Authors: Dyan Sheldon
I kept my own voice soft and gentle, as though I were talking to a small child, or possibly a cat. “You can’t go now, Mom. It’s Saturday, remember? Carla’s party is tonight. She’s counting on you.”
My mother emptied her glass again. “I have to find my passport. I’m going to London. I have to talk to your father.”
I patted her hand. “But he’s going to call. Remember? Remember he said he’d call? Why don’t you wait till Dad calls?”
I thought she might realize that I didn’t officially know that he’d promised to call, but she didn’t. She pushed off my hand. “London.” She filled her glass again. Considering the rate at which she was drinking, she might as well have drunk from the bottle. “I’m going to London. You’ll be all right.”
“But Dad wants to talk to you.” I coaxed. “And Carla’s par—”
“And I want to talk to him.” She nodded as though agreeing with herself. “That’s what I have to do. I have to talk to your father.”
“That’s why you should stay here. So you can talk to him when he calls.”
Another glass of wine joined the others. She grabbed hold of the table and pushed herself to her feet. None too steadily. “I am going to talk to him,” said my mother. “I’m going to London. He can’t do this to me.”
There was no point in saying that he had done this to her. And there was no point in saying, “What about me?” When my mother was like this, the entire population of the planet shrunk to one. But patience usually worked. I stood up, too, and tried again.
“But he’s calling soon. He really wants to talk to you. Don’t you want to be here when he calls?”
“Your father,” said my mother. “Did you know your father has gone to London?”
“Yes, I know he’s in London.” I smiled encouragingly. “But he’s going to call. He wants to talk to you.”
My mother swayed. “I have to find my passport. I have to go to London.” She pitched herself towards the door.
It was Lola who caught her before she hit the floor. She wasn’t unconscious, but she wasn’t exactly conscious either.
“She’s heavier than she looks,” grunted Lola.
I got on the other side of my mother and put her arm over my shoulder. “She’ll sleep now,” I whispered. “If we can get her upstairs. We can take the back way.”
At least then the worst would be over.
We started more or less dragging my mother across the kitchen to the back staircase.
The doorbell rang.
“Don’t answer it,” advised Lola. “They’ll go away.”
The doorbell rang again. Impatiently. Whoever it was wasn’t going away.
“Get the phone, Ella,” mumbled my mother.
“Mrs Gerard?” It was Carla Santini, of course, shouting through the letterbox. Her projection’s even better than Lola’s. “Mrs Gerard? It’s Carla.”
I’d been wrong again.
The worst wasn’t almost over. The worst was about to begin.
Carla
Santini was standing on the front porch with a box in her hands and a “Vote Carla” badge pinned to her blouse. It was flashing.
She’s like the buzzard of bad news, I thought. She starts circling overhead at the first whiff of trouble.
“Hi, Ella.” Carla treated me to one of her Nutrasweet smiles. “I promised your mom I’d stop by.” She added saccharine to the Nutrasweet. “You know, last-minute conference before my rally.” She risked a few wrinkles in middle age by making a face. “No wonder American Presidents always get so old while they’re in office. I mean, I haven’t even been elected yet, and there is sooo much to do – planning … organization … decisions—”
Lying … scheming … spending all that money…
Carla broke off with a humble laugh. “Listen to me, explaining to you. You must know as much about it as I do.”
And then some, I thought. But all I said was, “Right.” I couldn’t think of anything else to say.
“So?” said Carla. “Are you going to ask me in?”
“Of course.” I didn’t so much as twitch. “Only … only I’m afraid my mother doesn’t want to be disturbed right now. You know, she’s right in the middle of everything.”
“This won’t take long.” Not a person who needs any encouragement, Carla stepped past me and into the hall. Short of tackling her, there wasn’t any way to keep her out. Carla held up the box. “I brought over the costumes for your mom and Mrs Wallace.” My mother always hires Mrs Wallace to help her set up her parties and dinners.
“Oh.” I laughed. “I didn’t know they were wearing costumes.”
“Everybody’s wearing a costume,” Carla assured me. “Even my parents and their friends. It’s going to be like the United Nations.”
Any time I’d seen a meeting of the United Nations on television everyone was dressed in suits, but I didn’t comment. I reached out for the box. “I’ll make sure she gets it.”
Carla pulled it out of my reach. “That’s OK, I’ll give it to her. I’m dying to see what she’s making.” She soaked me with another smile. “You and your dad are sooo lucky. Your mother is such a great cook.”
“I’m afraid I have to insist,” I insisted. “You don’t know my mother. She doesn’t like to be disturbed when she’s working.” I slowly edged myself between Carla and the hallway that led to the kitchen. “It throws off her timing.” I leaned against the wall. “Timing is crucial in cooking.”
Carla wasn’t interested in cooking. Why should she be? She wasn’t ever going to have to do any herself. But she was interested in something.
“What’s that?” asked Carla. “Don’t tell me you got a dog.”
I followed her eyes to the bottom of the stairs where a large wet patch had darkened the carpet. So that was why my mother swore when she came downstairs; she had spilled her wine.
I made my face blank. “No,” I said flatly, “we didn’t get a dog.”
One eyebrow arched ever so slightly. “Your mother really must be busy if she didn’t notice that.” She knew my mother well enough to know that the most infinitesimal speck of dust didn’t fall in our house without my mother noticing. She gave me another smile. “So what is it?”
I said the first thing that came into my mind. I said, “It’s probably from when she watered the plants.”
It was the wrong thing to say.
“What plants?” asked Carla. “Your mother hates indoor plants.”
It was true, my mother said they attracted bugs. It’s Lola’s mother who has plants all over the house.
“She’s mellowing,” I said. “She likes them now.”
Carla looked suspicious. I could almost see her ears prick up. “Really?” She sniffed. Maybe she wasn’t the buzzard of bad news after all. Maybe she was the bloodhound of doom. “It doesn’t smell like water.”
“Doesn’t it? I don’t know what else it could be.”
Even Carla Santini wasn’t going to get down on the floor for a closer inspection right in front of me. But she didn’t have to; I could tell that she could tell I was lying.
Carla sighed. “Well, I guess you can’t fight City Hall, can you?” She waved the box at me. “I’ll just give this to her, and then I’ll be on my way.”
She started to move towards the door at the end of the hall.
“She’s not in the kitchen!” I may have screamed. “She’s—” Carla turned to look at me. “She’s upstairs.”
Carla tilted her head. “I thought you said she was busy cooking.”
“She is busy cooking,” I rushed on. “But she likes to take little breaks. You know, power breaks.” If anyone in the world could understand the concept of power breaks, that person had to be Carla Santini.
Carla stared at me for a second. Coldly. And then she shrugged. “Well, that’s OK. You can give me a coffee while I wait.”
I said, “I…”
Carla smiled.
I said, “Well…”
Carla smiled some more.
I said, “I think she has a headache.”
“A headache?” Carla stopped smiling. “You didn’t mention a headache before.”
Hanging out with Lola was paying off; the lies were coming thick and fast.
“I didn’t want you to feel guilty.” As if Carla Santini even knows what guilt is. “You know, because she got it from working so hard for your rally.”
“Really? How thoughtful of you.” Her eyes darted towards the stain again. She hadn’t missed the wine bottle in the kitchen the other day. “Well what if I just pop up to see her? It won’t take more than a couple of minutes.”
I was really beginning to understand the Greeks now. Lola was right; I was a product of my environment. I was brought up by people who planned, followed rules, and were insured against everything from fires and floods to things falling out of planes and being hit by an asteroid. They believed that if they took the proper precautions they could protect themselves from anything bad. And I’d believed that, too. But if I’d been raised by Aeschylus I would have known better. I’d have known that bad things happen no matter how much insurance you have.
Standing there, watching Carla about to launch herself up the stairs to find no one there, I consoled myself with the thought that at least things were about as bad as they could get.
But if I had been raised by Aeschylus I would also have known that no matter how bad things are they can always get worse.
Carla had one foot on the stairs when the bottom fell out of the bad news box.
“Carla, honey?” my mother’s voice called down the stairs.
There was no thickness or slur in it now.
Carla was as surprised as I was, though she didn’t go into cardiac arrest. She gave me a suspicious glance, and rallied immediately. “Hi, Mrs Gerard!” she called back. “I just wanted to see how things are going. And I brought your costumes.”
My mother’s voice was slightly muffled, as if she had a bag over her head. Or a towel. “I just got out of the shower.” She laughed the distinctive Marilyn Gerard laugh; heeheehee. “I needed to re-energize myself. There’s still a lot to do. And I’m sure you must have a million things to do yourself… Why don’t you just leave the costumes with Ella, honey? I’ll talk to you later.”
Carla was craning her neck up the stairs, where there was nothing to see, her expression thoughtful. “Sure,” said Carla. “The rally starts at eight, so I’ll see you at six, Mrs Gerard. That should give you enough time to set everything up.”
“Six o’clock,” echoed the voice of my mother. “See you then, honey.”
I could hear Lola on the phone in the kitchen as I came down the stairs.
“It’s an emergency,” she was saying. “I don’t care whose car you’re under, you have to get over here pronto.”
She was silent for a few seconds while Sam gave in.
“Great,” said Lola. “Oh, and – Sam? Could you pick up some chips and pretzels and stuff like that on the way? A lot. Enough for a hundred… Ella will pay you back when you get here.”
She was silent for one second while Sam wondered aloud why she wanted a lot of potato chips.
Lola looked up as I came into the kitchen. “I’ll tell you when you get here. Ella and I have a lot to do.” She hung up the phone. “Well?” she said to me. “How’s Marilyn?”
“Out like a power cut.”
“Excellent. Let’s hope it takes at least six hours to repair.” She handed me the broom. “You start on the floor. I’ll tackle the counters.”
I took the broom. Reluctantly. “You do realize that this isn’t going to work, don’t you?”
“Well use the mop then,” said Lola.
I heaved a sigh worthy of Lola Cep. “No, I didn’t mean the broom. I meant Plan A.”
Plan A was a typical Lola Cep plan; simple yet impossible. Lola and I, wearing the costumes intended for my mother and Mrs Wallace, would take the food that my mother had already prepared to Carla’s party in my mother’s car. There was nothing about Plan A that couldn’t go wrong. It had more scope for disaster than a nuclear war.
“And what are you putting forth as Plan B?” she enquired. “Telling the truth? Because that’s the only other feasible option I see. There is no choice.”
“Well if we have no choice, it’s because somebody opened her big mouth.”
“I don’t believe this!” Lola flapped the garbage bag she’d taken from under the sink in my direction. “That’s gratitude for you, isn’t it?” she squawked. “If I hadn’t stepped in, Carla would have been up the stairs looking for Marilyn in less time than it takes to say ‘social outcasts’. Unless, of course, you were planning to tell Carla that working so hard for her rally had made your mother invisible.”
I swiped at the floor with the broom. “Well, maybe next time you should try
not
to help.” I was snarling slightly. “If you were going to pretend to be my mother, why couldn’t you have a major migraine that would incapacitate her for days?”
Lola wasn’t snarling; she was the voice of reason. “Because Carla was suspicious. I could hear it in her tone.” She started sweeping debris from the counter into the bag. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but I was under the impression you wouldn’t want Carla to discover the truth. I know I don’t. The last thing we need is to actually give her something to talk about. It’s worse than when she has to make things up.”
It wasn’t easy to argue with that, but I tried. “I still think a migraine would have worked.”
“Then why didn’t
you
say Marilyn had a migraine?” countered Lola.
“I did say she had a headache.”
“You also said she was too busy to be disturbed.”
“I’m not used to lying the way you are. I said the first thing that came into my head.”
“Well it’s too late for your mother to develop a migraine now.” Lola’s voice was heavy with scorn – presumably for me, the mediocre liar in the group. “Carla would be round here with a news team. She’d know for sure then that something is up.”
Lola was right about that, too, of course. If my mother didn’t arrive with the food, Carla would be on me like a hawk on a mouse.
“And anyway,” Lola went on, “my plan will work. You just have to believe.”
“I do believe. I believe that I’d rather be dead.”
“Oh, don’t be so melodramatic,” ordered Lola. “It’s going to be a piece of cake.”
“But you’re shorter than my mother.”
“I’ll wear heels.”
“And you’re heavier.”
“They’ll think it’s the costume.”
“And I’m taller and thinner than Mrs Wallace.”
“Mrs Wallace is the hired help. No one’s going to notice if she’s gained a couple of inches or lost a few pounds.”