Twisted Family Values

by V. C. Chickering

  Biz gestured to the douchebag sitting on the stool next to her. “Did you say this tool?” Charlie rolled his eyes and walked away.

  Biz downed her drink, then headed in the direction of the dudes at the pool table.

  Charlie meandered to the dartboard, where three different groups of women stood in clusters. Their pretty, tanned elbows rubbed against one another, leaving no discernable space for any man to make an in. Girls were such dingbats, he thought. They got all dressed up, then shuffled around in packs like chained prisoners in Take the Money and Run. How was any guy supposed to penetrate that? He bumped into one of them and asked if there was a sign-up for darts. “I don’t know,” was all she could think to say. Charlie smiled, said thanks, then scanned the crowd for Biz. He caught her eye, flashed a zero, then pointed to her and mouthed “You?” Biz was watching a game of pool. She, too, had asked if there was a sign-up to play next but had gone about it in a different way.

  “Which one of you jackasses has the winner?” she said straight-faced, then waited for an answer. A funny guy would have taken the bait, would have made a snappy retort like “That would be me” or “Isn’t it obvious?” These guys simply looked at her confused. One guy said, “Who you calling a jackass?” Biz said, “It depends, are you playing the winner?” and let loose her dimples on the room. No one bit. When she caught sight of Charlie, she flashed him a zero in return. She was turning to leave when one of the players said, “What if I win? What does that make me?” He looked over at Biz with cool detachment, warm brown eyes, and a nice jawline.

  “A champion,” she said, “and the king of all you survey.”

  He didn’t look at her; instead he lined up a shot and with a slow steady stroke banked it before kissing the cue ball into the nine and sinking it in the corner. He said, “So, all this could be mine?” “Wot, the curtains?” she asked in a thick British accent. It was a Holy Grail reference. She and Charlie had seen it a hundred and forty seven times. The guy looked impressed, then continued his turn, running the table, sinking the eight ball last. Nana Miggs had beaten “Always take off your hat indoors” into them since birth—but Biz might make a concession for this guy. One of his minions moved in to take over the pool cue, but Mr. Winner spoke up. “Let’s let her play.”

  “Really? Jesus, Mike,” said his friend, and skulked off with the others.

  “Tough crowd,” Biz said. “Your name is Jesus Mike?”

  “No, but I make them call me that.”

  Biz cracked up. She’d caught herself a live one.

  “I’m Mike Van der Berg. Want to play me?”

  “Sure. I’m Biz Chadwick. Don’t let me win.”

  He smiled an orthodondically preeminent smile. Biz wished he’d ditch the baseball hat as she racked. Then she slowly bent down—aware of her ass in Guess jeans and her cute new pale pink Esprit sweatshirt. Stretching out against the bright expanse of shamrock felt, she drew the cue back on her inhale and broke confidently, scattering the balls. Their firm clicking told Mike she knew what she was doing and it would be a decent game. She sank the seven and nine.

  Across the bar, Charlie met two more duds before discovering a gem. She was waiting in a long line for the ladies’ bathroom while he waited in the shorter line opposite for the men’s. She was tiny with tight dark brown curls that she partially tamed with a headband, and blackish-brown eyes set off by thick lashes, the kind that didn’t need mascara. “Really, ladies? Let’s step it up, beauty queens,” she said in a thick Long Island accent. Or she might have been from South Jersey or a Boston native; the accents were so close Charlie couldn’t differentiate. “It’s like they’re all in there prepping for some pageant,” she continued to no one. Then she hollered toward the door, “It’s a filthy bar full of miscreants!” Charlie snickered. He was standing opposite her in the same cramped narrow hallway lit by a single dim bare bulb. He knew she wasn’t his type, but she was funny and he liked her shtick. She was bawdy like a character actress who always plays the best friend. “Who you calling a miscreant?” he deadpanned.

  “You’re telling me you’re not? You’re here, aren’t you?”

  “Maybe I’m just here to count them. Maybe I’m the miscreant census taker.”

  “Trust me, the numbers don’t go that high.”

  “Are you from here?” Charlie asked, chuckling.

  “Is that your best work? What are you, a Borscht Belt comic? You can do better.”

  “No,” Charlie stammered, amused. She’d totally caught him off guard. “Please hold,” he said, heading into the men’s room. “Holding,” said the little spitfire. Charlie shook his head, amused as hell by her. When he returned he paused in front of her, resuming where they left off. “I just thought with the accent, maybe you’re a local.”

  “First of all, what accent?” She pronounced “all” awuhl. They both had to laugh. She reached the front of the line.

  “Well, this is my stop.”

  “I’m Charlie Muir. Can I get you a beer?”

  “I’m Becky Rosenfeld. And no, thanks. I’ve had my limit, hence this line. But thank you for the ride. What a nice goy.” Charlie thought she said “boy.” Becky disappeared into the women’s room. Charlie waited for her to come out even though he was late for his debrief with Biz. When Becky emerged she was surprised to see him waiting. As TV handsome as he was, she knew he was way out of her comfort zone. And no way in hell was he Jewish.

  Charlie said, “Hey, I’ve had a really nice time meeting you.”

  “Nice? Shoot me.”

  Charlie laughed. “Can I get your number?”

  “Why?” Becky said, not joking.

  Charlie cracked up. “I don’t know, so I can call you?”

  “What, to invite me to a cotillion? Trust me, I’m too short. The long white gloves would reach my armpits and get me all schvitzy.”

  Charlie didn’t know what that meant but was sure it was funny as hell. He smiled. “No. I was thinking to grab a beer sometime?”

  “Yeah, right.”

  “I mean it.”

  “Sure ya do.”

  “I do. But not if you don’t want.”

  “Sure, what the hell. Stranger things have happened, right?”

  Charlie hadn’t really thought this through. He didn’t think she’d be right for the Fall Festival mission; he just knew he liked being around her. Flustered, he said, “I guess so.”

  Becky said, “Trust me, they have. You got a pen? Or should I scratch my number on your forehead with my car key?”

  “Shit, no, hold on,” he said, patting his empty front pockets. “Wait here.” He took off.

  Becky said to no one, “Famous last words.”

  Biz handed him a pen from her purse. “What are you, a rookie?”

  Charlie said, “No, but I play one on TV,” as he raced back to Becky, forgetting to grab something to write on.

  * * *

  Biz and Charlie debriefed. They decided Mike Van der Berg was right for the job and Charlie should totally call Becky. A fairly sharp cookie, Mike kept up with Biz for the most part, but there were some cultural references she had to explain and tedious sports talk she had to withstand. She found it lazy how quickly he stopped wanting to get to know her. Some guys are convinced just showing up is enough. But when Mike kissed her good night Biz’s juices began to flow, so she went forth with the master plan. They went out a few more times as the festival weekend approached, though he was vapid and vaguely disinterested. She felt interchangeable to him. And what’s sexier than that? Just about everything.

  When Charlie called Becky, she agreed to meet him “anywhere but the Wreck,” as she put it. So they went to the Pour House, a quieter place with renowned chowder and draft beer. They discussed the political ramifications of Duran Duran’s hair—if any—and the dystopian message in Mad Max. Becky was impressed Charlie had seen Brazil.

  “You have?” she said.

  “Yes, why do you seem so surprised?”

  “You se
em more like a Rambo guy to me.”

  Charlie laughed. “You wouldn’t be here if you really thought that.”

  “You’re absolutely right.” Becky’s eyes glimmered as she sipped her beer. He felt as if he’d known her for years. She asked if he was dating someone. A friend from her dorm knew someone who heard he had a girlfriend named Liz. Charlie felt his head tighten and his hands reflexively clench. “No, she’s just a—I don’t have a girlfriend.” He looked at his beer, then remembered he should be looking at Becky. And probably should have thought this through. “Uh-huh,” she said skeptically. Then Charlie flashed to the Fall Festival plan to when they’d all be staying in the same house together—the jig would most obviously be up. He and Biz would make lousy secret agents. They’d never discussed the part where they reveal they were cousins. They didn’t have the brilliant criminal minds he thought they had. Idiots. Was this an issue? He didn’t think it was. He didn’t remember denying outright they were related; he simply never disclosed they were. Charlie looked at Becky. “The Liz your friend mentioned is my cousin, Biz. We hang out a lot. We’re best friends.”

  “Oh.” Becky didn’t see that coming. “Why didn’t you say so before?”

  “I don’t know. Our mothers are sisters, and we grew up next door to each other. We’ve basically been close since we were born. Her brother, E.J., calls us ‘Damien’ and ‘Omen II.’”

  “Nice. Why don’t you tell people?” Becky was still confused.

  “I don’t know. Because it’s embarrassing? Because we don’t want people thinking we don’t know how to make friends?”

  Becky said, “So, be best friends. You can be cousins and best friends.”

  “If you’re Italian, maybe.”

  “Ha. Well, true. I’m guessing your family isn’t Italian.”

  “No.” Charlie laughed. “Are you Italian?”

  Becky looked at him like the dummy he was. “No, I’m Jewish.”

  Charlie could count the Jewish kids he knew growing up on one hand.

  “Is Becky a Jewish name?” he asked. He didn’t know much about Jewish people, but from all the movies he’d seen, it didn’t strike him as sounding Jewish. “It sounds more to me like a character from Oklahoma. Not that there aren’t Jews in Oklahoma.” He paused slightly. “Are there Jewish people in Oklahoma?”

  Becky cracked up. “Not happy ones. My guess is the gefilte fish is subpar. But then there are unhappy Jews everywhere.” Charlie chuckled, too, without knowing why. Becky continued, “My real name is Rebekah. I’m Bekah at home, and at camp and temple. I’m Rivka at my grandparents’ house, but that’s a whole other world I don’t think you could handle, trust me. Them either. And I’m Becky in Boston. What about you?”

  “My full name’s Charles Thornden Muir.”

  Becky said, “Oh, a nice Jewish boy.”

  Charlie’s face fell. He said, “Uh, no,” in earnest, feeling he was letting her down.

  “Yeah, no kidding,” she laughed. “I was joking. God, you were funny the night I met you. What happened?”

  Charlie realized he would have to stay sharp to keep up. “Sorry. I’ll lighten up. I promise. I could slip on a banana peel…”

  “If you think it would help.” They both smiled.

  Charlie leaned back in his chair. “My nickname was Choo growing up, and now I’m Charlie.” Becky choked slightly on her beer. Charlie was pretty sure she did it for comic effect, but he’d also never told anyone outside his family that he’d still be introduced as Choo with a straight face if he hadn’t changed it himself.

  “Excuse me?” said Becky, incredulous.

  “Yes, like the train,” Charlie said. “My family is a little nickname obsessed. My sister, Sarah, got stuck with Rah-Rah. But we call her Rah now.”

  “Is she a cheerleader?”

  “No, she’s into physics.”

  “And she can pull off ‘Rah’? Wow. You guys are really not Jewish.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  Becky said, “Case in point.”

  They talked and laughed for hours that night. And again the next time, and the next. At the end of their third date, on a darkened stoop a few doors from the entrance to her dorm, Charlie bent way down and kissed Becky on the cheek. She said, “C’mere, pal,” grabbed his rugby shirt collar with both hands, and drew him back down to her soft, full lips. He felt warmed by her mouth and stayed in her kiss, at ease with the way she tasted. She moved her short, Rubenesque body into his so he would feel her ample bosom. He wondered what it would be like to hold someone naked who wasn’t tall and thin. The sudden feeling he had below the belt told him he was excited to find out. He liked having so much woman pressed up against him like a heated cushion. He flashed forward to the possibility of exploring her rich curves. So he stayed in her kiss for as long as she’d let him, which was longer than Becky Rosenfeld thought possible. What the heck, she thought. I’m rolling with it. Who knew?

  The few times Biz called Charlie’s dorm to check in on how he and Becky were progressing, he wasn’t there to pick up the hall phone. Randy Rude the Front Desk Dude announced the phone call over the fourth-floor PA, but no one picked up, so he took a message and stuck it in Charlie’s mailbox. Biz felt a twinge of jealousy but reminded herself this was their plan. The Firth Fall Festival—or fethtival, as they’d thay—was the first weekend in November. They needed to log as much time with their dates as quickly as possible beforehand. Their relationships needed to appear relaxed and legit.

  The more time Biz spent with Mike Van der Berg the more she missed Finn, and the more she thought about Finn the more she tried not to think of Charlie. But Mike fit the profile and was definitely the right guy for the mission. What neither of them was able to foresee was that Mike would get pneumonia. And forget to tell Biz and she wouldn’t find out until just before they were meant to leave. She immediately called Charlie’s dorm from a pay phone—no luck—then hopped into a cab and raced over to tell him they had to abort their plan. She knocked this time before barging into his dorm room. Charlie’s bed was smoothed over in a halfhearted attempt, and his toiletry bag was missing from his dresser. Foster was in the alcove, typing away. “Did he leave?” Biz said breathlessly to Foster’s back.

  “He did,” Foster replied, typing.

  “Shit, shit, shit!” said Biz, then plopped onto Charlie’s bed. “Dammit!” She cupped her hands to her face. “Dammit, dammit, dammit.”

  Foster didn’t say anything right away; he had a line of code to finish. Finally he asked, “Anything I can do to help?” He spun around, adding, “Help, help, help?”

  “I doubt it,” Biz said, and flopped back onto the bed. Her head was spinning with probable outcomes, none of which were life threatening but all of which were an enormous nuisance.

  “Try me,” said Foster.

  “Charlie and I had a plan to bring dates home this weekend.”

  “Aren’t you two dating each other?”

  “No, duh, we’re cousins. People spaz so we don’t tell them.”

  “But you have had sex,” said Foster. Biz raised herself up to look at him.

  “No. We’re cousins. We’re best friends.”

  “Uh-huh. Right,” Foster said, and spun back around to his computer.

  “Don’t be a dickwad. Our family thinks we’re socially maladjusted because we’re not dating dumbasses like you, so our plan was to each bring a date up to introduce to the family so they’ll back off and stop thinking we’re weirdos.”

  “But you are weirdos.”

  “Takes one to know one.”

  “What are you, seven? Let me get this straight: you two are cousins and best friends who aren’t screwing, and everyone else in the world is a dumbass.”

  “Correctamundo.”

  “What about Charlie’s new friend, Becky—is she an idiot, too? Because he seems to be spending a lot of time with her.”

  “I haven’t met her. I sort of saw her but not really. She looked
short. But nice.”

  “One can be both?”

  Biz ignored him. “Have you met her?”

  “Yes.”

  “Is she a dumbass?”

  Foster spun his chair back around, slowly. “No. Not even in the ballpark. She’s very bright, and funny. And since you’ve made the argument that you’re cousins, I’ll assume jealousy’s an impossibility.”

  Foster followed his comment with a raised eyebrow. Biz slid back onto the bed so he wouldn’t be able to read her face. He seemed to have a handle on her somehow, which she found simultaneously unsettling and intriguing. She weighed calling Finn but knew he had to work the weekend shift; plus it wouldn’t be fair to him after all this time. She was resigning herself to the idea that she’d have to be the third wheel to Charlie and Becky palling around together all weekend when Foster spoke up. “I’ll go.”

  Biz laughed. “Ha.”

  “I’ve got no weekend plans. Is the food at your house better than the student union’s?”

  “It’s not my house, it’s my grandparents’, and yes, my mom and aunt are great cooks.”

  “Do I get my own room with a door that closes?”

  “Uh, yes. Probably.”

  “So then I’ll be your fake date. Can I wear a false mustache? Do I get to call you ‘hon’?”

  “No and no,” Biz said.

  Foster flipped the switches that powered down his computer and started to pack a bag. “Do I need to dress for dinner?”

  “No, and what do you know about dressing for dinner?”

  “I’m from Glendon.”

  “Connecticut?”

  “No, Alabama.”

  “Hardy-har. So you do know a thing or two about dressing for dinner. How’s your grammar? Your table manners up to snuff? My grandfather still uses phrases like ‘up to snuff.’”

  “Napkin in lap. Elbows off the table. Twenty-three skidoo.”

  “Good Lord. Grandpa Dun will love you.”

  “And your grandmother?”

  “If you look her in the eye, you’ll have her eating out of your hand. Can you do that?”