Deadly Housewives Read online

  Anthea put her fork down. “Okay, I won’t call anyone about her mess. Let her live in squalor if that’s her choice. But, Paul, I’m ordering holly bushes to plant between the trees against her fence. I don’t even care to see what goes on over there. And Dylan, you are to stay away.”

  “I like the cats and dogs. They like me!”

  “The discussion’s over.”

  “So is breakfast!” said Dylan. He slammed away from the table, kicking his chair over backward, leaving Paul to look at Anthea and Anthea to look at what appeared to be cat hair floating in the morning light and landing on her French toast.

  Lisa Ferguson was up at two-thirty Sunday morning. Anthea usually wasn’t, but she was still angry with Paul—God, but they had become so distant over the last three or so years—and couldn’t sleep. She didn’t want to watch television and she didn’t feel like painting. She went to the bathroom and looked at herself in her purple satin robe. She was still beautiful, not even middle-aged yet, with a firm body, full hair, and eyes that used to turn Paul on in a heartbeat. Not now. It had all edged over, grown a crust that didn’t seem likely to soften.

  Anthea turned off the light and sat on the toilet in the dark, counting her heartbeats. Then she noticed a light burning down in what was probably her next-door neighbor’s kitchen. Anthea put her chin on the windowsill and watched as Lisa moved back and forth, as energetic and busy as someone would be during the day. Anthea could see the edge of a table, a counter and sink, and a chair. There were cats on the table and counter, and a dog on the chair. There was a flurry of activity, shadows Anthea couldn’t decipher, and then the light went out. A minute later, Lisa was in her backyard in the moonlight, collecting one of the plastic bins and a lid. She went back inside. Anthea waited another few minutes until her eyelids would have no more of staying open, and she returned to bed.

  Sunday afternoon was surprisingly cool and pleasant, with lilting breezes and vague scents of impending autumn. Paul had taken Dylan to a game, leaving Anthea alone. Alone was all right. Alone was familiar. She shoved her studio window up as far as it would go, drawing in a long breath of sunlight, then slipped on her paint-covered apron and busied herself with Sunflowers at Dawn. Her next show was in November, and this was the fifth in her new series of flower portraits. It was the best so far, looser than any of the others, a four-foot canvas bleeding with yellows and browns and crossed with sharp, scarlet slashes. Red sky at morning, sunflowers take warning. Anthea smiled at the meaningless, random thought. She stuck the end of her paintbrush between her teeth and gazed at the work, deciding the next move.

  “Hello!” came a cheerful voice from outside. “Anthea! I see you up there! I’ve made cake!”

  Anthea went to the window.

  “You’re painting, aren’t you?” said Lisa.

  Anthea took the brush out of her teeth, though she could still feel the ghost of the hard wood on her enamel. “Yes, Lisa.”

  “I’ve made chocolate cake!”

  “That’s very nice.”

  “Want some? Come on, I’ve been living here a month now and you’ve yet to visit.” Two dogs bounded at Lisa’s sides while another popped his nose through a link and ran his tongue along the metal. Behind them, in nearly every square foot of the worn-down yard, lay or sat or rolled an animal.

  There was a beat, then another, then, “Okay, sure. Thanks, Lisa.”

  All right, fine. I’ll do this. This will give me concrete evidence to use with Dylan and Paul. I wish I had a hidden camera, like on Dateline NBC or 60 Minutes. I do this distasteful task for my son. He’s worth it.

  Anthea slipped out of her painting apron, went down to the street, and entered Lisa’s yard through the gate.

  “Come in,” Lisa said, holding open the screen door.

  Anthea had been inside Carlsbad Caverns when she was five and her family had taken a cross-country trip. The only clear memory she had was that of millions of bats loosening themselves from the walls and ceiling and flying out into the sky. Bumping, thumping, clumping, completely obliterating the fading blue of the sky. Chittering, skittering, their filthy leather wings cutting the air like fouled knives into delicate flesh. Anthea had screamed, dropped to her knees, and covered her eyes.

  It was all Anthea could do to keep from covering her eyes in Lisa Ferguson’s house. Every square foot of floor was occupied by a pet or slobbery pet toy. A front-hall bookshelf had two cats on top and one on a lower shelf, rubbing its cheek against the sharp edges of a hardcover. Another cat lounged in the glass globe of the hall chandelier, staring down with a contented expression. A spotted dog, clearly not neutered yet, sat in the center of the hallway, licking his balls. Lining either side of the hall were covered litter pans. She could hear digging in several of them. Anthea bit the inside of her cheek, tossed back her hair, and followed Lisa to the kitchen.

  There were two cats on the refrigerator and several under the table. A dog with one eye was on one of the four chairs at the dinette. A Kit Cat clock with moving eyes and swinging tail hung on the wall next to a calendar showing children playing by a pond.

  Lisa took a cake, covered in plastic wrap, out of the fridge. She pulled two small Fiesta plates from the cabinet and put them on the table. Anthea studied her plate without picking it up. It looked clean. She hoped Lisa didn’t let the dogs lick stuff off the plates like some people did. But there was a dishwasher in here, and she could see no dust-covered feces balls in the corners or grass-laced upchuck puddles on the floor. The house wasn’t completely filthy, as she had suspected.

  Yet the air was stifling in spite of the breeze through the kitchen window. And Anthea detected some sort of strong chemical in the kitchen, an unfamiliar cleanser, perhaps, or an insecticide. It made her nostrils burn and her head uncomfortably light.

  Lisa removed a large knife from a lopsided drawer and cut two thick pieces of cake. She put them onto the plates then sat. She ate. And talked.

  And talked.

  She talked about her ex-husband and how he had never wanted pets or children. She talked about the job she used to have working in a children’s clothing store and how she would give each good child a sucker before they left. She talked about the next cat she planned on adopting if nobody claimed it within the week, a tabby that had been hanging around the gas station over on Brindel Street. “I should open my own shelter,” she said as she ate her piece of cake. “I would if I had enough money.”

  Anthea nodded and forced herself to swallow bite after bite of her own slice. There was no pet fur she could detect with her tongue, no trace of urine.

  But still.

  But still Anthea’s breath felt tainted in her lungs, and the hairs on her arms prickled like seaweed in a strong current. Her mouth was dry. She did not want to be there. She did not like Lisa’s house or Lisa’s pets. She did not like the woman herself.

  The moment Anthea took her last bite of cake, she thanked Lisa and excused herself to leave.

  “Oh, no, already?” implored Lisa, taking off her round glasses and inspecting them for smudges. “But we’re having such a good time.”

  “Well,” said Anthea. Then: “I do have things to do. Thanks for the cake.”

  As she stood, she heard strange noises from behind a closed door that she guessed led to a pantry, or basement. It sounded like children’s hushed, urgent voices.

  “Lisa, are there kids here?” Anthea asked.

  “Hmm, what? Oh, no, I don’t have children, just my fur babies.” Lisa picked up a cat and rubbed her face against its body. “I probably told you I couldn’t have kids, though I wish!”

  “No, I asked if there are children here?”

  “Where?”

  “There.” Anthea pointed to the door.

  “Oh. Why would children be in my cellar?” Lisa put her cat down and ran her fingers through her hair, pushing it back behind her ears. This made the sharp angles of her face sharper. Almost witchlike. Anthea, that’s not fair. “There’s nothing down
there but boxes and—oh, I don’t know, other odds and ends I couldn’t fit upstairs.”

  Anthea paused, her head tilted, listening. She no longer heard the voices.

  Maybe it was only cats or dogs, or even hissing water pipes.

  “Okay, then,” said Anthea. She thanked her hostess for the cake then waded out through a mobile maze of mutts and felines. Back in her own house, Anthea took deep, cleansing breaths. “That’s over. That’s good. And in spite of the animals the house itself wasn’t a toxic-waste station. I won’t need to call the CDC. Yet.”

  But I’m still not going to let Dylan play over there. That’s just the way it will be. I’m the Mom and I don’t like what I feel when I’m in that woman’s presence or in her house. I think something’s wrong.

  Something’s quite wrong.

  September brought several things: the beginning of school, more pets and plastic containers in Lisa Ferguson’s yard, more frequent and shadowy late-night business in the Ferguson kitchen, and Anthea’s first real argument with Dylan.

  She had gone to the store a week before and had picked out a wonderful new wardrobe for her son. Jeans, T-shirts, polo shirts, new shoes and socks. He was growing so fast, it was hardly a frivolous purchase. But Dylan hated all the clothes. The jeans weren’t baggy enough, the T-shirts were plain and the wrong brand, polo shirts were for morons and geeks, and nobody, nobody wore shoes like that anymore. Anthea screamed at him and threw the clothes in his face—she’d never done that before and felt like a bitch afterward—and told him he could just wear his old clothes until they fell apart. She didn’t mean it, but Dylan had no trouble with that whatsoever, and so the new clothes went back to the store.

  The summer flowers in Anthea’s yard faded and went brown. Early autumn mums popped open in warm golds, reds, and oranges. The gourd leaves shriveled and the gourds were picked and taken upstairs for still-life models. The sunflowers were droopier, nearly seed-bare, and ready to give up the ghost.

  After school, children still stopped by Lisa Ferguson’s yard to play with the animals, though the numbers were dwindling. Perhaps other mothers had the same concerns as Anthea. Anthea caught Dylan in Lisa’s yard once in late September, and she threatened to ground him for a month. Dylan was furious and punched the walls and bruised his fist, but then reluctantly agreed because with a grounding, he’d not be able to practice with the band he, George, and Gene had going. “We’re going to kick major ass at the talent show!” he boasted with a preteen sneer. “We’re the River Rats, and we’re gonna get gigs and make money and burn a CD! Just wait.”

  That was the plan.

  Until the twins disappeared.

  The first Tuesday in October, right after dinner, Cathy Kidd knocked on the Lonases’ front door. Paul invited her in, but she was too flustered, too upset. “No, I just wanted to ask if you have seen Gene and George. Aaron is at home calling around, but I thought it best to go myself and look, not to just sit at home, you know?”

  “I know,” said Anthea, touching the other woman on the arm. Poor, poor Cathy! Anthea’s heart clenched.

  “The boys got off the bus at the regular place at the corner, but some of the other kids said they headed off this way instead of home.”

  “Did Aaron call the cops?” asked Anthea.

  “Of course we called the cops! They said give it an hour or two, the boys are probably just goofing off somewhere!”

  “That’s wrong,” said Anthea.

  Paul nodded sympathetically but added, “They probably will show up soon, Cathy. Try not to worry too much. Kids do stupid things all the time, but they’ll come home.”

  Cathy Kidd sniffed and ran her hand under her nose. “Nobody’s seen them since four. I was wondering, was hoping, Dylan…?”

  Dylan, standing behind Anthea and Paul, shook his head. Cathy Kidd wailed. Then she left.

  The interneighbor phone calls began then, mothers and fathers and children sharing their fears and agonizing over the fact that two boys were missing and wondering aloud all the possibilities of what might have happened. Anthea tucked Dylan in bed for the first time in four years, and he didn’t complain.

  At midnight, she and Paul both went to bed. He fell asleep immediately. Anthea went to the bathroom and sat on the toilet to look at the window of her neighbor’s kitchen. The light was on. There were furtive, brisk movements, shadowy forms flitting in and out of the light. Then Lisa went into her backyard in her robe in the moonlight and selected two large plastic containers. Oh…

  The woman went back into her house. After a few minutes, the kitchen light went off.

  Oh, my God. That’s impossible. She only collects pets. Cats and dogs.

  And plastic, lidded boxes.

  Anthea’s fingers dug into the wood of the windowsill. Blood pulsed noisily at her temples. Her heart froze for several painful counts then kicked into high gear. “Impossible,” she whispered. “I know Lisa, she’s lived here for two months now.”

  You don’t know her. You don’t know shit about her. You’ve always sensed something wrong. But this?

  She said she always wanted children.

  Her first thought was to awaken Paul, but then he was such an ass these days he’d just tell her to fix some green tea and get some sleep.

  Please, God, let me be wrong.

  Anthea put on her shoes. And her gardening gloves.

  Come in.

  With gloves on, it wasn’t very hard to pull out the screen on the kitchen window. Anthea eased herself up and through, coming down on top of the dinette table in the dark. Cat eyes winked at her, little glowing globes of distrust and disdain. The Kit Cat ticked more loudly than it should have. The chemical scent was there, stronger than before. Anthea climbed off the table and stood with her hands clenched to her chest, listening.

  Listening.

  Then she saw the streak of light beneath the door to the cellar. And she could hear the soft children’s voices, muffled, fearful.

  For a moment, Anthea could not move. The backs of her arms were flushed with ice water. Lisa was in the basement. What if she had a weapon of some sort? Anthea held her heart, counted to five, then quietly opened the lopsided drawer where Lisa kept her knives.

  She tiptoed to the basement door and eased it open. It did not creak. A cat came up to her, sniffed her leg, and hissed. Anthea licked her lips and her tongue came away with cat hairs.

  Holding the knife like a baby, she moved down several steps. George, Gene, be safe! Dylan, thank God you obeyed me!

  The cellar was completely unfinished. A fluorescent light in the ceiling tossed bluish light along the stone walls and lumpy clay floor. Anthea eased down another step, and knelt, and it was then she could see Lisa at the far side of the room. She was chipping at the floor with a shovel. There was already a large hole next to where she was now digging. Two large plastic bins with lids in place were against the wall. Several cats sat by her feet, watching the progress. Other soft spots were visible on the floor, where other holes had been dug and then filled back in. A chewed pair of boy’s sneakers lay against the water heater.

  Anthea gasped.

  Lisa looked up. And for the first time since Anthea had known her, the woman scowled.

  “What are you doing here?” she demanded.

  “George and Gene,” Anthea managed. “What have you done to them?” She looked at the containers, just the right size for two twelve-year-old bodies to be folded and stashed. Anthea’s head reeled, and she grabbed the railing to keep from toppling over.

  “Who?” Lisa took several threatening steps in Anthea’s direction, holding the shovel over her shoulder. The woman’s hair was wild and tangled, and there were several dark streaks along her bony, witchish cheeks.

  “Where are George and Gene? I see the shoes, the bins. The…holes.”

  Lisa kicked one of the sneakers. “What? These old things? They’re dog toys, for heaven sake! Now get out of my house! I didn’t invite you this time!”

  “
Let me see what’s in the containers.” The knife shook violently in Anthea’s grip, but she did not let go. “Show me!” From under the steps, she heard soft crying. More children? Dear God!

  “You don’t want to see. It’s ugly.”

  “I’m sure it is!”

  Lisa moved to the bottom of the stairs. Anthea backed up three but then held her place.

  “Leave me in peace! Leave me with my pain!” Lisa shouted. “You could never understand what I’ve been through, what I’m going through. Go!”

  “Show me!”

  “Bitch!”

  The children under the stairs cried more loudly.

  “Show me!”

  Lisa lunged up the steps then, the shovel poised to swing into Anthea’s head, but Anthea ducked and brought her elbow up into Lisa’s jaw. Lisa squawked like a hen, dropping the shovel, flailing for the barest second then tumbling downward. The shovel bounced off the step and dropped beneath the railing to the dirt floor. The back of Lisa’s head bounced off the stone wall with a sharp cracking sound. The woman fell to the floor, her neck bent at an impossible angle.

  The children beneath the stairs screamed.

  Anthea put her hands over her eyes. She counted as fast as she could, One two three four five six seven eight nine ten eleven twelve thirteen…

  The children stopped screaming.

  Slowly, Anthea put her hands back to her sides. She walked down the steps, removed a glove, and tested the woman’s pulse. Lisa Ferguson was dead.

  Anthea turned and looked beneath the steps. There were no children. No sign of children.

  She looked inside the plastic boxes. There were dogs inside, folded neatly, and stiff with rigor mortis, tongues lolling.

  She painted throughout the night. Finish a new one for the show. A new one will be good. A new one new one new one new one.