"Please, Mother," Claire said. "Don’t make a fuss."
"I can smell the meat department from here," Claire’s mother said, making a small retching noise.
"Well, good," Claire said. "Because that’s where we’re going first."
The butcher was a friendly man with a bloodhound face, jowly and tired. His name was Sam, a fact that made Claire laugh every time she did business with him.
"Is there some kind of law that states that all butchers must be named Sam?" she asked him. He stood behind his glass museum case and laughed.
"Is there a law that says all beautiful women must be named Claire?" Sam asked.
Claire blushed. "Oh, Sam," she said. "Hardly."
"This horrible man is a buffoon," Claire’s mother whispered into her ear. Claire ignored her and kept her focus on Sam.
"Sam, I need a couple pounds of prosciutto. The good stuff."
Sam nodded, grabbed a loaf of meat and took it back to the shiny steel slicer. "You want it thin, Claire?"
She raised her hand out flat and shook it. "Medium thin, I guess."
Sam twiddled the dial on the machine. "Medium thin, she guesses. Whatever’s right is right." The machine clicked on with an electric thrum. Sam moved the prosciutto across the spinning blade. He held the slice up for her to examine.
"Is this good?" Sam asked.
Claire looked. "A little thicker."
Sam nodded.
"Prosciutto. Such an awful meat," Claire’s mother said. "So salty. It’s a sure way to get gout."
"Then don’t eat it, Mother," Claire said.
"All Frank’s money and you’re serving cold cuts. Terrible."
"Mother, we’re all having lobster for dinner. This is just an appetizer."
Sam wrapped up the prosciutto, weighed it and slapped a price sticker on it. He laid the package on the counter and grinned. "What else for you, Claire?" Sam asked.
"Three pounds of organic baby Swiss cheese, please, and I want to be able to see through it."
Sam laughed. "Well, it’s got holes in it, Claire. You’ll be able to see through it regardless."
"I want it thin, Sam. You know what I mean."
Sam waved his hand blithely. "I know, I know," he said.
"I would never have shopped like this for your father," Claire’s mother growled. "This is degrading. Couldn’t you have had someone fetch this for you?"
"I don’t have a driver, Mother."
"You should," Mother said. "You should have a secretary or a personal assistant, whatever they call them these days. Someone to take care of these piddling little errands."
"I am perfectly capable of driving around and doing my own shopping, Mother."
"Don’t you see how that’s the problem, Claire? You can’t even be rich right."
Three pounds of cheese smacked onto the counter next to Claire’s face. She jumped. Sam raised his hands.
"Whoa! I didn’t mean to scare you, Claire."
"It’s fine, Sam. You just startled me."
"Anything else for you today, Claire?"
She smiled weakly. "No, that’s all for today. Thank you, Sam. Thank you very much."
"Can we go now?" Claire’s mother asked.
"We’re going," Claire said. "We’re going."
Claire carried her order to the checkout. Her mother pulled her hands down into her sleeves so her palms wouldn’t touch the cart handle as she pushed it back into the corral. The checkout girl placed the food into a plastic bag, handed it to Claire and smiled. Claire took the bag and walked towards the exit, where her mother waited with a horrified and disapproving look on her face. Claire hooked her arm under her mother’s and they walked outside to the car.
"You’re like a child," Claire said. "Like a goddamned child." Claire opened the car door and her mother got in. When Claire sat down behind the steering wheel, Claire’s mother smacked her in the mouth, hard. Claire could taste blood from the inside of her cheek.
"You stinking bitch," Claire’s mother said. "You’re the child here. I am your mother and you are still a child, a child who doesn’t know her own mind or how good she has things. I guess you can’t spoil a retarded child." She grabbed Claire by the chin and forced her to make eye contact. "You should never have been born, Claire. You were a mistake, never meant to be here, on this planet."
"Get your hand off my face!" Claire shouted, and smacked her mother’s hand away. She fumbled with the keys until she was able to start the car. She backed out too fast, screeching the tires and almost hitting a man carrying a baby. Then she was driving, taking the turns too fast, passing in no passing zones, chanting to her mother, "I wish you would go home. I wish you would go home. I wish you would go home."
Her mother sighed deeply. "I can’t go home, Claire. You need me too much."
"You’re a liar. You are a hateful monster and a liar."
"Am I, Claire? Think about that. Think hard."
***
MOTHER WAS IN the kitchen, cleaning up after dinner, muttering under her breath the whole time. Occasionally, her voice would rise about something, and she would threaten Claire with the old man’s hat. Claire sat on the couch in the living room, amidst all the Yuletide greenery and cheer, content with her third gin and tonic of the evening (and the night was young). She laughed to herself a little when Mother made her empty threats. If Claire cut herself tonight, she would bleed out like a hemophiliac with all the alcohol in her system.
Claire stared, straight ahead, looking at the stockings but not really looking at the stockings, more like looking through them and realizing somewhere in the back of her mind that she needed to fill them. Six inches, she thought, all precisely measured, and one of the few things her mother hadn’t come in and forced her to correct. Hers was wrong, though. It didn’t hang flat like the others. That was odd, she thought. Setting her drink down, she walked slowly and crookedly to the fireplace.
She touched her stocking. There was something inside it, forcing a bulge out at the heel. Claire touched the others. Empty and flat they were, confusing Claire even more. "What the hell?" she said, and she put her hand inside her stocking, gingerly, so as not to ruin the spacing.
Whatever was in the stocking felt like a rock, but strangely greasy and powdery. Her hands ran over the surface of it. It was jagged but not sharp. She wrapped her hand around it and slowly pulled it out.
"Mother!" she screamed angrily, and stormed into the kitchen.
Claire’s mother was drying her hands with a towel. "What’s the matter? What happened?"
Claire was spitting as she talked. "Did you do this?"
"Do what?"
"This!" Claire threw her early Christmas gift onto the kitchen table. "Seriously? Did you put a lump of coal in my stocking? Like I’m some kind of Dickensian urchin?"
Her mother giggled, "Oh, honey, no. I didn’t do that. It’s silly."
"Well, I found it in my stocking. Like I’m not getting anything for Christmas. Like I’ve been a bad girl."
Her mother shrugged her shoulders. "Well, you have been a bad girl. That’s what I’ve been trying to tell you since you were born."
"Oh my God," Claire said, her voice hollow. "You did put that in my stocking. You actually gave me a fucking lump of coal."
Claire’s mother shook her head. "No, I most certainly did not. Use your brain. Would I ever touch something that dirty?"
It was impeccable Mother logic. There was no way she would have let something that left a residue touch her hands.
"So who did it?" Claire asked, and she felt so small. To herself, her voice sounded far away, like a whisper across a parking lot.
Mother sat down next to her. "Claire, darling," she said, "you can’t handle your marriage. You can’t handle being a rich woman. You can’t even decorate your own home for Christmas. It’s pathetic. Do you know who put that lump of coal in your stocking?"
Claire shrugged.
Her mother cleared her throat. "You did, Claire. You did it be
cause you know. You know the truth about yourself."
"No," Claire said, tears mixing with snot on her face. "That’s not true. I’m good. I’m a good girl."
Her mother smiled weakly, in an attempt to empathize. "Claire. I know what you want to think, but no. You aren’t. You’re terrible, a terrible person. You make everyone around you miserable, especially those poor souls that have attempted to love you. You’re the emotional Bay of Pigs. You are a lost cause."
"What should I do, Mother?" Claire’s brain was swimming with all the new, dreadful information. "What can I do? Isn’t there anything I can do to make you love me? Can I make anyone love me?"
Claire’s mother took Claire’s hands into hers, gently. She stroked Claire’s fingers softly, like a baby’s hand. She looked into Claire’s red teary eyes intensely, as if she were trying to stare into Claire’s brain, into her soul. Claire’s breathing slowed, as she began to calm down. Finally, Claire’s mother said, "No. I’ve tried. You are a wretch, unlikable and unlovable." She dropped Claire’s hands to the table. "And don’t you ever say the F-word in front of me again. Please put a penny in the old man’s hat."
"What?" Claire was bordering on hysterics. "Mother, no! That can’t be the end of it!"
Claire’s mother set the shot glass on the table along with a small-bladed paring knife from the drawer. "Get to it. I can’t finish these dishes until that glass is empty."
Claire did what she was told, her mind both reeling and stopped at the same time. She refused to believe the things she was being told, while part of her told her it was true, it was all true. She sliced her thumb open and dutifully filled the glass.
"Drink up," her mother said. "Don’t be stubborn."
Claire swallowed, not even tasting her own blood. The numbness was starting to set in. She had been used to indifference for years now. Hatred and absolute disgust for her very existence were new things, dangerous, spiky toys to recoil from, but which were hers and hers alone.
Alone.
IV
Twelve Twenty-four: Six Inches
RING.
RING
RING.
Ring.
Pick up. Grumbling. Throat clearing.
"Who is this?"
"Do you love me, Frank?"
"What? What time is it? Who is this?"
"Do you love me, Frank?"
"Jesus. Claire? Why you calling me so goddamn late?"
"It’s early. Do you love me, Frank?"
"Why are you calling me, asking me stupid ass questions like that? Middle of the night."
"You haven’t answered my question yet, Frank."
"We’ll talk about this tomorrow, okay?"
"Do you love me, Frank?"
"Why are you fuckin’ nagging me about this shit? I’ll be there in a few hours. We will talk about it then, all right?"
"It’s okay, Frank. I’m sorry I called you. Drive safely."
"Whatever. Good night, Claire."
***
CLAIRE ON THE couch, staring at the greenery. Overhand monkeys.
The brandy was gone. Irish cream whiskey was next on the list. It went well with coffee. Coffee was in the kitchen, though. The kitchen was far away. "No coffee," she murmured. "Whiskey is fine." She poured herself a highball glass of the thick liquid. Straight. No ice.
***
"I’ve got a ha’penny, Mother! You never asked for one. But I’ve got a ha’penny. God bless you, you dried up hag."
***
COLD CUTS ON silver trays. Prosciutto and baby Swiss cheese. Roast beef and cherry tomatoes. Horseradish sauce and spicy mustards. Edam. Gouda. Sharp cheddar. Small pieces of triangular shaped bread, no crusts. English water crackers. Heavy snacks, hors d’oeuvres. Cakes. Candies. Miniature peppermint flavored cheese cakes. Tiny pecan pies.
"This is a goddamned feast, Mother," she said. "Don’t tell me I don’t know how to plan a party." She took another swig of whiskey. "Christmas is coming! The goose is getting fat!" She took another look at the silver trays filled with food. Maybe she should have gotten goose liver, too.
***
"HOW MUCH DO you weigh? And be honest. I’ll know if you’re lying," her mother said.
"Not much," Claire said. "One hundred-ten, one fifteen, maybe."
Her mother looked her up and down. "That seems about right," she concurred. "Telephone cord. There’s some in the closet."
***
THE KID FROM the seafood shoppe delivered the lobsters in two wooden crates. "Don’t worry, ma’am," he said. "They’re still alive."
Claire slumped against the door jamb and smiled. "I wasn’t worried about that, young man." She settled her gaze directly into his eyes, a move that confused him.
"Some people say that… that, you can hear the lobsters screaming when you put them into the boiling water, but that’s just an urban legend," the boy said. "It’s only the steam escaping from under the carapace."
"Do you think I’m pretty?" Claire asked.
The kid instantly looked at the ground. "Ma’am?"
"Look at me," Claire said. "Do you think I’m pretty?"
The kid raised his head back up to look. Claire swiftly drew down the neck of her shirt, exposing her small left breast. His face turned beet red and he covered his eyes with his hands. "Oh!" he cried. "Oh, God. Yeah, that’s… that’s very nice. That’s awesome, actually. But please put that back in your shirt, there."
"What’s the matter?" Claire said. "You don’t like breasts?"
"Ha!" he said. "Not an issue. Love boobs. Really love the boobs. Don’t like getting in trouble at work."
Claire tucked her breast back in. "Ah, yes," she sighed. "Work always gets in the way, doesn’t it? How old are you, son? Seventeen?"
He stood up straight and looked her in the eye. "An experienced seventeen, if I do say so myself," he announced.
Claire chuckled. "Modest, too," she said. "Here." She handed the kid her purse. "Take it. Your tip."
"I can’t take your whole purse, lady! That’s nuts!"
She shrugged. "So I’m nuts. What do you care? I just flashed you. You’ll tell people that story for years to come. Take the purse. It has money and credit cards in it. Spend as much as you can while you can. I’ll leave a note. It’s fine."
Claire slammed the door in the lobster boy’s face and locked it. She leaned against the door until she heard him start his delivery van and drive away. She breathed a sigh of relief. One less thing to deal with.
***
CLAIRE SLICED THE tip of her finger open and wrote, "God bless you," in blood over the sidebar, where the cold cuts were set out for the Christmas party. It was red. It was festive.
***
MOTHER SAT NEXT to her on the couch. Claire tried to scoot close to her, maybe lay her head on her mother’s shoulder, but it didn’t work. "Please, no touching," her mother said. Claire sniffled.
"Mother," Claire began, "when you died, did it hurt?"
Claire’s mother blew a quick puff of air out of her mouth and waved her hand. "I was so glad to be out of here, out of here and away from you, I wouldn’t have cared if I had died screaming."
"But when you did it," Claire continued. "Did it hurt?"
Her mother thought for a second, then said, "There was the surprise of not falling. Then nothing."
***
"YOU'LL WANT TO spread some newspapers in front of the fireplace," her mother said. "Believe me. That’s the most embarrassing part of the whole venture. You’re going to want to make clean-up quick."
"I won’t have to clean it up," Claire said.
Her mother shook her head. "Goodness, Claire," she said. "Are you going to be eternally sloppy? At least do this with a minimum of fuss."
***
WITH A PENCIL, Claire wrote on the bathroom wall, "Frank. Don’t arrest the seafood kid. I gave him the purse. I told him to spend it. A ha’penny will do. Claire."
***
"ARE YOU SURE about the measurement?"
"You’re sure?"
"I’m sure."
"Okay."
Her mother smiled. "It’s for the best, Claire. It truly is."
Claire nodded. "I know. I believe that."
"Well, then. Shall we?"
"Why not? The goose is getting fat."
***
FROM THE SECOND story, the living room looked beautiful. The tree seemed perfect. All the candy dishes were arranged just so. There was greenery everywhere. Tiny lights seemed to be twinkling everywhere, but their source was difficult to pinpoint.
"Look at it, Mother," Claire said. "It’s gorgeous. It’s picture perfect. I wish somebody were here from a magazine to take snapshots and publish them."
Claire’s mother shook her head. "It only looks that nice because it’s from a distance," she said. "Any close scrutiny would still show all the places where you cut corners or were just too lazy to fix."
Claire nodded silently. Of course, Mother was right. Of course, her dead mother was absolutely correct. First time, last time, every time.
"Loose slipknot over the cable holding the greenery. From the tip of the cord to here," her mother said. Claire took the loose end of the telephone cord they had scavenged from an upstairs closet and looped it lightly over the boughs. She didn’t want to flatten them. She already felt badly enough about the slight droop in the pattern she was about to cause.
"Okay, Mother. It’s ready. Now?"
Claire’s mother stamped her foot, impatiently. "Must I direct every single step? You told me yourself. Overhand monkey walk. Keep pushing the slipknot out in front of you until you are in front of the chimney and over the newspaper."
"Okay," Claire said. "I can do this." She looked at her mother for reassurance. Her mother checked her watch.
Hand over hand. Push the knot. Hand over hand. Push the knot. Hand over hand. Push the knot. Hand over hand. Push the knot. Hand over hand. Push the knot. Hand over hand. Push the knot.
Black Friday: An Elders Keep Collection Special Edition Page 16