Sheckley, Alyssa - The Better to Hold You.html Read online

  At first there was enough room for two warring spouses, a suit of armor in the formal dining hall, two wolfhounds, and a wandering tribe of cats, not to mention a Roman fountain in the central courtyard. But then Dad's career as a director died completely with the ill-fated mid-eighties television series I Married a Werewolf and the arrangement soon became unbearable. The fact that the show was about a henpecked husband married to a temperamental lycanthrope may also have had something to do with it. Reviewers called it a misogynistic Bewitched.

  Already the proud owner of six cats, two dogs, and a ferret, my mother decided to turn our house into Beast Castle, a nonprofit organization for housing unwanted animals. Like Brigitte Bardot, Piper LeFever likes to say that she gave her youth to men and her mature, wise, nurturing, unselfish prime to animals.

  My father likes to say that he gave his youth to Piper LeFever, which was like living with an animal.

  At the Pleasantvale station, I got up, smiled wanly at the chatty lady, and began walking the familiar suburban route backward through time. It takes only ten minutes to walk to my mother's house—five to cover the town's tiny commercial center, five to make your way past the run-down houses that border my mother's property. I walked past the pizza place, the dry cleaners, the deli; I passed two small, fenced-in yards and the stationery shop where lotto tickets were sold. Every step felt like it took a year off my life—twenty-nine, twenty-eight, past the sensible age of twenty-five when insurance companies will let you rent their cars, past twenty-one and the right to have white wine at a restaurant, back before the legal age to vote, to have sex, to smoke a cigarette.

  Nothing but a thin line of sidewalk now, the grass growing too long around the pavement. There were the same old lovely maple and pine trees and a bit of broken glass and empty beer cans to mark my way.

  I was somewhere around fifteen or sixteen, anxious and rebellious, when I arrived at the curved black iron gates of Beast Castle: An Animal Refuge.

  NINE

  I rang the doorbell and a young woman opened the door, holding a shivering Chihuahua. She had long, blond, stringy hair and was thin and serious in an Indian batik skirt.

  “Yes?”

  “I'm here to see Piper LeFever.”

  “She's busy. If you have an animal you can't take care of, you can leave it with me.” Her voice dripped scorn. She must be a real hit with the customers, I thought. Would anyone adopt an animal from this person?

  “She's my mother.” I tried another approach. “Here, do you want me to look at that dog? I'm a vet.” The shivering Chihuahua had clear fluid dripping from its nose.

  The young woman stepped to one side. “Oh, you're Abra,” she said, with an emphasis on the second word. I had a sense she'd been expecting someone more impressive. She cuddled the little dog closer to her small breasts. “I'm Grania and this little fellow is Pimpernell and he has a cold. Yes, you do, little sniffle-up-a-kiss.”

  I walked in and inhaled the familiar tang of cat urine. All the chairs had been thoroughly shredded. There was a bulging bandage of rope covering one leg of the antique French mirrored table, but clearly, no cat had taken to this improvised scratching post. I took off my cotton sweater and stared up at the skylight, which was spotted with bird feces. “God, what a mess.”

  Grania bristled. “Our funds barely cover the cost of feeding and maintaining our animals,” she began, but I held up my hands.

  “I'm not criticizing you. This place is vast, and my mother has always been a slob,” I said. “When I was a kid, it took a team of cleaning women to keep her from trashing the house. Here, can I have a look at the little guy?” I held out my hands for Pimpernell the Chihuahua.

  “It's just a cold,” said Grania.

  “In this case, I think you're right. But sometimes, with these big foreheads, the nose becomes a pop-off valve for their brains.”

  The blond girl stared at me. “What do you mean?”

  “Fluid drains from the brain. Does he act neurologic—you know, inappropriate?”

  Grania looked down at the shivery little animal with a frown between her eyebrows, apparently considering what the appropriate behavior for a three-pound dog might be. “I'm not sure. He runs in circles sometimes, when he's excited.”

  “That sounds normal.” I took the little creature in my arms and it fixed its pop-eyed imploring gaze on me, shivered, and licked my nose. “Hey, you are kind of cute.”

  “Is he all right?” Grania seemed a little jealous as Pimpernell gave me another wet kiss.

  “I should probably run a test on the fluid, but yes, I think he's all right.” I smiled, realizing that a good four minutes had gone by without my thinking about the fact that my husband had been having sex with another woman. Except that now I had just thought about it again.

  “Wow, Pimpernell likes you.”

  I turned. It was my mother, coming down the long staircase with one hand on the heavy wood banister, her purple velvet caftan flowing behind her and her long blond hair three shades brighter than the girl's. On the carved bottom of the banister was a great, rheumy-eyed Persian, one of several cats I could see sprawled around the foyer now that I was paying attention.

  “Hi, Mom.” She kissed me three times, once near the left cheek, twice near the right, like some sort of Russian noblewoman.

  “You look bottom-heavy in that. Why do you keep wearing khaki pants? You need something dark below.”

  “These are comfortable.”

  My mother pulled back, looking me over more carefully. “You've started plucking your eyebrows. I like that, but you need to get someone to show you how to do the arch better. Your left side is thinner than your right.”

  “You look good,” I said pointedly, to remind her what good manners were. Actually, she had gained at least ten pounds and her hair was too bright.

  “I'm fat. But as the French say, there comes an age where one must choose between one's face and one's derriere.”

  “She thought that Pimpernell might be leaking some kind of brain fluid,” said Grania.

  “Oh, please, you were always a hypochondriac, and now you have a license to practice it.” My mother took the Chihuahua in her sturdy arms and cradled it. “Have you met Grania? Abra, this is Grania.”

  “We've met.”

  “Grania has her BA, but she's taking science courses and applying to vet school. So smart, this girl. Barely even has to study—not like you, holed up with your books for weeks on end. She's a natural student.”

  Grania snorted and gave me a complicit sort of smile, as if she already knew how my mother's mind worked, and why.

  “When you're not around,” Grania said, “she tells me about how fantastic you are with the animals, and how you either have practical intelligence or you don't.”

  “And I do?”

  “According to your mother.”

  My mother huffed, her giant purple velvet breasts expanding. “Well, it's true. Abra has practical intelligence. Grania has a better head for facts.”

  “Mom, just stop.”

  The lavender-shadowed eyes widened in surprise. “Stop what? I'm just stating what I observe.”

  “You don't have to state anything. You weren't injected with Sodium Pentothal.” Grania took Pimpernell back to her room, promising to get me a sterile sample of his nasal fluid.

  I followed my mother to the kitchen, down the elegant Spanish-tiled hallways with their dark wood accents, accompanied by the piercingly strong smell of tomcat piss, a sour and musky smell that no detergent or perfume can conceal.

  In the corners, cats stretched and yawned, gathered themselves and watched. The dogs were kept outside in the kennel, so long as the weather remained mild.

  “So,” my mother said, “what can I get you?” The kitchen was the one room that didn't look like an old Spanish grandee's house. It was just your typical unrenovated 1970s kitchen—yellow walls, brown linoleum, avocado stove, about fifty animal-shaped magnets holding up photos, vets' bills, schedules an
d shopping lists.

  The only thing it had in common with the rest of the house was the tang of feline urine. “Anything. A sandwich.”

  “I can make a little curry? Something with tomatoes?”

  My mother was a terrible, highly experimental cook. “Just peanut butter would be fine.” I watched my mother's plump, be-ringed hands preparing my food. “Grania seems nice. Does she work here often?”

  “She's my lover,” my mother said, in that par tic u lar blend of matter-of-fact and dramatic that soap opera actors tend to employ.

  “Ah.”

  “Does that mean you disapprove?”

  “It's just an expression of surprise.”

  “You're surprised I have a woman lover? A young lover?” My mother handed me my sandwich. I looked down at it in surprise.

  “You forgot the jam.”

  “There isn't any. Look, Abra, if you have something to say, get it off your chest.”

  I took a bite of the sandwich, too used to my mother's dramatics to take this seriously. “Do you have any juice?”

  The refrigerator door slammed open. “I suppose you won't deign to tell me what you're really thinking. Here's your juice.”

  “Thanks.” I drank and wondered: What was I really thinking? That it always had to be about Piper LeFever, I suppose. Even on my birthday. Even when I was having a bit of a crisis at home. My mother never really noticed what was going on with me.

  “God, you really have a talent for making things unpleasant, Abra.”

  I raised my right eyebrow. “I don't think it's me doing it, Mom.”

  “Well, it may be time for some therapy, then.” She reached into a drawer and pulled out a flat gift box, wrapped in shiny purple paper. “Here. This is for you. You probably won't like it, but I saw it and thought, That would look fantastic on Abra.”

  I opened the box and pulled out a deep black and purple crushed velvet gown with lots of corset-type laces and hanging sleeves, the kind of thing Morgan le Fay might have worn for a dark faerie's night out. “Wow,” I said. “It's … amazing.”

  “Handmade. But you'll never wear it.”

  “It's just—I don't really have anywhere to wear it to, really …”

  “Try it on.”

  “Now?”

  “Go on, Abra, make your mother happy.”

  I took off my shirt.

  “And the bra. You can't wear a bra with that.”

  I took off my bra.

  “Look at those breasts! Why you wear a bra at all is beyond me.”

  I slipped the dress on over my khakis and turned around. “What do you think?” I felt ready for Halloween.

  “Wait a minute.” My mother tugged the dress down until the sleeves exposed half my shoulder and the neckline barely covered my nipples. “There. Take a look at that.”

  I went into the bathroom just as a cat stalked out of a litter box, and looked in the mirror. White skin, long dark hair, breasts about to fall out: I looked like a gypsy wench. “Thank you so much for my present,” I said, over my shoulder.

  “Don't expect Hunter to compliment you on it. Your husband prefers you when you look like a little nun, Abra, or hadn't you noticed?”

  I had forgotten how perceptive my mother could be. Maybe she might have something to say that would help me out.

  I followed her back into the kitchen, pulling the dress over my head. “Mom. I have something I want to say to you.”

  “I knew it. You're strung out about this. Listen, Abra, Grania is the best thing that has happened to me in years, and I won't have you waltzing in here and handing down judgments.”

  “Mom.” Just as the dress came off my head, leaving me naked from the waist up, Grania appeared. She didn't so much as look at me as I yanked the fabric up over my breasts.

  “Piper, we talked about this.”

  “I'm not having her insulting our relationship.”

  Grania turned to me as I pretended to be unself-conscious about putting my brassiere back on. “I'm sorry if this was a bad time. I told her not to do this on your birthday.” She held out a vial. “And I brought the nasal fluid.”

  “Thanks,” I said, but my mother, a professional scene-stealer, would not be gainsaid.

  “She's over twenty-one, and if you would just take the time to get to know her, you'd see that—”

  “Mom. I don't care about Grania. I'm glad you're happy. I wanted to talk with you about something else.”

  My mother's eyes narrowed in suspicion. “What is it? Is it Hunter?”

  I glanced over at Grania, who held up her hands as if in surrender. “Hey, I'll leave you guys to it. Just let me know about Pimpernell, okay? I love that little guy.”

  When we were alone again, my mother said, “So? What's the bastard done now?”

  “He cheated on me, Mom.”

  She held out her arms, and I came into them. “How did you find out? Did he lose interest in sex? Or was he suddenly more interested?”

  “Mo-om,” I said, embarrassed.

  “More interested, I see.”

  I pulled back so I could look in my mother's all-too-knowing eyes. “The thing is, I asked if he loves this other woman, and he said … he said, ‘Probably not in the way you mean.' “ I collapsed into my mother's meaty shoulder, sobbing. She smelled of smoke, which reminded me of Hunter.

  “Typical. He screws another woman, and instantly plays it so you're the one on tenterhooks. Oh, Abra, when are you ever going to take a stand in your marriage?”

  I sniffled, knowing she was right, knowing I was being weak and pathetic. “I just don't want to lose him,” I admitted. “Do you have a tissue?”

  “Here.”

  I blew my nose. “I don't know what to do, Mom.”

  “Well, Abra, I just hope you're not going to catch some disease from that man. Because in my day, men just fucked you over when they slept around. Now, they can kill you with it.”

  Trust my mother to find the one thing to make me feel worse. “I'll have to go get tested, I guess.” A great chunk of despair forced its way up my chest and throat, emerging as a sort of broken moan.

  My mother sighed and lit a cigarette, watching me get myself back under control. “Here. Do you want a cigarette? Don't look at me like that—sometimes it helps.” She shook out the match. “Why you want to keep him with you, I'll never understand. He's a bastard.”

  I gave a little hiccup of a laugh. “You just think all men are bastards, Mom.”

  “It's a safe assumption.”

  “God.” I folded the tissue and blew my nose again. “How my father stayed married with you for ten years, I'll never know.”

  “You talk like he's such an angel. Remember who left!”

  “Mom, you were having affairs right and left. And you hounded him all the time. I remember when I was ten you actually had a fight where you said he was personally responsible for the subjugation of women in Spain.”

  “He was a filmmaker. There's a responsibility there. Besides, he said a lot of shit about me.”

  “Mom, you gave him an ulcer. He didn't give you an ulcer.”

  For a long moment, my mother and I just looked at each other. Then she pushed herself off her chair. “Listen. I don't want to tear your father down. You want to believe he was the injured party—”

  “He had to get a restraining order!” I hesitated. “Whose idea was it to get divorced, Mom? Yours or his?” They had always claimed it was mutual, but suddenly, I wondered whether that was the case.

  My mother took a deep drag of her cigarette. “I suppose it was me. I couldn't put up with the cheating anymore. And I was tired of playing tit for tat.”

  “Oh.” I took her hand, touching the amber of one of her big silver rings. “Do you know, I saw one of your movies last night, Mom.”

  “Which one was it? Blood of Egypt?”

  Her role in Blood of Egypt was my mother's favorite. I am named for Abra Cadabra, the deceptively mousy librarian. “No, Mom. Lucrezia Cyborgia.“


  My mother stubbed out her cigarette. “I had an affair with that spaceman, you know. Dan Daimler.” There was a distant cacophony of feline yowls in the background. “So if you're up watching Dan making out with me, then you're not sleeping again.”

  “Do you think I should leave him, Mom?”

  I expected her to say, Damn right, but instead, my mother's face softened. “How about I get the cards out?”

  I took another tissue and wiped my eyes. “You know I don't believe in that stuff, Mom.”

  “But that stuff believes in you, Abra.”

  “Not this again.”

  “You keep saying you don't remember, but I'll never forget it. Standing outside the chậteau, insisting you wouldn't set foot inside.”

  “I was six.”

  “Pain, you said. Someone in there was in great pain, and they couldn't get out.”

  “I'd never seen a chậteau before. To me, it probably looked haunted.”

  “And then when we came back the next day, in broad daylight you crouched right down—”

  “Oh, God, please, not that again …”

  “And told the landlady her dog was hurt …”

  I buried my face in my hands. “I was a kid. I must have heard someone talking about the dog.”

  “You didn't speak French, Abra. And Madame Broussard said, Hurt where? And you put your hand right into that animal's huge mouth …”

  “Mom, can I change the subject?”

  “And there was a tumor the size of a lemon. Honey, don't you see that you've closed yourself off from this part of you?”

  “No I haven't. I stick my hand in dogs' mouths every day.”

  “But you ignore the instincts that brought you there.” Every time I think my mother might honestly have some advice for me she goes into her psychic phenomena spiel. According to her, this is the big talent I've neglected.

  “Mom, about Hunter …”

  “Think about him while I get the cards out.”

  I sighed and watched her shuffle on the kitchen counter: badger, owl, turkey, squirrel.

  “What are these?”

  “Medicine cards. Native American. I did a reading for you last week and I saw magic in your future. And deception.”