by Joni Rodgers
“Kit, get the kids ready to go,” Mel said quietly.
“No!” Neeva spun up from her chair and into the kitchen. “I am making pancakes!” She threw the refrigerator open, clanged a cast-iron skillet out of the stove.
“I am making pancakes for breakfast, and you are going to sit here and eat them. It’s the least you owe me!”
“Oh, yeah.” Mel rubbed his hand over his face. “I knew we couldn’t spend twenty-four hours in this house without hearing about what I owe you.”
“Did I mention it?” Neeva protested, her voice high and breathy with indignation. “Did I mention it at any time? Why, I thought we’d all forgotten all about it! After all, what’s a silly little car in the bosom of a loving family? What does some silly old automobile matter? You went off to live your life, you totaled the car. It’s gone. It’s all in the history books now.”
“Ma, I told you before. If you want me to replace the car or figure out a way to pay you back—”
“How do you propose to pay me back for all the hours I put into that car? And why should you? Why should you pay me back or ask me how to fix your transmission or visit here once in a while?” Neeva started weeping, and it was like watching the implosion of a grand old hotel. “You never think about anyone but yourself. You never have. And I don’t know where you got it. Teddy was never selfish that way! Teddy never put a scratch on that Falcon when he was driving it! Teddy never left us wondering where he was year after year—”
“No, Ma, Teddy went and got his head blown off—”
“Oh, Mel,” Kit covered her face with her hands.
“—so he didn’t have a chance to disappoint you—”
“Mel, please.”
“—and you didn’t have a chance to drive him out of the house like you did me and Butch.”
“And thank God,” Neeva cried, “he never had a chance to become a big, fat, boozing slob like you and Butch!”
Kit ran upstairs to Mel’s old room. She shoved all their clothes into the overnight bag and dragged Mitzi and Coo out of the Ninja Turtle sleeping bags.
“No,” Cooper groaned. “I don’t wanna get up.”
“Mitzi, run in and go potty. Hurry!” Kit rolled the bags together and tied them with one quick knot.
“Mom,” Cooper complained, “you have to zip it shut first. Mom! I don’t want my sleeping bag touching hers!”
“Cooper,” Kit warned, shoving the sleeping bags underneath his arm, “I said extra good behavior and cooperation, didn’t I? Now you carry these down and get in the car. You obey me!”
“I’m hungry. I don’t even have my clothes on.”
“Mitzi?” Kit rapped on the bathroom door. “Mitzi, c’mon. Hurry up.”
Mitzi opened the door, rubbing her watery eyes, fly-away hair going every direction.
“Daddy’s yelling at Grandma,” she said. “You told us they weren’t going to fight today.”
“I know, honey. C’mon. Let’s just zip this up and hop in the car.”
“You said fighting is naughty. You said people can’t sass their mother.”
“C’mon, guys. We’ll stop and get dressed in a little while. We’ll stop and eat and get dressed, okay, Coocaburra? C’mon. Daddy needs his big helpers right now.”
“Dad said a bad word,” Cooper whispered. “He said the F word.”
“He did not,” Mitzi defended him.
“I heard him, ya stupid little gnat. I guess I know what I heard.”
“You’re the stupid one! You big stupid lying ... stupid ... poophead!”
“Mitzi, that’s enough! Coo honey, please, just take the sleeping bags down to the car. Okay, sweetie?”
“I’m not touching her bag! I don’t want her smelly naked butt germs!”
“Shut up!” Mitzi shrieked.
“Millicent Jane! You hush your mouth! Cooper, stop devilling her.”
“You didn’t do it right, Mama!” Cooper struggled with the contorted sleeping bag. “It’s all tangled up now!”
“Coo, it doesn’t matter, honey. I’ll straighten it out later.”
“You can’t! Now the zipper’s off the track!” He threw the bag to the floor. “You’re so stupid! You just break everything!”
Kit grabbed him by the arm and put her face very close to his.
“As you value your life, little boy,” she menaced through gritted teeth, “you shut your mouth and get on down those stairs! Right now!”
With the overnight bag over her shoulder, Kit dragged them into the hallway. Mel and Neeva’s voices were still escalating in the kitchen, but they were both shouting at once, so Kit hoped it would be a little more difficult for the children to understand what they were saying. She whisked them out the back door and stuffed them into the backseat.
“Buckle,” she commanded. “I’ll be right back.”
She crept to the kitchen with Mel’s dilapidated sneakers in her hand.
“... because it’s not like you get a choice, Ma. It’s not a fucking travel agency. I was a seventeen-year-old kid! They told me to go to Guam. I went to fucking Guam. I did my duty. I served my country.”
“—and never gave one thought to Teddy or anyone else who was over there where the real war was going on—”
“It wasn’t a real war, Ma! It was a police action! And I’d have gone there if I’d got sent there, but I didn’t, and there’s not a goddamn thing I could have done to help him if I had!”
“Mel?” Kit tried to be small, to stay out of the cross fire. She handed him the sneakers, and he pulled them on without any socks.
“Jesus Christ! You think I don’t know you wish it would’ve been me instead of Teddy who came home in a box? You think I don’t wish it would’ve been me instead?”
It twisted Kit’s heart to hear him say it out loud.
“Are the kids in the car?” he asked her, and she nodded.
“No! No!” Neeva was weeping again. “You can’t take them yet. You can’t take them away without their pancakes!”
Mel pushed Kit out the door, and they got into the car.
“Ah, damn it! Shit!” His hands were trembling, and he dropped his tangle of keys on the floor.
“I wanted to make pancakes!” Neeva wailed from the kitchen steps.
“Oh, no! Ma, don’t! Ma!”
Splakk.
A raw egg hit the windshield.
“Oh, man ...” Mel threw the keys on the dashboard. “God damn it!”
Twisted shell, globulous yolk, and clear, viscous white slid down the outside of the glass toward the wiper blades.
“Go,” Kit said. “Just go, honey!”
“I wanted to make them for you, Melvin!” Splakk.
“Mel!” Kit seized the key and jammed it into the ignition. “Go!”
Gripping the wheel, Mel slammed the station wagon into reverse. It jerked back and to the side. One wheel cut up onto the lawn, and then they lurched forward and sped down the street to the end of the block. Ignoring a four-way stop, Mel steered toward the highway, eyes forward, jaw locked tight.
The backseat was silent.
Kit just breathed. She would wait a while, let him put some road into the rearview; then she’d slide across the center of the front seat to stroke his neck and speak gently to him about the sun sparkling like sequins on the water at Matagorda.
“Dang,” Mitzi sighed. “We never get our pancakes.”
Kiki told them to pretend they were camping out, but Oscar didn’t buy it. She told them how, if you slept in your clothes, you’d be ready to jump right up and play the next morning, but that didn’t explain why she put their shoes in her purse or why she dumped the schoolwork out of their back packs and put in favorite books, toothbrushes, Barbies, and action figures. She kissed them and came back later to close their bedroom door so they wouldn’t hear the karaoke machine.
“Diamonds...ooo I said diamonds... yes, diamonds are a girl’s best friend...”
She didn’t do it only so he would fall asle
ep.
It was partly because she wasn’t sure if anyone else would ever want to hear her sing or watch her take her clothes off and dance in nothing but a necklace. She wanted to please him, wanted him to please her.
Just a sliver of something sweet.
Kiki traced the cursive neon with her finger, but it wasn’t quite hot enough to burn.
Vivica Talent, it said, pinker than lip gloss and underlined with purple just in case there was a shadow of doubt left in anyone’s mind.
Pressing her résumé and demo tape against her chest, Kiki walked the perimeter of the circular reception area, studying the pictures of people Vivica represented.
Pubescent blonde actresses and spokes-models beamed from their framed head shots. Pammy Thomas-Trent. “You watched her grow up on TV’s ‘My Neighbor Kate.’ Now look for her in this year’s action-adventure blockbuster ‘No Prisoners!’”
There was a beaming mariachi band called El Cumpleaños, a beaming, blonde country singer named Cammi Terrell, the painfully clean-cut Dave Rossy Trio, beaming along with an entire wall of bright-faced children with ice-white teeth and eyes like polished obsidian.
Xylo Haines and the Euphonious Brethren: Fusion, Blues, and Shades of Jazz. Winner of the Deep Hot Award at the 1998 Rio Rialto Jazz Festival.
The ensemble members stood, streamlined and shiny as the highly polished xylophone that spanned horizontal on the floor in front of them. They wore skinny ties and a profusion of rings that looked like solid gold, even in the black-and-white photograph. Their trapezoidal suits angled downward from padded shoulders to narrow hips and pants so sharply creased the lines flowed into the reflective contours of the brass instruments as if they were all cut from the same metallic fabric.
They did not beam. They appeared to disdain beaming. They appeared to be the kind of guys who drank Drambuie and used the term “hep cat.” Their hair was slick and luxurious as a freshly waxed Mercedes, and they were all thin as pencil lead. Bending toward the camera like jackknives, they appeared to be daring any nightclub owner who came into possession of their demo to “be there or be square.”
But as Kiki leaned toward them, she noticed that Xylo’s eyes seemed less calcite than the rest of the office gallery, his enthusiasm more ingenuous, his smile less brittle. He stood at the center of the group, his arms open in front of the others, both mallets in one hand, only his open palm in the other. At first, he looked as if he were displaying the xylophone on a game show, but on closer inspection, it was more like he was offering it as a gift to Baby Jesus.
Kiki smiled Mary’s smile and started to reach toward the love offering but snatched her hand back when the inner-office door opened, and Vivica’s assistant came out.
“She’ll see you now.”
Kiki nodded, adjusted her facial expression, and went in.
Vivica was on the phone, but she pointed to a chair with one long red-nailed finger. She rolled her eyes, making a quack-quack-quack gesture, opening and closing her hand. Kiki smiled and nodded. She laid her tape on the desk, trying not to notice how tiny Vivica looked in her big executive chair.
“The only problem is, he’s put on a few pounds since the last time you used him. Well, enough to make a difference. No, I have absolute confidence in him, but I want you to take a look before we sign anything, just so ... Mmm-hmm. That would work. Uh-huh. Here in Orlando, if it’s all the same to your people. Right. Hmm? How is—which thing was that?” She slid a pencil under the edge of her Zsa Zsa Gabor wig and scratched it up and down a little. “Oh, that thing. It’s going fine, but the whole process is slower than the mills of the Lord’s justice, so... No, we aren’t counting any chickens yet. Hmm? Oh, you’re sweet, but really, I’m fine. Sure. Sure I’m sure. Absolutely. So okay, sweetie. Oh, I sure will. And you watch out for those grandbabies while you’re out scootin’ around in that golf cart. Okay. You, too, sweetie. B’bye. Yes, I will. You, too. Uh-huh. B’bye, now. Okay. Bye, now. You, too. B’bye.”
She clacked the phone down before another word could sneak through the wire and snag her back. Raising one finger in a hang-on gesture, she pressed the intercom button with the eraser end of the pencil.
“Estelle, call Phil back. His audition is on for tomorrow at two.” She pressed again. “Tell him not to embarrass me.”
She released the button and clapped her hands together.
“All rightee!” she said, smoothing the front of her turquoise silk blouse. “Finally. Let’s hear it, shall we?”
She dropped Kiki’s demo in the deck and turned the volume up. The intro brassed up, and Kiki came on.
“Ol’ man rivah, that ol’ man rivah...”
Vivica drew bodily away from the speakers.
“Oh. Oh, dear,” she pressed her fingertips together to form a little tent in front of her face. “Where on earth did you dig that up?”
“I—I had it from ... before.”
“Oh. Oh, my.” Vivica pushed her red lips together as if someone were trying to make her taste fried monkey. “Oh, my God.”
“He must know sumpthin’ but don’t say nothin’,” the canned Kiki sang.
“Oh, sweetie,” Vivica said, punching the stop button, “nobody’s going to book this. I can’t sell this. I’d be embarrassed to try.”
“Aren’t you even going to look at my résumé?” Kiki pleaded. “I had it typed.”
“Everything on this résumé took place before you got your first period.”
“No! I was in Hello, Dolly! When I was sixteen. And I was Minnie Fay. Minnie Fay! I had solos!”
“Community theatre. I’m talking about professional stuff.”
“I was a professional singer.” There were tears in Kiki’s voice. “And I’m gonna be a professional singer again. I don’t care what you say.”
“Oh yeah, that’s very professional,” Vivica chided.
Kiki started sobbing in earnest.
“Oh, now, don’t do that, sweetie. Sweetie, c’mon. All right,” Vivica sighed. “C’mon over here.”
Kiki went around the desk as though she were still eight and nobody in third grade wanted to play with her because her hair was bleached platinum blonde and all teased up like Annette Funicello. Vivica scootched over in her large leather chair, and she was so thin, there was plenty of room for both of them. She smoothed Kiki’s hair back and kissed her temple.
“Goodness, Moon Pie,” she said, stroking her quivering arm and warm, wet cheek. “You’re just like me. I always got so emotional when I was pregnant. When I was expecting Kitten, I used to set aside a half hour every day, just for weeping. Your poor daddy didn’t know what to make of it.”
“I’m sorry. But geez, Mama! You could have looked at my résumé!”
“Alright, sweetie, I’ll look at it. See? Looking. Looking at it right now.” Vivica picked it up, waving it to prove her good intentions. “But, honey, it’s the tape that gets bookings, and you don’t have one. And you don’t have backup, and you don’t have clothes, and you’re pregnant. Honestly, I don’t understand why you’re so hot to do this all the sudden.”
“Mama, I don’t know what else to do.” Kiki blew her nose into the Kleenex Vivica handed her. “I’m not going back to Wayne. I’m not.”
“Well, you know you and the kids can stay with me as long as you need to. Just stay here. We’ll sit by the pool. We’ll talk. We’ll go to Disney World. Now, you’d like that, wouldn’t you, sweetie?”
“Mama, I’m talking about making a life for myself. What kind of life is that? Hanging out by the pool and going to Disney World and mooching off my mama?”
“Sweetie, I built this business on top of you and Kitten. Your hard work. Your talent. Every connection I started with was somebody calling here looking for you two. I think the least I owe you is a little safety net now and then.”
“You were the one, Mama.” Kiki nuzzled the most familiar place in her world. “We’d’ve never done any of it without you. You were the one who taught us everything and made o
ur dresses and hustled every gig.”
“I did hustle, didn’t I?” Vivica smiled, and her eyes went nostalgic. “Hustled my buns off. And if you two had kept it up once you got old enough to do nightclubs, with those voices— and those figures! Mm-mm-mm.” She fanned her face with her hand and repeated, “Mm-mm-mm.”
“I wish I had, Mama. I wish I’d never quit. I wish I’d never married Wayne.”
“Now, don’t say that.” Vivica pushed her back so she could look her sternly in the eye. “He gave you Oscar and Chloe, and that’s worth anything. Anything, sweetie.”
“Yeah.” Kiki nodded and looked away. “But, Mama, I can’t stay married to him. I feel like I don’t even know him anymore.”
“Personally, I think you two need to consult with a good marriage counselor. Have you thought about that, Moon Pie? Because single motherhood is no picnic, I promise you.”
“He went with that woman and had sex, Mama. Had sex with somebody other than me.”
“That’s a biggie,” Vivica conceded. “I’m always amazed if a marriage bounces back from that one.”
“And it’s not just that, Mama. Sometimes he ... he scares me.”
“Scares you?” Vivica asked seriously. “Scares you how?”
“He—when he gets real mad—it’s my fault because I always make a mess of everything, but then he gets so angry and ... and he—he... yells at me.”
“Oh, Kiki, for heaven’s sake,” Vivica looked relieved. “You might not remember Daddy ever raising his voice, but let me tell you what, he and I had some humdingers.”
“Did you?”
“Oh, yeah.” Vivica seemed to enjoy remembering it. “We had some real lulus.”
“But he never... Did he ever... scare you?”
“The only thing I was scared of was losing him. But,” she said, making her face solid again, “I survived that, too, didn’t I?”
“I’m not like you though, Mama. I’m not tough like you.”
“Oh, pfff! I think you girls are plain spoiled. Honestly, the way Kitten talks, you’d think Mel is the ogre under the bridge, and you’re apparently too thin-skinned to yell back when someone yells at you.” Vivica straightened Kiki’s posture with a hand against her shoulder blade. “You need to learn how to yell right back. Make him respect you. Let him know you won’t tolerate any more of his shenanigans. You just yell right back at him! What’s he gonna do about it?”