So here we are, Christmas Eve. The city is bustling with last-minute preparations for the big day, while I am making a different sort of preparation, which has to do with, well, nipping Wilson’s therapist problem in the bud, I suppose.
What I’m saying is that when I lie awake at night, as I always, always do, the thoughts of murder that have swirled through my head for years are beginning to coalesce. To become more than idle, more than a casual bit of entertainment.
Is that shocking to you?
Only…the object of my intentions has shifted, out of necessity. It is not a switch I am the least bit happy about.
And to be clear, I’m not saying I’m ready to put a plan into action. Not yet. More that…I’m giving myself the comfort of having the necessaries in place, in case I need them. It’s never bad to have Plan B at the ready, yes?
If it comes to that. Which I sincerely hope it does not.
Hasn’t there ever been someone in your life that you thought—just for a moment—how much easier and better your life would be if that person just wasn’t there anymore? It could even be someone you care about…caring or not caring, that’s not the point at all.
I don’t mean that you ran down to your local firearms emporium and bought a pistol to blow the person to smithereens. Only that—the thought of that troublesome person disappearing occurred to you, and there was some comfort in it. That’s all I’m saying. Though “troublesome” is not really the operative adjective here. The stakes are considerably higher than that.
Sometimes when they do cruel things, people act as though they are doing things for you. Have you experienced this? Usually there is some other motive driving their actions—their own pleasure, for example. Or their sense of themselves as upstanding citizens, not that I am terribly familiar with that breed.
What I am talking about, to get down to specifics, is my brother and his foolish undertaking with a therapist, laying open his life and mine, using our family history as a sort of emotional archeological dig. He says he’s doing it for Rebecca and his child, but that’s a convenient lie, if you ask me. He’s in there yakking with this Sandie Shearer because he wants something for himself. And he doesn’t care who gets trampled in the process.
Whatever happened, it’s over. The past is the past. And bringing it up is only going to ruin the present.
And I use the word ‘ruin’ without the slightest exaggeration.
Ever the optimist, I hold out hope that I won’t have to do anything drastic, that I can change his mind or force him to quit. I’m not lacking certain powers of persuasion. He’s not a complete moron, after all—surely he will listen to reason, if I can make the case cogently enough?
Christmas tree sellers are still hoping to make some last-minute sales, and it’s one of the best things about New York at Christmastime, walking down the usually gray sidewalk and suddenly finding yourself in a fragrant walkway lined with pines and spruces. The mood on the street is upbeat, which amuses me given that most of these smiling people surely do not expect a visit from Santa later tonight.
Or perhaps they are happy about something else. I don’t pretend to understand.
I pick up a few baubles for Mummy’s stocking, a pair of leather gloves for Gordon, a cashmere scarf for Ricardo. I am stuck for what to get Marecita, and wander into store after store, up Madison and down Lexington and then across the park to Amsterdam and Broadway, my legs warmed up by all the exercise. I’m glad I am not wearing new boots which would be giving me blisters.
Finally I decide on a pair of earrings I see at a street vendor’s table. Marecita wears only tiny gold balls when she is at work, but a couple of times I have seen her go out at night wearing big hoops, so I know she likes more dramatic earrings than Mummy approves of. The ones I pick out are silver and have little silver birds dangling inside the hoops.
I spend some time going back and forth on the subject of Wilson’s present. It feels rather inconsistent to buy someone a present while you are thinking about murdering him. But perhaps consistency, in such complicated matters, isn’t that important.
I make some other stops too, at some places that aren’t exactly upstanding. Dr. Feelgood is on that list, because after all, it is the holidays, and even Christmas elves such as myself need the occasional pick-me-up. And I journey to other places as well, in parts of town I do not usually frequent, putting things in place which I am not disposed to talk about just yet.
You will see, if you are patient. And I hope you will not judge me too harshly.
17
Caroline
Gordon is off his game for some reason, because here it is Christmas Eve, and he has nobody but me and Mummy at the table with him for the big holiday meal. Every Christmas Eve dinner that I can remember, he’s managed to pack the table with all sorts of hangers-on, business associates of unsavory character, perhaps even a relative or two he dug up from somewhere. My father is distinctly happier in a crowd. He likes an audience, likes basking in the attentions of a throng, any throng.
I feel bad for Marecita. Obviously on Christmas Eve she would like to be with her family, many of whom live just over the bridge in Queens, but she is stuck here, cooking and serving for our gloomy congregation. It’s easy to imagine other families along Park Avenue (including families on lower floors here in our building) joyfully joining together tonight for meals and laughter, their faces lit up by twinkling Christmas lights. For some families that sort of thing seems to come naturally, effortlessly. Not for us Crowes, as doubtless you have gathered by now. Besides the tree, the only decorative nod to the holiday is an old wooden Santa that Mummy puts on the console table in the foyer every year. It was something her family had when she was a child, and I have never understood the attraction, since the colors are dull and it doesn’t light up. And as for laughter, well.
On a more positive note, Mummy has taken pains with her appearance. Her makeup has been applied with a steadier hand than usual and her dress is an up-to-date and flattering Vivienne Westwood. Though it must be said (or at least, I am going to go ahead and say it) that the fact she subsists purely on rum and those boxes of hyper-pasteurized milk means that she is terrifically slender, and looks good in anything.
As an aside (before I dig into Marecita’s feast and begin the arduous work of conversing with my parents) it does make one wonder about our culture, when the apex of civilization—we New Yorkers are parochial that way—deems a body wracked by near-starvation to be beautiful. I am quite thin myself, thankfully, and my opinions and reactions are shaped the same as everyone else’s, so that I too, with a quick glance at Mummy, careful not to meet her eyes, judge her to be looking like a million bucks, more or less. Even so far as lovely, for someone in her fifties. Though thanks to years of over-indulgence, she is almost literally death warmed over.
Natalie tells the story of being out with her mother and running into a friend on the street. The friend had just come through a harrowing cancer treatment; she wore a hat to cover her baldness and her body was wraith-like from chemo.
“She looks fabulous,” said Natalie’s mother as they walked away. “Never seen her so thin.”
“Mom, she has cancer,” said Natalie, and her mother simply shrugged.
We have everything. Yet we desire to look as though we are living through famine.
“It’s a bare table this year,” says Gordon, trying to sound hearty, his expression betraying disappointment at Mummy and me being the only others present.
“Merry Christmas,” I say, raising my wine glass.
“Cheers,” says Mummy with feeling. We reach to clink glasses and manage to smile appropriately. “Though it is sorrowful without Wilson,” she adds. “I just wish we could convince him to bring Rebecca here for the holidays,” she says, her voice quavering as though she is discussing puppies being slaughtered for sport.
“Jamaica is more fun for newlyweds,” says Gordon.
“But with his schedule, they have plenty of time to do both.�
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“He was just here five seconds ago. Is it necessary to start mourning his absence so quickly?” I say, unable to help myself.
Gordon cocks his head. “Does this silly jealousy never die?” he asks. “I would have thought that by this point you would proclaim yourself victorious, all things considered.”
It’s nice to hear him say those words, though I am aware that he did not quite say that he thought I was the winner, only that he imagined I would consider myself so.
“I prefer Wilson to stay on the West Coast. That’s his home now, and he should spend holidays with his wife like an actual grown-up, not run home to his parents like he couldn’t figure out how to put up his own Christmas tree.” I consider dropping the bomb that he is seeing a therapist, but something holds me back. Perhaps a modicum of sibling affection, perhaps not.
“You and Wilson have always enjoyed each other’s company,” says Mummy. “And who are you to criticize anyone’s running home to their parents?”
“Ah, we’re beginning already? We haven’t even had the soup.” I barely finish my sentence before Marecita comes through the swinging door between butler’s pantry and dining room holding a large porcelain tureen.
“Is chestnut,” she says, carefully placing it on an enormous brass trivet. We murmur appreciative noises as she takes our soup plates and fills them with the fragrant, creamy liquid. Marecita is not one of those cooks who gets in a rut and churns out the same things over and over. She is always up for something new, whether it’s a strange new dish Gordon has heard about, a traditional Mexican recipe passed on by a cousin, or something she’s found on her own. We never know what culinary terrain we might be visiting on any given night, which is a wonderful sort of surprise. It’s a shame, given her talents, that we don’t have dinner together more often; twice a month, if that, is about all we manage, what with Lillian’s unpredictable infirmities and Gordon’s traveling.
Soup served, Marecita disappears through the swinging door. I bend to my task, taking a slow sip but careful not to slurp (which would incite Mummy’s wrath) and the jeerlings take the opportunity to ruffle their feathers and chuckle, which in the moment feels worse than their screeching.
Just to be clear: I do have doubts about committing murder. Who wouldn’t? And like any sensible person, I abhor doubts. I always want to brush up against all the certainties I can. I don’t like the pressure, don’t like feeling rushed. No one would.
Secrets are meant to stay secret—why is that such a difficult concept for some people?
“I had a nice dinner with Wilson at Arcani,” says Gordon.
“I suppose my invitation got lost in the mail,” I blurt out, though instantly I wish I had not.
“Caroline, find some self-control, please,” says Gordon, shooting me a look. I look back, with an obviously fake smile and dead eyes, which I correctly guess will irritate him. I know I’m acting like I’m thirteen, but the idea of Gordon and Wilson out to dinner, just the two of them at Arcani, probably checking out all the women in the bar while talking manly talk and God knows what else…it makes me feel, well, murderous. I cannot stand being left out.
“We spoke at some length about him and Rebecca coming back east. I got the impression he’s had enough of Berkeley.”
“Terrible mistake,” I say.
“Much as I would love it, especially with the baby coming, I don’t think—” says Mummy.
“Stop it, both of you. I want Wilson back east. There’s plenty of room for the three of them here at the apartment while he finds his footing at work. Your job—both of you—is simply to be glad. Express your joy at having your son and brother back home where he belongs. And then pass the spiced peaches. Please.”
Mummy droops in her chair. “It isn’t that I don’t want him back, it’s that he’s happy there, Gordon. I don’t understand why you won’t let him find his own way.” She takes a sip of her wine that goes on about three seconds too long.
This might be the perfect moment to tell them about Wilson’s therapy. It’s delicious to contemplate, of course. Who doesn’t delight in watching the parents freak out on a sibling? No doubt Gordon would rampage through the apartment and call Wilson up immediately with stern demands while Mummy flutters her hands and gets in his way. Their unhappiness would be magnificent.
But the time is not right. It’s too big a piece of information to let out this soon. I need to guard it, to have patience, to wait for the optimal moment. The last thing I want is for Gordon to go off on him, and then for Wilson to tell Gordon to fuck off, he’s continuing with therapy no matter what.
Unlikely, to be sure, but it could happen. I need the percentages to be more in my favor before I act.
“Maybe I should move out,” I say, just floating it out there to see what Gordon will say.
“Move out?” Gordon laughs. “You live in the best apartment in the best building in the best city in the entire world. I wouldn’t think you’d want to give all that up. Is it really so impossible for you to share, Caroline?”
“No one likes a complainer,” says Mummy, her words somehow sliding to the side and falling off the table.
The soup is too rich and I rest my spoon on the plate, under the lip of the soup bowl. I notice the china pattern of small green pines going around the rim as the one I see every Christmas and at no other time, but the sight gives me no warm feeling of tradition.
“How about telling us about the deal you’re working on?” I say to Gordon.
He goes on for some time about shipments and import taxes, customs regulations, and a difficult overseas supplier for some gizmo that nobody needs but will doubtless add considerable gold to the Crowe coffers. I’m embarrassed to admit that I have no idea what products he is even talking about. My eyes are glazing over. Gordon shrugs. “You don’t care about deals. Lillian certainly doesn’t care. Which is how it ought to be. I will tell you this much: I expect it to succeed, as much as anything I’ve ever done. It’s not the biggest deal of my career, not quite. But close.”
“Hoorah,” says Mummy, her tone betraying a notable lack of enthusiasm.
Gordon pays her no attention. “How was Paris?” he asks me.
“Gray. And drizzly. But worth it,” I say, feeling a sharp stab between my ribs because he has forced me to remember that the trip was not worth it, or even close. I think of Morton’s face and have to pinch my leg under the table to stop from letting a sob escape my lips. “Excuse me,” I add, pushing back my chair and disappearing down the corridor to my bathroom. Something is rising in my throat and I race the last few yards and hang my head over the toilet, waiting. But nothing happens.
I know I should not be feeling sorry for myself. This apartment, the zippy pleasures of being the daughter of a famous, powerful man, the freedom to snort coke and do nothing productive all the livelong day if I so choose…all of it—and the actual list is obviously much, much longer—all of it should add up to my feeling an infinity of gratitude.
Yet it does not.
I have read that an effective way to block inundations of self-pity is to sit down and make a list of all the things you are grateful for. But as you may or may not have found out, it is difficult to make yourself into someone you are not. We are all only strange permutations of our parents, and limited thereby; there is not a drop of gratitude in either Gordon or Mummy that I have ever noticed. When faced with adversity—and goodness, this dreary Christmas Eve dinner counts, doesn’t it?—I can choose either Gordon’s way or Mummy’s. I can take aggressive action or I can numb myself to my engulfing disappointments.
I open a drawer in the vanity and take out a brown smoked glass vial of coke. Tonight I will slide down Mummy’s slippery slope, just for the holiday. As I tap the powder out onto the spotlessly clean edge of the sink and cast about for a straw, I imagine that my getting high is an act of solidarity and kinship with my mother.
I don’t buy my own bullshit, if that matters.
I slip back into my seat
at the table and flash a grin at both parents, feeling infinitely better now that my brain chemistry has been adjusted. I chatter, and see that they are fooled and charmed (which are possibly the same thing) and the mood of the dinner lifts up and up until we are all very nearly enjoying ourselves, though maintaining this requires me to excuse myself several times more.
The problem with drugs, someone once told me, is that they don’t work all the time.
“They must be settled in their villa by now,” says Mummy, after Marecita has brought us plum pudding with a dollop of fresh whipped cream.
“Who? Wilson?” barks my father.
I imagine a big sign hanging on the wall that measures the mood of the room. The arrow had been pushing incrementally towards the green end, as we talked about the chance for snow and a book Mummy has been reading. The mention of Wilson, however, stops the arrow in its tracks, then sends it back towards the red. Red is bad.
Mummy gets up from the table. She likes to drink port at the end of a meal. I’m impressed to note, given how much wine she has put away, that she is walking fairly steadily and not needing to grab onto furniture as she makes her way out of the dining room to the drinks tray in the living room. “Yes, Wilson,” she says, and I see the two words fall to the floor and then bounce as though they are made of rubber balls, repeating yes wilson every time they hit the floor.
Bizarrely—and it is more or less impossible for me not to read this as some kind of sign—as the words bounce, the Black Forest clock chimes the hour. Ten o’clock, ten maudlin chimes, ten bounces, yes wilson until I can barely keep myself from screaming.
18
It’s 9:30 Christmas morning. Lillian is getting up for the second time, having woken abruptly at five, had a shot of Dewar’s and then a second, and drifted back to sleep. For a few moments, she sits on the edge of the bed and looks down at her feet. She used to have such pretty feet, she thinks, with dainty toes painted a classic coral in the summertime, but now, despite weekly pedicures and the attentions of various specialists, there is an insistent bunion on her left foot and an ingrown toenail on her right. Her toes have been molded by pointy shoes and no longer lie flat on the floor; the little and fourth toes are turned inward, forever on their sides.
You Made Your Bed: A Novel Page 9