Twisted Family Values

by V. C. Chickering

  Biz’s night had not gone as planned, but so what else was new—neither had her life thus far. But not one to dwell, she devised a plan: first, she would tear up the dance floor, then have some carrot cake and a shot, then maybe jump off the diving board in her dumb dress she hoped to ruin. Charlie’s plan was to wash his face and dick in the bathroom sink, then do Goldschläger shots with E.J. and his best man in the shed. He felt so much self-loathing for having had sex with Biz—whom he cherished—while engaged to Piper—whom he loved—that he decided blacking out was the only way to go. He was well on his way when Piper found him and, taking him by the hand, dragged him onto the dance floor to save him. Georgia, Rah, E.J., and Biz were dancing to “We Are Family,” and Piper felt Charlie should be in attendance. She noticed his discomfort, but chalked it up to too much booze, and felt it served him right—he was being an idiot.

  Charlie danced with Piper to Gloria Gaynor’s hit, “I Will Survive,” his eyes riveted to those of his fiancée. He was desperate not to lose the one woman in this world who knew his deepest flaws and wanted him anyway. They would build a fresh life for themselves, Charlie thought, as he spun Piper out and in—separate from his family, and away from Biz and this town. They would strike out on their own and start over quietly, no longer tethered to his privilege or burdened by his muddied Thornden past. Charlie would finally—without regret—carve out a permanent life without Biz. Then he made a wish his cousin would do the same.

  2002

  Georgia’s lush green front lawn, Firth, New Jersey

  “Ever since 9/11 I’ve wanted to do this. Life’s too damn short!” Georgia shouted out the window.

  Biz shouted up, “Well, then, you married the right man!”

  “Or the wrong man, as the case may be!”

  Georgia disappeared for another trip. She had a short blunt cut, now—was a bottle blonde with dark roots—and wore baggy shorts and a 5k Fun Run oversized T-shirt, the typical androgynous uniform of American motherhood. Biz was down below watching her throw armloads of men’s Dockers onto the growing pile of clothes amassing on her thick front lawn. The cherry trees had just exploded in all their pink-and-white glory—the forsythia in swaths of bright yellow. It was a gorgeous spring day, perfect for a marital showdown. Thank goodness the kids were at school.

  Biz was reclining in a broken folding chair, a few feet from the pile’s outer edge. She was enjoying the fresh air and domestic spectacle. “I wouldn’t know!” she shouted then thought, So many golf shirts with tournament insignias. It must be lonely having a husband who golfs. Maybe it’s lonely having a husband, period. Though the thought didn’t stop her from wanting one. However, Georgia’s predicament gave her pause; she suspected marriage was harder than it looked.

  Biz was smoking and reading an article in People about J.Lo and Ben Affleck. Bennifer, she thought to herself. Match made in heaven. Moments later Georgia returned to the window with another armload of men’s shirts. Biz imagined what the pile would look like to passersby once Georgia cleaned out her cheating husband’s stuff, or made her point, whichever came first. She took another drag and turned the page. Apparently, Ted Williams’s head was severed from his body to be cryogenically frozen for future reattachment. “Now that’s planning ahead,” she said to no one, then, “Get it?”

  Charlie crossed the yard, approaching Biz. “Are you seriously laughing at your own jokes?”

  “You don’t know what it’s like to be single.”

  “Let me guess. You’re your own best audience?”

  “Close. I’m my only audience.” Biz gestured to another beach chair in the pile nearly obscured by Golf magazines. “Pull up a seat. Which will last longer, Jennifer Aniston and Brad Pitt or Ted Williams’s frozen head?”

  “Head,” said Charlie, unfolding the chair and plopping down beside her.

  “You missed my Ted Williams pun.”

  “Let me guess … something, something, planning ahead?”

  “Killjoy.”

  “Nah, I can read your mind, that’s all.” Charlie still enjoyed making Biz smile.

  It was the Thursday before Memorial Day weekend, and he’d stopped by to borrow Georgia’s hedge trimmer. It still felt odd for him not to be getting ready for their big annual Thornden family shindig. He’d assumed they’d be hosting those parties with canes and walkers forever. But something had driven a wedge between his mom and Aunt Claire; their closeness had shifted to a façade. His mom had refused to cohost again the summer he returned from Europe. Aunt Claire threw a fit, worrying it would look suspicious, which made no sense to anyone. When Charlie asked his mom why the parties were ending, she snapped, “Nothing gold can stay.”

  “But what will all the families do on holidays?”

  “They’ll figure something out. The world doesn’t revolve around us.” It was the first time he’d ever considered the notion and life, shockingly, went on. Then when news of Cat’s breast cancer got around it became clear why the Thorndens weren’t attending parties, either. The chemo had been brutal, and there were complications. By the time his mom’s mastectomy had healed, new traditions had been carved out by younger families who’d never heard of the Thorndens. Unfazed, Nana Miggs counseled, “Resentment isn’t useful. Just think of all the money we’ll save on deviled eggs.” Cat nodded solemnly, feeling responsible for their snubbing. Claire scoffed. She, too, blamed her sister. But Charlie knew he couldn’t blame his mom.

  Twelve years prior, Piper had become pregnant right after their wedding—some suspected slightly before. Two years later she was pregnant with their second when Cat’s biopsy came back positive for invasive ductal carcinoma. Charlie put his film career on hold to help with the treatments, but not for purely altruistic reasons. He suspected deep down he’d never make it in Hollywood—unless you knew someone in the biz, the biz didn’t know you and Charlie had no connections. He felt he should have tried harder to convince Piper to move there on their trip out west, before she got pregnant. Instead they agreed to raise their kids in Larkspur and Charlie would renovate the neglected Art Deco movie theater in Firth. That way they could both be there for his mother while Ned worked to protect his health benefits. Cat loaned Charlie the money from his secret trust. On completion he renamed it The Wonder. He showed film classics like West Side Story and Young Frankenstein in the evenings, and Marx Brothers fare for children’s birthday parties in the mornings. It was also used as a center for film classes during the day and rented out for soirees at night. And though Charlie was providing for his family and community, he still felt he’d failed at his filmmaking dream—a fact Piper was well aware of behind closed doors.

  Georgia tossed a drawer full of men’s bathroom products out the window; they scattered like candy from a piñata when they hit the ground. Charlie said, “The Student Shorts Film Fest went well.”

  “I’m sorry I missed it,” Biz said, looking him in the eye. “I was at the bakery until late finishing up a friggin’ Sopranos birthday cake. How did it go?”

  “That’s funny. I’d like to meet the—”

  “No, you wouldn’t.”

  “The kids did a great job.”

  “And you did a great job. You’re teaching them how to channel their creative energy, craft a story, create tension…” An iPod, MP3 player, and Palm Pilot rained down onto the pile. Biz and Charlie scootched their chairs back another three feet. “Speaking of tension…,” Charlie said, and they shared a chuckle as rolls of socks bounced all over the lawn.

  Georgia emerged from the garage and tossed a bag of golf clubs onto the pile.

  “Happy birthday, Georgie!” Charlie shouted gaily. “Forty! Wow! Any big plans?”

  Georgia rolled her eyes. “Come up and help me with the TV.”

  Biz laughed. Charlie said, “Nope. Sorry. Not taking sides. No aiding or abetting.”

  Georgia tried her erstwhile charm. “It can be your birthday present to me.”

  “Too late. I already have something for you.”


  “You do not.”

  “I named a star after you.”

  “Liar.”

  “I got you concert tickets to Nickelback.”

  “Bullshit. You’re useless. I’ll use his desk chair. It’s on rollers.”

  Georgia disappeared again.

  Charlie turned to Biz. “That could have been us, you know.” Biz smirked. “I’d thought of that.” She watched Charlie as he grabbed a club and putted balls of socks toward her feet. She was savoring being alone with him—a rare delight ever since he married, especially once they both had kids. He’d aged well, the bastard, distinguished gray at his temples. He was a slightly older version of his young Adonis self. “Lucky for us, you got Piper knocked up.”

  “Yes. Lucky us,” Charlie said with casual sarcasm. But he felt fortunate to have two healthy kids and a wife who was a good mother. He was also glad to be friends with Biz, though they tried not to be alone together, for his family’s benefit—and to be safe. Charlie tried to sound off-the-cuff. “Remind me again who knocked you up?”

  Biz gave Charlie the same world-weary look she’d given him for the last thirteen years. “Please. Your attempts are getting lazy. You used to be more creative.”

  “C’mon, everyone and their uncle thinks Ruby’s mine. You may as well just tell me. You know I can keep a secret.” People in town had their suspicions. Only Biz and Charlie were twisted enough to joke about it when they were alone. Everyone else in the family ignored the chatter and maintained denial.

  “Immaculate conception,” said Biz.

  “Ha, you liked sex too much for that.”

  “Liked? Past tense?”

  “Forgive me. Present tense.”

  “I’m not dead yet. Jeeze, I’m in my prime. And if I haven’t told anyone up to this point, what on earth makes you think I would tell you now?”

  “Because I’m not anyone. I’m me.” Charlie smiled.

  “Nice try. Your dimple doesn’t work here. Besides, you became ‘anyone’ when you married Piper.” Biz meant it to sting a little. “Carry on with your life and don’t mind mine, thank you very much. We’re all doing just fine.”

  “Ruby has a dimple,” he baited her. Charlie had always wanted to know, though he agreed with Biz that the truth was superfluous.

  Biz said, “We all have dimples, and she looks just like me.”

  “She laughs like me.”

  “Oh, please—”

  “Doesn’t she ever ask—”

  “Stop,” Biz said with no intention of divulging what she herself didn’t know for certain. Let Charlie think she knew and wasn’t telling. “Please, let’s not rock any boats.”

  “You mean other than the boat being rocked before our very eyes? Does he know about the pile?” Charlie was referring to Georgia’s husband, who was also his dear old friend.

  “I have no idea. He’s at work, and I’m staying out of it. I was merely asked to stand guard to make sure random passersby didn’t steal his crap. That includes you. Put the putter back.”

  “You’re the Switzerland of domestic disputes.”

  “Je suis,” said Biz.

  “So then you don’t blame him?”

  “I don’t blame anyone. That’s not my role. You can never know what goes on in a marriage. At least that’s what I’m told by everyone who’s ever been married, ad nauseam.”

  “It’s true,” Charlie said. “So the bakery isn’t crumbling without you there? Get it? Crumbling?”

  “Hardy-har, I get it. They barely know I’m gone. It’s a well-oiled machine. Are you going to call Piper?”

  “Nah, she’s carpooling now and doesn’t want a cellular phone—she thinks they’re unnecessary and showy. I might tell her at dinner.”

  “I thought husbands told their wives everything.”

  Charlie spoke with remnants of guilt. “You of all people should know that’s not true. I’m noticing Georgia threw the clothes out first to make a cushion for the electronics. Did she do that last time? Do you think that means there’s a part of her that still loves him?”

  “Nope,” said Biz. “I think this one’s gonna stick.”

  Charlie mused, “It’s almost as if she planned it.”

  “Are you kidding?” Biz looked up from her magazine. “None of us could have possibly planned any of this.”

  At that moment, a faded diesel Mercedes pulled up the driveway. It was butter yellow with a distinctive engine’s rumble. Foster Barnstock emerged in a Tommy Bahama Hawaiian shirt, blasting “Don’t Stop Believing” at top volume. Georgia had been begging him to upgrade his car for years, but he was stalwart and stubbornly refused. Once he decided to like something he dug in his heels. It was that mind-set that made his online start-up millions in the tech sector—and helped him woo the glamorous and sexy Georgia. But it was also the mind-set that had brought them all to this histrionic scene in front of Grandpa Dun and Nana Miggs’s old house. “Great highway torque,” Foster repeated in his car’s defense, but it was the diesel rumble that gave away his third affair.

  Foster watched, without flinching, as his Bose Wave speakers took flight. A police officer slowed and parked, presumably to take in the show. With that, Foster briskly strode past Biz and Charlie, saying, “’Morning.” They echoed his sentiment brightly as if passing a gardening neighbor and not witnessing the dramatic midlife conclusion of someone’s faltering vows. “Just a minute, sir,” the three of them heard the officer say. Foster yelled up to his wife, “Georgia, knock it off!” “I’ll be right down, dear!” she sang after tipping a boxy Bondi Blue iMac off the sill onto the debris below. The desktop computer landed precariously at the top of the sloped mountain like a climber reaching the harrowing summit. Simultaneously, Charlie and Biz stood up. “Let’s amscray,” said Biz. Foster said, “Where you going? It’s about to get fun.”

  The policeman asked Foster, “Sir, would you like to press charges? This is destruction of property.”

  Foster said, “Uh, no, thank you, officer. This is how we pack. We’re going on vacation.”

  Biz started to giggle and couldn’t stop. She knew this was a painful day for them but couldn’t disengage from the absurdity. After all, there was no clear winner; Georgia had cheated, too. “I’ll help them pack” was all Biz could think to say, then knelt down and began folding Foster’s clothes.

  Seconds later, the electric garage door rose, revealing Georgia holding a giant sledgehammer over her head. “Um, Georgia” was as far as Foster got before the officer spoke.

  “Ma’am, please put the sledgehammer down.”

  Georgia paused, stunned by the sight of the blue uniform, then said, “What sledgehammer?”

  Charlie said, “He can arrest you.”

  There was another pause as everyone watched Georgia’s wheels turning. “Officer, I’m glad you’re here, I have a question.” She smiled thinly for punctuation.

  “Hypothetically,” Foster interjected.

  “Yes, thank you, dear. Hypothetically, if we own everything fifty-fifty in the eyes of the law, can’t I wreck my own property on my own land? Do I have the constitutional right—”

  The officer cut in as if he knew where this was going. “Ma’am, if you raise that sledgehammer over your head with ill will and intent to harm or destroy property in anger, even if you own it and no one gets hurt, I can arrest you for a DV—a domestic violence violation.”

  Biz tried to distract the cop. “Hey, didn’t you go to Larkspur High?”

  “I have a situation, here, ma’am. I’d prefer if you—”

  “Got it. Sorry. Carry on, officer. It’s Bruce, right?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Officer Bruce Wade.”

  “Wait, isn’t—” said Biz, but Charlie cut her off, whispering, “No. That’s ‘Wayne.’”

  Georgia had a revelation. “Hey, Batman! I remember you!”

  Foster gave Georgia the stink-eye. “Officer Wade, I’m not pressing charges.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The state is,
and she’ll be arrested.”

  Everyone considered the options. Georgia broke the ice. “No one’s getting arrested. I’m just cleaning out the garage. So thanks for stopping by, Bruce. This is our business … uh, vacation, and we’ll handle … the packing ourselves. In private.” Then she lowered the sledgehammer and underarm-tossed it onto the pile, hitting the computer and dislodging it from its precarious perch. The machine rolled clumsily down the hill and came to rest on Batman’s foot. It only tapped him gently on the ankle but touched him nonetheless. Biz said, “Ohhhh, shiiiiiit.”

  Officer Wade said, “Now you’ve assaulted a police officer. You’re under arrest.”

  Foster cut in, “But, officer—” as Georgia said, “Whaaaaat?!” with more indignation than she probably should have. Foster and Georgia moved toward the cop with separate diatribes, yet unified in their desire and intent. They looked like a real married couple. Charlie added to the cacophony by repeating, “Don’t resist arrest, Georgia, don’t resist arrest,” like some mantra he’d been coached to say by an older fraternity brother. Biz went back to folding, unable to undo what couldn’t be undone, and powerless to stop her undignified giggle fit.

  Georgia did not resist arrest, Foster followed her to the station, and Biz and Charlie stayed behind to cover the pile with tarps. When they imagined Claire and Grandpa Dun receiving the news of the Thornden arrest, they laughed themselves silly, though it wasn’t funny at all. Then they lay on the grass, trying to catch their breaths, like they did when they were kids.