The Housewife Assassin's Guide to Gracious Killing (14 page)

Carl and his security team cover all the exits and the balcony, where most of the parents have been sequestered. Because Carl is standing just a few feet away from the stage, he can’t help but notice Mary, too. His hard stare softens at the sight of her. I can’t imagine what it’s like for him to see her again. Has he noticed she’s a few inches taller, the different way she now wears her hair, and the natural grace that replaced her gawkiness?

Asimov’s speech is short. Sadly, it’s also patronizing. He uses movie clichés when describing the differences between our two countries, likening the USA to Spider-Man in that we always see bullies and feel the need to fight them. In his analogy, Russia is Batman and technology rules supreme.

“You’re the bully,” some eighth-grader yells from a back row. “You arrest students for speaking out against you!”

As if on cue, Mary, Babs and Wendy take off their sweaters and stand up. Written in black block letters on their pink T-shirts is the slogan Free the Pink Tacos! They chant this at Asimov, and rouse the crowd to do the same. 

Asimov frowns out at the audience, which is now following their lead.

A rock song roars over the loudspeaker, but I don’t understand the words because it’s in Russian. I’m guessing it’s the same tune that got the Pink Tacos put in prison.

Suddenly, the audience is pelting Asimov with pink taco shells.

Principal Belding is shouting for everyone to sit down and behave, as if that will do any good. Some of Asimov’s security team clusters around him and nudges him off the stage. Others, Carl included, grab the girls and pull them out of the auditorium.

I run after them, but I have to fight through the reporters who have caught all of it on camera.

Here’s hoping Mary’s role in this public relations debacle doesn’t get Jack and me kicked out of Lion’s Lair.

“You almost incited a riot,” Belding roars at Wendy, Babs and Mary. “You’ve made our school a laughing stock!”

The girls, sullen and silent, slump down deep in their chairs.

“He’s right! Your daughter and her friends are a disgrace,” Penelope hisses at me.

I shrug. “In our country, they have a right to protest, which is exactly the point.”

“This calls for a one month suspension.” Belding’s tone is ominous. “If you aren’t able to make up your classes, you’ll repeat them in summer school.”

I can’t believe my ears. “This is ridiculous! What are you going to do, suspend the whole eighth grade?” 

“A suspension is the last thing President Asimov would want.”

Everyone turns when they hear Carl’s firm, authoritative declaration, but no one says a word. I guess they’re just as stunned as I am.

“The president may not like what they have to say, but he respects their right to speak their mind.” Carl looks directly at Mary. “In fact, Mary, he hopes you’ll be kind enough to represent your class on a one-to-one discussion with him on the issue of human rights. Would you care to join him for tea this afternoon? Your mother is also invited to come along as your escort. I’ll pick you up at your home, at three.”

Mary’s eyes open wide as she looks over at me. 

Please don’t say yes, I pray silently. Please tell him that you can’t stand the thought of being near that cretin.

But no. Mary, ferocious soul that she is, nods her head. “Yeah, okay, if he’s willing to be honest with me, Mr. …” 

 “Mr. Stone.” 

At first, she doesn’t notice the coincidence in his name and ours. She and her girlfriends are too busy reveling in their good fortune on two counts: Belding’s immediate retraction of the suspension, and Mary’s invitation. 

A moment later, when it finally sinks in, she looks sharply at her father, whose eyes have never left her.

I don’t dare look at either of them, for fear of tearing up.

Instead, I grab Mary’s hand and hustle her out the door.

“That man wasn’t Russian.” Mary isn’t asking a question, but making a statement.

I nod. “You’re right, he’s an American.”

“So, what’s he doing with that—that dictator?”

“Asimov isn’t a dictator—”

“Mom, duh, I know! Maybe not technically. But the whole world knows Russia’s presidential election was rigged, and that he put anyone in jail who had the nerve to run against him. A few kids write a protest song about it and they end up doing hard labor! You call that a democracy? So, why would that man—Mr. Stone—work for him?”

“I guess he thinks it’s prestigious. And I’m sure he is well paid.”

“I’d never work for a sleazebag like that, no matter how much he was paying me. I have too much respect for myself.”

I reach over and pat her head. “Sometimes we do things we later regret. Maybe he’ll feel that way, too.”

“Ha! I doubt it. He seemed so smug… or something. Like a player who thinks he knows it all.” She stares out the window. Hilldale’s streets in the early afternoon are quiet, but she’s still running on a champion’s adrenaline high. “And the way he looked at you—well, I’m just glad Dad wasn’t there. He would have been soooo jealous!” 

I shift uneasily in my seat. “You were imagining that.”

“No I wasn’t! I know love when I see it. That was the exact same look Dad gives you. I think it’s hot.”

Yes, Carl had love in his eyes: for her, not for me. 

It’s on the tip of my tongue to tell her what he wants when he sees me isn’t love, but lust.

Then I think better of it. How would I explain it?

I guess I could say it’s as different as… well, as Jack and Carl. But then I’d have to come clean about Carl.

Over my dead body. 

Better yet, over his.

“You’ve done wonders with the place.” Carl walks slowly through the living room, taking in everything: the soft sage walls, the deep-seated couch in front of the stone fireplace. The Persian scatter rugs over the knotty pine floors. 

We picked out this house together. Up until he resurfaced last year, I’d kept its furnishings the same as the day he left. 

It was a cathartic experience, throwing out everything that reminded me of him.

I shake off the compliment. “You know the saying. Life goes on.” Then I head toward the stairs and shout up, “Mary? Mr. …Mr. Stone is here! Let’s get a move on!”

“Is Jeff around?” I see the glimmer of hope in Carl’s eyes at the thought that he’ll get to talk to his son without Jack standing between them.

I almost want to yell out Should you have the luck of getting to talk to Jeff, no matter what you say to him, Jack will always stand in your way, because you left Jeff. You left all of us.

Instead, I shrug nonchalantly. “Nope. Right about now, Aunt Phyllis is dropping  him off at basketball practice.”

Mary practically flies down the stairs, but freezes when she notices Carl’s intense stare. “Oh! Hello, Mr. Stone. I thought you’d be waiting in the car.” She’s not exactly rude, but certainly cold. 

Carl seems to deflate in front of my eyes. 

My heart can’t help but break for him.

Not Mary. He’s a stranger who plays for the wrong team. As if he’s not even there, she turns her back on him in order to face me. “Mom, what do you think of this dress?” It is one of her favorites: pale blue, with a crew neck, cap sleeves and a pleated skirt. 

“You’re beautiful,” Carl murmurs.

“Oh… thanks.” She gives him a dismissive wave. “Hey, would you mind being a gentleman and carrying that for me?” She points to her backpack, by the front door. She doesn’t even turn to him when she says this. Instead, she keeps her eyes on me. “Mom, Dad will be there with us, right? I miss him.”

Satisfied with my slow nod, she heads out the door. 

Carl’s smile has disappeared altogether by the time he steps outside.

Half of me wants to cry for him. But the other half wants to laugh and say, Welcome to parenting, dead-beat dad. 

Instead, I say nothing. Here’s hoping Mary’s cruelty convinces him to stay away.

If she were to learn the truth, would she regret her actions, or feel it appropriate for a father who deserted her? The latter, I hope. 

In any regard, that’s the route I’m taking.

Chapter 13

Tea for Two

A full silver tea service is a staple in every hostess’s dining room! Because one never knows who will be stopping in at the appropriate time (that is to say, four o’clock). One should polish the tea service weekly, and always have the following on hand: lumps of sugar, real cream, thinly sliced lemon rounds, a three-tiered silver tray laden with savories, such as crustless sandwiches (bottom), scones (middle), and sweets (top). Ideally, you’ll forego the tea bag for tea leaves and a strainer, and have several types of teas for your guest to choose from.

This set-up is prepared prior to the guest’s arrival, as the hostess should never spend her time in the kitchen, but act as pourer.

Should the need arise for you to step away from the table, you may leave your napkin on your seat. To signal the end of your gathering, place your napkin, loosely, to the left of your plate.

Should you wish your guest to leave permanently and violently, leave a bomb under said napkin, so that it can’t be seen prior to setting it off: by remote control, of course. 

True, an explosive is messier than a poison, but the upside is that there is less of the body to dispose of—and it gives you the perfect excuse to redecorate! 

“You brought Mary here, even though you know there’s some assassin running around this mausoleum, waiting to take a pot shot at the man who invited her to tea?” Seeing Mary seated with Asimov, Jack can’t believe his eyes or ears.

But yep, she’s right there, for all the world to see. Realizing this is his chance to get the egg—in this case a taco shell—off his face, Asimov has invited the media to watch him play nice with an eighth grader.

I don’t know what’s in the satchel Mary lugged with her to the tea, but something tells me she didn’t get the memo that she’s supposed to be a star-struck acolyte.

I nod to Jack. “Believe me, this wasn’t my idea.”

“Oh yeah? Whose was it? No, let me guess. Daddy Dearest, trying to score brownie points.”

I open my mouth to say something, but nothing comes out because he’s right.