Twisted Family Values

by V. C. Chickering

  The day of the appointment Biz awoke with angst and embarrassment—regretting her one-night folly, kicking her dumb self once again. The clinic was clean and well lit, and Aunt Cat was prepared for the wait. She brought an unfinished bargello needlepoint, a Snickers, and a cardigan sweater. Biz cried when they took her away to get changed—part apprehension and part self-scolding. When they asked, “Are you doing this of your own free will?” she answered, “Of course I am. I mean, who else?” Then, “Oh. I get it.” She found the staff patient and friendly, though she was reticent to look anyone in the eye. In fact, she closed hers tightly during the vacuumlike extrication, which was louder than she’d imagined. Tears streaked her cheeks, and the stirrups were unbearably cold; she wished more than anything to be unconscious. Recovery felt endless with no wristwatch and bad cramps. Swaddled in the long row of La-Z-Boys, Biz stared at the ficus. She learned no one’s stories and made no new girlfriends. She just wanted it to be over.

  Afterward, Biz and Aunt Cat lunched at Daisy Buchanan’s on Newbury. When her soup came with two spoons, Biz said to the waiter, “Thanks. I’m eating only for one, now.” Neither of them laughed and the waiter walked away, confused. Then, Biz said, “I knew I’d find a joke today somewhere.” During the meal Cat impressed upon her, in no uncertain terms, why taking a pill a day was nonnegotiable. She also gave a brief lecture on the pitfalls of pulling out, then rounded it off by marching Biz into a drugstore and making her buy condoms to carry in her purse.

  “What if it falls out of my wallet?”

  “Bat your eyes and make a joke.”

  “A dick joke? But I’m a girl.”

  “Women’s lib. You’ll think of something.”

  They went back to Cat’s hotel and snuggled into the queen-sized bed and watched The Cosby Show, Family Ties, and Cheers. Biz took extra Tylenol to loosen the painful squeezing in her abdomen, then fell sound asleep and didn’t stir.

  …

  * * *

  Charlie had written Biz every few days from his tiny Latin Quarter atelier, stopping at the post office even before unpacking. She tossed the feathery powder-blue airmail letters unopened into a Chuck Taylor shoebox. They accumulated under her bed, and the ritual became trite.

  Biz decided to open them, finally, on the night of her last fall exam. She laid them out in chronological order, then poured some tequila from her stash. They were genuine apologies, elaborate declarations of remorse. He begged to rekindle their friendship, once they “took some space.” He wrote entire paragraphs in Terces and evoked games they’d made up as kids. He included a brief update on his current script. Sometimes he sent a little something he knew she’d love like a photo of Deyrolle’s taxidermy shop, or the wrapper from oddly named candy. Each time he apologized for letting his anger take over, and for hating her that day and loving her too much.

  By the last of the letters and the third shot of tequila, she couldn’t decide if the pit in her stomach was from residual anger, missing Charlie, or a drunken agitation of both. She decided not to write him back—to punish him for his cruelty and entitlement, but also because the incident was finally fading in her mind. She didn’t want to dredge it up and knew he felt terrible; that much he’d succeeded in making clear. Always he closed with “There’s no one like you.” She wanted to forgive him but wasn’t convinced she should. Though Nana Miggs always said, “Resentment has little usefulness.” Biz had thought she understood what that meant. Now was her chance to find out.

  Charlie’s exile of self-torture lasted many long weeks while waiting for Biz to answer his letters. He felt he would never be able to forgive himself and couldn’t blame her for not responding. He’d been a monster, he saw that now, and made a mistake by running away. He missed his family and America, and should have faced his punishment in the States. He should have apologized in person and done whatever it took to make amends. But she wasn’t writing him back, so he assumed it was better he stay away. The Sorbonne proved a welcome refuge from his guilt, so he immersed himself in his film studies.

  A few days into December, in his Cinéma Pratique et Esthétique class, Charlie felt a peculiar presence. When he pivoted in his chair, there, a row behind him, under a mop of strawberry curls, was Piper. In Paris?! I don’t understand. They anxiously partnered on a project to shoot a four-minute 16 mm film. While the other students brainstormed, Charlie and Piper excitedly debriefed.

  Charlie said, “What are you doing here?”

  Piper grinned like the Cheshire cat. “What are you doing here? I’ve been here since August. Actually, I’ve been in London since August, but the program was eh, and the food sucked, so I switched to Paris. At least the food is better,” said Piper, unimpressed by the coincidence. “Where’s Biz?”

  “Very funny. She’s in Boston.”

  “Wow, cut the cord, eh?”

  “I can’t believe you’re here,” Charlie said, nonplussed, though he knew he really shouldn’t be that shocked. Plenty of eastern seaboard universities had programs abroad with the Sorbonne.

  “Yeah, well, get over it,” said Piper.

  “Do you even know French?”

  “Do you?”

  “Touché,” he said unintentionally, then realized. “There’s one word we don’t have to learn.” Piper laughed, and Charlie felt a little less homesick.

  Once at work on their project, he was impressed by the endless stream of shot ideas that sprang to Piper’s mind. She rarely wrestled with story arc or second-guessed the way he did, and plausible solutions for shooting snags seemed always within her reach. Charlie kept a respectful distance during preproduction and on location. But hours at work late at night, shoulders touching and hunched over a Steenbeck, proved an aphrodisiac in their cramped, windowless edit bay. Piper snickered at his corny jokes as they replayed cuts on the seven-inch monitor, and he marveled at her timing and instincts. Snappy banter wasn’t her strong suit, but he liked that she had drive. The French had a different sense of humor than Americans—lacking an awareness of the whimsically absurd. Piper was kind of French in that way, but otherwise reminded Charlie of home.

  Once their parallel action project was turned in, Piper dragged Charlie to all the tourist destinations. They enjoyed museums and picnic lunches at Père Lachaise and Versailles. They strolled on the edge of the quay watching bateaux mouches rumble by. They sipped red wine and ate moules-frites at tiny round café tables where they discussed the works of indie filmmakers and the imperative they remain friends, but it didn’t stick for very long. One late night at 2 A.M. after the Métro had shut down and there were no cabs, they hurried home in the rain. They scampered down the misty cobblestone streets of the Left Bank and up five flights to Charlie’s and into bed. In the morning they made slow, sleepy love to each other; then Charlie reenacted Rocky in a heavy French accent. “You’re quite good,” she told him with a devilish grin.

  “My accent?”

  “No. In bed. Your accent’s terrible.”

  “Thank you,” he replied knowingly. “I don’t suppose you’re leaving me again for Robbie. Let me guess, he’s just getting back from Mount Everest and boy, are his arms tired. Is he waiting downstairs to sweep you off your feet again?”

  “No, but he is checking off the Seven Wonders. I read it in the alumni magazine.”

  “And you’re his eighth?”

  “Ha, no. He’s already engaged to be engaged. And besides, I like you. Always did.”

  “You had a funny way of showing it.”

  “You got over it,” She grinned and pulled him back on top of her.

  “You should see the scars,” he mumbled, and they made love again. Charlie gave himself permission to feel joy again.

  After that day, there would be no turning back. Charlie and Piper were a definite thing.

  Charlie and his mom had communicated via postcards to devise a time for the long-awaited Christmas Day phone chat. They hadn’t spoken since he left except for his initial call home to tell Cat and Ned he�
�d made it safely and would not be returning for the holidays. Charlie knew the drill: the traditional family tree trimming would take place at his mother’s, as 1985 was an odd year—Aunt Claire hosted on the evens. He would use a telephone card to call from a pay phone at cocktail hour, East Coast time, on Christmas Eve—there would be less chaos at night. The next morning the families would open presents separately, then meet up again at Nana Miggs and Grandpa Dun’s for beef Wellington and carols around the unopened piano. But Cat wanted to hear her son’s voice before Christmas morning—and, more importantly, wanted him to hear hers.

  Biz headed next door to Aunt Cat’s in the dark at 4:30 P.M. on Christmas Eve, carrying a dimpled tray of deviled eggs. Everyone had received word that Charlie would be calling at five, and they should all have a drink in hand for the annual champagne toast family photo. Cat had planned it down to a T. She’d hold up the phone for the self-timed picture—to represent Choo on the other end—then have the roll developed when the camera shop reopened, first thing after New Year’s Day. Then she’d send a framed five-by-seven photo of Charlie’s loving family to arrive in Paris by Valentine’s Day. That way Charlie would know his family loved him.

  Biz kicked off E.J.’s old snow boots at the back door and slipped into black heels without having to put down the tray. She felt an odd mix of excited and anxious to hear Charlie’s voice—unclear how she might react; things could go either way. The women were all in the kitchen, the men at the bar getting them drinks. Biz was doling out hellos and air-kisses to all the ladies, when she heard an atypical man’s voice in the crowd mixed in with her relatives’. “What on earth?” said Biz under her breath. E.J. was standing at the bar, filling cocktail orders. He nodded in Foster’s direction and said, “Oh yeah, him. Surprise.”

  Biz made a beeline for Foster. “What the hell are you doing here?”

  “And a very Merry Christmas to you, too. Georgia invited me. I’m in charge of the record player in Charlie’s absence. I thought, considering the homogeneity of the crowd, I would begin my set with ‘White Christmas.’”

  “Georgia?! Don’t you have a family of your own?” Biz was livid.

  “I do. They’re in Gstaad,” he said, and picked up a sterling-silver-framed photo of the Thornden grandchildren in a pyramid on the beach when they were little. “So, you’ve always been touched by the gods and not just recently?” he teased.

  “You could have told Georgia, ‘No, thank you.’”

  “That would have been rude. Plus I have a lab due. My team is working over the break, and this was a welcome distraction. Don’t worry. I’m only here for the hot food. And maybe your hot cousin.”

  Biz leaned in and whispered, “Well, you’re a dickwad.”

  Foster beamed a smile, wide and beguiling. “Takes one to know one.”

  Biz caught sight of Georgia in the doorway wearing a tight red tube miniskirt and low-slung studded belt; a matching tomato-red top, off the shoulder; and leather work boots like the ones Madonna wore in her “Like a Virgin” video—your basic Christmas whore. Biz looked like a crazy cat lady next to Georgia. She was wearing a crisp white blouse with a gold-star belt buckle topping a long emerald felt skirt decorated with actual ornaments and real silver garland as if it were a Christmas tree. “Nice skirt,” said Foster.

  “I made it,” said Biz.

  “No kidding.”

  Biz wished she didn’t look like a goober next to Georgia. “It’s a prototype. I’m planning to sell them to Christmas enthusiasts.”

  “There’s a word for those types.”

  “What?”

  “Christians.”

  “You know what? Don’t talk to me,” she sneered and walked away. Biz couldn’t believe he was back. The guy who would have been the father of her … She damn well needed another drink. Georgia slunk her way over to Biz at the bar, the lace on her black bra highlighting her cleavage. Biz said, “Hey, Flashdance. You’re looking chaste.”

  “It’s just family,” said Georgia.

  “My point exactly.”

  “I’m one of Santa’s elves.” Georgia gave a slight shimmy, which made her jingle bell earrings tinkle.

  Biz said, “Uh-huh. If Santa were a pimp.”

  Georgia laughed, unruffled. Foster sidled up to her and she placed a bourbon in his palm. “Here’s your alcohol, dear.”

  Biz rolled her eyes. “‘Dear’? Really? What an adorable surprise.”

  “I thought so,” Georgia said, grinning.

  “It’s a Christmas miracle,” said Foster, already sauced. It was weird he’d impregnated her and still didn’t know it. Biz couldn’t tell if he really liked Georgia or was caught up in the thrill of penetrating the Thornden inner sanctum. Though Georgia was more akin to an adjunct family member, having been dragooned into their ranks as a pre-teen. Biz figured he probably liked that she held outsider status, was able to move among them without becoming one of them. For all of these reasons, in addition to the fact that she was probably dynamite in bed, Biz had to admit she could see his attraction to Georgia. She figured, how long can it last? Thankfully Foster’s presence to her was little more than a nuisance.

  Biz turned to Foster. “You told me your family loved you.”

  “Oh, they do, just not until tomorrow. My flight’s at nine A.M.”

  Georgia added, “I’ll give you a ride.”

  “I’m sure you will,” said Biz, and turned back to the bar to make herself a double.

  At 11 P.M. in a corner phone booth, on a cobblestone street in Neuilly, Charlie was pressed up against Piper with his prepaid phone card ready to go. Piper gave Charlie a long, slow kiss, her lips lingering to brush his lightly before pulling away. He scanned her freckles and looked into her bright cinnamon eyes. He felt incredibly lucky to hold this familiar, sweet-smelling woman—someone he didn’t have to explain his family or Americans to—and wondered what she would think if she ever knew how he’d behaved toward Biz. He was pretty sure he would never tell her.

  Charlie was grateful for a second chance, and Piper was it. And he would never take her for granted.

  He dialed, saying, “You’re welcome to stay. You can say hi to everyone and help keep me warm.” They kissed again—not the hungry kiss of new lovers but of two people beginning to deeply appreciate one another’s company.

  “It’s a fifteen-minute card. You’ll survive. It’ll fly by,” Piper said, and groped for the inside door handle. “I’ll wait in the café across the street,” she said. “I’ll even order you a beer.” She slid the phone booth door closed, then briefly opened it a crack. “And some frites.”

  “Piper!” Charlie called after her, but she was already trotting away. The peep in his ear began to count down the minutes.

  “Hello? Charlie, is that you?” he heard through the tiny black holes in the receiver. The warmth of his mother’s voice thawed his nervous chill.

  “It’s me, Mom!”

  “You sound so close!” Cat cupped her hand over the mouthpiece and reported to the crowd sitting on the cushion and armrest of every chair and couch. “He sounds next door,” then, back to Charlie, “How are you liking gay Paree?”

  “It’s wicked amazing, Mom. I’m having the best time. Learning a lot.”

  Cat cupped her hand again. “He said he’s learning a lot and it’s wicked amazing.”

  “He did not say wicked,” said E.J. “What, is he in the Staten Island section of Paris?”

  Rah said, “Mom, you don’t have to relay everything in real time, you can paraphrase at the end. He’s probably on a phone card with a limited amount of time.”

  “Oh, my dear. Okay, I’ll hurry. Well, everyone wants to say hi.”

  Nana Miggs offered, “You can tell him Merry Christmas from his grandfather and me.”

  “Ditto,” said E.J.

  “Typical,” said Rah.

  Claire said, “Maybe we should do the toast now in case we run out of time.”

  Cat said, “Yes, of course,” then, to
Charlie, “We’re raising a glass to you, darling. Everyone’s here in the living room—”

  E.J. shouted, “Even Foster!”

  “Shut up!” hissed Biz. Georgia patted Foster’s knee as he chuckled and sipped his whisky.

  Charlie leaned closer into the pay phone as his far-off family shouted “Merry Christmas” as if doing so might transport him to his mother’s living room in New Jersey. “What was that about Foster?” Charlie said. He couldn’t have heard that right. Cat spoke hurriedly, no space between thoughts. “Nothing, dear. Did you ever look up Piper? Her mother said she was in London last time we chatted. We’re raising our glasses to you at this very moment. We miss you so much and wish…” Her voice cracked with a mother’s love—she treasured him so very desperately. “We wish you were here.” Cat placed her hand over her heart; Charlie heard the tinkling of his mother’s gold charm bracelet. Claire jumped up and commandeered the phone from her sappy sister. “It’s Aunt Claire, dear. Your mother thought it would be nice if we passed the phone around so everyone could say a quick hello.”

  “Okay, but—” Charlie was okay just speaking with his mom.

  The phone cord was stretched—nearly flattening the spiral—and passed around the room so that every voice might be heard saying “Hello, Charlie” or “Hey, Choo!” Each one tugged him a little closer to home, lodging a hitch in his throat that grew more pronounced with each turn. No one felt the need to say who was speaking, so sure were they of their vocal imprints. He could picture them—the drinks they’d made, the ties they’d chosen—and he missed them all, even Rah’s display of indignant exasperation and E.J.’s acerbic sarcasm. Charlie’s eyes began to water. Outside the booth it dusted snow.

  Biz was the last to be handed the phone. She kept saying, “You go ahead, you go ahead,” in an outward show of largesse, but really she was avoiding the inevitable. Finally, she could put off Charlie no longer—too many people were watching. “Merry Christmas,” she chirped with forced cheer, trickier to do than she thought. It was a challenge to transmit holiday greetings with so many not knowing their story. “Mele Kalikimaka,” Charlie said on the other end. His voice was meek and cracking with melancholy, but he sounded as clear as if he were next door. Get it together, they both thought to themselves. The Hawaiian phrase was an olive branch, an inside joke harkening back to the Christmas when they were fourteen and got hammered on the grown-up’s eggnog. They’d giggled inanely to the Andrew Sisters’ holiday album hit, betting each other they couldn’t drop the needle back at the beginning without anyone noticing. Finally, Les got wise to the song’s gnawing repetition and hid it. After that, Mele Kalikimaka was the only phrase they used at Christmas time. So when Charlie said it and Biz didn’t echo the sentiment, it stung.