Between

by Angie Abdou

  Mexico. In-law time wasn’t supposed to be fun, Vero reminded her-

  self. At least her in-law time had a beach. So Vero braced herself and

  came to Mexico prepared for the worst.

  But it’s worse than the worst. With her nerves rubbed so raw she

  feels like one big, gaping cavity, even the thing she looked forward

  to—the sun—becomes a curse. It’s too bright, too hot, too loud. It

  makes her too faint, too nauseous, too tired, too sad.

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  Vero has spent the last two hours waiting on the beach for Shane

  and Vince to return from the tequila volleyball match up at the pool.

  Heather and Gregory arrive first, telling Vero that “the boys” have

  gone to get some beer so they can watch the sunset and then go back

  to the condo for a late dinner.

  “Perfect, there’s nothing a one- and three-year-old like better

  than a late dinner.” A shudder of nausea runs the full length of

  Vero’s body. This is not the Christmas she wants.

  Both Heather and Gregory slur their words slightly as if they’ve

  made an attempt to keep up with their sons drink-for-drink. Vero

  turns away from them and watches a group of young adults at the

  shoreline, the girls wearing only bikinis and Santa hats, posing with

  their coconut drinks as the boys take their pictures. Their limbs hang

  loose, and they fall into each other in clumsy hugs, as if they too are

  on Vince’s Speedo Navidad program.

  By the time Shane returns, Jamal has eaten one cigarette butt,

  exploded his diaper, bitten Eliot’s leg, and toppled over the neigh-

  bour’s table, bathing himself in a sticky mess of lime juice and

  tequila.

  “Hey, Shane, how about we go back to the condo and make some

  Christmas dinner for the boys? They’re getting hungry.” Vero holds

  a hand before her eyes, squinting up at him and trying to focus on

  his face instead of his lumpy, tubal Mexican flag.

  Shane ignores her question and looks at neither of his sons as he

  pushes out his pelvis and shimmies his hips. “How about this look,

  Vero Baby,” he slurs. “You feel like you’ve got a European for a day?”

  Vince sways even harder. Everything about their Bikini Christmas

  walk says, Look right here. Check out this package. Shane leans his full

  weight onto Vero’s shoulders, his breath hot in her face. She has

  been too absent and preoccupied with the boys to count his drinks

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  today, but based on the weight of the lean, she guesses he’s well into

  the double digits.

  “Hey, babe, time to ramp up this Christmas party!”

  She turns her face away from the smell of tequila and sweat.

  “That’s right, this party’s just getting herself started,” Vince agrees.

  “BIK-EEEN-EEEE CHRISH-MAS! Jush like I tole you. Nobody

  rocks shpeedos like me and my bro.”

  Vero watches as Eliot digs his fingers into the cooler and sticks a

  cube of E. coli-infested ice into his mouth. Almost instantly he starts

  choking. She smacks him between the shoulder blades, just a touch

  rougher than she intended. He coughs up the cube of ice, but glares

  at his mother, betrayed, as if there’s nothing he wants more than a

  case of Montezuma’s Revenge. An extra-fun guest for the Speedo

  Navidad celebration.

  “Vince. Okay, we get it. You’re awesome,” she says, lifting Eliot

  onto the side of her lawn chair away from the cooler and close to his

  grandma Heather, then grabbing hold of Jamal’s ankle as he makes

  a spirited dash for the E. coli cubes. “Awesomely awesome! But just

  keep it down. Everyone’s looking.”

  Shane falls back into Vero, and she pushes him upright, urging his

  stinking weight away from her.

  Vince holds his fingers up to his lips in an exaggerated shushing

  motion, imitating Vero at her most aggravated. “Shh! Shh! Everybody

  shhhh! Nobody can make any noise now. Jamal’s sleeping. Shhhh!

  Quiet for King Jamal, whose sleep reigns above all.”

  This catches Jamal’s attention enough that he stands still for a

  moment, and Vero can release her hold on his ankle. He smiles up

  at Vince, trying to decide if his uncle has made a joke that he should

  laugh at. Vero studies her baby’s puzzled little face in the golden

  light, the uncertain slant of his mouth—he’d make a perfect picture,

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  tottering here at the brink between innocence and cynicism. A per-

  fect picture, Vero thinks, if he were some other woman’s son. The sight

  of her own toddler on that innocence/cynicism teeter-totter is too

  much for Vero.

  “No, he’s not sleeping, Drunkle Vince. He’s right here, and he

  doesn’t know what you’re talking about. You’re confusing him.” Vince

  stiffens on the word Drunkle, and a nasty glint forms in his eyes. Vero

  should take that as a warning, but she’s not done. “Make fun of me

  all you want, but you don’t have to act like a raging alcoholic in front

  of your nephews.”

  Vince’s fist clenches, then gradually his whole body clenches until

  his face too is a fist. But Vero can clench too. Vince has awakened

  the sleeping grizzly-bear mama that took up residence inside Vero’s

  skin when she bore her first son. She senses the hair on the back of

  her neck rising and her fangs baring as she positions herself between

  Vince and her boys. Her body tells her: keep angry male away from

  little cubs.

  “Who pissed in Professor Nanton’s carbonated water?”

  Vince calls her Professor to remind her of her failures. She wanted

  to be a writer, but she’s an editor. She wanted to be a professor, but

  she’s a mother. He doesn’t point his question at her, though; he directs

  it straight to Shane and his parents, drawing the line—there’s us, Vero,

  and then there’s you—on your own. “Are we not following your rules,

  Professor? Maybe nobody should be allowed to have fun because you

  can’t have fun. Maybe we should all act like we’re nursing mothers.”

  He slumps and holds his hands to his forehead, “Oh lord, life is such

  a drag. Mexico is such a drag.” He throws his arms to the sky. “Poor,

  poor me with my free Mexican vacation courtesy of Shane’s horrible

  family. Life is so awful.”

  Vero steps away from him and starts piling Jamal’s clothes and

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  Eliot’s beach toys into her shoulder bag. Red pail. Blue shovel.

  Yellow truck. Fucking sand stuck to all of it. “You don’t have to get

  aggressive, Vince. All I’m saying is you’re loud when you’re drunk.

  You know you’re loud when you’re drunk. Just tone it down.” She

  hurls the last of the dirty toys into her dirty beach bag and turns to

  face her brother-in-law.

  Vince’s clenched face turns red, droplets of sweat rising on his

  wide brow. His face is much like Shane’s, but everything is bigger,
>
  like someone has taken the balloon of Shane’s head and blown until

  it’s ready to burst. Vince places his giant head so close to Vero’s face

  that she can smell the tequila on his slow, fat tongue. She scoops

  Jamal onto her hip, squeezes Eliot’s hand, and repositions herself

  to create as much distance as possible between the boys and Vince.

  “Right.” Spit pops off Vince’s tongue on the click of the t. “I’m

  loud when I’m drunk, and you’re a bitch ever since you had kids.”

  A hatred rolls over Vero then, a physical feeling so intense that

  she knows, even in this moment, that her rage is not just about this

  moment. Vince might as well be Shane. Shane and Vince: one and

  the same.

  Shince.

  “God forbid Shane should have some fun on his holiday. What

  does he need to do for you, Vero? Cut off his dick and put it in a

  drawer? He’s done everything else!”

  Vero hates Shince. And Shince’s parents. And Shince’s stupid

  holiday. And Shince’s Speedo Navidad. Blood charges into her arms,

  and before it crosses her mind to control her body, her own fists turn

  to tight little balls.

  “Clench your fist at me?” she yells inches from Vince’s nose. She

  doesn’t remember exactly what she says after that, but it’s something

  ugly. Something predictable. Something like: “You want to clench

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  your fist at me? I could punch you in the face right now. You’re such

  an insult! Such a pig!” Something festive like, “I hate you!”

  “You gonna punch me in the face?” Vince shows his teeth in a

  way that might be mistaken for a smile in another circumstance,

  but the rest of his face freezes, his eyes hard. “Do it then. Go ahead!

  Do it.” He pushes his chin toward Vero, his face almost comic in its

  grotesque display of anger.

  Later, she will wonder what Eliot and Jamal did during this time,

  and Shane, and Shane’s parents. She will imagine Heather and

  Gregory looking blankly at each other, mirror images with their

  noses and lips coated in white sun block. This? These are our adult

  children? This is the reward we reap from dedicating our lives to par-

  enting? But now, everything is Vince’s face—everything Vero hates,

  everything wrong with her life. Right there in the flesh. She wants

  more than anything to punch her fist right through it. She wants to

  feel teeth loosen, to smell blood spilling.

  She bounces Jamal’s weight onto her hip to let loose one of her

  hands. She tightens her fist hard, her fingernails carving four cres-

  cent moons into her palm, and raises it to shoulder level. “I’d love

  to!”

  “Do it!” Chin out.

  “I’d love to!” Fist raised.

  “Do it!” Chin higher.

  “I’d love to! ” Fist closer.

  While Vince and Vero hurl threats back and forth, some violent

  magnetism drawing them so close that their chests nearly touch, she

  runs through scenarios. She imagines taking every bit of her force

  and pushing the heel of her hand hard into Vince’s nose, watching it

  explode, blood smearing across his face.

  And then what?

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  “C’mon, Eliot and Jamal.” She lets her fists fall loose. “We’re

  going. Let’s get away from this crazy family.”

  Let them have each other, she thinks, I have my boys.

  “You shouldn’t have to see this, babies,” Vero speaks so evenly

  and with such calm that you’d think she hasn’t been involved, that

  she hadn’t raised her knuckles to Vince’s sweaty face and spoken so

  viciously that spit balls splatted his cheeks.

  She lops her beach bag over her shoulder and grabs the boys, lum-

  bering off under her load with as much dignity as she can rally. But

  she does nothing to stop her tears or to control her face, contorted

  with sobs. As she winds her way through beach chairs, eager to put

  distance between herself and Shane’s crazy family, she grows aware of

  tourists all around her. Families on bright blankets share Christmas

  feasts of seafood and salsa, the festive holiday aroma of coconut oil,

  rum, and dead fish heavy in the air. Look at me, she wants to say, pity

  me. I deserve your pity. Do you see what I endure?

  Nearly off the beach, she can still hear Vince shouting: “Your wife’s

  a fucking bitch! Your wife’s a fucking bitch! Your wife’s a fucking bitch!!”

  The refrain grows fainter as she nears the beach-side showers, not

  making eye-contact with anyone.

  As she steps off the beach and onto the stairs up to the first pool, a

  Mexican waitress squeezes her elbow and whispers, “Feliz Navidad.”

  Vero lets go of Eliot’s hand and wipes her eyes on the back of Jamal’s

  blue shirt that’s decorated with big piranhas eating little piranhas.

  She doesn’t know this waitress. She doesn’t know if this exact wait-

  ress has been serving her all week. The help here, all the carefully

  pressed servers in their white ball caps and orange golf shirts, they

  blend together. Vero knows then that she’s no better than Gregory

  Schoeman with his fat-fingered Una mas!

  She can’t smile at the kind waitress, but she nods and takes a

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  moment to really look at her. She sees a clover-shaped mole near her

  right ear, a deep brown line circling her pupil, a thin space between

  her two front teeth. She reads the woman’s nametag. Maria. She can’t

  speak, but she thinks, Hello, Maria. Tries to put it in her eyes. Hola.

  Gracias.

  ◊◊◊

  When Heather and Gregory come back to the room, Vero pretends

  to be deeply absorbed in Dora the Explorer with the kids. Dora and

  her monkey friend remind Vero of Vince and Shane, the big-headed

  leader and the unflagging follower. Vero hates that bossy little Dora

  bitch. “Say map! Say map! Say map!” And then, just in case one little

  kid in one little country in one little town hasn’t yet said fucking “map”

  already, Dora insists once more, “Say map!” Dora is just like Vince—

  Say what I tell you to say, and then follow me. And Shane—he’s the

  monkey.

  The blaring TV gives Heather and Gregory the space to have the

  whispered dispute they would usually avoid in front of Vero.

  “He’s forty-three years old. It’s not funny anymore,” Gregory says.

  Vero can’t see the level of distress on his face, but she watches his back

  in her peripheral vision. He still wears nothing but swim shorts. Little

  grey hairs curl up his spine. Two rolls of flesh hang at his waist, beads

  of sweat speckled across them.

  “It’s never been funny, Gregory, but you always encouraged it. Your

  football-star Vince, exempt from everyone else’s rules.” Heather’s

  bathing suit has ridden so high that Vero can see the white of her

  dimpled buttocks that glow against the angry red burn on her upper

  thighs. “You set the rules, and w
e followed. I let Vince do anything. We

  raised Shane to do whatever his brother Vince said. You encouraged

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  Vince to think he existed in a space apart from the ordinary. You led

  him to expect too much from life.”

  “I encouraged it? I did?! I didn’t want to mention it, Heather. But.”

  That single word carries a lifetime of meaning. But. He opens the

  fridge door, ice clinking. “Whose family has the history of alcoholism,

  Heather? Whose? It’s not my family.”

  “Oh.” A not-for-long empty glass slams on the countertop. “So

  now it’s my fault?”

  “I’m just saying. Alcoholism, it’s hereditary.” He throws his beach

  towel over the bar chair and steps toward the six-headed shower, car-

  rying a cocktail glass, ice clinking with each step. At the base of his

  spine a dark globe of sweat stains his shorts. They have got their faces

  in the trough—that’s what Vero’s mother, Cheryl, says of Mr and Mrs

  Schoeman. That’s the problem with our society. Everyone’s face is in the

  trough.

  “And all I’m saying is you should do something. And Shane too. He

  gets dragged into Vince’s debauchery every time. Talk to them.”

  “I should talk to them? For god’s sake, Heather, I’m sixty-six years

  old. I’m nobody’s daddy anymore. You talk to them if you think it’s so

  important. You’re their mother.”

  But the Schoemans stick to their plan for dinner. It is, after all,

  Christmas. There will be a Christmas feast. The condo units all come

  equipped with full kitchens, complete with convection ovens and full-

  sized fridges, but Gregory calls down to one of the five-star restau-

  rants. Before there’s any sign of Drunkle Vince and his monkey friend

  Shane, Gregory orders heaps of pozole, guacamole, menudo, burritos,

  tamales, and chimichangas. “What do you eat for Christmas?” he bel-

  lows into the phone, as if volume alone can break the language barrier.

  “Give us it all!”

  Jamal and Eliot have long fallen asleep by the time Vince barges

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  through the door with his pineapple crotch and Shane stumbles after

  him, his entire body a crisp pink. Shane has tucked a small towel into

  his Speedo. The towel almost meets in the middle at the treasure trail