A Fine Mess of Things

By L. A. Buday

Drama, Mystery) In 1985, at the Reef Net Inn on San Juan Island, Washington, a dysfunctional family gathers for a ‘video will’ following the death of the eldest daughter and amid strange events at the inn, are confronted with long-kept secrets and reconciling their beliefs regarding family relationships, love, marriage, aging and death.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Aug 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781483503257

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

Gently lowering herself down to the edge of the roof, Laura accepted the support of the rusty rain gutter as it painfully pressed into the backside of her bare thighs. The brown shingles surrounded her like an antique checkerboard, tattered in places or completely torn away; neglected spots, exposing the water-soaked plywood of a roof her grandfather had nailed down some sixty years earlier. Pine needles clogged the decaying gutters, allowing grass to grow in bright green spurts here and there, intermingled with patches of spongy moss. She let her long legs dangle over the side of the two-story cabin, and slowly began to swing them, one at a time, to a tune that kept repeating in her mind.

Her grandfather had taught her this song as he plucked the chipped keys on his upright piano. Shoo fly…kick…don’t bother me…swing back …shoo fly…kick the other leg…don’t bother me. Humming as her tan legs evenly pivoted back and forth, she leaned over just a few inches more to look at her feet. The eave beneath her cracked and the gutter gave out a grinding groan as the bend she was creating deepened. She uncurled her toes and watched, as first one and then the other, of her favorite flip-flops flew up into the air, only to plummet, abandoned, to the rocky lakeshore below.

Laura looked up at the view before her, slowly taking in as much detail of the shimmering golds, greens and blues that an early morning on Lake Mayfield offered. Before her spread a blanket of autumn woods breathing life into central Washington, with Mount Rainer looming in the distance; protective, ominous, yet gloriously reflecting the dawn’s first glimmer.

Slowly, the sun’s early rays crept up the walls of her grandparents’ cabin, revealing the first floor screened-in porch to her left, and the blackened cedar shingles around the kitchen window to her right. Two stories below, just yards from the porch, lay the lopsided dock, with its dull grey slats, rusting nails and two weather-pitted cleats. It gently bobbed on the lakeshore, groaning softly with the steady waves, as though each surge beckoned for her grandfather’s missing fishing skiff.

Taking a deep breath, Laura relaxed, giving in to the sweet earthy scents of pine and burning wood that filled the air. The large fir tree, left standing when her grandparents first laid the foundation, was now leaning toward the roof, its branches gently swaying. A robin flew by so close that she could have reached out to pluck the struggling worm from its beak, and she laughed with giddiness.

Swinging her legs slowly to the beat of Shoo Fly, she closed her eyes, giving in to the flood of forgotten images; seeing within her blood-tinted eyelids, the red and black squares of her grandfather’s hunting shirt.

They had walked through these woods in search of just the right spot. The morning had been crisp, and she wore a cotton jacket over her striped Carter’s T-shirt. A tiny baseball hat covered her short brown curls and the dry leaves crunched under her favorite Buster Brown shoes. Stopping under a giant tree, her grandfather Art had knelt down as if to say prayers, so she had mimicked his move, kneeling solemnly beside him, her tiny hands already forming the cathedral. Her grandfather however, began to brush away a thick layer of pine needles and leaf mulch from the ground in front of them, and then carefully wrapped her fingers around a wooden-handled trowel. At the time the tool had seemed so heavy. Her grandfather’s Woolrich hunting shirt, in a standard red and black plaid, felt warm and prickly against her cheek.

He then placed his hand over hers as they dug down only a few inches and overturned a mound of damp, loose earth. She had let out a childish squeal of laughter and fright as she watched swarms of worms slithering among themselves, scurrying down to hide from the sudden exposure. Art had then laid a smaller portion into her anxious hands and waited for her to feel the movement, watching her eyes get big with alarm, before she burst with another triumphant laugh.

Laura, even now, could recall the smell of the dirt and feel its coolness on her hands, and her chest swelled again with the wonder of it all. She also remembered the coarse feel of Art’s giant index finger as she held on tightly on their walk back to the lake. Only years later did she realize that his hands were permanently calloused from the daily woodcutting and sanding required to build his pine rocking chairs.

Her grandfather had rowed the fishing boat far out onto the foggy lake, with nothing but an old railroad lamp to announce their silent intrusion. Laura learned to bait her hook, place the line gently into the still waters and wait ever so quietly. The photo she found decades later showed her standing on the dock, a life jacket hiding all of her upper body and most of her face. She had lifted her chin for her grandmother’s camera and smiled above the faded orange fabric; a green Coca-Cola bottle in one hand and a small trout, held up proudly for display, in the other.

Later, she would rock gently in one of her grandfather’s rocking chairs, watching the back of their heads; grandma’s fluffy white one and her grandpa Art, bent towards her, still wearing his hunting fedora, as they cleaned the fish together at the oversized enamel sink. Laura would sit and wait, her small hands gently rubbing the smooth rounded arms of the chair as the cabin interior would fill with the sedatives of brewing coffee and freshly baked bread. She recalled watching in awe as her grandmother worked magic on the wood-burning stove, scrambling eggs in one frying pan, while keeping an eye on trout fillets as they sizzled in another cast iron skillet.

Laura had loved those early summers of her childhood and the adventures of being at her grandparent’s lakeside camp. Eventually, she would miss this quiet time with them, as the chaos of each new sister would join their group: Diane, then Carrie and a few years later, Liz.

By then Laura was busy being pack leader to her siblings, improving her level of patience, the painful virtue of sharing, and most importantly, how to care for others. Her three younger sisters had eventually proven to be wonderful exploring partners, built-in friends amid the sparsely populated lake community.

The four Porento girls enjoyed every magical day of summer in a place where time moved slowly, with not a pony tail made, and not one fingernail inspection held. It had been highly anticipated as the school years ended, looking forward to the invigorating and mischievous time at camp with their grandparents. The land of never having to make sure your shirt matched your shorts and where, instead of fretting over a scraped knee, you repeatedly told of its acquisition with pride.

The four of them had run through the woods of Mayfield Lake, discovering trails, scouring blueberry patches, or playing hide-and-seek among the large, moss-covered rocks that lined the stream where they filled the water jugs every week. Grandma had taught them to swim and Grandpa Art helped them master the complex art of fishing. It had become a game, this speaking the language of fish, as he had called it, whispering and listening.

They were wild little explorers, scrambling among the rocky dirt trails, discovering new playgrounds amid dense woods of pine groves, oak trees and an occasional redwood. Laura’s favorite had always been the native madrona with its smooth, multicolored branches, like rays from a blazing sunrise, stretching and twisting, high into the Washington sky.

Summer days would begin to cool and it would all sadly end for another year. The four Porento girls would return home to their Seattle suburb, slowly pouring out of their grandparents copper Chevy station wagon. Each would be sun-kissed-brown, hair in tangled ringlets, and filled with memories that would somehow, when they least expected it; guide them into their journey toward adulthood. Art and Vera would bring them back to their parent’s home, back to reality and school, back to making beds every morning and straining to mature as individuals under the overbearing restraints of a life their parents had in mind for them. An opposite world filled with manners, neatness, silent dinners and the grinding criticism served up daily from a mother one could never please.

Laura opened her eyes again, and with new resolve, slowly shifted closer to the roofs edge, peering down at the sandals amid the smooth river rocks below. She was so much older now and weary of change. Life offered little that surprised her anymore, and the cabin was empty…neglected for years.

Now? She wondered. No, not yet. A while longer.

The deteriorated rain gutter creaked loudly under the pressure, dangerously deepening the bend beneath her. She turned her attention up again, undeterred, past the porch and dock, toward the glistening lake nestled beneath a lingering layer of early morning mist.

This was what she loved most; the soft, peaceful feeling of being home. She felt the unrealized tightness within her shoulders and stomach relax, as she gave in to her surroundings. For ‘home was where the heart was’, Grandma Vera had always said, and growing up, Laura’s soul had always drawn peace here on Mayfield Lake. Her childhood had been saved, she always felt, by the grace of these summers.

Sitting perfectly still now, teetering almost to the brink, Laura maintained just the right balance of weight in her back and arms, listening to the lake water lapping against the rocky shore.

Now? She asked herself again. Yes, why not. You’ve waited for just the right moment. Somehow you just know. You just know that it’s time. It’s all up to you.

She felt her breathing slow, allowed her grip on the roofs gutter to loosen, pushed ever so slightly so that the bulk of her body would fall forward. She was weightless, airborne at last; melting into the blazing sky beyond.

Yes, now.

Suddenly, a shock wave rumbled through her, rising from the depths of her being, exploding in her head, bringing her back to the present, to reality amid harsh sounds and distant light, back to familiar voices that echoed in her ears.

Laura gripped the white sheet that was not hers, fell back again into the hard, crackling bed that also was not her own, waking from just another dream, but such a sweet one. Now she caught fleeting glances of her husband Tom and Matt, her son, her only regrets in departing. She tried to absorb their worried faces. She was just…so…very tired.

The last sounds Laura Porento Bennett heard on a warm August afternoon in 1985 were the soothing voices of her husband and son. It had become hard to distinguish them lately, whether in days or hours, she couldn’t tell any more, and it didn’t seem to matter. Her time was measured in painless intakes of a renewed breath and these last coherent seconds with them.

Tom’s voice whispered in her ear. It’s okay honey, we may end up together again, no one knows for sure, do they? What we’ve had was so…so wonderful. Thank you…thank you so much. Tom’s soft hair against her face had smelled like the sea as he pulled the faded quilt back up to cover her. Slowly he took her hand and laid it carefully on the soft, worn fabric of her grandmother’s handiwork. Her trembling fingers felt for the carefully chosen squares, pinched the yarn loops that joined each corner to another. Then her fingers encircled the small, cylindrical tool of choice.

Could I really go back she wondered? Where was back? What did it hold for her? Was there a different existence or simply nothing; and what was nothing if you had no sense of awareness? It did not matter any more. She had no fear now, only the knowledge that this current existence needed to end before she had no say in it, no control. She still had full control. She had it, no one else.

It’s okay to go, my love. It’s your decision. It’s okay to leave us. Her husband whispered again into her ear. She heard another soft sobbing, then the single word ‘no’ from her only son, Matt, but he was so far away…so very far.

Go? She wondered again. Go back? Yes,…back she realized; back to the old wooden cabin of her childhood. She would go back again; to warm summer days at camp, endless, lazy afternoons, sitting on the dock on Mayfield Lake, and dipping her toes into the cold, clear water.

The pain, overpowering all else, made her forget to breath, and yet she did, though in short painful gasps. She knew without thinking that this horror searing through her like a burning knife could stop; that she could make it stop, could make it all…just…stop. It was okay to go, yes.

Laura, at last, felt the calm power of her own actions as she felt for the second syringe. She focused on her right hand, willed her thumb to slow press down, applying the necessary pressure, sending the yellow fluid slowly down its clear, winding path. For a split second she was at the lake again, sitting on the cabin roof, gently rocking amid the heavy mist. She felt a soft breeze gently cross her cheek. It was all so easy, so relaxing, as though in the silence, a dark blanket had gently wrapped two warm folds around her.

CHAPTER 2

Limping across the plush bedroom carpet, Diane suddenly went down on her knees and started tossing every shoe and shoebox out of her closet. On one foot she wore one of her new black pumps made of top-grain ostrich. Her other foot lay seductively behind her showing the black reinforced toe of Nordstrom’s best stockings. Her St. John’s black dress was hiked up around her thighs as she dug deeper into the depths of the master bedroom’s huge walk-in closet, swearing under her breath in spurts of frustration.

Reaching the end of her patience, she pulled her head outside the closet and called out. "Rosita! Ro sita! When you vacuumed in here yesterday did you move my new shoes? Nuevo zapatos?"

The tiny Hispanic housekeeper appeared in the bedroom doorway carrying an armload of freshly folded towels. She responded quickly and with a look of indignation.

Meezes, I never touch your clothes, no, no your shoes, just move or put away for cleaning. Rosita ended her comment with a huff and continued on her mission to refill the linen closet down the hall.

She probably tries on all my clothes during the day when no ones home Diane thought. Her things never seemed to be where she remembered leaving them these days.

Shoving a wicker clothes hamper to the side, Diane finally spotted the missing shoe along with a stray sales receipt. She looked up to see that she was now under Keith’s suits and scooped up the shoe and yellow piece of paper all in one impatient swoop. Placing the sleek shoe carefully on her foot, she slid the receipt into her dress pocket and quickly checked the oversized Rolex watch on her left wrist.

Damn it.

Her long legs quickly took her down the hallway and as she passed her daughter’s bedroom Diane reached in and flicked the overhead light on and off several times, relaying that it was time to go. The music was deafening, but Jessica, her thirteen-year-old, turned and acknowledged her with a nod.

Be right down, one more and I’m done. Her daughter yelled over the bone-rattling bass of some rock band Diane did not recognize and held up a hand for inspection and reaction. Sitting before her three-way mirror the teen was applying a thick coat of what? Black nail polish. Diane’s mouth dropped.

There was no time for confrontations though. Still fresh in her mind was the evening not long ago when she had come home from work to find that her daughter had packed away all of her stuffed animals and daisy-print bedding. In their place, Jessica had laid out a black and red paisley blanket and completely covered her fifteen-dollar-a-yard wallpaper with posters of some rock group called KISS. Her school trophies were missing and the shelves were draped with black fabric, nesting glow-in-the-dark Gothic artifacts of unknown origin. Diane couldn’t understand how her little girl could sleep with those horrific faces looking at her from every angle.

As Diane made her way down the spiraling stairway her hand unconsciously felt the railing to be sure it had been dusted properly. She suspected that while she was at work Rosita sat on their white sofas, watching her Hispanic novellas on TV, working on nothing but their liquor supply. Lord knows no bottle endured a long shelf life in their house, so a few ounces missing here or there would never be noticed. She shuddered at the thought of having to train another housecleaner.

Entering the family room, Diane crossed the room, pushed the knob in on the floor-cabinet color TV, shutting off the football game in mid-play and cutting off her husband’s words.

Kyle get your fat ass off the couch and get your old man some pretzels. Hey! I’m watching that. Keith, Diane’s husband of fourteen years, stood behind the large mahogany bar mixing himself another martini; his glass not yet empty of the one he was working on.

He looked so handsome, Diane realized; almost attractive, in his three-piece grey suit, leaning on the rich, dark wood.

It wasn’t quite eleven a.m. though, and he was already belligerent.

Diane interrupted and counter-commanded. Forget the pretzels Kyle, just get your suit jacket. It’s time to leave. Go make sure Jessica is working her way to the front door and I’ll lock up the back doors.

Turning to Keith she finished her comments. It’s time to go Keith, and just for today, could you talk to your children like they were human beings?

Eight-year-old Kyle slid off the couch and hiked up his new suit pants that had slipped below his chubby tummy. Ah mom.

Keith placed his drink carefully down on a glass coaster, came out from behind the bar, passing Kyle as his son left the room, and quietly approached Diane. His powerful arms went around her waist, pulling her toward him as though to give her a kiss or hug. Suddenly, one hand reached up her back, grabbing a fistful of her long, blond hair and yanked her ear close to his lips. "Fuck you."

Diane froze. Not now, please, not today. Her mind reacted with the quick experience she had gained over the past few years. She leaned away, smiling up at him with gritted teeth. She closed her eyes as her stomach constricted; trying not to inhale the foul vodka-breath that spewed into her face, but the pain on the back of her scalp caused her to involuntarily gasp. Satisfied at the reaction, he pulled her head down and close again.

Rosita’s voice could be heard at the front door yelling her goodbyes. Without even a flinch Diane expertly squirmed away as Keith loosened his grip in distraction.

I’ll be there in a sec…. She yelled down the hallway, but her voice quivered, then failed. Ducking into the first door available, the guest bathroom door slammed hard as she locked it behind her.

Diane bent over the black porcelain toilet, but the overpowering smell of bleach forced her to stand up straight again. She waited. Nothing. The wave of nausea passed. After waiting a few seconds she flushed the toilet and stared into the oval vanity mirror.

When had her face become so hard looking, so angular? She ran two fingers gently over her left cheekbone and up to her brow line. Her head then dropped in fatigue and frustration. Sometimes she felt that if only…if only she had a gun. But, would she have the courage?

She stared in disbelief as a tear dropped onto the black marble vanity. Her manicured index finger smeared the droplet back and forth until it disappeared, but more followed, making their way down her face, taking a thin trail of make-up with them.

Looking for a tissue, she found the box empty and the toilet roll as well. Great job Rosita, she thought. Reaching into her pocket for a hanky she instead pulled out a yellow receipt.

As she gently patted her face with a hand towel, Diane stared at the paper for a brief second; trying to recall how it had gotten in her pocket, and then remembered it had been on the closet floor. Squinting to decipher the faint carbon copy, her eyes finally focused, making out Seattle Airport Hilton. Hmm. Two days ago. The total box read $245. Well, she thought, at least that explains where he was Friday night. The question didn’t even bother her that came to mind next. She simply didn’t care who he had been with; in fact, she didn’t care about much of anything lately.

Suddenly, her head felt like a giant vise was squeezing it tighter and tighter. Laura had died. They were on their way to a funeral…not for a friend or business associate, but for her own sister. The surreal sensation, compounded by the vague sense of loss all melded with the tightening feeling across her scalp. Diane held her head and imagined her eyes imploding from the pressure. A harsh pound on the door made her jump with a start.

Mom, let’s go! We’re all ready. Jessica knocked again on the bathroom door and Diane listened as her daughters shoes continued to click down the hall to the foyer.

Outside, a loud screech of tires announced Keith’s delivery of the car at the front door of their two-story mansion.

Diane smoothed her hair and patted the under-eye highlighter in an attempt to hide the creases that gave her the look of a desert-baked mosaic. Laura was gone now…she was the oldest daughter now. They had always been rivals, she and Laura, competing for the