Twisted Family Values Read online

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  Dedicated to:

  A.C.O.

  with love and deepest gratitude for your patience, support, awesome sense of humor, and endless forgiveness and

  R.B.L.

  ditto

  Acknowledgments

  I heartily thank: my family; Beth Davey at Davey Literary & Media for your boundless enthusiasm and eternally sharp mind; Eileen Rothschild for the fab title and giving it new life; Philip Pascuzzo for nailing the cover art; Tiffany Shelton, Meghan Harrington, Marissa Sangiacomo, Elizabeth Catalano, Donna Noetzel, DJ DeSmyter, and India Cooper for your stellar skills at SMP; Lucy Sykes for your fantastic blurb; Jen Weiner for your sage advice; Abby Sher & The Collective; Brendan Deneen; Emmy Laybourne, Elly Lonon, and The GONK for writerly advice; Suzanne Githens, Lisa Haarmann, Rob Larson, Linda Powers, and Kay McClellan for generously offering to read early drafts; Laura Booker for being my go-to-gay; Wendy Shanker for being my wrock; my muses: Sarah Beach, Marcelle Karp, Amy Baily, Betsy Hawkings, and Amanda Strand; Trish O’Gorman, Jude Webster, and Jason Neff for mental health maintenance; Liz Dubleman at Digital Daughter for your calm tech savvy; David M. Tenzer for your kind counsel; Julie Pauly at Able Baker for letting me poke around; Kim Hammer at the Fringe Salon for all the great hair days; The Village, Pack, BHBG, Montys, and heavens; and Rebecca Rounsavill for getting the ball rolling; the Facebook Copy Edits Crew for your hilarious input down to the wire; my indispensable “tour manager” Jessica Ganjon; and all past-present-future book tour event hosts, including but not limited to: Carrie Harmon, Jenny Clark, Lydia Butcher, Nancy Dougherty, Virginia Sigety, Betsy Vreeland, Bill Johnson, Katherine Birch, Lisa Haarmann, Molly Fubel, Abby Chickering, Carla Carpenter, Kip Prather, Jenny Kellogg, Becky Baeurle, Marissa Rothkopf, Chrissy Adams, Nancy Lochtefeld, Sarah Reilly, Lynne Mercein, Jane Ridolfi, Gail H. Kellogg, Kim Kiss, Maie Webb, Lara Richardson, and Amy Demas—all of your fabulous hospitality and support has made the ride so much fun. And to anyone who’s ever said, “How’s your book coming along?” Thanks for asking.

  1968

  A sumptuous nursery in an upscale commuter suburb, Firth, New Jersey

  “Don’t you just love the smell of diaper cream?” Cat Babcock said, inhaling Desitin. “I loathe it,” said her sister, Claire. “It’s like exhaust from a New York City bus.” They were checking on their napping children. Their mother had agreed to take the grandkids for the day. The two stay-at-home moms slash die-hard volunteers were headed to their garden club meeting. Only Cat said “Aww,” peaking over the wood railing of the Thornden family crib. Claire Chadwick merely glanced in as she lit another Marlboro. They’re sleeping. We’ve checked. Let’s go. Their toddlers, Bizzy and Choo, dozed soundly together, arms and legs unconsciously entwined. Dark wisps were matted to the little girl’s forehead. The boy’s diaper pin had unfastened.

  As Cat repinned her son’s cloth diaper, Claire yanked her daughter’s pinky from his mouth. “Why did you do that?” whispered Cat. “They’ll wake up. Are you nuts?”

  Claire scoffed. “Choo has his own thumb to suck.”

  “What does it matter? They’re sound asleep.”

  “I find it unbecoming.”

  “Bizzy’s a ba-by. They’re cousins, for crying out loud.”

  Cat shook her head. Claire exhaled a stream of smoke over the slumbering children, setting the mobile’s wooden zoo animals in slight motion. “Well, then, it’s unnecessary.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake,” said Cat, gently sweeping her niece’s moist tendrils off her face. Claire was too busy in the mirror to notice her daughter’s discomfort. A tall, raven-haired beauty with cobalt eyes and a dimple, she towered over her younger, boxier sister. Claire was told—ad nauseam as a teen in the fifties—she was the spitting image of Elizabeth Taylor. Deciding her looks to be the sum total of her value, she set a laser focus on them without distraction. Cat—nicknamed Cat-in-the-Hat as an impish child—was the shorter, curvier version of the Thornden sisters. She shared the same raven hair and dimpled right cheek but had a playful spark her icy sister lacked. Claire found no humor in Cat’s pointless antics and dismissed her subpar beauty. Cat rebelled by becoming a real free spirit, cultivating an audacious, risk-taking personality; whereas, Claire remained immersed in lipsticks and creams, allocating her energy to social positioning.

  “We’re going to be late,” Claire said, snubbing her cigarette out in the ashtray. She left the nursery in a snit. Cat stayed behind and whispered to her slumbering cherub, “You, my darlings, are perfection. Bizzy, your mother’s a piece of work, and I will do everything I can to be your ally.” Choo rolled over; his eyes fluttered as he burrowed deeply into his cousin’s armpit. “And you, my sweet son, are doing wonderfully. Keep a low profile and we’ll all be fine. Just, whatever you do, don’t turn into your father. And Bizzy, don’t you become your mom.”

  Before leaving, Cat clicked on the large box fan wedged in the window since mid-May. The rubber diaper cover Claire insisted Bizzy wear was clearly the reason she had been overheating. Appearances have always mattered more to her than people, Cat thought, deftly removing the diaper cover. Then she returned Bizzy’s pinky to Choo’s searching mouth. “You both have my blessing to behave as unbecoming as you want occasionally. Ignore her and have some harmless fun.”

  1977

  A well-appointed suburban kitchen, Larkspur, New Jersey

  Drapes and patios, families and slacks—the citizens of tony Larkspur were cut from a prescribed cloth. Major appliances were endlessly updated and swimming pools de rigueur. Cat’s turn-of-the-century Colonial had splendid white shingles, dormers, and black shutters. Her front door sported a worn brass knocker in the shape of a mallard duck. The knocker on Claire’s house next door was a fox. The two stately beauties were separated by a tall, privet hedge, flanked by award-winning gardens that erupted every spring. Their combined eight-acre backyard, however, was open and continuous. It boasted a massive lawn, in-ground pool, hoops, and a trampoline. The homes’ interiors strictly adhered to the mandatory design code of the day; among the approved colors were sage green, cranberry, orange, and shocking pink. More ducks and foxes repeated themselves madly on chintz upholstery and wallpaper, with the occasional smattering of crossed tennis racquets and geese.

  “Do you think our children are weird?” Claire asked Cat while looking out the kitchen window. She bristled as she said it; the thought horrified her to no end.

  Cat craned her neck to see all five Thornden cousins playing touch football in the sprawling backyard. Everyone was dressed in wool sweaters and hats for the annual New Year’s Day game, with the exception of twelve-year-olds Bizzy and Choo, who were wearing Charlie’s Angels wigs—Farrah and Jaclyn, respectively. Twenty or so assorted family friends’ kids joined them, their laughter visible in the brittle, late-afternoon air.

  “Which ones?” Cat teased, knowing full well. She didn’t think she’d ever heard
her sister use the word “weird” and almost asked if she knew what it meant. “Are we talking about Bizzy and Choo?”

  “Yes. Obviously,” snapped Claire.

  “And what kind of weird are we talking? Adorable weird or depraved weird?” Claire nearly said, “Oh, for heaven’s sake, they’re only twelve, how depraved could they already be?” but didn’t. Realizing she was being baited, she reached for her drink and another pinch of paprika. Her burgundy, high-waisted slacks set off her narrow, lithe figure, and Final Net kept her hot-rollered hair just so. Cat sipped her Tab as she watched her sister’s thin outstretched arm. “You’re not the queen of England, you know. You can stop anointing the eggs.” Claire dragged on her Marlboro with the other hand as they worked in Cat’s new avocado-and-orange kitchen. The appliances were also new—top-of-the-line Amana—and naturally preordered to match. The sisters readied the crushed nut–covered cheese ball and sprinkled paprika over six dozen deviled eggs. They’d been arranged magazine-perfect on porcelain platters as if this had been their aesthetic destiny all along.

  Cat looked out the window just in time to see her son, Choo, pass the ball to Bizzy, who shoved it under her fisherman-knit sweater and dashed to the goal line made of plaid scarves in the snow. Their victory celebration was a spontaneous polka—something they’d certainly not learned in ballroom dance class.

  “Adorable weird and I’m through talking about it,” Claire said and drained her Mount Gay and tonic.

  “How many have you had?” said Cat, nodding toward her sister’s glass.

  “Don’t become one of those people who turns into a pill just because you can’t drink anymore.” Cat couldn’t believe her sister would say such a thing. Then she thought, No, of course she would. Yes, she was annoyed Claire continued to drink in front of her after she’d entered AA a few years back. “Not my problem,” Claire had initially said to Cat with all the sensitivity of an alcoholic herself. But Cat knew deep down Claire was right—it wasn’t her problem to manage.

  “Takes one to know one,” said Cat, sorry she’d said anything in the first place.

  Claire knew she’d gotten to her sister. Touché, she thought. We’re even. “Relax, Friend of Bill W,” said Claire. “Grab the clam dip and let’s get these eggs out. They’re not going to pass themselves. You’ve done a good job, Cat. Everything looks delicious. Oh, I added sherry to the fondue.”

  Claire helped Cat untie her apron, and Cat forgave her for being a judgmental harpy. Then Cat called in the troops while Claire put a cup of plastic sword toothpicks with the sausage balls. She reminded herself of what laid the bedrock for their long, productive relationship—their simpatico devotion to family and friends, an appreciation for art and culture. There was also the desire to create a storybook childhood and give their children a lasting legacy. It’s why they’d bought houses next door to each other and created a communal Shangri-La. It’s why they herded the cousins as siblings and forgave each other again and again. Yes, sometimes Cat grew annoyed by Claire’s relentless party onslaught and occasionally tossed a few deviled eggs into the hydrangea for sport. But she went along with her sister’s largesse so her kids would know the right people. She’d made a mess of things in her past and didn’t want retribution visited upon the innocent. Nor could she risk any fallout from her secret. That, above all, was key.

  The sliding glass kitchen door opened to a brood of loud, steamy children with opened coats and sweaty brows. “Rumpus room! Keep moving!” shouted Claire like a stage manager shuttling filthy extras toward the basement door. “Except for you two,” she said, stopping Bizzy and Choo in their tracks. “I need you to pass these hors d’oeuvres to the grown-ups. Take off the wigs and fix your hair, both of you.”

  “What wigs?” said Bizzy.

  “Where are your hats?” said Claire.

  “We couldn’t find them,” Choo lied on the spot without remorse. They loved to needle Claire—all the cousins did. Bizzy added, “These wigs are wicked warm, Mom. You should try it! They’re better than hats!”

  “I’ll do no such thing. And stop saying ‘wicked.’”

  Choo said, “Aunt Claire, if you want us to really sell the eggs, you should totally let us wear the wigs.” He flipped his tresses over a shoulder and clasped two fingers to his ear, pointing skyward. “They’re integral to our mission. Should we decide to accept it.”

  “Please stop saying ‘totally.’”

  “Oh, you’re accepting it, all right,” said Cat. “Take the eggs and find the microfiche. Go.”

  “Got it, Boz,” said Choo, and reached for a platter. Claire grimaced, knowing majority had ruled. Cat shooed them toward the living room. “Good luck, Kate and Farrah. And don’t come back ’til they’re empty.”

  “I’m Jaclyn, Mom,” called Choo with mock indignation.

  “Sor-ry!” sang Cat with a chuckle.

  Once the kids were gone, Cat said to Claire, “Okay, yes, Bizzy and Choo are slightly weird. How can they not be? They’re our kids. We’re weird, you know.”

  “Speak for yourself,” said Claire, redirecting a curl already in place.

  “And yes, they’re joined at the hip, but that was our goal, remember?”

  “They’re a little too close if you ask me. They have no other close friends except that little bully Piper.”

  “You wanted this, Claire. They’re best friends, so mission accomplished. And if you think that’s weird, well then, that’s sad.”

  Cat knew Claire wouldn’t like hearing her darling Bizzy was weird in any way, but she said it, partly because she wanted to pull her sister off her high horse and partly because it was true and she wanted Claire to hear it. “Bizzy and Choo are the grandchildren of Marjorie and Dunsfield Thornden, for chrissake, keepers of the flame for all things precious and antiquated, drenched in tradition—for better or worse—wearers of pocket squares and daytime lipstick—raised by us, the Tweedledee and Tweedledum of Larkspur. How can they not be a little odd?”

  Claire did her typical job of not showing the comment stung. “Please don’t call us that,” she said. “It’s unbecoming.” Cat felt sorry for her. Nothing had ever been able to make her content, not even her daughter’s blithe spirit in the face of an unavailable dad and a critical, social-climbing mother. “Everything’s going to work out,” Cat consoled. “They’ll grow up and go off to college and make lots of new friends. Even high school will be different, just wait. Life is short and life is long, like Mom always taught us. Let them be each other’s best friends now. They have their entire lives ahead of them to grow apart. It’ll happen naturally; let’s not insert ourselves. And please don’t be concerned with what other people think.”

  But Claire was concerned with what people thought. It was why she’d stayed married to Les for so long even though he was a morose, cranky drunk. He had a sterling pedigree and the money seemed bottomless, so Claire “hung in there,” following her father’s stern advice. Claire and Les had a son, E.J., who carried on not only his father’s name—Ellister Junior—but also his insufferable cynicism and disposition. It was as if his “terrible twos” became the “terrible interminables.” Local mothers whispered the apple didn’t fall very far, etc. No one surmised Les was clinically depressed. There’s no reason for this behavior, Claire thought—he could snap out of it if he wanted to, he’s just not trying hard enough. Then, three years later, in 1965, though they’d barely exchanged a word, Elizabeth Thornden Chadwick was unexpectedly born. They called her Bizzy for her boundless curiosity. Choo was short for Choo Choo Charlie. Their nicknames implied a wink they knew their privileged lifestyle would tolerate. When one summered and skied with the right people, seriousness of purpose was incidental. A Benjamin could introduce himself as Benster with a straight face in a job interview for Lehman Brothers. And Lord knows how many debutantes named Cricket were revealed as Catherines on their wedding invitations. Bizzy and Choo were fine names and never disputed for a moment.

  Claire folded linen napkins
and placed them in a perfect tower of crisp white triangles. Cat thought about the original question. “Depraved” was a pretty strong word, conjuring scenes of illicit goings-on. Sexual deviance? Witchcraft? Nothing came to mind. As toddlers they slobbered in each other’s spit, poked, bit, and grabbed daily. But the drama didn’t deter them—each morning the previous day’s infractions were readily wiped clean. In kindergarten their penchant for arguing resulted in seats on either side of the room. Their teacher likened the experience to directing an all-five-year-old cast of Who’s Afraid of Virginia Woolf? But by third grade their flair for drama mellowed, and they morphed into a secret society of two. Their private made-up language began about then. Sure, they could be secretive, and a big pain in the neck, thought Cat, but depraved isn’t in the ballpark—not them.

  Bizzy and Choo passed the deviled eggs to the hungry crowd of inebriated adults. Shocking pink and frog-spit green was the favored color combo of their social set, as pervasive as tasseled loafers, grosgrain belts, and endless scotch and sodas. Many of the men sported bushy mustaches and aviator frames, while the women used headbands to hold back their hot-rollered curls. Everyone contributed to the smoke, and ashtrays overflowed as abundantly as booze. The sound of rattling ice cubes underscored the laughter, which nearly drowned out the Bee Gees’ Saturday Night Fever disco soundtrack album. No one danced because WASPs didn’t dare until after dinner was cleared and everyone was good and plastered.

  Cat and Claire’s raucous holiday parties sealed their hostess status year-round. They were co-matriarchs of a genetic jackpot and inseparable as a social force. At private schools and clubs, their circle of friends and hangers-on emulated Claire, tolerated her husband, Les, and treasured quirky Cat. They were relieved when Cat divorced Dick and married sweet Ned, whom she met in an AA meeting after she first got sober. Everyone liked Ned right away and quickly forgave their infidelities. It was obvious they made a better couple, and not drinking only added to their quirkiness. It was rare new families were folded in, but occasionally, when it happened, it was understood the sisters’ pull was indisputable. After initial introductions, the assessment was “Cat’s the fun one and Claire’s tough.” Though it usually took years to see past the assumption. They were complicated women with a talent for making their lives look easy. No one thought to think otherwise, when they themselves were busy keeping up.