CLOUDS IN MY COFFEE

by Julie Mulhern

  Two

  After lobbing her grenade with all the insouciant elegance of a model walking a Parisian runway, Marjorie talked Daddy into lugging her suitcase up the front stairs. I carried Aunt Sis’s.

  The woman traveled with rocks…or maybe bricks. There was no way clothes weighed so much.

  “I can carry that,” she offered.

  “Don’t be silly.” I hefted the enormous thing onto another step, then stopped for a rest.

  “It’s heavy.” Aunt Sis was a master of understatement.

  “It’s nothing.” Just last night I’d helped Grace study for a chemistry quiz, so I knew osmium was the densest of the elements—heavier than gold or platinum. Maybe my aunt had a suitcase full of osmium.

  “Ellison, your face is turning red.”

  Maybe she carried rolls of quarters…or what was the currency in Majorca? Pesetas? Weren’t hippie types supposed to travel light? I gathered my strength and climbed four steps quickly.

  “What do you have in here, Aunt Sis?”

  “Books.”

  “You couldn’t ship them?”

  She crinkled her nose as if the postal service was something distasteful. “I’m never in one place long enough.”

  My heart went out to all the porters, in all the stations, in all the cities. How many had herniated discs?

  Aunt Sis peeled my fingers off the handle then lifted the case as if it was filled with cotton candy instead of multiple copies of War and Peace. She traipsed up the remaining stairs with ease. I trudged.

  Daddy, looking grim, stepped out of the rose room, dropped a kiss on my forehead, nodded to Aunt Sis, then started down the stairway. At the halfway point, he turned and said, “Enjoy the theatre.”

  “We will,” said Aunt Sis.

  That was optimistic.

  Aunt Sis smiled. “I bet Marjorie would love to join us.”

  That was ridiculously optimistic.

  Daddy made no comment. He just shook his head and descended the rest of the stairs. A few seconds later the sound of the front door opening reached us.

  “Goodbye,” he called. Then came the sound of the door closing.

  “Perhaps Grace can join us,” suggested Aunt Sis.

  That was beyond ridiculously optimistic.

  “It’s a school night. If you’d like her to join us, we could postpone...” Forever.

  “No, no. Just eager to meet her. Is this my room?” Aunt Sis pushed open the door to the blue room with the front of her suitcase. “I have a feeling I’m supposed to be at the theater tonight.”

  “A feeling?”

  “I get feelings, Ellison. They come to me from the cosmos. I had a feeling you shouldn’t marry Henry, and I have a feeling there’s a unique experience waiting for me at the dinner theatre.”

  Aunt Sis was comparing my disastrous marriage to dinner theatre? I opened my mouth then shut it. That Henry’s and my marriage had played out more like Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf than a refurbished version of Guys and Dolls still rankled. But kicking Aunt Sis and her overburdened suitcase out before she unpacked—no matter how tempting—would be rude. Far ruder than her thoughtless comment. I pursed my lips and focused my gaze above her left shoulder.

  “Your mother wears that exact expression whenever I annoy her.”

  I wiped my face clean—no pursing, no furrowing, no pretending to notice a stain on the wall above her shoulder.

  “I’ll just unpack and then we’ll catch up.” She surveyed the blue room with its Sister Parish elegance, cracked windows and fresh sheets, and sniffed.

  That sniff…Aunt Sis shouldn’t throw stones in the glass house of similarity. She had every nuance of Mother’s sniff down.

  “I was on my way to the garden to cut you some late blooming roses when Marjorie arrived. I’ll do that while you unpack.”

  She inclined her chin and looked over imaginary readers, another one of Mother’s habits. “Thank you, dear. Also, I’ll need you to run a load of laundry for me.”

  I inclined my chin too. “I’ll be happy to show you the laundry room.”

  She tilted her head and stared at me—the sort of considering look one uses when deciding upon a major purchase. Yes, that Pucci dress is lovely, but is it worth the price? The moment stretched.

  After what seemed like an eternity, she smiled. “I’d appreciate that. Thank you.”

  I’d won? I’d won. And easily. Maybe Aunt Sis was less like Mother than I thought.

  I took Aunt Sis to the Waldo Astoria. My friends who’d attended told me it was newer and nicer than Tiffany’s Attic. Marjorie developed “plans” and couldn’t join us. I didn’t bother asking Grace.

  We stood in the lobby, admiring the 1920s-style glamor. The owners had redone a movie theatre. I’d expected tacky. This wasn’t. It was lovely.

  Cassie LeCoeur waved at me from across the lobby. Sometimes that happens. You don’t see someone for weeks on end and then you run into them in the oddest places. Poor Cassie. Being married to a man named Kinky LeCoeur must be a heavy cross to bear. Not that her husband’s real name is Kinky. He introduces himself as Kenneth. Probably when they met in college he introduced himself as Ken. But to those of us who have known him his whole life, he’ll always be Kinky. Mother says when one’s last name sounds as if it might belong to a professional dancer, one must be extra careful when selecting first names. The LeCoeurs obviously never heard her wax lyrical on this point…or maybe she waxes because of what Bob and Mary LeCoeur named their children—Kenneth Keye (show me a bunch of high school boys who won’t shorten that to Kinky) and his sister Candace, called Candy.

  I waved back.

  “A friend of yours, dear?” asked Aunt Sis.

  “More of an acquaintance.”

  Cassie was with her mother-in-law and looked none too happy about it. I didn’t blame her.

  Aunt Sis squinted at them. “Is that Mary Laughlin?”

  “Mary LeCoeur.”

  My aunt nodded. “Her maiden name was Laughlin. I must say hello.” She pushed her way through the crowd, elbowing as she went.

  I followed in her wake.

  In her bell bottom pants and loose tunic, Aunt Sis looked like an aging hippie. Mary Laughlin LeCoeur looked like a woman whose carefully orchestrated ensemble had been purchased in its entirety at Swanson’s.

  Mary tried for an air kiss, but Sis pulled her into a real hug.

  After a mere second, Mary pulled away and smoothed the wrinkles from her clothes. “What a surprise to see you, Cecelia.”

  “I decided to come home for a few weeks.”

  “I’m sure your family is delighted to see you.” Mary offered me a tight smile, one that looked empathetic, you-poor-dear-you-got-stuck-with-your-crazy-aunt empathetic.

  Was she really suggesting we were less than pleased with Aunt Sis’s arrival in front of Aunt Sis? I reached for my aunt’s hand and squeezed her fingers. “We’re thrilled she’s here.”

  “Your mother must be getting excited about the gala, Ellison.”

  I nodded. Barely.

  “John and I are benefactors. We just love the museum. History is so important.”

  “Have you seen the new exhibit?” Did she even know where the museum was?

  Her cheeks pinked. “Not yet. But we will tomorrow night at the benefactors’ party.” She shifted her gaze to Sis. “What a treat that you could be here for the parties, Cecilia.”

  “Isn’t it?” Aunt Sis’s voice was as dry as one of Daddy’s Friday night martinis. She might have spent most of her life swimming in other waters, but she still recognized the hidden currents in a simple conversation. “Ellie, we’d better find our table.”

  We nodded to Cassie and Mary then turned away.

  A few steps across the lobby, Aunt Sis whispered, “When did Mary become such a bitch? She d
idn’t used to be that way.”

  I shrugged. I barely knew the woman. It was Kinky I knew, and I hadn’t done more than trade pleasantries with him in years.

  We followed a uniformed girl into the theatre, were seated at a table for two, and ordered drinks.

  Aunt Sis looked around—more gold, more glitz, more glamor. “I’ve never been to a dinner theatre before.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “It’s nice of you to bring me. Thank you.”

  “My pleasure,” I murmured.

  “Liar.” With one word, she pulled my attention away from considering the color on the wall. Was it asparagus green or mushy-peas green?

  “Pardon me?”

  “You’re lying.” Her voice held a hint of laughter. “You’d rather watch paint dry than sit through this performance.” She reached across the table and patted my hand. “I appreciate it. Thank you.”

  There was no point in arguing with her. She was right.

  “You’re welcome.”

  “You never know, you might enjoy it. Besides, it’s important to do things one’s never done. Especially for you.”

  “Oh?”

  “You’re an artist. You need to constantly expand.”

  Aunt Sis wasn’t wrong. I donned a brave face. How bad could it be? “This should be fun.”

  A waitress delivered our drinks—Sazerac for Aunt Sis, wine for me—then climbed on stage with the other waiters and waitresses and broke into song. A show tune I think.

  Aunt Sis opened her program and perused. “They’re called the Hoochies.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  She shoved the program toward me and pointed. “No. I’m not.”

  Mother could never come here. Hoochie was the disparaging word she used to describe a woman whose skirt was too short or sweater too tight. The girls on stage didn’t look “hoochie;” they looked young and fresh-faced and thrilled to be entertaining us.

  Aunt Sis leaned back in her chair. “So, Ellison, tell me what you’re up to.”

  I took a sip of wine. “Painting, mothering, and keeping an eye on the bank.”

  “The bank?

  “When Henry died he left controlling interest in the bank to Grace. Until she comes of age, I’m the conservator.”

  “What do you know about banking?”

  “Nothing. I have very capable people in place—”

  “You should spend your time painting. Creating. Sell the bank.”

  I shook my head. “It’s not mine to sell.”

  Aunt Sis waved away my objections with one Auntie Mame like sweep of her arm. “Grace doesn’t want to be tethered by a bank.”

  “Grace is sixteen. She doesn’t know what she wants.”

  Sis blinked as if surprised that the artist in the family had disagreed with her.

  “Didn’t you used to date Randolph Walsh?” Now the artist questioned her. “He’s a banker.”

  “He wasn’t when I dated him.” For a half-second the expression in her eyes softened to mist. She sat up straighter in her chair. “Your mother tells me you’re dating a lawyer.”

  “Not really. We’ve gone out to dinner a few times. That’s all.”

  “But he’s taking you to the benefactors’ party tomorrow night?”

  I nodded.

  “Good. I’ll get to size him up.” She held up a warning finger. “Remember, Ellison, you don’t need him. A woman without a man is like a fish without a bicycle.”

  Aha! If Aunt Sis was quoting Gloria Steinem at Mother and Daddy’s house, it was hardly surprising that they’d moved her out. In Mother’s opinion, one she valued far more than a feminist’s, a woman without a man was only half of what she could be.

  “What brings you to Kansas City, Aunt Sis?”

  “I wanted to see you and your mother.” She looked me in the eye when she spoke.

  So why didn’t I believe her?

  “The older you get, the more you reflect on your youth. Things you did right. Things you did wrong. Things that slipped through your fingers before you realized they were precious.” She stared into the mid-distance for a moment then held up her near empty glass. “I need another drink.”

  The Hoochies finished their songs, exited stage left, and the curtain rose on a buffet table.

  “A buffet?” In that instant, Aunt Sis sounded precisely like Mother. With two words she conveyed disapproval, superiority, and a willingness to take the whole operation in hand, thereby improving it drastically.

  She swallowed the last sip of Sazerac then stood with a sigh. If the buffet was a cross to bear, she would bear it.

  That sip of Sazerac had cost us. Already the line snaked through the tables. Eager patrons queued up for salad, various vegetables, rice pilaf, a chaffing dish filled with chicken breasts swimming in a white wine and butter sauce, an enormous basket of what looked like fried bread, and, at the end of the table, hand-carved roast beef.

  The man with the carving knife had eyes that looked too big for his lean face, a mustache that drooped around the edges of his mouth, and a chef’s hat that looked as if it should be a flak helmet. No way would I have ever given him a nine-inch carving knife. Still, he cut through the meat with an economy of movement that suggested long practice. That or an intimate relationship with knives.

  The tall woman in front of us waxed lyrical about the apple fritters. She pointed to an enormous basket of fried bread and said to her friend, “Get three or four. Maybe five. If you don’t eat them, I will.”

  The friend, a tiny woman playing Jeff to the tall woman’s Mutt, nodded.

  Mutt skipped the salad and the green goddess dressing, leaving plenty of room on her plate for fritters.

  Aunt Sis and I took a step forward and picked up our dinner plates.

  In front of us, Mutt and Jeff helped themselves to green beans and rice pilaf. Then Mutt took up the tongs for the fritters. One. Two. Three.

  Aunt Sis watched her.

  Four. Five. Six.

  “How many can one woman eat?” Sis whispered.

  Mutt must have heard her—she glared at us then thrust the tongs deep into the pile of fritters.

  A mouse leapt from the basket seemingly aiming for Mutt’s face.

  Jeff screamed and threw her plate high in the air.

  Mutt bellowed, “For the love of Mike!”

  I squealed.

  Aunt Sis, in a maneuver worthy of a gymnast forty years her junior, jumped off the stage and landed atop a table.

  The mouse hit the floor and ran.

  Who could blame the little creature? Especially when the man with the carving knife gave chase.

  Those who hadn’t seen the mouse screamed now. After all, there was a lunatic with a huge knife running around the stage shouting, “I’ll get you, you little son of a bitch.”

  The steps bottlenecked and a few people followed Aunt Sis’s lead and leapt off the stage. Sadly, they didn’t land nimbly on tables. They brought tables crashing down in a symphony of breaking glass and falling cutlery.

  Those not on stage rushed to the back of the theatre, pushing through the doors and crowding into the lobby.

  Mutt pushed Jeff toward the stairs.

  The mouse, seemingly tired of running around in circles, ran past the footlights and launched himself into the seats.

  The man with the carving knife followed.

  Louder screams ensued. As did the crash of more tables.

  The stage had become the safest place to be. I stayed where I was.

  A man, perhaps a manager, bellowed, “Vic, stop!”

  If Vic was the man with the knife, he either didn’t hear or chose not to listen. He held his blade poised and ready to chop the poor mouse to bits, or, at the very least, cut off its tail with a carving knife.

 
Aunt Sis still sat on a table, her foot in a butter dish, her gaze fixed on the man with the knife as if she’d never seen such a sight in her life.

  The sound of a siren snuck past the screams and Vic’s obscenity-laced promises of what he planned to do to the mouse. Thank God. The remainder of the audience pushed through the exit doors and someone, somewhere, had the good sense to turn up the house lights.

  The change in ambiance slowed Vic.

  It also revealed untold devastation. Broken tables. Women perched on chairs. Shattered glassware. A man still holding an enormous knife.

  Then I saw him, a silhouette against the brighter lights of the lobby.

  Vic must have seen him too. He dropped his knife and sank into a chair.

  If the mouse saw Detective Anarchy Jones outlined in the doorway, he gave no hint. Instead he ran off to his mouse hole or maybe to the kitchen.

  I almost wished I could run with the little fellow. Instead, I stood alone on a stage covered in broken plates and trampled food. I felt Anarchy’s gaze on me. My cheeks warmed and I fought the urge to cool them with fingers that were suddenly ice cold.

  I couldn’t see his smile—confident, amused, and meltingly sexy—but I knew it was there.

  I swallowed, smoothed my skirt, and wished I was someplace else—anyplace else—folding-napkins-into-swans else.

  “Where’s the body?” he called.

  “There isn’t one.” My voice didn’t carry as well as his did but at least it didn’t shake. “How did you get here so fast?”

  “There’s a donut shop down the street.”

  I tilted my head. Was he joking?

  “A patrolman stopped for coffee and noticed people running out of the theatre screaming about a man with a knife.”

  That would attract police attention.

  “Ellison, who are you talking to?” demanded Aunt Sis.

  “Aunt Sis, please allow me to introduce you to Detective Jones. Detective, this is my Aunt Cecilia.”

  Anarchy eyed the crazed man who’d dropped his knife on the floor and now had his elbows on his knees and his head buried in his hands. The man with the knife or Ellison, which would cause him more trouble? I could almost read his thoughts. He approached Sis. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.” If he was surprised to see a member of my family—other than me—sitting in the middle of a sixty-inch round, he didn’t show it. Inscrutable, there’s a word that describes Anarchy Jones. “Would you like some help?”