Train Wreck – The Wrath of Mom
Jeanne Morrison
Smashwords Edition
Copyright 2009 Jeanne Morrison
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Chapter One
Judy sat at the kitchen table, cleaning weed out of a bag for her morning joint. She dusted off her fingers and reached for her coffee, but it’d gone cold while she was seeding. She got up to nuke it, briefly wondering if she shouldn’t add a splash of whiskey for the flavor. Nah. Better save it, there’s not much left.
She was getting ready to tackle her day. She and Frank had already had breakfast; the encrusted dishes lay there beside her bag of pot – she was going to have to lick food off the baggie before sealing it up again. And she was going to have to humiliate herself buying more rolling papers soon, too. Why not just smoke a pipe or a bong? But that would mean never feeling how good it was to hold a cigarette. It was a well deserved indulgence. Worth a little humiliation. Maybe get them online – nah – humiliation before surveillance.
On her schedule for today were a few things that she could probably put off until tomorrow. They involved getting out of the house, driving, dealing with people, spending money, things she’d really rather not do until she had to, when she would steel herself and get everything done at once.
So with one thought she freed herself to do the million things she had to do around the house. The big one being reorganize the attic, there were other real, pressing tasks before her, like cleaning the kitchen. But she had to check email and there was The View at 11. Realistically, if she was diligent, she’d get around to sweeping the floor in the front rooms, but that would be it. The dishes, maybe. She sat back down with her coffee and gathered the weed into a little pile. She sighed. Life is tough for the organizationally impaired.
The phone rang as she was licking the edge of the joint closed. Ak. She jumped, and it flew out of her hand onto the floor. She stared at it angrily, but left it there and went to get the phone.
“Hi, Mom,” she lilted, striking a happy note. She returned to the table with the phone, stopping by the pantry for the whiskey bottle. “What’s going on with you?”
Mom started right in. Why don’t you do something with your life? Was I too lenient raising you? Why did you choose the road to hell when I tried so hard to get you to do the right thing?
Judy practiced holding the phone just barely in hearing range and saying uh-huh at random moments. Light up now or wait until Mom’s off the phone?
Mom kept going. If you’d loved me you would have listened when I told you about whatever. I was always right and you were always wrong. You’re a loser. I don’t love you.
Judy lit the joint and took a deep breath. Mom heard it.
Are you SMOKING? Judy had the phone wedged under her ear and Mom’s screech made her loose her hold on it. It clattered to the floor. “Sorry, Mom,” she yelled at the phone. “What?”
It sounded like you were smoking. I distinctly heard you take a puff. Believe me, I know what that sounds like. You can’t hide from me. Have you gone back to smoking?
Cigarettes or pot? You never stop disapproving. “I don’t smoke, Mom. I’ve never smoked.” Mom fumed silently. Judy could feel the electricity thru the phone. She looked longingly at the still-lit joint, and sneaked a small hit, holding the phone to her chest. Can Mom hear thru her shirt?
“Um,” she said with a bit of a squeak as she tried to hold the smoke in. She exhaled quickly and continued. “So how are you doing, anyway?” She went back to the joint, free to take another hit now that she’d asked Mom’s favorite question.
I feel terrible. Something’s wrong with me that the doctors can’t find, and no matter how many I go to they all treat me like I’m a hypochondriac. I’m going to die right in their office one day and they’ll misdiagnose that, I’m sure.
Judy made sympathetic noises between hits.
But that’s not why I called. I called to berate you for the way you keep your house, and to yell at you because you never come and see me, and to abuse you for not showing me the respect I’ve lusted after all my life.
Quick. Get off the phone now. “Mom? Sorry, I can hear Frank calling me. I’d better go see what he wants. Call you later. Bye. Love you.”
Judy hung up, took a loud, sibilant, rebellious hit, and hated her mom for as long as she could hold her breath.
* * *
Rick was in his Porsche, driving to the office. He’d been going for hours already, with a conference call at home that the kids interrupted with their noise, a meeting with a vendor at Caribou ruined by a panicky call from his wife – about nothing, and a bunch of traffic he had to skirt in order to get to the staff meeting on time. Of course, he could be as late as he wanted because it was his staff, but it was good to maintain discipline.
The phone rang. Mom. He didn’t need this. “Hi, Mom. I’m driving.”
Well, I won’t keep you. You want to be safe when you’re driving, and only a fool uses a cellphone when they’re driving. But. I was thinking about your money problems.
Aw, Mom. “Mom, I’m in traffic. Can we discuss this later?” Always rubbing it in.
Fine. If you want to be that way. I just think it’s criminal the way you neglect those poor children.
Rick nearly sideswiped the guy in the lane next to him. He muzzled a curse and shot him a violent finger. “Mom, I’ve really got to pay attention to the road now. I’ll call you later. Love you. Bye.”
He disconnected. Die, bitch.
* * *
Cindy was going around the house touching things. She did this now and then, just to keep track of where everything was. It was a comfort. She touched her antiques, she touched the frames of her museum quality paintings, she caressed her silk rugs, She lay down on all the beds and then smoothed the wrinkles back out of the Italian linens.
She was just rubbing the banister on the way downstairs to touch the things in the garage when the phone rang.
She checked caller ID and didn’t pick up. It was Mom. Not home. I don’t have to listen to you tell me how Judy is your favorite daughter and how my things aren’t as nice as yours and why I’m not going to get anything when you die.
She heard the call go to the answering machine, and listened to Mom’s querelous tones as she descended into the basement. La la la I can’t hear you. Not calling you back. Not until after the funeral. Then it'll ring off the hook.
* * *
Gordon was sleeping off a fierce hangover when the phone rang. He’d been finessing a deal last night and it had gone on way past the time the garbage guys emptied the dumpster in the parking lot, which was where he’d stashed the stuff. It was a nightmare. He’d had to return all that money, and he’d been so drunk that he wasn’t sure he didn’t give them back more than they’d paid him, because he didn’t think he had a twenty in his pocket, and wasn’t sure where his pants ended up so he could check. The phone rang a long time, but since he didn’t have an answering machine, it would ring forever. It must be Mom.
“Uh,” he snarled into the phone, just in case it was someone else. An indeterminate grunt, it could be threatening or could mean he was in pain. It depended on who it was. This time, of course, it was Mom. “Mom, I’m sick,” he moaned, feeling around for the glass of water he kept by the bed.
Mom wanted to know in agonizing detail what was wrong with her baby. Gordon just groaned again, taking a gulp. It was piss, because he’d been too drunk to go to the bathroom. He threw up over the side of the bed.
Mom threatened to come right over. Gordon sputtered, “No, I’m fine, really. I’ve got medicine, I’ve got chicken soup. I just need to sleep. Call you later, okay? Love you bye.” Don’t you fucking come here, ever. Or else.
He fell back into bed, exhausted, and lit a cigarette. The room stank of smoke over sweat and stale piss and a certain chemical tang. He fell asleep still smoking, but when he dropped the butt it landed on a wet spot and sizzled out.
* * *
Mom sat in the den. Pat Robertson just got thru telling his flock that they should reach out to those who have trespassed against them, forgive their enemies, and turn the other cheek, but always and without fail to hate the sin. Well, her kids had certainly given her enough sins to hate, but she still loved them, especially when she thought of how they were as kids. Judy was always asking questions and would listen for hours to her explanations. Rick mispronounced the simplest phrases, making such wonderful fauxpas that she still used them in conversation. Cindy used to bring her things she'd found around the house, little presents like her father’s filthy shoes and empty cosmetic bottles out of the trash. And Gordon the youngest, her favorite, just simply adored her and still did. Filled with warm memories of her infant brood, she reached for the phone.
She called her eldest first.
“Hi, Mom,” Judy said, sounding guilty. “What’s going on with you?”
“Oh, I was just thinking of when you guys were kids,” she said, fiddling with the phone cord. “You were so cute. So innocent. I remember...”
“Uh huh.”
Judy must be preoccupied with something. “If you’re busy I can call you back later,” she offered.
“Huh.”
“I was just thinking about how easy it was to love you all when you were younger. You were so trusting, and so cuddly, and we had the most amazing conversations about everything.” She remembered driving somewhere when Judy was three. “There you were, asking about everything you saw...”
“Fascinating.”
Is she even listening? “What did I just say?” She heard a cigarette lighter. “I didn’t know you still smoked,” she said mildly.
Clumsy Judy dropped the phone. The noise stung Mom’s ears. “I think you could be more careful when I’m using my hearing aid,” she started, but stopped because Judy was still fumbling for the phone.
“Sorry, Mom,” Judy said as Mom switched the phone to her other ear and rubbed the bruised one. The bruises came so easily these days. Must take more vitamin C. “What?” Judy continued, sounding just like she did when she was six and Dad caught her trying to make Cindy eat mud pies.
“I said you could try to be more considerate, is all.”
“I don’t smoke, Mom. I’ve never smoked.”
That wasn’t the point. Oh, why did she bother? It’s not like she had any influence over Judy’s behavior. “I just wish...” she trailed off.
“Um,” Judy said after awhile, sounding emotional. “So how are you doing, anyway?”
“That’s very sweet of you to ask. I don’t want to complain, but I’ve had better days. My knees have been giving me a little trouble the past few days.”
Judy agreed that bad knees were no joke.
This pleased Mom. Judy's being sympathetic. She wants to hear what it’s like getting old. I’ll just mention what I’ve learned about things we used to think were okay. Maybe she can learn from me and change her life before it’s too late. “I think if maybe I’d done some things differently, we would be in better shape today,” she began.
“Mom?” Judy interrupted breathlessly “Sorry, I can hear Frank calling me. I’d better go see what he wants. Call you later. Bye. Love you.”
Mom sat with the phone to her ear, a little stunned. She hadn’t gotten a word in sideways. Sometimes she thought she was making some deeper contact like they used to have, but Judy was so distant most of the time, and didn’t live a very interesting life. She’d shown such promise as a child, she was so dull now, but there was still time to blossom. She said a quick prayer for her daughter, and reached for the phone again at the next commercial.
She tried Rick’s house first, but hung up when his wife answered, and tried his cellphone.
“Hi, Mom,” he said, sounding angry. “I’m driving.”
Did something happen, is he in trouble? “Are you alright, son?”
“Mom, I’m in traffic” He sounded overly patient, like he was lecturing a cretin. He spoke slowly and loudly, threatening with his tone to repeat it even louder and more slowly. “Can we discuss this later?”
“Fine. I just wanted to chat about when you were little, that’s all,” she said, with affection.
He was curt. “Mom, I’ve really got to pay attention to the road now. I’ll call you later. Bye.”
Such a busy boy. So headstrong, so sure of himself. Cocky. Like when he was four and announced he was going to be Daddy from now on and make everyone do things his way. Stay up wait eeet ookie.
She tried to call her youngest daughter Cindy after awhile, suddenly thinking of her while flicking past the Home Shopping Network. She knew it was futile; Cindy was never home and didn’t have a cellphone. She was busier than Rick, and she didn’t even have a job. The life of a socialite. How different from the way they raised her: poor, a Depression baby, a life of hard work and struggle and decent values. But her kids had life handed to them on a platter, and they developed habits of easy virtue. She said a prayer for her wayward children, asking for the Lord to take them into his fold.
She was watching a CSI program when she thought of her youngest. He loved to sit and watch them with her. He would come over more often but he was booked up at work. She knew right away that something was wrong because the phone kept ringing and he didn’t answer. She just knew he was home and not picking up the phone. “Gordon,” she urged as it continued to ring. Finally he answered.
“Uh,” he croaked. He sounded awful. Feverish perhaps. She started patting her pockets for her keys.
“Baby?” she called. He needs his Mommy.
He was throwing up. “Mom, I’m sick,” he moaned.
Where did she leave her medical supply kit? She looked around, got up, went into the kitchen and looked under the sink. “Okay.” It’ll take twenty minutes to get there.
“No, I’m fine, really. I’ve got medicine, I’ve got chicken soup. I just need to sleep. Call you later, okay? Love you bye.”
She stopped and put the medical kit on the counter. She felt like going over there anyway, just to check up on him. He'd be grateful. But he was right, he needed his sleep. I’ll drop by and see how you’re doing later. Maybe go shopping for some healthy food and make a nice dinner for my baby.
Mom fixed herself another cup of coffee and went back to the den. Maybe it was prayer time and she could call in a request for prayers on behalf of her poor children.
Chapter Two
Judy had to go out after all. Despite rearranging her schedule so that she didn’t have to leave the house for another day or two, she was now out of whiskey, and that forced her hand. It was a real emergency, and she couldn’t even steel herself for the trip, because she was out of booze. Maybe her first stop should be the neighborhood bar, for some fortitude. It was a real problem, because it was so much more expensive for they-pour, and she was always in a cash crunch. But she couldn’t go out in public sober, it made her so anxious that she wouldn’t get half her errands done before she was fleeing back home. The thing to do was to get merry, and then she could accomplish everything.
She rolled another joint.
The conversation with Mom bothered her, as it always did. Mom knew every button, and pushed them all gleefully. She probably didn’t even realize the damage she did with her casual, offhand remarks about what a loser Judy was. But she felt the sting for days. Loser, she’d mutter as she surveyed the mess of her house. Loser, she’d chant as she went thru her grocery basket picking out the things she couldn’t afford this trip. Loser, she’d breathe as she poured her third drink before noon.
It wasn’t just Mom, tho. It gave her the shakes dealing with anyone in the family. They were so different from her. They weren’t sensitive like she was, they didn’t have feelings for people who suffered and didn’t understand why she couldn’t take the hostility they threw about the place so casually. All she wanted was peace, and since she was a child she’d done everything she could to be the peacemaker in the family, to lead by example, and look where it got her. They made fun of her. They ignored her. They went on with their successful lives and didn’t spare a thought for poor, principled Judy, their oldest sister. She should have been the leader of a far-seeing family of philanthropists and do-gooders, but what she ended up being was the joke in a family of right winged capitalists.
Where did she go wrong?
A gnawing feeling in her stomach reminded her that she was on a mission, so she collected her things, except she couldn’t find her bag, so she didn’t have her license. She found her keys after a ten minute search, stalking thru the rooms trailing pot smoke, and then had trouble remembering where her wallet was, so she scrounged handfuls of quarters out of the change jar and made it to the car, only to have lost her keys again.
A few rounds of this and she was grateful to pull into the parking lot at the corner bar. It was a dive, and she tried not to frequent the place, and they laughed at her when she counted out quarters for her drink. But she felt better afterwards, and got back into the car to run her errands, much more at peace with the world.
Back home, with a huge mug of coffee loaded with whiskey (the cheap stuff), she went downstairs to visit with her husband, Frank.
Frank was an inventor, one of some note. His big success had been a knife that cut a loaf of bread and buttered it with one stroke. But that was back in the ‘90s during the bread-machine craze, and it hardly sold at all now. The royalties were pitiful. He spent his days trying to come up with the next big thing, but he never seemed to get it right.
Currently he was working on a better mousetrap, one that caught the mouse by a paw and dangled it in the air for the cats to play with and eventually finish off. It wasn’t going so well at the moment; the spring release tended to slap the mouse against the ceiling and kill it, and then the cats weren’t interested.
Judy clumped down the stairs to the basement. She must be upset. Sure enough; she was lit.
“You’ve been talking to your mother again?” Frank cleared off a chair for Judy to slump into. Her eyes were animated, but she took a gulp before speaking.
“You have no idea.” He thought he rather did. “She’s so hurtful, she says things without even thinking about them. About how they affect me.” She took another mouthful. Frank slowly moved over to his workbench and returned to his adjustment of the spring mechanism. He listened with one ear. “Today she was all like huffy about how I don’t do anything. But I do lots of things, and she doesn’t even want to know. Does she ask about what I’m doing? No. She never asks. She must think the only things that interest me are either satanic or drugs, and that’s just not true.”
Frank worked in silence. His mind was wandering and he missed some of what she was saying. He knew she was upset, and that the best response was to just let her have it out. The trouble was that she got obsessive about it, and would worry one of her mother's slights for a week before becoming offended by something else. “Well,” he responded while she sipped on her coffee, “in another century you would have been burned as a witch by now. She’s just taking the party line.”
Judy scowled. “Well, it hurts, is all. I don’t know why I have to do everything her way just to get her approval. It’s not like I [i]need[/i] her approval or anything.”
She was whining. Frank didn’t like it when she whined. He hadn’t married a spoiled teenager, and when she started whining he just wanted to slap her. But if he said anything now, she would turn on him and start to push for a fight. And Frank was Mister Wimpy when it came to fighting with women. “Yes, dear.”
She ignored him. “I just know I’m not going to be happy until she’s gone to her final reward,” she said, draining the mug. “And I sure wish she’d hurry up about it, because I’m not getting any younger.” She rose and looked intently at the empty mug. “In fact, I think all this harassment is making me sick. Too bad we couldn’t do anything to hurry her along. Just think how peaceful it’ll be once she’s gone and I can get on with my life.”
Judy tripped going over the threshold, and stumbled up to the kitchen for another drink, leaving Frank to wonder why she didn’t just get on with her life while her Mom was still alive. He actually liked the old bat, tho he could see how she drove Judy over the edge. They were too much alike, was the problem. No wonder they carped at each other all the time.
* * *
Rick’s day was going from bad to worse. He’d had to make a personal phone call to stiff a big vendor, and the guy hadn’t been very understanding. Then his CFO told him they were going to have to do another round of terminations, but there was no deadwood left to trim, and he was going to have to let some personal friends walk. Today he was meeting with the bank for that credit extension he’d asked for, and he was beginning to think it might turn out badly. Well, it couldn’t, and he was determined to get it one way or the other.
Rick was a determined man. He started the company with a trivial piece of software pirated from a friend, borrowed money from the guy to start up the company, and then hired him as his chief programmer. They developed more software, jumped a few trends, sucked the brains of people hired from other software firms, and rode high on the hog in the early years. And he’d expanded. They had a fancy corporate park, they had loads of perks, his top guys were getting high 6-figures, there were plenty of droids for every project, and everybody got stock options. But the company was seriously in debt, and now that NetSuite was king in the on-demand software industry, the market position of his FUXU package was bottoming out. He needed to borrow money just to make payroll and benefits, more money to make the lease payments, yet more money to put his kids thru school and buy his wife the car she insisted on driving. He was going broke, and it was making him lose his hair. And other things.
Back when he had loads of money he’d casually mentioned it to Mom. She’d insisted that real estate was the only safe investment. Unfortunately he’d listened to her, but not the part about buying raw land for cash and building a house to grow old in. He bought highly developed land that he could get an immediate return from. He became a slumlord. It didn’t really fit with his running a medium-sized software empire, but the skillsets weren’t that different. Employees, like tenants, were lazy and shiftless, and would rob him blind if given half a chance. And the cost of upkeep and evictions just added to his troubles. He owned half a dozen buildings and servicing that debt was no joke. It didn’t hold a candle to what the company owed, but it was a limited company and he wasn’t responsible. The apartments, like the kids’ school, was all on him. And boy did that chafe his nuts.
Mom. He’d taken more bad advice from her than a loving son should have to take. And he’d finally learned his lesson and stopped giving her ammunition, but by then she knew all about his finances and took every opportunity to bitch at him about how stupid he was. That investment in gold way back in ’80, right before it crashed. She never let him live that down. The stock market crash of ’87. She acted like it was his fault. The derivatives scandal last year – he almost wished he’d become a stock broker, because even after the meltdown he’d still be rich enough to ignore her carping about those evil investment advisers.
Of course, his bad luck with investments lately was part of the reason why he was in such a fix, and the last thing he wanted was for Mom to rub it in his face. It reminded him of when she used to wash his mouth out with soap, humiliating him in front of the rest of the kids. He never thought about it without a poisonous surge of rage.
Rick looked at his Rolex. A real one. Second hand. It didn’t keep perfect time, but who cared? He was going to be late for his appointment at the bank. He eyed the sky in disgust. What else could go wrong today?
His phone rang. It was his wife, complaining that Mom had hung up on her. Mom needs to die. But wait, if Mom died we’d get our inheritance, and that would really help. Especially if the others’ll help me out – for shares in the company, say.
* * *
Cindy had been up for hours and only had a Zoloft, a Beverly Hills Spa diet drink and a stick of celery. And maybe a single potato chip. That’s how she stayed so fashionably thin, but it got very difficult this late in the morning. Too early for lunch – first lunch; lunch lunch was with the girls at the Palm. It wasn’t time to eat yet, she told her stomach firmly. Maybe some water. Maybe a zero full of Nutrasweet and Splenda. Oh for a diet Red Bull.
She went upstairs to get dressed. She had to get her hair done, and then lunch, and then Nordstrom’s for a few things and then coffee with another group of girls, and then meet Bill and some business associate of his for cocktails and dinner. That’s one outfit for five different functions. You had to be a genius. And she was. But sometimes she wished she had a dresser. A personal assistant.
Cindy happily fantasized a life full of servants while trying on various parts of her closet. If she’d had servants, she would just toss the rejected outfits into a pile and let them put it away. As it was, she rehung everything neatly as she took it off, and put it in order on a rack at the front of the walkin. To be refiled later.
The short list was a little racy, a little matronly, a little expensive, a little runway. Putting Mom in her place always made her feel lucky, so she decided to go with a little racy thing in black with heels only a 20 year-old would wear. A few flashy pieces of jewelry in discreet places, a touch of moose sweat on her underwear and a spritz of Clive Christian, a relaxing pharma melange in the jeweled clutch – for drinks with the client, and a pair of slippers in the italian handbag – for the drive home. She covered all the bases.
All the decisions made for the day, except the menu choice (which wasn’t a decision, really because she always got the same thing), and the department roaming in the afternoon, Cindy headed downstairs to have a little bite to eat. As she was nuking herself an expensive frozen meal she took out her collection of pills and tapped out her daily dosages. She ate walking the treadmill.
It wasn’t until she had her head back in the sink and the girl was rubbing her scalp (she tipped for a good long head massage) that she thought about Mom. Her heart always raced when Mom called; she wondered if it wasn’t a mini-heart attack. Mom would give her a heart attack one day. Unless she got her first. She drifted off daydreaming of holding Mom’s head under the water.
The girl scratched her head with her fingernails, so Cindy made her stop and only tipped her a dollar. She was snappy with the girl who did her hair, too – she was going on about nothing and it annoyed her. She looked around at other clients, all of whom had some defect of taste or intelligence. It was a blessed relief to sit and close her eyes when they put her under the dryer.
On the way to the restaurant she sorted thru her clutch and took a Zyban with some Apollinaris, and a Xanax to buffer it, and popped a Meridia to manage her appetite. If she took so many pills, it was because Mom had traumatized her so when she was a child. The tirades, the evil schemes, the persecution of Cindy, the cute one. She’d like to beat her to death with her bare hands. Nothing was ever good enough for Mom, and it sounded trite but it was the central truth in Cindy’s life.
Thank God for modern medicine. She had charity business to discuss with the girls. They were organizing a fund raiser. It was a barrel of laughs but it was exhausting and thankless, and certain others always snatched the fun things and left the drudgery to her. She had to stay sharp or she’d end up with the trash detail, and thoughts of her horrible childhood had no place in important business like this. But with the particular blend of pharmaceuticals she was on now she could just stop thinking unpleasant thoughts. Just like that. La la la la la.
* * *
Gordon spent much of the afternoon loudly illustrating a textbook case of sleep apnea. He got up to piss once. He looked out of the window in passing. He smoked a couple of packs of cigarettes. He slept like the dead for 30 seconds at a time, having stopped breathing, and then woke himself up with a snort that sounded like a trumpet. He was exhausted to the point of tears the whole time.
Around 3:30 he got up, drank an energy drink warm, peed and shat, jerked off in the shower, shaved, and gussied up for the evening in a sports shirt and slacks with black socks and shiny shoes and several concealed weapons.
Like the rest of his family, except maybe for Rick, Gordon didn’t actually [b]do[/b] anything you could point to. He freelanced. He dabbled. He entrepreneured. He was always busy, but he still had to make up things to put on his taxes. And to tell Mom. He always answered her queries with “Nothing,” so she felt at liberty to send him on errands and have him over to fix the smallest things. But that’s what sons were for, and he felt an obligation to do whatever it took to make her happy. Family before business.
* * *
Mom ate something that didn’t agree with her for lunch, and spent much of the afternoon on the toilet, reading while it worked its way thru. She thought with regret about how her kids had grown up to be so distant, so uncaring. She could die alone in the house and they’d never know. Some of them would be glad. And for no reason. She loved them all. She loved their faults as well as their accomplishments, and it was always her role to help them choose the right path. For this they hated her. She wasn’t deceived by the “loveu” sound s they made; she knew they were just waiting for her to die and leave them alone. But Mom didn’t intend to do that, and they were just going to have to deal.
Chapter Three
Judy didn’t feel well after lunch, so she took a rather long nap, leaving all those chores undone. Again. When she got up the sun was going down. Frank was still in his basement workshop; she could hear him running the drill. It was very irritating, and she was about to get up and tell him to have some consideration for her nerves, but then it stopped. A few minutes later, there started up a thump thump thump under the floor, and she tried to ignore it, but the rhythm was strangely in time with her heartbeat, and she couldn’t stand it.
Frank heard her walking around in the kitchen above, and put everything away for the night. He’d made some progress with the spring tension, but he was thinking of redoing the whole concept. Maybe dangling them by their paw in front of a cat wasn’t right. Maybe he should turn the whole idea around, impale the mice on skewers, and leave them as tasty t-balls. There had to be a reason the cats weren’t interested.
Judy was sitting at the table, a glass of wine in her hand, fishing a roach out of the ashtray and preparing to light it. She put it back when he came thru the basement door. He went to the sink to get a glass of water, and came back to the table to join her.
They talked about his work for awhile. He mentioned the trouble he was having and she plucked a fanciful solution out of the air and tried to convince him he needed to go in that direction. She always did that. Channeling. Opening her mouth and letting random things fall out that she then interpreted as secret messages from the spirit world. Or something.. Yes dear. He sipped his water. Judy sipped her wine. They fell into silence.
“What do you want for dinner?” he asked suddenly, at the same time she was saying, “Yeah, definitely you need to put a natural spectrum spotlight on the little things.” It was silent again for awhile.
They didn’t have much to say to each other. They’d been married forever and raised a couple of kids. Now that they were left to themselves, he just wanted to tinker and she just wanted to sit and think. They had all their meals together and sat on the couch watching TV at night, and they even kissed each other before going to sleep. But they hadn’t had sex in years, and she snored so loudly that Frank was grateful when she started sleeping in the kids’ beds. They loved each other; they accepted each other’s annoyances and failings and made the best of it. It wasn’t a bad life at all. Each was free to spend their days as they wished, and neither saw any reason to object to what the other one did.
Well, Judy found things to object to all the time, but Frank was a forbearing, patient kind of guy who was more amused than irritated by her antics. They were a good team, stable and boring. He was more stable than she was, of course, and she was never actually boring, always up to something. They were boring together. They never fought, they never went out anywhere, they had no friends, they followed the same routine most every day and night. Nothing ever happened.
Frank made burgers. Judy opened a can of beans and poured another glass of wine. Over dinner they talked about Mom. Frank didn’t share her animosity; he didn’t have the buttons she had, and whenever Mom came up he tried to steer an objective path without setting her off. It often helped to remind her that she was the peacemaker of the family.
“I think your mother’s just still trying to raise you,” he said, finishing off his burger. “Maybe you’re lucky. Some mothers go about their lives without a backward glance when the kids are grown.” Frank got up to start rinsing the dishes.
“I know she thinks she’s trying to help,” Judy said plaintively, finishing her glass and eyeing what was left in the bottle. “It’s just that Mom always wants me to do things her way. I can’t stand it.”
“She’s never acknowledged your right to make your own decisions,” he offered, clashing dishes together in the washing machine.
She picked up the roach out of the ashtray and fingered it. “The only way I could grow up was by rebelling against her.”
He took her dishes. “But that would mean you defined yourself as being Not Your Mother.”
She nodded rapidly. “I made a study of what she was like, and learned how not to do it.”
And here you are, two peas in a pod. He looked around for more dirty dishes. “You’ve become her perfect antithesis. She should be pleased.”
Judy frowned. “Well, she’s not. She’s still trying to fix me.”
He laughed. “You’re as fixed as you're going to get. You’ve made all your own mistakes, and you’ve been living with the consequences ever since.”
You, for example. She uncorked the wine. “I just know she’s never going to stop doing it. It’s hopeless. She’ll afflict me till she dies.” She rose from the table, wine and roach in hand. “Hell, it doesn’t matter when she dies, I’ll still hear her voice until [b]I’m[/b] dead.”
He tried to give her something positive to think about. “It’s okay to resemble your family,” he said, as she opened the back door to go out.
“No it’s not. I catch myself interfering in my kids’ grownup lives, and it makes me want to kill myself.” She shut the door, downed the wine in one gulp, and lit the roach, singeing her eyebrows.
* * *
Rick arrived home to chaos. The kids were screaming and running around. The house was a mess, the dinner wasn’t ready even tho he was an hour late. He found his wife in the laundry room scrubbing grass stains out of a tiny button down Brooks Brothers shirt.
“Where’s dinner?” he greeted her.
She looked up at him with a shy smile. “Hello, dear,” she said softly. I’m just trying to avoid getting Junior another shirt for class picture day. I don’t think it’ll show under his blazer, do you?”
“I asked where dinner was,” he snapped. “I think that’s more important than clothing, don't you?” She dropped the shirt into the washer and scurried past him to the kitchen. Such a difficult day, and he had to come home to blaring incompetence. He took a deep breath and tried to rid himself of the weight of disaster. Then the kids banged into something and he stalked out, ready to spank their little butts.
Over dinner, the kids silently picking at their food, his wife meekly attentive to his needs, he relented and told them how bad his day had been. The ungrateful vendor, the old friends who were falling down on the job, the bank that was out to get him.
“It’s no wonder you were so hard on the children,” she said, glancing at the kids to let them know their father still loved them.
He harrumphed. “The children get away with murder around you.” He caught their eyes as they furtively looked at him. “That spanking was for things you did that I didn’t catch you doing.” The kids squirmed in their seats.
His wife cleared her throat. He turned to look at her. “The news said police arrested a criminal at some apartment building.” She didn’t want to say too much in front of the children. He shrugged eloquently. “Well, they might have looked like one of yours, but probably not.” She turned to the kids, “Eat your dinner.” Then she looked at him to see how he was taking it.
He thought for a moment. “You don’t know what you’re talking about. My tenants aren’t criminals.”
She changed the subject. Forbidden subjects were his company, unless he brought it up; his apartments, unless he brought it up; money, politics, religion or the weather, unless he brought it up. To mention anything about the kids would incur sarcasm and threats about whatever he thought they were doing wrong. She hesitated to draw his attention to herself because he could always find something to hammer her with.
“I went to the store today and saw some nice sirloin steaks, but they were so expensive that I put them back.”
“You sound like my mother,” he growled.
She blushed and looked at her plate. “Not that you don’t deserve the best food, but I thought with the trouble at work, I could save a little here and there...”
He was suspicious. “Have you been talking to her?” What did they say about him?
“No!" He didn't understand. "She hung up on me. You know she doesn’t like me.”
“If you’d only make the effort." He looked away. "Or not. You’re not her idea of a proper wife, anyway.”
She was silent. The kids asked to be excused and fled upstairs to get ready for bed. She sat there for a moment, waiting, and then gathered the dishes and left the table when he didn’t say anything.
Damn her. The last thing he wanted was for the two of them to be cozy together. Mom would infect his well-trained wife and they’d turn against him. Why not? Everybody else was turning against him. What more exquisite betrayal than by your mother and your helpmeet? He needed them apart. It was his ship, and he’d be damned if he was going to let a mutiny brew up.
* * *
Cindy was sick of listening to Bill brownnose his colleague. The guy was just interested in his Beefeater and soda, and Bill was playing like he was in the World Series. She was sick of smiling and tired of ducking off to the bathroom to be alone and self medicate. She’d had a long, boring day full of idiots and clowns an she just wanted to get her bare feet into those slippers. Chinchilla. She felt around in her clutch for another Xanax and downed it with a discreet sip of Jenssen cognac. Smiling.
Later after she let Bill have sex and he was sleeping, she lay in bed thinking until the Ambien kicked in. She’d been such a good daughter, and Mom hated and persecuted her. She married the first guy with prospects and escaped, and this is where she ended up. She blamed Mom for it all. A life of going thru the motions, of keeping up appearances. Doing all the things Mom had expected and demanded of her. Miss Achievement. She could just die, it was so empty.
She wanted to push Mom down the stairs at home, the stairs Dad sat on when he spanked them with the spatula every night. The stairs of pain. Humiliation. Red, inflamed bottoms.
Cindy slept soundly and didn't dream. But at 2:17 Sindy got up and rearranged the curio cabinet in the living room.
* * *
Gordon hit the streets in his Camaro, stocking up on energy drinks at the convenience store, stopping to buy a fistful of prescriptions from some guy, at the pharmacy to turn those scripts into merchandise, a stop at a guy’s apartment for enough weed and a stop between apartment buildings for plenty of coke. He crumpled his last can of drink as he was pulling into the parking lot of the Scarlet Pimpernel.
He wasn’t late. He was never late. The party never started without him. There was no late in his line of work, anyway. The real Scarlet Pimpernel got nothin on me baby. The bouncer waved him in. It was still early, tho it’s never early in a strip club. The office workers and salesmen had gone home to their wives and the players were hardly up out of bed yet. It was a lull he loved. He could sit in his dark corner with his sunglasses on, nurse a drink, keep his eyes on everything, and do that thing he did.
Gordon was the majordomo of the Scarlet Pimpernel. You wanted to score, you went to Gordon. You needed a favor, you saw Gordon. When there was trouble, Gordon jumped into the fight. When the girls were having a bad night, Gordon comforted them. Everybody’s pal.
Mom thought he was a UPS driver. Before that she thought he’d been a computer programmer and kept offering to talk to Rick about a job, so he picked another job out at random and pretended to do that. But badly. Always going to get fired because of something that wasn’t his fault. Always being late on the rent. Always borrowing a little here and there. The fucking rest of them wanted to kill her, but he wanted her to live forever.
A guy he was waiting for came into the club, squinting against the gloom. He lit u pa cigarette and rehearsed how he wanted it to go.
“Hey, Johnny, how’ s it hanging? Getting any?”
“Hey, Gordon.” Johnny slid into the seat next to him “You’ll like this. Allen's in jail.”
* * *
Mom had slowly filled the dishwasher over the last week, and tonight she made a little game of putting soap in it and starting the wash cycle. She’d done a lot during the day, tho she couldn’t point to anything. No matter, she was tired out and ready for bed, and now she could listen to the humming of the washer and pretend it was the kids back at home, talking in the kitchen. A nice sound, evoking lots of warm memories of when they were kids. When they were happy.
The trouble is that if they [b]were[/b] back home now they’d be sitting in the kitchen whispering about her. Mom bashing, they called it, thinking she never noticed. Didn’t they know it hurt? They had to.
She vowed to cut them all out of her will. But first she’d have to write one. This started her thinking about her things, the valuable legacy she had to leave, things that she loved and cherished and took care of. She thought of the things she loved that had already been lost, or broken – or worse yet taken – by her own children. Her heart clouded.
She had almost given up on Judy, and poor Gordon needed her, but that Rick and that Cindy, they could be vicious. Some kids you really should drown at birth. She offered up a prayer that their arrows would be blunted and turned aside, and they be shown the mercy of the Lord in a way they’d never forget.
She really should at least make notes about the provisions of her will. Make sure Cindy or Rick didn’t come in and take it all while she wasn’t even cold in her bed. Or have her committed by one of their corrupt muckymuck friends and steal everything. Exclusion clauses, that’s what she needed. I hereby leave (the fruit of my womb) one dollar ($1).
Chapter Four
Gordon sat in his dark corner and fretted over his drink. With Allen off the street he was short one guy: a good guy, if undependable; heavy on the sauce; too fond of crank; and a pathological liar. He was going to have to rewrite some of his plans for the next couple of days while Allen sat in jail, because he sure as hell wasn’t going to bail him out. That’d be asking for trouble.
He sat in his dark corner while the music pounded and the girls danced for the customers. The room was all flashing lights and staccato noise. He lit another cigarette. It’d come to him.
Laurie appeared at his table, sweating and naked, her costume balled up in her fist. “I just finished my set,” she complained, kissing the top of his head, “and you didn’t look up once.”
“I saw everything, babe,” he assured her, suddenly animated.. “You were wonderful. And you look great.” Gordon reeled back and latched his arm around her waist, pulling her in for a kiss. The skin of her back was cold to the touch.
She leaned over for his drink and finished it, then headed off to the dressing room. “You going to stick around until I’m off?” she called over her shoulder.
“Maybe not,” he shrugged. Shit happens. “I’ll slip in next to you when I get home.” She waggled her ass as she slipped behind a screen into the dressing room. He savored every wiggle.
Gordon ordered a refill from Ginger when she passed, and tipped her a twenty. The place was stripclub red and black, with plastic palms in the corners and a glittery pole on the stage. It was way too cold for the girls to be running around mostly naked like they were, but oh well.
He noticed two cops sitting at a table halfway across the room. Plainclothed. Maybe federal. Trying to fit in. There was a party of young gangstas with fake IDs that the bouncers were keeping a close eye on; a trio of out-of-town salesmen close to them giggling and showing their stiffies to each other; half a dozen guys sitting singly here and there looking hypnotized. The place was empty. He looked over at the DJ, who winked when he caught his eye. Out of blow already? My man, he nodded back, hang a minute.
He thought about his plans for a few minutes. He had a million plans, of course. Schemes, plots, conspiracies, agendas, strategies, cons. Daily scams that fed into larger swindles that fueled widespread raping and pillaging, all ending with Gordon, Warlord of the Earth. He gave his balls a friendly scratch, stubbed out his cigarette, left his drink for Laurie to steal, and went off to the bathroom to dig into his bag of coke.
When he got back to his table, he saw his very own big brother Rick sitting over near the bar. Whoah. Gordon turned his chair away and adjusted the plastic tree, but Rick wasn’t looking into the dark corners of the club. He was hanging out waving money around, looking for lap dances.
Not drinking, of course. Rick disapproved of it. Life was his high. Power, money, authority, those were his drugs. but he could really have used a good drunk to get some of that rebar out of his ass.
Gordon ordered another drink once he saw what Rick was up to. Rick was the most self-absorbed person he knew, and wouldn’t see Gordon if he sat next to him. His first instinct had been to run, but he decided he had nothing to fear from his brother. It would be best to stay out of sight, tho. He motioned a bouncer over. “Hey, Jake, guess who that enthusiast is.” He had to yell over the music. “My very own brother.”
Jake looked impressed. “He’s been in here before. Lunchtime. Spends a lot on the girls but he's really stingy with the waitress, and the doorman never sees a penny.” He lowered his voice to a shout. “He likes Laurie a lot.”
Gordon grinned. “Great. He’s paying my rent. I like that. He can afford it. Owns a big software company. But that’s not why I wanted to talk to you. See those cops over there? Who the fuck are they?”
Jake nodded and shrugged. “Nobody any of us know. Could be Feds. Homeland Security. The IRS. Whatever, we’re keeping them entertained and safe.” They’ve been day shift regulars for about a week, but here they are, doing overtime.”
“They must be tired. What’s their budget?”
“Standard tips. The fat one drinks a lot of vodka. The black one likes Zappo.”
“Notice them paying attention to any particular girls?”
“Nope. They act like they’ve never been in a strip club, tho.”
“I’ll go over and educate them after awhile. Oh, and about my brother? Don’t go comping him because he’s family, okay? And spread the word? And if he gets out of line, fucking nail him.”
Jake said, "I don’t think it’s going to take him long to offend someone."
Gordon sat and observed. How could he profit from imperial entanglement without attracting it himself?
Rick was really loving it. Naked girls who didn’t mind being naked, girls who obviously wanted to be fucked, not like his frigid wife. Real women, like the girl in his lap, tugging his dick out of his shorts with her ass. Couldn’t be more than 18. And she really wants it. God that feels good.
His phone rang (an unpleasant buzzing that interfered with his hardon). He went to turn it off but he tapped instead of pressed and answered it instead.
“Mr. Fucks, sir, don’t hang up. It’s me Allen from the Westerbrook. 12C? Allen Monroe. Your tenant.”
Rick spilled the girl off his lap. His penis shrank and his balls started to ache. “Who? How’d you get this number? That's Fuchs, damn you. Do you know where I am? I don’t need to be talking to you.” He fished for his headset.
“Sir! Don’t hang up. I’ve got nobody to turn to,” he pleaded, “and your number is the only one I know by heart.” He stifled a sob. “I call it every time I’m a little late on you know the rent payment. Just so you know I’m trying. Please help me.”
Rick stopped. Someone he could kick while he was down. This was as good as sex.. The girl was still hot for him, but she’d hold. She stood in front of him with her hands on her hips, inviting his lust. He felt like a winner, ruining some poor asshole’s life. “You’ve been late on the rent every month for a year, and now you’re a month and a half behind. It’s too late to turn to me. You’re on your own. Don’t drop the soap,” he chortled.
“I’ll do anything,” Allen wailed.
Rick pictured several anythings. Hmm. “It might involve bodily injury.” He looked so hopeful the girl came up and started fondling him again. He waved her off.
“Mine?”
“An adversary’s.”
“Yeah. I’m good at that. If you throw my bail I’ll be in your debt forever. Whatever you want.” He started to weep. “I got nobody. My mamma died last spring and I never got over it yet.” He choked up.
The girl was looking a little frustrated now. Rick was envisioning the possibilities. A hired killer. Stupid but tractable. Someone to take all the risk. And the insurance, and the inheritance. He calculated the total. A couple of million right away. It would help in the short term.
He swore to Allen that he’d call a bondsman right now, and went back to his lap dance without noticing the bouncer coming up behind him to talk about wasting the girl’s time. She winked over Rick’s shoulder, and he backed into the darkness.
Rick was halfway there in moments, dreaming about getting someone else to solve all his problems for him. Seeing Mom’s cold flabby face shining up out of her casket years ahead of schedule. And all that money. Money he needed. That was his by rights. It should have gone to him years ago, when Dad died. But no, she punished him with it, teased him and tortured him. And spent it. His inheritance. And laughed at him when he lowered himself to practically begging for it. No matter that his company, and his stock options, dwarfed what his dad had managed to put aside in his lifetime. It was still his, and every bit mattered. Just on principal, never mind honest need.
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