Twisted Family Values Page 12

  Biz flew down the stairs with her head throbbing in time to hear bedroom and bathroom doors opening and closing. She was desperate to check the linen closet and hoped to God Charlie had given up and returned to his room. Or maybe he overslept! These thoughts berated her as she waited for the hallway coast to clear. Charlie was rising to consciousness at that moment and felt a hard wall against his knees. He wondered for a split second if he was in a train couchette like the one in his dream—that Hitchcock film with Eva Marie Saint. Then he heard footsteps and a hand on the knob. “Hello,” his mom said, “is there someone in here?” Charlie froze, his breath seized in his throat.

  He leaped to stand as Cat opened the door. There was Charlie, in boxers and a Police/Synchronicity concert T-shirt, blocking what appeared to be a pile of linens on the floor. “Hi, Mom,” Charlie said, rubbing his eyes and yawning. He made a snap decision to play the dazed-and-confused card, the still-woozy kid who must have blacked out. Though it might present its own set of problems since Mom’s in AA, but better than the alternative. “Are you looking for something, dear?” Cat glanced at the ransacked shelves. Only hair dryers, hot water bottles, and electric heating pads remained. “Is this where you slept?” she asked, trying to get a better look behind him. Charlie rubbed his eyes again. “Look at me, please,” she demanded. “Were you here alone?”

  Charlie looked up at his mom and saw Biz behind her over her shoulder, looking beautiful and remorseful as hell. “No,” he mumbled, and glanced at Biz to assess her reaction. Her face fell. Charlie continued, “I had my dignity to keep me warm. Oh, wait. No I didn’t.”

  Cat was impatient. “Charlie, tell me what—”

  “Mom, it’s no big deal. I got up to pee and then I was cold and remembered the extra blankets and must have…” He trailed off.

  Cat said, “Did you forget where you were sleeping?” but didn’t wait for an answer. Her fingers poked the air as she rattled. “You kids had better watch your drinking. This is how alcoholics are born, blacking out like this with no idea where you’re supposed to be sleeping. It runs in our family, you know. They’re now saying it’s hereditary. Do I have to hide the booze? Drag you to my meetings? Scare you straight?”

  “No, Mom. I’m sorry. I’ll be careful.”

  “Don’t you remember that CBS movie? The Boy Who Drank Too Much?”

  “Not really. You told us about it, but it was on too late for me to—”

  “Kids can be alcoholics, too, you know.”

  “Mom, I’m not Scott Baio, and I promise not to play hockey.”

  “Famous last words,” said Cat. She was livid, her hands clenched. Biz mouthed, “Sorry” behind her back and Cat spun around to see who Charlie was looking at. Biz rubbed her eyes and fake-yawned, too. They were both such hack actors. Cat shook her head. “Downstairs in two minutes to help with breakfast. And the kitchen had better be clean.”

  On her way downstairs, Cat caught sight of E.J. sleeping next to Charlie’s empty bed. His Walkman headphones askew around his neck, he looked like an angel, flushed with pink cheeks. Cat knew she should count her lucky stars, but felt uneasy all the same. She was trying to keep the big picture in mind: how lucky that they were all healthy and basically got along. Even E.J., who was a jerk to everyone. He’d done nothing to deserve his cousins’ endless forgiveness, yet they still included him in their reindeer games. They could drive her crazy and worry her to pieces, but she loved falling asleep to their laughter and the sound of a quarter bouncing off the table. But too much drinking, she thought. Not enough moderation. They were growing up in a culture of the almighty cocktail—the keg party, to-go cup, and roadie. Hell, she’d learned to make martinis for her parents when she was nine.

  Biz took a step toward Charlie to explain, but he recoiled, shooting daggers with his eyes. More bedroom doors opened, and she thought better of drawing attention to the muddle on the floor. She also needed more time to work out what she would tell Charlie and whether or not the truth would be involved. And Charlie needed to decide if he would ever speak to his best friend again. Grandpa Dun passed by and held out his arm for Biz, saying, “Good morning, young lady. Help me down the stairs, will you?” “Of course, Grandpa Dun,” she said, and steadied him as he took the railing.

  Aunt Cat had returned to the bustling kitchen at peak chaos. Family members inched past one another sideways, carrying platters and bowls back and forth to the table. “Where are the houseguests? And where’s Choo?” asked Rah as she carried a hot bacon-onion-egg-and-cheese soufflé to the sideboard. Biz didn’t answer; she was still in emotional triage mode. How would she behave around Foster? Plus there was her hangover to nurse. Where is Choo? And where is Foster? Crap, she thought for the first time. This might not be as cut and dry as I thought, if I’d given it any thought, which I didn’t because I was drunk on tequila, the bane of my existence …

  Foster entered the kitchen fully dressed. “Hello,” he said with calm composure. No one had reminded Becky and Foster to stay in their pajamas for breakfast. “Someone didn’t get the memo,” Rah said as she passed him by. “What’s the other one’s name?”

  Foster nodded hello to Becky. “That’s you.”

  “Becky,” she said, also fully dressed, standing in the doorway next to Foster. “Good morning, everyone. I’m the other one who also didn’t get the memo. Should we change back?”

  “Heavens no,” said Claire.

  “We’re very open-minded here. You’re perfect just as you are,” said Grandpa Dun.

  “Who’s open-minded?” said Georgia in disbelief, traipsing into the kitchen in a short, loosely-tied satin kimono over a shorter cotton nightie. Her hair was tousled effortlessly; she looked undeniably sexy. Foster raised a slight eyebrow at Biz, then reintroduced himself to Georgia.

  “You’re the roommate,” she said with a grin.

  “And you’re the sister,” Foster replied.

  “So they say,” Georgia said, aware of her bare legs.

  Claire asked, “Georgia, dear, won’t you be cold?”

  Cat and Georgia both answered, “No.” Cat shook her head minutely at Georgia as if to say, Ignore your Aunt Claire, dear.

  “Where am I sitting?” said Georgia.

  “Next to me,” said Claire, Cat, and Biz simultaneously.

  “Let’s have Georgia next to me,” said Nana Miggs, her eyes bright with innuendo.

  “Bizzy, where’s Choo?” said Cat.

  “Don’t look at me,” said Biz. Her headache was pounding.

  “Who are Bizzy and Choo?” whispered Becky to Foster.

  “Biz and Charlie,” he replied.

  “Oy,” said Becky. “I’m going to need coffee.”

  Claire pointed. “Coffee’s on the stove. Grab a plate and serve yourself. Becky, you’re sitting there between Grandpa Dun and Charlie, wherever he is, and Foster, you’re sitting between Biz and Nana Miggs.” E.J., Rah, and Ned filled in boy-girl-boy-girl, modeling various versions of Scottish plaid flannel pajama sets. Cat and Claire wore Lanz nightgowns with fuzzy functional bathrobes, monogrammed and knotted at the waist. The table was set with sterling silver, white-wine glasses filled with chilled juice. Decorative gourds, nuts, and autumn leaves were scattered down the center as if brought in on the tiny backs of woodland creatures. The Thornden clan did its best to make Becky and Foster feel welcome at the fringes of their forced family ritual. And as usual, Les was nowhere to be found.

  “I’ve got Choo!” said Rah, bounding back into the kitchen. “I mean Charlie.”

  “Thank heavens,” said Claire. “We were about to say grace.”

  “He wouldn’t stay in his pajamas. I tried.”

  Charlie walked into the kitchen without pausing to say hello and headed straight to the aluminum drip coffeepot warming on the stove. “Good morning, sweetheart,” said Cat to Charlie’s fully clothed back as he poured himself a cup without answering his mother. “Please hurry, dear,” she said, “everything’s getting cold.” Cat said it to m
ask his insolence; it was unlike her son to be rude.

  “Start without me,” Charlie muttered.

  “Sit down, young man,” boomed Grandpa Dun, “and liven up. If you can’t soar with the eagles dans le matin, do not attempt to hoot with the owls at night.”

  “Sounds like I missed a winner,” said Georgia. Charlie sat, making no eye contact.

  “Where were you last night?” E.J. said to Georgia.

  “I’ll never tell,” she demurred coyly.

  “That’s a departure,” said Rah. “Hey, can I invite my roommate, Susan, next year?”

  “May I,” corrected Grandpa Dun.

  “Of course, darling,” said Nana Miggs.

  Grandpa Dun began, “Let us bow our heads,” to which Becky said to no one in particular, “Is Jesus going to factor into this? Because if so…”

  “Don’t worry, dear,” said Nana Miggs, “we’re lapsed Episcopals. You may enjoy the table decor if you prefer. Or say a silent prayer from your people.”

  Foster mouthed “your people” to Becky, who giggled and whispered back, “They’re all mine.” Biz elbowed Foster with a stern look; Cat noticed the electric energy between them. “Thanks, Mrs. Thornden,” Becky said to Nana Miggs. She was doing a commendable job of ignoring Charlie’s douche-y behavior and found the rest of his family affably entertaining. Biz looked over to Charlie at prayer time, but he still wouldn’t look back. Uh-oh, she thought. She waited to see if he was just slow in remembering the little ritual they’d been sharing their whole lives, but he remained stalwart, head bowed.

  However, Charlie wasn’t praying, he was fuming.

  The glint in Biz’s eye fell away and a shadow crossed her face as she realized she must have hurt him, perhaps deeply. She wouldn’t have minded if Charlie had ended up with Becky last night, though if she’d waited in the linen closet and fallen asleep on the floor she’d be pissed, too. Look at me, she thought desperately, look up so you can see how deeply sorry I am with my big sad eyes. I was just having fun. Please look, she implored Charlie with defective ESP, but he wouldn’t look up, and Grandpa Dun’s prayer was concluding with a nod to those “less fortunate than we.” At the last moment she glanced at Foster, and to her shock he was sitting bolt upright among all the other rounded shoulders, looking directly at her, eyes wide open. He’d witnessed the entire Russian novel play out across her face. And there was that grin again—infuriating and cocksure. Georgia caught the tail end of the exchange between them, and Foster grinned over at her, too.

  “Nice work, Dad,” said Cat, and patted Grandpa Dun’s arm.

  “I do my best to show gratitude for our abundance.”

  E.J. jumped in, “Speaking of abundance, we must have had a full house last night. Where did everyone sleep, if I may ask?” He looked at his little sister. Biz replied, “You may not ask.” She said it to cover for Charlie, but realized she’d only implicated herself. Charlie looked at Biz for the first time all morning. He might have given himself the hangover but blamed her for his humiliation. He cupped his coffee with both hands and tucked in all but his middle finger. Biz noticed and hoped to catch a smirk on his face, but none followed. Fuck you, he was telling her. And he meant it.

  Claire said, “Here’s a little story. I got up in the night, which I never do, but I heard a peculiar noise. I thought perhaps a clock radio alarm had gone off, stuck between stations. So I did a bit of sleuthing and, lo and behold, it was one of our guests, sleeping soundly.” Claire winked at Becky, who sighed good-naturedly. “Guilty as charged,” she said raising a hand. “I should have mentioned my somnambulistic ways. Please accept my apology, Mrs. Chadwick. I hope you were able to fall back to sleep.”

  Grandpa Dun piped up. “Excellent word, my dear. ‘Somnambulistic’ is a real beauté.”

  Claire said, “I was, my dear, without delay. Biz, your bed was empty when I checked in on you two. Were you in the bathroom or did you end up on a couch?”

  E.J. said, “Good question, Mom,” then swiveled toward Biz, who wished she could hog-tie her brother and shoot a poison dart into his neck. Foster, too, was enjoying Biz’s torture and his time with the Thornden bunch immensely.

  Biz took a very long sip of coffee. “Yes, I slept on the living room couch for a while but then wished I had more blankets, so I headed back upstairs. Alone.”

  E.J. said, “I thought we had plenty of extra blankets,” with mock surprise.

  “So did I,” said Claire, suspicious of her answer. Biz stared at the streaks of syrup on her plate. Don’t react, she instructed herself.

  “I’m sorry if I caused any trouble,” said Becky.

  “I don’t think you had anything to do with the trouble,” said Rah.

  Cat launched into Biz. “Later I’m going to give you the same lecture I gave Charlie about your drinking, young lady.”

  E.J. said, “I’ll wait for the movie version. Foster, were you warm enough?”

  Foster glanced at Biz, then let loose a small chuckle, “Um, yes.” Biz shot him a look—don’t you dare—but it was too late. He didn’t have to say anything; his eyes were gleaming with the postcoital zing of their recent screw. Charlie caught their exchange and Foster’s smug smile—a smile he’d never seen on his roommate in all the time he’d known him. A smile so wide and laced with unrepentant delight it could have belonged to a conquering hero. It explained why Biz hadn’t shown up. She was too busy fucking his roommate.

  A well of fiery outrage ignited in Charlie’s gut. His ears grew hot and numb; his stomach tightened. It was all he could do not to sweep everything off the table. He wanted to yell and scream and smash his chair to bits. He realized he had to get distance from Biz as soon as humanly possible—transfer schools, study abroad, get away.

  Abruptly, he pushed back from the table, stood up but didn’t move. He froze for a few odd seconds, just staring. When no pronouncement was forthcoming, his family searched one another, exchanging shrugs. Except for Biz, who watched Charlie, aching to hold him. There were times as children when they watched TV—something with true pathos like M*A*S*H—when Charlie needed her close to endure the intensity. She’d place her hand on his heart and snuggle in to give him mettle. She wanted to steady him now but could feel his ire. A mixture of damnation and defeat, it cut her to the bone without mercy. She realized in that moment she’d been cruel.

  Grandpa Dun said, “You look a little lost, son.” Charlie snapped to. He wanted to point a finger at Biz—call her a bitch and a dirty slut—but knew he was to blame for caring too much. He’d been wrong from the beginning to want her for himself.

  “I have to go,” Charlie said, then turned and left the room.

  Rah scootched her chair back and said, “I’ll deal.” Nana Miggs asked, “Does anyone know what’s upsetting him?” The table waited for Biz to answer. “I don’t know,” she finally replied, which was unexpected. Claire said, “You don’t?”

  “I can’t read his mind,” said Biz, and took another bite of soggy pancake.

  Georgia said, “You can’t?”

  E.J. said, “That’s not what you’ve been telling all of us since you both were five. I thought you shared the same brain. What happened to ‘God broke one brain in two pieces and gave us each half,’ remember?” Biz ignored E.J. and then did the oddest thing that Cat or anyone would notice all day—nothing. She glanced at Foster, wishing she hadn’t. Her mom caught the exchange; so did Aunt Cat. Something isn’t quite right between the three of them, she thought, but why wouldn’t Choo spill it? And what on earth was there to spill?

  “Um,” said Becky tentatively, “is he coming back?” She was unsure of her next move and felt abandoned. In truth, Becky was not so much confused by Charlie’s behavior—he was obviously honestly upset by something—as she was by his family’s reaction. At her grandparents’ house in Westchester, her mother would have insisted he sit back down and finish his meal, then have seconds. Failing that, every member of her family—aunts, cousins, and Bubbe—would have tro
mped up the stairs, banged on his door, and demanded to know what just happened. It was fascinating to see WASPs in action—avoiding conflict at all costs. It’s a wonder they ever got anything sorted out.

  Cat didn’t approve of her son’s behavior but kept it to herself. He was reminding her of her first husband and behaving like a dick. But she was too afraid of his temper to put him in check. And she didn’t want to ruin the family meal. Claire said, “Keep eating, everyone. What shall we talk about?” Then she pasted on a smile, which did little to camouflage the disappointment that her yearly tradition had been marred by a childish snit.

  E.J. said to Becky, “Is our special brand of awkward family denial anything like yours?” Becky was not charmed. She said, “You’re a real piece of work, you know that?” Then to the table, “Where’d you get this guy?” Nana Miggs said, “Woolworth’s Five and Dime.”

  Rah entered the kitchen breathless. “He’s leaving.” The front door closed with a thud.

  “Elvis has left the building,” E.J. said.

  “Shut up!” said Biz.

  “Elizabeth, we don’t use that phrase in this family,” said Claire.

  Cat offered, “Ned can give him a—”

  “He says he wants to walk to the station,” said Rah. “And he’ll see everyone in a few weeks for Thanksgiving.” Georgia looked over at Becky and said dryly, “More forced family fun. Want to come back?” Becky lifted her eyebrows and said only, “Um.”

  * * *

  Later on, Cat found her sister in the linen closet, refolding and stacking the bedding, which had been stuffed back onto the shelves willy-nilly. The unspoken goal was perfection, like one would find at Bamberger’s or B. Altman’s. Cat reflexively grabbed a blanket and anchored the middle edge under her chin. The sisters spoke as they worked—the way women of their generation did—rarely allowing themselves the luxury of a chat without multitasking.