plenty of time to brood over her, and their life together.
10
B UCK HAD BEEN KNOWN AS A MAMA ’ S BOY IN THE SMALL town near Santa Cruz in northern California, where they lived in a pin-neat Victorian house, painted yellow with white gingerbread trim.
People said Delia Duveen must have been in her forties when she had him, because all the other mothers at the PTA and Little League games were in their twenties and Delia looked at least two decades older.
And she never let that boy out of her sight. It was always, Buck come here, Buck do this, Buck do that. Buck was not allowed to play with other kids after school because he had to do his homework and his piano practice. And then there were the chores, bringing in the firewood and stacking the logs in the woodshed in the neat rows she liked, large ones at the bottom, small in the middle and smallest and kindling at the top.
Saturdays, he got to mow the rectangle of lawn in front of the house, and then to wash her car, an immaculately kept old Plymouth. And on Sundays, she drove him to church in that shiny, polished automobile.
He sat quietly beside her, short-cropped red hair combed flat to his head, wearing a dark blue blazer and starched blue shirt, with his striped tie neatly knotted. Plump Delia wore pastel dresses in summer, and a nice tailored gray suit in winter, and she always wore a hat. Nothing froufrou and frivolously feminine, just a plain straw with a ribbon, or a dark felt with a feather. She bought new ones every season, but somehow they always looked exactly like the old ones.
Delia and Buck never ate supper companionably at the dinette set in the kitchen. That was only for breakfast. Evenings, they sat opposite each other in the small, overfurnished dining room, beneath the blaze of a mock-crystal chandelier, sipping plain water from a glass because she disapproved of soda pop, and anyhow would never have allowed soda bottles on the table.
Her meals were carefully thought out, a different one every night of the week, she was proud to say. But it meant that each night of the week, Buck knew exactly what he was going to eat. And he didn’t like any of it. The pot roasts with watery spinach; the gray fish under a blanket of gooey white sauce, and the everlasting Jell-O with a blob of Reddi Wip—a different color and flavor Monday through Sunday. He craved burgers and fries, tacos, ice cream and hot dogs.
Buck Duveen hated his home, he hated his food, hated his life. And he loathed his mother with an overpowering force that from a young age had made him itch to kill her. But to Delia Duveen and the neighbors he was the perfect son. “Wish my boys were like him,” the neighboring mothers said to each other when their own kids were wreaking havoc.
Buck’s grades were good, he was a model student, and he worked hard. But inside he burned with a silent rage. At school he joined in the guy-talk of how farthey’d made out on the backseat, about the parties and drinking and the fooling around. And he sheltered his massive ego behind a wall of pretended indifference.
He knew a liquor store in town where the owner was so old, it was easy to steal a bottle of vodka. He’d sneak it into his room, prop a chair under the door handle, because his mother didn’t permit a lock, then lie on his bed, staring at the ceiling, knocking it back, neat.
He pictured his mother naked and himself with a knife in his hand, ripping her from end to end, seeing her guts spill out. He pictured the high school sweethearts taking off their cute little sweaters for him, then screaming as he did vile things to them. He pictured his strong hands around soft throats and a surge of power rippled through him. With the vodka in him, in his drunken fantasies, he
was
power. He was omnipotent.
He’d never really known his father, Rory Duveen. His mother had divorced him when Buck was three years old. She’d implied that she had no time for what went on in the bedroom.
10
B UCK HAD BEEN KNOWN AS A MAMA ’ S BOY IN THE SMALL town near Santa Cruz in northern California, where they lived in a pin-neat Victorian house, painted yellow with white gingerbread trim.
People said Delia Duveen must have been in her forties when she had him, because all the other mothers at the PTA and Little League games were in their twenties and Delia looked at least two decades older.
And she never let that boy out of her sight. It was always, Buck come here, Buck do this, Buck do that. Buck was not allowed to play with other kids after school because he had to do his homework and his piano practice. And then there were the chores, bringing in the firewood and stacking the logs in the woodshed in the neat rows she liked, large ones at the bottom, small in the middle and smallest and kindling at the top.
Saturdays, he got to mow the rectangle of lawn in front of the house, and then to wash her car, an immaculately kept old Plymouth. And on Sundays, she drove him to church in that shiny, polished automobile.
He sat quietly beside her, short-cropped red hair combed flat to his head, wearing a dark blue blazer and starched blue shirt, with his striped tie neatly knotted. Plump Delia wore pastel dresses in summer, and a nice tailored gray suit in winter, and she always wore a hat. Nothing froufrou and frivolously feminine, just a plain straw with a ribbon, or a dark felt with a feather. She bought new ones every season, but somehow they always looked exactly like the old ones.
Delia and Buck never ate supper companionably at the dinette set in the kitchen. That was only for breakfast. Evenings, they sat opposite each other in the small, overfurnished dining room, beneath the blaze of a mock-crystal chandelier, sipping plain water from a glass because she disapproved of soda pop, and anyhow would never have allowed soda bottles on the table.
Her meals were carefully thought out, a different one every night of the week, she was proud to say. But it meant that each night of the week, Buck knew exactly what he was going to eat. And he didn’t like any of it. The pot roasts with watery spinach; the gray fish under a blanket of gooey white sauce, and the everlasting Jell-O with a blob of Reddi Wip—a different color and flavor Monday through Sunday. He craved burgers and fries, tacos, ice cream and hot dogs.
Buck Duveen hated his home, he hated his food, hated his life. And he loathed his mother with an overpowering force that from a young age had made him itch to kill her. But to Delia Duveen and the neighbors he was the perfect son. “Wish my boys were like him,” the neighboring mothers said to each other when their own kids were wreaking havoc.
Buck’s grades were good, he was a model student, and he worked hard. But inside he burned with a silent rage. At school he joined in the guy-talk of how farthey’d made out on the backseat, about the parties and drinking and the fooling around. And he sheltered his massive ego behind a wall of pretended indifference.
He knew a liquor store in town where the owner was so old, it was easy to steal a bottle of vodka. He’d sneak it into his room, prop a chair under the door handle, because his mother didn’t permit a lock, then lie on his bed, staring at the ceiling, knocking it back, neat.
He pictured his mother naked and himself with a knife in his hand, ripping her from end to end, seeing her guts spill out. He pictured the high school sweethearts taking off their cute little sweaters for him, then screaming as he did vile things to them. He pictured his strong hands around soft throats and a surge of power rippled through him. With the vodka in him, in his drunken fantasies, he
was
power. He was omnipotent.
He’d never really known his father, Rory Duveen. His mother had divorced him when Buck was three years old. She’d implied that she had no time for what went on in the bedroom.
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