The Glass Is Always Greener

by Tamar Myers

  “What was the name originally?”

  “That’s just it; he wouldn’t tell us.”

  “You’ve never researched it? If he was a scientist, then there have to be records—especially if he knew Einstein.”

  “Hey, I’m a Goldburg. But that should show you how self-absorbed the Ovumkophs can be; none of them cared if their dad, or granddad, was a brilliant scientist.”

  I shook my head in pure wonderment. No one in my family tree ever came close to being a scientist—well, with the one exception of a cousin on Mama’s side who raised laboratory rats.

  Jerry’s youngest brother, Ben had reluctantly offered to host the party at his spacious home in Piper Glen, which is truly one of Charlotte’s suburban delights. Large houses sprawl among mature plantings of oak, crape myrtle, holly, camellia, ornamental cherries, and azaleas. Small lakes punctuate the verdant hills like gemstones. I couldn’t imagine anything more lovely.

  She was standing on a table in the middle of Ben’s patio, seemingly as tall and regal as the Statue of Liberty. Aunt Jerry was also dressed in yards and yards of flowing material, but in her case it was a silk sari the color of mustard. Around her neck a tangle of purple and orange faux Hawaiian leis fought to be noticed, and clinging lopsided to the top of her hoary head was a paper crown from Burger King. So much for taking herself seriously, I thought.

  “Robbie, is that you?” she called, cupping one hand over her eyes to keep out the glare.

  “Yes, Aunt Jerry. And I brought a dear friend. Her name is Abigail.”

  “Abby,” I said.

  ‘Welcome, Abby. Any friend of Robbie’s is a friend of mine.”

  “Aunt Jerry, please, it’s Rob—not Robbie.”

  The assemblage—there were thirty-eight, not counting the grande dame and us—laughed. I don’t think they were being mean; it was more like an inside joke.

  “Well, now that y’all are here, I will begin with my going-away party’s most important event. But first, does anyone care to venture a guess as to what it might be?”

  Debbie, a girl of five, was pushed forward by her grandfather, Ben. “Is it a treasure hunt?”

  Aunt Jerry guffawed and the poor girl was reduced to tears.

  “Not exactly Auntie Mame,” I whispered.

  “Oh honey, please don’t cry,” Aunt Jerry said, as she teetered dangerously close to the edge of the table. “I didn’t mean anything by it; I laugh at everything.”

  “She does,” Rob whispered.

  “But no, darling, it’s not a treasure hunt, because in this case the treasure is coming to you.”

  Debbie squealed and clapped her hands.

  “Oh no, dear, I didn’t mean you in the specific sense of the word. Robbie, sugar, give little Debbie here a hundred dollars—I’ll repay you shortly—and Ben, sweetheart, tell your daughter to take the precious little one inside and keep her occupied for the next ten minutes or so. I’m afraid this treasure hunt is strictly R-rated.”

  Ben bristled; there was no question about that. “My daughter’s name is Amy. Why don’t you try speaking to her directly—Jerry?”

  The old woman shaded her eyes again as she scanned her hangdog relations. Even Rob’s mom, who can be as snooty as an anteater when she’s around Bob, sat shriveled as a dried plum in her chair and pretended to examine her fingernails.

  “Which one of you dears is Amy?” Aunt Jerry finally asked. She sounded a bit desperate to me. “You young ladies all look so much alike to me. Too much makeup, too much fast food, too little clothes—it’s a wonder y’all don’t get arrested. Why in my day—”

  “Never mind!” A very round woman in very short shorts struggled to her feet, gathered the small girl in her prodigious but comforting arms, and stomped angrily into the house.

  I expected at least one other person to object to Aunt Jerry’s rude categorization of the younger generation, but other than Amy’s justified outburst, nary a peep was heard.

  “Well now,” Aunt Jerry said, rubbing her jeweled hands together in exaggerated glee. “Let the good times begin.”

  Chapter 2

  Aunt Jerry paused for dramatic effect. “You see, my dears, I have given this day a great deal of thought, and I’ve come to the conclusion that one of the few perks of knowing one’s departure date—that’s a euphemism for death, by the way—is that one can be present at an early reading of one’s will.”

  “Aunt Jerry! Stop that kind of talk!”

  “That’s my Uncle Aaron,” Rob said, not bothering to whisper this time.

  That was hard to believe because he bore absolutely no family resemblance to my friend. Unlike Rob, Aaron Ovumkoph was bald with a large head, a pigeon chest, and spindly arms and legs. In fact, he looked remarkably like Rob’s life partner, Bob. But a much older version, of course. Hmm.

  “Don’t stress yourself, Aaron, sugar; you are in the will. In fact, I believe I’ll start with you.” Aunt Jerry thrust a ring-bedecked hand deep into the mustard yellow folds of her sari and withdrew a much-creased sheet of college-ruled notebook paper.

  “Ahem,” she said to get our attention, although it was hardly necessary at that point. “I’m going to skip all that ‘being of sound mind’ crap—seeing as how y’all won’t believe it anyway—but just so you know, I was over to Duke last week and have a stack of notarized test results that affirm my sanity. Now where was I?”

  “Aaron’s inheritance,” said Aaron’s wife, Melissa. A first impression of the woman, based only on the amount of flesh she chose to expose, would put her firmly in the trash category. But that would be judgmental, and I have made an effort to give that up ever since Lent.

  Aunt Jerry flashed Melissa a smile that may have been a tad insincere. “Oh yes, that’s right; thank you, dear. Aaron, you have always been like a little brother to me—”

  “That’s because I am your little brother.” He turned his head as if for our benefit. “Senile old woman,” he muttered.

  “Aaron, darling,” Aunt Jerry continued, oblivious to his disparaging aside, “bless your little ol’ heart, you have always been a pain in the rear to everyone who’s ever known you. Therefore I am bequeathing you one U.S. dollar. It will be up to you to decide whether or not you share it with Melissa.”

  After maintaining what seemed like a ridiculously long shocked silence, Aunt Jerry’s relations erupted into laughter. “That’s a good one,” Aaron said.

  “I’m glad you think so, dear,” she said, “because I wasn’t joking.”

  Melissa was on her feet like greased lightning. “No, this can’t be! I came over to feed your cat once while you were off in Bali or somewhere. Remember?”

  “I’d only gone to Baltimore that weekend, and you claimed to love cats and volunteered to come over every day and spend some time with Xerxes. Instead, you threw a party in my house and one of your guests let my sweet little boy out and he wandered off and got lost. You didn’t have the decency to call me.”

  “He didn’t wander off,” Melissa said. “He escaped.”

  “Good one, hon,” Aaron said.

  I poked Rob. “Your relatives are vicious,” I hissed softly. “It’s no wonder Bob bowed out.”

  “Abby, we’re just getting started.”

  “Moving right along,” Aunt Jerry said. “This brings me to my dearly departed brother Nathan’s son Samuel Abraham Ovumkoph, who now goes by the rather incomprehensible name of Pastor Sam. Not even a last name of any kind, Sammy; how strange indeed.”

  Sam, who was tall with broad shoulders and blond hair, held up his right hand, with the palm facing Aunt Jerry. “You promised not to get into the religious thing if I showed up.”

  “Yes, but televangelism, Sammy—your ancestors in the shtetl are turning over in their graves.”

  “I have to be true to my beliefs, Aunt Jerry.”

  “So the traditions of your forebears mean nothing?”

  Sam smiled. Who am I to say that it was a smarmy smile, but in retrospect I’d have to say
it could not have been very friendly.

  “Say what you want, Aunt Jerry; I don’t need your money.”

  “Perhaps you don’t, dear; you’ve been bilking your congregation for years.”

  “Then why did you insist that I be here?”

  “Because I’d like to give you a million dollars, Sammy—in a manner of speaking.”

  I’m sure the collective gasps were heard all the way down in Charleston. Mama later said she had to struggle for air at precisely that time in her house just above Broad Street. Of course, in all fairness, the air there is a mite rarefied.

  “Why him?” Melissa screeched. “He hasn’t spoken to any of us in ten years.”

  Aunt Jerry glowered at Melissa and then plowed right along. “Now you, Tina—bless your heart—have kept me nicely informed of the happenings in your family. Congratulations, by the way, to you and Sammy on the birth of your son Sheldon. That’s your eighth child, am I right?”

  “Ninth, ma’am.”

  “My goodness; that’s one for every year you’ve been married. It’s no wonder he needs to bilk his congregation.”

  “Allegedly,” Sammy snarled. “You can’t prove it.”

  “Nor do I want to. Think of the shame it would bring to this family. No, what I’m going to do, Sammy, as head of this family, is give your wife, Tina, a million dollars. She, in turn, will do her best to parse it out to the congregants whom she thinks that you—uh—well, screwed is as good a word as any. You may not like it, but it will keep me from turning you in to the authorities, and you from going to jail. Let’s face it, Sammy; with those blond good looks of yours, you’d be mighty popular.” She laughed raucously. “I’ve no doubt that some tattooed gangster type would love to make you his be-yotch.”

  There followed only laughter, albeit of the nervous sort. Apparently the assembled folks were used to Aunt Jerry’s streetwise vocabulary. So far the old woman appeared to be addressing only her siblings and the one nephew. Cousins were apparently not included in her will, a fact that seemed to make some of the more optimistic ones anxious to be noticed. Others—perhaps people who had at one time or another pissed the grande dame off—tried hard to blend in with the scenery.

  Aunt Jerry, however, remained focused. “I’m glad we got that settled, Sammy.” She licked her thin but cherry red lips. “And now I wish to address my only sister, Chanti Ovumkoph Goldburg.”

  “Chanti?” I whispered. “Did I hear right?”

  “Short for Chanteuse,” Rob said.

  “Quiet in the peanut gallery,” Aunt Jerry said. Although she didn’t sound angry, she was clearly not amused.

  “Sorry,” Rob said.

  Aunt Jerry had a steady gaze, one that would have very much pleased a portrait painter. Altogether she was a good subject for a painting. I made a mental note of it; I’d suggest it to Rob as a postparty gift idea. Executed by the right artist, I could imagine a portrait of eccentric Aunt Jerry hanging in the Mint Museum of Art in Charlotte, maybe even in the National Gallery at the Smithsonian.

  “Well?”

  I awoke from my daydream to discover that there were three dozen pairs of eyes plus one (Cousin Remus poked an eye out on his house key one night) staring at me. I checked my chin for drool and then glanced down to see if the sisters were still safely cosseted.

  “She’s waiting for you to apologize,” Rob whispered.

  “Apologize for what?” I said aloud.

  “For interrupting me with your incessant chitter-chatter,” Aunt Jerry said.

  “Then I apologize; I really do.” When someone my size gets cut down to size, we don’t need a very wide crack into which we can disappear.

  “Then moving right along, Chanti, you have never been unkind to me; really, I couldn’t ask for a better older sister.”

  “Jerry, how could you!” Rob’s mother shrieked and ran inside the house, slamming the door behind her.

  In the stunned silence that followed, one could have heard a frog fart. Then everyone spoke at once, just not to me.

  “What’s going on?” I demanded. “What’s everyone so worked up about?”

  “Children!” Aunt Jerry clapped her hands, her heavy gold bangles clinking together melodiously, as anything gold is wont to do. “Listen up. Okay, so I let the cat out of the bag, and apparently I wasn’t supposed to. But honestly, I thought y’all knew that Chanti was my older sister. Why, she’ll be eighty—oops, there, I did it again.

  “Oh fiddlesticks and a bucket full of toe jam, seems like I’m always misspeaking when it comes to my big sis, so really, I can’t believe I haven’t let that slip before. Anyway, you have to admire her doctor’s handiwork. And yes, he practices right here in Charlotte, which proves we are a city to be reckoned with; we don’t have to go to Atlanta for the important stuff after all.” She paused to make eye contact with my handsome companion.

  “Rob darling, you knew I was the younger of the sisters, didn’t you?”

  “Uh—no, ma’am.”

  “There, you see? This surgeon does really good work—although personally, I eschew the practice of chopping up one’s face for the viewing pleasure of others. I mean, who gets to see it more, you or the girlfriends you lunch with? Anyway, if any of you gals—you guys are included as well—want his name, see me afterward. Now where was I?”

  “You were skewering my mother,” Rob said. Talk about sounding pissed.

  “I was just stating a fact, darling. I look up to Chanti. Never mind that she is a bit judgmental and is against gay marriage—did you know that, Robbie?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “But I know for a fact that your dear mother has poured herself into a number of United Way charities, and in particular has a soft spot for Charlotte’s homeless. In the meantime, her beautiful house in Myers Park is getting a bit run-down. So, I am leaving her a million dollars. She can either pay someone to do upkeep on that house, or buy herself a nice new condo where everything will be done for her.”

  “What are the strings?” Rob asked.

  “Strings? There are no strings, young man. Oh—well, I am leaving her an extra ten thousand dollars.”

  “Yes?”

  “That’s for poisoning your father like I asked her to do some thirty years ago.”

  Chapter 3

  Rob blanched and I pushed him toward the nearest chair. It was occupied by two pubescent girls in belly-baring T-shirts and miniskirts. I shooed them away with four words guaranteed to clear a room, much less a lawn chair.

  “He might throw up,” I said. He really did look that bad.

  “A-Abby,” Rob finally croaked. “Ask her what the hell she means.”

  “She hears just fine, thank you,” Aunt Jerry said. “I was referring to the fact that I couldn’t stand your father—may he rest in peace. Your mother—well, all of my loser siblings and I had inherited a healthy little grubstake from our own parents—may they rest in peace—who’d arrived in this country with absolutely nothing in their pockets. Anyway, your father was a schemer.

  “Now a dreamer, I can stomach. The Wright brothers were dreamers, and just look at their legacy. But your father was more like Bernie Madoff—but without the smarts. Yes, I know, you lived in a nice house in Myers Park while growing up, and you weren’t bright enough to get a scholarship to N.C. State, but they managed to pay for that—except that they didn’t.”

  Aunt Jerry paused to let the horrible truth settle on Rob like a cold fog. He tried several times to speak, but it appeared as if it was too much effort for him. Meanwhile his normally rather haughty mother, bless her heart, who had emerged timidly from the kitchen, was mewling like a newly born kitten.

  “I told your mother to poison him with her terrible cooking,” Aunt Jerry said. “I didn’t mean it literally, but that’s exactly what she did. Everything had to have at least a pound of butter in it, didn’t it, Chanti?” She was shouting through cupped hands by then. “That somehow made it French, didn’t it? And of course garlic. Garlic and butte
r—”

  “Aunt Jerry,” Rob said, finally starting to get his mojo back, “I think that’s quite enough.” His relatives twittered in the background—and I mean that in the old-fashioned sense of the word.

  “Enough?” she said, recoiling as if from a snake strike. “Oh dear, and here I thought that I was being ever so gentle.”

  “If I may,” I said, “and I’m a total stranger here, you’re not just reading a will, you seem to have an axe to grind, and are taking great pleasure in doing so.”

  The old lady smiled broadly. “I think I like you, Annie. I think you have a lot of spunk for being just a no-account, two-pint Gidget.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Oh, didn’t Robbie tell you? When you moved to Charleston—”

  “Aunt Jerry, stop! I forbid you!”

  Everyone froze. It was like we were all playing that game called Statues that we used to play on long summer evenings when we were kids.

  “No one forbids me,” Aunt Jerry said. “Annie,” she commanded, “come up here.”

  “With all due respect, ma’am,” I said, “my name is Abby, not Annie.”

  “Well, whatever. I said to come up here.”

  “No, Aunt Jersey, I will not. Not unless you ask me nicely.”

  “Jersey? Is that what you said?”

  There was a smattering of applause and not a few giggles.

  “I may have, ma’am. If you come down here, I’ll repeat myself.”

  “Why shoot a monkey!” Aunt Jerry said. “If that don’t beat all. This gal is no two-pint, no-account Gidget; she’s more like a gallon of—of—well, name your favorite flavor. Personally, that new Cinnamon Buns flavor can’t be beat.”

  “So now she’s talking about ice cream,” Rob said. “That’s why you shouldn’t listen to a word she says.”

  I scrambled atop the table with just a little help from Aunt Jerry. “So,” I said to her, “tell me what happened when I moved to Charleston five years ago.”