Stamped Out

by Thayer, Terri

  April followed Bonnie into the kitchen. Bonnie donned bright blue oven mitts and opened the oven door, letting the tantalizing smell of melting cheese waft out. April felt her hunger again. She stepped out of the way as Bonnie set the casserole dish on the tile countertop.

  “Can I help?” April asked.

  Bonnie glanced at the table. “Just sit. Clive! I thought you already set the table,” Bonnie said. She was only slightly irritated.

  April said, “That’s my job. I can do it.”

  Bonnie shook her head. “You’re a guest tonight. Our guest.”

  Clive called, “Coming, Mummy.”

  April flinched at the endearment. She was not his mother. She tried to imagine Vince calling Ed “Daddy.” Yuk.

  Bonnie caught her reaction and set her straight. “He thinks he’s being funny. If I boss him around too much, that’s what I get.”

  Clive winked at April and patted Bonnie’s derriere as he crossed behind her, opening the cupboard door over the refrigerator, taking out placemats and napkins. April felt her eyebrows rise at the fanny pat. Bonnie was unfazed.

  Bonnie whisked balsamic vinegar into olive oil. She handed April the wooden bowl. “You can toss,” she said.

  April took the bowl and the tongs and settled in at the built-in banquette. She watched as Clive opened the silver-ware drawer next to where Bonnie was standing. Bonnie didn’t even protest this encroachment. She simply shifted her hips to give him better access to the forks. April was amazed.

  She’d never seen anyone in Bonnie’s kitchen before. Even Ken, who Bonnie thought charming, had never been given such access. Of course, April couldn’t remember Ken offering to set the table or touching a knife or fork except to eat.

  Clive Pierce. The name rang a bell, but she didn’t know why it sounded familiar. She was sure Bonnie had never mentioned him. In fact, Bonnie had never talked about any men since the divorce. And, April had to admit, she hadn’t asked.

  The man’s accent was familiar, too. And not just because she liked to watch the BBC America channel.

  Clive efficiently laid down the straw placemats, lining up the edges of the fork and knife, folding the watermelon-print cloth napkins, laying them to the left of the plate as Bonnie required. He hummed cheerfully as he filled water glasses from the Brita pitcher in the refrigerator.

  As he poured, Clive said, “You were there when they found the skull? How very Hamlet. Tell me everything. Nothing this exciting has happened in this burg since I landed my car in the Nescopeck Creek. That resulted in my license being suspended. Tell us all. I’d love to hear a good tale that doesn’t have me as the punch line.”

  Before April had a chance to answer, Bonnie paused in her bread slicing. She pointed the long serrated blade at Clive. “Can’t we talk about something else? Dead bodies aren’t my idea of dinner conversation, Clive.”

  Clive turned so Bonnie couldn’t see him and pulled a face that made April giggle. He returned her smile before moving to the glass-fronted cabinets that separated the built-in banquette from the kitchen. He opened one of the doors and began to rummage through the delicate contents.

  “Clive,” April hissed. She tried to get his attention, to tell him to get out of that cupboard, but he ignored her. She held her breath, waiting for Bonnie to react.

  Home to her mother’s prized salt and pepper shakers, these shelves had always been off-limits to April. Bonnie’s collection numbered well over two hundred pairs. Shakers made of ceramic, wood, metal. Shaped like grapefruit, light-houses, cocker spaniels. Any shape that could be dreamed up and have holes put in the top. No one but Bonnie touched the shakers.

  But Bonnie hadn’t flinched. Clive pulled out a black-and-white striped set of ceramic prisoners with tiny leg irons. April had bought the pair on Alcatraz.

  “We’ll use these, in your honor,” Clive said. To April’s amazement, Bonnie smiled at him as he set the pair on the table.

  “That’s perfect,” Bonnie said. “I love those little guys.”

  Something was definitely going on here. This had to be serious. Clive was too much at home.

  April sat down at the table, expecting Clive to do the same. Instead he snapped his fingers, said, “Pickles!” then flung open the cellar door and disappeared.

  April looked to her mother. Was this some kind of code word? Maybe the two of them had given up cursing, saying “pickles” instead. Or perhaps it was their alternative to saying grace. The thought of a secret language between them made April shudder.

  April didn’t wait for the door to finish closing. He would be back upstairs in a moment. She asked, “Why didn’t you tell me you were dating someone?”

  Her mother took off her apron and hung it on a hook by the broom closet.

  Bonnie didn’t look up. “What am I, in high school? I don’t think ‘dating’ is part of my vocabulary.”

  “He’s practically moved in. He certainly knows where everything is,” April said.

  “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

  “I can almost understand why you didn’t tell me over the phone,” April said, fully aware that she hadn’t talked to her mother about anything substantial for a year. “But yesterday? We were together for the whole day and you said nothing.”

  Bonnie shrugged.

  She was getting angry at her mother’s passive-aggressive approach. “Mom, come on. What’s the big deal? I don’t care if you’re dating Clive. I’m just a little hurt that you didn’t tell me.”

  “Date, schmate, April. We started spending time together. He likes my cooking. He’s lonely, I’m lonely. What’s the harm?”

  Lonely. April hated that word. The last six months with Ken in San Francisco had been the loneliest time she’d ever spent. She could understand if her mother didn’t want to be that unhappy.

  Clive clattered back up the stairs, a jar of pickles in hand. He used his fingers to slop some into a dish. April looked at her mother to see if she was still breathing. She’d have stabbed Ed with her paring knife if he’d neglected to use the pickle spearer. Her mother had it bad for this guy.

  Bonnie bumped April’s hip. “Shove in.”

  April hesitated. If she moved in, she’d be flanked by her mother and her boyfriend. She’d be in the dreaded middle, a place she knew was a dead zone. She hated this diner seating that Ed had installed. She’d spent too much of her childhood trapped between parents who were unwilling to let her go until she’d answered all their probing questions.

  Maybe Clive would settle next to her mother, leaving April a clear way out.

  He dropped the Depression glass dish full of homemade pickles on the table and sat next to April. Her heart sank. She was outnumbered again. She felt as though she were twelve years old.

  The only way out was through. She asked Clive to pass the chicken Parmesan. The faster they ate, the faster she’d be out of here. The three of them passed dishes and filled their plates.

  Clive tucked his napkin under his chin and said, “So how long are you in town?”

  Bonnie’s eyes flashed at her daughter. April had been deliberately vague with her mother about her future plans. “Do tell,” Bonnie said.

  “I’m not sure. It was kind of a spur-of-the-moment thing. Dad had this job for me, and my work in San Francisco was at a lull, so I decided to come home for a while.”

  “And your husband?” Clive asked. “Bonnie tells me you’re married.”

  April winced. “I am.”

  “Yes,” Bonnie said testily. “How does Ken feel about all this?”

  April studied the plate in front of her. Her mother wouldn’t understand why she’d left Ken. To her mother, being left was the worst thing in the world. She knew her relationship with Ken was over, but she didn’t have the words to explain that to her mother yet.

  “He’s okay with it,” April said simply. She closed her face, hoping her mother would recognize this topic as off-limits.

  Silence reigned. Clive reached for a piec
e of bread and sopped up his plate. He popped the crust in his mouth.

  “What do you do, Clive?” April asked, determined to get the conversation off her. Besides, she still had the niggling feeling she knew this guy.

  “I’m retired,” he said simply. “I used to be an entertainer.”

  “How long have you been in Aldenville?” April asked. Bonnie shot her a look, but she ignored it. She could vet her mother’s boyfriends. It was payback for all the grief her mother had given her in high school.

  “Just a few years. I passed through years ago and thought it looked like a good place to live.”

  “You must have been looking for a complete change of pace,” April said with a slight snicker. “Nothing ever happens here.”

  He pointed a finger at her. “Are you having a laugh? Take today, for example. A body in the ruins. Did you see the skull?” he asked, tossing a quick look at Bonnie. She shook her head, but he persisted.

  April nodded. She nearly pulled out her phone to show him the pictures, but she knew her mother would never tolerate that.

  “Did you touch it?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “The state police took over the site pretty quickly. They were keeping spectators far away.”

  “Were there more bones? Are they going to excavate?” he asked.

  Bonnie said, “That’s got to cost a pretty penny. With the never-ending complaints about rising taxes in this state, I sincerely hope the state police don’t spend a lot of money on this. It can’t be cheap.”

  “I’m not sure what the police will do,” she said. “Yost seems to think it could have been murder.”

  Clive’s eyes widened comically, and April was reminded again how familiar he looked. But then, she often had that sensation when she was visiting Aldenville. She’d see a kid pumping gas and realize it was the younger brother of a neighbor or a girl she’d gone to school with. But Clive was not a part of this town’s gene pool.

  Bonnie sighed. “The Castle has always been bad luck.”

  “For the Winchesters?” April asked.

  “For the Bucherts,” Bonnie said. “And George. I heard today that was the last place he was seen, before he went back to the nursing home. That place has bad karma.”

  “I’ve got to try and sneak a peek,” Clive said. He rubbed his hands together. “I know where I’ll be tomorrow.”

  Bonnie pointed her fork at him. “You’re a little too young to become a supervisor. Don’t get too involved. Either one of you.”

  April kept quiet. Her mother didn’t need to know how involved she already was.

  Once dinner was over, Clive cleared the dishes, insisting that April and Bonnie remain seated. He sang softly as he scraped the remains of dinner into the garbage, his voice pleasant in a boy-band way.

  Bonnie said, “Just because you’re working for your dad doesn’t mean you can’t spend time with me, you know.”

  Bonnie liked to keep score, April knew that. But how was she going to manage to spend as much time with Bonnie as Ed? She’d be working every day with him.

  “Mom, please, don’t make my life difficult.”

  Bonnie pouted. “You’ll see him every day. How about coming here for meals?”

  April flinched.

  “You’ve got to eat,” Bonnie pointed out.

  “Mom, most nights I’m happy with a scrambled egg or a protein shake.”

  Clive watched the exchange from the refrigerator where he was putting away the leftovers. “I hope we’ll see a lot more of you,” Clive said pleasantly to April.

  April caught his eye. His expression pleaded with her to be nice to her mother.

  Bonnie shook her head. “You can’t keep eating like you’re in college. You need a real meal once in a while. One that requires actual chewing.”

  April knew her mother would never let this rest. “You can feed me once a week,” April said, in the spirit of compromise.

  “Only one night?” Bonnie asked, disappointed.

  April didn’t speak, determined to hold her ground. Bonnie relented and they agreed on Wednesdays. April was pleased with herself, proud that she’d put up a boundary.

  “I’ll see you tomorrow, right? At George Weber’s wake?” Bonnie asked.

  April’s heart sank. She knew her mother had given in too easily. “Why would I want to go to that?”

  The wake was just the kind of small-town stuff that April didn’t want to be sucked back into. She said, “Don’t you people ever get sick of each other? I mean, you see half the town at the club every day. You see the rest in church on Sunday, Bible class on Wednesday, Eastern Star on Thursday.”

  “There’s book club and the sewing circle, too,” Clive put in, earning a dirty look from Bonnie.

  April shook her head. “I can’t imagine what you have to say to each other every day.”

  “Wakes are not about talking to your neighbors. They’re about helping the living say good-bye to the dead. Deana knows that.”

  The old comparison-to-Deana gambit. April had never scored well in that. “If I’m not too busy, I’ll be there,” April said, worn down.

  Bonnie said, “Wait here. I bought you some towels that were on sale at Boscov’s. I’ll go get them.”

  Bonnie’s bedroom closet was a repository for all things discounted.

  As her mother left the room, Clive winked at April, a broad wink. In that instance, April knew why he looked familiar. This was that Clive Pierce, the lead singer of the most popular band of the seventies, as recognizable, if not as respected, as the Beatles.

  The Kickapoos were a band with their own television show in the early seventies. She and Deana had discovered it on Nick at Nite. When the band had gone on a reunion tour, Bonnie had taken ten-year-old April. April had been hooked. Now she was in the same room as their lead singer. He looked the same, only tinier and more wrinkled.

  The song he’d been singing as he cleared the dishes had been the Kickapoos number one hit.

  He caught April staring at him and smiled. She lowered her eyes and then snuck another look at the man putting out cookies and the sugar bowl. Clive’s eyes were red-rimmed, and his once-luxurious brown locks had gone gray, but she recognized the smile, and the twinkle in his eyes had not faded.

  On TV, he’d been the zany one of the foursome. He was always causing a ruckus with his misunderstandings and his malapropisms that the other boys would have to rectify. Each show ended with him apologizing to his mates for getting them in trouble. Then the camera came in for a close-up of his smile, enhanced with a fake starburst of bright light.

  What on earth was Clive Pierce doing with her mother? The woman to whom life was an endurance test, a race that couldn’t be beat. She’d often told April that the most you could hope for was not to get kicked in the teeth each day. What was she doing with a guy who never took anything seriously? Who found life to be an adventure.

  Clive took out the garbage. April marched down the hall to her mother’s bedroom. Bonnie had dumped the contents of a large bag on her bed.

  “Mom! Is that who I think he is? Clive Pierce from the Kickapoos? What’s he doing in Aldenville?” April said. She couldn’t keep the wonder from her voice. This little town’s only brush with fame had been Jack Palance’s farm up the road several miles. Not exactly paparazzi material.

  “He fell in love with the place when the band came for a concert at the Grove twenty years ago.”

  “You took me to that concert,” April cried.

  “No need to shout, dear. I remember. We had a wonderful time.”

  April remembered it that way, too. She’d been young enough to like hanging out with her mother. For a mother and daughter about to enter the rending teen years, it had been a wonderful day. One of the best days of her childhood.

  And now. Ewww.

  “What’s he doing with you?” April said.

  Bonnie’s eyes flashed. “Is there some reason he shouldn’t be with me?” she said crustily.

  “Th
at’s not what I meant,” April said, even though that was exactly what she’d meant. “It’s just that . . .” April paused to look at her mother. She softened. Her mother looked young and pretty, tiny tendrils of hair stuck to her ruddy cheeks.

  “Mom, he was a megastar.”

  “Yeah, well, superstars need to eat, too.”

  “Is that all you do for him?” April regretted the words as soon as they left her mouth. Bonnie frowned deeply.

  April was trying to figure out how old he was. He had to be older than Bonnie, who was fifty-eight. April remembered finding an original Kickapoos record in her mother’s collection. What about that fashion rule? If you wore bell bottoms the first time they were fashionable, you couldn’t wear them the next time they were popular. Did that apply to your pop icons? If you had a crush on them once, when you were a teenager, weren’t you forbidden from dating them forever?