by Graeme Hurry
I struggled through the tears. Some of them were of relief at having this little part of my past back in my hands, but others were of a niggling suspicion that I was afraid to voice. I put the basket back in its prominent place over the mantle and went to see Mother.
“Did you have one too?” I asked.
It was early morning. Mother was still in her robe. She leaned out the front door and sipped her latte. I could hear her espresso machine upstairs, whirring through a second cup.
“No. Back then your father bought me this brooch.” She motioned to her neck. The present was a ghastly piece of work—a matador driving a sword through a charging bull’s eye. It was antique, but Mother seldom wore it.
“He meant the box for you,” she said. “You always liked making dresses for your dolls. Do you remember?”
“Where did you find it?”
“Around.”
“Where?”
“A place.”
“I want to know.”
“It really doesn’t matter, now does it? Just know that I can find anything.”
They say that an expert in her field has ten thousand hours of practice. Mother had been shopping for as long as I could remember. For forty years—fifty?—it was all she did. She’d reached ten thousand hours back in her teens. She was of world champion caliber. No—she was beyond that. She was a goddess of coupons and one-day deals.
“Anything?” I asked.
Mother smirked.
“I’ll bet you can’t—”
“Bet me what?”
“What?”
“Terms,” Mother said. “What are you betting?”
I struggled with what I had of worth. “I’ll send my lawnboys over to your place. They’re coming Thursday morning. I was going to cancel, but—”
“Good. Now what would you like?”
It needed to be more than difficult. It needed to be so improbable, so beyond reason that it would answer my guesses once and for all. I told her.
Mother took a long sip of her latte. She checked the time on her cell. She took another sip.
“Well?” I asked.
“It will clash, I think.”
“We won’t know until it’s hanging on the wall.”
This was one of Mother’s favorite phrases. She used it to justify her more random purchases.
“I need to get dressed,” Mother said. She shut the door.
* * *
Two days later, a freight van pulled up to my house. Even before the unboxing, I knew what the men were so delicately carting up the walk.
“Do you want it opened ma’am?” the first deliveryman asked.
“Please.”
Though the crate was bolted together, the two men unpacked it quickly.
“Weird seein’ one of these out in the open,” the partner said. “It’s real?”
“You’ll have to excuse him, ma’am,” the first deliveryman said. “He’s a trainee.”
They hauled it inside and gave me a list of addresses and contacts. There were considerations to make. A proper UV-shielded display was needed. Insurance, security, fire-proofing the house. I should contact the university. They could offer quite a few pointers and would do so for free just to get this piece in the records. It was the right thing for me to do. It wasn’t every day that a person stumbled upon a Van Gogh.
The deliverymen left and I hurried across the street. I found Mother upstairs sliding furniture on Teflon coasters from one room to the next.
“How?” I asked.
“Help me with this tallboy.”
I didn’t have much choice. I set to work scooting the piece negligible distances while Mother critiqued from across the room.
I made my point again. “We need to talk.”
“Do we?”
“It’s a fake.”
“You question your own mother’s honesty.” She gave a forced sigh, as vaudevillian as a one-star actress.
“Nobody would sell this.”
“This will have to do. I’m late.”
I followed her downstairs. Mother grabbed her purse.
“Oh,” she said. “The lawn—”
“I’ve already called them. They’ll be over here tomorrow morning. But you need to tell me.”
“Tell you?” She opened the front door.
“How?”
Mother stopped on the threshold. She kept her back to me for a long moment before speaking.
“Would you like to come with me?” she asked. “There’s a sale.”
“Where?”
“Several places.”
I had quit going to stores with Mother at the age of ten, as soon as I was old enough to stay home alone. I’d never regretted the decision.
“Things are tight right now,” I said.
“Oh dear! Are they?” Her sarcasm was palpable.
“Yes, Jeff—”
“Not another word about that louse. I cannot tell you how disappointed I am in you.”
“Me?”
“Yes, you. You’re the one who picked him. A billion or so bachelors to choose from and that’s what you scraped up?”
“I was—”
“Young, naive? Stupid, most likely. If you would have listened and learned this wouldn’t have happened.”
Now she’d done it. My nails dug into my palms. My body trembled. This had been a long time coming. I’d tell her exactly what—
“Come with me,” Mother said. “We’ll fix it right now.”
My mounting tirade seized cold. I knew what she was suggesting and was deathly afraid that she could actually do it.
“I’m broke.” I didn’t know what else to say.
“That’s nonsense. Do the appraisal and then use the press for free publicity. I’ve prepared a list of eager museums. They’ll pay a fortune for something so novel. You’ll rent it between them.”
I didn’t understand.
“A thousand dollars a day is not unreasonable for these first months,” Mother said. “And speaking of funds, you owe me fifty for that painting.”
“Dollars?”
“Cents. Come with me.”
For the first time in thirty years, I followed Mother out.
* * *
It was like the old days. Mother jammed her car into handicapped parking and then raced inside. Her heels click-clacked over tile and thumped over carpeting. I jogged at her side and struggled to keep pace.
“Hold here,” Mother said.
My fingers wrapped around the strap of her purse. We’d done this dizzying dance a thousand times before, yet I’d forgotten. I gazed up at the smooth oval of her face. She was so tall.
“Squeeze tight,” Mother said.
I did.
Aisles riffled by like pages in a paperback romance, each filled with need and desire. These were the penchants of people and cultures and time, unique to every one but sharing traits between them all. A woman with her hair in a tight bun patted me on the head. Another laced to the throat with pearl buttons gave a cultured bow. She was in a powdered wig and she was in colored scarves and she was in a coarse tunic over linen. It was spring and it was harvest. The women had come here to escape drought and monsoon. The hours blurred into impressions like a watercolor sky.
Behind us in line, a thin boy asked my name. I wouldn’t have replied—he was a few years younger than me—but I found his curly hair and candy-blue eyes somehow endearing. I answered. He took my order for a lemonade at the Junior High Dance but told me to keep my money. He was sure he knew me. I told him he did. Again, in the second-floor hallway, he sold carnations for Valentine’s. He was so awkward when he approached me. I didn’t mind when he asked on the spur. It was pointedly daring, but I had to say no. I’d already been asked to the dance, and for a senior to accompany a freshman was out of the question. He understood, though I could see how it hurt him.
He set a heavy crate of knick-knacks on Mother’s cart. His shoulders weren’t as slight as they’d been before—not even close. He gave
orders to his crew and let them take over the work, but never stopped watching me with eyes like cool water.
“I feel like we’ve already met,” he said.
“We have. Many times.”
“It was a long while ago.”
“Why would you say so?”
He was about to answer, but cut his words short with a smile.
Mother whispered at my ear. “Because dear, otherwise the two of you’d be well past introductions.”
Mother asked him to bring our things to the car. He happily agreed.
Six months later, I shared his name.
* * *
The weather might change with seasons, but not all people do. Mother was that way. She refused age’s gift of wisdom. I suppose she was content with who she was. There’s something to be said for that, for wearing your own skin so proudly.
I was grateful for her contributions when she made them. They were few and far between, but they were there. When Jeffery harassed us with his lawyer, Mother amassed a team of pin-striped cutthroats who had no use for morals. Jeffery dropped the issue as if he’d found himself holding a fist full of vipers. He moved out of state.
Mother found a paneled Mantegna tempura and oil. She presented it to me.
“It was at a five and dime.” Mother tsked. “An estate sale gone wrong, I’m supposing. Some people don’t recognize true worth.”
I pressed her for more details and she looked at me strangely. A part of me remembered her ways, but after so many years the details were vague. That spot in my memory was porous and tended to fill with other things. Mother gave her advice.
“Why don’t you lend this—”
“I know,” I said.
“Ah! Interrupting. Tell your artsy-fartsy curators there’s no charge.”
“Free?” This didn’t sound like Mother at all.
“Don’t put words in my mouth. They’ll need to display your work too. It’s about time you made some real sales.”
In the art world it’s all about who you know and making them indebted. The time was right. I agreed with Mother’s plan.
After that, life was bit more hectic. Being wanted was an odd feeling.
Just today, Mother found a 1860s Chickering Grand for our family room.
“Franz was not kind to it,” she said. “I had it restrung.”
I wasn’t an expert, but the insides looked original. Little Donovan scampered onto the bench and plucked out random keys.
“How sweet,” Mother said. She sat on our chaise and listened to my thanks and Donovan’s dubious five-year-old skills.
“It’s our anniversary,” I said.
“Hmm …” Mother checked her cell.
“Well yes, I thought—isn’t that what the piano is about?”
“And where is that husband of yours?”
“Shopping.”
“Oh!” Mother half-rose from her seat.
“Can I ask a favor?”
Mother sat down again and squeezed her knees.
“We’re going out to dinner.”
“Certainly.”
“We don’t care for our sitter, and—”
“I can find you a better one.”
“No, we—I was hoping you’d want to.”
She’d never been trusted with this task before. I’d thought it odd that she never asked for the privilege, but hoped that it was an unvoiced wish nonetheless.
Mother’s lips twitched. “For how long?”
“A few hours. He’ll sleep through most of it.”
And that’s how Mother came to be put in charge. It shouldn’t have been difficult. A teenager could handle it without stress. But I’d forgotten. Somehow, with all the changes—my marriage, my son, and yes, even mother’s gifts—I’d forgotten. She was content with who she was.
Halfway through a dinner of veal and lobster in the shadow of black-tied waiters, my phone rang.
“You get down here now!” a man’s voice barked.
I held the cell away from my ear. “Who is this?”
“Lady, I’m the guy watchin’ your kid. Know where I’m at?”
“No,” I whispered.
“Let me tell ya.”
I couldn’t even speak. I’d never been so upset in my life. Unless you counted that time, long ago when a mother with better things to do left a tiny girl to fend for herself. How could I forget?
As we raced across town, my husband tried to console me. He spoke words that made sense, but they weren’t the ones I wanted to hear. I pled over the phone and explained my situation. I blamed it on the sitter, which seemed to deflect the store manager’s ire from myself at least.
We arrived with a squeal of tires. I didn’t stop until I’d scooped Donovan up and wept countless apologies in tiny words—how proud I was that he’d remembered my number, how sorry I was that he’d been scared. It wasn’t his fault. Mommy should have known. My husband thanked the manager.
Back in the car, I sat in the backseat next to Donovan’s booster. I let him rest his head against me while my husband drove us back home. He gave leery glances in the rearview mirror.
I finally asked the question I’d been meaning to.
“What happened?”
“Fell down,” Donovan said.
“Where?”
“At a fair by a castle. Gramma said I could pet a horse.”
He trailed off as if he’d matter-of-factly addressed my concerns.
“And then?” I asked.
“Stood up in the store.” Donovan looked out the window and squinted at the passing lights. He’d never been out this late before. “Gramma flew away.”
That’s right. Thirty years ago I’d let go. And Gramma—Mother—flew away.
“She did?” I wiped at my eyes.
“Like a bird.”
My husband was listening intently from the front seat, but hadn’t added anything. I wondered how much of this he’d dared to guess. What would he do if he found out how we really met? I hoped that in choosing him, Mother had taken that into account because there was something I needed to tell him.
A soft pressure touched my shoulder. I let Donovan sleep.
Mother was gone. She’d tucked herself away, hidden from me and from the words she knew I’d prepared—a lifetime of venom meant just for her ears. I knew I’d never see her again.
Mother only had one method of expression. She only had one way to apologize. She would troll every shop from here to Shangri-La shopping for an I’m sorry, but she’d never find one. She’d be searching forever. The funny thing is, maybe that’s how it should be. I’d call it her penance, but I don’t think she’s suffering.
ROYAL
by Martin Donnelly
Jacob threw up his arms to block the light streaming in as the cell door swung open.
Grash and Ock, the two mutants in charge of this prison block, stood in the doorway. They wore ill-fitting guard’s uniforms pieced together from old scraps of leather and denim. Both of them suffered from the same mutations. Elongated brown and black teeth poked out of their lips at odd angles. Their yellow eyes were tucked beneath heavy brows and thin wisps of hair sprouted along their thick jaws.
“Royal wants to see you,” Grash said as he stepped into the cell. His huge, clawed hand grabbed the chain between Jacob’s wrists. Jacob’s legs buckled when Grash pulled him to his feet. His muscles had withered during months of inactivity and he suspected that any protein in the gruel they fed him was purely accidental. Grash raised his arm until Jacob’s feet no longer touched the floor. Grash was over eight feet tall and Jacob dangled in front of him like a puppet.
“Ock, look at this wretched wimp,” Grash said. Flecks of his spit hit Jacob’s face.
“I’ve seen more meat on a mouse,” Ock said.
Fresh pain throbbed in Jacob’s arms and back. Grash pulled Jacob’s face closer to his own. “I’d like Royal to throw you to the imps.”
Ock’s mouth widened into a lop-sided smile, his fangs jutted out betw
een his lips. “Good idea. I’d enjoy that. Imagine the blood.”
“Oh they would squabble.” Grash laughed sending more spit into Jacob’s face. “We could take bets on which one would eat your heart, their favourite bit.”
Jacob struggled to speak; his voice was a thin whisper.
“What?” Ock asked.
Jacob couched and spluttered for a moment. “I said will the winner get to decide tonight’s sex position?”
Grash roared, whipped around and flung Jacob towards the door. Jacob slammed into the ground shoulder first and slid across the floor, stopping at Ock’s feet. Pain exploded in his shoulder, it had popped out of the socket. “Fucking Hell.”
Ock grabbed Jacob by the scruff of the neck, digging his claws into skin, and lifted him. “You’re lucky Royal want’s you alive.”
Jacob winced at the pain in his shoulder. “I’m not sure you know what lucky means.”
Ock threw Jacob out into the hallway. He landed face down on the metal floor. He was unable and unwilling to pick himself up. Ock and Grash disturbed his rest. They each grabbed an arm and dragged him along the hallway. He hung limp between them, his feet and shins scrapping along the floor. Jacob grunted as his shoulder erupted in agony.
“I hope it hurts you bastard,” Grash said. Behind the solid steel cell doors they passed people sobbed and cried, each prisoner having committed the same crime as Jacob: treason. They were the ones who had refused to bow, who had stood up for what they believed and who had sacrificed.
“Keep fighting,” Jacob screamed. “Don’t bow to-” Grash’s fist smashed into Jacob’s nose, breaking it. Blood gushed from Jacob’s nostrils. “Don’t bow to him,” he muttered. “Don’t bow to him.”
They left the cell block and entered a court yard. Royal’s subjects filled it. They shouted and booed when they saw Jacob. Their mutated faces twisted and snarled. Every one of them wanted to tear him apart. To them he was a terrorist, a man who had challenged their divine leader.
Grash and Ock dragged Jacob forward and the crowd parted, offering them a path from the cells to the palace. The mutants growled, shouted and taunted Jacob as Grash and Ock dragged him through the crowd.
Men with four arms and snake heads stood next to women with huge spiders heads growing from their shoulders. Some had dozens of eyes growing all over their bodies while others had wolf muzzles. Many were like Ock and Grash; their mouths filled with dozens of elongated teeth jutting in different directions, their skin grey leather, their hands clawed. One man had a vertical mouth with three rows of shark teeth in his chest, stretching from his neck to his groin. The filthy scraps of cloth the creatures wore did little to hide their hideous bodies.