Twisted Family Values Page 4

  Just don’t get too close to me, and I’ll keep my distance from you, and everyone will leave us alone.

  1984

  Two fairly decent, liberal arts college campuses, Boston, Massachusetts

  Bizzy and Choo did well enough on their SATs to get into the kinds of Boston liberal arts colleges that people of their caliber pretended were excellent though they were academically lesser robust institutions. Bizzy was off to Seldon University for art history, and Choo was headed across town to Finley College to study economics—at his father’s insistence—with a minor in French New Wave cinema. Both Claire and Cat separately sat their kids down and gave them the lecture about starting a new chapter. They went on about turning over leaves and how this was their chance to make new friends up in Boston—“friends you’ll have for the rest of your life.” “Uh-huh,” the cousins murmured, listening dutifully. Whatever, they thought independently. I already have a best friend. There was so much emphasis on starting fresh and reinventing oneself that they decided to pick new names. Bizzy shortened to Biz, and Choo became Charlie. And for fun they decided not to tell their family about the change or let the world know they were cousins.

  Choo was slightly homesick, and Bizzy chided him gently, but being away from the family did them both a world of good. They aligned their class schedules so they could check out ska bands at night and art galleries and movie houses during the day.

  Biz would have minored in fashion if Claire had allowed her, but devoured Seldon’s art history curriculum regardless. She was jealous of Charlie, who knew he wanted to be a filmmaker, and clung to the conviction her ideal career would appear. She knew she loved making crazy costumes, and sewing, and glue guns. She knew she loved absurdity and tequila. But there was one thing she could never divulge to the other art buffs in her classes. What Biz really wanted was to become a mom. They would have deemed it uninspired, too bourgeois and uncreative, so she never told them. Nor did she tell Charlie.

  * * *

  Claire and Cat drove up to Boston together for Parents’ Weekend, leaving the men and younger kids at home. They shared one car, having no interest in learning the T, and stopped at Biz’s dorm room first. Tindy Weldon answered the door in peach wide-wale pants, painted barrettes, and a lemon Izod shirt. She had excellent posture and spoke with the anxious-to-please lilt of a Disneyland tour guide. Claire assessed Tindy and was immediately relieved. Biz’s mom had approved her college roommate.

  “Hi! One of you must be Biz’s mom. I can totally see the family resemblance. Neat-o. Here’s our room. And this is my bed. And this is Biz’s bed, and…” Though her voice was cloying, she clearly came from the right background—PLU, or People Like Us, as Claire always said. Tindy continued her prattling. “Biz isn’t here. Probably with Charlie. Did she know you were coming?”

  Claire said, “She knows. I’m her mother, Claire. I left a message this morning.”

  Tindy looked up as if delighted by a cartoon hummingbird hovering just out of reach. “Ohhh, that’s what that meant,” she said as if putting two and two together were something novel. Cat extended her hand. “Hi, I’m Bizzy’s Aunt Cat. Did she say when she would be back?”

  “Who’s Charlie?” asked Claire. Cat glared at her sister.

  “Oh, her best friend, supposedly, but everyone thinks they’re dating,” said Tindy, pleased with her role as ace communicator.

  Claire ignored her sister’s look. “What do you mean by ‘supposedly’?”

  “Oh, they say they’re not dating, but everyone assumes they are. They’re partially inseparable. I mean practically.”

  “Neat-o,” said Cat facetiously.

  Just then the door flew open. It was Biz, flushed and panting. “Oh, my goodness, I’m so sorry I’m late!” she said, and gave her mother a perfunctory hug. Her aunt’s hug included a kiss on the cheek.

  “It’s fine, sweetheart,” said Cat. “We’re so happy to see you! What a terrific room. Isn’t it, Claire?” Claire followed her sister’s enthusiastic lead with a forced smile. “Tindy was just telling us about your new best friend, Charlie. Does he want to join us for lunch?”

  Biz looked as if she’d been prodded with something small and sharp. “Um, nope, that’s okay. He’s at a tournament. All weekend. He’s a tight, uh, guard. It’s an away game.”

  Cat rescued her niece. “You don’t have to tell us any more about him if you don’t want to, sweetheart. You’re entitled to your privacy now that you’re a coed. Isn’t that right, Claire? Our Bizzy is a young woman, all grown up.”

  Claire put on a thin smile as if trying on an ugly handmade sweater in front of its maker. “I’ll handle Bizzy, thank you very much.”

  “It’s Biz now, Mom. People are calling me Biz. Let’s eat!” she said, and ushered them out the door before they could invite Tindy to join them. What a total spaz, Biz thought. Of all the people I could have been assigned to. Christ. I can’t believe she told them about Charlie.

  Claire insisted they lunch at L’Espalier, which seemed a little much to Biz, but anything to placate her mother—she could be impossible at restaurants. Before ordering, Claire went to the restroom, leaving Cat and Biz alone. Cat lifted her butter knife and with assuredness, said, “Please pass the rolls, my dear. Also, your friend Charlie is Choo, yes? You’re better off telling me now, because we only have a few minutes to devise a game plan, and it would be a shame to waste even one second on you trying to deny the truth.”

  Biz’s eyes grew wide as she looked at her aunt, who was on the money as usual. Why should she feel guilty about hanging out with her cousin? Biz wanted to wring Tindy’s neck.

  Cat said, “I thought so.”

  Biz took a moment, then inhaled. “It’s not. Dammit. We’re not—” Biz was ramping up for an overblown defense. Cat cut in, “I’m not suggesting you are. You’ve been best friends your whole lives. I’m not suggesting you stop now. If your mother prods, tell her your relationship with this young mystery man is new and you don’t want to jinx it by talking about it. There are a million Charlies out there. Say that if it becomes something worthy of announcing, she’ll be the first to know.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Cat.”

  “Why didn’t you tell people you were cousins? It’s going to bite you in the ass, young lady.”

  “I know. I know. It was dumb. But everyone had such a freak-out that night in the basement, and I feel like Mom’s looked at us cross-eyed ever since.”

  Cat did not disagree with her. She was glad to feel some measure of control over their clandestine relationship, which conveniently assuaged her guilt. “It’s fine with me, but if anyone calls Choo Charlie in front of your mom, you’re sunk. You two are dingbats, you know that?” said Cat, no nonsense.

  “I know, I know. Please take her to see Charlie’s dorm, I mean Choo’s, as soon as our lunch is over. You don’t need to come back here. I’m having a great time at school, promise. Passing grades, no drugs, clean sheets—all that. She just needs to see I’m alive, right? Then she can go back home, or visit E.J. or whatever.” Biz hadn’t thought about Charlie in a boyfriend-y way. I mean, sure he’s objectively hot, she thought. There were plenty of hot guys at school. You make one mistake when you’re twelve and the world crucifies you forever.

  “And if you can assure me you and Choo aren’t … You’re cousins, remember?”

  “Aunt Cat.” Biz looked her straight in the eyes. “There is nothing kinky going on between me and Choo. And of course I remember we’re cousins—what a weird thing to say. Plus I’m still a virgin, for crying out loud. Didn’t you see the neon sign on my forehead?”

  Cat answered wryly, “Oh, is that what that was.” She realized in hindsight it was a weird thing to say. She needed to watch her step now that her niece was older and sharper. She couldn’t slip up and spill the beans—had to stay on her game.

  “I’ve been trying to get rid of my virginity, but I’ve only met boorish douchebags or preppy jackasses. I thought, finally! I’m at college
and no one knows that stupid story about me and Choo. But I’m trying to lose it, I really am. I have to kiss a lot of frogs and all that, I know.”

  “Oh, dear. You sound serious. Would you like me to get you on the pill? Unless your mom has already offered…”

  Biz’s eyes popped. “Ha! No way, José. You would do that for me? Yes, please! But we can’t tell Mom.”

  “I would have to agree.”

  Biz had loved her Aunt Cat more than her own mother for years. She discovered this in junior high when asking her mom for advice. Claire would inevitably blame Biz for whatever incident was causing her to second-guess her own behavior. Biz finally defaulted to Aunt Cat for guidance. She was met with compassion and level-headed advice. Even Uncle Ned listened with patient counsel.

  Cat said, “Okay, I’ll see what I can do. I don’t want you to be reckless.”

  “Like you?” Biz smirked.

  “I beg your pardon, missy, but yes. Like me.” Cat smirked back. She had an inkling Larkspur felt provincial to Biz and she might want to sow her oats once she moved on. Cat had had impulses, too, back in her day, and wanted to make certain Biz was protected from any slip-ups that might hamper her academic career. Or, unintentionally, the rest of her life.

  Claire was winding her way back to their table.

  “How about the waiter?” asked Biz.

  Cat looked at Biz wide-eyed. “Sweetie, I get that you’re ready, and I don’t mean to be unkind, but I think you can do better than a waiter for your first time.”

  Biz cracked up. “So we can order, Aunt Cat. But thanks for being my pimp.” They chuckled, then, “Shhh.”

  The moment Biz said her good-byes she hurriedly ran to a corner pay phone and called Charlie’s dorm to ask the front desk to ring the fourth-floor hall phone. No one answered; she panicked. Biz had to come up with a message that could be written quickly and would explain everything Charlie needed to know in a condensed, unambiguous fashion. Plus it couldn’t be long because Randy Rude the Front Desk Dude would cut people off if he had to write too much down. Biz said, “This is as short as I can make it. Please don’t have a cow.” “Fine,” Randy snapped. Biz dictated, “Don’t be Charlie. Be Choo. Your mom knows!” She added, “And please make sure you put an exclamation point.” “Oh, brother,” Randy said, and hung up on her. Charlie picked up the note from his box just in time, and his dinner with his mom and aunt went smoothly. Whatever crisis loomed was avoided for now.

  After the visit, Biz knew she should branch out. They both did.

  Once Aunt Cat got her on the pill, she went a little nuts at Seldon and in the surrounding Boston metro area. Growing up, she’d never read, seen, or heard of a woman masturbating. There were no scenes in movies or discussions with her friends from home. So Biz pleasured herself with a string of quick and mostly satisfying guys. European, Jew, black, or Californian, Biz was an equal opportunity lay. She was less interested in the cumbersome bother of a relationship. This was the eighties, and she was not going to be in a desperate rush to find a husband—even if she did secretly long to be a mom. The most important thing to Biz was that she be able to dance at bars, shoot some pool, share a laugh, and climax. She was usually, but not always, sauced—tequila shots her downfall—and her clothes slipped off easily, with little regret. AIDS awareness campaigns made condoms an obvious part of the plan, but drunk, they were easy to dismiss. Most of the girls she knew were too shy to carry or insist on them and defaulted to assessing potential partners by their outward cleanliness. Biz, at least, carried one in her wallet with the best of intentions, but often blew it off in the rabid heat of the moment. Later, she’d scold herself, then get tested at the free clinic, but eventually resume the invincibility of a nineteen-year-old. She made a rule that if a guy couldn’t bring her to orgasm by the second date, she moved on to someone better worth the risk. She knew her behavior would be deemed “slutty” or “risky” back in Larkspur, but in Boston she could enjoy her hedonistic foray. Sex would be one of Biz’s vices, she decided. Everyone’s entitled to two or three.

  Charlie had one vice—cold, Canadian beer. His dorm’s pay phones ran a close second. He spent long hours and many quarters sitting in broken chairs, talking Sissy Bickers out of being convinced he was cheating on her—which he wasn’t. The rest of the time he did his homework, played his crappy keyboard, and wrote screenplays about hapless misanthropes who felt trapped.

  * * *

  By Thanksgiving, a blustering storm early in the season left branches naked and gave the air a frigid bite. But there was comfort in the weather’s turn, as well as the Thornden holiday routine, which was a surprise to absolutely no one. The entire family was summoned to Firth—a village ten minutes from Larkspur—to Grandpa Dun (né Dunsfield) and Nana Miggs’s large, rambling manse. Every detail from who brought which sides to who opened the champagne was practically etched in heavy stone tablets. Nana Miggs (née Marjorie) had carried on the traditions of her mother and grandmother before her. Then, once she discovered painting oil landscapes in her late fifties, she suddenly and irreversibly backed off from her role as head nurturer. It was too trying to juggle the family holiday goings-on with mixing colors to match the upholstery in her homes. After one particularly stressful Thanksgiving, she announced, “I’m over it,” and placed the turkey onto the table with a slight thud. “Take over, girls,” she said. And take over they did. Cat and Claire were finally in charge. They’d been angling to get control of the event planning for years, conferring in corners of barbecues and luncheons. In hushed tones they discussed what they would have done differently—the invitations, lighting, music, and menu (too stuffy, bright, slow, and too 1950s). Finally, it was their turn to shine.

  Cat and Claire were in peak pre-meal frenzy when a life-sized, homemade papier-mâché and fur-fabric horse bumbled into the kitchen. Neither sister broke their rhythm; they knew exactly who was inside.

  “Naaayyyy,” said Charlie, muffled from somewhere near Biz’s butt.

  “Amscray, you two,” said Claire, “and take that thing off.”

  Charlie said, “Take what off?” in the approximate voice of Mr. Ed.

  Claire was not amused. “Right now. We need your help. Choo, please go play the piano. You know what your grandparents like.” Charlie rolled his eyes, which no one saw, and did as he was told. He stepped out of the horse pants and trekked to the living room. Biz stayed behind to help out in the kitchen.

  Cat said, “It’s still one of my favorite costumes you’ve ever made, dear.”

  “Thanks, Aunt Cat,” Biz muttered from inside the sweaty head. “Me, too.”

  Ice cube trays were refilled and cream-cheese-based dips passed around. Cocktail hour lasted exactly that. Charlie dutifully played the music his grandparents adored, and cousins and siblings teased him for knowing. He reveled in the escape from meal-prep tension and lost himself in the beloved standards. Coaxing the baby grand’s worn pedals and keys, he hummed, “… just the way you look tonight.” It was an uncomplicated playlist from the forties and fifties, which included, “The Very Thought of You”—his grandparents’ wedding song. He relished the gentle unfolding of so many precious poems, attending to their chords without interruption. Entranced by his own fingers floating effortlessly below, he lost himself in “S’Wonderful” and “Easy to Love.” He sang softly, noting the rhyming schemes of past authors’ lyrical genius, which had soothed heartaches and set desire aflame for decades. He believed his own heart thawed in deference to their magic. He felt at ease and hopeful when he played.

  * * *

  Georgia snuck into the dining room sipping a Heineken and looking like Pat Benatar lost at the Ritz. She wore a leather miniskirt, fishnets, and a teal waffle-weave acrylic V-neck sweater—braless and backward, to show off her buoyant tits. She switched her place card with Rah’s so she could sit next to Charlie at the long rectangular dining room table. The pumpkin-hued damask tablecloth set off four tall white tapers in sterling candlesticks down the mid
dle. A sumptuous arrangement of mango calla lilies, fall hydrangea, and hypericum berries crowned the center in a tarnished Tiffany golf trophy bowl. Moments later Biz swung through and swapped the place cards back. Biz and Charlie—still Bizzy and Choo to their family—always sat across from each other and she didn’t want Georgia interfering. Nana Miggs and Grandpa Dun sat at either end, their children and teenage grandchildren between them. The dress was semiformal, except for Grandpa Dun who sported a bow tie with a silk pocket square in his blazer. The women wore wool skirts and pearls; the boys, collared shirts and scuffed loafers. Helen Forrest sang, “Long Ago and Far Away” softly on the record player, and everyone sat up straight.

  At grace, all hands clasped and heads bowed with closed eyes, except for Biz and Charlie. When they were younger, they peeked, sticking their tongues out at each other. As they became older, they smirked without giggles. More recently, they’d devised a game where they raced to hang spoons from their noses. Georgia peeked once when she first joined the family—she envied Bizzy’s connection with Choo. After that she always fake-coughed during the prayer so she could watch their silent hijinks. The fact that he was technically her stepbrother was just that to Georgia, a formality. She minced around him and leaned in close. Charlie found her attentions absurd. Biz knew it was hypocritical to be annoyed by Georgia, but in the grand taxonomy of inappropriateness, she found stepsiblings way worse than cousins. For them, such rules were malleable.