The Elizas: A Novel(54)

“I did everything in my power to win your mother back. After your father passed away, your mother found out he had bad debts and no life insurance policy. She really did work like a dog to keep you two afloat. I said I’d help out, but she wouldn’t accept my money.” Dorothy paused to sip. “Your mother is very proud.”

Dot widened her eyes. So Dorothy had offered to help out. She curled her fist under the table.

“From then, things started to fall apart between us again,” Dorothy explained. “She enjoyed working, and she made excuses to work, but I think she sensed it wasn’t right. The guilt weighed on her. She took it out on me. She was jealous of our relationship. Yours and mine. I could do for you what she couldn’t.”

“Did she send you away?” Dot cried.

Dorothy stared at the table. Slowly, she licked her lips. “I don’t want to drive a wedge between you, dear,” she said softly.

Dot snorted. The wedge was already there. “Mom says you’re unwell.”

A muscle in Dorothy’s cheek twitched. She took Dot’s hands and looked at her hard. Her eyes were so clear and violet. “What do you think? Do you think I’m unwell?”

“No,” Dot answered. But then she thought of what her boyfriend had said. That Dorothy was a bully. How much do you know about her? Why was he so mistrusting?

A group of boys about Dot’s age passed through the bar just then. Dot watched them carefully—they were bearded, dirty, their jeans cut skinny, their shoes carefully weathered. They were probably coming from the three-day concert that was taking place the next town over. It was the kind of concert where you camped out and took a lot of drugs; Dot and Marlon had thought about going but then had decided not to because neither of them had anything appropriate to wear.

The boys slunk up to guests in the bar and whispered in their ears. They were targeting other young people, it seemed, and each person they asked frowned, digested their question, then shook their heads. Finally, the boys made their way to Dot, but when they noticed that Dorothy was older, they started to move on.

“Wait!” Dorothy cried. The boys turned. “You guys either have something or are looking for something. Which is it?”

Dot nudged her. “What are you doing?”

Dorothy’s gaze was still on the group. “I’m not a cop, fellas. I’m honestly curious.”

The boys shifted their weight, stuck their hands in their pockets. They all exchanged a glance, then shrugged. “We have a bunch of flakka,” the shortest and dirtiest one, his dreadlocks literally caked with mud, said. “We’re looking for takers.”

“What’s flakka?”

“Not for you,” the tallest one said quickly.

“How do you know?” Dorothy asked. Dot stared at her in horror.

The boy in the middle, who was the most normal looking, his brown hair only a little shaggy and his face clean-shaven, shrugged. “It’s kinda like ecstasy, and it’s kinda like a roofie, except not as dangerous.” His friends nudged him and gave him sharp looks. “What?” he murmured to them. “She asked.”

“It’s not like she knows what a roofie is, dude,” Dirty Dreadlocks spat.

Dorothy scoffed. “I know what a roofie is, boys. And sure. We’ll take some.”

“No we won’t!” Dot cried.

Dorothy was already getting out some cash. Dot looked around frantically, paranoid someone in the bar was going to be wise to their drug deal. The police would come, Dorothy would go to jail, and Dot would somehow be implicated, and then her mother would find out.

It was over quickly, though, the exchange fluid and discreet. The boys slunk away. The biggest one’s dreadlocks bounced cheerfully. They all had slow, dumb laughs; Dot wondered if they were already high.

She turned to Dorothy. “What are you trying to prove?”

“Nothing,” Dorothy said haughtily. “Oh, well, maybe a little. I was teaching them not to be so ageist. Sometimes women in their early fifties like to party, too.”

Dot stared at the pocket where Dorothy had slipped the pills. “It’s not like you’re going to take those, are you?”

“I don’t know. Maybe.” She drained the last of her stinger. “Don’t worry, dear, it’ll be someday when you’re not around. A random afternoon when I’m feeling lonely.”

“Then I’ll have to stick by you every day,” Dot said. “Make sure you don’t ever take it. It might kill you.”

Dorothy’s face brightened. “Darling. That would be absolutely lovely if you stuck by my side every single day.”

Back at home, Dot told Marlon the story. She told it in a joking way—my crazy aunt! Isn’t she a card? She told him after they’d had sex, when he was in a good mood. But Marlon paled.

“Shit,” he said in a far-off voice. “I’d never even thought of that.”

“What?” Dot asked, sitting up. “What are you talking about?”

“Roofies. Maybe she’s drugging you.”

Dot barked out an angry laugh. “I can’t believe you’d say such a thing!”

“I keep working it out in my head, Dot. That night when we went out with her? You really hadn’t had much. There had to be something else in the mix. Something that made you pass out like that.”