by A W Hartoin
We tromped up the back stairs before I said goodbye to Samson and unlocked the door. I picked up my umpteen bags, walking sideways into the butler’s pantry at the rear of my parents’ house. It was ice cold as usual. Dad stood at the marble counter pouring himself a generous glug of whiskey and watching me out of the corner of his eye. Pick trotted in from the parlor and sat on Dad’s foot. Dad looked down and frowned. “Why does he always sit on my feet?”
“It runs in the family,” I said. “You want to help me with these bags?”
“Hell, no. I’m not taking the blame for that.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You will.” He put the highball glass to my lips. “Drink. You’ll need it.”
I took the smallest of sips. It was nasty, but I smiled and choked back a cough for Dad’s benefit. He swore that when I was a real adult I’d appreciate whiskey. Not going to happen. Burning throat liquid wasn’t for me.
“Tommy, is that you?” Mom’s voice came right through the kitchen door along with the faint smell of her beloved ragu bolognese. It took four hours to make and contained, to my dismay, chicken livers.
Dad raised his glass to me and said, “No. It’s a crazy sick maniac, drinking all your handsome husband’s good whiskey.”
“My husband is just okay. You can drink his whiskey.”
“What?”
Mom laughed in the kitchen, but Dad couldn’t stop frowning.
“Don’t come in. My boyfriend’s still here,” she said.
Dad began some serious muttering.
I nudged Dad out of the way. “Hello. She’s joking.”
“It could happen,” said Dad.
I rolled my eyes at him and turned the old brass doorknob. It couldn’t happen. Not that Mom couldn’t get a boyfriend. She could get twelve plus two. But she wouldn’t. For some reason, she was devoted to my father, a six foot four redhead that wouldn’t eat for days, if she didn’t watch him. Seriously, my father had a feeding schedule. He was that skinny.
I opened the door and the bolognese smell rolled in like a thick fog and enveloped me so completely that I was light-headed for a blissful moment. It smelled like we were Italian, which we weren’t.
Mom twirled around, holding a wide wooden spoon and wearing one of Dad’s white dress shirts that came to her knees and a pair of black leggings. Even though she’d been cooking for hours, her hair was perfectly done and never looked more like Marilyn Monroe, cat eye makeup and all. My mother never looked bad. I, on the other hand, had no makeup, dog slobber on my jeans, and spider webs in my hair. Sometimes people confused me for Marilyn, but nobody ever mistook me for my mother.
I hauled my bags to the kitchen table and heaved them on. Vegetables were heavier than they looked. “Hi, Mom. Sauce smells great.”
“What do you expect me to do with all that lettuce?” She jabbed the air with her spoon. “Don’t even bring those in here.”
“What am I supposed to do with them? Leave them on the porch to rot? This cost good money.” There! I was using my mother’s own words against her. Did she ever hate wasting good money.
“How many heads of lettuce did you buy?” she asked.
“A few.”
“Define a few.”
“I don’t know,” I said.
“You don’t want to tell me,” she said.
Correct.
“I’d tell you if I knew.”
I did know. I had twenty-two heads of lettuce in my bags. In retrospect, it was a lot of lettuce. At the time, it seemed like a snack portion.
Mom stalked over and whacked my bags with her spoon in rhythm with her words. “This. Has. Gone. Too. Far.”
“It’s just lettuce, Mom,” I said, trying to hide the radishes, cucumbers, kale, and carrots. “You love salads. You eat salads all the time.”
“How much weight have you lost?” she asked.
I groaned. “Do we have to talk about this again?”
“How much?”
“A little.”
“I’d say it’s closer to twenty-five pounds,” said Mom.
Holy crap! Right on the money.
“It’s not that much.”
“You’re starving yourself.”
“I am not. I eat.”
“You eat nothing.” Mom picked up a bag of arugula and threw it at Dad. “I told you to talk some sense into her.”
Dad held the bag up like a shield. “We had a situation.”
“We have a situation right here. Look at her. She looks like a scarecrow.” Mom plucked at the waist of my jeans. It was bunched up under the belt.
“Thin is in, Mom. You don’t know,” I said.
“I know something’s wrong and it ends here. You’re eating my bolognese tonight.”
“No, I’m not.”
“Why not?” Mom asked her face an inch from mine.
Because I have to eat a salad.
“Because…because I ate with Millicent and Myrtle.”
“You ate at a crime scene where Lester may very well have been bludgeoned to death.” Mom looked at Dad. He grimaced. For a man, who lied to suspects with an aplomb people wrote articles about, Dad sucked. Any fool could tell I didn’t eat and Mom was no fool.
“I have talked and talked to you,” she said.
Then you should be done.
“You can stop. I’m fine. I’m just eating healthy. Healthy is good,” I said.
Mom’s plump lower lip quivered and her big eyes filled.
Oh, no! Here comes the Mom guilt.
“I’m sorry. I’ll do better,” I said quickly.
Dad heaved a sigh and dared to come in the kitchen. “See, Carolina. She’ll eat and we’re all happy again.”
My cat, Skanky, chose that moment to enter the kitchen. Actually, it wasn’t so much a walk as a terrified scamper. His rear end was completely bald, including his tail.
I scooped him up. “What the hell?”
“Watch your language,” said Dad.
“I will not. What’s he doing here?”
Mom crossed her arms and didn’t look at me. “I picked him up for you since you have to go away. I was doing you a favor.”
“Some favor. Look at him. What happened?” I asked.
“Nothing.”
“Nothing?” I squeaked. “His butt looks like a plucked chicken.”
Skanky hid his head in my armpit and Mom rolled her eyes. “That’s what he looks like. You bought him from a homeless man for twenty bucks and a leftover latte.”
“This isn’t an issue of price tag,” I said. “He was fine this morning.”
“It’s probably his breed, whatever that may be.”
Dad stepped back into the butler’s pantry and snagged the whiskey bottle.
“Just because my cat doesn’t have a pedigree, it doesn’t mean his fur just magically falls out,” I said.
Mom shrugged. “It could.”
“I know what happened and so do you.”
“Nothing happened.”
Mom’s evil Siamese stalked into the kitchen, side-by-side with their skinny aristocratic tails stick straight and fully furred.
I pointed a finger at them. “Your Siamese did it.”
“Don’t you blame my babies,” said Mom and Dad took a drink straight from the bottle.
“I’m your baby. Those are just cats.”
Mom gasped. “Just cats? I’ll have you know they are best in show winners.”
“They licked my cat’s fur off. Again!”
“Do not yell at me,” said Mom, drawing up to her full five foot two.
“Dad!”
He shook his head. “Don’t bring me into this.”
“Tommy!” said Mom.
“Apologize to your mother,” he said.
What a coward. He knew those cats were evil. Everyone knew it, except for Mom. The Siamese each stuck a hind leg in the air and began cleaning their rears just to show me what they thought of me. I already knew and had the sc
ars to remind me in case I forgot.
“I’m not apologizing for her cats being evil,” I said.
“Carolina Grace Watts!” roared Mom.
If I called Dad evil, it wouldn’t have bothered her, but the Siamese were out of bounds.
“Using my real name won’t change the fact that they are evil. I’m taking what’s left of my cat and going home. And I’m going to eat lots of lettuce, too.”
Dad blocked my path. “Okay. Okay. I don’t understand what’s happening here and I really don’t care. I guess eating salads is bad, which is what I’ve been saying for the past twenty-five years, but whatever. Mercy, you’re not leaving and you will eat the bolognese. Carolina,” Mom glared at him and he swallowed “You will admit that your…cats aren’t very nice to Skanky.”
“Not very nice?” I stomped my foot and put Skanky’s butt in Dad’s face.
He cringed and took my cat. “I could’ve done without that. I’m taking Skanky to Mr. Cervantes. I’m sure he can take care of him for a few days and he will grow his fur back.” Under his breath, he said, “He’s had to do it before.”
“What was that?” asked Mom.
“Nothing. I’ll be right back. Try not to talk about religion, food, or politics while I’m gone.”
I ran around him to the pantry. “I’m going, too. I have to pack.”
Mom waved her spoon again. “I already packed for you.”
“What?” I asked. “You went through my drawers? Ew.”
“Why ew? I’m your mother.”
“That’s why it’s ew,” I said. “I’m an adult. I have a private life. I would like some privacy.”
Mom narrowed her eyes. “How come? What are you trying to hide?”
“Nothing, but I could have stuff in my drawers.”
“What kind of stuff?”
Letters to Chuck. Diaries. Mom’s face on a dartboard.
“Just stuff. Private stuff.”
Mom banged her spoon on the table. “Do you have drugs in your apartment? I knew it, Tommy. Look at her. I think her hair is falling out.”
“It is not. And there are no drugs. Just leave me alone for once.”
“I can’t. I’m your mother,” said Mom.
“I don’t need your help.”
“Clearly you do. Look at your cat.”
I pointed at the evil Siamese. “It’s their fault.”
Dad grabbed me and marched me out of the kitchen and down the hall to the stairs. “Go upstairs and be quiet.”
“She’s driving me crazy,” I said.
“It’s mutual. You worry her sick. Now she’s going to be crying all night.”
“Yeah, right. Mom doesn’t cry. It ruins her makeup.”
Dad squeezed my arm until I yelped. “Listen to me. In the last two months, you killed a gang member, got a price on your head, broke up with your boyfriend, and stopped eating. You won’t talk to us or to anyone. You work ninety hours a week and you started jogging. Don’t tell me something’s not wrong.”
I teared up and bit my lip.
“Now we’re going to work this out, whatever it is. You’re going on this trip your mother arranged and you’re going to like it. You’re not going to try and escape. I’m going to take care of this Costilla thing.”
“In four days?” I asked.
“Just between you and me, there’s a sting operation going down. The Costillas are going to have bigger things to worry about than you. We just have to snap them up.”
“You really think an arrest will fix it.”
“No, but a war over who’s in charge while the surviving Costilla brothers are in prison will.”
“Just four days?” I asked.
“Yes, but first, you will apologize to your mother?”
“For what specifically?”
“For everything you’ve ever done wrong,” he said with his best-dimpled grin.
“That could take a while.”
“Tell me about it. You say whatever you have to say. I have to live with that woman. I can’t listen to another lecture on the brain’s need for fat and calories.”
“Okay.”
Dad gave me a nudge up the stairs and turned away.
“Wait,” I said. “How did Mom get the cousins to go on this trip anyway? This is short notice.”
He shrugged. “It’s Snot’s bridesmaid trip. They wanted to go.”
“Huh?”
“Snot’s getting married. You really do need some calories.”
“No, no. I remember that, but it’s weird that I’m going,” I said.
“It’d be weird if you weren’t there. You’re the maid of honor.”
“What? I am not. I’m not even in the wedding.”
Dad laughed. “You are now. Congratulations.”
I did apologize and I ate the bolognese. Well, I moved it around on the plate and Mom fell for it. She was distracted by all my apologizing. I covered it all, including peeing into her flower beds when I was five. Boys peed outside. I thought I’d give it try. If they could do it, so could I. It was the first of many notions that didn’t work out for me. There are some things that one just has to have a penis for. Standing up and peeing is one of them. My socks and shoes didn’t survive the attempt and neither did Mom’s bluebells.
Dad watched us through the dinner, pushed back from the table with whiskey in hand, ready to make a break for it if another fight broke out. He hated it when we fought. When I was a teenager, he would be suddenly required to put in even more overtime than usual and when he did come home, he brought pastries from the Missouri Baking Company. Sometimes we pretended to fight just to get the gooey butter cake. Despite being a stellar detective, Dad never figured it out or maybe he just thought an influx of sugar helped keep things calm.
After dinner, he offered to wash the dishes, leaving Mom and I momentarily speechless. We quickly retired to The Oasis, Mom’s bed. I would say it was my parents’ bed, but The Oasis was all Mom. Dad just got to sleep there if he was good. My mom knew how to make a bed. She believed in the best linen, the comfiest mattress, and pillows imported from heaven.
We curled up and Mom turned on Grantchester. I wasn’t much of a mystery fan, having enough real-life mysteries to contend with, but I said nothing and let Mom ogle Sidney Chambers. During a scene with a doctor, Mom put her arm around me and whispered in my ear, “I want you to see Dr. Witges.” I nodded. Mom took that as an agreement. It wasn’t. I was merely acknowledging that I heard her. We could fight about it later when she figured it out. Dr. Witges couldn’t help me. Talking to her wouldn’t change a thing. That kid would always have tried to kill me. I would always have killed him.
Dad brought us Ghirardelli hot chocolate and backed out of the room. I took one sip and immediately wanted to eat an entire cucumber in penance. Luckily, Mom was so entranced by Sidney that she didn’t notice when I tipped my cup into the orchid on her bedside table. I thought that would kill it, but a couple of months later it sent up shoots and had crazy twisted blossoms. Mom thought she’d invented a new species.
I don’t know what time I went to bed. Pick and I slept in my third-floor bedroom, smelling the paints wafting in from the studio across the hall. Aunt Tenne’s boyfriend Bruno worked there, creating his masterpieces. That sounds snarky, but they really were masterpieces. Bruno was a genius and the art world was abuzz with his talent. He preferred to block it all out and closet himself in the attic while Aunt Tenne basked in the limelight. She was a natural at promotion and had taken over my so-called career, too. I was still Double Black Diamond’s cover girl, although I was on hiatus since I lost so much weight. Aunt Tenne fielded Mickey Stix’s calls and complaints, swearing that I’d get my Marilyn curviness back. I wasn’t so sure. All I wanted to do was sleep, work, and eat lettuce. None of those things was going to bring back the body that Mickey and the DBD fans loved. I fell asleep with my nose buried in Pick’s fluffy neck, thinking about pouring Ghirardelli into that orchid. Who was the girl that did that? I did
n’t know her, but I couldn’t find my way back alone.
Chapter Five
“MERCY,” SAID DAD, poking me in the ribs.
“Huh?” I inched away from his insistent voice in a pointless attempt to escape. I should’ve known better. There was no escaping my father.
“Get up now,” he said.
“No.”
“Yes. It’s time to go.”
“I’m going back to sleep,” I said.
Another jab to the ribs.
“You can sleep in the car.”
“Go away. It’s midnight.”
“It’s four a.m.”
I smacked his hand as it came in for another jab. “Oh my god. Are you crazy?”
“Everyone’s waiting,” said Dad. “Get the hell up.”
“Everyone’s waiting for what?”
“You, idiot.” Dad hauled me upright and I slid onto the floor. “Get dressed and come downstairs. We’ll go out the side door. Sandy’s waiting.”
That woke me up. “Sandy?”
“Yes. Get a move on.”
“Where are we going?”
“The bridesmaid trip,” said Dad with an exasperated sigh.
“Now? At four in the morning.”
“I’m not going through this again. Get up. Your bags are downstairs.” Dad left and I looked at the clock. It really was four a.m. Why was this my life? I’d been mostly good when people weren’t looking and yet here I was getting dressed to go on a bridal party trip for a wedding I didn’t know I was in until yesterday.
I slipped on a pair of flats and stomped down the stairs, trying to formulate a way to get out of it. After a little sleep, the Costilla threat seemed unreal. Would they really go to so much trouble to kill me? I mean, why bother? They had bigger fish to kill, federal witnesses, rival drug lords, innocent bystanders.
“Mercy!” Mom yelled up the stairs.
“I’m coming.”
And I’m going. To jump out of the car at the first opportunity.
Mom and Dad were at the newel post. Dad had at his feet two full-size suitcases, a garment bag, a carry-on, and my purse.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “You said four days.”
“It is four days,” said Mom and she was looking me in the eyes. Not lying or at least she was getting a whole lot better at it.