As La Vista Turns

by Kris Ripper

  I risked taking a seat across from her on the bed. Damn, she was so fucking beautiful. Her eyes were dark underneath from exhaustion, and her shoulders hunched, but I loved the way she moved, the way she took up space in a room. I loved watching her hands work, even when she seemed to think it was hopeless.

  “What’s the obstacle to you making that?”

  “I’m not good enough. I’ll never be good enough. I mean, I can follow patterns, but you’ve seen what happens when I try not to follow a pattern—I can’t even get a good start on something before I have to rip it out.”

  I still didn’t know what was wrong with her earlier attempts. “And they don’t have patterns for that kind of quilt?”

  “Aunt Florence didn’t use one. I guess it’s kind of a stupid dream, to think I could follow in her footsteps, but I always thought that one day I’d suddenly figure out how all these scraps fit together. Then I’d be able to make it.”

  “You don’t want to . . . try, though?”

  She narrowed her eyes at me, and I liked that, too. Even when she decided she was pissed in my direction, I still wanted to kiss her. “You can’t just try things. If I cut wrong, that’s it.”

  “But if you never cut at all—isn’t that also it?”

  “You don’t get what I’m saying.” She started playing with one of the piles, fitting pieces together in different configurations. “Maybe if I started with a block . . . I could applique it. Blanket stitch the edges so they don’t look dumb. I’m not sure I could piece all this together, but applique would work, and that way I could tie them in with something neutral. It wouldn’t be quite the same, but . . . ”

  I held my breath while she mumbled and played with her scraps, turning them and swapping them out for other scraps. She dragged over a pillow and used that instead of the duvet.

  “I think I have batting somewhere. I could kind of quilt-as-you-go, except then I’d be committed, and I’m not sure . . .” The scraps took on the appearance, vaguely, of a rectangle. She pulled one in tighter and pressed another farther out, playing with the negative space in between them. “I don’t think . . .”

  It was working. I could feel it working. She was making something, even if it was only in her mind. That was where everything started, right? At least, everything except babies. I wanted Dred to start making this quilt, this special, perfect quilt, but part of me was envious that it was something she could choose to do.

  Or not.

  “Fuck it. I’m not good enough. Why’d you drag this stupid shit out anyway?”

  Just like that, it was over. She shoved all of the scraps back into the box—taking none of the care I’d seen when I opened it—and pushed it away from her.

  “The problem is I suck at quilting. So fine. I’m done.” She stood up and headed for the hallway. “You want lunch? I’m making something.”

  I listened to her footsteps down the stairs and sat there, in her bedroom full of golden light, with the scraps of her entire life at my fingertips. I replaced the pillow, stacked the patches she’d ripped out, and put the bin carefully away in the closet.

  It should have been downstairs in her sewing room.

  Hell. The thing about being friends with Dred was you knew she was gonna be pissed at you about roughly half the things you did or said, so it sort of freed you up. No need to fear; Dred’s annoyance was inevitable, like the rising sun.

  I quietly carried the bin down to the sewing room at the front of the house and put it with the other bins on a bookshelf Obie had cleared of books and movies. There. That was way better. I sort of hoped I’d be long gone by the time she saw I’d done it, though.

  Maintaining a breezy air of devil-may-care, I casually wandered into the kitchen. “What’re you making?”

  “Egg salad. Good? Emerson boiled all the eggs so it can’t be screwed up. For the most part. Though he’ll probably decide I used too much yellow mustard.”

  “Can I help?”

  “Yeah. Track down the chopped black olives? We have a can around here somewhere.”

  I hunted for black olives. The sandwiches ended up pretty delicious and Dred turned quilting back on me, asking why I hadn’t even started a quilt with my bundles of perfect squares yet.

  “I don’t know. I guess I got distracted by this wake idea. I’ve been doing research and making notes.”

  “Oh yeah? I guess I never thought of a wake as a research project. You gonna have a ceremonial fire or something? Some kind of hippie deal where people write down their deepest fears and ritualistically burn them before they’re ceremonially reborn through some kind of cushy satin vagina?”

  “That’s genius!” I pulled out my phone and pretended to type that into a note. “We’re totally doing that. Do you think Fredi would let us burn some of the stuff she’s got on the walls? I swear it’s older than you are.”

  She snorted. “Good luck with that.”

  “Anyway, smart aleck, no, that’s not the kind of research I’ve been doing. I looked into fire codes for Club Fred’s, and I asked her about attendance at theme nights. I did some brainstorming with Keith about the best ways to raise awareness about the event. I’ve been working very hard.”

  “Since yesterday.”

  Technically since last night, after I left Richard’s. After he told me to be honest with her about how I felt.

  “Since yesterday. Listen, uh, Dred . . .”

  “You don’t like your lunch? I told you I always put too much mustard.”

  “No, I like it. It’s really good.” I pushed the plate away. “It’s not about lunch.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  Shit, shit, she had her bland expression on. The one that meant she was planning not to respond to whatever I was going to say. Usually she got that look with Obie. I fiddled with the edge of the tablecloth. “So you know how I asked you if you’d . . . pretend to be into me? For fun?”

  “Fake-dating. It’s not like it slipped my mind.”

  “Yeah, fake-dating. Um.”

  She stared at me, giving absolutely nothing away. If I could get a hint from her, the slightest nudge in the right direction, everything would be easier.

  “Um. So. I was wondering if—if you kind of—” I should have led with, Remember that time I accidentally kissed you in the car? Could we do that again, only not on accident?

  My mouth dried up around the words.

  The doorbell shattered my concentration. Or, alternately, saved me from making a bigger fool out of myself, depending on her response. Before either of us could get up, the door opened.

  I looked around the kitchen for a weapon (the fire extinguisher would work), but I didn’t end up needing it.

  “Mildred?” a voice I’d never heard before called through the house. “Obadiah? Hello!”

  “Oh my god,” Dred whispered. “Auntie? Auntie?” She scrambled out from behind the table, and Dred was not a skinny lady. I’d never seen her actually scramble before.

  “Here you are! I thought I might have to search the house. Hello, darling.”

  First: Aunt Florence was white. I’d always wondered, because Dred’s mom was white and her dad was black and I’d never been able to work out which one was related to Aunt Florence.

  Second: she was shorter than I expected; Dred was both taller and bigger. When they hugged, Aunt Florence got a little lost in Dred’s embrace.

  “What are you doing here? Shouldn’t you be preaching to pagans in Paraguay right now?”

  Aunt Florence arched an eyebrow, a move that echoed Dred so perfectly I had to swallow and look away. “Should I take the alliterative offensive to mean I’m not welcome?”

  “You’d’ve been more welcome if you’d given us some warning! Auntie, this is Zane. Zane, this is Aunt Florence.”

  I stood to shake her hand, and maybe I was taller, but her handshake held just enough please let go to make me think Aunt Florence could hold her own in a fistfight. Gulp. “Really good to meet you. Dred and Obie talk about you all
the time.”

  “Nice to meet you, dear. I’ve heard a lot from Obadiah. Not so much from Mildred.” She turned away before I had to reply, which was good, because I had no idea what to say to that. “Where is my great-nephew?”

  “He should be waking up soon.” Dred touched Aunt Florence’s arm, brushing long fingers over her cool Ann Taylor-looking linen shirt. “I can’t believe you’re here. Obie is going to lose it.”

  “I certainly hope he doesn’t. In lieu of seeing James, I’ll settle for the garden.”

  Dred went out with her, and I stayed in the kitchen, a little shocked by the enormity of Aunt Florence walking in without warning. Hadn’t they said it had been fifteen years since she’d been in the States? How was it even possible that she just showed up on a Sunday afternoon?

  I heard, distantly, the sound of James crying. And the even more distant crackle of the baby monitor we’d forgotten in Dred’s bedroom. A glance made it clear that the two women now slowly touring through the garden hadn’t heard either of those things. I made my way upstairs and into his bedroom, where he was sitting in his crib.

  “Hey, kiddo. How’s it hanging? Did your nap go all right?”

  He babbled something at me. God, it was gonna be so much easier when the kid was understandable.

  “Uh, are you looking for Emerson? He’s also taking a nap, but you can come downstairs with me and we’ll find your mom. Can I pick you up?”

  He lifted his arms.

  “C’mon, mister man. You won’t even believe what just happened. Your mom’s Aunt Florence is here. That’s nuts, right?”

  More babbling. I really needed to not call it “babbling” since he was clearly talking. Just, sort of incomprehensible-to-me talking.

  “Let’s go, kid.” I settled him on my hip and started down the stairs.

  Aunt Florence wasted exactly no time before taking over the household—while emphatically stating in no uncertain terms that she was not moving in, that she’d be staying with her sister and that was final.

  “Do you forget what living with Mom is like?” Dred finally asked, having failed to talk her aunt into moving in to the farmhouse.

  “I will give up my suffering for the souls in purgatory. Now, about this young man’s sense of himself as a child . . .”

  According to Aunt Florence, Baby James (whom she would not hear referred to as “baby” anything because he was eight months old) should be in childcare because without the presence of other children he wouldn’t have a feel for his identity as a kid. Which I thought was kind of weird until I considered it like the way Jaq and I had banded together when we were eleven, never to be separated, because at least when we were with each other we knew we weren’t the only gay girls on earth.

  Maybe James did need other kids around. I didn’t know. But I hadn’t factored in “childhood” as “identity” before, so I made a note to look into it later (tagged to-research, parenting, early childhood development).

  “Auntie, we don’t have the money for that—”

  “I will give you the money if it comes down to it, but I don’t think it will. You remember Wanda Reed? From church?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “Wanda’s running the daycare at St. Patrick’s these days, and she says there’s always room for my great-nephew. She also said they have a sliding scale and the folks down at the community action agency can help you with your portion, so that’s handled.”

  “Handled? It’s not even— I don’t even know if I want him in daycare at St. Patrick’s—”

  Emerson, uncomfortably witnessing the scene beside me on the back steps, stretched out his legs. He was never happy and relaxed after he’d been lying down, and discovering Aunt Florence in the house had definitely not helped him wake up any more smoothly. He reached out to graze his hand over James’s soft baby curls.

  James squawked and pushed himself all the way up until he could sit.

  “You’ll go down there in the morning.” Aunt Florence turned away to pluck at some dead leaves on the vine beside the porch.

  “Who’s gonna watch James while I sit in an office filling out forms I don’t care about for a service I’m not interested in?”

  “You’ll bring him with you, Mildred. Like women do all over the world when they have a child.”

  “You bully women all over the world? No wonder you were gone so long. That must take ages.”

  I could see what Dred, standing directly behind her aunt, couldn’t: Florence smiled.

  “It did take ages. Now, moving on. When will Obadiah be home?”

  “He’s off at eleven.”

  “Far too late. I’ll be long asleep by then, so I’ll have to see him in the morning. Give me my bag, please.”

  Dred obeyed, and was that an actual carpet bag? It was definitely the kind of handbag that might just have a lamp in it, even without Mary Poppins’s magic.

  “Thank you, dear.” From its depths she pulled a battered paperback. To our collective surprise, she handed it to Emerson.

  I bit my lip. If she was going to try to convert Emerson right now, Obie was gonna be down one boyfriend by the time he got home.

  “This is your assignment. It will seem unreasonable to you and I welcome your complaints, but I still expect you to follow through.”

  “Full Catastrophe Living? This isn’t— Is this a religious thing? Because no offense, Miss, um—”

  “You may call me ‘Aunt Florence’ or ‘Florence’ like the rest of the kids. No, it’s not religious, and if it were, it would be more closely aligned to Buddhism than Catholicism. It’s a program, with an audio component.” She took a seat on the step right below ours, but not too close. Emerson pulled his legs in anyway. “I have heard a rumor that you aren’t managing your multiple sclerosis very well, Emerson. While I understand your reservations, I’ve seen people suffer with later stages than yours, and for Obadiah’s sake—and James’s—I would sooner you avoid that as long as possible. Tell me you’ll do what the crazy lady says, if only for a few weeks.”

  He gulped. Audibly. “How long is ‘a few weeks’?”

  “Eight. Technically.”

  “That’s two months.”

  “It’s really only a few minutes a day. You can make it work.”

  “How long is ‘a few minutes’?”

  She smiled. “Oh, you’ll work that out fast enough. But how long is too long when it means being active for James? And I promise you, if you do this, you will be happy that you did.”

  “That’s the pitch for every scam ever pitched.”

  Aunt Florence nodded. “Then do it because if you don’t, I’ll tell Obadiah, and he’ll want to know exactly why you won’t.”

  He sighed. “You drive a hard bargain, Aunt Florence.”

  “And you’re unequal to my deviousness, so you know I’ll win.” She tapped the book. “Start tonight. If you like, he can do it with you. But for you, Emerson, this is very vital. You must stop ignoring your body.”

  Emerson looked up, and I caught Dred’s eye, transmitting Oh my god, he’s gonna blow up right now. But he didn’t.

  He shook his head slightly. “I’m not ignoring it. I can’t.”

  “I’m glad we agree. Start tonight.”

  “You said there’s an audio thing?”

  “Cassette tapes, but lucky you—now there’s an app. Download series one, and if you want me to cover the cost, I’m happy to.”

  “I’m sure it’s fine.” He lowered his head and began flipping through the book.

  “Good. I’ll check in with you later.” Aunt Florence glanced at me, then stood up. “I’m looking forward to a home-cooked meal after a few days’ traveling.”

  “I hope you don’t think you’re getting that at Mom’s house.”

  “Dear girl, of course I meant here. Now tell me—do we need to go out, or do you have enough for a spontaneous guest?”

  “We have enough.” Emerson’s fingers played along the binding of the book he still held as
if he couldn’t bring himself to put it down. “Zane, you staying?”

  “Uh, sure. If it doesn’t mess up your meal plan?”

  “We’re making lasagna either way, but I could use some help with prep.”

  Florence clapped. “Excellent. That gives us time to go for a walk around the block. Mildred, get your coat. And a blanket for James.”

  “A walk around the block?” Dred echoed.

  “James should know his neighbors.”

  “Auntie, things have changed since the last time you lived here.”

  “You no longer have neighbors?”

  “No, but—”

  “It’s the perfect time of day for a walk, Mildred. Come on. Are the Hernandezes still next door?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “Good. I’d love to call in on them. Then while we walk, you can tell me more about this Brian person Obadiah has no positive things to say about.”

  Dred’s shoulders slumped. “Ugh. Don’t ask. James was supposed to go over there this weekend, but Bri had something come up at the last minute. As usual.”

  “That is not acceptable. A child needs reliable adults in his life.” She patted Emerson’s back as she passed him on the way up the stairs to the kitchen. “This Brian boy can decide to grow up or he can come back in a few years.”