Twisted Family Values

by V. C. Chickering

  The overhead lights dimmed for the few deep sleeping passengers up front, and their train car took on a film noir vibe. Biz became drunker—and hornier—by the minute. The alcohol warmed her face as she arranged her cards. Three sixes and a short run of spades made her grin with promise. Annie Lennox sang to Biz, daring her with the lyrics, “Sweet dreams are made of this…” Biz adjusted the headphones so the music could overtake her, not caring that it was rude to Charlie. She let the song swallow her whole and her body became slippery. She misjudged her head’s distance to the headrest. Thwomp. Charlie said, “You okay?” and she giggled, so he commandeered her flask. No way was he going to hold her hair back in that tiny stall bathroom—not on his watch, no way, not tonight. Charlie drained the flask so Biz couldn’t have any more. No matter, she thought, and routed Grandpa Dun’s Macallan out of her duffel. “Jesus!” he said, and took that from her, too. A longer string of giggles followed. “Let’s focus on the game,” he said, balancing a run of diamonds on his knee. Then, changing the subject, “Feels like some skittish guy in a trench coat will board next. Very Hitchcock. Or High Anxiety.”

  “Whose cock?” Biz said, then placed her hand on Charlie’s thigh. She ran it slowly up his inseam with a come-hither look. The tilt of her head told him she wasn’t making a joke. He casually moved her hand onto her own thigh. “Very funny,” he said. “Look, I’m not dumb. I’ve seen Risky Business like four times. But let’s not be lazy. There are plenty of people out there in the world we’re not related to—”

  “But they aren’t on this train,” Biz said, discarding. Charlie was tall and gorgeous, irresistibly hot, his lower lip plump like a cherry. His jaw had grown to be square and strong like a man’s, and the angled shape of his eyes hinted at Paul Newman’s. Of course, she knew there were handsome guys roving around out there, but the ones she met weren’t funny and smart. They didn’t know how to play Gershwin and which fork to use. They didn’t look out for her the way he always had. And they weren’t sitting in front of her on a dark, sexy train. Amtrak sexy? She wanted to find out.

  “There are at least six or seven other people in the world, besides me,” Charlie mocked. “Including India and China adds another forty-seven.” He was trying to keep her at a distance, but she’d tripped a wire in his body and set him on a dangerous trajectory. He tried desperately to refocus. “You should get out in the world, take a semester somewhere fun overseas.”

  “You don’t mean that, do you?” Biz said, slightly hurt. She’d never been apart from Charlie and couldn’t imagine a day without him near. “No, I don’t,” he replied, feeling similarly and weak. Panicking, he reached for the Macallan. He was powerless around her and becoming confused, sauced, and horny. A little exploratory play wouldn’t be the end of the world. Biz put her cards facedown on her lap and pulled her Fair Isle sweater off over her head. Her button-down rode up on her torso, exposing her bare stomach and a trace of shiny, snow-white cotton-blend bra. Charlie reached forward and held down her shirttails. “What are you doing?” he said, conflicted as hell.

  “I’m hot. Besides, no one can see us back here. Relax.” Biz rolled the sweater into a ball and shoved it under her elbow.

  “I’m relaxed,” Charlie said with a trace of defensiveness.

  “Are you?” Biz said, and locked in on his eyes for the first time since they’d taken their seats. Without breaking her grin, she reached for his thigh again, this time letting her fingers graze over his swelling bulge.

  “What are you doing?” Charlie said, “People will think we’re gross.”

  “People are uptight,” said Biz. “Besides, no one is near us and no one else has to know. Freakin’ Puritans trying to ruin all our fun. It’s none of their business and it doesn’t count.” She allowed her middle finger to find the center seam on his jeans. “Stop,” said Charlie, but it was hardly a command. He closed his eyes and leaned his dizzy head against the headrest. “Stop,” he repeated with hardly an audible breath. Biz took his cards and the cigarette, enjoyed one last drag before snubbing it out in the ashtray. The opening bass line of “Every Breath You Take” could be heard strumming, small and tinny, from her Walkman’s headphones—one of Biz’s make-out faves. “Blame it on Sting,” she said, sliding her hand over Charlie’s. “Close your eyes.” And she raised his fingers and led them under her shirt. She felt a bolt of electricity awaken her very depths. “Mmm,” she uttered then, “remember, none of this counts.” She whispered it again with a flick of her tongue on his ear and hot breath that caused Charlie to softly groan. He felt his rational mind slip away like a helium balloon—too late to grab the thin string.

  “Let’s go for it,” she whispered, and bit his lobe. “It’ll be fun. We can be somebody else.”

  “Who?” he uttered.

  “Anybody. Anybody but us.”

  Charlie’s rummy sets slipped off his legs and onto the floor as they slouched down the Naugahyde banquette. His hands glided over Biz’s miraculous body as she undid his worn belt—the leather slipping easily through the buckle. She wanted more of him, all of him, and for him to find her below. Charlie understood this and reached up to grab his pea coat from the luggage rack and drape it over them. Biz kissed him deeply, her head floating above, their tongues dancing in dips and swirls. She guided his hand to the elastic rim of her panties, then arched her back and grazed her chest against his. He ran a finger over the tiny bow, then ventured beneath, meeting her downy, dampening tide amongst her warm depths. The folds of her flower felt swollen and inviting. He felt at once welcome and wrong.

  Charlie rested his head on her chest and tightened his already shut eyes to focus as he felt his universe pitch and build with the movement of her busy hand. He boiled under the woolen pea coat, tuning out the train’s screech and rumble, all of them moving forward. Any brain matter still in his command he used to silence his own screams and keep his hand moving under her as she writhed. Sliding her jeans off her hips, Biz grabbed him as she came, moving her mouth into his neck to muffle her cries.

  She bucked and the pea coat slipped off them onto the floor.

  “I’m close,” she whispered from heights unimaginable.

  “Me, too,” he said, and a bright chemical flood overtook them as they reached climax—Charlie cresting a high wave as it crashed and Biz gently tipped over a cliff. Tingles echoed as if fairies sprinkled pixie dust near her ears. She emitted a tiny squeak, like the wheel of a suitcase needing attention. She writhed slightly as Charlie released stiffly into her hand, and then she convulsed, aftershocks slackening her body, robbing her of her bones. “You’re glistening,” said Charlie, sitting up, slumped, legs akimbo. He was already trying to put out of his mind the electric glint in Biz’s eye, trying to push aside the smell of her hair, perspiring skin, and wet depths. He aimed to banish the memory of her undulating hips and was grappling with the fact of their relation. But she was the most beautiful woman in the world at that moment, so the forgetting would have to wait.

  “How did you get so skilled?” she panted.

  “How did you?” Charlie asked, and Biz declined to answer.

  She looked at him in his sweaty disarray. “You look like you fell in a river.” He cracked up and unearthed her sweater. He ran it behind his neck and forehead, then used it to clean himself off. “Yuck,” she said, “you’re definitely carrying it now.”

  “Then who’s going to carry you?” he said. Biz broke into a grin. “Just give me an hour to regain consciousness.”

  He said, “Be my guest, take your time.”

  Biz and Charlie slipped into sleep, his was deeper than hers. Then after a while they stretched, moaned, and salvaged what was left of Gin Rummy. The train finally slowed to its jogging pace, and the PA speaker cracked with information. Charlie took down their duffel bags as Biz pulled the rest of her ponytail out of its holder. The last sun-kissed wisps freed themselves from the elastic’s bondage, slipping out to dance and play around her flushed cheeks. There were no raccoon c
ircles of mascara to wipe away, no errant crusts of lip liner to dab. Her pale seafoam eyes were vivid and awake, barely containing their spark. She was a natural beauty, a study in offhanded dishevelment—a mess and ablaze all at once. She looked like a European model on her day off, or a woman who’d recently achieved orgasm.

  Biz and Charlie suppressed their chuckling until after thanking the platform conductor. The postmidnight air was crisp and shocked them out of their haze. Even so, they shared the exhausted smug laugh of movie cowboy bandits. Butch and Sundance ain’t got nothin’ on us. Biz was already plotting their next time and summed things up, “That was fun!” What a bitchin’ way to pass the time. She wobbled as she walked. Charlie, however, was far less drunk and, without a doubt, much more confused.

  In the morning, he woke from a dream they’d poured themselves into a cab and wound their way back to his dorm room. There, they had fantastic sex until the sky lightened through broken blinds. A fuzz-coated tongue, however, ruined it. The sensation of an ice pick jiggling its way into his skull put a damper on his reminiscing. But there was something else disconcerting about this preconscious landscape. “Hello?” Charlie attempted tentatively to the empty room. His voice was groggy as he groped for the bottle of Tylenol he kept on the floor. While feeling around he came across a girl’s barrette. Had it been there the whole time? Was it Biz’s? She could have dropped it weeks ago. He wished he could think.

  As his head cleared, Charlie noticed foreign items dotting the landscape—stacks of books and VHS tapes, deodorant on the other dresser. A bespectacled mop of hair in a grubby bathrobe holding a towel, spoke in a round voice at odds with his lanky body. “I introduced myself last night, but I highly doubt you remember. I’m Foster Barnstock,” he said eloquently, extending his hand. “And you’re Charlie Muir.”

  With effort, Charlie reached out. “I am,” he rasped as if he’d been chain-smoking filterless Camels since early childhood.

  “I’m your new roommate. Please forgive the cramp I’ll be putting in your style. Thought I’d settle in early.”

  “Oh, right. You have mono.”

  “I did. Past tense. I’m fit as a fiddle now. Your sister dropped off your dopp kit earlier this morning.”

  “My sister?” Charlie livened up. Had Biz slept over? Ow, his head hurt. “What time is it?”

  “One P.M. The blonde.”

  “Georgia? She must have taken an early train. She’s my evil stepsister.”

  “Evidence to the contrary,” Foster stated as if in a courtroom. “She was charming. She also ran her fingers through your hair while you were sleeping.” Charlie thought, Jesus, Georgia. What the hell? He also thought, Who says “charming”?

  Foster sat down at the wobbly alcove desk, booting up what looked to be a cube-shaped, school library computer. Charlie managed to prop himself onto his elbows, but that was all the height he’d be able to muster. The room started to spin. Foster said, “She told me you’re a weirdo.”

  “Yeah, well. Consider the source.”

  “Noted,” Foster called over his shoulder. Charlie remained in bed, trying to piece together the end of the night, the part after the train. They finished all the booze. Did they buy more on the corner? One of them might have thrown up on a shrub outside. Foster spoke again without turning around in his chair. “Your other friend, Liz, called and said to call her when you woke up.” There was a long pause that hung in the air. Charlie forgot to say “Okay” out loud. At last Foster spoke again. “Welcome home.”

  “Uh, yeah,” Charlie said, and thought he sensed Foster smirking.

  Back at her dorm room, Biz’s body jerked awake to Charlie’s imagined touch. What a night! she thought and jumped up, thankful she didn’t get hangovers. She was psyched they’d messed around and knew he wouldn’t want to discuss it, which made her feel weightless and invincible—like a lady ninja. It was as if her body had been reset and now her brain was ready to hit the books. Heading to the showers, Biz searched for songs with “train” in the lyrics. “Just a small town girl, living in a lonely wor-orld…” had her written all over it. “Last Train to Clarksville,” “Crazy Train,” and “Midnight Train to Georgia” worked, too. Once her songs ran out, she was left with the realization; We should definitely try harder to meet other people. But where were the interesting guys? The ones who had an actual sense of humor? The ones who were independent thinkers? The punk dudes Biz met were good in bed but hadn’t grown up with table manners. The baseball cap dudes would fit in in Larkspur but were mostly bone-headed jocks. It seemed like everyone relied on sarcasm in lieu of intelligence and wit. That’s not a sense of humor, it’s just lazy and mean. “Kiss a lot of frogs, kiddos,” instructed Nana Miggs. Biz would kiss frogs for as long as she had to. In the meantime, she had Charlie.

  Charlie tried to focus on school, but he was distracted by Sissy Bickers. She promised if they were still seeing each other in the summer she would finally “give herself to him.” He tried not to think of the train episode as cheating—it didn’t count, he repeated like a mantra. Then he suffered through a string of winter road-trip weekends by rounding second base with Sissy over and over. Biz said, “Gag me with a spoon,” when he told her. The other women he met in Boston wore so much makeup and teased their bangs so high that he worried they would ignite if he lit a cigarette. The rubber-bracelets-and-ripped-fishnets-like-Madonna thing wasn’t doing much for him. The preppy girls, the ones dedicated to embodying the “good girl” ethos left over from the fifties, were so repressed he rarely bothered trying to seduce them. What was the point? If they were that self-conscious about making out, he reasoned, it was unlikely they’d be fun in bed.

  * * *

  By mid-May all the grandkids were cleared out of their dorms and headed back to Larkspur. Soon they would be scattered, working the summer jobs they’d acquired by way of familial connections. Charlie would head to the Jersey Shore to work as a sail-racing instructor at Plover Point Yacht Club’s competitive sports day camp. Biz would move into a four-way, two-bedroom share on the Upper East Side and intern at Sotheby’s. But for two weeks before their jobs began they were all together in Larkspur, planning Rah’s big graduation party combined with the annual Thornden Memorial Day Weekend family barbecue.

  The cousins crisscrossed each other with wheelbarrows in the backyard like sweaty Smurfs in a Smurf village. Biz carried hoses to spray down the screens while Rah repaired broken garden lattice. Charlie spread mulch under the peonies and roses while E.J. was on pool cover duty—they all had their jobs, knew what to do. Billy Joel’s Piano Man album blasted from the outdoor speakers, and one of Rah’s jobs was to move the needle back to the beginning of the record each time it ended.

  Claire stepped outside onto the patio and surveyed the activity. “It’s coming along, kids,” she said, then sent Georgia and Charlie out to the shed to get the trampoline mats. “Grilled cheese sandwiches in ten minutes, everyone,” she hollered as she headed back inside. Georgia and Charlie walked toward the shed, which housed all the yard equipment in addition to the Ping-Pong table. Georgia said, “Would it kill your mom to say ‘thank you,’ like, ever?”

  Charlie said, “Yes, actually. Her doctor told her she needed to cut down on gratitude because it was compromising her health. I think she’s down to one ‘thank you’ per year.”

  “You must be relieved.”

  “We are. It was touch and go for a while.” Charlie smirked, but Georgia was still miffed. He continued, “Look, I’m with you. I rarely hear either Mom or Aunt Claire say ‘thank you’ or ‘I’m sorry,’ but they’re liberal with the ‘love yous,’ so that’s something.”

  Georgia offered a limp grin. “I guess one out of three ain’t bad.”

  “That’s the spirit,” Charlie said, and set a ladder in place just below the shed’s rafters. “I’ll hand them down to you. Watch for crap falling in your eyes.” Georgia watched her stepbrother’s strong, well-defined arms reach out above her, and Charlie could feel her e
yes on him—he always had, ever since she moved in.

  Charlie was ten when his mom first married Ned, who brought his eleven-year-old daughter, Georgia, to live with them. Button-nosed with a blond ponytail, Georgia never said much when she wasn’t crying. Charlie remembered collecting Wacky Packs and water pistols while Georgia read Judy Blume and slammed doors. His mom told him and Rah to be friendly, yet keep a respectful distance—she was “going through a lot” and needed “space.” They even gave Georgia her own room. But though Charlie was in his world at school and Georgia was in hers, and long before he was aware of the attention he was getting for his good looks, he was aware of Georgia’s eyes on him.

  “Seeing anyone up in Boston?” she asked. Strands from her ponytail had fallen around her face and attached themselves, sticky, to her long neck.

  “Nope,” said Charlie, and handed her down another trampoline mat.

  “Is that code for ‘None of your beeswax’?”

  “Yup.”

  “I’ve been meaning to ask: Are you gay? Someone who saw you in a family photo in my dorm room wanted to know. I said I was pretty sure you weren’t.” Charlie exhaled to end the line of questioning. He was pissed that just because he didn’t talk about women the way E.J. did, or treat them like the jackasses at school did, people thought he must be gay. Georgia said, “Okay, fine. Seeing a lot of Bizzy? Or Biz, as we’re supposed to call her now.” Charlie shook his head. He wanted to abandon this chore; he could see she wasn’t going to let up. Charlie said, “Yeah, we hang. Don’t know if you’d call it a lot, but sure.”