Lightning Strikes (Hudson 2)

"Well there you go. You ain't a dumb Doris after all, are ya?"

"Pregnant?"

"It 'appens, yer know." She turned back to her preparations. "She 'ad me fooled, she did. All this time I thought she's like a girl in first school and needed someone to take 'er by the hand and show 'er where it's at. Mopin' about 'ere, 'er eyes explodin' every time I mentioned a tumble or havin' it off. Don't I look like the dumb one, eh?"

"Is that what bothers you? What you look like? What about her?"

"We all make the beds we sleep in," she muttered.

"That's not true. Sometimes, the beds are already made and we have no choice," I retorted. She looked at me, eyebrows hoisted.

"Well there ain't much we can do about it then, is there? Mrs. Endfield's not goin' to permit a tart in the 'ouse, is she?"

"You know Mary Margaret is no tart, Mrs. Chester." She turned away.

"If we don't help her, who will?"

"There's work ta be done and no sense in you and me workin' our jaws."

"No," I said. "No sense at all."

I turned and went to my room to change. No one made mention of Mary Margaret at dinner. I didn't hear Great-aunt Leonora say anything or Greatuncle Richard either. She was, as Mrs. Chester declared, persona non grata now. I couldn't help but feel sorry for her, however, and after dinner chores, I left the house and headed for Mary Margaret's home.

I got her address from Mrs. Chester and knew that it was close to Cromwell Hospital. Mary Margaret and her sick "Mum," as she called her, lived in a flat in what looked like the oldest building on the street. The doorway looked ready to fall off its rusted hinges, and the stairs were so narrow, I couldn't imagine someone coming down while someone else was going up. Mary Margaret and her mother lived on the third floor. The creaky steps ascended in six short flights. I was afraid to put too much weight on the rickety banister. I could see it was cracked and loose even though the lighting streaming down from weak, naked bulbs was barely adequate.

When I reached her door, I knocked and waited. I heard what sounded like a radio commentator and then some music. I knocked again, louder, harder, and then heard the radio turned down and what sounded like someone shuffling along on a wooden floor. A chain lock was undone and the door opened a few inches. A short woman with thinning gray hair curled wildly like broken piano wires poked her face through the crack at me. She seemed to be looking directly at my chest. Her forehead gathered in small rolls and deep lines. I imagined she had to be Mary Margaret's mother.

"What is it?" she asked. Her nose twitched like a rabbit's. Was she trying to smell me, too? I wondered.

"I'm here to see Mary Margaret. My name is Rain Arnold. I work with her at Endfield Place."

She didn't respond. She continued to hold her head in the opening and twitch her nose at me as if she was deciding whether or not I was some sort of practical joker. Then she turned herliead slightly so her ear was more visible.

"Who'd you say you were?"

"Rain Arnold. I work at Endfield Place with Mary Margaret," I told her slowly.

"Just a minute," she said and closed the door sharply on me. I heard her footsteps behind the door and some mumbling. These walls aren't very thick, I thought. If someone has a bellyache, the neighbors will know. Above me, I heard the sounds of laughter and to the right, just below, someone was playing rock music.

Mary Margaret's mother opened the door just a little wider this time. She stood farther back and looked away, her head slightly tilted to the right. I could see she wore a light-blue housecoat and wellworn leather slippers. There were bright red blotches on her ankles. She was stout and heavy breasted with a short neck. It looked like her body had simply stopped growing and her head had been slapped on at the last possible moment. There was barely any light in the room and her face was covered in shadows, but I could still see that she had thin lips and small features like Mary Margaret.

"She says go away," she told me.

"I have to see her. Please," I said and stepped into the fiat.

The first thing that hit me was the oppressingly heavy, stale air. It was as if the door or windows hadn't been opened for years. Everything in the flat looked old as well, but oddly the furniture was the ostentatious kind found in rich houses, expensive pieces like a royal-purple velvet lounging chaise with gold cording tarnished and falling off where it wasn't fastened by fancy tassels. The blanket and pillow on it suggested it was being used as a bed. The rest of the furniture was just as eclectic, all of it looking like hand-me-downs. Most of the furniture looked like antiques, and all of the pieces were in some disrepair: cushions torn, springs hanging out from beneath settees, wooden tables dull and scratched. The one lit lamp had a torn shade and the small area rugs were worn so thin, the wooden floor peeked out beneath them.

The two windows in the living room faced onto an alley and the building next door looked close enough to touch. Off to the right was a small kitchen with a table and chairs. The walls were painted pale yellow. The walls of the living room were dark green, which with the dim light, made it all the darker. "Where is she, please?" I asked.

"She's in the bedroom," her mother said, "but she don't want no visitors. She ain't been well."

"I won't be long. Thank you."

I crossed the living room to the one bedroom. Again, there was only a single small lamp lit. The large, heavy-beamed bed took up most of the room. A dresser from a different bedroom set had been squeezed in on the right and another smaller one on the left. There was only a single nightstand and on that the one lamp. Mary Margaret was lying on her back, her head on a large pillow. She stared up at the ceiling and then turned when I entered. She was wearing only a slip.

"What'cha doin' here?" she asked me quickly.

"I came to see how you were and to be sure Mrs. Chester was telling me the truth," I replied.