by Mary Carter
Over her dead body—
What was wrong with her? She needed sex, that’s what. It was a myth that men were the only ones who went crazy without it. Because Joe wasn’t spontaneous anytime, anywhere. He’d never do it anywhere but a closed bedroom. Never in a million years would he take her in the woods, on the beach, against an abandoned building. And she knew, no matter what he said, or how many blueprints she drew up, he was never going to make love to her under that freaking moose.
The long, winding driveway leading up to the cabin was littered with cars. There would be a spot for Monica and Joe saved at the front of the line. Tina and Mike, who’d stopped at a shopping center just before the turnoff, would have to fend for themselves. Monica told Tina they didn’t need to bring anything; she was annoyed they obviously didn’t listen to her. Was Tina going to have a quickie with Mike in the car behind the Stop & Shop? And if she was, what business was it of hers?
The Colonel was holding court on the wraparound porch. He was holding his latest Thermal Pneumatic Double Pump Air Rifle in his arms, showing it off to an appreciative crowd. A box filled with cartons of eggs lay at his feet. He saw Monica, grinned, and pumped the rifle in acknowledgement. Joe waved his hand in a huge greeting, and his grin nearly swallowed his entire face. Poor Joe, her father was never going to love him like he wanted. Nobody would ever be good enough for his little girl, didn’t Joe get that? It was heartbreaking to watch. The Colonel picked up an egg and hurled it at Joe.
“Duck,” Monica said. But Joe stuck up his hand to catch it. It cracked on impact; yolk dripped out of his palm and onto the ground. “Dad,” Monica said.
“Last one here’s a rotten egg!” her father yelled.
“You should have saved it for Tina, then,” Monica said. She reached into her purse and handed Joe a Kleenex. He was still grinning.
“Is that it?” he asked the Colonel, gesturing to the rifle in his hand. “Is that the new one?”
“Hot off the press,” the Colonel said. “What do you think, offspring?” It didn’t matter how many times Monica asked him to stop calling her that, at the very least in public, her father never wavered.
“It looks good,” Monica said.
“Are you going out to the range?” Joe asked, eyeing the bucket of eggs. The range was a large fenced-off parcel of land in the back, set up for target practice.
“What else?” the Colonel said. “You think I’m making an omelet?” The crowd laughed.
“Dad,” Monica said. He was always putting Joe down. And Joe, who loved the Colonel like his own father, never seemed to notice.
“Did you bring a rifle?” the Colonel asked.
“No, sir,” Joe said. Monica pinched Joe’s small love handles. How many times had she asked him not to call him “sir”?
“Well, I don’t know what you’re going to shoot with, then,” the Colonel said. “Mine have been claimed.”
“This is why I was driving so fast to get here,” Joe whispered to Monica.
“Did I just hear you say you were speeding with my precious offspring in the car?” Richard belted out. Joe looked like a deer in one of her father’s crosshairs.
“No. No, sir.”
“Maybe Monica will let you borrow her rifle,” the Colonel said loudly. Monica gave her father a look and shook her head. He grinned back. He really enjoyed giving Joe a hard time.
“Would you, Monica?” Joe asked.
“I don’t have the slightest idea where it is,” Monica said.
“Just saw it this morning,” her father answered. “George,” he called to the man behind him. “Would you bring us Monica’s rifle? Joe wants to use it.” Monica reached over to squeeze a warning into Joe’s arm, but he’d already moved away from her, toward the Colonel. She should go inside instead of staying to witness the upcoming accident. Damage control, she told herself when she didn’t make a move, although a teeny tiny, demented part of her wanted to see the look on Joe’s face when George handed him her rifle. When it came to her father, would Joe ever learn?
Monica heard the laughter before she saw the rifle. George made his way through the crowd, then thrust it at Joe. It was Monica’s tenth birthday gift: The Pink Pumpmaster. It was, as its name implied, completely pink. Joe turned red as laughter exploded from the crowd. Nobody laughed louder than the Colonel. To Joe’s credit, he laughed too, although his face remained as bright as a Maine lobster.
“Very funny, Dad,” Monica said. “It was my tenth birthday present,” she told Joe. “Can you believe that?”
“You loved it,” the Colonel said.
“I wanted a Madonna poster,” Monica said.
“We gave you a poster,” the Colonel said.
“Of a woodchuck with a target on its heart!” Monica said. Her father chuckled and picked up the bucket of eggs.
“Let’s go,” he said. “I like mine scrambled; how about you, Joe?”
Monica entered the cabin, grateful her father ended on a nicer note with Joe. The main entrance to the house opened directly into a large living room. The logs that made up the house had also been flattened, sanded, stained, and put down on the floors. Directly across from the front door stood the centerpiece of the living room, a huge stone fireplace that rose all the way up to the ceiling, ending just underneath the overhang of the second floor. A large buck was mounted on the fireplace, and as usual, Monica tried not to look into his enormous glassy eyes.
How many people had they invited? It seemed more like a wedding than a birthday. She didn’t even know half the people. Her mother was no doubt in the kitchen; Monica could smell the sweet aroma of a stove that had been in use all day, and guests were already nibbling appetizers off little china plates. On every single surface, Monica could see her mother had put down lace coasters. She picked one up as she moved through the room. She’d forgotten her mother’s obsession with lace. It had been a while since she’d seen the whole collection: tablecloths, coasters, shams. What a pair, her parents. Rifles and lace.
To the left of the living room was the dining room, and just beyond that the kitchen. Monica made her way to the swinging door. Her mother came out just as she’d crossed the threshold of the dining room, wearing an apron and wielding an oven mitt. Monica waved and smiled. Relief flooded her mother’s face as she swooped in and wrapped her in a hug.
“I was so worried,” she said.
“Hello, hello, hello,” Monica said. “The food smells delicious.” Monica pulled back and kissed her mother on the cheek. Katherine Bowman brought her wrist closer to her eyes and squinted at the tiny watch adorning it. She’s so delicate, Monica thought. I could snap her in two.
“Did you run into traffic?” her mother asked.
We certainly didn’t stop for a quickie.
“Just the usual,” Monica said. “But I forgot Aunt Grace’s gift.”
“Did you get my e-mail?” her mother said, ignoring her present-less plight. Monica followed her mother into the kitchen, hoping to busy herself for the lecture that was about to come. She rued the day her mother learned how to use the Internet. Her mother, the worrywart, sent her daily barrages: jokes, chain letters, and horror stories. The latest was how to stop a raging kitchen fire with nothing but a bag of flour and a sporty sock. The truth was, Monica had been deleting her mother’s e-mails lately; she was swamped, and getting rid of them gave her little stabs of joy.
Monica said hello to the women helping out in the kitchen, kissing the ones she knew, politely shaking hands with the ones she didn’t, and praying her mother would have enough food to stir, and poke, without doing it to her.
“I want to say hello to Aunt Grace,” she said when her mother insisted she didn’t need any help.
“She’s in the back den,” her mother said. Monica started to head out when she felt her mother grab her arm, squeezing her to the point of pain. “Wait,” she said. “There’s something I have to tell you.” Her voice dropped to a low whisper.
“What?” Monica said.
>
“She’s having one of her spells.”
“A migraine?”
“It’s more than that. She seems very confused. She’s mixing things up in her mind.”
“She’s only in her forties, Mom—”
“I think she might be off her medication.” Monica didn’t know exactly what medication Aunt Grace was on; anytime she tried to figure it out, the conversation was always slammed shut. Bipolar, schizophrenic, simply depressed? Monica was dying to know, but her father’s family prided itself on keeping secrets. Katherine leaned even closer to her daughter.
“Your father is thinking about finding her a home.”
“What?”
“I don’t want to get into all of this right now. I just wanted you to know—in case—she doesn’t seem herself.”
“My God,” Monica said. “She’s so young.”
“She’s spoiled, if you ask me,” her mother said.
“Mom.”
“I’m sorry. I know it’s her birthday and all, but here she is making a scene again.”
“She’s not feeling well. You said it yourself.”
“I know, I know. And maybe she’s not. I can’t help but think it’s a cry for attention.”
“I’m sure it wasn’t easy growing up in Dad’s shadow,” Monica said.
“Stop blaming everything on your father.”
“Mom.” How was it she was only in the house a few minutes and they were already on each other’s nerves? Were all families like this?
“Ask her if she’d like a cup of tea, or lemonade,” her mother said, turning back to the stove. “God knows she’s not going to ask for it herself.”
Chapter 11
The back den, with windows overlooking the backyard and woods beyond, had always been Aunt Grace’s favorite spot. Monica found her there, dozing alone on the love seat. Monica sat on one of the chairs next to her and watched Aunt Grace sleep. She looked peaceful, so young. She was tall, like the Colonel, and a woman Monica always thought of as handsome. She had a strong face, high cheekbones, and unruly, dark curly hair that used to trail down her back, but the past few years she’d taken it to a bob just below her chin. She’d never been married or had kids. Was it because of her depression? Was she a lesbian? Or was it because her older brother never let anybody near her?
Put her in a home? That was ridiculous. If she was depressed, it was because she was off her medication, and she would just have to go back on. As far back as she could remember, whenever Monica had a fight with her father, Aunt Grace had always taken her side. Now she was going to take hers. As if sensing her presence, Aunt Grace opened her eyes and lit up with a smile.
“Monica,” she said, holding out her arms. Monica wrapped Aunt Grace in a hug.
“I hope I didn’t wake you,” Monica said.
“Not at all,” Aunt Grace said.
“Happy birthday,” Monica said.
“Don’t remind me,” Aunt Grace said. She patted the spot on the sofa beside her. Monica sat next to her. They held hands.
“You were smart to sneak away,” Monica said, jerking her thumb toward the living room. “It’s overpowering when we’re all in the same room.”
“Yes,” Aunt Grace said.
“How are you feeling?” Monica asked softly. Aunt Grace laughed.
“Who told you? Your mother?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did she tell you he’s threatening to put me in a home?”
“Did you two have a fight or something?” Monica asked. She wasn’t going to come out and ask Aunt Grace if she was taking her medicine. Aunt Grace was a private woman, and it certainly wasn’t Monica’s place to bring it up.
“I’m reading your book,” Aunt Grace said.
“Oh,” Monica said. “I was going to give you a copy.” She felt guilty she hadn’t done it sooner. She didn’t think Aunt Grace needed the advice in the book, but of course she should have known she would buy it anyway.
“I particularly identified with the chapter on cleaning out the clutter.”
“Oh?” Monica said. She didn’t want to talk about the book. It was getting harder and harder to drown out the thought that it was really Joe’s book. Although Joe had suggested “Cleaning House” as the title for that section, and Monica changed it to “Cleaning Out the Clutter.”
“There’s a lot of clutter in this family,” Aunt Grace said. “We should have cleaned it up years ago.”
“Well, it’s never too late,” Monica said. Although if Aunt Grace was talking about her relationship with the Colonel, the book wasn’t going to be of any help at all. Monica knew her father: He wasn’t the type to willingly engage in emotional discussions; he definitely wouldn’t be up for healing any sibling rifts.
“Monica,” Aunt Grace said, grabbing her hands and looking her in the eye. “I want you to know I’m terribly ashamed of myself.”
“Aunt Grace,” Monica said. “What a thing to say.”
“Listen to me. I’m sorry. I am so, so sorry.”
“Sorry for what?” Aunt Grace pulled her hands away. She seemed to age ten years.
“For everything,” she said, looking out the window. “Absolutely everything.”
“Don’t talk like this,” Monica said. “It’s your birthday.”
“I don’t care if he does put me in an insane asylum. You have to know the truth. You deserve to know the truth.”
“What truth?”
“Your sister should be here,” Aunt Grace said.
“What?” Monica said. Aunt Grace was definitely off her game. Was she talking about her mother’s sister? Aunt Betty? “Betty died five years ago,” Monica said softly.
“I’m sorry,” Aunt Grace said. “They’re all going to hate me. Dicky is never going to forgive me now, is he?” Aunt Grace was almost in tears. She was the only one of them who called Monica’s father Dicky, for obvious reasons.
“The Colonel isn’t mad at you,” Monica said. “In fact, we’re all here today because of how much we love you.” Monica put her hand around her aunt’s shoulder.
“Do you remember her at all?” Aunt Grace said.
“Remember who? Aunt Betty?”
“Monica.” The door opened and Katherine stepped into the den. “There you are,” she said as if she hadn’t just left her daughter. Monica smiled at her mother, although she really wanted to scream. Why did her mother have to be so nervous? Was she ever going to stop hovering? “What are you two young ladies talking about?” Katherine asked. She’s using her fake voice, Monica thought. Who is she putting on the big act for? Aunt Grace?
“Aunt Grace was talking about Aunt Betty,” Monica said. Then she felt immediately guilty, bringing up her mother’s older sister. She’d died five years ago, and her mother rarely talked about it.
“I wasn’t talking about your aunt Betty,” Aunt Grace said. She looked Katherine in the eye. “I’m tired of lying,” she told her. “You and Dicky have burdened all of us with your lies. We’re going to clear out the clutter! Right, Monica dear?”
“Right, Aunt Grace,” Monica said.
“Monica,” Katherine said. “Why don’t you get Aunt Grace a glass of water?” Monica stood. Aunt Grace grabbed Monica’s hand.
“Do you really think you can hide this forever?” Grace asked Katherine. Monica’s mother hesitated, teetering in the doorway.
“It’s okay, Mom,” Monica said. “I’ll stay with Aunt Grace; you get her the water.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Katherine said. “I need to speak with Grace alone.” With surprising speed and strength, Aunt Grace stood up.
“Let’s go,” she said, tugging on Monica.
“Where?” Monica asked.
“To the woods,” Aunt Grace answered. “Before it’s too late.”
“The woods?”
“That’s where you need to go. Maybe you’ll remember.”
“Remember what?” Monica asked. Aunt Grace didn’t answer. She headed out of the room. Kath
erine stepped in front of the doorway, blocking her exit.
“We’re going to eat soon,” her mother said. Monica looked helplessly from her mother to Aunt Grace. She hated to admit it, but it looked like her parents were right this time. Aunt Grace looked almost—crazed. Her face was flushed, her nostrils flared, and her eyes were definitely darting from place to place. Furthermore, she’d never showed an interest in the woods before; on the few family trips they’d taken into the woods, Aunt Grace was always the first to turn back with a “That’s enough of the great outdoors for me!”
“Mom’s right,” Monica said. “It’ll be dark soon.” Aunt Grace stepped up to Katherine and squared her shoulders.
“Lacey,” she said, looking Katherine directly in the eyes. “Lacey, Lacey, Lacey.”
Katherine cried out; her hands flew to her mouth.
“Mom?” Monica said. “Are you all right?”
“I can’t handle the secrets anymore,” Aunt Grace said. “Do you hear me? I can’t handle them.” Her voice was ragged and growing in pitch and volume. Monica looked from Aunt Grace to her mother. Her chest tightened. Gibberish suddenly filled her head, insistent and nonsensical. It was so loud it was drowning out Aunt Grace, who was shouting something. What was she saying? Why couldn’t Monica hear? What was this noise in her head? Monica slapped her hands over her ears and bent over.
“Monica?” It was her mother. She put her hands on her back. “Now look what you’ve done,” she said to Aunt Grace. Monica wanted to yell at her mother not to talk to Aunt Grace like that, not on her birthday, but she couldn’t speak. She pushed past her mother and Aunt Grace and almost ran to the living room. She just needed to get some air—maybe go out on the porch.
She almost rammed into Mike and Tina, who were standing in the middle of the living room, looking lost.
“Lacey, Lacey, Lacey,” Aunt Grace said, following her. Katherine stumbled behind with her hands still covering her mouth. Mike caught Monica’s eyes and held them. Save me, Monica thought. His eyes didn’t leave hers for a second.
