The Bad Lady (Novel) Read online

  Behind us, Mrs. Keller allowed the flimsy screen door to bang shut, explosively loud. WHAAAAP!

  CHAPTER 3

  After removing our sneakers, (Andrew’s stunk), we went into the parlor where he had his Play Station set up. The room was comfortable with many sweet-smelling flowers in decorative vases and, on the walls, big framed photographs of landscapes scenes, which I thought provided the setting with a lot of fascinating style. As did the nice caramel-brown furniture, which I think might have been genuine leather, a humungous couch and a couple of reclining chairs.

  Andrew and me parked ourselves, Indian-style, on the white carpet. The Keller’s plump Siamese cat Olivia lay nearby, sleeping. When I petted the furry feline respectfully on the head, she instantly woke up, purring.

  “Throw Olivia that twine of kite string,” Andrew suggested, as he used the remote control to turn on the wide-screen Panasonic TV.

  “Why?”

  “What do you mean why? So she’ll leave us alone. If you don’t give that zany cat something to do, she’ll keep pestering us.”

  “All right.” I got the tiny spool of kite string, which had been in front of the couch, underneath the table where the family put their drinks. Then I rolled the kite string across the floor toward the cat. Andrew was right. Olivia pawed friskily at the twine. Began to ignore us.

  Suddenly, from the nearby kitchen, Mrs. Keller called out to us, “Would you boys like a glass of milk?”

  Andrew turned toward me. “Do you want one?”

  “No,” I whispered. “I‘m not thirsty.”

  “No thanks mom.”

  “Andrew, if you’re gonna play video games,” Mrs. Keller hollered in her niggling parental voice, “don’t sit so close to the TV. Stay at least six feet away. I don’t want you to ruin your eyes.”

  Andrew slid back on the carpet, as did I.

  Mrs. Keller always ordered her son around, do this, do that. I swear, she bugged me big-time. Honestly, that’s why I liked Nancy; she was one of the few grownups that I had ever come across who wasn’t a complete nag. Even my teachers, guidance counselors, and principal, at school up until that point, had been a pain in the neck, constantly filling your head with their irritating rules.

  Jeez!

  Anyway, for possibly an hour Andrew and I sat there enjoying Play Station, going from one video game to another.

  Then, that’s when the doorbell rang, followed by a quick Rap! Rap! Rap!

  Mrs. Keller rushed from one of the small bedrooms, where she had been busy vacuuming, and answered it.

  At the door, was Mrs. Bailey, the Keller’s neighbor. I did not know much about her. She had bouncy russet hair, a very feminine voice, and a Jessica Rabbit body. Men probably went nuts over Mrs. Bailey, thought she was the bomb. However, she turned me off because she acted high and mighty, as if her poop didn’t stink.

  “Hello Stacie,” Mrs. Bailey announced in her high-pitched, conceited voice.

  “Hi Barb.”

  “Whatcha doing?”

  “Nothing really. Just cleaning the house. Come on in.”

  “Don’t mind if I do.”

  When the screen door opened a mammoth splash of sunlight lit up half of the living room. Startled, Andrew and I glanced up from our previously dark video world. I was surprised that Mrs. Keller didn’t make us turn the volume down; the loud space age sound effects were ricocheting off the walls, as if we were in an action-packed arcade.

  “Hi Andrew,” Mrs. Bailey said, looking down at us perched, like two puppies, on the carpet.

  “Hello Mrs. Bailey.”

  “Hi,” I said, nodding.

  Mrs. Bailey nodded back at me, to acknowledge my presence. Yet, she did not utter hello, even though she knew my name. I guess, me being a youngster, and not related to the Keller’s, I wasn’t worthy of a polite verbal greeting.

  The last time I saw Mrs. Bailey she did not say much to me then either. In fact, she had conducted her behavior the same way she did now, turned her back, stuck her nose straight up into the air, and then walked away like one of those people that doesn’t want to be bothered having to make small talk with someone else’s kid.

  “Andrew,” Mrs. Keller spoke, “before you get too involved in Play Station, I want you to go outside and get your tennis ball and wiffle ball bat out of the driveway.”

  “Oh mom, can’t I do it later?”

  “No. I want you to put that stuff in the garage right now!”

  “Oh. All right.” Reluctantly, Andrew stood up, lowered the sound on the TV, and then went back outside to clean up his toys.

  Meanwhile, it did not take long before I overheard Mrs. Keller, in the kitchen; say to the neighbor, that my mom was cuckoo. Just about every time I came over here, it seemed that Mrs. Keller had to put my mother down. It was like one of her hobbies. After she had advanced the comment that, in her opinion, my mom was a nutcase, she and Mrs. Bailey chuckled heartily. Funny thing, while they cracked up, reveled in the mockery, I secretly wept. I did not like it when people poked fun at my mother. It made me extremely upset.

  “Miss Hall,” Mrs. Keller kept at it, as if my mother was there in the room with them, “the local insane asylum has plenty of vacancies. There’s a straightjacket at Bellevue and a warm bed waiting for you. Ha! Ha! Ha!”

  “No wonder her husband left her,” Mrs. Bailey stated snobbishly. “Who would stay with a whack job like her?”

  “No respectable gentleman that I know.” I heard Mrs. Keller put something into the oven. The steel rack rattled noisily. “I’ve always felt nothing but pity for young Billy Hall‘s mother.”

  “You’re not the only one. What a basket case.”

  How could these adults be so cruel? I wondered. If you want to know the truth, Mrs. Keller and Mrs. Bailey did not seem to care one iota that I was in the other room, within easy listening range. I guess they assumed because I was a kid that I did not understand what they were talking about. They could not have been more mistaken. Those jerks. I understood everything they said. Whenever grownups put my mom down it made it feel as if there was something wrong with me. And that hurt. That hurt a lot.

  “So who is that kid Billy Hall’s mother dating now?” Mrs. Bailey asked.

  “Some redneck.”

  “Is he really a banjo-playing hick?”

  “Oh. I don’t think so,” answered Mrs. Keller. “I’m kidding. The guy she’s dating just looks like a redneck. He has greasy hair, has a Billy Ray Cyrus mullet as if he’s still living in the eighties, and he has really bad teeth. They’re all chipped and yellow. Barf! You should see this guy, Barb. He’s as ugly as a pig. I would never sleep with him.”

  The laughter increased.

  “And how long has that boy Billy’s mom been with this man?”

  “A few months, I think.”

  “I wonder how long he’ll stick around.”

  “Who knows? Probably not long.”

  “What does the guy do for a living?” Mrs. Bailey asked. I had no idea why she needed to know all this stuff. I never heard my mother talk about Mrs. Bailey ever.

  “He’s a mechanic.”

  “A grease monkey?”

  “Yup. He’s a regular oil rag man.”

  I wanted to scream. Run into the Keller’s kitchen and tell these loudmouth women to shut up. To stop spreading gossip. Somehow, though, I managed to maintain my cool, even though, as I had already mentioned, Mrs. Keller and her nosy neighbor caused me to shed tears.

  Finally, for a minute, I did not hear a peep. Relieved, I thought they were done stomping my mother and her boyfriend Rudy Knorr’s name through the mud.

  Nope.

  I was wrong.

  Without warning, over the chinking of silverware being banged around, Mrs. Keller says. “People say that kid Billy Hall’s mother is a modern-day witch.”

  That was a lie. It had to be. I associated witches with the devil; my mom and I were Catholic.

/>   “Really?” Mrs. Bailey acted surprised. “Is that what’s been circulating through the neighborhood rumor mill?”

  “That‘s right.”

  “Stacie, you‘re pulling my leg.”

  “No. Seriously, Barb, I heard, this spring, somewhere here in northeastern Ohio, Billy Hall’s mother attended an open ritual at a pagan federation. Supposedly she befriended several witches, who invited her to join their Wicca coven run by a high priestess.”

  I did not know what any of that meant, pagan federation, Wicca coven, high priestess, but knew it had to be another made up story.

  “Did she join?”

  “I’m pretty sure I heard that she did.”

  “Christ! Whoa! So your son’s friend in the other room, really has a mom who is a bona fide witch. That’s unbelievable. How can that freak raise a child when she’s clearly not in her proper mind?”

  “You‘ve got me,” said Mrs. Keller, rattling more silverware.

  “Ssh!”

  “Huh?”

  “Maybe we should speak a little softer,” Mrs. Bailey suggested, “so that her kid doesn’t hear us.”

  “Oh. Don’t worry about Billy,” Mrs. Keller made clear. “That young boy can’t put two and two together. Actually, just between you and me Barb, I think that kid might have a learning disability.”

  What? How could she say something like that about me? If not getting straight A‘s on my report card like Mrs. Keller’s son Andrew constituted me as having a learning disability, then I surely had one. Otherwise, I was as normal as any other child.

  When Andrew returned to the parlor from outside, I whispered to him heatedly, “Dude, why does your mother always have to bad mouth me and my mom? Every time I come over here it’s the same thing.”

  He shrugged. “Billy, I never even listen to what my mom says.”

  “You should. She’s always saying mean things.”

  “Ah, she just says stuff like that, but she doesn’t mean anything by it.”

  “Yes she does. She hates my mom. And she hates me too.”

  Andrew did not want to fight. “Billy, can’t we just go back to playing video games, and forget about that?”

  “No. I can’t stand you mom. And I can’t stand your bigmouth neighbor Mrs. Bailey either.”

  CHAPTER 4

  Suddenly Mrs. Keller came into the parlor.

  “Billy,” she says, “would you like to stay for dinner? I‘m making chicken.” Sure, now she was being friendly. What a hypocrite.

  “Yes,” I replied with a counterfeit smile. “Except I’ll have to call home first to see if I‘m allowed.”

  “All right. You do that. Come on in the kitchen.”

  I got up and followed her in. Evidently, Mrs. Bailey had departed. I noticed her empty teacup on the table. What a nice person, that Mrs. Bailey, she slipped out the back door without saying goodbye. Not even to Andrew, the straight ‘A’ student.

  Mrs. Keller grabbed the phone. “Billy, would you like me to dial your number?”

  “No I can do it.” With my index finger, I punched in the digits.

  On the second ring, my mother picked up. “Where are you, Billy?” she asked.

  “I’m over at Andrew’s house playing video games.” Beside me Mrs. Keller, who had an apron on that had a goofy cartoon chef on the front of it, brushed barbeque sauce onto numerous pieces of chicken breast, which were spread out efficiently on a huge metal pan. On the counter, wrapped in tinfoil, a few Idaho potatoes were also ready to go into the hot oven. “Am I allowed to eat over?”

  “Eat over; you’re supposed to be home to set the table. I told you Rudy is coming over. He‘ll be here shortly.”

  “I know, but Mrs. Keller wanted to know if I could eat dinner here.” I did not see why my mother would object, since often, when her boyfriend came by; she wanted to be alone with him. In addition, she usually sent me to my room.

  “What are they having?”

  “Barbeque chicken.”

  “Poultry,” she says, thinking it over. “Okay, Billy, if you want to eat over that’s fine with me. Let me speak to Mrs. Keller.”

  “Hold on.”

  “Yes,” I heard Andrew’s mom utter into the phone. “Absolutely. We’ll have him home by seven . . . Great Mrs. Hall. I’m glad to hear that . . . Dessert? Boston Crème pie. Sure, if you want. I’ll put a slice on a paper plate for you. No. Got it from the bakery up the street . . . Okay. I’ll talk to you soon. It’s a pleasure to hear from you as well.” She hung up.

  Strange how Mrs. Keller was polite on the phone, when a few minutes ago she had essentially said that she disliked my mother and had accused her of being a devil worshiper.

  ***

  By the time, the meal had been placed on the dining room table Andrew’s father had returned from work. I did not exactly know what Mr. Keller did for a living, only that he had to climb down into dirty, smelly sewer holes and fix pipes or something.

  “What do we have here?” he asks his wife courteously, while staring at me. Mr. Keller removed his muddy boots and left them on the mat near the screen door.

  “Mrs. Hall said Billy could stay for supper.”

  “Is that so?”

  “Yupper,” I declared, smiling. “How you doing Mr. Keller?”

  “Hello Billy.” Andrew’s father was a big man. He almost had to duck in order to step through the doorway. His hands were the size of baseball mitts. On this day, he wore a sleeveless white t-shirt, stained with sweat and muck. His baggy pants were also blemished, maybe even more so. On his partially baldhead, Mr. Keller had a disorganized mop of black, graying hair, which was in dire need of a quality shampoo and conditioner. “Where’s Andrew?”

  “In the living room,” I answered.

  “Billy, could you tell my son to wash his hands for dinner?”

  “Yes sir.” I hurried into the parlor where I tapped Andrew on the shoulder. “Yo bud, you’re pop said he wants you to get cleaned up for dinner.”

  Still focused on the video monitor, Andrew sat up. I heard his knees crack. “All right. Hey Billy, are you allowed to eat over?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “What is my mom making, what’s that smell?”

  “Chicken.”

  “Fried?”

  “No. Even better than that, barbeque.”

  “Umn. That sounds great. I’m starving.”

  “Me too. Anyway Andy, you had better get washed up.”

  Without further delay, he went into the bathroom at the end of the hallway, and clicked on the light. I soaped my hands in the kitchen sink and then dried them with a paper towel.

  At the dining room table, Mrs. Keller humanely passed me the square platter of barbeque chicken. I used a long fork to put one of the breasts on my plate. The food smelled pleasantly spicy. Aside from the baked Idaho potatoes, she had also prepared another vegetable, a bowl of steaming green beans.

  “So Billy,” she says, while loading her plate. “Has your mother written any interesting new greeting cards lately?” That’s what my mom did for a living, wrote greeting cards. She had a natural flair for poetry.

  “Yes,” I said. “She usually writes a couple of new greeting cards every week.”

  “I hear she makes good money.”

  “I guess so.”

  “She must,” said Andrew’s father, passing me the plastic tub of butter. “You’re walking around, Billy, with brand new sneakers. Nikes. I like those.”

  “I like them too,” Andrew said, while sipping his cold milk. “Dad can you buy me a pair of those?”

  “Not until the summer is over.”

  “Why?”

  “You just got new sneakers last month. What’s wrong with Converse?”

  Disappointed, Andrew glanced down at his feet. The beige Converse he had on were scuffed and from an overall standpoint, the shoes were worn out. “Nothing. It’s just-”

  “It’s just what?”
Mr. Keller wanted to know.

  “I don’t know.”

  “There’s nothing wrong with the sneakers you have now.”

  “I didn’t say there was anything wrong with them.”

  “Your father is right Andrew. Just because Billy‘s sneaker were more expensive than yours doesn‘t make them better.”

  Andrew pouted. He liked to have his way and when his folks would not give in; he often made his famous, what I call ‘sour-puss face’.

  Without warning, Mrs. Keller caught me off guard. She passed me a napkin and asked, “So Billy, tell us, we’re all wondering how did you end up becoming the Good Humor employee’s co-pilot?”

  I dropped my fork. It clanked against my plate. “Who Nancy?”

  “Yes. Why did she choose you?”

  I have to confess Mrs. Keller’s question made me tremendously nervous. Somehow, it felt as if Andrew’s parents knew that Nancy and me had touched one another. Therefore, I did not want to answer. Mrs. Keller, however, always the type of person who needed to learn things, pressed the issue. I knew she would not leave me alone until I said something.

  “Nancy is my friend.”

  “I know she’s your friend. We were just wondering how that came to be.”

  Just then, a very mysterious thing occurred. I suddenly saw a ghost-like vision of Nancy standing behind Mrs. Keller‘s chair. She had her finger up to her red puckered lips. Nancy was urging me to shush.

  “I don’t actually remember,” I answered. I had to blink a couple of times to make the haunting image disappear. “Starting this summer, Nancy just started driving by my house a lot, smiling, always waving to me. At first, my mom would keep giving me money for ice cream. Usually a big handful of dimes and quarters. Then eventually Nancy, being as nice as she is, told me to keep the money, and started to give me the ice cream for free.”

  Andrew sighed. “I wish she would give me free ice cream,” he says, crestfallen. “It’s not fair that Nancy gives you free ice cream Billy, and none to me and the other kids in the neighborhood.”