Tea Cups & Tiger Claws

by Timothy Patrick

  “My dearest Veronica, I know we hate each other, but I want to marry you…and…have babies…and…what was the other thing Dorthea? Oh yeah, take you to lunch. I’ll await your answer on pins and needles, but don’t hurry.”

  He stood up.

  “There. It’s done. The vermin is safe for another day, isn’t he, Mother?”

  “Do not call me that!” thundered Dorthea.

  “Yes, Dorthea.”

  She moved in a step to face off with him over the coffee table. With a concrete face and a bobbing head, she said, “You leave this instant or I’ll have you removed.”

  “Yes Dorthea,” said Ernest. And then he left with drooping shoulders and none of the fanfare that had just ushered him into the room. He’d gone back to just being Ernest the weirdo.

  Dorthea took a deep breath. Veronica looked down at the coffee table and tried to make herself small. She didn’t mind freaky, but this place had turned freaky to-the-max.

  “You need to go, too, Veronica,” said Dorthea. “I have things to do.”

  Veronica stood up and grabbed her bag off the table behind the sofa.

  “You can put that down. I don’t have anything for you today.”

  “Yes you do. It’s right here.”

  “That’s not for you.”

  “No, no, no. You can’t do that, lady. I won’t make it without it!”

  “Make it? You don’t have a clue about making anything. Now put down the bag and leave.”

  Veronica did just the opposite. She clutched the bag and made a run for it, through the foyer, out the double doors, and to the end of the hallway, where she frantically slid her free hand up and down the wall in search of the elevator button. Why couldn’t it be a normal elevator? Just this once. She’d take her chances with Dorthea and all the rest of the freak show. Just no more loony-tune elevators.

  Then it opened and she stood face to face with Horrick. And he wasn’t looking at his shoes. She stared at the ugly red scar that made his face look like two pieces of meat that had been picked up off the floor and sewn back together.

  “If you get into the elevator with that bag, you and I are going to have business together,” he said.

  Veronica looked to the left. The double doors had been closed. The guards stared straight ahead, wooden, unmoved by her sad situation. She looked back at Horrick’s stern, butchered face and dropped the bag to the floor.

  ~~~

  Veronica made it back to Sunny Slope Manor, slouched against the wall of the elevator, and slapped at the button on the control panel. Nothing happened. She cussed and slapped it again. This time the door closed and she started going up from the basement level, where she’d just parked her car in the garage.

  She didn’t like the manor all that much. It was old and out of style. In eighth grade she’d invited some friends over to watch the movie Psycho. At a point in the movie where they showed the spooky home behind the motel, Eileen Londale said, “Oh look, it’s Sunny Slope Manor.” Everybody laughed. Veronica made Eileen pay for her wisecrack but the barb had stuck. All her friends lived in modern houses with big windows and sunken living rooms while she lived in one that looked like it had a dragon under the stairway. Old people liked to gush over the place but it didn’t do anything for her.

  When the elevator door opened at the first floor, Veronica found a startled servant girl standing by a pull cart piled with coffee cups.

  “I’m sorry, Miss Veronica, I didn’t know you were here.”

  “It’s my home. Where am I supposed to be?”

  “Yes, Miss Veronica—”

  “Unless you’re like my cousin and think it belongs to you…then all I can say is welcome to the club. Now buzz off and use the service elevator.”

  “The service elevator is being repaired and Mr. Perkins wants me to soak these cups.”

  Veronica pushed past the servant and her cart, and started on the long walk to the sitting room where her mother kept the booze. She turned to the right outside the elevator, walked through a narrow corridor, and emerged into the big, wood paneled main hallway, which ran from the front doors to the wide circular stairway where she now stood. This main stairway led up to the ballroom balcony on the second floor, to the bedrooms on the third floor, and to the servants’ quarters on the fourth. Shuffling down the hallway, toward the front doors, she passed two sets of sliding doorways. The door on the right led to the dining room, the one on the left to the ballroom, but only servants used this entrance, mostly when they carried platters and trays back and forth from the ballroom to the dumbwaiter in the dining room; guests always entered and exited the ballroom by way of the grand stairway and the second floor balcony. She next passed a narrower hallway on the right which led to the billiard room, movie theatre, three guest bedrooms, and further down, the tower, where the library occupied the first three floors. She passed parlor number two on the right, which she’d taken for herself and turned into a psychedelic hi fi room where she and her friends got stoned and listened to the Beach Boys, Beatles, Stones, and Doors. Next came parlor number one, also on the right, and then, finally, the sitting room on the left, near the front entryway.

  As a little girl Veronica had known the sitting room quite well because that’s where she often tracked down her hard to find mother. Always flitting from room to room with her cocktails and flowing gowns and long cigarette holders, Mother had belonged to all of Sunny Slope Manor—the lavish human ornament perfectly complemented the old ornamented Victorian—but the sitting room had been her private hideaway. The room itself looked crowded and busy, just as her mother’s life had always been too crowded and too busy.

  Veronica peeked through the partially opened sliding door and saw old Rufus, her mother’s Yorkshire terrier, who lifted his head, looked expectantly at her for a second, and then lowered it back down to rest on his paws. She hadn’t been prepared for that. Her mother was dead. Nothing proved it more than seeing Rufus all alone.

  She went in, picked him up off of her mother’s chair, and sat with him on her lap on the adjoining sofa.

  Besides an upright piano, a big roll top desk, and the sofas and chairs, a large assortment of dressers, tables, and cabinets filled almost every square inch of the room. And on all these flat surfaces resided the current collection of Newfield nick-knacks, comprised mostly of heirlooms, personal gifts from dignitaries, small works of art, framed photos, and vacation keepsakes. Back in Great-Grandpa Archibald’s day there had even been a shrunken head, which he’d picked up on one of his Amazon safaris. According to rumor, when Mother married Father she refused to move in until the shrink head had vacated the premises.

  On the table by the arched window with the fluffy, flowing, tied-back curtains, Veronica saw a framed photograph she’d never noticed before. It was of her and her mother in New York City, and she remembered it clearly. It had only been a few years ago, and had started in this very room when Veronica complained that the shops around Prospect Park carried bell bottoms only in men’s sizes. Her mom calculated for a few seconds before breaking into a big smile. “We’ll go to New York!” she’d said. “They’ll have all the girls’ bell bottoms you could ever want. We’ll make a trip out of it.”

  Veronica hadn’t been fooled for a second. Mother didn’t care about bell bottom jeans. She wanted to get her daughter out of hot pants and miniskirts, which she called cheap and common. It didn’t matter. Veronica wanted new clothes so she went. And they had a good time.

  She gently ran her hand over Rufus’ head and said, “Mommy’s dead, Rufee. Mommy’s dead. How are we ever going to make it?”

  The tears began to flow. She surveyed the crystal decanters on the cabinet next to the upright piano. Veronica didn’t know shit about booze but planned to learn before the pain of going without coke got too bad. She’d crashed a couple of times before, once for a whole day, and it didn’t happen on the outside, like in the movies, with shaking and throwing up and crawling on the floor. It happened on the inside, insi
de her head. Cocaine bugs didn’t crawl on her skin. They crawled on her brain. They scratched and dug and demanded more coke. And when they didn’t get it, they made her want to die. She didn’t have the strength to go through that again, not now. She needed something to help her get by until the business with Dorthea got straightened out. Since her mother had been sloshed on vodka for the last few years of her life, she decided to give that a try.

  She set Rufus aside, weaved her way across the room, and pulled a bottle from the cabinet on which the decanters rested. It had a red, white, and gold label, with a Russian name on the top, and said Russian Vodka at the bottom. She poured some into a tumbler and took a drink. She’d tried rum before, at a friend’s house, and compared to that the vodka didn’t seem too bad—except for the fact that it made her want to gag.

  When she heard the sound of footsteps in the hallway, and then a knock at the door, Veronica rubbed the tears from her eyes. Sarah poked her head through the doorway and said, “Hello, Veronica.”

  She came in, uninvited, wearing pilgrim clothes and the cutie-pie smile. When she saw the vodka bottle, the smile disappeared. Predictable.

  Veronica took the drinking supplies and sat back down on the sofa. Rufus jumped back onto her lap.

  “Do you really think that’s a good idea?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Veronica, as she set the bottle on the coffee table. “The way things look right now, it’s the most decent idea I’ve ever had.” She took a drink.

  “Veronica, do you know anything about this?” asked Sarah, as she held up a gray card of some sort.

  “No.”

  “It has your name on it, along with Dorthea Railer’s.”

  “Don’t know anything about it.”

  “You don’t know anything about a winter ball at Sunny Slope that half the town’s been invited to?”

  “I didn’t say that. I said I didn’t know about that thing in your hand.”

  “Ok…. So when did you plan to tell me about it?”

  “How about never, Sarah? Or how about when you give back what you stole from me? And I hope you noticed that an invitation hasn’t been sent to you.”

  “Veronica, I only brought it up because throwing a ball so soon after your mother’s passing might not be the best idea.”

  Veronica stared for a few seconds, and then said, “Are you done?”

  “No. That’s not even what I wanted to talk about. What I really wanted to say is that I’m sorry about what happened this morning with the attorneys and I wish things could be different. But they’re not and there’s a reason for it. Your mother saw some things that worried her and this is her way of helping—”

  “Save it, Sarah. You planned it this way and you know it.”

  “I didn’t, Veronica. I promise. This is the last thing I need but, just like you, I don’t have a choice.”

  “You have a choice. Just refuse to do it. The lawyer told you that this morning.”

  “I won’t do that to your mother.”

  “You won’t do it because you don’t want to.”

  “Has there ever been a time in your life when I haven’t wanted only the very best for you, Veronica? Can you name a single time?”

  “Has there ever been a time when you haven’t been in my home taking things that don’t belong to you? That’s the question, Sarah. And we both know the answer, don’t we?”

  Sarah clammed up for a few seconds before saying, “I’m sorry you feel that way, Veronica, and I hope that after a while you’ll see things differently. In the meantime we’re going to honor your mother’s wishes. Tomorrow your charge accounts in town are going to be closed. You’ll receive money for necessities, which we can discuss, but your monthly allowance will also be cancelled. If you enroll in college or get a job, you’ll get part of your allowance back.”

  “A job? What, like working at Dairy Queen?” asked Veronica, laughing.

  “Any job, Veronica.”

  “Perfect. While I’m serving milkshakes for a dollar fifty an hour you get to be the Grand Dame at Sunny Slope Manor, just like you’ve always wanted. How come I get the feeling that somehow I’ll end up living in your little shack by the library? Then the switch will be complete, won’t it, Sarah?”

  “Then go to college. Nobody’s telling you what to do.”

  “You know I haven’t applied to any. What college am I supposed to go to?”

  “There’s always Crafton.”

  “Junior college? You really are mixed up, aren’t you? Your side of the family goes to JC, Sarah, and works at Dairy Queen, and shovels horse shit.”

  “That’s fine, Veronica. You do what you think is best,” Sarah said, as she turned to go.

  “Why’d you have to do it, Sarah? Why couldn’t you just be thankful for what you’ve got?”

  Sarah froze. Then she spun around, charged back, and sat on the sofa, her face just inches from Veronica’s. “I am thankful, Veronica!” she said. “And it’s the worst kind of thankfulness there is! To people who can’t be thanked because they’re dead! To people who deserved to be thanked but mostly got the back of my head. To people who thought I cared but never got to really know it for sure!”

  Sarah took a deep breath and leaned back. Veronica remained still.

  “I’m thankful,” said Sarah, as she got up from the sofa. “Just a few years late, that’s all—and it has nothing to do with your money.”

  When she got to the door, she turned around.

  “And what about you, Veronica? What are you thankful for?”

  Veronica opened her mouth to say something and then looked away.

  “It’s not that hard. Just tell me what you’re thankful for.”

  Veronica ignored her.

  “Then I’ll help you,” said Sarah. “Your mother loved you. Start with that.”

  Veronica twisted her face like she’d just heard something ridiculous. “That’s far-out, Sarah, but I don’t take advice from back-stabbing phonies,” she said, but her cousin had already left.

  ~~~

  Sarah went to bed early that night, as if hitting the pillow earlier than usual might take away some of the rottenness from a rotten day. It didn’t work. She didn’t close her eyes, and she didn’t sleep. Instead she thought about how her aunt had taken advantage of her. For the better part of the last twenty years Aunt Judith had done her upmost to shelter Veronica from all forms of exertion and discomfort. Restraint and discipline had been banished from her home. Moderation had been ridiculed. And now she’d decided that these things didn’t seem so bad after all. Now that she didn’t have to worry about the fallout, the school of hard knocks didn’t look so extreme. Now that she had Sarah to do the dirty work, responsible parenting seemed like the only way to go.

  Sarah felt ashamed at this bitterness but that didn’t make it go away. If anything, it flowed uncontained, into new territory, where maybe it didn’t belong. Like her upcoming marriage to Grant Wynnethorpe. Aunt Judith had been the champion of that marriage. She’d made it look big and important and had helped Sarah to believe in it. But now that she found herself alone, Sarah wondered just how much she still believed. And sometimes she wondered if she’d ever believed at all. And if she hadn’t, if she’d allowed herself to be swept into an act of foolishness, what right did she have to blame her aunt? She didn’t and she knew it…except for the fact that Aunt Judith knew how to get her way by twisting Sarah’s arm in a way that made it look like no arm twisting had happened at all. And that was wrong.

  So Sarah lay on her bed in Sunny Slope Manor and benefitted neither from the suspension of grief that comes through sleep, nor from the glimmer of hope that sometimes breaks forth from the rehashing of a problem. A knock on her bedroom door finally dislodged her from this limbo. She slipped into a robe, crossed into the adjacent sitting room, and opened the door. She found Mr. Perkins holding a large object wrapped in brown paper. About two feet squared, it had the shape of a framed picture or painting.

  “Hello, M
r. Perkins. Do you have a present for me?”

  “No, Miss Sarah, I don’t. Unfortunately that honor belongs to someone else this time.” He handed her the object and said, “It was left for you on the front porch.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Perkins.”

  She closed the door and examined the package. On the wrapping, in bold black writing, it said “For Sarah.” It didn’t show the name of the sender or have any other writing. After getting comfortable on the sitting room sofa, she opened the package, and immediately recognized an embroidered Bible verse that said, “Trials produce endurance; endurance, character; and character, hope. Romans 5:3-5” She removed a small card that had been wedged between the artwork and the frame. It said, “See, I know some ‘Shakespeare’ too. Love, Mack.”

  She had to laugh. He’d put the word Shakespeare in quotations, which meant that if he hadn’t fully discovered her Bible thumping heritage, he’d at least discovered that she didn’t mind telling white lies when the occasion called for it.

  When her head hit the pillow again, she didn’t think about the problems and the sadness. Instead, she went to sleep thinking about Mack.

  Chapter 23

  The vodka had started to wear off, and Veronica felt the bugs in her brain going back to work. She wanted to scream wildly and pull out Dorthea’s hair. Instead, she sat on the red and gold sofa in the living room with the giant window and pretended to listen as Dorthea talked. The words didn’t matter. Veronica had no use for them. Nothing mattered except the little purple bag.

  “Now my dear, I want you to look at me. Veronica, stop fidgeting and look at me.”

  Dorthea moved from the chair to the sofa and held Veronica’s hands.

  “You’ve always been able to trust me with your problems, haven’t you?”

  Veronica nodded.

  “Yes, that’s right. And isn’t it also true that I’ve solved every problem you’ve ever brought to me?”

  “Yes.”

  “Now you have a new one and it’s the most serious of all. I’m talking about your Cousin Sarah.”