Silent Pretty Things

by O. J. Lovaz

  Michael gave it some thought. “Um, my mother did die, many years ago; and, no, I didn’t tell her about the great precipice.” Michael chuckled in an attempt to lighten things up. “I didn’t tell her anything. That’s not how I picture death, anyway. I suppose there must be as much fear and suffering after death as there is before birth—none. Peaceful nothingness.”

  “Sorry about your mother, Michael. I didn’t know.” Victor ran his index finger around the edge of his empty mug; his face twitched as if, just then, he’d made a critical connection. “The joke is on Anna,” he remarked, though it seemed more like he was thinking out loud.

  “What do you mean?” asked Michael, feigning indignation. Anna didn’t care for her father’s approval, so why should he?

  “Don’t get all worked up, Michael. I’m actually somewhat impressed by you. You’ve proven to be far more interesting than I expected. You’ll understand what I mean in a minute. See, I know that Anna has always seen me as an arrogant prick—and make no mistake, that’s exactly what I am. But I have a right to be. And I think you do too, Michael.”

  “So, I’m an arrogant prick?”

  “Yes, but that’s a good thing. Men aren’t really created equal, Michael. They feed us that bullshit since we are kids, but it’s not true. Some men have what it takes to be lawyers, doctors, men of stature, even presidents; and some have what it takes to lick those other men’s boots. Now, you should know that Anna thinks she dislikes arrogance, but I can see now, quite clearly, that she doesn’t. She’s attracted to the arrogance she wants to hate.”

  “You’re losing me here, Victor,” Michael interposed. “If there’s something I’m not, that’s an arrogant man.”

  “Yes, you are. Your stance on death, that’s what gives you away. You’ve decided that you’re strong enough to face an unforgiving death, oblivion, a vision of death almost no one could endure, a death without hope. You’re at peace with it; yet you would not tell anything of that sort to your mother on her deathbed, and probably to no one else. Therefore, you must think that others couldn’t face such a hopeless death as stolidly as you do. You must believe you’re inherently stronger than them. In your own way, you’re an arrogant wolf like me.”

  “A wolf, you said?” This Michael hadn’t expected. Was this a good thing?

  “Yes, you should embrace it. I’m a sovereign wolf, Michael. That’s my nature, and I don’t try to hide it. Doesn’t mean we’re evil, just strong, better. I’ve been plenty merciful with the sheep in my life, because I know God would want me to.” There was something unsettling about the way he spoke. Michael would have loved it if Anna had come to grab him that very moment, but he wasn’t so lucky.

  “I guess whatever pushes us to be better is worth keeping, right?” asked Michael, attempting to return to shallow waters.

  “You’re quite right,” Victor said impassively. His gaze wandered again.

  The front door swung open. Lydia approached them; Anna was not with her.

  “How are you two doing over here?” she asked.

  “A little thirsty,” Victor said with an edge in his voice, “but we are enjoying ourselves, aren’t we, Michael?”

  “Most certainly,” Michael lied amiably.

  “Truth be told,” Victor said, putting his hand on Michael’s shoulder for a brief moment, “this has been the most interesting chat I’ve had in a very long time.” He looked at Lydia oddly, with a twisted smile that seemed sarcastic. “I’m seldom afforded the opportunity to converse with any real depth. It’s been quite a treat. I wish I could do it more often.”

  Lydia blushed. She was beginning to turn around to go back inside but stopped abruptly and turned back to them. Her big, green eyes gleamed intensely as she said, “Perhaps, it helps that Michael, being our guest, need not worry about you, um…strongly disagreeing with him.”

  Not two seconds after she spoke, Lydia’s expression had transformed, and it was dread, not anger, that her eyes now conveyed. Michael looked from her face to Victor’s, which had contorted into a deep, menacing scowl. It was as bone chilling a countenance as he’d ever seen. Victor addressed her in a steely voice imbued with feigned civility, “Honey, please, we must maintain our decorum, especially in the presence of guests.”

  “You’re right, of course. I apologize for the offhand remark. Would you care for another beer?” Her voice was now like a kitten’s.

  “Why, yes, that would be marvelous, honey. How about you, Michael?”

  “Oh, I think I’ll wait a little,” Michael said, frozen in place. “Don’t want to drink too much, too fast.”

  “All right,” Lydia said. “I’ll be back with your beer, Victor.” The apologetic kitten went back inside.

  Victor didn’t speak for several minutes and would not even make eye contact with Michael. He just looked out into the vast front yard. Michael did the same. A strong gust of wind swung the branches of several large, mature trees and made a whistling sound that had a soothing effect on him. A moment later, Lydia came back with a glass of beer and, without uttering a word, placed it in front of Victor. He didn’t look at her.

  Victor waited until Lydia had gone back inside. “One must show strength with women, Michael. Remember that. They might think they want a sensitive, considerate, indulgent gentleman; but when they get one of those puppets, soon after, they are disillusioned and crave something else—they yearn for danger, excitement, even a little fear. It turns them on. Haven’t you noticed that?”

  Victor took a sip of his beer; didn’t wait for an answer. “They want a real man, a strong man. Even Anna, modern and independent as she appears, in the end, I assure you, will want to have an apex predator by her side.”

  Was Michael that apex predator? That’s what the sniper wanted to know, now looking down on him from his tower, measuring him up.

  “There must be some middle ground between being a puppet, as you say, and being a dictator, don’t you think?” Michael asked, perhaps with a brazen tone; he couldn’t be sure how it came out.

  “Wolves and sheep, Michael. You must decide which you want to be. Do you think I’m a dictator? Maybe you’ve been talking to Frank too much. That ungrateful prick, what a loser he would have been if I had been soft on him, if I had allowed him to disrespect me. Sometimes, a good slap on the face is the best gift you can give your kid. You don’t think I took a couple good ones from my father? Oh, yes, good hard ones. But I’m sure I deserved them, and they made me a better, stronger man.”

  He gazed at Michael with amusement and interest. “Oh, yes, Charles Goddard, the patron of the arts and saint of all good causes, the philanthropist, he was no sheep, Michael. He was a wolf, a bigger wolf than I am. He just made sure to lick off the blood from his fangs before showing himself in public. I learned from the best. He was a shrewd, tremendously successful businessman—but you knew that. Sheep don’t run successful businesses. Wolves, Michael, they run the world. I suggest you develop a taste for blood.”

  Michael didn’t know how to respond to Victor’s wild rant, so he didn’t. He sat back trying to think of anything he could say to change the subject entirely, but he drew a blank. The best he could think of was to comment on the time. “Oh, look at that. It’s almost five already.” Victor nodded while silently studying him. No other words were spoken for a period that felt as unnerving as it felt long.

  The silence was broken by the sound of glass or porcelain shattering inside the house. Victor rolled his eyes but didn’t move. Michael was going to get up, but he heard Lydia’s voice announcing, “Everything is fine, just a broken tray; we got it.”

  Adrift in a sea of awkwardness, Michael impatiently awaited to be rescued. Deliverance from his appalling host came to him a few minutes later. Someone in a small white SUV had come through the gates and pulled up next to Anna’s car.

  “Someone’s just arrived,” said Michael.

  “Oh, good. Marlene is here.” Victor took one last gulp of beer and leapt off his chair. “Excuse m
e,” he said, not even looking at Michael.

  As Victor went inside the house, Michael got up and leaned against a column. Two ladies emerged from the white vehicle. The youngest of the two, evidently Anna’s aunt, came out of the driver’s seat. A moment later, she and her elderly mother, Anna’s grandmother, slowly approached the house. Anna’s aunt was a strikingly attractive woman, perhaps two or three years younger than her sister, Lydia. She somehow seemed familiar to him. Where could he have seen her before? Surely, they had never met, but, wait, could it be?

  An unthinkable idea took hold of him. It seemed ludicrous, and yet it made perfect sense. The moment she stepped onto the porch, looked at him and smiled, he was sure—this woman he was about to meet, Anna’s aunt, had been the high school girl he’d seen with Victor in that photograph that had so disturbed Anna. No wonder she had not wanted to talk about it.

  CHAPTER XIII

  Anna had dreaded leaving Michael alone with her father. It was torture to think of the vicious, appalling rhetoric Michael was likely being subjected to at that very moment while she waited for a batch of butter rolls to be ready. Rectangular trays with clear lids, full of side dishes and appetizers, crowded the kitchen counter and the dining table. Her mom was planning to take them to the large picnic table out front just after five when the others started arriving. It wouldn’t be long now, Anna thought.

  Three more minutes for the rolls in the oven, and her mom would not stop talking about the most excruciatingly trivial matters. Perhaps, she feared that any moment not filled up with meaningless chatter could become one of those brief silences that often lead to genuine dialogue; and that could derail a perfect day of pretend family bonding. She was dying to take a peek at Michael. She shouldn’t have brought him.

  The timer reached zero, and she opened the oven. Golden perfection! The rich, buttery smell filled her nostrils, and she stopped thinking about Michael and her father for a whole minute. She had a roll, and so did her mother. Oh, they were scrumptious. Finally, something they could truly enjoy together. “I’m going to check on your dad and Michael, see if they need anything,” said her mother. Anna followed closely behind her, and as she stepped out onto the front porch, Anna rushed to a window from which she could see them up close, looking through the blinds so as to remain unseen.

  Michael smiled, but it didn’t seem genuine. He looked rather uncomfortable. Her father must have been grilling him with insolent questions the whole time. He must have offended him in some way. If this did anything to damage her relationship with Michael, she would have no one but herself to blame for it.

  Her mother approached the table. Through the thick glass, she could only make out a few words. Now, her father smiled and put a hand on Michael’s shoulder. Anna tried hard to listen—something, “most interesting chat I’ve had,” something, something. What the hell did he say? Was he being sarcastic? Of course. There was that face he always made. What was he saying now? She couldn’t make it out, but clearly, it had been an offensive remark. She could see it on her mother’s face—he had humiliated her in front of Michael, the same way he always did in the presence of her kids. The disgraceful scene made her cheeks flush and her fists clench. Anger and shame overwhelmed her senses.

  What happened next was rather unexpected. Her mother turned around abruptly and faced her tormentor defiantly. Anna couldn’t hear the words, but her mother’s face was taut with anger, and her lips quivered as she spoke. Michael was evidently quite alarmed. Her father’s face now grew menacing as he spoke. The expression on his face chilled Anna to the core. She had only seen it once before—the day he gave Frank that awful beating.

  Her mother now looked downright scared; she uttered something submissively, averting his gaze, shrinking; her entire body cringing as if about to be hit by a tsunami wave. Could he actually hurt her? Had he already hurt her? Anna lowered the blinds, closed her eyes. A cold draft sneaked inside of her, blowing over dusty memories of her teary-eyed, red-faced mother, rushing to her bedroom, locking the door, her broken voice answering, “I’m all right, sweetie, just tired, just need a nap.”

  Anna started for the front door. As she reached it, so did her mother from the other side. She stepped aside to let her in. Once inside, her mother used the back of her fingers to stop tears from rolling down her face, and a muffled whimper broke through her trembling lips.

  “What was that, Mom? What happened? What did he tell you?” As Anna held her, she could feel her mother’s heart pounding vigorously.

  Lydia took a big breath and pushed back from Anna. “Listen, I just…I need a minute, all right? We’ll talk in a moment. Um, did you put in the second batch of butter rolls?”

  Anna didn’t answer. Butter rolls, that’s what she was thinking about. Her mother’s helplessness angered Anna. It always had. Anna wanted to shake her up, slap her, even, if that’s what it would take to finally wake her mother up.

  Lydia ran back to the kitchen and returned with a glass of beer. Anna couldn’t believe her eyes. The beer was for her father—a servile gesture meant to appease the beast. Her humiliation would now be complete. The thought of snatching the glass from her mother’s hands and smashing it against the wall played in her mind vividly. Instead, she watched her mother stride by with the master’s drink.

  Anna went to the kitchen and put the second batch of rolls in the oven. The sweet and savory smells that inundated the air now struck her as ironic and upsetting, like a circus clown at a funeral. Anna stood ready to get some answers from her mother, who came back looking rather weary.

  “All right, Mom, now tell me—what hideous thing did that monster say to you?”

  “He’s your father, you know.”

  “Oh, screw that, Mom. What did he say to you?”

  Lydia crossed her arms, squinted her eyes. “In front of your boyfriend, you forgot to say. Is that what bothers you most?”

  “Sure, I would have much preferred that Michael wasn’t subjected to a shameful scene like that. But bringing him here was my mistake, not yours. That’s not what this is about, and you don’t get to turn this on me. We are talking about you here—about your life, and your dignity. When are you finally going to stop taking Dad’s abuse? Just leave him already, Mom, for goodness’ sake.”

  Lydia sat down on a tall brown stool by the counter. Her downcast eyes darted from one side to the other before she took one more deep breath and lifted her gaze slowly, as though with great difficulty.

  “This time I was partly to blame. Yes, he hurt me with a nasty, sarcastic comment. He insinuated I’m stupid…or boring.” Lydia closed her eyes and a tear slipped through, but she captured it before it could carve a furrow through her makeup. “I saw Michael’s expression of embarrassment and that made me feel the sting of Victor’s insult even more. So, I lashed back at him with a little sarcasm of my own. It was quite unnecessary. I know that now.”

  “How you keep finding ways to blame yourself is beyond me. Unbelievable. Don’t you think you deserve some semblance of happiness?”

  “It’s not always bad, you know. Your dad has his moments. When I was young like you, I also idealized love. If you’re lucky, you get to live that fantasy for a short while, enough to create a few good memories. But life carries on, and things change. Soon, you realize that little moments are all one can ask for.”

  Had her mother been a smoker, surely, this would have turned into one of those classic moments of depressing wisdom served between plumes of smoke. Anna was reminded of her neighbor, cigarette in hand, pensive, lonely, missing her daughter, her little angel. Was she her mom’s angel? Did she deserve the title? Was Frank more honest than her? That day in his apartment he kept crying, “I should have done something.” Perhaps, she too should have done something. Should have seen something. Should have believed her eyes, her instincts. She sure as hell should do something now.

  And she would. “And in between those scanty little moments, Mom, is it okay to get abused, belittled, mocked…maybe ev
en hit by your husband?”

  Her mother opened her eyes wide. “Why would you say that? Have you ever seen your father hit me?”

  “Well, hasn’t he? Because the way he just looked at you out there froze my blood—yes, I was watching, and I saw the fear on your face.”

  “You really shouldn’t be meddling in our relationship. It’s complicated enough as it is. But I know what he is, I know what he’s not, and I’ve made my peace with it. My life is not as terrible as you might imagine, and your father is not the devil.”

  “Well, answer me then. Has he hit you, Mom?”

  “What if he has? What would you have me do? Leave him, get a divorce, right? That’s easy for you to say. I’m fifty and have never had a real job. What am I going to do? Live under a bridge? Try to get a job flipping burgers to survive? This isn’t some movie, Anna, or one of your books. In real life, things don’t always work out in the end for the good girl. So, wake up!”

  “Mom, don’t you know? In a divorce settlement, you’d probably get half of everything. You would be fine.”

  Lydia chuckled dejectedly, tragically. “Oh, you sweet innocent child. I’ve done a good job protecting you from some harsh truths. This little empire Victor has, he got it all from his father, the magnificent Charles Goddard, before he married me. Being the cunning man that he is, of course, he made me sign a prenup. We always lived in his world. It’s about time you knew.”

  “Jesus, Mom. Why did you sign a damn prenup?”

  “I was young and stupidly in love. He persuaded me that it would have been extremely unfair for him to risk half of his father’s living inheritance when half of marriages end in divorce. So, I did that and then proceeded to become a housewife, get pregnant immediately with Frank, and then again with you, and no career. Just stupid, stupid, stupid.”