Thicker than Water

by Rett MacPherson

  “She’s fine. In fact, since the cute trumpet player caught her, I think she’s considering passing out tomorrow, too.”

  “Oh, great.”

  Rudy continued. “Mary filled Tobias’s garden with coffee grounds because she thought it would help his flowers grow—” Rudy looked down at the roses in my hand.

  “I guess he’s unaware of it so far,” I said.

  “She meant well.”

  “Where’d she get all the coffee?”

  “Well, she took ours and then asked for donations all over town. Turned out she got like fifteen pounds of coffee total.”

  “Great,” I said. I was seriously worried about a town of people who would give coffee to a third grader just because she asked for it.

  “But, really, that was nothing,” he said and shrugged his shoulders.

  I stared at him. “Are you feeling all right?”

  “I’m fine,” he said.

  “You forgot one.”

  “Huh?”

  “Our son?”

  “Oh, Matthew … well, it was nothing overly gross.”

  Rudy didn’t volunteer any more than that, and frankly I was too tired to care, so I let it go. I put my things down on the kitchen table and rubbed my face with my hands. I was so exhausted. “I’m going to take a shower and go to bed.”

  “Go to bed? Honey, it’s … seven-thirty.”

  “So?”

  “So you’re the woman who burns the candle at both ends.”

  “Well, my candle just met in the middle and burned me. I’m tired,” I said.

  Rudy fidgeted with the edge on his pockets. Something was up. I said, “Okay, I don’t have time for a bunch of crap, so just tell me what you did so I can berate you and go to bed.”

  “I didn’t do anything,” he said, gesturing to himself with both hands.

  The hair prickled on the back of my neck. “All right, what’s going on?”

  “Well…” he said, “my mother is coming to town.”

  “Oh,” I said. That wasn’t so bad. Dinner with her once, maybe a trip to the park for a picnic, and she’d be back to sunny California. As long as there were plenty of other people around at these gatherings, I could live with that. “Great. I’m going to bed now.”

  “She hasn’t been in town in three years and that’s all you can say?”

  “That’s wonderful, Rudy. What do you want me to say?”

  “The woman lives over a thousand miles away.”

  “What? You want me to give her a parade? She chose to move to southern California. Why is this such a big deal? I’m happy for you. We’ll have a nice visit, you’ll actually get to see your sister, who only lives thirty miles away, and all will be well. I’m going to bed.”

  “She’s staying here.”

  I turned deliberately, ever so slowly, so as not to give myself whiplash. “I’m sorry, but I thought you just said something incredibly stupid.”

  “She’s staying with us.”

  “Oh, no, she’s not. She’s staying with Amy. Like she always does.”

  “There is no always,” he said. “She’s only been here three times in nine years.”

  I wasn’t sure what his point was, but I kept my silence, afraid that I might actually bark at him if I tried to speak.

  “My sister is out of town.”

  “Oh, good God!” I yelled. Couldn’t help it.

  “Torie—”

  “There are such things as hotels, you know.”

  “She’s my mother,” he said.

  “She’s Cruella De Vil!”

  “Torie!” he snapped.

  “I cannot believe you would do this. All the things I’ve got going on right now … I do not—not—need this.”

  “She’ll be good, I promise,” he said.

  “You know, Rudy, if you have to promise your mother will be good, she will not be good! What does that say? You have to vouch for the behavior of your mother!”

  “She’s still my mother,” he said. “She has the right to stay here.”

  “You didn’t ask me!” I yelled.

  “You would have said no,” he said. The veins in his neck began to protrude, like big nightcrawlers beneath his skin.

  “You’re damn right I would have said no! What is the matter with you?” I screeched.

  By this time the children had gathered in the hall, because although Rudy and I disagreed quite often, we rarely screamed at one another.

  “What’s the matter?” Mary asked.

  “Grandma O is coming,” Rachel said.

  “Oh,” Mary said, as if that explained it all. “She hates Mother.”

  Rachel picked Matthew up, and all three headed back down the hallway to their rooms.

  Their interruption gave me a few seconds to calm down, although just barely. “Look,” I said through clenched teeth, “there’s only one person in this world who hates me more than your mother, and that’s the mayor. But only on good days. And I would never invite him to stay in my home.”

  “My mother does not hate you.”

  “Your mother hates me. Do you remember the first time I met her? Do you? She called me mountain folk. Remember that? Mountain folk. Or do you have that same disease she does and you conveniently forget when she’s been an ass?”

  “You’re my wife,” he said and tried to hug me.

  “Which is why she hates me,” I said, shaking his arm off. “Look, Rudy, I can’t deal with this right now. I’ll go stay with my mother.”

  “You can’t go stay with your mother. How would that look?”

  “Who cares what it looks like? It didn’t bother your mother what it looked like when she told all our wedding guests that our marriage wouldn’t last. All of them, Rudy. Even my family.”

  “She’s apologized for that.”

  “Oh, she’s a regular Gandhi.”

  “It would look really bad, Torie, if you went to stay with your mother, and you know it.”

  “Well, it would look even worse if I stayed here and killed her. Just think what that would do to our positions in this town. Me in jail, wearing stripes and … and tracing all the family trees of the inmates for favors. You an outcast from your bowling team. Really, I think I should go stay with my mother.”

  “You know, I let your mother live with us,” he said. “The least you can do is play hostess to mine for a few weeks.”

  “My mother likes you. My mother doesn’t tell you what a terrible person you are because you have lint balls on your socks. My mother doesn’t ask you how much money you make every time she sees you. My mother … wait, did you say a few weeks?”

  He shrugged. “Maybe a month.”

  I was going to have a stroke. Which was actually good. Because then I’d be dead and I wouldn’t have to worry about killing my mother-in-law.

  “You—” I said, pointing my finger at him. I stopped short of calling him any of the names I had on the tip of my tongue. He was my husband, after all, so I had to be careful just what names I did call him. Anything dealing with genetics would be bad, because we had children together. Still, I had to say something. “Slimebucket!”

  “Torie! She’s my mother, she’s coming to stay, and that’s all there is to it.”

  “Hmmm,” I said. “How did this happen, Rudy? Somewhere in that conversation with your mother it never occurred to you that this would be a bad idea? Or could you just not tell her no?”

  That was it. I nailed it. He knew it was a bad idea. He knew his mother couldn’t behave. He knew I’d be upset. But he just couldn’t tell her no. His eyes told me the whole story. It was funny, though, the fact that he considered himself guilt free in all of this. His mother insisted she come and stay with us, so how could that be his fault? Right?

  I was so angry, I couldn’t speak, couldn’t cry, couldn’t do anything but clench my teeth and fists and stomp up the stairs. Throwing myself on the bed, I breathed deeply for a few moments, feeling the poison in my body ebb—the poison that my body see
ms to make when I argue with my husband. I was going to go to sleep and never wake up. I was just going to hit that snooze button of life until I was eighty and there was no sign of my mother-in-law and the coast was clear. Then I’d get up.

  Well, there was one good thing about the fight with Rudy and the disastrous news of my mother-in-law’s impending visit. I had forgotten about that blasted postcard.

  THE NEW KASSEL GAZETTE

  The News You Might Miss

  by Eleanore Murdoch

  It’s Strawberry Time! This is the time of year when people come from miles around to trample our lawns, defile our bathrooms, and write graffiti on the bridge. But that’s all right. We make more than enough money to clean it all up and have some left over. And we won’t see this much traffic again until the Pickin’ and Grinnin’ Festival. So everybody be nice to those tourists!

  The New Kassel school marching band is holding a car wash next Sunday to raise money for their new band uniforms. I’ve seen the cars in this town. Some of you haven’t washed your cars in a month. Or since last fall. So put your money to good use, and you won’t be so ashamed when you drive around town!

  Also, there’s a meeting at the historical society this Wednesday. We’ll be voting on officers. I feel a change blowing in the wind.

  Until next time,

  Eleanore

  Three

  I knew I was dreaming, but I couldn’t wake myself up. Sylvia was standing in the kitchen of the Gaheimer House steeping her tea, as I had seen her do a thousand and one times. Her silvery-white hair hung down loose to the backs of her knees. In life, she had always worn her hair in two braids wrapped around her head. In her casket, however, in death, her hair had been down long, brushed until it shined and lying elegantly over one shoulder.

  I know, because I had been the one to style it.

  She would probably hate me for that. Somewhere up in heaven or wherever it was that she now resided, she was ticked off because I sent her into the afterworld with her hair down. It wouldn’t be the first time she was angry with me. But it would definitely be the last.

  In my dream she turned around and smiled at me. A smile. I was definitely dreaming. She took my hand in hers. “There’s much to be done,” she said. Her hand was warm to the touch; her smile denoted a certain understanding. I stood riveted, unable to move away from her.

  Somewhere in the distance I heard my name being called. I glanced over my shoulder to find all of my family standing behind me, except my mother, who was sitting in her wheelchair. And the more I looked, the more people I saw. Half the town was there, crammed into the hall with the soda machine. “Torie, come on,” my mother said. They all nodded their heads and beckoned to me. Yes, come with us.

  “There is much to be done,” Sylvia repeated. When I turned back to look at her, the teacup fell to the floor and splashed tea all over my legs. Sylvia’s grip on my hand tightened.

  “Torie, as your mother, I’m telling you to come with us!” My mother’s voice rang out like a warning bell, but I couldn’t move. I couldn’t take my eyes off of Sylvia’s ancient and cracked face.

  “So much left undone,” Sylvia said.

  “Why me?” I asked. “Why did you leave everything to me? Why?”

  “Torie, let’s go!” I heard my mother’s voice, demanding and parental.

  Suddenly Sylvia’s grip grew too tight. Those warm fingers turned to ice. Soft and smooth skin turned rough and purple. My fingers ached. My bones were being crushed.

  Then I heard a voice behind me. An irritatingly nasal, singsongy voice. The type of voice that had the perpetual effect of nails on a chalkboard. “Oh, for crying out loud, Torie. Quit being such a ninny and get over here where your family needs you.”

  It was the voice of my mother-in-law.

  Sylvia’s face looked confused for a moment. Clearly she had not expected to have her thunder stolen from her. I turned around to see Mrs. O’Shea, a thin, wiry little woman, with nearly white hair and vacant gray eyes. The devil’s spawn. The woman responsible for all my ulcers and nearly every panic attack I’ve ever had. She shoved her way forward through the crowd of people. Both hands were on her hips, and her body language spoke volumes of irritation.

  “I knew he shouldn’t have married you. I raised him to be a good Catholic boy. He was going to be a lawyer. He was going to go to Harvard. And then you came along and ruined everything. Now get your butt over here. He needs you now. You will not abandon your family. Come on, what are you waiting for? Huh? Eat too much fudge for Christmas? Middle age making you lazy? Good God, girl, when was the last time you dyed your hair?”

  “All right!” I said. “I’m coming. Just shut up! Please.”

  “Torie, Torie. Wake up.”

  “Just shut up! Please.”

  “Torie, it’s me, Rudy. Wake up.”

  I was awake. Somehow I had managed to bring myself out of my nightmare only to plop myself smack dab in the middle of reality. I wasn’t sure which was worse. I stared up at Rudy’s brown eyes and for a brief moment was happy to see him. Then I remembered that he’d told his mother she could stay in our house for a month. “Get away from me,” I said.

  “You were having a dream,” he said.

  “A nightmare,” I said. “Your mother was the star.”

  “Still angry, huh?”

  I pushed the blankets off of me, a little surprised to see that it was daylight. I had slept in my clothes. Hadn’t even brushed my teeth the night before. I had fallen asleep exactly as I had dropped onto the bed after my argument with Rudy. “Still angry? Rudy, you’ll be lucky if I’m ever nice to you again.”

  “It’s not that bad,” he began.

  I held up my hand. “I don’t want to talk about this. Not now, not later, not ever. Don’t speak to me.”

  To give him credit, Rudy really did look as though I’d struck him. Which was exactly what I had wanted. If I had to be miserable because his mother was here, then he’d have to be miserable, too. It was his fault, after all.

  I locked myself in the bathroom and took a shower. When I was finished and dressed, Rudy was gone. The kids were downstairs watching cartoons, waiting for breakfast, which I made for them. After an hour of overseeing everybody getting dressed, groomed, and out the door, I dropped Rachel off at band camp and went to the Gaheimer House with Mary and Matthew.

  I still couldn’t quite shake the cloud of the dream, though. I half expected to find dried tea on the floor of the kitchen. Of course, there wasn’t any. I gave the kids some paper to shred—yes, that really does keep them busy—and got myself a Dr Pepper. I took a big, cold drink and was happy that there was still something in life that was exactly as it should be. If all else went crazy, at least there was some solace in the fact that Dr Pepper would never change.

  Now, if some corporate schmuck decides to change Dr Pepper, well, I won’t be responsible for my actions.

  An hour later I had decided that if Sylvia appeared in my office alive and well, I’d kill her. The woman had kept every receipt since 1920. She’d kept every warranty, every manual to every appliance. It was as if it were a matter of national security that she know how to properly work a toaster that was made in 1958, even though she’d had two upgrades since then—and kept their manuals as well. I had three huge boxes of receipts and stuff to shred and then toss, and I hadn’t even made a dent in the majority of the paperwork in this house.

  “Oh, Matthew, honey. Don’t eat the paper,” I said.

  My two-year-old looked up at me with a surprised expression, as if he didn’t understand what I was saying. “I know it’s tough when you find out you shouldn’t eat things that obviously taste good,” I said. He gave me a toothy grin and shrieked.

  “Mom,” Mary asked, “why did Sylvia die?”

  “Because she was old,” I said.

  “Are you old?”

  “Not that old,” I said. “Older than you.”

  “Oh, that’s a relief,” she sighed.

 
; Obviously she had been worried about me kicking the bucket.

  “Mom?”

  “Yes?”

  “Why does Grandma O hate you?”

  I shrugged. “She’s a very … Oh, I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “I think it’s funny when she rolls her eyes at you,” she said.

  “Really,” I said. “Well, I’m glad you can find something to be happy about.”

  “She smells good,” Mary said.

  “Yes, she does,” I said. There. I said something nice about her.

  “Mom?”

  “What?”

  “Can I have a cat?”

  “No.”

  There was a knock at the door, interrupting our usual routine of questions and answers. The Gaheimer House had been closed for tours until further notice. There was a sign on the front window that said so. Most of the townspeople would come to the back door, so I was confused as I headed through the hall and the elaborately decorated front sitting room in which the marble floors were dusty. Sylvia would kill me if she knew that. Maybe that was what she was trying to tell me in the dream. I needed to mop and shine the floors.

  I opened the door to find Deputy Edwin Duran standing there looking at me with his piercing blue eyes. In high school he had been the quarterback for Meyersville, another small town about five miles south of New Kassel. “Hey, how are you?” I asked.

  “Pretty good,” he said. I opened the door wider for him to enter and he did, removing his hat as he crossed the threshold. “Sorry it’s taken me so long.”

  I was confused. I didn’t remember asking him for any favors recently. “What are you talking about?”

  It was his turn to look equally confused. “Oh, well, I assumed Sylvia had told you.”

  “How can she tell me anything? She’s dead.”

  “I mean, before she died. Or in her will or instructions or something.” His expression owed as much to surprise as it did embarrassment.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said.

  “The house,” he said and leaned in as if somebody might overhear. “My house.”

  “What about it?”

  “Sylvia owned the title,” he said. “I told her, oh, the night before she died that I would bring the rent check by, and it just slipped my mind. Here.”