It's a Wonderful Knife

by Elise Sax

  “Yes, isn’t she precious? Bless her heart,” Spencer’s mother said.

  “She’s not southern,” Spencer whispered to me. “Beware the southern accent. It’s deadly.”

  Spencer’s mother embraced me, but it was the kind where she didn’t actually touch me. She was cold as ice, at least to me. To Spencer, she was warm and bubbly and extremely maternal. She kept touching his face and telling him how wonderful he was.

  Spencer’s mother definitely didn’t subscribe to Bridget’s rules of motherhood. Spencer was still getting cooed at, and he was in his thirties.

  But there was no cooing for her future daughter-in-law.

  The afternoon moved at a snail’s pace. Spencer’s mother insulted me every chance she got in a very nice way. She made references to my poverty, my lack of education, and the people I kept company with. She mentioned Spencer’s old girlfriends, who were extremely accomplished and nothing at all like me.

  She was so nice while she insulted me that I didn’t realize my feelings were hurt until after she had insulted me and had moved on to the next insult. I couldn’t catch up. She had a never-ending supply of criticisms of who I was, and by definition, why I wasn’t good enough for her son.

  Normally, my grandmother would’ve been there, acting like a buffer, but she was out on the town, marveling at the world’s new technologies that had been created during the time that she had been a shut-in. The last I heard, she was at the pharmacy putting her debit card in and out of the machine over and over and giggling. For his part, Spencer regaled them with my successes in matchmaking, pointing out Fred’s wedding this week. He avoided talking about owls and donkeys. It didn’t matter. No amount of compliments could have competed with the bad vibes coming in waves from his mother.

  Finally, it was time to go upstairs and get dressed for dinner. Spencer followed me. “Why do you keep calling them Mr. and Mrs. Bolton?” he demanded. “Call them James and Lily.”

  “I can’t. Every time I try to, I start hyperventilating again. Mr. and Mrs. Bolton makes me calm.”

  “Call them James and Lily, Pinky. The Mrs. Bolton crap just makes her sense your fear. What did I tell you about her smelling fear?”

  It turned out that Spencer’s mother could smell fear like a lion or a tiger. “I’ll try. I’ll try. Maybe I need a Xanax. Or a horse tranquilizer. Where can I get a horse tranquilizer?”

  Spencer supervised my getting dressed for dinner. He made sure that I wore the least objectionable dress with no stains.

  “Just try to be normal. Not Pinky-normal. You know what I mean. Normal people normal,” he said, adjusting his tie in the mirror.

  It had been a long time since I had known anybody who was normal-normal. I didn’t know what normal was for normal people. I only knew what normal was for weirdo people from our weirdo town. If he wanted me to act like normal people, we shouldn’t have lived in this town.

  “We have to move,” I said. “We have to move somewhere normal to be normal. Let’s go right now. Hop in the car. We can get to Los Angeles in a couple hours. Los Angeles is normal.”

  “Pinky, get ahold of yourself.”

  “Kiss me to relax me,” I commanded.

  Spencer took a step backward. “Are you crazy? My mother would know if there was any hanky-panky happening anywhere near her, and then she would go ballistic. It would be off the charts nuclear war passive aggressiveness. You know what that means?”

  I had no idea what that meant. “Of course, I know what that means. I’m not stupid.”

  “Besides, I can’t kiss you. I have no spit. My saliva glands stopped working.”

  We walked downstairs and Spencer’s mother handed me my cellphone. “I put my contact information in your phone,” she said.

  “How did you get my code?” I asked.

  “Oh, my dear. You’re so funny. Isn’t she funny, Father?”

  “Now that you have my contact information,” she continued, not bothering to explain how she broke into my phone, “there’s no excuse for not contacting me. You can give me regular updates. Let me know what’s happening. Let me know how you’re taking care of my Poopykins.”

  I looked over at her Poopykins. Sweat had popped out on his forehead, and he was looking up at the ceiling.

  Spencer drove us up into the mountains to a fancy restaurant with a great view. The conversation in the car somehow got focused on the fact that I had shown my underpants to the town and that I had killed numerous people.

  “She just found them, Mom,” Spencer told his mother. “She didn’t actually kill them.”

  His mother wasn’t convinced. At the restaurant, we were seated at a table for four in the center. I made a mental breakdown of the evening so far, and I realized that I hadn’t actually made any major faux pas. I was doing pretty well. Yes, Spencer’s mother hated me and thought I was worthless and a murderer who showed her underpants to everyone, but I hadn’t yet belched or passed out or threw up on her. So, I was taking the night as a win.

  But my heart sank when the waiter approached our table. I recognized him immediately. The last time I’d seen him, he was in the hospital after he ate a gun. And that wasn’t the worst thing I had ever seen him do.

  I wasn’t a religious person, but I prayed right there and then that he wouldn’t recognize me, or at the very least wouldn’t introduce himself.

  Of course, my prayers weren’t answered.

  “Hey there,” he said to me. “Do you remember me? It’s me, Tim.”

  I noticed the moment that Spencer recognized our waiter. He gripped the side of the table so hard that I thought the table would break off in his hands.

  “Yeah, sure, Tim. What’s the special today? Any good soups?” I asked, trying to get him off the topic of exactly who he was.

  “Why don’t you introduce us to your friend?” Spencer’s mother suggested, as if she had internal radar on how to prove that I was unfit to marry her Poopykins.

  “We know each other,” Spencer interrupted. “I’d also like to hear about the specials. How about steak? You make a good steak here?”

  “I’ve never eaten it,” Tim said. “You know, I like to eat odd things.” He turned to Spencer’s mother. “I once ate five lightbulbs and a gun. But the gun thing was a mistake.” He rubbed his stomach. “I’m still paying for that one. Remember that, Gladie? Remember when I ate the gun?”

  Spencer’s mother glared at me, as if I had stuffed the gun down Tim’s throat.

  “I like steak, too. I’m not one of those vegan girlfriends,” I told Spencer’s mother. “Those kinds of girlfriends are irritating. I’m a meat eater. Lots and lots of meat. Meat, meat, meat, meat, meat. Can’t get enough meat. Yum. Go meat. Love me some steak.”

  Spencer’s mother glared at me. “I’m a vegan,” she said through clenched teeth.

  “Eaten anything interesting lately, Tim?” I asked, changing the subject.

  “They got me in some kind of therapy program. A thing for folks with different appetites. So, I’ve been off metals for a while. I’m trying to get off glass, but it’s a hard addiction to break. You got any addictions?” he asked Spencer’s mother. She ignored him and continued to glare at me, as if I was Satan and about to fly over the table and take Spencer straight to hell.

  “Oh, God. Kill me now,” Spencer moaned, slapping his forehead.

  Thankfully, Tim finally took our orders. But before he left, he couldn’t leave well enough alone. “Remember when we met?” he asked me and laughed. “That was funny. My penis in a pipe? I’ll never forget how they had to cut me out. Boy, that pipe was tight. I thought my fun days were way behind me. But it turned out fine. Everything works just fine down there. You want to see?”

  Spencer stood before Tim could show us how he was still intact below the belt. Spencer’s face was bright red, and he looked like he was going to explode. “Tim, go get us our food, or I’ll take this fork and jam it into your digestive system, but it won’t go down your throat. It’ll go in the o
pposite way. All the way up. You get me?”

  Tim blanched. He probably would have been more than happy to eat the fork, but he didn’t want any part of a fork enema.

  Our appetizers arrived, and I was thrilled that our mouths were full so we couldn’t talk. But it didn’t last.

  “Mom, Dad, I can’t wait to show you our new house on Friday,” Spencer said. “You’re going to love it. It’s a dream come true. And of course, there’s a guestroom for you whenever you want to visit.”

  I choked on a stuffed mushroom cap. “There is?” I managed.

  Truth be told, I hadn’t been all that involved with the house. I let Spencer do what he wanted with it. I had never owned property before, and I was still thinking it wasn’t quite real, like I was never actually going to move into a gorgeous, custom-built home for me and my gorgeous, hot-stuff guy.

  “Is the house in your name, dear, or in both of yours?” Spencer’s mother asked, sweetly.

  I got the impression that there was only one good answer. The table got quiet, as we waited for Spencer to respond.

  “Just mine, Mom,” Spencer said quietly and slipped a stuffed mushroom cap into his mouth.

  I didn’t know how to feel about the fact that my new home was only in my husband’s name. I mean, it was totally fair. Spencer had bought it with his own money. I hadn’t given anything to the project.

  But those were the logical reasons why it was fair for the house to only be in Spencer’s name. And logical reasons never matter. Spencer’s confession made me feel even more like our new house wasn’t really my home.

  Spencer’s mother was delighted, however. It was the first time that I saw her smile a completely genuine smile. Relief. I recognized it. It was the first crack in the terrifying reality that her son was going to leave her forever for a woman that didn’t deserve him.

  “I can’t wait to see your house,” she said, happily. “By the way, I took the liberty of setting up an appointment for you two with my friend, tomorrow. One o’clock. Be there on time. No need to thank me.”

  She handed a business card to Spencer. I leaned over and looked at it.

  “Marriage counselor?” Spencer asked.

  “You don’t buy a car without it being inspected first,” his mother said, as if that answered everything. She touched her arm and gasped. “Where the hell is my bracelet?” We searched the table and under it, but there was no sign of her expensive bracelet.

  Tim came to the table with our main courses. “Are you looking for your bracelet?” he asked. “I couldn’t help myself. It was so shiny. But don’t worry. I’ll give it back to you in about twenty-four hours. Two days, tops.”

  Thankfully, Spencer’s parents were staying at a bed and breakfast just outside of town. They picked up their car at my grandmother’s house and said goodbye without coming in. Spencer and I waved goodbye and walked inside. Grandma was already in bed. We trudged up the stairs, like the defeated Napoleon at Waterloo.

  “I can’t believe you told my mother that your mother is a farmer,” Spencer said, closing my bedroom door behind us.

  “Well, she’s on a farm,” I said. “You didn’t want me to tell her that she was in a prison farm because she ran a mobile meth lab on her moped. Did you?”

  “Good point. The best thing about your mother being in prison is that she’ll never meet my mother. I don’t know how we could ever get through that.”

  “We’re not going to this marriage counselor, are we?” I asked.

  “What can it hurt? My mother wants us to go, and maybe it would be good for us to talk to someone before we got married.”

  My feeling of panic welled up in me again. Wanting to go to marriage counseling before we got married wasn’t a good sign. First no romance and now Spencer was having second thoughts? I had been right that my relationship with Spencer was nothing compared to Matilda and Rockwell’s. I felt like our relationship was running through my fingers like sand. What if this was all a mistake? What if it was going to blow up before we actually got married?

  Somehow, I had to fix things. Fix us. I needed to spice things up. While Spencer laid in bed, watching The Simpsons on television, it was up to me to put a little heat into our relationship and save it from dying.

  In the bathroom, I took off my clothes and took a series of smutty, naked selfies. Sexting. I had never done it before. I had never taken a naked picture of myself. But desperate times called for desperate measures. I knew it would put a little heat back into our relationship. From everything I heard, sexting worked like gangbusters.

  Click. Click. Click. I took the pictures and texted them to Spencer.

  I walked back into the bedroom. Spencer was in bed, still watching TV. He raised an eyebrow when he saw me walk in, naked. There was some movement under the sheets, as if a part of him was growing.

  There. That worked. He patted the bed next to him. “Come on over here, Pinky. Let’s get it on, do the nasty, rumble in the sheets, bump uglies.”

  Men are so easy, when you think about it.

  “You’re not worried about your mother?” I asked.

  “She’s outside of city limits. So, we’re safe. And please, Pinky, don’t talk about my mother. Not now.”

  “You know, tomorrow morning’s Bridget’s baby’s christening. I’m going to have to wear a suit and look respectable.”

  I got into bed and Spencer moved himself on top of me, lifting my knees up over his hips. “Then, let’s work out all of the disrespectful out of you tonight, Pinky.”

  CHAPTER 7

  How the hell did I get here? Who are you, and why are you in my bed? No, I’m not getting dementia, dolly. No, I’m not absent-minded. I’m just trying to explain a little about true love. Sometimes, it’s not what your match had in mind. They thought that love would be a beautiful silk scarf, but suddenly they’re sharing a bathroom with an old shmata and they’re as happy as Sally Field at the Oscars. Tell your matches to embrace their shmata and don’t second guess it. One person’s shmata is another person’s silk scarf. It’s just the way of love. It’s full of dirty rags.

  Lesson 55, Matchmaking advice from your

  Grandma Zelda

  I woke up happy. Even though I had a mean mother-in-law to be, no romance in my marriage-to-be, and my name wasn’t on the deed to my new, fancy house, I still had been made love to all night long, as if I lived in a romance novel, but only the good bits.

  I was woken at five by my phone, which was buzzing off the nightstand. It was Matilda. I took my phone into the bathroom and called her back.

  “Something happened, Gladie.” she said, breathlessly. “Something bad. Can you come over?”

  “What kind of bad? A fire?”

  “No. Worse. It might be a matter of life and death.”

  I sighed. If I had a penny for every time it was a matter of life and death, I would have a shitload of pennies. I would be the queen of pennies. The lord and master of the universe of pennies.

  “I can come after my friend’s christening,” I told her.

  Matilda was fine with that. She thanked me and explained that she didn’t bat for the other side before she hung up. I didn’t understand what she meant by that, but I said okay and hung up, too.

  I got a couple more hours of sleep, and then Spencer and I got dressed for the christening. I wore a long skirt and a light blouse. It was an outfit that was hopefully church-acceptable but would hopefully not make me sweat bullets in the continuing heatwave. The small Catholic church in the Historic District was as old as the town and considered a historical structure. Therefore, there was no air conditioning or any other non-historical conveniences except for a toilet that backed up, regularly. So, it would be a sauna during the ceremony.

  Spencer and I met my grandmother downstairs, who had also dressed up for the christening. She was wearing a red, knockoff Oscar de la Renta ball gown, which was at least two sizes too small. Grandma believed that clothes should suffocate you, or they didn’t really fit. She a
lso didn’t seem to worry about sweating because her ball gown was so voluminous, it was like a portable sweat box.

  We filed into Spencer’s car. Grandma sat in the passenger seat in the front, and I sat in the back. “I hope there’re bagels at this christening. I’ve got a hankering for a bialy with butter.”

  “I don’t think there’s a lot of bialys at christenings, Zelda,” Spencer said, driving down the street. “I think this is the cherry danish kind of shindig.”

  “Cherry danish!” Grandma and I exclaimed together. There was little we wouldn’t do for a fresh danish.

  At the church, there was a good gathering for the christening. There were about ten of Bridget’s friends and about twenty-five of her bookkeeping clients. We did the rounds, saying hello as we made our way to Bridget. Perhaps it was the solemnity of the moment or the power of the historic church, but nobody made eye contact with me, and at least half made eye contact with my boobs, which were politely covered by my conservative shirt.

  “People are weird,” I noted to Spencer.

  “You just noticed?”

  Bridget was standing at the front of the church with baby Jonathan in her arms and her babysitter Jackson by her side. Lucy came dressed like Scarlett O’Hara with her husband, Uncle Harry, who was dressed like Al Capone and smoking a thick cigar. His arm was wrapped around Lucy’s small waist, and he gave her a peck on her cheek as they walked up to the front of the church. Lucy blushed, and I was happy to see that she was still thrilled to be married to Harry.

  “Hey there, Legs,” Harry greeted me and kissed my cheek. “Or should I call you boobs?”

  “Huh?” I asked, but he and Lucy moved into the crowd.

  My grandmother mixed and mingled, cornering Sister Cyril to tell her not to eat potato salad next week. “It’ll be bad,” she told the nun.

  Bridget didn’t seem all that happy, and it didn’t take me long to figure out why. Baby Jonathan was being assaulted with baby talk by guest after guest.