Overstepping
Always let a sleeping dog lie
Hard rain flicked against the glass doors at my head when I awoke from an impromptu 30-minute nap. In December, Sunday afternoons were still and cheerless in the large duplex. Further contributing to my uncharacteristic display were sleepless nights riddled with nightmares and anxiety. The smell of fresh cigarette smoke indicated his presence even before my eyes were open, and at once I was overcome with dread — the familiar knot tightening my insides. Worse, I could feel his resentful eyes on me before I rolled over on the couch to see him sitting there, a cigarette dangling from one hand.
“Do you feel better for having slept?” he asked. Tone colored the benevolent words black, where they hung heavy in the air between us, the skeletal form from which to hang my shame.
I met his hostile eyes wondering if he could see the fatigue in mine. “That’s not like me,” I said, and sat up tossing the throw aside.
“Would a cup of tea be too much to ask?” he said.
“Not at all.” I stood and smiled in place of asking the obvious question regarding the piano tied to his goddam ass. Agreeing discretion is the better part of valor, I moved to the kitchen, aware of his eyes following my every move — weighing and measuring. Always weighing and measuring — and I fought to steady my hands.
With the kettle filled and plugged in, I added another load of laundry to the washing machine, and began loading the dishes he’d left on the kitchen counter into the dishwasher. I made a mental note to pay the credit card bill, water the plants, and clean the master bath. I also needed to put up some Christmas decorations — inside and out. The kettle whistled and I filled the pre-heated teapot, dropping in two bags. I began looking for the tea cozy, but couldn’t find it where I left it. He looked on to ensure the steps for his tea were carried out as he’d shown me.
“Use three bags,” he said. “Your tea always tastes like piss.”
I nodded and added another teabag.
“Did you use tap water to pre-heat the teapot?” he asked.
“I did,” I said. There was a sigh in my voice, and he heard it.
“Sorry to be a nuisance, but I assumed taking care to the same degree I would…well…but I get it. You’re busy.” He punctuated his meaning with an eye-roll, and butted out his cigarette.
Any consideration I may have entertained regarding a reply, had I been gifted with an unaccustomed dose of gumption, was cut short by persistent pounding at the back door. Knowing the knocker would be standing in the rain had me hurrying to answer. Before I got to it, Clarice let herself in. She breezed past me and went straight to her brother who’d come into the kitchen and taken up a chair in the nook.
“Nigel, how are you?” She bent and gave him a peck on the cheek, which he offered up as soon as she crossed the threshold.
“I’m making a pot of tea, Clarice; may I offer you a cup?” I asked, taking another cup down.
“How about I make us a fresh pot,” she said, winking at Nigel. “Nigel is probably dying for a proper cup of tea.”
“Indeed,” he said.
Clarice dumped the tea in the sink with a splash, and refilled the kettle. “Well, it’s set; Mom and Dad are coming for Christmas,” she said, smiling at Nigel. “I just talked them into it.” I wiped the splashed tea off the counter, and hung the dishrag before Clarice pushed me aside to access the drawer where she kept the tea cozy. I understood why I could never find it — she kept it someplace different.
“I said they would stay here with you, obviously,” she said. “You have more room than I do.” Nigel nodded his head. Puzzling, I thought, considering the duplexes were identical three-bedroom units, but I kept quiet.
“Remember I’ve asked my kids,” I said.
“As long as they’re quiet and Mom and Dad are not inconvenienced, that shouldn’t be an issue,” Clarice said. She poured boiling water into the teapot to preheat the pot. I searched Nigel’s face for some support.
Nigel watched her nodding in appreciation of her adept handling of the tea-making process. “I agree, Clarice,” he said. “Mom and Dad are getting older, and therefore deserve to be our first consideration.”
How thrilling I received approval from my sister-in-law to have my kids in my home for the holidays — providing they were not an inconvenience. What more could one ask for. I bit my tongue and immediately felt ashamed. After all, his parents were in their early 70’s.
“Mom said you should do the cooking, Nigel. She and I will help.” Clarice poured the water from the pot, dropped in four tea bags and re-filled the teapot with the steaming kettle. “I’m afraid that’ll leave you to do clean up, but I guess your kids can help,” she said to me.
“Turkey or prime rib?” Nigel asked.
“Well that’s up to you, Brother,” she said, settling the cozy on the pot.
“The kids have always liked the traditional turkey,” I said. “As well, Linda doesn’t eat red meat anymore.”
“That’s a shame because I was leaning to prime rib,” Clarice said, and pouted out her bottom lip. “I’m confident I’m speaking for Mom and Dad as well.”
“Same,” said Nigel. “I’m sure Linda can have turkey at her dad’s place, Carla. Turkey is pedestrian.”
“Well, lovely. It’s decided.” She poured two cups of tea, kissed Nigel on the cheek again, and ushered him to the living room.
The kitchen fell quiet, and I leaned against the countertop. The dryer buzzed, signaling the laundry was done drying and I should empty the machine and get folding.
I wondered, should I be relieved the lady of the house was looking after all the details? But I was being a catty bitch again. Was Christmas with my kids the mountain I’d choose to die on? I’d figure it out, I thought, and opened the dryer to a blast of heat.
***
The notepad sat on the arm of the sofa with a list of important tasks to be completed in the next couple weeks. Empty beer cans and cigarette ashes were strewn over the coffee table of the TV room, and I was too exhausted to start tidying up for the 40th time that day. “What are you scribbling about?” he asked. His eyes squinted against the trail of cigarette smoke drifting into his face, but remained fixed on the TV.
“Some details I’ll need to see to if we’re having guests over Christmas,” I said. “Your folks are staying a few days, if I heard correctly.”
No answer.
“Did I hear correctly?” I asked.
“Something like that,” he said. “But you don’t need to worry about it. Clarice will look after it all.”
“They’re not staying at Clarice’s place — they’re staying here, and where they are more than welcome, Nigel, Clarice is not welcome to manage how I entertain guests in my own home.”
His eyes slid over to me for the first time all day. “Honestly, you’re going to be that controlling?” He laughed. “Way to rock the hyper-sensitive, controlling and insecure bitch persona.” His lips curled into a cruel smile, and at once I felt like a fool. He was right, of course; but I couldn’t stop myself.
“I’ve had house guests before, Nigel; I’ve raised a family and looked after a home while running a family business. I’ve entertained and played hostess to larger groups than seven — successfully. I don’t need someone to show me how.”
“My family have certain expectations, Carla. You’re not feeding the cattle back on the farm. Best to let Clarice handle it because she was brought up understanding their refined tastes — she’s skilled in such areas.” He butted his cigarette on the coffee table having missed the ashtray completely, and downed the rest of his Lucky beer. Evidently, the kitchen was too far away in his current state, as he’d tucked a box of red wine at his feet. Picking the box up, he began wrestling with the nozzle.
I watched his movements with a sinking stomach.
“And by the way, you need to talk to Linda and Jack,” he said, pouring his wine into a Sponge-Bob soup mug. He overfilled the mug, spilling wine onto the table. He bent over and sucked it up, ashes from his cigarettes, and all. “Clarice and I feel it’s better if they do Christmas Eve here.”
“Why?” I asked, my eyes settling on the burn mark in the table, now soaked with red wine. “Their Dad is having a Christmas Eve Dinner, and Jack is going to his girlfriend’s on Boxing Day,” I said, trying to keep the tears out of my voice.
“We want Christmas Day for just our family, and that way my folks won’t feel they’re imposing in any way,” he said.
I looked at him hunched over the coffee table searching among the empty Lucky cans for the package of cigarettes that were in his shirt pocket, holding his mug of wine, and something dark and unwholesome moved in my gut. “No,” I said.
“What do you mean, no?” He attempted to focus on my face, but the effects of six beer, three joints and half a soup-mug of Merlot were taking a toll on his vision.
I got up and walked to the kitchen, putting my water glass into the dishwasher. This was the first Christmas Day with my two kids since the divorce seven years earlier and I’d be damned if I would give it up. If it wasn’t Christmas Day, I wouldn’t get to see them until after New Year’s. His parents lived only a 30-minute drive from us — staying for three days was ridiculous.
“I fucking asked what you mean, by no,” he said.
I hadn’t heard him come into the kitchen, but there he was, weaving in the doorway, his eyes unfocused but lit with outrage.
“Simply, no,” I said. “I’m going to bed, and we can revisit this in the morning.” Watching him weave silently in the kitchen doorway, I left and headed upstairs.
His fingers clutched at my shirt when I was one stair away from the top, and I stopped. “You don’t fucking say no to me, you red-neck bitch,” he said, releasing my shirt and clutching instead at the handrail. The very same handrail that was item number one on my list downstairs to be repaired before his ageing parents stayed three days later this month. It had been broken since his last drunken debacle on the stairs.
“And you don’t grab me on the stairs when you’re half-cut you dumb cunt,” I said, and gave him a push. The handrail pulled from the wall as it had done before, and provided him with a speedy, and noisy, departure down the stairs.
I watched his still body from my position above, a warm feeling settling over me — then made my way down.
Stepping over him at the base of the stairs, I headed to the kitchen for my cell phone. Checking my phone was charged, I leaned over and searched for a pulse, which remained wonderfully elusive. Plucking the cigarettes from his breast pocket, I lit myself one.
I dialed 911. “There’s been an accident. Please hurry.” I smoked while the 911 operator took my address, name, and details of the accident. I smoked from my seat on the bottom stair as the dispatcher talked me through CPR. I smoked as the distant sound of sirens cut through the rain-soaked night.
“Well then — looks like we’re having a fucking turkey,” I said, and opened the front door.
