Black Friday: An Elders Keep Collection Special Edition

by Jeffery X Martin

  Christmas is coming, she thought. The goose is getting fat.

  Ring ring ring went the phone and of course it was Frank, because it was always and only Frank when the phone rang and she knew he would say, "Hey, baby," because he always and only said hey baby and if you haven’t got a ha’penny then god bless

  "Hello?"

  "Hey, baby."

  "You doin’ okay? Did the boys do a good job for you with the tree and the decorations and such?"

  Claire thought back on Stretch and Tony, fondly. "Yes, Frank," she said. "They did an outstanding job and I told them I would say good things about them. If you had bad things planned for them, I would ask that you rethink those plans. They were good to me, Frank, and they did everything I asked."

  "That’s good, baby! That’s real good to hear." Frank sounded genuinely pleased. "I was hoping they would redeem themselves somehow."

  "Yes, Frank," Claire said. "Tony and Stretch are okay by me."

  Frank laughed. "Well. Good goddamn. I never thought anyone would ever vouch for those dumbass motherfuckers. Merry Christmas to them, I guess."

  "What does that mean, Frank?"

  Frank cleared his throat. "It means I won’t have them killed in front of their families while ‘Frosty the Snowman’ plays on the television behind them. Why do you ask me these questions, Claire? You know it’s not good for you to know things."

  "I’m sorry, Frank," Claire said. "Sometimes I forget. Sometimes I think I can ask my husband a question without getting a lie or a threat as a response."

  Frank grumbled, but let that last remark slide. He had heard it before, to be sure. "How are you doing otherwise, baby? Are you getting the twitches too bad?"

  "Jesus, Frank," Claire said softly. "Is this how we talk about things now? The twitches? I have the twitches? What kind of a husband are you?"

  "The rich kind, baby. Look. I’ll be home in a couple of days. I’ll have everybody with me. And we’ll have a good family Christmas and I’ll make this whole year up to you."

  "Frank, you’ve been home a grand total of fourteen days the entire past year. It’s been like this for the last twenty years! You can’t make it up to me anymore. You’re upside down on that deal. And I know it makes you look like a big man when you fly the families in and pick the families up, like you’re some benevolent Santa Claus, but it just makes things more terrible. It’s so hard on me, Frank. Maybe we could go somewhere else for the holidays, somewhere warm. I haven’t left the house, really, for so long."

  "You shut your fucking mouth," Frank interrupted, in that low dog growl of his. "You were a piece of shit when I met you and you’re a crazy piece of shit now. Goddamned whore. I give you the world. And you have the tits to talk to me like that? Amazing. I’m bringing my family home. Your family. Our children. If you don’t get yourself under control, and get your shit together, I will beat your face with my closed fist. Do. You. Understand. Me. Claire."

  Claire paused for a second, thinking about Frank’s giant beefhammer fists, slamming themselves into her thin face skin, the blood vessels shattering and welts rising up, like sad, sick seedlings in a pain garden.

  "I understand, Frank," Claire said, finally. "Don’t worry. Your Christmas will be perfect."

  Frank’s tone of voice became jovial, friendly, again. "That’s good, baby," he said, "that’s good. Look, I got a couple other people coming for the holiday. Some business associates. You should get some extra food, just to be on the safe side. You know what I’m saying?"

  "I understand, Frank," Claire said.

  "You just get shit ready for the holidays. You hear me?"

  "Yes, Frank," Claire said. "I hear you just fine."

  "Fucking hell," Frank said. "It’s like talking to a robot. If I had known you were crazy, I would never have married you. You know that, right?"

  "I know that. Right. Goodbye, Frank."

  "Later, baby."

  The single beep of hanging up, the empty house, the lack of sound rattling about itself, everything an echo and then her mother was there, to make everything betterworse.

  ***

  CLAIRE WAS IN the kitchen by the butcher block. The knives were so shiny and the blades looked so professional and inviting. A lovely kit, a means to an end, a perfect slice on the bias, and there was her mother holding a red kettle of boiling water and smiling.

  "Would you like some tea, Love?"

  Claire smiled and moved forward slowly. "What kind?" she asked.

  "Peppermint. With exactly three teaspoons of honey for sweetening."

  Claire smiled. "Thank you, Mother."

  "Christmas is coming, Claire," said Mother. "The goose is getting fat."

  "Yes, Mother," Claire said. "Some hot tea sounds delicious."

  II

  Twelve Twenty-two: Cleaning

  CLAIRE AND HER mother stood at the back of the great living room, arms akimbo, surveying the decorations. Every once in a while, Claire’s mother would clear her throat and start to say something, then think better of it and remain quiet. This irritated Claire, who wished her mother would just come out with it, say it, just fucking say it for once.

  "It’s lovely, Claire," her mother said, folding her arms across her Puritan breasts. "It truly is. Not perfect, but it’s very, very nice."

  "Where is it not perfect, Mother?" Claire asked, with an edge of exasperation in her voice. "Show me, show me where it isn’t perfect!"

  Claire’s mother’s mouth pinched itself down on the sides, attempting to frown and smile at the same time. She hated to point out her daughter’s mistakes. She reveled in pointing out her daughter’s mistakes. "Well, I just don’t know where to start," she said, walking precisely to the point where she had planned to start from the beginning.

  "You’ve got thirty-seven poinsettias in this room, honey. That’s an uneven number. You know uneven numbers let the Devil in."

  "No, Mother, I balanced that out with the poinsettia boughs on the upstairs railing. There are fifty. Exactly, precisely, fifty."

  Claire’s mother shook her head emphatically. "Those are artificial poinsettias. Those are thirteen plastic flowers, Claire, thirteen unlucky plastic flowers. You might have been able to get away with it if you had bought new ones, but those are the same boughs you used last year. If I noticed that, so will the Devil. And thirteen of them, Claire? Really, thirteen?"

  Claire clapped a hand to her mouth in terror. How could she have been so careless? Her vision grew a little blurry and she shifted her weight to keep her balance.

  "Please put a penny in the old man’s hat, Claire," her mother said.

  Without even thinking, Claire ran to the center of the room. She stopped and stood with her arms straight out to her sides.

  "Seven and six," her mother said. "Begin."

  Claire began to shuffle her feet and spin, counter-clockwise, counting each revolution aloud, like a child in gymnastics class. "Three," Claire said. "Four," Claire said.

  "You spin seven times widdershins to mock the unholy with the holy," Claire’s mother said.

  "Six," Claire said. "Seven," Claire said.

  Abruptly, Claire switched directions, her arms briefly becoming inertia victims. "One," Claire said. "Two," Claire said.

  "You spin six times deocil to throw the unholy back into the face of the sacred and, in this way, balance is maintained until it is not. Balance is maintained until it is not. Say it, Claire!"

  "Balance is maintained until it is not!" Claire said. "Five! Six!"

  Claire’s mother nodded approvingly. "It is done. Now please put a penny in the old man’s hat."

  "Did you bring it?" Claire asked.

  "It’s already in the cabinet," her mother replied. "Top left, above the sink."

  Into the kitchen Claire went. She looked over her shoulder to see if Mother was following her. She was not. It didn’t matter. Claire wouldn’t cheat. She would accept her responsibility for the terrible wrong that had happened. She would fix the flowers. She woul
d fix it all.

  Claire opened the kitchen cabinet and there it was. She reached inside and gingerly pulled down her father’s old shot glass. It was heavy and small, like a communion glass, with a strange beveled lip. A cold chill ran down Claire’s back when she touched it, and she smiled.

  She went to the butcher block and, by touch, found the paring knife. The handle was a delightful matte black. She balanced the thing on her fingertip. It was perfect, no tangential shift, no struggle for balance where the blade met the handle. Claire marveled at it for a moment, seeing her reflection, distorted and long in the shiny tempered steel. With a slight flip, it was in her, the edge embedded in the tip of her thumb, lever and fulcrum, teetering and tottering. After a moment, the blood came, and Claire held the shot glass under her split thumb, watching it fill, the faint smell of copper banking through the room.

  "That’s enough," called her mother from the living room. "Run it under the cold tap. Wrap it up in a paper towel. We need to discuss the rest of this living room."

  ***

  "THE MORE I look, the more I see," Mother said, "and the more I see, the more I see that is wrong. And I am so glad we can fix it before anyone else arrives."

  Mother pointed at a large candy bowl on a table near the door. "Those," she said, pointing her nose in the air with a disgust bordering on righteous tears. "I cannot believe you would allow this in your home. Have you no self-respect? No pride?"

  Claire re-wrapped all the peppermints.

  Whatever Mother pointed at, Claire set about to fixing. The candy kisses were in the same bowl, covered in different colored foil. That would not do. And what was this mess? Why, even the welfare children in Bell Plains had mixed nuts to look forward to on Christmas morning. Wouldn’t it make more sense to have the pecans over here, the walnuts over here and the Brazil nuts over here? Those with good breeding should have organized nuts (Claire had to put a penny in the old man’s hat for snickering at that one). The candles were an odd number, so Claire went back to sixes and sevens, balancing the forces of good and evil. The distance between walls and furniture was measured. Claire was forced to stand in the corner for some infractions, such as her mother finding a small dustball on the exhaust fan of the high-definition cable converter box.

  All told, the old man got about a nickel’s worth.

  At the end of the day, Claire’s mother made coffee, and it was perfect. This meant that the coffee Claire had been making, which she believed to be perfect, was not. It would never be as good as her mother’s. She cried over that fact.

  "Stop that silliness," her mother said, and slapped her across the cheek. "Tears never solved anything. They do, however, ruin perfectly good wood furniture. Now drink your coffee and take your medicine."

  "Yes, Mother," Claire said. She took a sip of coffee, which was just the perfect temperature. It coated her tongue instantly, the harsh and mild oils joining together like lovers for that strong sweetness, that hint of wildness without being overwhelmingly green. Then she pounded that shot of her own cold, congealing blood, as if it were whiskey. When it didn’t empty out clean, Claire stuck her tongue into the glass and swirled it about. Mother would fuss if there were even a drop left. Waste not, want not.

  Her mother kissed her on top of the head. "God bless you," her mother said. "I’m off to bed. Don’t stay up too late and don’t keep that television of yours on too loud."

  "Yes, Mother. We have to go shopping tomorrow, don’t forget."

  "I shan’t forget," came the reply.

  III

  Twelve Twenty-three: Shopping

  CLAIRE FOLDED THE washcloth in half, then in half again. The edges were uneven. Claire unfolded the washcloth. Claire folded the washcloth in half, then in half again. The edges were uneven. Claire unfolded the washcloth. Claire folded the washcloth in half, then in half again. The edges were uneven. Claire unfolded the washcloth. Claire folded the washcloth in half, then in half again. The edges were uneven. Claire unfolded the washcloth and threw it into the wastebasket. There was obviously some kind of manufacturing defect in the thing.

  Claire got up quickly and began putting other trash on top of the washcloth so that her Mother wouldn’t find it. Her Mother would say it was a perfectly good washcloth. Her Mother wouldn’t be able to find a single thing wrong with it. Her Mother would sit on the bed gently, so as not to make an ass-dent in the comforter, drape the washcloth over her knee and fold it correctly, precisely, perfectly, first time, every time. Claire had seen her do it thousands of times growing up. It was infuriating, yet compelling and beautiful. The ease with which her Mother’s hands, so small and veiny, did things was astounding to Claire, with her big feet and spatulate fingers. It was like her Mother was constantly performing a sparkly house-magic. Everything she touched turned into origami.

  Muted footsteps, slippers on hard wood flooring. Mother was coming. Claire checked the wastebasket again. She couldn’t see the washcloth. Good.

  The bedroom door opened. "Good morning, dear," Mother said. "I have come bearing coffee." Mother set a cup of scalding hot coffee down on a coaster on Claire’s nightstand.

  "You were always a morning person, Mother," Claire said. "I never quite understood it."

  "It’s so much easier to get things accomplished in the morning," Mother said. "Besides, your propensity for staying up late and having ‘just one more glass of wine’ has not helped your complexion any. You look haggard. You act lazy. After cleaning the house yesterday, I found myself wondering why Frank even keeps you around. Disgusting."

  "I love it when you’re in a cheery mood, Mother," Claire said. "And has it ever occurred to you that Frank keeps me around because he loves me?"

  Mother snickered. "Oh, Claire. How precious."

  Claire lowered her head. "Yeah," she said. "I guess it hadn’t occurred to me either."

  Mother sat down next to Claire and patted her leg in a conciliatory fashion. "Sweet, darling Claire. Frank snagged you as a trophy wife and you were ready to be snagged. He keeps you around because he knows that if you leave him, you’ll take him for half his money. When he looks at you, he doesn’t see the girl he met twenty years ago. He sees how worn out and wrinkled you’ve become. He sees the flaws that even your expensive makeup can’t hide. Frank is just glad he has managed to buy you off for another year."

  "That is a terrible assessment of my marriage, Mother," Claire said. "You’re not even here. You don’t see. You don’t know how it is when Frank and I are together."

  "Don’t I?" Mother said. She stood and smoothed out her fuzzy blue bathrobe. "Your father and I were always afraid of what would become of you. When Frank offered to marry you, we were so happy. We thought for sure you would end up living with us for the rest of your life, stuck in some upstairs bedroom like Emily Dickinson, writing poetry on scraps of wallpaper. A spinster. A virgin. Alone. A shriveled up piece of meat, unloved and unwanted. Your father and I sure didn’t want that burden."

  "I like Emily Dickinson," Claire said softly.

  Mother sighed. "The truth, Claire, is we never wanted you. I never did, anyway. Your father wouldn’t let me have an abortion because he was afraid it would look bad on his business, even though it was the Seventies and practically everyone was doing it. It was chic to have an abortion. Instead, I had a baby. A crying, pissing, shitting and mewling baby. A parasite. A leech. A nuisance. And here it is, years later, and I’m still taking care of you. You are in your forties, Claire, and I still have to help you clean your house. I have to help you shop because a few extra people are coming over and you can’t handle it. I have to make sure your obsessive compulsive whatever doesn’t get in the way of, what, seeing your family for Christmas? I can’t fucking get away from you, Claire! I should be resting. I should be taking a break. But here I am, with you."

  Claire sat quietly on the bed, taking it, absorbing the information, not crying or breathing loudly. Just taking it.

  "For the love of Christ, you can’t even fold a washcl
oth," Mother said. She shuffled to the corner of the room, bent down and fished the washcloth out of the wastebasket. "Must you have thrown it away, Claire? In the garbage? Disgusting, Claire."

  With almost imperceptible quickness, Claire’s mother folded the washcloth, perfectly, edges even and precise. First time, every time.

  "How did you know?" Claire whispered. "How did you know that was there?"

  Claire’s mother laid the washcloth on the bed, next to Claire. "Put that away," she said, "and let’s get ready to go shopping. I need to wash my hands. " She kissed Claire on top of her head and left the room.

  ***

  CLAIRE SHOPPED AT a smaller grocery store called Butler and Blaine’s. The two families had owned the store for generations and, even though the building was old and hadn’t been refurbished since the early Seventies, the business had earned a fine reputation for carrying hard-to-find products and a wide range of organic meats and cheeses. The staff was friendly and knew Claire by name. It was a much better shopping experience for Claire than going to one of the mega food warehouses in Knoxville.

  Claire’s mother wrinkled her nose. "Jesus," she grumped. "This place smells like bleach and asparagus urine."

  "We only need a few things, Mother," Claire said. "We’re in public. Don’t embarrass me."

  "This store is filthy," Mother said. "I don’t understand why the board of health hasn’t shut it down and boarded the doors closed."

  Claire pulled a cart from the line-up in the corral and put her purse in the seat. She smiled at the cashier, who smiled back and gave a little wave. Claire’s mother neither smiled nor waved, but looked down and shuddered, as if someone had misted her with cold water.

  "Can we please find the hand sanitizer first?" Claire’s mother asked.

  "Mother," Claire said, disapprovingly.

  "This isn’t a grocery store. It’s a petri dish."