The Bad Lady (Novel) (18 page)

Even if she went to prison, which if she lived I now knew my mother definitely would, I would have gladly taken that over her dying. At least, from time to time, I would be able to go visit her, occasionally talk on the phone, and we could always correspond through letters.

She lay, on her side, in the middle of the street, with her legs bent in opposite directions, the way people often appear after a sudden fall. Blood leaked from the corners of her mouth, making my mom look more like a vampire than she already did. I wondered if she might have bitten her tongue. Warm blood, from the gunshot injury, also oozed onto the residential road, forming a horrific puddle. I could smell it too, an almost unfamiliar metallic scent.

The sights of the blood made me wince, and compelled me to have to turn away momentarily.

My mother’s eye sockets were so murky and submerged into her skull, I could scarcely see her pupils. Chillingly, her ponytail had also begun to turn crimson. If I glanced at the back of her head, I suspected that it would be soaked as well. Damn! It was soaked. You could have probably rung the blood out of her hair the way you can ring water from a sponge.

“Billy,” she whispers hoarsely, while struggling, with her hand, to caress my panic-stricken face. “My son, my precious little boy.” Her sorrowful eyes, which were only partially open, seemed to stare straight up at the angels.

“Mom, is that you?”

She did not say anything.

“Are you still Mary Kate?” I asked.

“What happened?” she whispered, clearly in a fog, and unaware of her surroundings.

“Mary Kate ran Nancy Sutcliffe over today, and killed her.”

It took a few seconds for her to respond. I was certain that I was speaking to my mother‘s normal personality, for I could distinguish her compassionate, relaxed tone anywhere.

“That’s horrible,” she says, fading in and out of consciousness. “How did you learn Mary Kate’s name?”

“She told me, today.”

My mother fell silent again, battled to remain responsive. “What happened to me, Billy? Why can’t I move and where am I?”

“You’re lying in the street, in front of our house. A cop shot you in the back.”

“Shot me?”

“Yes.”

“Why?” She appeared to be utterly mortified.

“Because-”

“Please Billy; tell me why did I get shot?”

I did not know how to put it, so I just came right out with it. “The Good Humor truck came around the corner.”

“I don’t understand.”

“That’s because you weren’t there. When Mary Kate spotted the ice cream truck, she went nuts. She grabbed one of the cop’s guns from their belt and ran down the street shooting at the guy.”

“Shooting at what guy?”

“She was shooting at the guy who was driving the ice cream truck. The bad lady thought it was Nancy Sutcliffe, even though she already killed her.” I began to blubber hysterically. “Mom, are you gonna be all right?”

Three of the officers stood nearby, which included the Deputy Sheriff, allowing us to talk. I could see their elongated shadows. I had heard that an ambulance was on the way, as well as firefighters. The other two cops had gone to assist the driver of the Good Humor truck. The driver was okay, a bullet had not struck him. The man had just been a little shaken up. More black, gas-flavored smoke ascended from the crashed vehicle, and now the hot hellish flames coming from the front end were thoroughly visible. I think a bullet must have hit the engine, or something. I had no clue whether or not the ice cream truck would blow up. To tell you truth, I did not care. I was too worried about my mother dying.

“Just please understand, Billy,” she resumed weakly, as more blood and saliva dripped from her mouth, “It has never been easy for me to give you a happy childhood.”

“What are you talking about?” I said, moaning with grief. “I’ve been happy.”

“Not as happy as you could have been.”

“I don’t understand what you’re saying.” And I did not either. I did not want to hear her speak of regrets.

“And please don’t blame your father either.”

“Why would I blame him for anything, I don’t know a thing about my father. Why would I even want to think about him, especially now? You said he never cared about us.”

“Billy, there’s something you need to know.”

“What?”

She no longer had the strength to keep stroking my sad, agonized face. Her hand abruptly fell, flopped against the hard street. Her energy appeared to be deteriorating rapidly. “You’re father-” She gagged; spit some of the blood from her mouth.

“What about my father?”

“I lied.”

“You lied. About what?”

She had to battle like hell to get the words out. “Billy, your daddy doesn’t even know you exist.”

Stunned disbelief swiftly walloped me in the head. That was the last thing that I expected her to say. “But, but how is that possible, how does he not know I exist?”

“Because.” She needed another moment, this time to catch her breath. “I never . . . I never told him about you. He never knew that I was pregnant.”

What? How could she have never told my father about me? She had said that my daddy had walked out on us when I was baby in the crib, supposedly something about how he had been immature and did not want to take on the responsibility of bringing up a child.

“Mom, why did you lie?” I wanted to be angry with her, except how could I? Not when she lay in the middle of the road, with a cop’s bullet in her back, possibly bleeding to death.

“Because I was ashamed,” she explained.

“Why?”

“I met your daddy at a nightclub, in Cleveland. We had a one night stand.”

I stared deep into her withering blue eyes, which were now mere slits. “What’s a one night stand?”

“It means we were only together for one evening.” Her voice had become so soft and feeble I had to literally put my ear up to her mouth in order to hear what she was saying. “We were never married. I made that up. After that night in Cleveland, I never saw your father again. I was supposed to call him the next day but I never did . . . I‘m so sorry Billy. I really am. I should have told you about this a long, long time ago.”

As much as I did not want to admit it to myself, I could tell that my mom did not have long to go. Even if the ambulance arrived in the next minute, I doubted that the paramedics would be able to save her. She seemed to have lost far too much blood. “Who is my daddy?” I asked. I had to know.

“Your father-” She gasped for more oxygen. “His name is Hugh. Hugh Sandusky. He‘s a polish man. Polish American.”

I briefly gazed over my shoulder and saw that one of the cops listening used his hand to mop water from his eye.

“Billy, I want you to try to find him.”

“How?” The hysterical emotion I felt caused my chin to tremble.

Rather than respond to the question, tell me where I could locate my daddy, she says, “You need to find your father because now you’ll need someone else to take care of you.”

“But why can’t you take care of me?” I asked. I did not want to face it. I did not want to see her go.

“Because-” Now a heartbreaking tear gradually dripped down one of her white, make up smeared cheeks. “I’ve had it, Billy. I’m dying. I‘m so tired.”

“No!” I said, hugging her as tightly as I could. I would not let go. “C’mon mom, open your eyes. Please! Please don’t go to sleep.”

“I’m so tired, Billy.” She shivered. “And so cold. So, so cold.”

“Mom!” I started to shake her.

Then it became a reality, she passed away in my arms. Died without even uttering a final good-bye.

I could not take it. I could not bear the horrifying pain that appeared to travel unmercifully through every part of my body. At that moment, my entire world seemed as if it had been brutally destroyed.

Enraged, I cursed at the cops. I cursed at the bad lady. I even cursed at God. But most of all I shouted, “I hate you Nancy! I’ll always hate you!”

PART TWELVE

THE AFTERMATH

CHAPTER 24

It’s true.

I had suddenly come to the conclusion that I disliked Nancy Sutcliffe more than I had disliked anything, or anyone. I wished I had never met her.

Yeah, I know I had stated repeatedly that I did not really think what we had done was wrong, but what the hell did I know? I was just a gullible child. I loved my mother more than I loved life itself. And because that pedophile Nancy Sutcliffe molested me, it ultimately took my only parent away from me forever.

The tears. Oh Lord, I can’t even describe how many tears I cried. Far too many to count.

Now, some of you may think I should have blamed the bad lady for my mother‘s untimely passing.

Believe me, part of me did.

I won‘t lie.

You heard how mad I was before.

The whole thing is, if I had never been sexually abused, the bad lady would not have lost it.

In my opinion, she would not have turned violent.

You have to understand, before my mother had breathed her last breath, I had known the bad lady for a long time, (probably before I had been old enough to walk), and while she had always been a menacing authority figure, nothing had ever set her off the way finding out that I had been molested had.

Therefore, in her own demented, misguided way, the bad lady must have thought, when she had run Nancy over, and when she had stolen the gun from the Sheriff Deputy’s holster, and had fired chaotically at the Good Humor truck, that she had been trying to protect me.

So I guess, in some odd, subliminal sense, you could say I loved the bad lady too.

***

Both Nancy Sutcliffe’s murder, as well my mother being shot to death in the street by one of the Hampton cops, officer Martin Jones (that was his name), had been reported in the Cleveland Examiner. The grim account, just as my mom’s alter ego had predicted, also wound up as a top headline on many TV news channels.

Officer Martin Jones, age twenty-nine, was never convicted for gunning my mother down in front of our house. Although while the case was being investigated, he had been taken off the street, and his firearm was impounded. The case had been refered to the prosecutor’s office. The DA also conducted an investigation. However, in the end, no criminal charges were filed, as the shooting, in the line of duty, had been deemed as justifiable.

No civil action had been taken either. Me, a kid at the time, what was I going to do? Plus, how could I blame the cop for discharging his firearm? Unfortunately, the bad lady got what she deserved.

In terms of what type of background Nancy Sutcliffe might have come from, I would never learn much. After the incident, about the only thing that I would find out about her that I did not already know was, originally Nancy had come from Wisconsin, and that, while growing up, her father, an alcoholic, used to beat her mother. Whether or not there had been a history of sexual abuse in Nancy’s life, I do not know. Before the invention of the World Wide Web, digging up personal information, particulary that sort of information was no easy task.

***

Immediately following the death of my mom, I never did search for my father, Hugh Sandusky. I did not have to.

My grandparents from Red Valley, Indiana (whom, as you might recall, I had never known either) were nice enough to take me in, give me a place to stay.

Rudy did not want me. Although that did not bother me, because as much as I thought he was an okay guy, even if Rudy Knorr would have chosen to become my legal guardian, I would not have wanted to reside with him.

Besides, it’s a good thing I did not wind up living with Rudy, seeing that, like my mother, he was a junkie. Heck, if I had gone to live with him, who knows, perhaps I would have eventually turned into a heroin addict as well. As they say, misery loves company.

My grandpa Barry and grandma Nadine turned out to be terrific people, very friendly. Not only did they give me a high-quality home, a big comfortable room with a TV, which overlooked the barn, they had put me to work on their farm, doing what my mother used to do when she was a young girl.

On a regular basis, I provided the cows, chickens, pigs, goats, and sheep, etc., with food and fresh water. I had to milk the cows. Clean up, with a rake, the waste. Sometimes I doled out medication to the animals, examined them for diseases or injuries, and administered vaccinations. My grandfather Barry, a pipe-smoking jokester who always seemed to have on his old brown hat, had also taught me how to build fences, and pens for the animals to be placed in.

Being a farmhand, having to be on your feet all day long, was demanding, and tiring, often dirty, yet rewarding work, this had taught me the importance of responsibility.

Living with my grandparents, I had learned why them and mother had stopped keeping in touch. The basis for separation, in my opinion, was typical of what sometimes goes wrong between parents and their young adult children.

When my mom had left the farm, after graduating high school, to go on that long road trip around the country with her giddy, boy-crazy friends, my grandparents had been highly displeased. They had wanted her to stay home and tend to her duties. Driving around the United States, the way my grandparents saw it, chasing after reckless boys, was an out-and-out senseless thing to do.

After all, women were not supposed to act like that. Women who chased men were viewed as sluts. It should be the other way around, the men were supposed to chase the women.

If a woman decided that she liked a particular guy, then, before she became intimate with him, she should expect that man to put a diamond ring on her finger. Not sleep with the guy on the first date and wind up getting pregnant the way my mother had done in Cleveland, after a night of drinking and dancing.

Back then, my grandparents simply could not forgive my mom for that transgression. Therefore, they had told her to stay away, do not return to the farm. Make it on your own.

I personally did not agree with my grandparent’s philosophy. Conversely, them being devout Christians, and unquestionably old school, I also did not hold their beliefs against them.