Antiques Maul

by Barbara Allan

  I, however, had made sure Soosh was running on empty before we’d left home, and it was comical to see the darling trying to squeeze out even one little chocolate drop to mark her return—much as I hated to spoil her fun.

  From the car I gathered up Sushi’s pink bed, and a tote bag containing her special dog food, insulin, and syringes, and followed Mother up the curved walkway, which was lined with colorful fall mums. The wonderful, smoky smell of burning leaves wafted toward me. The leaf-burning ban was restricted to inside the city limits—which was designated by the bypass; the ban was partly in consideration of those afflicted with asthma, but mostly due to an old couple who accidently burned their house down.

  Bob opened the front door as if he’d been poised there waiting for us.

  Mother gave her son-in-law a cheerful “Hello!” and brushed past him, stepping into the house; her level of interest in Bob was minimal, because somebody as cheerfully self-centered as Mother doesn’t have much left in the gas tank for a mere in-law. I, however, stopped short, startled by Bob’s appearance, although I hope I didn’t show it.

  Peggy Sue’s husband looked thinner than usual, face more gaunt, with less hair on his head than I’d remembered, and suddenly seemed way older than his fifty-plus years. Unless Bob was recovering from a recent bout with the flu, my brother-in-law was in desperate need of a vacation.

  I gave him a hug with my usual greeting, “Hi, handsome . . . what’s new with you?”

  He grinned, showing some of his old spark. “Not much . . . work, work, work. . . .”

  The two of us had a nice, comfortable rapport due to our mutual standing: We were both at the mercy of my sister.

  “You should get some extra help at the office,” I scolded.

  He shrugged good-naturedly. “That’s a problem.”

  “Yeah? Why?”

  “I’d have to pay them.”

  “Generally how it works,” I returned, while keeping an eye on Sushi, who was navigating the front stoop.

  Bob shook his head and grinned, changing the subject. “That dog’s amazing . . . she remembered every step.”

  I smiled. “We were underfoot around here while they rebuilt our house, remember?” As if he could forget. “And, anyway, Sushi is a regular canine memory expert. Watch . . . she’ll go straight to where her water dish used to be.”

  Which the little dog did, trotting down the long gleaming hallway toward the kitchen.

  Chuckling, Bob shut the door. “I’ll remind Peg not to rearrange any of the furniture while we’re taking care of her.” He was the only one on earth who could call my sister Peg and get away with it.

  To the right of the entryway yawned a formal living room, tastefully and expensively decorated, a wonderful room for entertaining. So, of course, nobody ever went in there except Peggy Sue’s cleaning woman. To the left, a formal dining room, also exquisitely furnished, the perfect place to share a sumptuous meal. Nobody but the cleaning woman ever went in there, either.

  Nostrils flaring, I followed the delicious aroma to the kitchen, where Peggy Sue was retrieving a pan from the stainless steel oven in a kitchen so modernized and gadget-arrayed that it would make Martha Stewart’s mouth water. Like mine was at the sight of Sis’s homemade lasagne.

  Peggy Sue—wearing a tan/light pink plaid jacket and matching wool slacks (my guess: Burberry), pearls, and pumps, her brunette hair perfectly coifed—looked like a high-power broker, and not the homemaker and sometime volunteer that she was.

  I’m not knocking my sister. If you got it, baby, flaunt it, flaunt it! And by “it,” I mean green stuff, and I’m not talking broccoli.

  Peggy Sue announced, “Dinner’s ready.” To her husband she commanded, “Call Ashley.”

  And Bob left the kitchen to get my niece, who, like every teen, was holed up in her bedroom. Back in my day, my bedroom was where Mother would send me for punishment, a sparse little chamber overseen by Madonna and New Kids on the Block posters, with no TV and no phone. Today a girl being sent to her room meant banishment to a barren landscape populated only by computers, flat-screen TVs, and iPods.

  The horror.

  Ashley arrived in short order. Tall, slender, brunette, and as beautiful as her mother (which was saying something), my niece could easily have earned my resentment for the comfortable, coddled, privileged, lucky, painless ride she’d had in life. But I imagined that having Peggy Sue for a mother had its drawbacks, and since I’d come back home to live, Ash and I had connected more and more, like sisters. Or like I would imagine sisters connect, when one of them isn’t Peggy Sue.

  Soon chair legs were screeching on the tiled floor as everyone took their proper place at the table that separated the kitchen area from the great room with its overstuffed leather furniture, huge flat-screen TV (turned off), and fireplace (roaring). Over the fireplace hung a huge portrait of the family, Photoshopped into sheer perfection.

  Utensils clanked, glasses tinkled, and everyone made yummy sounds as they dug into the Caesar salad, garlic bread, gourmet olives, and lasagne.

  I said to Peggy Sue, with the stiff awkwardness that I call my own, “Thank you for fixing dinner for us, Sis. It’s delicious, and Mother and I really appreciate it.”

  Peggy Sue waited until she had completely chewed and swallowed (unlike me) before she said, “Chicken cacciatore would have been a healthier choice . . . but you wanted lasagne, so lasagne you got . . . even though it’s heavy and fattening.”

  Wouldn’t “thank you” have been sufficient?

  The eighteen-year spread between sisters—both in age and social attitude—conspired against us ever being on the same wave length. For as long as I can remember I seemed to be a constant disappointment to my painfully perfect older sister. And my ramshackle self must have been a crushing blow to her.

  Is it possible to love someone but not like them?

  Ashley filled the strained silence by announcing, “I’m going to see Rocky Horror Picture Show on Halloween night with some of my friends?” (She was an up-talker, treating sentences like questions. The first couple of times are endearing, and the final few instances are guaranteed to induce teeth grinding.)

  Mouths stopped midchew at this unusual opening dinner-table gambit.

  Peggy Sue slowly set her fork down and looked pointedly at her daughter. “I wish you wouldn’t.”

  Ashley shrugged. “Why? I’ve never seen it and everybody says it’s a hoot?”

  “It’s not a hoot. It’s a disgusting, perverted movie. Encouraging all sorts of deviant behavior.”

  Sis had said much the same thing about Broke-back Mountain.

  Ashley was raising one well-shaped eyebrow. “Really? Have you ever seen Rocky Horror, Mother?”

  “No, and I don’t have to,” Peggy Sue said with measured distaste, “to know it’s . . . inappropriate.”

  “How psychic of you.”

  “I’m not psychic—I am merely . . . attuned to the youth culture.”

  I was staying out of it. It wasn’t my place to mention that Rocky Horror hadn’t been “youth culture” since the eighties.

  Ashley must have picked up on something in my silence, because she was gazing across the table at me with a mischievous twinkle. “How about you, Aunt Brandy?”

  “Huh?” Yes, I’m always ready with a sharp and witty comeback.

  “Have you seen it?” Ash found no greater joy in life than to pit me against my uptight sister.

  Which put me in a tight spot.

  I owed Sis a great deal. Starting with my childhood and her taking care of a little dirty-faced Brandy and a then not-so-stable Mother . . . all the way to the favor she was doing us, not just feeding us a decent meal but dog-sitting Sushi while Mother and I went antique hunting.

  I was pretending to study my Caesar salad. “Well, what do you know!” I pointed at the lettuce. “Am I crazy, or does that look just like Jesus? You can see his eyes, and his beard. . . .”

  Mother was leaning for a look, while P
eggy Sue’s expression turned horror-struck and Bob tried to disguise his amusement.

  “We really should save it,” I said. “This is way better than the pope in a pizza, or that Virgin Mary grilled cheese sandwich that sold on eBay for—”

  “Well, Aunt Brandy?” Ashley pressed with impish glee. “Have you seen Rocky Horror?”

  I sighed, shrugged, fessed up with a nod, adding, “Frankly, I’m surprised to find anyone who hasn’t.”

  The first time for me was with my BFF, Tina (you’ll meet her later); we’d been out one night in our college days, celebrating a test we both squeaked through, rewarding ourselves by imbibing a bottle of champagne on empty stomachs, and both tipsily thought the crowd lined up at a theater was there to see the latest Sylvester Stallone Rocky picture (although the people waiting were dressed kinda funny—but it was a college town, after all).

  The picture hadn’t been about Rocky at all, but our experience sure was....

  Two hours later, Tina and I stumbled out of the theater sopping wet, with hot dog pieces in our hair and soggy toast down our blouses. The really weird thing was that for quite some time I tried to make it work as a Rocky movie—I thought sure Rocky was going to box that guy in the gold shorts for the heavyweight championship.

  Later we saw it, fairly sober, three or four more times; but never had as much fun.

  Mother piped up: “Well, I have seen the flick. Quite entertaining, really. Catchy tunes! Some girls and I used to go to the midnight show, in Davenport—we each had our own roles!” She bolted to her feet, pushed back her chair, and (“put your hands on your hips!”) began to dance in place while singing, “Let’s Do the Time Warp Again!”

  To make Mother stop, Peggy Sue threw her hands up and caved: “All right, all right—you can go!”

  Ashley smiled. She glanced at me and I glanced at her, and my smile said, Nicely played.

  Mother sat down, imparting these words of wisdom to her granddaughter, “Do take a newspaper to cover your head, dear . . . or sit in the last row.”

  No one could put an end to a discussion like Mother. After the dishes were cleared (by me) and washed (by the dishwasher), I gave Peggy Sue a quick refresher course on how much dog food and insulin Sushi needed while Mother and I were away.

  Then I kissed Soosh on her mouth (I know, yuck) and bade them all good-bye, never once considering that any of these humans I was related to might deserve a smooch.

  While Mother made one last trip to “the little girls’ room” (as she insisted on calling it), Sis corralled me in the entryway.

  “You will use good judgment on what you buy.” It wasn’t a question.

  “Of course,” I said.

  She raised a forefinger and somehow managed not to waggle it. “Remember, Mother is on a fixed income, and if these antiques don’t sell . . .”

  “I realize all that.”

  Peggy Sue frowned. “You don’t have to be defensive.”

  “I’m not.” I wasn’t.

  “Need I mention the fake Grandma Moses painting you once bought?”

  Okay, now I was.

  “I got my money back,” I sputtered. “Anyway, Peggy Sue, this isn’t about money.”

  “Isn’t it?”

  “No, and anyway I have four thousand dollars, thanks to that incredibly rare Indian head penny I found.”

  My ex-husband had paid off the monthly alimony a while back in pennies, trying to get my goat; Mother and I had gone through every one of them (my father having been a coin collector), and henceforth I’ve encouraged my ex to continue payment in pennies, though so far it’s only been that once.

  “If it’s not about money . . .”

  “Peggy, this is about keeping Mother occupied in a productive way. She’s reeling from this blow Bernice dealt her.”

  “Ah. The theater director position.”

  “Yes. Idle hands are the devil’s playground.”

  “I see.” Nothing condescending; she really did seem to. “Thanks for looking after her.”

  “Hey, she’s my mother, isn’t she?”

  Mother appeared, tugging at her girdle. “Shall we go, Brandy, dear? Good-bye, everyone! Farewell!”

  Peggy Sue, Bob, and Ash all echoed Mother—well, not the “farewell,” just the “good-bye”—and then we were out the door and into the cool night and off to the Emerald City, leaving our blind Toto behind.

  The federal auction Mother and I were attending the next morning was being held in Rockford, Illinois—not exactly Oz, but not bad—a three-hour drive by interstate. Mother had brought along a Nero Wolfe book on CD that was about the right length for us to find out who the murderer was before we got back home. (If the story was too long, she’d make me drive around until it was finished, so I hoped she calculated correctly.)

  Mother popped the first CD in, settled back with a self-satisfied sigh, and said, “I love that man.” (Nero, Archie, or Rex? I didn’t ask.) Then she promptly fell asleep.

  I drove through the night, stewing about a number of things, mostly my strained relationship with Peggy Sue, my stalled relationship with Officer Brian Lawson, and my shattered relationship with Jake. Therefore I paid only intermittent attention to the CD.

  About an hour into the trip, Mother woke up with a snort. “What happened?” she asked.

  “What do you think happened? You fell asleep.”

  “No . . . No! I mean, what happened in the story, dear? Did Nero Wolfe leave his house?”

  Since I hadn’t been listening, I made a bunch of stuff up, based on eleven or twelve other Nero Wolfes we’ve listened to.

  Mother frowned and murmured, “Not Stout’s best,” and went back to sleep.

  Sorry, Rex.

  At about eleven that night we finally pulled into the Holiday Inn on the outskirts of Rockford. After some fancy maneuvering in the technically full parking lot, I invented a spot (or two) for our U-Haul-bearing vehicle, and then Mother and I checked in.

  The check-in was uneventful, Mother being too tired to indulge in theatrics. Our room was spacious with two beds, and within minutes we had stripped down to our skivvies (me scanty pink lace; Mother long pink thermal) and dove under our respective covers.

  Unfortunately, Mother—even after all of her car napping—fell asleep faster than I did, and began to snore so loudly the windowpanes rattled. I wish that were a joke.

  Whenever we were on the road together, I considered it a race as to who got to sleep first. If I didn’t beat Mother to the punch, the snore-fest would make slumber a challenge for me, no matter how bushed I was.

  And I would just like to know . . . how can a person still hear with a thick feather pillow clamped against one ear, and the other ear pressed against a six-inch mattress?

  So I got up a couple of times and poked Mother with my finger, but she only rolled over and snored with renewed vigor and as much personality as she brought to her stage performances.

  About two in the morning, deciding against murder or suicide or murder/suicide, I grabbed my covers and stomped into the bathroom. In the tub I made myself a bed, pulled the shower curtain closed, snuggled in, and finally, finally, finally fell asleep.

  I’m not exactly sure what happened next, but apparently Mother came in to use the toilet and I must have stirred and made a noise, because she shrieked—which startled me!—and I jumped up, grabbed hold of the shower curtain, which fell down over me, and then Mother began beating my head with a hairbrush while screaming, “Rape! Rape!”

  Actually the second one was sort of a question.

  I tried to fend her off, hollering over her shrieks and the shrieking Psycho strings in my brain, “It’s me . . . it’s me!”

  But my words must have been muffled by the curtain because Mother ran gracelessly out of the bathroom, waving her arms in Oh, Lordy, Miss Scarlet fashion.

  Stunned, I heard the front door open and click shut. I tumbled out of the tub, got onto my bare feet, and ran after Mother, catching her halfway down the hallway
by reaching out and grasping the tail of her thermal top like a relay baton, stopping her short.

  She whirled, relieved it was me. “Brandy! Thank God you’re all right! There was a big, hairy man in our bathroom!”

  “That was me, Mother, in the tub.”

  And please, if you believe anything I’ve told you, believe this: I am neither big nor particularly hairy. And certainly not a man.

  Her wild expression turned quizzical. “Well, my goodness . . . whatever were you doing in there, pretending to be a rapist?”

  “I was not pretending to . . . I was trying to escape your big, hairy snoring!”

  The quizzical expression turned dismissive. “Don’t be silly, child . . . you must have been dreaming. You know very well that I don’t snore.”

  I put my hands on my hips. “Are you kidding me? You sound like a pig rooting out—ohmigod! We’re locked out of our room!”

  We stood in the cold hallway gaping at each other.

  “Will you shut up out there!” requested a loud if muffled voice from a nearby door.

  This—or anyway the first word or so of it—scared us into leaping into each other’s arms. If only somebody’d been there with a video camera, we’d have made it onto one of those funniest video shows.

  We stepped apart, and Mother said, “You must go down to the front desk and tell them what happened.”

  “Me?”

  She frowned but her eyes were big—somehow they seemed bigger without the magnifying glasses. “This is your doing, Brandy . . . and besides, you look better in your scanties than I.”

  I had a bit of trouble picturing Mother in my “scanties.” I protested, “But you’ve got more coverage!”

  “Shut up out there!” another door said.

  This called for a time-out, and drew our attention to the end of the hallway where an elevator began to groan.

  I groaned, too, and then Mother and I goggled at each other with the shared thought: Where are we going to hide?

  A bell dinged.

  Too late.

  The elevator door slid open and a security guard stepped out.

  Mustached, beefy, wearing more clothes than us, the man approached, his stern expression turning amused as he neared us. Mother and I kept our ground, and what little dignity we had left. I held my hands, fig-leaf style, as if naked, not nearly naked....