Читать книгу Don't Get Mad, Get Even - Barb Goffman - Страница 7

THE WORST NOEL

Okay, Gwen. Get ready to fake it.

It was nearly my turn to share what I was thankful for. Then we’d eat some pie, Thanksgiving dinner would mercifully end, and I could escape for home.

But first I had to pay my annual homage to Mom, saying how thankful I am for my family. Every year I contemplate only mentioning my friends and work, but I always chicken out. Mom would make me pay if I didn’t smile and mention her.

My sister, Becca, finally stopped blathering about her husband and baby, and Mom slipped into the kitchen, clearly satisfied, as always, with Becca.

Becca’s husband, Joe, started sharing his thanks. I reached for another roll, slathered some butter on it, and swallowed it down in two bites. Joe finished talking. I steeled myself. My turn had come. I smiled and—

“Happy birthday to you,” Mom sang, emerging from the kitchen with a large pumpkin pie, a candle in the middle. Everyone joined in, Becca’s in-laws looking uncomfortable, while Mom set the pie before me.

“We would have wished you happy birthday earlier,” Joe said, glancing at his parents when the song ended. “But we thought your birthday was tomorrow.”

“Oh, it is,” Mom piped in. “But Becca and I will be busy shopping, so it only makes sense to celebrate Gwen’s birthday now.”

I wished I had a different family and blew out my candle.

“Pumpkin pie as birthday cake,” Joe said. “How unusual.”

He knew my preference for chocolate. As did Mom.

“Well, it is Thanksgiving. Besides”—Mom poked me with her elbow—“it’s not like Gwen needs any more cake.” She smiled as if she hadn’t just been incredibly rude to me. “Becca, would you please slice the pie? I’m going to get Gwen’s gift.”

A couple minutes later, as plates of pie made the rounds and I considered dropping mine, face down, on Mom’s Berber carpet, Mom handed me a gold-wrapped box. I opened the envelope first, and a small gift card fell out. I turned it over and cringed. Not a gift card. A membership card. For a gym.

This was a new low, even for Mom.

“Read the greeting card,” she said.

Lord save me. “To our darling daughter on her birthday,” I read aloud. Not that Mom or Dad had penned that sentiment. It came straight from Hallmark. At the bottom, Mom had written, “We got you this gym membership and a personal trainer for the next six months. Happy Birthday.”

Oh, yeah. There’s nothing like being reminded that you’re fat to make your birthday a humdinger!

“What a wonderful gift,” Becca said in that tone she’d used since we were kids—the one grown-ups always thought sounded sweet and sincere but I knew was chockfull of sarcasm.

“There’s more!” Mom said, pointing at the box, looking proud.

I shuddered to imagine what might be in it. I gingerly opened the gold wrapping paper, not because I cared about ripping it, but because I wanted to delay every second I could before the inevitable torture.

Paper off, the box’s lid caught my eye. Bloomingdale’s. Really? Excited, I lifted off the cover, pulled back the crinkly, white tissue paper, and…mentally kicked myself for thinking Mom might have gotten me something nice.

“Hold it up,” Mom said. “Let everyone see.”

I pulled out my gift. A red sweat suit. Size medium.

“You can use it at the gym! With the trainer!” she said.

I watched Becca try not to laugh while her in-laws and Joe sat there, mouths open.

“Thank you, Mom. Dad. How very…thoughtful.”

“Go try it on,” Mom said.

“Oh, no, not right now.”

“C’mon, Gwen,” Becca chimed in. “Don’t be shy. Let’s see how it looks.”

I glared at her. She knew damn well how it would look.

Mom gave me her don’t-embarrass-me frown. So I shuffled off to my old bedroom, sweat suit in hand. As an elementary school principal, I’m used to standing up to people and holding my own. But you wouldn’t know it seeing me around my family. While I took off my clothes, I wondered for the millionth time why Mom and Dad favored Becca so much. Growing up, they had always given her great presents. First the hottest toys, then trendy teenage clothes, and then expensive jewelry from Cartier in Boston. Oh, how she’d always loved to laud her gifts over me.

Especially since my presents always sucked. When I turned eight, Cabbage Patch dolls were all the rage. I got a Skipper doll. Mom wouldn’t even spring for Barbie. At fourteen, I begged for bohemian clothes from Annie Dakota, a funky store that used to be downtown. I got a science tutor instead. “A far better use of the money,” Mom had said, looking me up and down. “We can’t count on you finding a husband like Becca surely will, and I don’t want to have to support you for the rest of my life.” Becca had snickered while my few friends whom I’d invited over for cake gasped—they’d heard my stories about Mom, but nothing shocked like seeing her in action.

Given the history, I shouldn’t have been surprised by today’s events. And yet a tiny part of me hoped every year that things would be different. Stupid, stupid, stupid.

I struggled to get the sweat suit on, tugging the snug pants over my hips and fighting to pull the top’s zipper over my bosom. When I finally finished and peered in the mirror, I cringed. The red sweat suit had a white collar and cuffs. I looked like a pregnant Santa Claus.

“What’s taking so long, Gwen?” Mom called from the hall. “If you don’t come out right now, I’m just going to come in on my own.”

I opened the door, Mom sucked in her breath, and Becca burst out laughing.

“I’ll have to return it.” I gestured at the red nightmare. “It’s a bit tight.”

“Of course it’s tight.” Mom rolled her eyes. “How will you ever be encouraged to lose weight if you constantly wear fat clothes? That’s why I bought you a medium.”

Tears welled up in my eyes, but I wouldn’t let them flow.

Mom clapped her hands together. “That’s enough about you, Gwen. This is a holiday for the whole family, after all, and we have guests. Get dressed and come back and join everyone.”

“Wait.” Becca handed me another box. “This is from me and Joe. But you don’t have to model it now. I’m sure it’ll look great on you.”

Right. I closed the door and sank onto my old bed, the springs creaking. Sighing, I opened Becca’s gift. A royal blue sweater with horizontal white stripes. At least it was the right size, but stripes! It would look hideous on me. Of course it didn’t come as a surprise. Every year since we’d become adults, Becca had given me gifts that made me look bad. In return, every year I’d bought her gifts she wouldn’t like. Last year, a bargain-brand video camera. This year, a silver bracelet. Becca only wears gold.

I looked at my watch. How soon could I leave without Mom calling me rude? Whatever the time, it wouldn’t be soon enough.

* * * *

Two Saturdays later Hanukkah was set to begin, and once again, I had to deal with my family. Mom demanded we celebrate the first night at my place this year, which was unusual. Since Dad was the only real Jewish person in our immediate family—Becca and I had been raised Presbyterian, like Mom, but with a fine appreciation for the gift-oriented Jewish holidays—we always celebrated the first night of Hanukkah at Mom and Dad’s. Odder still was Mom’s insistence on coming over early in the afternoon. Hanukkah didn’t start until sundown, and I couldn’t imagine Mom really wanted to hang out for several hours in my rented townhouse in my “bad” neighborhood.

Still, shortly after lunch, Mom and Dad arrived. Mom made a beeline for my Christmas tree. She stood silent, arms folded, studying it. I had just strung up the colored lights and a few glittering ornaments the night before. It looked great.

“Honestly, Gwen,” Mom finally said. “Why must you pick the scruffiest, most pathetic tree every year? It’s like you try to embarrass me.” She walked over to the window and pulled the curtains closed so the neighbors wouldn’t have to suffer seeing my tree.

Stung, I went downstairs to take some deep breaths and dig out my menorah. I found no leftover candles. Fabulous! I could escape to the market to buy a box. I’d need two candles for tonight, three for tomorrow, and so on for the eight nights of Hanukkah. I always liked saying the prayers and lighting the candles. It made me feel peaceful.

Focusing on staying calm, I returned to the living room, and my eyes nearly bugged out. Mom was directing two delivery men to move my love seat to a corner and set a big box in its place.

“What’s going on?” I asked.

“Surprise!” Mom waved her hand at the box like the girls from The Price is Right do. “Happy Hanukkah.” She nodded at the workmen, and they pulled apart the box to reveal…oh, my Lord. A treadmill. “It’s for snowy days when you can’t get to the gym this winter,” she said.

I felt a major migraine coming on, and I never got migraines.

I stood dumbfounded while the workmen set up the treadmill. I still hadn’t said a word by the time they left.

“Don’t give me that look, Gwen,” Mom said. “Once I saw that sweat suit on you, I knew you wouldn’t wear it out of the house. Now you have no excuse not to put it on. Come, Henry, let’s go home and give Gwen a chance to try out her present.”

“What?” I shook my head. “What about lighting the candles tonight?”

Mom scrunched her eyebrows, confused. “We’re not actually going to do that here, Gwen. We’ll light the candles at home, as always. I’ll expect you before sundown.” She pushed Dad toward the door, then turned to look at the treadmill. “And by the way, you’re welcome.”

* * * *

The next night, after lighting the candles at home, I thought back to Thanksgiving and realized I now had something family-oriented to be thankful for. I wouldn’t have to see Mom or Becca for three whole weeks, when we’d all have Christmas Eve dinner at Becca’s.

I had twenty-one blissful, family-free days to look forward to. Happy, I wrote some holiday cards to old friends while a batch of sugar cookies baked in the oven.

My happiness didn’t last long. The next morning, Mom showed up at my school. She’d never expressed any interest in my job before. I had just finished meeting with a parent and was showing her out when Mom practically swaggered into the school office.

“Gwen,” she interrupted. “I have the most fantastic news!”

Please be moving to Florida.

Mom looked around until she was sure she had the attention of the secretaries, my vice-principal, and a student who was in the room, as well as the departing parent and myself. Then she clapped her hands together. “Your brother-in-law, the doctor,” she said, emphasizing the word, like I didn’t know Joe’s profession, “has been chosen to play a very prominent rebel in the next Patriots’ Day re-enactment.”

Wow. I had grown up in nearby Lexington, home of the American Revolution, and its Patriots’ Day re-enactment each April was a big deal around here. Being asked to play any important position was a great honor for Joe, who deserved it both for being a nice guy and for putting up with my sister.

Everyone oohed and ahhed appropriately. Mom beamed.

“Your sister certainly hit the jackpot with her husband,” she said, picking lint off my suit jacket. “It’s such a shame you don’t have a man in your life, darling. Or any prospects. Maybe if you actually used that treadmill…”

I looked for a hole in the floor to crawl into.

“Anyway,” Mom continued. “Becca is planning a family celebration at her home Friday night at eight. You’re expected to attend.”

With a quick nod, Mom walked out. Everyone in the office turned away, embarrassed, and I felt something in me break.

It was one thing for Mom to belittle me in front of friends and family. That I’d grown used to. But now she’d polluted my work environment. Undermined my authority. And thrown Becca in my face. Again.

Escaping my colleagues’ pitying glances, I went to my private office and paced.

Becca always got everything, yet she was such a witch. Joe and my nephew, Charlie, would be so much better off without her.

And Mom. She claimed to love me, but she only really loved herself—and Becca.

In a flash, a plan unfolded in my mind. So simple. I could kill both birds with one stone.

Well…I wouldn’t actually kill them both.

* * * *

As soon as school let out that afternoon, I headed over to Becca’s. I gushed over Joe’s news and the tasteful, all-white Christmas lights they had strung up outside. (I always liked the multi-colored ones myself.) Then I suggested Becca model the suede coat Mom had bought her for Hanukkah. On her way to the closet, Becca made a snide comment about my treadmill. I let it go—and swiped her spare house key.

A little later I drove to the hospital where Joe works for advice on what to get Becca for Christmas. In the few minutes he could spare to chat, Joe left his office twice to deal with patient issues. As I’d hoped. He was only gone a minute or so each time, but long enough for me to find his prescription pad and rip off a sheet. On the way out of the hospital, I passed a drug cart helpfully left alone in a hallway. I swiped some random pills and hurried out. That evening, I had a copy of Becca’s house key made. Everything was falling into place.

When school let out the next afternoon, I returned to Becca’s. I knew the house would be empty, Charlie with his nanny at a Mommy and Me class, Joe at work, and Becca out playing mahjong. I wiped down her key and put it back. Then I went into her study, got on the Internet, and ordered some OxyContin using Becca’s email and credit card number (so helpful that Joe filed all the bills neatly in a desk cabinet). Then I faxed in my fake prescription. My handwriting didn’t look anything like Joe’s, but that didn’t matter. What was important was my handwriting looked like Becca’s.

Come Friday morning, I called in sick. But I was actually feeling giddy. Knowing Joe was at work and Charlie would be at the park with the nanny, I phoned Becca and told her about great Christmas sales going on at Macy’s and Lord and Taylor. She actually thanked me and raced out.

I headed over to her house, parking down the street so the neighbors wouldn’t notice my car, and let myself in. While I waited for the drugs (I paid extra for delivery by 11 a.m.), I played around in Becca’s cabinets, switching salt for sugar, that type of thing. When my package finally came, I shoved the receipt in the back of a drawer and went home, only to return a few hours later for Joe’s dinner.

I felt a little bad about ruining his celebration, but it couldn’t be helped. It was especially nice that Mom had invited one of her friends from the National Heritage Museum to dinner at Becca’s to show Joe off. Now I’d have a witness to the tension between Mom and Becca.

Priceless is the best way to describe everyone’s faces, especially Mom’s, as they tasted the supposedly sweet and sour chicken that was actually salty and bitter. Becca’s mouth hung open. She’d always prided herself on being the perfect cook and hostess.

“I’m sorry,” she said. “I can’t imagine what went wrong. Please have more of the salad and rolls.” She hurried into the kitchen to try to pull something else together. Mom followed her.

“If you didn’t have time to cook a proper dinner, Becca, you should have told me,” Mom said in her usual whisper that could be heard in the next township. “You’ve embarrassed me. I typically count on Gwen for that.”

Before Becca could defend herself, Mom emerged from the kitchen, a tight smile on her face. “Madeline.” She nodded to her friend. “Why don’t we go out for a proper meal? It’s on us, of course.”

In seconds Mom, Dad, and Madeline headed for the door, while Becca shot daggers from her eyes at Mom’s back. I was so happy, Mom’s jab at me hardly registered.

I went home soon after, singing “Jingle Bells” and feeling quite merry indeed.

* * * *

On Sunday, the first flurries of the season came. I watched them happily through the window at a cute café near my townhouse where I was having lunch with Aunt Lynn, Dad’s sister. I waited for her to mention Becca, and when she finally did, I said, “Mom’s being so hard on Becca since she put on those ten pounds.”

“What ten pounds? The girl’s a stick.”

“I know. You certainly can’t tell by looking at her. But you know Mom.”

Aunt Lynn did know Mom, very well. (It’s why she made plans with other relatives every Thanksgiving.) She shook her head, the tiny diamonds on the Jewish star around her neck sparkling in the light. “That woman. One day someone’s going to put her in her place.”

“I’m surprised Becca didn’t tell Mom off herself. I guess she’s too embarrassed about the weight gain. I don’t think she’s confided in anyone but the two of us. So don’t say anything.”

Aunt Lynn crossed her heart. I knew I could count on her keeping her word. Well, at least until the police came asking.

* * * *

Finally, Christmas Eve day came. I headed over to Becca’s shortly after breakfast. I knew she and Joe planned to take Charlie to the mall for a final chance to see Santa before the line got too long. They’d actually given their nanny a couple days off.

I also knew that this afternoon Becca would make lemon torte, Mom’s favorite, for dessert. Wearing gloves, I opened the pantry, and into each of the ingredients, I mixed some of the stolen pills and OxyContin. I didn’t know what the pills would do, but I figured the OxyContin would kill Mom, and if she suffered from the other ground-up medicines, all the better.

And—the topper—Becca would be blamed. Her inevitable refusal to eat the high-calorie dessert, coupled with the OxyContin billed to her credit card, would guarantee it, just in case the police had any doubt.

I spent the afternoon baking and watching It’s a Wonderful Life. As it ended, I became melancholy. Was I being too hard on Mom and Becca? Heading to the kitchen for brownies to help me think, I stubbed my toe on the damn treadmill. All the anger and memories flooded back. No, I wasn’t being too hard on them. Not by a long shot. They had brought this on themselves.

I arrived a little later at Becca’s, armed with presents, and happily learned Joe had to work tonight in order to get Christmas day off. It would be much better without a doctor in the house. Becca had already fed Charlie and put him to bed. So it was just Mom, Dad, Becca, and me for dinner. Our small, happy family.

The first two courses went swimmingly for Becca. Mom fawned over her shrimp puff appetizer and declared her main course of leg of lamb with roasted potatoes and steamed asparagus “simply divine.” I was so excited, I helped myself to a couple extra rolls, along with a second helping of potatoes.

Finally it was time for dessert. Becca emerged from the kitchen with a small lemon torte. Mom narrowed her eyes. “Becca, why is this dish so small? There’s hardly enough for two here, let alone four.”

“I’m on a diet,” she said. Shocking. “And Dad never eats lemon torte. I figured you and Gwen could share it. Dad and I can have cranberry yogurt.”

Mom turned to me. “Well, Gwen. I know you never pass up dessert. Hand me your plate.”

Oh, she so deserved what was coming. “Actually, I’m on a diet, too. You’ll have to enjoy the lemon torte by yourself.”

“A diet? I had no idea,” Becca said. “And here I baked you a special, extra dessert to make up for that striped monstrosity I gave you for your birthday.” She scurried into the kitchen and reappeared moments later with cranberry yogurt for her and Dad, and a large slice of fudge cake for me. My favorite.

“You made that?” I asked.

“Okay, you got me. It took a long time to bake the lemon torte, so I picked this up from that gourmet bakery down on Bedford Street. It’s still good.”

It looked better than good. “Well, since you went to all that trouble.” I smiled and dug in. Then I leaned back in my chair while I watched Mom eat her dessert with her typical small, dainty bites.

“Becca, this is wonderful,” Mom said, her face a bit flushed. “But it tastes different than it usually does. Did you change your recipe?”

“That’s weird,” she said. “I didn’t change a thing. Gwen, how’s your dessert?”

Now it was my turn to think things were weird. Becca appeared flushed, too. So did Dad. In fact everything seemed blotchy and out of focus. I shook my head, which made things worse. My stomach cramped, my head spun.

“Gwen,” Becca said, “are you all right?”

I blinked and tried to answer, but I couldn’t speak. Gasping for breath, I slumped to the floor. I was sweating yet felt so cold.

“Damn it, Gwen,” I heard Mom say. “I told you to lose weight!” My eyes fluttered open. She was leaning over me. “Becca, call 911.”

“It’ll be faster if we drive to the hospital,” Becca said. “It’s started to snow. They’re probably busy with accidents.”

“Henry, go start the car!” Mom yelled.

“Mom.” Becca knelt beside me as I began to shake. “Grab a blanket from the spare bedroom for Gwen!”

“Of course.” She ran off.

Becca shifted closer. “I told a little fib earlier. I bought Mom’s lemon torte from the bakery. I made your dessert from scratch.”

I opened my eyes wide—the only movement I could make.

“That’s right, Gwen. I can be crafty, too. Like how I’ve used that video camera you gave me last year. I set it up at first to spy on the nanny. Imagine my surprise these past few weeks, seeing you come and go.” She sighed. “I’ll look at today’s tape next week and discover that you tampered with ingredients in my kitchen this morning. I’ll tearfully hand it over to the cops and let them figure out that you…did yourself in.”

I began wheezing. Dad ran over and, straining, lifted me up. While he carried me to the door, I saw Becca smile. Then I spied the Christmas gifts I’d put under the tree, and I smiled, too.

My back-up plan.

I felt peaceful as I drifted away, thinking of the sweets I’d made Mom and Becca for Christmas.

\

“The Worst Noel” originally appeared in The Gift of Murder, published by Wolfmont Press in 2009. This story was nominated for the 2009 Agatha Award.

I think this story went through more revisions than any other story I’ve ever written (except “Evil Little Girl,” which has dogged me for years). The first draft was inspired by a call for stories using the word medium. I believe that editor was looking for stories with psychics and methods of communication and things like that. But when I heard “medium,” I immediately thought of the size. I thought of someone never living up to her family’s standards because she wasn’t a medium. She never would be. But the story didn’t really come together until I heard of another call for stories a year or so later from Editor Tony Burton of Wolfmont Press. He wanted crime stories set at the holidays, and things began to click. Mix a tortured, overweight woman and her family and the holidays? Oh yes, that’s certainly a recipe for murder.