"Well, spill your guts, Marty. Pardon the expression," she said to Sheila, which Sheila acknowledged with a polite smile.

If Norma had known what happened to Tish, she probably would've used a different figure of speech.

He spared her the sordid details, giving her a brief account of everything that happened since Pennsylvania. The teapot began to whistle as he arrived at their decision to drive out here and Norma poured two cups, served one to Sheila and blew on her own, nodding thoughtfully as Martin finished his story.

"Well, I can't say your mother will be thrilled to see you. If you thought she was a pill when you were a kid, she's the whole dang pharmacy now."

"Does she still...?"

Norma nodded. "She has her spells, time to time. Not like back then. Can't say there's a day goes by I don't think about walking out that door and never coming back. Glutton for punishment, I suppose."

"Punishment?" came the old woman's voice from the hallway, her Irish accent as familiar as if he'd heard it yesterday. "Is that what you call it, then?"

Martin stood, wheeling around to face his mother.

She was hunched over her walker, tennis balls on its feet to muffle their sound, her skeletal fingers clasping the grips. She looked older than time. Older than God. Her skin was so thin Martin thought he could see every sinew, every vein, every wiry muscle beneath it. Her cheeks were sallow, her green eyes—once full of "pith and vinegar," as Norma would say—had dulled, milky from cataracts, sunken within the deep pits between her brow and cheekbones. Her wiry gray hair was done up in a single braid that hung over her bony shoulder.

"Ma," he said.

A wave of conflicting emotions washed over him and for a brief moment, just looking at her standing there in the doorway like an ancient apparition, he had to fight back tears. Whether from joy, sadness or terror, he wasn't sure.

"Yes, 'Ma,' 'Ma.' As soon as they learn to talk, it's 'Ma this' and 'Ma that,'" she said brusquely, shuffling her walker into the kitchen to get a closer look at him. "Now what's this you say about murder?"

8

Mommie Dearest

"WELL, THAT CERTAINLY is quite a tale, isn't it?" Ruby said once he'd repeated a condensed version for her. "But you've always been a teller of tall tales, haven't you, Martin?"

He knew she was baiting him, and he almost bit the line.

"The question is, how much of it is true?" She turned to Sheila. Her opinion of Sheila Tanner as an "interloper" had softened since Sheila introduced herself with what, according to Ruby, was a "fine Gaelic name."

"Every word of it, as far as I know. I've never known Martin to be a liar." She shrugged. "Aside from a little white lie or two to get me into bed."

"See, Ma? Your boy made good.... Kinda."

Ruby ignored him. "And this serial killer? This rubbish about witches and warlocks?"