Twisted Family Values Read online

  Charlie said, “The rules … can be hard to follow.”

  Ned nodded and sipped his beer. “They can be.”

  * * *

  Three and a half hours later, at 11 P.M., Biz woke up. She had to pee. She also had to take her dress off or she would go mad. She reached for the zipper behind her neck but couldn’t get the correct angle. She tried swinging her elbow around and under, but that approach didn’t work. Biz tried rousing Ruby, gently. “Hey, sweetie, I need your help,” she coaxed in a loud whisper. “Can you wake up for a sec to unzip me?” Biz took Ruby’s limp hand and tried to pinch her thumb and pointer together but realized it was folly. “Hey, wake up,” she said, resorting to full voice, but Ruby was totally out solid. Biz wondered if she’d been drinking. Eleven was about the age she and Charlie had started sneaking half-empty cans of lukewarm Bud at family gatherings. And Ruby was not even stirring.

  Biz grabbed the car keys and made it down the apartment stairwell, gripping the handrail.

  She’d insisted on living on her own once she became pregnant and chose an apartment in the business district purposefully. She didn’t want to be cloistered away in a little Victorian house at the edge of town where she’d have to get in her car for human interaction. She wanted to be forced out into the world where she’d have to face the people. Raising her little fatherless child on the outskirts of town would send the wrong message—that she felt shame or remorse, which she did not. Biz knew she’d played her cards right, because before long, her baby was no longer that wupsey-daisey but darling Ruby Chadwick, that pistol and little ray of sunshine.

  Epicenter or no epicenter, Larkspur was a small town and this was a weeknight. The streets were usually rolled up tight by about 11 P.M. Biz had hoped she might find someone outside whom she could ask to quickly unzip her. She also knew she could have called Hugh. Nope, a loiterer was preferable. But the only life form she came across was the busboy from the pub, having a smoke. No way, she thought, even in her state of desperation. Why had she chosen this tight outfit? Why had she been compelled to show off her figure at a family funeral? To prove she was still viable? Her family knew what she looked like. The truth was … the sad truth was … the only man who’d crossed her mind as she was getting ready was her damn cousin, Charlie.

  Charlie would unzip her.

  Bad idea.

  She should definitely not drive over to Charlie and Piper’s in her state. In any state, really. But she knew that out of all her family members he was the only one who might be up late, noodling away on some forgotten screenplay. His converted-laundry-room office on the first floor was far from the master bedroom he shared with Piper. Biz drove over telling herself she only intended to see if the light was on. What harm and all that. It was only an unzip. Well, that wasn’t true, not even close. She needed a lot more than that. She needed to be held, to have sex, thank you very much. And not on cardboard boxes but in a bed, where she could wake up the next morning wrapped in strong arms. She needed someone to help her locate the leak above her washing machine, and to say “Love you” before getting off the phone. She needed to be heard, she longed to be cherished, and for someone to ask her how her damn day was every once in a blue moon. And eventually, at the end of a long night, maybe a family funeral … to be unzipped.

  Biz parked on the opposite side of the street and quickly turned off “Bootylicious,” which might have been playing a bit too loud. She slipped off her shoes and chucked them into the backseat. Walking away from the car she thought to herself, Charlie is family, and I know he’s up, and I need a favor, and so what? The grass was cold and wet on her feet, but she didn’t care. She rounded the corner of the house; a single desk lamp lit a trapezoidal swath of their blackened backyard. Biz tapped on the sliding glass door and waited on the chilly slate patio. Widening her big eyes to appear awake and sober, she hoped they would tell her story without having to say much: So sorry, I know it’s late, I wouldn’t be here if I didn’t have to be, etc. But the body that blocked the light wasn’t Charlie’s. It was undeniably, regrettably Piper’s.

  “What are you doing here?” Piper said.

  “I know, it’s so embarrassing,” said Biz, looking right at Piper, hoping to convey an obvious expectation she would answer the door. In truth Biz was firing on all cylinders, immediately more sober. Holy hell, she thought. Keep it together, for godssake.

  Piper remained annoyed. “Where are your shoes? Jesus, Biz, come in.”

  “Jesus Biz! That’s funny, I thought his last name was Christ.” Biz was going for yucks, but Piper shook her head, then took off her slippers. She kicked them over to Biz as if to say, Here, take these. “Are you still drunk?”

  “Not anymore,” said Biz. “Maybe a little. It’s fine. I’m the only one out there. Just me and a bunch of judgmental mailboxes.” Piper didn’t laugh. Biz couldn’t remember the last time she’d seen Piper laugh or even her teeth. She inched her feet into the slippers and mumbled, “Thanks.”

  Piper retied her bathrobe. “Why are you here?”

  “Oh God. It’s the dumbest thing. I can’t get my dress unzipped. I tried to wake Ruby, but she wouldn’t budge. I went into town, but there was no one. Normally I would just sleep in my dress but it’s that old taffeta that doesn’t give and I could use a decent night’s sleep and I figured…” She trailed off.

  “You figured Charlie would help.”

  “Sure. Why not. You or Charlie, whoever was up. What are you working on so late?” She hoped she sounded casual enough. Harmless.

  “Family vacation. I knew I wouldn’t be able to sleep until I had the hotel squared away.”

  “Nice. Where ya goin’?”

  “Biz,” Piper said, refocusing their conversation. She paused just long enough to make Biz squirm. Biz looked away from Piper and to all the family photos, each in a sterling silver frame, depicting a calculated life—skiing, sailing, tennis—clustered on every shelf in the office, evidence Piper was living the life Biz coveted. They all looked happy. They sure seemed occupied. Why did Piper get everything she wanted? She wasn’t even really that nice.

  Biz could feel herself sway and planted her feet wider to stop the movement. She hoped Piper hadn’t noticed and said, “Remember when we were friends?”

  “Of course,” said Piper unconvincingly. “We still are.”

  “You think so?” said Biz. Something in her—an alcohol-fueled antagonistic streak—egged her on. “We spent a lot of time together growing up. I was thinking about it the other day. All those summers as mothers’ helpers and hanging out after school in your room, listening to records and making up dances to the Carpenters—”

  “I forgot we used to do that.” Piper allowed for a pleasant smile.

  “We probably logged hundreds of hours together, and the thing I kept recalling was … you weren’t very nice to me.” Piper’s face fell. Biz said, “You were a bully and the queen bee—bossing me around, insisting I always be the backup dancer and you always the star. I remembered you forcing me to ride the roller coaster at Jenkinson’s, then ditching me for another friend after I threw up.” Shame kept Biz from calling her mom to come pick her up because Claire would have blamed Biz somehow and Piper would have tattled. It was such a small town. Which was why it was so odd for her—both of them, really—when Piper showed up in Paris.

  “I might not have been…,” Piper said. There was a slight pause. “Very kind.”

  “You weren’t. You were mean, and I cried a lot as your friend. I felt ugly and untalented and full of self-loathing when I was with you. And yet I remained your friend for years until Charlie made it end. I should have been stronger. It’s my own fault. I know now that people treat us the way in which we let them. I should have found new friends. But I must have been weak enough, or just insecure enough. I was this nice kid who wanted to be your friend. What happened to you that you would treat someone that way?” Biz was poised and emotionally detached. She was simply curious to know.

  “I’
m really sorry for … You’re definitely none of those things now. You never were.”

  “I know. And the wonderful thing about being adults is, we don’t have to be friends anymore.” Biz was calm as she spoke to Piper, her confidence laced with pity. “I think we do an adequate job when the family is together, but I know we’re not friends. I’ve known it for some time.”

  Piper managed, “Okay.”

  “And I’m sorry you’re unhappy.”

  “I’m not unhappy.”

  “And I forgive you.”

  Piper hardened again. “I’m not looking for your forgiveness. And while we’re on the subject, you’re the unhappy one—showing up here, looking for Charlie—”

  “I wasn’t—”

  “You must see how pathetic it is.”

  “I just needed—” Biz stopped herself. “There you go again. Mean.”

  “Look, whatever happened between you and Charlie has nothing to do with me. I knew that in Paris. You were pushed together since you were little, and I guess in some weird universe it was possible you two would have eventually, well … let’s just say it was none of my business.”

  “Nothing happened—”

  “But it’s my business now. I’m his wife and the mother of his children. This is my time with Charlie. I want to make that clear. Please look at me.”

  Biz set down the framed photo of Charlie, Piper, Gigi, and Thorn on a ski lift and looked Charlie’s wife in the eyes. It was one of the most difficult things she remembered ever doing. How much did Piper know? How much had Charlie told her, and how much had she guessed? Or perhaps it was all conjecture. Biz had never told a soul.

  Piper said, “I’m sure Charlie will always be there for you. This I’ve accepted. But as my husband. He’s my best friend now. Am I clear?” Her jaw tightened. “Am I clear?” Piper restated, raising her voice a hair. Biz understood what kind of mother she must be.

  “Crystal,” said Biz, unintimidated. She was reminding her a lot of Claire.

  Piper retied her robe again. It was time to go.

  “You’ll remember this conversation in the morning?” Piper asked.

  “Most definitely.” Biz gave two thumbs-up, then felt dopey.

  “Fine,” Piper said, looking somewhat dubious. “Now, turn around.”

  Biz turned tentatively, saying, “Are you going to shoot me?”

  “No, I’m going to unzip you. This isn’t The Godfather.”

  “Oh, right. Of course.”

  Piper unzipped Biz. “Thanks,” Biz said on her way to the door, then, reflexively, “Tell Charlie I said hi.” Ugh. Biz wished she hadn’t said it the moment it left her lips.

  “I sure won’t,” Piper said, and shut the glass door behind her. Biz crossed the lawn, proud of herself for calling Piper out on her childhood bullying. It’s amazing how long it’s taken me to say that, she thought. I wonder why tonight? Ye olde liquid courage? When Biz arrived at her car she realized she was still wearing Piper’s slippers. She zipped back in bare feet, dangling them in her two fingers. When she arrived at the back door again, she laid them quietly on the mat. Looking up, she saw her brother, E.J., through the glass door, fucking Piper against Charlie’s desk from behind.

  * * *

  Biz went home, slammed a shot of tequila, then stared at the clock, wishing it would hurry the hell up and get to morning. She hoped the image of Piper and E.J. would seep out of her head, but it remained there, tenacious and sticky. She arrived at the bakery a little before 5 A.M., when she knew Muriel would be starting her shift. She put Norah Jones’s “Come Away with Me” on the iPod dock, so loud it bounced off the linoleum floors. Biz had listened to it endlessly since its release and hoped it would calm her, keep her from punching a hole through a wall.

  “What are you doing here?” said Muriel, putting her purse in her cubby. “You’re off today.” She took out a Marlboro, tapped it on the side of the box, and snickered as Biz manically hung the washed cookie cutters on the wrong hooks. “What’s on your mind? Your hamster wheel is going. And you’re doing a shitty job.”

  “I’m going to marry Hugh,” declared Biz, not stopping or slowing down.

  “Are ya now,” said Muriel, unconvinced. She exhaled and began a well-worn circuitous path through the bakery, switching on lights and ovens, and pulling flats of eggs out of the fridge so they would warm to room temperature. Biz trailed behind her, spouting, “Life is shit and love is really bullshit, and everyone’s a fraud, and what the fuck.”

  Muriel was unfazed. “Eloquent. Is that Shakespeare?”

  “I’m serious. No one takes love seriously, or believes in it, so why should I? It’s all about who fits the requirements at the time, or furthers whatever agenda they’ve plotted for themselves, so I’m just going to marry Hugh. He’ll be a nice father man to have around the house for Ruby, he’s got enviable table manners, likes books, so, there you go.”

  “Father man? What is that, Amish?”

  “He can’t dance worth shit, but who cares about dancing?”

  “You do.”

  “Well, not anymore. Hugh’s game, so he’s the one.”

  “Literacy and table manners. That’s your bar, huh? Sounds ducky. Let me know how that works out. And how do you think the sex—”

  “Don’t mention sex right now.” Biz returned to the cookie-cutter wall and rehung them on the right hooks.

  Muriel began prepping pans, coating them with butter and flour. “I thought good sex was part of your mission statement. How do you foresee Hugh satisfying that particular requirement?”

  Biz whipped around. “Fuck sex! People have it with whoever the fuck they want to eventually anyway. Why should I play by the rules if no one else is? Fuck the rules.”

  “What ‘people’ are we referring to?” Muriel prodded.

  “I can’t tell you. Not yet. I don’t even know … how to … maybe after the next round of divorces…”

  “You’re babbling.”

  Biz wished she had a blackboard and a piece of chalk. “Mom once told me the first round of divorces happen in the first four years of marriage. Those are the ‘I’ve made a terrible mistake’ people. I’m thirty-six and never been married; I skipped that round. The next is after seven to ten years. Those are the ‘We never have sex anymore’ people. Those are my people. Those are the divorced guys available to me, though they want younger women. Hugh isn’t in that camp because he’s a widower and, knowing him, probably didn’t mind that he never had sex. Or lame sex…”

  “Get back to Claire’s algorithm.” Muriel was listening with rapt attention. She was married, but not happily and hadn’t been for a while.

  “Oh, right. Then you skip to eighteen years of marriage. That’s when ‘Is this all there is?’ sets in. I could wait for that group of dudes, but I’d rather not if I don’t have to. They’re all basket cases. The last round is about twenty-six or -eight years in. Those are the couples who decide early on to ‘stick it out for the kids’ and end up doing the most damage right up until the last one goes to college. Those guys definitely want younger women. I hope to be dead by then.”

  “Boy, Claire really worked it out for you, didn’t she?”

  “I think the shame kept her awake nights.”

  “You don’t need a man—you’ve got your family and you’ve got me.”

  “Please don’t mention my family right now,” Biz said, rubbing her face.

  “Wh—”

  “Just don’t.”

  “Fine.”

  Biz watched Muriel pour out ribbons of banana bread batter without spilling a drop. Mesmerized, she lit a cigarette. For a tough broad, Muriel could be an incredibly solicitous confidante. Biz said, “Okay, so, my friends are you and Rebekah. And Georgia, when she’s not in jail, or kicking Foster out, or taking him back. And Sissy, I guess, though there isn’t much to her, but I suppose beggars can’t—”

  “Do you know how many friends people need?” Muriel was pointing at her with a rubber spatula
. “They’ve done global longitudinal research on this—real science-based stuff for child development purposes. Guess.”

  Biz thought. “Four? Seven. No, three. Three?”

  “One,” said Muriel. “People need one friend. The rest are gravy. One friend helps a child grasp sharing and compassion, trust and accountability, taking turns on the swingset and all that other shit we’re supposed to learn so we grow into law-abiding citizens and well-informed voters. You’ve had one good friend, haven’t you? Before me?” Biz nodded. Charlie had always been there. Or almost always. “So then why are your knickers in a twist? Did something happen?” Biz stared at the cigarette pack as images of her and Charlie blowing smoke rings and looking for shooting stars intermixed with Piper having sex with E.J. To think she and Charlie barely spoke anymore because it was better for his family. And for Piper. What an unbelievable cunt.

  Muriel took a sip from a mug that read ESCHEW OBFUSCATION. “You’re staring,” she said. “Sorry. Yeah. I mean, yes.” Biz grinned. She felt soothed by the notion of Grandpa Dun correcting her grammar.

  “Truthfully, I see the way your family orbits you and is aware of your life, and is part of your life—in the best possible way—without being too invasive. I think they’re your closest friends. It’s okay if your family is your best friend. It’s allowed.”