Twisted Family Values

by V. C. Chickering

  “What on earth do you think happened in here?” Claire sighed as she bent down again to the floor.

  “I don’t know,” said Cat, “but I want to ask you something. What do you think went on at the table this morning?”

  “I can’t be bothered with the two of them. They’re either bickering like on The Honeymooners or thick as thieves like in Harold and Maude. It’s hardly worth trying to keep up. They always come around.”

  “You didn’t actually see Harold and Maude, did you?”

  “No, but you get my point.”

  Cat refocused the conversation. “You’re not answering my question.” Claire paused for a moment and said, “I don’t buy that Choo’s sweet on Becky. To me, he seemed upset that Bizzy and Foster were so chummy.”

  “I agree, but why?” Cat pried.

  “I don’t know,” Claire said, avoiding her eyes. She had a hunch she refused to follow.

  “And why are we cleaning up bedding off the floor in here?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Foster had his own room. If he wanted to sneak someone in, he could have.” Claire was following her sister’s reasoning but pretended not to. “What are you saying?”

  Cat said, “I’m saying I think Bizzy and Choo met up here. But then something happened and they got in a fight. Or something went wrong—”

  “To do what?” said Claire, the t at the end of the word slicing the air between them.

  “I don’t know! That’s what I’m asking you!” Cat hissed. She’d come into the linen closet to get her sister’s take on a theory she’d had, but she also wanted to stick it to her for ignoring the unsettling truth in her midst, for only opening her eyes to what was pleasing—for ignoring their kids’ other connection. If Charlie was jealous of Foster, Cat could save him the hidden heartbreak and tell him he was free to follow his impulse. But their world would never condone it, having been raised as first cousins, and her dad wouldn’t forgive the scandal. Agnes would revoke the trust fund and E.J. would have a field day. Nope, the truth would have to stay knotted. But Claire had to be made aware so they could address it.

  “There is another option, you know,” said Cat. She stopped folding. “That something happened between Biz and Foster to upset Charlie, and not because he has a crush on Foster … Because Charlie has a thing for Biz.” Claire froze. Bingo, thought Cat; she knows I’m right. She continued, “I think, possibly, Biz and Charlie have been romantic with each other. I don’t mean romantic exactly, more like sexual. Or maybe I do mean romantic. I don’t know. Remember when you caught them in the furnace room when they were young? What were they doing? You never told me. You just said they were ‘depraved.’”

  “I didn’t witness anything,” said Claire. She deployed white lies as rationalizations with little effort or remorse.

  Cat went on, “We left them alone a lot when they were little. It’s possible they explored over the years. And you know how kids experiment. Something about the way they were behaving this morning made me think of jealous lovers, and I was wondering if you picked up on it or if—”

  “I did not.” Claire thought back to that moment in the basement. She didn’t actually see anything untoward but had merely jumped to what she assumed was a legitimate conclusion when she saw Choo dragged from the room unbuckled.

  Cat prodded, “And all this bedding all over the floor—”

  “Stop. Stop it right now,” Claire fumed. She paused, trying to cobble together the sentence that would bundle everything, neat and tidy, but it eluded her. “You’re depraved!” was all she could think to say.

  “I’m serious!” Cat snapped back. “Remember how we used to have a crush on Cousin Matthew? How he looked so much like Rock Hudson we couldn’t help ourselves from mincing around him at holidays? Poor man, now he’s dying and it turns out he was always gay—”

  “Stop it!” Claire raised her sharpened voice to a level that surprised Cat. Though it didn’t shock her; she’d been navigating her sister’s temper for years.

  “No. I won’t stop it,” said Cat. “I’m telling you it might be something we have to consider. We may have to be supportive, plus things could get bumpy. I had a friend in college who married her first cousin, and the whole family—”

  “Enough! Bizzy and Choo are not having a secret love affair.”

  “No, but Biz and Charlie might be. They’re in college now, practically adults. We have to give them space to—”

  “No, we don’t. And don’t pretend this is all right with you. You’re just taking this moronic tack to get at me for drinking in front of you—”

  “What are you talking about?” Cat was incredulous. “I don’t give a shit that you drink in front of me. I’m taking this tack because it’s the path of least resistance, because if this is the life they choose, they’re going to need our support. Especially in Larkspur, New Jersey!”

  “I’m not listening to any more of this!” Claire said, leaning into Cat’s face. She’d been shutting down fights this way since they were kids. Her precious daughter would meet someone at the beach club or in the city at a mixer. She would stop making those inane homemade costumes, settle into a legitimate career, then quit to have a nice family of her own with a handsome financier. Claire thought, Cat’s insufferable, then hissed, “Leave me out of it.” She wedged a blanket onto the shelf and stormed out, not bothering to slam the door.

  Cat remained, furious. She hated her sister for being so closed-minded and unwilling to evolve with the world around her. If Claire doesn’t think about it, it doesn’t exist. She’d always been big on revisionist history. She would have made a great mob boss or dictator’s wife, Cat thought as she studied the closet’s hardwood floor. She imagined how Bizzy and Choo might have fit together side by side, noses and thighs touching, arms intertwined. It is a cozy spot, she thought, like a hidden faraway fort. She imagined them there in their pajamas, warming each other in the early-morning chill, finding one another, stifling giggles.

  Cat remembered dancing with Cousin Matthew on New Year’s Eve when she was fourteen or fifteen. As he shuffled her around the living room carpet her palms grew sweaty. They were half drunk on pilfered champagne. To calm her nerves she sang along to Nat King Cole, mumbling the lyrics of “Unforgettable” she knew so well. When she looked up at Matthew he was smiling in the most peculiar way. Their eyes locked, and the smell of his bay rum cologne made her want to kiss him, then run away. But she couldn’t escape. Though he held her lightly, she felt soldered to his arms. At last, she broke from his gaze before she could blush. “I have to pass hors d’oeuvres—probably some stupid deviled eggs.” Cat didn’t look directly at Matthew again for years, until he was married off and her desire had thoroughly subsided.

  Eventually, Claire will have to consider it, Cat thought. And if it lasts, I will have to spill the truth. But if I tell him and he doesn’t truly love Biz, I’ll have lost him his inheritance for nothing. They’re both too young. It’ll have to wait. Let’s see how things play out.

  Before leaving she was straightening the row of beat-up Louis Vuitton suitcases, when a corner of silver foil revealed itself under faded leather. Cat knew before bending down that she had found a condom. Could be anyone’s. But who was she kidding. She tucked it in her pocket, then weighed her options: dispose of it, or keep it as proof.

  Cat cornered Biz alone later on when they were packing. Biz panicked she might have to lie. She’d learned long ago to withhold pieces of truth from her mother but didn’t want to do that with Aunt Cat. “May I speak with you for a moment?” Cat said, and sat down on the edge of the bed without waiting for an answer.

  “Sure,” said Biz.

  “I’m here because I love you and Choo, excuse me, Charlie. And I’m worried about you both.” Cat grabbed a blouse and helped Biz fold.

  “Okay,” said Biz warily, and continued packing, looking down, busy as a bee.

  Cat tried to meet her eyes. “What’s going on with Charlie?”

/>   “I don’t know.”

  “Please be honest with me. And don’t say ‘Becky’ because I don’t buy it. He didn’t even notice she was in the room.”

  “I like her,” said Biz brightly, and meant it.

  “Don’t change the subject, young lady.” Cat continued, “I think Charlie’s rude departure had something to do with you and his roommate, Foster. I think something happened—”

  “Nothing happened between me and Foster,” Biz was too quick to say.

  “No. Between you and Charlie,” Cat said and Biz faltered. “I’m wondering if perhaps you and Charlie have grown too close. Some would say inappropriately close…” She studied Biz’s reaction. “Be honest, please.”

  Biz’s eyes grew large, and her eyebrows arched with worry. “I can’t miss this train. We have class in the—”

  “Look at me,” said Cat. It was a stern but pleading request that hung in the air with desperation, reminding Biz they both cared for Charlie more than anyone else in the world.

  Biz finally met her aunt’s gaze but said nothing.

  Cat spoke slowly. “Biz, sweetheart, I think you understand more than you’ll say. So I want you to consider this: it’s now extremely important you make an effort to allow yourselves to grow toward other people, as hard as that might be. You need to give him space.”

  “We’re trying to—” Biz began, then realized she shouldn’t have spoken and froze.

  Cat took in her niece’s beauty. So many hours left to their own devices while the adults made daiquiris, played backgammon, and danced. Biz’s statuesque figure—all those summers in bikinis—had to have been difficult to ignore, even camouflaged by flat-front chinos and boy’s rugby shirts. Cat spoke gently, attempting not to sound accusatory. “I know you’re both trying. And I like Foster and Becky. But Charlie needs a clear message. You may have to insist.” Cat thought again of the condom. “You’re stronger than he is … you have more, um, control.”

  Biz thought of how easily she weakened when faced with her growing sexual desire. “Trust me, he has more control—”

  “The world isn’t ready for … could never handle … just, please, be his friend.”

  Biz, used to seeing a confidante in her aunt, was now seeing a mother’s concern. But not having children herself, she was unable to imagine the depths of its cost. She had no idea of the social expectations laid on Thornden wives and mothers. She and Charlie were instructed to play together and did as they were told. And, yes, Marco Polo in the shallow end had become cigarettes, booze, and sex—the inevitable developmental deep end. A game’s a game, she reasoned with herself. Learn the rules, play, and have fun. They trusted each other implicitly, and that had to have value. They leaned on each other when their parents were awful, which had always been worth the world.

  “I am his friend” was her only response. Aunt Cat backed down and left.

  Biz clicked her suitcase shut, pushing the brass latches down with her thumbs. She liked the sound and feeling of making them lock at the same time. It punctuated the relief that came with surviving an emotional showdown with Aunt Cat—the grown-up in the whole world she loved most. Besides, Aunt Cat was wrong—Charlie wasn’t as weak as she suggested. Biz found him self-assured, intuitive, and a very skilled partner. And now he was a gorgeous man with a body few women could ignore. Biz would like to think she had that much power over him but knew she didn’t. They were in this thing together—equal partners, same goals. He knew she’d slept with other guys and had to have known Foster wasn’t special. He was simply new and close by and she was drunk, no surprise. Biz decided that when she returned home to Boston, she’d give Charlie a night or two to simmer down. Then she’d head to his dorm, ignore Foster, and take Charlie out for a burger. She’d apologize, tell him Foster meant nothing; then they could get on with their stupid lives. And he and Becky might need a fresh start.

  * * *

  On Charlie’s train ride back to Boston he came up with his own solution to their mess. In fact, Biz would probably thank him one day if he ever decided to talk to her again, which he had no immediate plans to.

  On Monday morning he went straight to the Office of Overseas Student Study. He asked the tough-looking, sixty-ish broad behind the desk if it was too late in the semester to go to Paris. “If you don’t mind making up the work you’ve missed in the first three weeks of classes,” she responded flatly, barely looking up over her glasses. Charlie replied he didn’t mind. “Swell, because the cutoff for add/drop is next week. How soon can you leave?” Her Boston accent was thick and tinged with the faint whiff of perpetual annoyance. “Tomorrow,” said Charlie. He had money in the bank from his summer job and could afford a last-minute three-hundred-dollar one-way ticket. She removed her readers and let them drop onto her bosom, held by a cheap plastic chain. Then she leaned her chin on her clasped hands, noting the eyelashes on the Adonis before her.

  Charlie figured her name, with the mood to match, was very likely Doris.

  “What will you study?” she said, wanting to not like him.

  “What’ve ya got?” He flashed his winningest dimpled smile.

  “How’s your French?” she asked. They both knew the answer didn’t matter.

  “C’est super,” Charlie said, sounding like an arrogant French bastard. She shook her head and grinned as she handed him her pen.

  “Here’s your stylo, kid. Better get started.”

  He took the pen, loosened his coat, and sat down to fill out the forms.

  * * *

  Biz arrived at Charlie’s dorm late Tuesday morning. She was about to knock when she thought she heard music. It was classical, but not Bach—not the majestic sweeping sound Grandpa Dun blared all summer, windows open for the whole block to hear. It was a quiet, languid piano, less anxious and more pained. Perhaps Chopin, but she couldn’t be sure, though it had the richness of honest, aching beauty.

  Biz turned the knob and snuck in undetected.

  There was no sign of Foster, but over in the alcove, Charlie played piano with his back to the world. The volume was loud enough to blanket a low squeak as Biz sat on the edge of his bed. She listened, slowly tearing as Charlie played, moved to see him ripped raw to his core. He was trying to master the transition after the first section of “Clair de Lune.” It was that or punch a hole in the wall. For the first time he was tapping into the exquisite pain of the song he’d been made to learn as a child. He knew it was pedestrian but didn’t give a fuck. It’s a goddamn classic for a reason.

  When the song reached its end, Biz’s heart broke. She worried she’d hurt him inexorably. His shoulders were so hunched he looked shattered and torn. He paused, then outstretched his left hand, and began the bass chords for “Rikki, Don’t Lose That Number”—one of their absolute jazz fusion faves. They slipped into the cool current of Steely Dan’s world, where nothing else mattered except their tangle of yearning. Then Charlie stopped playing and abruptly switched off his keyboard.

  Shame there’d be no piano in Paris.

  Biz stood, the mattress springs giving her away. He whipped around, his eyes flashing with caged contempt. It was an unfamiliar feeling and rendered her mute. When he finally spoke his voice was robotic, devoid of warmth. And for that matter, friendship. And love.

  “How long have you been here?” Charlie asked.

  Anxious, she said, “Hi. I’m sorry.”

  “Why didn’t you knock?”

  “I just. You play beautifully. Like Billy Joel or Chico Marx when he gets serious.” She was fumbling to mask the words she knew she shouldn’t say to describe the feelings that had welled up inside her.

  “Fuck you,” said Charlie.

  “I know,” she said, “and the horse I rode in on. I agree. I suck. And you have a right to be pissed. But I tried to—” Biz unfolded the whole saga, even the parts she’d already told him, beginning with trying to reach him at his dorm before he left. Charlie stopped listening and fully drank her in, knowing he wouldn’t see he
r for a while. She was the most confident girl he’d ever met though her beauty unintentionally preceded her. Charlie had grown up listening to strangers pay her compliments out of the blue, and each time she demurred, pretending it was the first time. She lied to make them feel special, but if everyone felt special—Charlie reasoned—then no one truly was.

  Biz concluded her speech and scanned the room. It was more chaotic than usual. A sky-blue hard-shell Samsonite suitcase sat open and full of clothes on Charlie’s bed. She assumed he was unpacking from the weekend, but a travel alarm clock and power converter lay next to an electric shaver. Something just wasn’t right. She said, “That’s my story, now it’s your turn. You behaved abysmally, too, you know, not only toward me but your family, and Becky, your roommate—”

  “He,” Charlie cut her off midsentence, “is dead to me.”

  “Uh, okay, Michael Corleone.”

  Usually Biz could make him crack, but not this time. Charlie remained stone-faced. On Sunday night Foster had made it clear he’d be writing his term paper over at the main library. “That’s where the learning happens,” he said before heading out the door. He and Foster had not discussed the weekend, nor did Charlie tell his roommate of his transatlantic plans: that he would be on a flight by Tuesday dinnertime. Then, hopefully, once surrounded by Frenchwomen and crêpe stands, Biz would finally recede from his mind.

  “So be it,” said Biz. “May Foster rest in peace.” She’d knowingly teased Charlie’s limits in the past, but seemed to have pushed buttons beyond humor’s salvation.

  Biz took off her coat and sat on the edge of Foster’s bed as she spoke, hoping the gesture would transmit a familiarity that would return their relationship to normal. “Bottom line is, I slept with your roommate, big deal, who cares. Neither Foster nor I do. I came here to tell you I’m truly sorry for oversleeping—”