by Karen Karbo
“You’re supposed to be in your jam-jams!” Shirl wailed as Mimi kissed Shirl on the cheek. Shirl’s hair had grown back board-straight. It clung to her head like a bathing cap.
“This is what I sleep in,” said Mimi. “I couldn’t afford a robe.”
“You should have told me, I’d have picked up one for you. Tony, dear, you can just put those anywhere under the tree. It’s so nice to have a man to play Santa again! Do you recognize that on the hi-fi?”
“Lorne Greene?” said Mouse, reaching for a danish.
“It’s Lorne Greene, your father’s most famous customer. You know he gave that album to your father. It’s even autographed. Mouse, honey, use a napkin. Oh, I forgot the napkins. Barb! Barb!”
Auntie Barb appeared in the kitchen doorway in a navy blue velour bathrobe holding an empty glass coffeepot, a frown embedded in her long dull face. “You’re late,” she said.
“Barb, dear, would you get us some napkins.”
“The breakfast napkins or the dinner napkins?”
“The ones with the holly on them. Remember, we bought them at –”
“We put them back. The breakfast napkins should be fine.”
“It’s a holiday, we should use the dinner ones.”
“– maybe just some paper towels,” said Mouse, her cheek bulging with pastry.
“Paper towels,” yowled Shirl. “I can’t believe a girl getting married would even consider paper towels on Christmas. Tony, you look so elegant, just like, who was that, Mimi, honey, in The Thin Man?”
“William Powell,” said Mouse, wiping her fingers on the sleeves of her purple terrycloth robe, the important issue of the napkins mysteriously and suddenly forgotten. She settled back in the couch, pulled up the hood of her robe, tucked each hand inside the other wide sleeve.
“My fiancée, the druid,” said Tony, trying for a shared smile. While the robe fit Mouse, the hood had been designed for someone with a head the size of a prizewinning watermelon. She tipped her head back so she could glare at him from under the front of it, which fell down over her eyes and rested on the bridge of her nose. She found it irritating how he resorted to witticisms when things were not going well between them.
“No, Robert Young,” said Mimi. “Shirl, pass the chocolates, but just let me eat one.”
“Nothing like a nice little diabetic shock before breakfast is my motto,” said Tony. “Toss me one, Mouse, no nuts.”
“No, it was someone else. Barb! Who was it in The Thin Man?”
“Mom, it was William Powell,” said Mouse.
“It was not William Powell,” said Mimi.
“Well, it wasn’t Robert Young.”
“It wasn’t Robert Young, but it wasn’t William Powell.”
“Barb! Come in so we can open our gifts. Tony, will you do the honors? Find one for each of us, then we go around in a circle, beginning with Mouse. She opens hers, then Mimi, then me, then you, then Barb. Barb! Where the hell is she?” Shirl half rose in her chair, turned, and addressed the kitchen.
“She’s outside, Mrs. FitzHenry.”
Through the sliding glass door they watched Auntie Barb by the lagoon retrieving cookies from where they were cooling on squares of paper towels laid out on the diving board, a red and green metal tin clutched in her long veiny hand. She bent stiffly from the waist, plucked up each cookie between two fingers and placed it in the tin. The expression on her face suggested someone who had nailed a large spider with a wad of Kleenex and was depositing it in the toilet. She brought in the cookies and placed them on a stack of magazines next to the danish and the chocolates. “These are made with hazelnuts from Oregon. Even though California fashions itself as the cuisine capital of the West you can’t get a decent hazelnut here if your life depended on it.”
“Tony’s going to pass out the gifts now, Barb.”
“Shall I pour some tea?”
“Let’s just open the presents,” said Mimi. “You made us come over here in our pajamas already –”
“– you didn’t have to come in your jam-jams, I just thought it’d be fun, with Mouse home for the first time in so long –”
“– you’re not wearing your pajamas, anyway,” said Mouse.
“I spent all my money on presents. I couldn’t afford any.” Mimi ate another chocolate.
“Tony must want some tea,” said Auntie Barb. “If he’s playing Santa.”
“I’m quite fine,” said Tony, poised on all fours by the Christmas tree, his robe tucked in the bend of his knee, exposing his skinny calves, hairless from where they rubbed against the inside of his pants. Mouse stared at them and thought of filet of sole. She turned away, stared into the fire, snapping as it sucked up the stray eucalyptus bud, filling the room with a hot medicinal smell.
Outside, the sun twinkled on the aluminum frames of the patio furniture. Shirl put on a new record, “A Colonel Sanders Merry Christmas,” then decided while she was up she might as well put on a pot of coffee, and Auntie Barb said, no you sit, I’ll do it, and Shirl said, you never grind the beans fine enough, I’ll do it, and while the coffee was brewing, the fire burned down, and Mouse was sent out to the garage to retrieve a few more pieces of wood.
Across the street a bare-chested pair of twins, hair shiny blond-green from chlorine, wearing baggy hot pink shorts still wrinkled from the box, were strapping surfboards on the top of their car. They were one year old when Mouse left. Teething then, surfing now. Sixteen years had passed and she was still being sent out for firewood for the traditional and useless Christmas fire.
Christmas lists were also traditional, as was ignoring them. Mouse had asked for a lightweight jacket, cowboy boots, underwear, a book she had seen at the Academy Library on documentary great Richard Leacock. Shirl and Mimi had chided her, “We want to get you fun things!” The fun things included a set of mugs (Mimi); The Bride’s Friend, “filled with tips, trends, advice and checklists” (Shirl); three cans of salmon in a shiny apple-green box stamped Made in Oregon (Auntie Barb); a pair of matronly, gold clip-on earrings for her pierced ears (Tony).
Mimi and Mouse also got twin electric screwdrivers from Shirl. Tony got a book from Mouse called On Moral Filmmaking. Shirl got a gift certificate from Mimi for her hairdresser for when Shirl’s hair was long enough to be dressed again. Mouse gave everyone calendars. Auntie Barb gave everyone the salmon.
Shirl insisted they save for last a door-sized present leaning against the wall behind the tree, but she was anxious for them to get to it. Mouse opened her presents slowly, like an old lady, Mimi said, which got her a Look from Auntie Barb. Shirl eventually grabbed the electric screwdriver from Mouse’s lap and finished opening it herself, ripping off the paper and flinging it into the fire. “You’re a snail, not a mouse, Mousie Mouse.”
“Ask her about her date with Ivan,” said Mimi. Mimi was finished opening her presents, disappointed, in spite of herself, that there was nothing of interest. Her mouth ached from smiling with delight. She had eaten half the box of chocolates, and a nauseating sugar headache was upon her.
“Date with who?” said Shirl.
“It wasn’t a date,” said Mouse, tearing the paper from her last present, this one from Mimi. “All right!” She turned the box over and read it, puzzled. “What is – ‘Ultrasonic Hair Removal System’?”
“It does it with radio waves. I got it out of a catalogue.”
“Great,” said Mouse. “I need… something like this.”
“Not really,” said Shirl.
“Well, it’s not something I’d ask for, but that’s what Christmas –”
“– you didn’t really go out with Ivan, did you? Tony, did you know about this?” Shirl stood, bright red threads of capillaries standing out on her flushed cheeks. She went to the tree and dragged out the big present leaning against the wall. Tony leaped to his feet to help her.
“Tony, you’re such a good man. He’s such a good man, Mousie Mouse! That Ivan! What did you do on your date? This is too mu
ch for me. Tony, how could you let her? Take that ridiculous hood off, Mousie.”
“Mom, it was only dinner,” said Mouse, spreading her shaking hands in a “be reasonable” gesture.
“Dinner! You don’t go out to dinner with a man at night when you’re engaged to be married!”
“It was a business dinner,” said Mouse. “Purely business.”
“What business?” asked Mimi. “Ivan and business are two words that have never appeared together in the same sentence in the history of the English language.”
Out of habit Mouse looked at Tony for support. He was flipping through On Moral Filmmaking, pretending to read.
“Business,” Mouse hedged, “documentary business.” She tried to summon up the confident expression used to persuade potential funders that the documentary they were considering investing in was not only a worthy venture but also a worthy tax write-off.
“He was interested in making a movie with Mouse,” said Tony with disdain. “A documentary on our wedding –”
“– you mean videotaping it?” asked Shirl.
“No,” said Tony, “a documentary. Like The New Stanley.”
“What do you mean? Mouse, what does he mean?”
“Weddings have been done,” said Mimi. “Solly has about six jillion clients with wedding scripts. I think Ivan just wants to get back at me through you. I don’t know if you realize this, but he was really devastated when we broke up.”
“I know,” said Mouse, gripping her elbows inside the sleeves of her robe. Mouse knew no such thing. Mouse knew only that she was fed up with Mimi’s boring, self-aggrandizing proclamations. It’s Christmas, The Pink Fiend warned. Don’t be a difficult, unforgiving, uncharitable pain in the ass.
“Oh no no no no no,” said Shirl, wagging her head hack and forth. “A girl’s wedding is the most precious day of her life.”
“Don’t worry, Mom!” said Mouse. “It’ll be okay. I’m not going to do anything stupid.”
“You went to Africa,” said Auntie Barb.
“Yeah,” said Mimi, “you could have gone to Boring and lived with Auntie Barb, right, Auntie Barb?”
Shirl’s face went slack with confusion. “What is everyone talking about?”
“Your daughter and I discussed it and decided it was simply too exploitative, Mrs. FitzHenry. A wedding – our wedding – is something special, not merely someone’s idea – in this case Ivan’s idea, and don’t get me wrong, I think he’s a tremendously talented chap – of good material.”
Mouse loaded a glance with what she hoped was profound displeasure and shot it at Tony. How dare he cast himself in the reassuring role of man-in-charge.
“Maybe we can get him to videotape it?” asked Shirl, blotting her eyes with her bathrobe tie.
“Maybe we can get him to videotape it,” said Tony.
“Open your present, then,” said Shirl. She pulled herself off the couch with the aid of Mouse’s shoulder and, stumbling over Mimi’s feet, shuffled over to help Tony rip off the wrapping paper.
“It’s a massage table, right?” said Mimi.
“It’s a surfboard,” said Mouse.
“I tried I don’t know how hard to talk her out of it,” said Auntie Barb. “She wouldn’t hear of it. She’s still got some of that good Oregon stubborn in her, even though she’s spent all these years among wishy-washy Californians.”
It was, in fact, a giant replica of a check, the kind lottery winners are frequently photographed holding, découpaged on a piece of plywood. In loopy cursive handwriting it was made out to the order of “The Newlyweds to Be” in the amount of one hundred thousand dollars.
Furrowed looks flew around the room while Shirl beamed, hands clasped over her bosom. “I made it myself,” she said. “It’s a check.”
“Quite,” said Tony. “Good Christ.”
“I told her it was too extravagant,” said Auntie Barb. “I’m going to put the ham in.”
“It’s not for – don’t you mean one thousand dollars?” asked Mimi, dumbfounded. Either (a) Shirl’s brain had healed in a way that left her utterly deranged, or (b) she was really giving Mouse and Tony a hundred thousand dollars, in which case Mimi, who owed the feds thousands of dollars in back taxes, who had credit card debts totalling more than a year’s salary before taxes, who would never be able to afford a house, or even to live in a decent apartment without a roommate, would have to slit her wrists.
“It’s part of the settlement from that restaurant. Three hundred and fifty thousand dollars out of court. Mr. Edmonton settled last week. Such a nice man, Mr. Edmonton. We haven’t got the check in hand just yet, but it’s coming. I’m saving another hundred for your wedding, Mimi. I probably won’t actually have it until after New Year’s, Mr. Edmonton said. I knew it was coming, but I wanted it to be a surprise. Aren’t you surprised?”
“We can’t … it’s really too generous,” said Tony, still perplexed, glancing frantically at Mouse for clues.
“You should invest it, Mom,” said Mouse. “You shouldn’t waste it on us.”
“I have investments! CDs and IRAs and T-bills and God I don’t know what. I’m set for life, what with selling Fitzy’s to that Abde.”
“We really can’t, Mom. It’s too…”
“Why won’t you let me do this for you if it makes me happy!” Shirl’s eyes were awash in tears. “I did the calligraphy myself.”
“We love it, Mom.” Mouse stood to give her a kiss and a hug. She tried to make them feel genuine. They were genuine. The giant check was clever. She refrained from thinking anything about the actual money. Just as Sniffy Voyeur would never eat a dog biscuit in public, preferring to spirit it to the farthest, darkest corner of the house to consume it in private, she would take this new development and ponder the implications when she was alone.
Shirl squirmed out of Mouse’s hug. “Enough of that, where’s my Instamatic? Mimi, take a picture of Mouse and Tony. You take such good pictures. If you don’t make it in Hollywood, you could always be a professional photographer, right sweetie? Then just Mouse and me. Then The Sisters by the tree. Where’s that camera? I thought I brought it out – Barb! Barb! Where’s the camera?”
“It’s here, Mom.” Mimi retrieved it from the mantle, where it had been obscured in the mob of sweatsock elves and wine bottle angels. She welcomed the excuse to do something. She found Mouse and Tony in the viewfinder, grinning uncomfortably in their clashing purple and brown-and-gold robes, poised before the tree, groaning with decorations, the check displayed cutely lopsided on account of their differences in height.
She tilted the camera up just a hair, so that Mouse disappeared, so that Tony’s chin was resting on the bottom of the frame, so that the angel on the top of the tree was featured, along with the seam where wall met ceiling.
“Smile,” said Mimi, “you’re millionaires.”
15
CHRISTMAS WAS OVER. DRIVE-SHOP-EAT-EAT-EAT, drive-shop-eat-eat-eat returned to the less fattening and stress inducing drive-meet-eat. The hot weather had ended. Every morning the sky was thick with clammy drizzle.
Sometimes it rained for two or three days in a row. It was winter. People were relieved. Mimi did not even complain when she had to use some of the money from the Christmas presents she’d returned to get a new set of windshield wipers. In August her old ones had disintegrated and blown away.
It was a little over four months until the wedding.
Mimi did her best to be kind and mature. She did her best not to think, If only someone had given me a hundred thousand dollars. One hundred thousand dollars! She did her best not to wonder how she could extort some of it. One hundred thousand dollars! She told herself it wasn’t like real money anyway, since Shirl had stipulated Mouse could use it only for the wedding. One hundred thousand dollars. She told herself that she would have fun, now that the sky was the limit, helping Mouse plan. She told herself that there was money waiting for her, too, when she remarried. Unless, of course, something else happened
, which was always possible in a world where your father is mowed down by a two-ton converter gear and your mother is conked on the head by a plummeting ceiling fan. It sent her into fits of despair realizing it was more likely that a freak accident would kill her mother, leaving her rich, than that she would find a husband. And suddenly, she very much wanted a husband. She would be thirty-seven in May, too old to be sassy and independent unless you were a celebrity.
On New Year’s Eve Mimi wanted to go to a huge party and get obliterated or else stay home in her bathrobe and eat a box of cookies by herself. Instead, it was the worst of both worlds: a small dinner party. Mouse and Tony, Mimi and Ralph, Carole and her new boyfriend, a playwright with a mobile dog-grooming service. He wore a T-shirt, revealing claw marks at various stages of healing, some infected. His name was Glen. He was twenty-four.
Mouse, the genius behind the bad idea, made an African dish involving green curries and an odious-looking root. It had taken six hours to prepare, not including the hours spent bumper-to-bumpering all over town just to find the ingredients. The final result had proved inedible.
They had also rented a video, suggested by Glen, that had proved unwatchable, one that was theoretically bad enough to be good. It should have elicited condescending groans, ironic comments, elitist howls. Instead, it made you feel like you were wasting your life, not something you want to be reminded of on New Year’s Eve.
Ralph was sullen and preoccupied, more grumpy than usual. When they all went outside at midnight to bang pots and pans in front of the building with the Armenian neighbors, Ralph disappeared. Mimi, who had come back in to purge the pizza they had eaten in lieu of the African dish, found him in Carole’s bedroom, crouching by the nightstand, talking on the phone to Elaine.
