Succubi

“…sometimes things seem bad to us, but they’re not really bad,” a voice was saying. The voice was unmistakably her mother’s.

“You mean, like God?” queried Melanie’s voice.

“You can think of it that way, dear. But it’s more than that. Somewhere, yes, there is an overseer, that watches over us and our lives. But everything is part of something else. We are all pieces of a great plan, Melanie.”

“What kind of plan?”

“Well, it’s not an easy thing to define. It’s in the heart. It overrides what we are, or what we may think we are, as individuals, because there really are no individuals. We’re all part of something that is greater than what we can ever be by ourselves. Do you understand, honey?”

“I think so.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”

“Is that the same as saying that God works in strange ways?”

“It’s more than that, much more. It’s the same as saying we’re all here for a reason that’s so complex, we can’t possibly see it all at once. And everything that happens, happens as part of that reason.”

Ann stood outside the door, infuriated. She did not make herself known, she only listened.

Melanie’s silence reflected her confusion.

“Let me put it this way, dear,” Ann’s mother continued. “It’s like what we were talking about yesterday. We think of death as bad. Your grandfather is dying, and we see that as bad because we love him. But it’s not really bad, we only think it is because we’re not capable of understanding the plan completely.” Her mother’s voice lowered. “People die for a reason. It’s more than just a part of nature. Death isn’t the end, it’s a stepping stone to a better place.”

“Heaven, you mean.”

“Yes, Melanie, heaven.”

Ann stepped back into another room so as not to be seen. She was seething. Her anger pulsed like a headache.

“I hear you’ve met some new friends.” Now they were out in the hall. “You go and see them now. We’ll talk later.”

“Okay, Grandma.”

Melanie went down the stairs.

“What the hell are you doing?” Ann demanded when she stepped out of the room.

“Oh, good morning, Ann,” her mother said. “I’m glad to see you’re in your usual cheery mood.”

“Where do you get off saying things like that to my daughter?”

“The poor thing is confused. Someone has to talk to her about reality, about death.”

“I’m her mother,” Ann reminded. “That’s my job.”

“Indeed it is, and just one of countless aspects of motherhood that you’ve conveniently neglected. Were you ever going to take her in to see him?”

“I wanted to give her some time, for God’s sake!”

“Time, yes.” Her mother chuckled. “You’ve given her seventeen years to wallow in confusion. Isn’t it time you started explaining some things to her?”

“What? About plans? About heaven? Since when do you have the right to influence her spiritually?”

“I have more right than you. What do you know about spirituality? You’re a lawyer, remember? You’re more concerned about litigation and lawsuits than your own daughter’s upbringing.”

Ann stormed off. She fled down the stairs and out into the backyard. She wanted to scream. She wanted to run away.

Yes, it would be nice to run, to run away from everything.

It took her hours to cool off. How could her mother have said such things?

But when the anger wore away, a grayness set in. It always did after a deliberation. Here, or in court—it didn’t matter where. At the end of the confrontation, she was always left to wonder if the opposition was right.

“You’ll always be at odds with her, Ann,” Martin said a little later. They were going for a drive. “I don’t know why, that’s between you and her. The best way to deal with it is to try to understand the reason.”

“She’s a contemptuous bitch! That’s the reason!” Ann yelled.

“Listen to yourself,” Martin said. “You’re going to have to be more reasonable about this than that. You have to come to terms with your mother’s bitterness, and your own.”

“My own!” she objected.

“Ann, you just referred to your mother as a contemptuous bitch. That sounds pretty bitter to me. I don’t understand how you can be so cool and objective about everything, but the minute your mother’s involved, you fly off the handle.”

Ann seethed in the car seat.

“All I mean is that the way you and your mother deal with each other isn’t working. It never has, and never will. You’ll have to find another way to deal with each other.”

“Yeah, how about not dealing with each other? That sounds good to me.”

“I think that’s been the problem all along, Ann.”

“I can’t believe you’re siding with her.”

“I’m not siding with her, Ann. She’s not exactly my favorite person, you know. But it happens every time. You two can’t even be in the same room without going at it like a couple of pit bulls. It’s tearing you up, and it’s not a good thing for Melanie to be exposed to. Someday you’re going to have to resolve this, and the resolution isn’t going to come from her, Ann. It’s going to have to come from you. Your mother’s obstinate and stubborn. She’ll never change the way she perceives you. You’re going to have to adapt to that.”

Good Christ, she thought. How could she adapt to her mother’s contempt? Was everyone against her?

“Just forget it for now,” he suggested. “Let’s go for a walk.” Ann frowned as he parked the Mustang in front of the town hall. It was a pretty day, warm but not humid. At the end of the great court, the white church loomed.

It made her think of what her mother had been telling Melanie. Why should a woman so incognizant of religion put the topic of death in such terms? And that question made her think of Dr. Harold, who’d suggested that the occult trimmings of Ann’s nightmare reflected a subconscious guilt from raising Melanie in a neutral religious atmosphere.

Martin put his arm around her. “Let’s get an ice cream cone.”

“There’s no ice cream parlor in Lockwood.”

“Ah, well, it’s bad for us anyway. What’s that?”

NALE’S, the big sign read. “It’s the general store,” Ann told him.

“They sell generals there?”

“Funny, Martin. Stop trying to cheer me up with bad jokes.”

“Okay, how about a worse joke? How do you sneak up on celery?”

“How, Martin?”

“Stalk.”

“You’re right, that is worse.”

The scent of spices and ginger greeted them when they entered. Nale’s was more like a country gift shop than a general store. Lots of knickknacks, dolls, homemade preserves, and the like. From a long rod hung hand dipped candles. Evidently, everything here was handmade: quilts, pot holders, utensils, even some chairs and tables. Ann remembered Mr. Nale, the nice old man who ran the store. He made his own licorice and would give all the kids a piece on their way to school.

“Would you like some ice cream?”

Ann and Martin turned. A rather short woman smiled at them from behind the counter. She was roughly