pocket for his own.

We’ve a reservation, he told the simpering blonde behind the desk. Two, for Ross.

I put it under your name, I mumbled. I couldn’t quite explain why I had done so. Some need to distance myself from my family, I guessed.

He cocked his eyebrow at me again, but didn’t comment. MacDuff, then.

I turned my back and leaned on the counter, letting Timber get on with the registration process and wondering why in the world I’d come. I hadn’t attended my father’s funeral, and I’d always got on better with him than anyone else in my immediate family, even though he’d never intervened in my problems with my mother. Could I be hoping, at this late date, for some deathbed reconciliation? Did I imagine a display of family sentiment would soften my sisters’ attitudes? Maybe I wanted to show off my husband and my swelling belly, as if to say it didn’t matter what they thought; I had attained happiness and success in my own arena. Not that they’d be able to hear it, or accept it if they heard. And why did I care?

My eyes glazed and my brain went into standby mode; although I’d slept on the plane, it hadn’t been good sleep. Maybe Timber was right and a nap in a real bed would make a difference to my attitude. I wished he’d hurry up and finish the paperwork so I could lie down, but he seemed to have struck up a conversation with the blonde. Making what allies he could on strange terrain, I supposed. It would be like him.

A man in a navy suit came in from one of the corridors leading off to the rooms and approached the desk. To check for messages or leave his keycard—did anyone still do that?—or hit up the clerk; I didn’t know or care. Seeing the blonde engaged with my husband, he paused a little distance down the counter from me and took up an expectant stance. Evidently he thought himself of some importance; he cleared his throat, and impatient hazel eyes ran over the two of us, wishing us gone so he could get on with his business. Timber he dismissed, constitutionally impervious to my husband’s finer points, seeing only a big guy of no particular class wasting time. I waited for him to make a similar judgment of me, and for a minute it seemed he would. But his eyes caught on my face, and his brow furrowed in a puzzled frown.

Caitlin? he ventured, taking a step closer to me. It’s Caitlin Ross, isn’t it?

My throat closed. Just my luck, to run into someone I knew my first day here. Or, someone who knew me. I frowned back, trying to place him. Round face, pug nose, lank brown hair going thin on top. A bit of a paunch starting. He looked about ten years older than me, but he could be my age; people had often remarked that Timber and I both looked younger than our years. A fact which the suited man confirmed with his next words:

It is! My God, I can’t believe it! You haven’t aged a day since high school!

With the reference, I saw him smaller and thinner, his brown hair longer, the awkwardness of adolescence replacing his stodgy assurance.

Jimmy? I said. Jimmy Muth?

I hadn’t known him well. He had nowhere near my intellectual capacity so we hadn’t shared any classes. And we hadn’t run in the same circles. If truth be told, I hadn’t run in any circles at all. But in a school as small as the one I had attended, everyone knew everyone else to some extent. I remembered he’d played basketball and edited the newspaper and dated a cheerleader named Denise.

James, now. I can’t believe it! he repeated. Everyone wondered where you went after graduation.

It could have been true. Even kids liked to gossip. And it had caused a stir when I’d returned for my senior year, after a year abroad, as my mother had put about. I could have made something of that, if I’d wanted. A couple guys had even asked me out. Of course, they’d no idea where I’d really passed the missing year. And I had been too scarred from my time in the institution to do anything but run away.

I realized James was waiting for me to say something.

Um. So, what are you doing in a motor lodge in Roseville? Don’t you live in the area anymore?

No, not for years. I’m with a paper in Chicago. I’m here on business. And to see my kids.

I blinked. Okay, I was expecting. And most people started families earlier than Timber and I had. Still, hearing that a guy I remembered with zits and dirty fingernails had kids came as a shock.

Kids?

Three boys. He smirked as if it were a huge accomplishment. The oldest started high school this year, back at the old alma mater.

I blinked again. I would have taken a bet that the old Jimmy Muth hadn’t known the words alma mater, much less been able to use them in a sentence.

Denise and I divorced in ’03, but we still get on all right, and I can see the boys whenever I want, he went on. So he’d married the cheerleader. Figured.

Just then Timber, having finished his chat with the desk clerk, made his presence known.

Caitlin? He placed a casual hand on my waist. Who’s your friend?

The solidity of his body at my back and the comfort of his attention sent a wave of reassurance through me so great I sagged. Running into James had frightened me, I realized. Made me feel unsafe and exposed.

Timber, this is James Muth. I knew him in high school, I said. James, my husband, Timber MacDuff.

James extended a hand and Timber reached from behind me to grasp it. I saw James wince at the strength of my husband’s grip and hid a smirk behind my hand.

I’m not surprised you didn’t end up with someone from here, James remarked. After the handshake, he once again seemed to consider Timber beneath his notice, merely the working-class outsider that weird Caitlin chick had married for her weird reasons. Though I know a couple people who’ll be kicking themselves for letting you get away, once they see how you turned out.

I’m not intending to see anyone, I murmured, but James rode right over me.

I mean, you could see it coming, after the year you were away. It toned you up, you know? It kind of stunned everyone, because you were such a dog in middle school….

My eyes closed involuntarily. I saw the girl I had been: too tall, too soft, with hair in too tight braids and clothes from the Sears catalogue. Because my parents, who had grown up during the Great Depression, always believed themselves on the threshold of poverty no matter how much money they socked away.

But you look good, James droned on. Healthy. Almost pretty.

I opened my eyes to see him smile at me, expecting thanks for his appraisal. He had elevated me to the ranks of women who could be desired without shame. I wanted to be angry. At home, I would have been angry. But here I felt sick at my stomach.

Thankfully, I was not alone.

Mr. Muth, I’ll choose to believe ye meant no insult, Timber said in a dangerously congenial tone. Perhaps ye’ve simply not seen much of the world. Because if ye had, ye’d ken my wife is quite a beautiful woman.

I didn’t expect James to understand, and he didn’t disappoint me.

Sure, she’s attractive enough for some places. For once he addressed Timber directly. His condescending smile did not reach his eyes. Behind me, Timber tensed, and I wondered if James had any idea how close to death he stood. But you’d never put her on the cheerleading squad. Not the first string, anyway.

He laughed, man to man, inviting my husband to join in, forgetting he’d called Timber’s taste in women into question, or thinking such distinctions didn’t matter. Feeling the storm at my back getting ready to break, I made a fist and punched Timber in the thigh. He didn’t relax, but he didn’t try to strangle James, either. I guessed it would have to do.

So what brings you to the city, anyway? James asked. Maybe we can get together for a drink or something. Rehash old times.

I don’t think I’ll be available, I replied, my voice brittle. My mother’s dying. I only came back because of that.

I could have told him any number of things. Things like, my pregnancy kept me from drinking anything stronger than herbal tea, or I found the kind of bars his type went to for drinks distasteful in the extreme, or we had no old times to hash over and even if we did I’d go to hell before I’d spend a social hour in his company. But my mother’s illness seemed the least apt to lead to some kind of incident.

Oh, I’m sorry. Is there anything I can do?

I almost laughed, or sobbed. I wanted very badly to get away.

No, thanks. I glanced at my husband. Timber, are we ready?

Aye. He turned a black eye on James. Nice making your acquaintance. His tone belied his words.

Hey, you too. Look me up if you need a break from family stuff. We’ll grab a beer.

Without another word, Timber picked up our bags and started off for the hall leading to the guest rooms. I nodded at James, more out of the habit of politeness than because I wanted to, and followed.

Near the far end of the hall, Timber halted at a door and swiped a key card through the lock, letting us into a room indistinguishable from a hotel room anywhere: king-sized bed, table and a couple chairs, dresser, generic art, and a TV bolted to the wall. I nudged my way past my husband and sank onto the bed. He dropped the bags inside the door, growling.

I need to find some weapons. Because of the complications inherent in air travel, he’d left everything edged and pointy