Divine Evil

down the steps. “Hello?”
    “Oh.” A dark-haired woman stood hesitating in the rain. “I thought you weren't home.”
    “I'm sorry. Come on in, you're getting soaked.”
    “I was just— Did I wake you?”
    “No.” Clare got a better look at the face under the wet hat. Mid-thirties, she judged, quietly pretty with big, dark eyes as the outstanding feature. “Rocco's, right?”
    “Yes. I'm Joleen Butts.”
    They were both pale, for different reasons, and both tried to smile. “Would you like to come in?”
    “I don't want to disturb you. I just … Yes, yes, I'd like to come in.”
    Inside, Joleen looked around for a moment. Clare had already started to fill the hallway. There were tables with bowls and flowers, prints and posters on the walls she'd picked up at yard sales and flea markets. The floor where Joleen stood, dripping, was bare.
    “Let me take your coat.”
    “I'm sorry to disturb you in the middle of the day. You're probably working.”
    “Actually, the rain's got me down.” She took Joleen's coat and hat and laid them over the newel post. “Would you like some coffee, tea?”
    “No, no, don't bother.” Joleen twisted the long strand of colored beads she wore. “I, ah, noticed your work outside.”
    “It looks pretty strange right now.” Feeling a little as ifshe were guiding a child, Clare showed her into the living room. “The noise isn't bothering you, is it?”
    “Oh, no. No, it's interesting to see—what you do. I'm afraid I don't know very much about art.”
    “That's okay, I don't know much about making pizza. You make a great one.”
    “Thank you.” Joleen stared around the room, wishing with all her heart that she had never come. “It's an old family recipe. My maiden name's Grimaldi.”
    “That explains why Ernie has Italian eyes. Sit down, please.”
    Joleen lowered herself slowly to the sofa. “You know Ernie, then?”
    “Yes. We got to know each other when he was modeling for me.”
    “Modeling? Modeling for you?”
    “Didn't he tell you?” Joleen's long, silent stares were making her uncomfortable. Clare reached for a cigarette and lighted it before continuing. “I used his arm for a clay piece.”
    “His arm?”
    Clare blew out smoke. “Yes, I liked the look of youth and virility. It turned out very well.” I—I see.
    “I wish he'd told you. Actually, I wondered why you didn't come take a look. I have some pictures. I take them of my work for my portfolio, but it's not quite the same as seeing the sculpture itself.”
    “Miss Kimball, are you having an affair with my son?”
    Clare choked, coughed up smoke. “What?” Eyes huge, she pounded on her chest. “What?”
    “I realize you might think it's none of my business, but Ernie's only seventeen. He'll be eighteen in November, but I feel I have a right to know as long as he's a minor—”
    “Wait, wait, wait.” Clare held up a hand. “Mrs. Butts, Joleen, I sculpted Ernie's arm, talked to him, gave him a couple of soft drinks. That's it. That's absolutely it. I don't know where you got the impression that—”
    “From Ernie,” Joleen interrupted.
    Staring, Clare leaned back on the couch. “That's just crazy. You're saying that Ernie told you that he and—that we … oh, God.”
    “He didn't tell me.” Joleen rubbed her chilled hands together. “He wrote it down. I was cleaning his room.” Looking away, Joleen pressed her lips together. She didn't lie well. “And I found some things he'd written. About you.”
    “I don't know what to say. I really don't. Except that I never …” She dragged a hand through her hair, wondering how to put it. “I realize you don't know me, and as Ernie's mother you would be inclined to believe him before me. But I swear to you, there was never anything physical, romantic, or sexual between your son and me.”
    “I believe you.” Joleen looked down at the hands twisting in her lap. She couldn't control them—just as she had come to realize she couldn't control her son. “I think I knew all along. I told myself I was going to come over here to protect my baby, but I …” She looked up again, damp-eyed and defeated. “Miss Kimball—”
    “Clare,” she said weakly. “I think you should call me Clare.”
    “I want to apologize.”
    “No.” Staggered, Clare rubbed at her temple. “Please don't. I can only imagine how you must've felt, thinking that I … I'm surprised you didn't break down the door and rip my eyes out.”
    “I'm lousy at