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swivet, but its ferocity now didn't faze Susan. She now knew the deal.

Marilyn lunged at her daughter, enraged, but Susan looked back at her and with a gentle smile said, " Sorry, Mom, you're thirty seconds too late. You're not going to get me—not this time. "

Marilyn's arms went around Susan's chest, half as if to strangle her, half for support. The clapping stopped and Irish ran over. " Mrs. Colgate, please. "

" You backstabbing little whore, " she shouted at Irish.

" Mom! "

" She doesn't mean it, " Irish said, trying to wedge Marilyn and Susan apart. " We've got to get her off the stage. "

Mall security arrived. Susan and Irish stood locked in place as two beefy men used all their might to keep Marilyn away from Susan.

" Come with us, ma'am. "

" No. "

Susan said pragmatically, " Guys, let's get her into an office or something. She's jagging on diet pills. She needs a cool dark place. "

" Traitor, " Marilyn hissed.

Susan grabbed her mother's handbag. She and Irish followed Marilyn into an office, where Susan made her mother swallow some downers. She phoned Don to tell him they'd be late. Irish left at Susan's asking, and Susan drove her mother home to McMinnville. Dinner was take-out Chinese, and they all went to bed early.

The next day was sunny and unseasonably hot for April, and Susan sat on the back lawn, suntanning her face between the two inner faces of a Bee Gees double album covered in aluminum foil. Marilyn beetled about between the car and the yard, planting multiple flats of petunias, daisies and white alys-sum. This struck Susan as odd, but not unusual. The previous year, Don's workers' comp kicked in and the family had upgraded from a trailer to a house, albeit a small, weed-cloaked and rain-rotted house. But living in a genuine house seemed to satisfy Marilyn, who didn't give much thought to interior design, exclaiming only how thrilled she was not to have to disguise axles with rhododendron shrubs.

Susan continued sunning herself, and in midafternoon she came in for iced tea and found Marilyn holding Don's hunting knife, a big honker from one of Karlsruhe's most sadistic factories. She was using it to carve notches into the wood of the door frame between the kitchen and the TV room—dozens of slits at various intervals ranging from thigh height up to her shoulders.

Susan said nothing.

Marilyn took a Bic pen and a pencil and began writing names and dates beside the slits " Brian 12/16/78, Caitlin 5/3/79, Allison 7/14/80, " and so forth.

Don came in from the front hallway, his hands black with SeaDoo crankcase oil. " Mare, " he said, " whatthefuck are you doing to the door frame? "

" Raising the price of the house, honey. "

Don and Susan exchanged looks.

" Don't think I can't see the two of you exchanging concerned looks. " Before her the mythical young Brian had broken the five-foot mark.

Don reached for his hunting knife, saying, " Gimme that. "

But Marilyn flinched away, then swiveled around like a Shark versus a Jet. " Like fuck I will. " Susan and Don were stunned. " We're leaving this little sugar shack, kids, but before we do, I have to raise its value. " She continued carving slits. " Studies have shown that the price of any home can be raised by a consistent

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