Martin Misunderstood

An had felt tears well into her eyes.

'So,' Doug said, a teasing lilt to his voice, 'what's the lucky lady's name?'

'Mary,' she told him, stroking her neck the way that she imagined Jill used to. 'Her name is Mary.'

Martin's Lethal Injection, or Be Steel My Heart

Martin sat at a plastic table in the visitors' lounge, watching his mother get searched for contraband. She kept up a constant stream of chatter as hands patted her down and the wand waved over her body. Apparently, she said something funny, because all the guards laughed. Evelyn Reed was one of the most popular visitors at the prison. Nay, one of the most popular mothers in the country. She had been on every talk show and appeared above the fold on just about every newspaper printed. She was a celebrity of her own making, a star of stage and screen. Even the Ladies' Hospital Auxiliary had begged her to come back.

There was a hush in the nearly packed visitors' lounge as Evie made her way toward Martin. Some women raised their fists in the air to show their solidarity. Others stared in wonderment while still others took advantage of the distraction to pass drugs they had secreted in various cavities.

'Martin,' Evie called, waving her hand as if he couldn't see her. She certainly had a spring in her step these days. She'd started working out with a personal trainer after seeing herself on Oprah ('Why didn't you tell me I'd put on weight?'), and between the new exercise regime and her personal chef, she had managed to lose thirty pounds. Add to that the face-lift and the Botox, and you could understand how the 63-year-oldwoman before him looked closer to Martin's age than her own.

'Hello, Mother.'

'Oh, why are you always so dire when I come to visit you?' she scoffed, taking a pad and a pen from her Prada bag. 'You're such a downer.'

'I'm on death row.'

'Please,' she grumbled, and he could have sworn she had started using an English accent. 'You should see what these shoes are doing to my bunions.' She held out her leg so he could see the four-inch heel on her Jimmy Choo. 'I wore them on Regis and Kelly the other day and by the time I walked off stage, I was ready to kill somebody.' She had a sparkle in her eye. 'Figuratively speaking, of course.'

'Of course,' Martin said. They both knew what had happened. Martin was no fool – at least he wasn't as big a fool as his mother thought. He had spent a lifetime of reading crime stories and murder mysteries. By simple process of elimination, he had figured it out. There were only two people who could have committed these heinous crimes, and Martin knew he hadn't done it.

'Now,' Evie said, writing 'Chapter Twelve' at the top of the page with her bright, gold pen. 'My editor thinks we should talk a bit more about your childhood right after your father died. You're still blaming yourself for that, right?' She seemed hopeful. Martin nodded. 'What about that time I came home and found you in my underwear?'

'That never happened!' he screeched, horrified that the other prisoners might have heard. 'You can't write that!'

A guard appeared instantly. 'Dial it back, Martin.'

He nodded, gripping his hands together under the table. They were all on his mother's side here. She'd fooled them completely.

'Mother,' Martin began, 'why don't you tell them how you always bought clothes that were too big for me, so that when I went to school I got teased?'

She waved this off with a perfectly manicured hand. 'All mothers do that. Kids grow so fast you can't keep up with them.'

The guard paced back and forth behind Martin, apparently feeling the need to protect Evelyn. Martin kept his mouth shut. He had nothing more to say on the subject. There was no use arguing, because she would only point out that it wasn't her fault that Martin didn't grow. The too-big shoes, the baggy pants, the loose underwear that facilitated wedgies – these would all somehow be turned around on Martin and it would suddenly be his own damn' fault.

'What about men?' she asked, a pleasant lilt to her voice. 'Are you meeting anyone in here?'

Martin just stared at her, listening to the footsteps behind him as the guard paced away.

'Well, I'm trying, Martin. I really am. I come visit you. I talk to you. I try to bring a little happiness in your life…' She waited for the guard to pass, leaning over and hissing, 'Listen, you little fucker! If you hate it so bad in here then tell them the truth. Is that what you want to do? How interested do you think your precious detective would be if she knew that you were just a normal everyday putz who couldn't hurt a fly… and of course I love you, Martin. I could never hate you. I hate your crimes, but you will always be my son.'

Martin sighed. The guard had come back. He waited for the man to turn again and head in the other direction. 'Tell me how you did it,' he murmured. 'I saw you in bed when I got home from the massage parlor.'

'Massage?' Her eye twitched as her brain sent a message to raise her eyebrow, only to be told that the Botox had paralyzed the nerve. 'Is that what you want to call it, boy-o, a massage?'

'Handjob,' he sighed. His language had gotten coarse in prison, but then you couldn't see a man pull a shiv out of his rectum and stab another man and still say things like, 'Darn, that was a heck of a move, buddy!'

Evie was silent, her lips curved in a tight smile (though, honestly, after the face-lift, everything was tight). The guard walked away and she said, 'Pillows. You saw pillows.'

Martin leaned forward. She seldom talked about this and he wanted to strike while the iron was hot. 'What about when I came home from work?' he asked. 'You said you had a headache.'

'Your father used to fall for that, too,' she cracked. 'I put the car in neutral and rolled it out of the driveway.'

'How did you do it?' Martin whispered, desperate to know. This was where the scenario always got hung up in his mind. He understood that his mother had driven the Cadillac back to Southern Toilet Supply, but he could not for the life of him see anyone, especially Evie, being able to get one over on Unique. She was much too sassy.

Evie sighed, twisting her pen closed. She glanced up at the guard, who was talking to another prisoner. 'It's her own fault for still being there when I drove up. She was loading her car with UrWay.'

Martin 'tsked.' Office supplies were one thing; urine cake quite another.

'I asked her to help me to the bathroom. I'm an old lady, you know. I need help walking sometimes.' She winked on this last part – an unnecessary flourish, Martin felt. 'When we got inside, I "accidentally" dropped a twenty on the floor and pretended not to notice. I headed for the stall, and when she bent down to pick it up, I clobbered her with the sanitizer.'

'Hmm,' Martin said. Death by FreshInator. It seemed appropriate. 'And the mop handle?'

'It had to look sadistic, Martin. The sexual component is what sells.' She added, 'Besides, who would guess in a million years that she'd already had sex with you?'

'Shocked the hell out of me,' he admitted. 'But, what about Sandy? What did she ever do to you?'

'Who do you think wrote "twat" on your car?'

Martin put his hand to his chest. 'That was Sandy?'

'No, you idiot, it was me – but it seemed like something she would do.'

She had a point. Sandy could certainly take a prank too far.

'I just…' Evie shook her head, her voice catching. 'Martin, I just wanted a better life for us. I wanted you to stand up to people. I thought with the "twat" you might…' she shook her head, unable to speak. Martin reached out and held her hand. 'You have no idea how hard it is to raise a child on your own. I feel like I didn't give you things that you needed. Tell me what I did wrong! Tell me how to heal you!'