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Mother

She came into the parlor, tall and willowy, weirdly seductive in a sapphire-blue silk robe, wearing high heels but perhaps nothing under the softly shimmering robe. She regarded Pastor Larry with a pained expression signaling frustration, disgust, and contempt, as one would regard an abject coward who had responded to a challenge by soiling his pants. Pastor Larry might well have soiled his pants, but as yet there was no olfactory evidence of it.

When she was done fixing the reverend with a desiccating stare that should have left him as dry and crisp as an autumn leaf, Britta Hernishen turned her attention to Rebecca. “Quite a performance. Are you sure you didn’t leave out a few proofs of your savage rage that occurred before the dynamite? Perhaps you broke the villain’s feet with a sledgehammer, pulled his hair, gave him a wedgie, forced him to eat scorpions.”

“I’d like to force you to eat scorpions,” Rebecca said, “but the venom in your blood suggests you already eat them every day for breakfast.”

Bobby knew better than to insert himself into a confrontation between Hannibal Lecter and Clarice Starling, yet he stepped forward and said, “What are you doing here? No, don’t tell me. But please tell me this sorry pile of human debris”—he indicated the reverend—“isn’t Ernie’s father.”

Ignoring him, Britta tapped the venom in her heart to respond to Rebecca. “You are a naive little girl who has foolishly gone to war with a power greater than you can comprehend.”

“It worked for Joan of Arc. But I will admit you’re more of a man than I could ever be.”

“Is it your habit to respond to unpleasant truths with juvenile insults? Perhaps that could be a consequence of reading nothing but summaries of summaries of illiterate screenplays. What do you think? Is that a credible hypothesis?”

Bobby said, “Please tell me Larry isn’t Ernie’s father.”

“What I think,” Rebecca said, “is you’re a phony intellectual. If they revoked the degrees you faked and cheated your way through, you’d be on the dole or making a living by scavenging discarded soda cans from dumpsters.”

“If I were you,” Britta said, “I would not blithely challenge the academic achievements of others when your only education has been acquired while lying on your back for a series of producers.”

“Please tell me Larry isn’t Ernie’s father,” Bobby pleaded.

Spencer said, “Tell him. Please. Please tell him.”

No more bowed than George Washington was in the dark days at Valley Forge, Rebecca declared, “You browbeat people, bully them, so they won’t dare call you out on all the mean, stupid things you say and do. Is that an assessment we can agree on? What is your position on the matter?”

“My position, Ms. Movie Star,” said Britta, “is that you are an empty vessel who makes her way through life by playing roles. For example—”

“Me? Your entire life is pretense,” Rebecca countered. “The wise and confident professor has no wisdom.”

“I will generously forgive your interruption,” said Britta. “Your kind cannot help being rude. It is as congenital as any physical birth defect.”

“Please. Tell us,” Bobby urged. “Ernie’s dad. Not Larry.”

“I can’t take this,” Spencer said. “Not knowing. I can’t.”

Britta continued, “To my Larry, you promoted the absurd claim that you killed a man. That was mere acting, and of a low quality. You haven’t the spine and calculation to kill a man. I know what it requires to succeed at homicide. I killed Ernie’s father. I was not caught and never will be.”

The silence in the parlor was preternatural until Bobby said, “Well, that’s different.”

“It wasn’t me,” Pastor Larry said. “I’m not the boy’s father. My affair with Britta started long after Ernest was born. And it’s the best sex of my life. Her lust is—”

“No!” Bobby commanded just as Spencer shouted, “Shut up, shut up, shut up!”

Words alone might not have stopped Pastor Larry from revealing something that would have caused the amigos grievous psychological damage that no therapist ever born could ameliorate. However, when Bobby and Spencer made threatening moves toward him, the reverend quieted and covered his face with his hands.

“Who was Ernie’s dad?” Rebecca asked.

“That does not matter,” Britta replied. “He was a person of no consequence. You are all persons of no consequence—I am surrounded by your kind—but he was of even less consequence than you, if you can imagine such a thing. He returned when Ernest was three years old and expected to be in my son’s life. He learned otherwise.”

“Wow,” said Rebecca.

“You will cease to take that impertinent tone with me,” Britta said. “I will not tolerate it. You are in no position to behave as you have been behaving, and you will cease. Do you understand what you have been told? Have you the intelligence to recognize the predicament you’re in and respond to it rationally?”

Rebecca shook her head. “You’re bug-shit crazy.”

“I am saner than any of you. I have been wise enough to align myself with Beta.”

“Praise Beta,” said Pastor Larry.

Britta smiled. “You will all die here shortly. Beta will see to that.”

“Praise Beta,” Larry repeated.