THE TRAP

by Tabitha King

  Liv, looking tired and strained, met her in the hallway between the living room and the kitchen. There was a new touch of gray in her hair that had not been there last June, making Liv look older than her years. Somehow Marguerite would have to manage a gentle hint that it was time for a little discreet coloring. It was bad enough Jane was as gray as a rat and insisted on staying that way.

  “Mom,” she said, and kissed Marguerite on the cheek.

  Marguerite kissed her back, and gave her the pie. “Doe made it,” she said.

  “Thanks.” Liv resolutely stopped herself asking where he was. Her mother would only take it as another proof that Doe was more beloved. She thought she knew, anyway. No doubt he had headed directly for the garden to see how her roses were faring.

  “Doe’s in the garden,” her mother confirmed. “I think Travis followed him.”

  “Oh. Well, would you like a glass of wine?”

  “God, yes.”

  She looked around the kitchen while Liv poured her a glass of Chablis, and asked where Sarah was.

  Clearly she wasn’t here, where she belonged, greeting her grandmother. It was obvious that if Liv had answered “in jail,” or “a Sarah Crittendon Home for Unwed Mothers,” or “a drug rehabilitation center,” Marguerite would merely grunt with satisfied expectation.

  “Upstairs,” Liv answered.

  Marguerite took the glass and sipped it. “Mmmm, that tastes good,” she said. “In a snit?”

  Liv poured herself a glass. “She usually is, isn’t she?”

  “It’s her age,” Marguerite offered. It was as much consolation as she thought Liv had coming.

  Liv sat down on a stool. “I know. How did the summer go?”

  “Fine.” Marguerite looked Liv up and down. “You’ve lost some weight,” she said.

  “Yes.”

  “You needed to.”

  “Yes. I can’t take any credit for it, though. It was the trouble I had with my teeth.”

  Marguerite nodded. “All taken care of now?”

  “Yes.”

  “How’s Pat?” Marguerite’s voice was neutral.

  “I talked to him this morning. He seems fine. They expect to wrap by Halloween.”

  Marguerite sipped her wane. “You ought to have gone with him.”

  Liv shrugged. “I’ve a business to run. And I wanted my summer on the lake. It’s my time for original work.”

  “Well, it’s none of my business, I’m sure,” said Marguerite, who was good at having her say while disclaiming any right to it.

  Liv looked out the window over the sink into the garden. Her father and Travis were examining the rosebushes together. Papa Bear and Baby Bear. They were physically dense people, with enormous strength that they carried diffidently, as if they feared accidentally damaging other people.

  Doe had a way with green things, notably with roses. A pharmacist by trade who had made a modest fortune with a chain of drugstores called Medicine Man, he had retired to pursue his hobby. The trip to Canada had been a tour of Canadian rose gardens.

  The first of the chain had been an old-fashioned drugstore and ice cream parlor, Pinkham’s, then. When he acquired it from Wilfred Pinkham, Jr. after World War Two, he had been an energetic young fellow with a driving, ambitious, and fertile wife. The business had grown with their family. He couldn’t have kept her at home if he had wanted. People got used to Marguerite’s perennially big belly, and the baby on her hip, or in a crib in the office, the knee-babies clinging to her skirt. After her mother, Nana Martin, retired from nursing, she came to live with them, freeing Marguerite from most of the housework and childcare. Doe never doubted it was Marguerite who made them wealthy.

  It amused him still to hear the name of his store, his own whimsical revenge on an officious physician, ticked off at Doe for some imagined encroachment on his prerogatives, who began to refer to Doe nastily as the Medicine Man. He was only half-Penobscot, born off reservation and thoroughly detribalized. But the face in the mirror was unadulterated cigarstore Indian, the spit of his distant cousin Louie Sockalexis, who for a brief shining time at the end of the last century wowed the country as a big league baseball player, the second greatest American Indian athlete, after Jim Thorpe. Louie had not been the first nonwhite big league baseball player, for once upon a time big league baseball had not been segregated, and then it was, until Jackie Robinson, but he had given pride to his people and had not been forgotten.

  Doe liked to go into the main store occasionally to help out still, and it pleased him that people asked after him. His customers trusted Doe more than they did their own doctors. Indeed, he had saved lives on occasion by asking the right question: Did Dr. So-and-So know when he wrote this prescription, Mrs. Gout, that you were still taking X for your arthritis? Did you tell Dr. Blatty-blah, Mr. Coffinchoke, about that bout of pneumonia you had five years ago? And your mother was a diabetic, wasn’t she, Miss Drymouth? Have you told the doctor? Are you sleeping, Mr. Bags? Have you told the doctor?

  Has the doctor asked you, he often meant. Has the doctor told you?

  It was not to be expected that Marguerite, who collected the bills, would be as popular with the customers as Doe, who often jollied her into letting someone’s overdue account go on being overdue. Knowing how she would have gloried in such a popularity, how she envied it, he felt for her, and tried to make up for her disappointment. Now they had younger managers running the shops, and were both officially retired, but nothing much had really changed. When there was nothing to do in the greenhouse, Doe wandered into the old store that had been Pinkham’s to make up prescriptions, and Marguerite still saw to it, as chairwoman of the board, that accounts were collected, the business run as tightly as ever, the name and goodwill not devalued by cheapjack practices.

  All very satisfying, or it ought to be. Marguerite had achieved a comfortable, even elegant old age. It was not surprising she looked after herself with the same will she had brought to the acquiring of a fortune. She exerted her will even over Doe. It had taken Liv a very long time indeed to overcome the disgust she felt for a grown man who wore whatever his wife laid out in the morning. Now she understood it was something that was not important to Doe. And it made her mother happy as much as anything did, so he did it. In the end, Liv finally understood, he permitted exactly as much domination as suited him, so it wasn’t really domination at all. Marguerite had gotten herself a husband who did what she said to do about all the things she thought were important; the dissatisfaction that had settled into closed-purse lines around her mouth stemmed in part from the suspicion he didn’t give a shit about any of the details over which she hemorrhaged. Liv could see in her father’s face that it saddened him not to be able to make her mother happy, but Marguerite could not change her nature, even to save herself unnecessary grief.

  When she had married the big, quiet man with his totemic face, Marguerite must have thought she was marrying someone like herself, someone who understood the damage that uncontrolled emotion could do. What a shock it must have been to realize Doe was an enormous reservoir of emotion, like a trench in the deep sea, whose surface nothing seemed to disturb, yet who was, in fact, all roiling depth. The roses, the love he drew from people, were only the visible signs of his grace.

  So deep were the roots of what he felt, that he seemed not to need to share those powerful feelings with other people. Or perhaps he sensed that like his physical bulk and strength, his emotional muscle might overwhelm other people—Marguerite for one, who had locked up her own heart to keep it safe and felt it weaken and atrophy until it was as fragile as she had always been afraid it was. Take what you want, and pay for it, Liv often thought, when she thought of her parents.

  She looked over her shoulder to catch her mother, staring at her with her red-lipsticked mouth (why did old women wear such red lipstick?) uncharacteristically softened, and eyes full of worry. Marguerite blushed. Her rouge showed hectic against the natural pinking of her pale skin.

 
Liv felt suddenly unsteady, and must have looked it.

  “Oushh,” Marguerite said in alarm, and hurried to put her arms around her daughter.

  “Oh, God,” muttered Liv, blinking back tears. She wasn’t about to cry in front of her mother.

  Marguerite patted her back awkwardly. The two women looked at each other anxiously. Unable to think what to do or say next, Marguerite fell back on tried and true methods.

  “Why don’t you have a nice hot soak?” she murmured. “You’ll feel ever so much better. What’s left to do for dinner?”

  Liv looked around helplessly. “The table. We’re having fish.”

  Marguerite released her.

  “Sarah and I will set the table,” she said. “Shall I do the fish?”

  “No, it won’t take long.”

  “Send Sarah down, then,” Marguerite ordered briskly, “and take your time. We’ll take care of everything.”

  You will, oh yes you will, Liv thought and immediately felt ungrateful. Marguerite was doing what she could do. And that was what she wanted, wasn’t it? A soothing bath, a few moments of quiet in which to compose herself.

  She was almost drowsy when there was a discreet knock at her bathroom door.

  “Just a minute,” she said, and floundered out of the water, reaching for her terry cloth robe.

  When she opened the door a crack, it was Doe, carrying a glass of wine like a child’s tea cup in one great paw.

  “Here you go, Livvie,” he said, and winked at her.

  “Thank you, daddy.” The glass was cool in her bath-warmed hands.

  He used to bring her a glass of wine when she was a teenager having menstrual cramps. She slid back into the tub. Perhaps Jane had been talking to them, to make them start babying her. She wondered if they were being kind because she had had an abscessed tooth, lost too much weight and too much sleep and showed it, or because her husband never seemed to be home anymore. The only one to talk to about it was Pat. The habit of turning to him brought her face to face with the blank wall of his absence.

  Thanksgiving brought Pat home for a whole week.

  The Friday after, Pat sat hunched over a cup of coffee, with all the mindless intensity of a caveman guarding a bone, at the kitchen table, scratched his beard stubble, and tried to come to. The holiday, with its surfeit of relatives and food, had left him feeling bloated, useless, and out of it.

  Travis shuffled in and climbed into his chair. His hair was cow-licked to the point of punk. He looked sweaty, as if he had not had a very good night. He slumped in the chair as blankly as an old wino on a city curb.

  Pat cleared his throat. “Long day’s night?”

  Travis rolled a bleary eye and fumbled in his kimono pockets for his army guys.

  “Turkey hangover,” Pat said.

  Travis nodded solemnly.

  “Yeah,” said Pat. “Much as I hate to bring up the subject, how about breakfast?”

  Travis groaned.

  “My feeling exactly.” Pat stared at his coffee cup.

  Sarah bounced in, looked the two of them over, and snorted. She made for the coffee machine, poured herself a cup, and carried it to the table. Her braces had been removed during Pat’s last absence. Every time she smiled he thought how spectacular her teeth looked, like a movie star’s. She had taken to wearing her hair braided or ponytailed to one side. Her latest pair of earrings were a barbarous tangle of beads, feathers, and leather that she clearly saw as exotic and sophisticated. Marguerite had taken one look at them yesterday and snorted in disgust, which was probably the most satisfying reaction Sarah got to the earrings, outside of the squealings of her friends. Liv had managed to keep a straight face, and with her elbow in his ribs, so had he.

  Pat watched her slop milk into the coffee and then stir in three teaspoons of sugar. He began to feel uneasy in his stomach.

  Sarah tasted it and wrinkled her nose. “Jesus,” she said, “who made this shit?”

  “I did,” Pat growled. “Watch your mouth, Miss Teen Queen.”

  Sarah gave him a snotty, “Oh, wow, sorry.”

  He considered bellowing at her and decided it would hurt him more than it would her. And it would take too much energy.

  Pat and Travis stared at each other. Travis silently pointed a finger at Sarah, then at his right ear, and described a circle in the air.

  “I saw that, twerp,” Sarah said.

  Travis stuck his tongue out.

  Sarah sneered back.

  “Oh, God,” said Pat.

  Sarah looked out the kitchen window. It was clear and cold outside. “What a great day,” she said. “Let’s go the Mall.”

  “It’ll be hell out there,” Pat said.

  Sarah flung wide her arms in an extravagant pose. “It’s hell here,” she said.

  Travis had entered battle around the redoubt of the sugar bowl.

  “Pttuiee,” he sputtered. “Pow!”

  Pat squinted at Sarah and scratched his beard.

  She tried another tack. “Hey, twerp, you could go see Santa Claus.”

  Travis stopped in mid-attack. He looked at Pat. He studied the soldiers poised to kill and be killed. “Okay,” he said.

  Pat sighed and scratched behind one ear. “You really want to?”

  Travis hunched over his men and peered at Pat. “I guess so.”

  “I really need to, daddy,” Sarah said. “I’m way behind in my Christmas shopping.”

  “Well, that carries it,” Pat said sarcastically, and then, to make up, “All right, all right. It’ll be a madhouse, but you’re nuts, so it’s appropriate.”

  Sarah squealed. “Can Heidi come, too?”

  “Ask your mother,” Pat said, and pushed himself away from the table. It hurt his head to stand up. Too much beer with Web and Doe and the rest of the tribe.

  “When are we going?” Sarah asked. “If we go early, it won’t be so bad.”

  On the day after Thanksgiving, Pat thought, three A.M. just might be early enough to avoid a crowd at the Mall. Oh, well, in for a penny, in for a pound. He groped his way toward the stairs. An hour in the shower, and if he didn’t die, he could probably handle the Mall.

  Liv met him on the stairs.

  “Takin’ Travis to see Santa Claus,” he mumbled.

  She looked fine, as if yesterday had never happened. Hair down and soft around her shoulders, a blushing sweater with shiny ribbons woven into it, like the magic words of a spell, loose trousers gathered at the ankles, in a silvery wool.

  She brushed a flopping lock of hair out of his eyes, picked a mysterious thread from his chin. “Are you sure? It’s going to be a madhouse.”

  It had been unwise to hesitate. Now he had to shift gears out of idle again, and it was all up, up, up another eight steps that felt as far away as Ste. Anne de Beaupre by knee.

  “It’s a madhouse here,” he said.

  “I’d better go with you,” Liv said after him. “You’re going to need me.”

  “Wouldn’t consider doing it any other way,” Pat said, and reached the top. By the time he had gotten into the shower, without either scalding himself with hot water or shocking himself into a heart attack with cold, he was so pleased with himself for agreeing to the madness of going to the Mall on the day after Thanksgiving, taking Travis to see Santa Claus, not yelling or swearing or in any way giving in to what he thought of as his weakened state, making it upstairs and into the bathroom, and choking down two extrastrength Excedrins, that all sensible impulses were entirely suppressed.

  The line was at least forty-five minutes long when they joined it. Santa was a red blob inside a tiny gingerbread house about the size of a phone booth. The walls of the house were about as thick as cardboard and brown-flocked, so at a distance they were vaguely cakelike. Up close, they were merely tacky. Plastic candy canes framed the doorway, which had no door, and the three large windows, so that Santa was visible on all sides. The windows had candy-striped muntings, but no panes, as if vandals had smashed out all th
e glass. Plastic gumdrop lights the size of oranges blinked and burbled along the eaves of the frosted white roof. A photographer in a Tyrolean hat stood by to record the encounters of Santa Claus and children if not exactly for posterity, then for their grandparents.

  Sarah took one look at it, exchanged superior and amused glances with her friend Heidi, who had come with them, and split. She was supposed to meet them in an hour and a half.

  Pat squeezed Travis’ hand, which was already damp.

  “Hungry yet?” he asked.

  “Yeah,” Travis said.

  “Why don’t you bring Trav a hot dog, and see if you can find the new G.I. Joe comic?” Pat asked Liv.

  “Sure,” she said. “Hot dog and orange soda?”

  Travis grinned nervously.

  When she came back, the line had lengthened dishearteningly. Travis and Pat had made scant progress.

  “Slow?” she asked.

  Pat nodded.

  There were Mall security people drifting around, cheerful but also watchful, on the lookout for pickpockets, the inevitable argument about line-jumping, the inevitable fainting.

  While Travis ate his hot dog, Pat read him the comic book. Kids just ahead and just behind them listened in because it was a dramatic rendering. Pat liked to do the voices and the sound effects. The large elderly woman directly behind them also fell under his spell. She had three children with her, the oldest looking about Travis’ age, the youngest just walking. They called her Nana. They all had runny noses, and the colorless skin of children who spend the entire winter in a daze of untreated ear infections, chest-rattling croup, and rampant colds. She was herself plump as a turkey, pink and scented with talcum powder. Her teeth were very white and even.

  Liv fell to watching her, discreetly, for something to do. The woman at first ignored the story, then began to listen to it, and was rapidly caught up in it. At the end, her fists clenched with the triumph of the Joes against the enemy Cobras. The kids huddled around her, open-mouthed, wiping their running noses with the backs of their fists.

  While the story went on, the line had moved. Santa was now only a few mendicants away. He was large and jolly as required, though to Liv his face was very young under the glossy curls of the white beard. His stomach in the red velveteen suit appeared to be genuine. The suit itself was at least not cheap, but it was a little theatrical, not the sort of thing to wear on a long cold and probably rough ride, and impossible for the shimmy up and down chimneys. The dry cleaning bills would be horrendous.