Scarlet Oaks and the Serial Caller

by Michaela James

  With a vice-like grip on her hot chocolate, Scarlet marveled how debilitating fear was. One good thing had come out of the Andree scare. Sylvia and Scarlet were now friends. Would they have been under different circumstances, Scarlet pondered, maybe not. But here, thrown together in this dark and musky building night after night, stories were told and dreams shared.

  “What are your plans for Thanksgiving?” Scarlet asked, handing Sylvia her own thermos of hot chocolate.

  Raising her eyebrows dramatically, Sylvia answered, “Grandma’s house, if Mom doesn’t back out at the last minute.”

  “Why would she back out?”

  “Because…” Sylvia paused for effect, “last year Grandma drank too much and said some pretty nasty stuff.”

  Smiling despite herself, Scarlet asked, “What kind of stuff?”

  Mid-pour of hot chocolate, Sylvia explained, “Mom is on husband number four. Grandma warned her with the last two exes and the dufus she’s with now, to get a prenup. If she didn’t Grandma would leave her nothing. Mom was furious she brought it up last Thanksgiving in front of the dufus, a.k.a. Travis. Dufus, who was almost fall-down drunk at this point, said he wasn’t with Mom for her money. Uncle Brian started laughing, and then Mom accused him of running this radio station into the ground. Grandma said my mom and aunt were both a disappointment to her. Over the top of Mom’s shouting and my aunt’s crying, Grandma says she’s going to cut them off and leave everything to Uncle Eric.”

  Wide-eyed, Scarlet enquired, “What does your Uncle Eric do?”

  “I think he assembles stuff,” Sylvia replied, looking thoughtful. “He’s always been Grandma’s favorite.”

  Scarlet formed a mental picture of the soap opera type scene. “Has this caused a rift between the three children?”

  Sylvia shook her head. “No, Mom and Aunty Sue are crazy about Uncle Eric. Uncle Brian loves him too.”

  Seeing Scarlet’s slightly bemused expression, Sylvia added, “Uncle Eric has down syndrome.”

  Acquiring, be it grudgingly, a new respect for Brian, Scarlet said, “That’s a lovely detail I wasn’t aware of. I have to ask …Did your Mom get Travis, a.k.a. dufus, to sign a prenup?”

  Laughing as she topped up her hot chocolate, Sylvia replied, “Hell no. That woman has no self-esteem. She’ll march any loser down the aisle as soon as look at him.”

  Frowning, Scarlet looked at her new friend, waiting for the irony to hit. That blow never came and feeling it was too early in their relationship to point out harsh realities, Scarlet enquired,

  “Do I even need to ask how you get along with dufus?”

  Sylvia curled her lip. “My brother and I call him three trick Travis. Trick one is before he’s had a drink. He’s all fidgety and irritated by everything we say or do. Trick two is after his first or second drink. He’s suddenly interested in us and talks to us like we’re real people. Then trick three is after his third, always the third, drink. It’s weird, but his face even looks different. He asks us if we know who our father is. When we ignore him, he says he didn’t think so, how could we if our Mother doesn’t.”

  Wishing she hadn’t brought up such a painful subject, Scarlet changed the topic. “I didn’t know you had a brother. Is he younger or older than you?”

  “Story Sam!” Sylvia exclaimed with a huge smile, saving Scarlet enquiring how they got along. “He’s four years older than me.”

  “Story Sam,” Scarlet repeated quizzically,

  “Just Sam to everyone but me,” Sylvia explained. “I’ve called him Story Sam since I was three years old. I get confused which dude it started with, but I think it was our first Dad. He used to hit our Mom something awful. When Sam could, he would take me to a different part of the house. He couldn’t always ’cos I think we lived in a motel room for a while. Sam would tell a story to take my mind off the violence. If we were stuck in one room, he’d make me focus on him while he spoke so I wouldn’t see our Mom getting hit. The story was about a family of mice who were looking for their perfect home. All the mice had names and personalities. He would describe what each one of them was wearing and what musical instrument they played. This same story carried on for years and years, through all Mom’s husbands and the abuse. Whenever it began, whether it was yelling, breaking shit or worse, I would say Story Sam, and he’d begin. These mice traveled everywhere. Always having adventures and stuff.”

  Suddenly aware there were a couple of tears rolling down her cheeks, Scarlet checked the console.

  “Sylvia!” she almost shrieked, “look at the time.”

  Opening her mouth in a silent gasp, Sylvia gave a small smile and left the studio.

  “I’ve been on hold for ten minutes,” came the familiar voice of Rod from Modesto.

  Four hours later, setting her equipment to sleep mode, Scarlet looked up as Sylvia entered the studio.

  “I’m going to miss you,” Scarlet stated.

  With a turned down mouth, Sylvia said, “Not as much as I’ll miss you. I still have to be here, whether anyone’s on the air or not. You do realize I’ll be all alone in this dump until you get back.”

  Having forgotten a P.I.B.’s role, Scarlet felt a mixture of worry and guilt flood over her.

  “Sylvia, you can’t be here alone. Not after all that weirdness with Andree.”

  “He’s in San Diego,” Sylvia replied, waving her right hand in the air.

  Scarlet doubted that to be true. “What about Story Sam. Could he hang here with you?”

  “I guess,” Sylvia mumbled distractedly while rooting around in her large, but still crammed to the brim purse.

  “Sylvia, humor me here,” Scarlet urged.

  Holding her lip balm in the air as if she’d just found Willy Wonka’s golden ticket, Sylvia replied,

  “Geez, Oaks. I may as well have been here alone when Harold was doing your show.”

  Scarlet took a moment to savor the affection she felt for her new friend. From the military style name choice, keep it real attitude and multicolored hair, Sylvia had become one of her favorite people.

  “Alright!” Sylvia conceded after Scarlet stared her down for a few seconds. “He gets back from college today. I’ll ask him as soon as he’s settled.”

  Standing to the far left of her picture window, Scarlet felt some semblance of normalcy returning. Clear blue sky engulfed the Golden Gate. Likewise, the fog she felt she’d been heaving her body through was dissipating too. Maybe Andree was in San Diego. Besides, Scarlet had decided he was nothing more than a petty thief who spouted scary threats to impress young women.

  Due to this deduction, she’d chosen not to tell Niles and Tom about Andree. Her own needed questions as to how the caller knew about a P.I.B. had been answered. He’d obviously known enough, was close enough, to really scare Scarlet. But … he’d been showing off for Sylvia. Long nights and honest declarations left Scarlet in little doubt as to Sylvia’s resolve on making better choices. Andree would never be a part of either girl’s life again. Besides, Niles and Tom worried enough about her already.

  As if on cue, the bell rang. A stunning view, Scarlet mused as she unlocked the door, was as time-consuming as a favorite television show.

  “Sorry guys,” she exclaimed seeing Tom and Niles take in her state of undress. “I lost track of time this morning, but I’ll be ready in a jiff.”

  “No worries, we’ve got time,” Niles said reassuringly. “We’ll make some tea while you cha…. Oh, my word.”

  Halfway down the corridor, Scarlet turned, “What?”

  “That pig is huge!” Niles declared. Tom, hand over his mouth, volunteered no comment.

  “By that pig, I presume you mean Prudence?” Scarlet asked indignantly. “And yes, Prudence has had a little growth spurt recently.”

  A short snort of laughter came out from behind Tom’s hand. Niles’ mouth moved, but no words came out.

  Both men, lowering their heads, hastily made their way into the kitchen.

  Lifting her ch
in, Scarlet addressed her pet, “Ignore those rude boys, my love. You are the most beautiful pig in the world.”

  Making a little squeal sound, as she always did when Scarlet spoke directly to her, Prudence followed her staunchest supporter into the bedroom.

  Fifteen minutes later, dressed in skinny jeans, a black t-shirt, and her cherry red Doc Martens, Scarlet found Niles and Tom, tea in hand, sitting at her breakfast bar. Kissing them each on the cheek, she said,

  “Happy Thanksgiving!”

  “Happy Thanksgiving to you too, sweetheart,” Tom said, standing to give her a hug.

  Niles had bent down to make amends with Prudence. But in doing so, struggled with his vow to desist with the rude remarks. Prudence had reappeared from Scarlet’s bedroom wrapped in some sort of shawl. The garment, tied in the center of the animal’s back, boasted sequins, beads, and tassels. Poor Prudence now resembled a spooky little fortuneteller.

  Aware of the hilarity of this outfit, Scarlet willed herself not to laugh.

  Niles stood up straight. “Yes, Happy Thanksgiving to you and Madam Prudence.”

  The trio said their goodbyes to the little clairvoyant then began the journey to St. Christopher’s Dining Hall.

  Remembering why she never wore perfume around Tom, Scarlet cracked her window as ‘Oud Wood’ scented anyone within six feet of him.

  Moments after finishing their friendly debate of whether they’d exceed last year’s four thousand, six hundred pounds of turkey served, Tom steered around a corner to reveal hundreds of people in line, blocks away from the church.

  Four hours later, exhausted but happy, the three volunteers relaxed on Scarlet’s couch and exchanged stories. Niles had overseen yams and now, sweaty and sticky, stated if his Great Aunt Beatrice dared to produce one at their Thanksgiving celebration he would have to get up and leave. Tom admitted that, for the third year straight, he’d been bullied by Amanda and her receding hairline. Smiling at her uncommonly disheveled friend, Scarlet informed him the poor woman just had a high forehead.

  Raising his dark eyebrows, Tom retorted, “Whatever she’s got going on with all that exposed head, I don’t like her.”

  Taking in the shocked expressions, Tom explained, “Well honestly, mashed potatoes should have a bit of texture to them. If she had her way, I’d be pouring them onto the plates from a jug.”

  “And you, Scar?” Niles enquired when the laughter died down.

  “Oh, the usual bottom pinching and marriage proposals,” Scarlet said with a smile.

  “And what about the men, any trouble from them?” Tom asked, laughing raucously at his own joke.

  Vowing to help at St. Christopher’s more than twice a year, Niles, Tom, and Scarlet all walked to her front door. Wishing them a wonderful Thanksgiving dinner with no yams and suitably chunky mashed potatoes, Scarlet hugged the men in turn.

  “Have fun in Aptos,” they called in unison before making the short drive home.

  Bypassing the kitchen for the shower, despite the urging of her rumbling stomach, Scarlet transformed herself from table server to dinner guest. Looking at Prudence and agreeing with Niles that all she needed was a crystal ball, Scarlet decided the pig would go au natural tonight. Luckily, Gran had a pellet stove which kept the dining room toasty warm.

  Not sure if it was a reality, or because she felt ravenous, Scarlet smelled chicken in a duck in a turkey from the base of her Gran’s steep drive. Or was it a duck in a chicken in a turkey? Smugly thinking she’d soon find out, Scarlet lifted Prudence from her car seat and carried her to the door.

  Complimenting Gran’s new hairdo as she entered the large foyer, Scarlet put Prudence on the floor and kissed Rose’s cheek.

  Patting tight curls, Rose said, “It’ll be okay once it settles a bit, but for now I have the generic little old lady perm.”

  Smiling, Scarlet enquired, “Where’s Dad?”

  “Right here!” came a voice to her left. A hard-backed book in hand, Joe walked out of the library and hugged his youngest child.

  With an exaggerated frown, Scarlet asked, “Why aren’t you two sweating and covered in flour?”

  Chuckling, Rose took Scarlet’s arm and led her into the kitchen. “I assure you we were, but that bird creation takes four hours to cook. The sweating is done my dear, heat and time does the rest.”

  As Rose proudly displayed her efforts baking in the oven, Joe asked, “Red or white girls?”

  Following exclamations of wonder and delight at the browning monstrosity, Scarlet replied, “Red for me, please Dad.”

  “I think I’ll wait for dinner.” Rose said, retrieving a large gravy boat from the pullout shelf to the right of the six-burner stovetop.

  All hands were on deck for the next thirty minutes. The result was turducken and sides presented on Rose’s San Mateo Double Pedestal Dining Table.

  Having saved her appetite all day, and exerted herself with waiting countless tables, Scarlet was the first to reach for the trimmings.

  “I’m going to say what I believe we’re all thinking,” Rose began. “I know family members are missing, but I felt your Dad was a bit fragile this year.”

  Joe forced a look of mock fragility. “I persuaded your Gran not to invite Uncle Cecil. Do you remember how inappropriate and hurtful he was last Thanksgiving?”

  Grimacing with remembrance and watching as her father sliced through the boneless turducken, Scarlet responded,

  “Something about a caveman?”

  Joe deposited generous portions of meat onto three plates. “That was one of his tirades; you may have missed a couple of earlier ones while you were at St. Christopher’s.”

  Thinking back a year, as she served her grandmother and father trimmings she’d already made a dent in, Scarlet said, “Wasn’t it something about acting like the cavemen did? Practicality untainted by emotion or some such nonsense.”

  “Well remembered,” Rose said, placing a cream-colored linen napkin on her lap. “He said cavemen chose wives who were young and fit. That good looks equaled a healthy woman who’d produce likewise children.”

  Smiling at Joe, as he filled her wine glass, Rose continued, “As you know, Elsa’s struggled with her weight. And bless her, Anna does too. They just need to look at food, and it’s on their hips.”

  Joe topped up Scarlet’s drink. “Your Aunt Elsa can cope with his nasty comments. Shouldn’t have to, but has done for years. But your cousin Anna, the poor girl was naturally mortified. She’s at a tricky age anyway, what is she Mom, seventeen?”

  Rose, with a mouth full of food, nodded her agreement.

  “Unforgivable!” Scarlet said, remembering her cousin’s look of embarrassment and subsequent refusal of Rose’s, impossible to resist, English trifle dessert.

  “The ugliness I believe you missed,” Joe continued while helping himself to more mashed potatoes, “began when your Aunt Harriet and Uncle Kevin arrived. Cecil, Elsa, and Anna had been here for maybe fifteen minutes. Anna had lost herself in your Gran’s library as she loves to do. Josh and Ben bounded in behind their parents, and Cecil makes this big show of what strapping, healthy young men they are. Then he gushes to Harriet about how it wasn’t hard to see where they got their good looks and lean bodies from.”

  “I certainly remember, the minute I walked in the door, feeling you could cut the tension with a knife,” Scarlet said. “Gran this dinner is beyond delicious, you’ve outdone yourself.”

  Thanking her granddaughter and saying she would have to humbly concur, Rose continued telling Joe’s story.

  “I think you know, don’t you dear, that your Aunt Elsa had two miscarriages. One before Anna was born and one about three years after. Well, they were both boys, and Cecil has made no secret of his disappointment in not having sons.”

  Scarlet closed her eyes, imagining her aunt’s pain at this loss compounded by constant blame from her idiot husband.

  Rose looked at her son. “Do you remember how our love grew for Kevin that day?”

>   Grinning, Joe said, “Did it ever.” Placing a hand on Scarlet’s arm he explained, “After Cecil’s insipid comments to Harriet, Kevin looked straight at him, well not straight at, as Cecil’s almost a foot shorter. Kevin says, loud enough for Anna to hear in the library, Actually Cecil, the boys take after my side of the family. Clearly, they get their height from me. Short men tend to have short sons.”

  “Your father and I were so relieved to have someone stand up to him,” Rose interjected. “You know Elsa forbade us from doing that years ago.”

  Crunching into her last snap pea, Scarlet asked, “Why does she allow him to belittle her?”

  Rose watched Joe clear away the dinner plates. “I can only liken it to that little frog. Your Uncle Cecil hasn’t always been vile. These insults and criticisms have increased slowly, but steadily, over the years. Your aunt, just like that little frog, has had the temperature of the water turned up so gradually she didn’t feel the heat and jump out.”

  Sighing, Scarlet asked, “So what can we do?”

  Both women looked at Joe as he reentered the dining room, holding a large pecan pie. “Your aunt needs to feel the boiling water around her and want to exit the pot, we, unfortunately, can’t do it for her.”

  A shadow of sadness falling over her lovely features, Rose suggested, “I say we take this desert into the living room and get really comfortable.”

  No argument was made to this suggestion, and Scarlet made tea to accompany the pie.

  “I trust no more wildflowers have blown onto your car lately have they, my dear?” Rose asked as Scarlet entered the living room, struggling slightly with the weight of her grandmother’s large Wedgewood teapot.

  Carefully setting the tray down on the low coffee table, Scarlet responded to what she believed to be, forced nonchalance from her grandmother.

  “Why do you ask, Gran?”

  “Have you?” Joe interjected in a rush. Clearly, her father was not as skilled at this pretense of casual inquiry.