Twisted Family Values

by V. C. Chickering

  “Another? Wait. Let me guess. Mary-Margaret.”

  “Close. Shannon, who’s raising my son—our son—about twenty minutes from here in Collier Hills, though she, too, is doing so without my say-so. It appears I have yet to master the basics of, um—”

  “Commitment?”

  “I was going to say relationships.”

  “And condoms, apparently,” said Biz.

  Finn chuckled. “Yes. That, too, I’ll admit.” She waited a beat, then grinned. She was shocked that he still felt so familiar to her, that their banter was still so nimble. She was also stunned by how complicated his life had become; by comparison hers felt tame.

  “So, you have two ex-wives, two kids on two continents, and a lesbian ex-in-law on a six-month rotation. Sounds like a shit-show.”

  “It is. A total shit-show.” Finn exhaled deeply. “I spend most of my time on this side of the Hudson now, because it’s where the money is.”

  “And the lawns, I’m guessing.”

  “And the lawns. Correct.”

  Billie Holiday cooed “It Had to Be You” while Biz took a moment to assess. Finn was a minor train wreck, which wasn’t the end of the world—so was she. But she didn’t care in this moment as he danced her around the room. She wasn’t thinking about a future with Finn, she was imagining reaching orgasm, or trying to—it had been so long, she could hardly remember when. Could he get hard? That was her main concern. Nothing else mattered. Not even her darling daughter Ruby.

  “I didn’t track you down, Elizabeth. I was as surprised as you were when I saw you in this wee bakery in your wee town. I came back tonight to tell you that you’re even more beautiful now than you were … and I like peonies enough, though they’re petulant divas if you must know. I despise apricots, honestly, they’re smug and there’s nothing worse. But I would make out with Gene Hackman right here and now if given the chance. And tree stumps, well, I’m a landscape designer, so I can protect you. And clowns are evil incarnate, no question, so at least we agree on—” Biz planted a wet one on him right then and there, right at the opening riff to Squeeze’s “Black Coffee in Bed,” which seemed awfully conspiratorial. Then Biz backed away, head woozy, and minced off to the basement office. Finn was happy to follow her down the stairs.

  Their kiss turned voracious in seconds. Her hunger surprised them both—it had been ages since she’d tasted someone she truly desired. Biz moved her lower body against Finn’s and found him hard. A hard man is good to find, she thought, and they devoured each other further. Then she grabbed Finn’s ass through his jeans and felt a rush of energy, like a powerfully irresistible drug she’d all but forgotten. “Ohhh,” she let escape into his ear. “I’m quite rusty.”

  “You’ll catch on. It’s just like falling off a—”

  “Bicycle?” Biz cut in.

  “I was going to say freight train.” Finn grinned.

  She whispered between heavy breaths, “You can’t imagine how long … and who knows when I’ll get the chance … Just fuck me, please.”

  “Such a romantic.”

  “And stop talking.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” said Finn, chuckling.

  And so the fucking commenced.

  Biz pulled flattened cake boxes off a high metal shelf and let them fall, covering the cold cement ground. Then she unbuckled Finn’s belt. His hand cupped her breast, and Biz responded with a wild jolt. “Mmmmm,” she hummed with a grounded urgency. Then he slowly slid both hands down into her pants from either side so that his fingers met in the middle. This was new to his bag of tricks since she’d last been with him; Biz was elated by his creativity.

  “Still in the same place, eh?” he whispered.

  “Right where you left it.” At the same moment Biz found him swollen and ready. “Ahhh,” they said in unison. His brain was shutting down, and they both knew it would be a while before he returned. Finn’s last clear thought was that he was glad he’d been hired by some rich Jersey divorcée named Amanda. Biz’s last thought before she untied her apron was that she was glad she’d shaved her legs. Finn lifted Biz onto the desk and enjoyed giving a bit of head as she reclined, knocking the stapler onto the floor. She straddled him on her desk chair until her knees began to cramp; then they lowered onto the flattened boxes for climaxing. But the real prize was how he felt inside her—full-filled in the literal sense, she thought, noting the double entendre for the first time.

  “I’m enjoying the fucking very much,” Biz said out loud.

  “Are ya, now?”

  “I are,” she said, then yelped, “Oooh,” filling the room with sound as she plunged herself onto him again and again. The deeper she pulled, the more her tiny sparkles filled the air. She gripped the shelving so she could slam him harder. “I’m close,” she said, “grab my arse,” and he gamely did. She was certain her whoops and squeals would hoist her to the precipice, unaccustomed to the ecstasy that was catapulting her into space. But Biz didn’t realize her crescendoing screams had reached beyond the basement walls. Finn was loud, too, his grunts winding their way around her moans. And just as they cleared the peak together, he released a deep roar, but a third shriek was heard from the door. “Mom! Oh my God! Are you okay?!”

  Biz and Finn froze midthrust and hugged each other close. They required a three-second delay to understand what was happening. Was there a girl in the basement? But Ruby had play rehearsal. Had Biz forgotten to lock the back door? She grabbed another flattened cake box and covered them as she shouted, “Back away, back away!” at her eleven-year-old daughter. “What are you doing here?!” Ruby was standing on the threshold, her fingers not quite covering her eyes. She bellowed, “Mom, I’m scared! Are you okay? I’m calling the police!”

  “Wait!” was all Biz could think to shout. “Sweetie, I’m okay!!” But the only reply was running feet and a muffled preteen’s cries.

  “My daughter—” Biz whispered to Finn. Her head was in a fog. It was disorienting down in the office/illicit sex lair. “I got it,” he panted, and sighed as they disengaged themselves. Her inner glory of fullness was now bereft. If there could have been a sound effect it would have been a clown’s slide-whistle “b’woop.” Jesus, can I please catch a break? thought Biz. I’m thirty-six and feel wholly deserving of an uninterrupted fuck in the place I own, for chrissakes. But Ruby sounded wounded, poor girl, and would have to be consoled. Plus there was the matter of a few unusable cake boxes, the likelihood of police arriving, and small-town public humiliation for the Thornden family—again.

  Ruby, a budding clone of her mother, stood sobbing at the bakery’s back door. But she was also really pissed at her mom, that deranged-sounding stranger, and the whole fucking world. Ruby let loose a deluge the second she laid eyes on her mother. “Oh my God!! Oh my God!! Are you kidding me?!! Are you fucking kidding me?! Were you having sex?! God, you’re so gross!” Biz tried an empathetic hand on her shoulder, but Ruby flung it off. “Is that what sex sounds like? I thought you were being murdered!”

  “Honey, why aren’t you at rehearsal?” Biz noticed she’d missed one of her buttons. Finn showed up, running his fingers sheepishly through his hair.

  “Miss Haarmann decided to let us go early. Who the fuck is this guy?”

  Finn started, “I’m—” but Biz cut him off and spoke in her damage-control voice. “Ruby, please stop swearing. Even on this occasion, the F-bomb is unacceptable.”

  “This occasion?! You mean the screwing occasion?! Stop swearing?! How about stop screwing!”

  “Honey, people have sex. Grown-ups have sex, it’s what we do. It’s how humans propagate the species and why we’re here today. Sometimes it gets loud and sounds scary, but it’s actually pretty fun when it’s uninterrupted, and when you’re much, much older hopefully you’ll enjoy it, too. Now I need to say good-bye to Mr. O’Donoghue, and then we’ll head home and have plenty of opportunity to talk—”

  “Well, I don’t fucking want to talk,” Ruby said. “I don’t ever want to talk to
you again as long as I live.” Then she turned on a youthful heel and stormed off.

  “Oh my fucking God,” said Biz. Her head was spinning. Christ, she thought, I don’t even know where to begin.

  “You’ve got quite an eloquent daughter,” said Finn, sensing the all-clear to speak.

  “You should probably—”

  “Yeah.”

  But just then, two cop cars pulled up—walkie-talkies crackling, flashers whirling—and a familiar face emerged from one. It was Batman.

  “You’re shitting me,” uttered Biz.

  “Good evening, folks. I’m Officer Wade.”

  “Hey, Batman,” said Biz.

  “How do you two know…?” was all Finn could say. Then to Biz, “Did you just say ‘Batman’?”

  * * *

  Biz returned home to discover Ruby wildly tossing clothes, books, and her favorite stuffed animal, Boinkers, into an NSYNC rolling suitcase. Biz hovered near the door in order to give her space. “Sweetheart, where are you going?”

  “Somewhere where there’s no sex.”

  “A nunnery? No, actually, they … never mind.”

  “I’m going to Gigi’s. Aunt Georgia said I can have a guestroom.”

  “Aunt Georgia has sex.”

  “But Uncle Foster moved out.”

  “Doesn’t mean she stopped having sex, dear. In fact—”

  “Ewww!” Ruby stomped her feet. “It’s so disgusting! I hate everybody!”

  Biz moved gingerly across Ruby’s IKEA rug and sat on the edge of her IKEA bed. “Well, everybody loves you, especially me.”

  “Why did you even have me if you hate me so much?”

  “I don’t hate you. I had you because I wanted you. Because I knew you’d be just as bright and creative and funny as you are, or can be under different circumstances. And because I knew my life would be less spectacular without you, because I’d have no one to love.”

  “You could have loved my dad.”

  “Your sperm donor was never in the picture, sweetie, you know that.” Biz reached out for Ruby’s hand, and this time she let her hold it. “You can’t fathom how much I love you. With every fiber of my being, I love you, a hundred thousand times more than you love Boinkers. You know we can talk about ‘the Donor’ anytime you want, and I’ll try to answer your questions as best—”

  Ruby removed her hand. “I still want to sleep at Gigi’s because I still hate you for getting jiggy with that stranger.”

  Biz’s cell phone dinged from somewhere in the apartment. “He’s not a stranger to me. Hold that thought, sweetie, I should find my phone.” She was worried it was the police, but when she returned she was peering at the closed top of the clamshell. “It says one text from Rah. That’s dumb. Why doesn’t it tell me what she says? Do you think it just means I’m supposed to call her back?”

  “God. Mom, flip open the phone. The name of the thing is a verb. Do the verb.”

  “I hate these things.” Biz turned the phone in her palm, looking for the correct side of the crack to open.

  “Oh. My. God, Mom. Give it to me.”

  “No, I can do it. It just says, ‘Grandpa Dun died.’ Why would it say that?”

  Ruby paused and looked at her mom as if she couldn’t believe they were related. “Because maybe he did?”

  Biz gasped. “Oh, my dear, do you think Grandpa Dun died?” She reflexively covered her heart with her hand.

  “Um, yeah,” said Ruby. “Why don’t you text Aunt Rah back to make sure.”

  “I don’t know her number.”

  “You just hit REPLY.”

  “How do I do that?”

  Ruby looked as though she wanted to crawl out of her skin. “Ohmygod, Mom.”

  Biz stood up in a daze. She was processing; she was also in shock. She guessed everyone would convene at Aunt Cat’s. That’s where Grandpa Dun and Nana Miggs had moved after they sold the big house to Foster and Georgia. Rah used her old room sometimes for visits, and Charlie and Piper had their own house with their kids, Gigi and Thorn. Cat’s downstairs study had already been retrofitted for her illness, so they figured it would make for the smoothest transition for Marjorie and Dunny, and it did. At no time in the discussions did Claire offer her place, even though she lived alone now, and had for some time.

  Biz said to Ruby, “You’ll have to hold off on hating me until after the service, I guess. I think your Great-Grandpa Dun has died.”

  * * *

  Grandpa Dun had been ill for a while, but the assumption was that he would carry on for years and years, languishing in a slow gray fade. No one thought he would actually die. But that night at Aunt Cat’s the general mood was a surprising combination of shock and positivity. The family gathered expecting Nana Miggs to be inconsolable, but she seemed chipper and unexpectedly luminous. “Buck up, everyone,” she said, wearing coral lipstick. “Resentment has little usefulness in life and death,” followed by, “The dead don’t mourn for us, so we shouldn’t mourn for them.”

  “They can’t,” said E.J., “they’re dead.”

  Nana Miggs left the room to wait with her Dunny to get him ready, she said, for his voyage. Rah waited until she was out of earshot before whispering, “When she says ‘the dead,’ she knows she’s talking about her beloved husband of sixty-one years, yes?” Everyone nodded. “Does anyone else think it’s weird she’s taking it so well?” Foster added, “She left out, ‘Don’t cry for me, Argentina.’” Georgia rapped Foster, saying, “Not funny.” Biz chuckled. She needed a laugh. Piper whispered to Charlie, “None of your family seems very upset.” Biz said, “There’s no right or wrong way to mourn.” Piper glared at her. Charlie shot Biz a look, then put his hand on the small of Piper’s back. He said, “That’s because we’re WASPs, dear. WASPs don’t feel emotion, you know that.” Biz felt the pang of wanting someone’s hand on the small of her back. It was times like these she found it especially crushing to be alone.

  Once Nana Miggs combed his hair, Grandpa Dun looked relaxed and ready for backgammon. She invited everyone into the bedroom to say good-bye, then shooed them away. She spent her remaining time with Dunny before the coroner arrived serenading him with his favorites from long ago. Her voice was quiet as if she were making it tiny on purpose, so he could fit her songs in his pocket and take them with him on his trip. The others broke open his good scotch—the bottles he’d squirreled away—and told Grandpa Dun stories around Cat’s kitchen table. In the background was a lone sweet voice, thin but sure of the lyrics, singing “The Very Thought of You,” and “Seems Like Old Times.”

  * * *

  Early the next morning, Biz awoke crying in her pillow. She’d dreamed about her grandfather’s manners and ludicrous bon mots. She would miss the man who taught her not to say “yeah.” His death also served to amplify how short life was. Nana Miggs’s saying was said to punctuate how important it was to find a partner, but not just anyone—someone who celebrates and cherishes you for who you are. Is Finn that guy for me? Had she blown it with him again? She cried, utterly selfish in the face of Nana Miggs’s loss. But how was it some people had the good fortune to spend their entire lives with someone they adored and others weren’t so lucky, always searching, never to be found? Was Biz experiencing karmic payback for some heinous crime committed in a past life? Why was Piper more deserving than she? Nana Miggs and Grandpa Dun were a shining example of divine union. Better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all. Then Biz splashed her face, as Nana Miggs would have instructed, and headed to work in the dim light of dawn.

  Biz’s plan was to tell Muriel about Finn and the cops before she heard the news. They might need to brainstorm a little spin to keep the local rumormongers at bay. Muriel opened the conversation with a hug and empathetic words of condolence, then sat down in Biz’s desk chair and told Biz to sit across from her.

  “You know I love you,” she began with an unusually professional tone.

  “I do.” Biz was hesitant. Muriel had never said
that.

  “Have you been drinking?”

  “No!” At least she hadn’t been since last night. She and Ruby had gone home from Cat’s early.

  “I have to take you off the counter.”

  “What?!”

  “Everybody knows.”

  “Knows what?” Biz’s mind was racing; the possibilities were numerous. Muriel gave her a “duh” look, and Biz guessed the most obvious of her indiscretions. “About Finn? How does everyone know?”

  “Texts.”

  “People spread rumors typing texts? That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever heard.”

  “That’s how the teenagers do it today.”

  Biz got the picture. “Oh, crap. Did Ruby?”

  “Yes. Everyone knows everything. Including that the cops came, and sex is supposedly fun—according to you—except that it’s gross according to her.”

  “Those were her takeaways?” Biz wanted to wring Ruby’s neck.

  Muriel remained composed. “Look, it’s just for a few days. Or weeks. Until the gossip subsides. I hardly hear anyone talking about Georgia’s arrest any more.”

  Biz was aghast. “Were people talking—”

  “Of course. Look. I’m doing it for the bakery, and you know it’s the right thing. You can help with the cakes.”

  “Cakes hate me.”

  “You’re a natural. You’ll learn how to assemble! C’mon, fillings, crumb coats … you’ll be a wiz with cake combs and offset spatulas before you know it. Why don’t you spend a week learning base crumbing. You’ll move up fast. You’re creative. Come to the dark side.”

  “You know what? Fine. Maybe I’ll learn to love cakes, but I hate everyone in this town.”

  “Now, now.”

  “They’re all so small-minded, and conservative and, and … easily contained. Where are all the John Waterses and Bette Midlers? How are artists supposed to thrive once they have children, out in the suburbs? And why do Americans have to be convinced that art is important? I should be a costume couturier. I would have been incredibly valuable in prairie times. I could have quilted, and made clothes. I would have had the respect of—”