Archibald Full Frontal, page 13
I say I understand, but I keep my hands in my lap all the way home.
Grandma visits me in my dreams again. We are entwined, my mother, grandmother, and me, in this dreamscape. In the aftermath of the crash, the car sits crumpled, and I cry and cry. A toddler, sitting on an embankment, inconsolable. When I turn to find my mother, she sits beside me, stunned.
She turns to me then. “Magali, I am being punished. I can’t cry. Not a tear.”
So I cry for her.
I wake up. I stare at the easel Archibald bought me for my birthday. I have left it untouched all these months, preferring to scratch away on a pad with pencil. In the darkened room, it looks barren, beautiful, like a snowy landscape. It has intimidated me until this point; I haven’t picked up a brush since I was a teenager away at school. But now I have something to paint. I will paint her. I search out the paint tubes that I’ve collected here and there over the months.
And it all comes back as if it were yesterday. The paint flows easily, fearlessly, from my hands. I work on it for days. Archibald doesn’t seem to notice my paint-smeared hands. When I am done, I have painted her. She stands between parted red curtains. The stage is the cavern of the crash, now just a crater, filled with white wildflowers. She is alone, standing in a faded green dress. She looks like my mother, only older. Grandma. Her hair is styled in a bob. She smiles and holds out her hands.
And real or not, she is the woman from my dreams.
Outside, everything is thawing from the morning frost, moist and grumpy. Inside, it is much the same. It has been an all-male gathering. The twins have colds. Rita is visiting relatives in Germany. Leo lets out a sigh that turns into a burp. Archibald flips him a disapproving glance and then belches himself after swallowing the remains of a cucumber sandwich.
I collect the spare cups and spoons on a silver tray. Sam helps me, picking up crumpled napkins. Marcell has fallen asleep on a cushion on the floor. I trip over the cat on my way to the kitchen, and she hisses.
I eye Zoltan. He’s the only one allowed to spend time with Archibald in his study, with the exception of Marcell. He carries a little notepad with him that he tucks into his jacket when he leaves the room. Archibald says he is an aspiring writer, but he gives me an uneasy feeling. He talks a little too loudly and smiles at me like a condescending uncle. I don’t need any new uncles.
I turn on the kitchen tap and try to wash red paint off my elbow, a remnant of my latest painting.
“Do I get to see any of these paintings?” Sam asks as he loads the dishwasher.
“What?” I am not displeased he has noticed.
“I assume that paint on your arm is not from redoing the walls.”
“True,” I say.
“So when?”
“One day soon.”
“Megs, can you come in here?” Archibald calls from the living room.
“What?” I re-enter the room, hoping that Archibald isn’t looking to spice up the mood with me.
“See, they are green,” he proclaims. “Just like Mi Tie’s.”
“What are green?” I ask.
“No, they are blue,” Marcell disagrees with one eye open.
“Your eyes,” says Archibald. “Leo said you have Mona Lisa eyes. But you can’t because they are green and not brown at all.”
Leo blushes. “I could have sworn.” He collects the cards and begins shuffling.
“Isn’t it Mona Lisa’s smile that’s famous anyway?” I ask, trying to change the subject.
Zoltan holds his fedora in his hands on his knees, scrutinizing it. Apparently, my eyes are not that interesting.
“They are not green,” says Marcell emphatically, closing both his eyes and returning to his nap. I am surprised at the force of his opinion. He is indifferent on most subjects.
“Do I have a say in this?” I ask.
Leo shrugs apologetically.
Archibald takes a step closer to me, peering at me through his spectacles. “What would you know?”
“They are grey,” Sam says definitively from behind me.
“Ha! You might be right,” concedes Archibald coming far too close. “Greyish. I will give you that.” The matter closed, he thankfully loses interest. “Now deal me in.”
Marcell has fallen back to sleep, his indifference renewed.
The phone rings and I answer. It is my mother, on her cell. She rarely calls me; it is usually the other way around.
“Can you talk?” she asks.
“Sure.”
“I’m coming to town, in two weeks, for a conference. Just for a couple of days. You probably won’t be able to get the time off with so little notice. But I thought I should let you know,” she says in her hurried fashion.
“You can never tell. I’ll ask the powers that be.”
“That isn’t really—”
“Hang on,” I insist, although I don’t particularly feel like another visit.
Back in the living room, Marcell is snoring. Leo stares doubtfully at his cards. Archibald is tickling Mi Tie with his stocking foot under the table. Sam is into a bowl of peppermints.
“Archibald, I need next Tuesday or Wednesday off.”
“How come?” He doesn’t look up from his game of footsie with the Persian beast.
“My mom is coming to town.”
“How intriguing. Mom is flying up just to see you, darling daughter?”
“Well, no, not really. She has a conference. So, what do you think?” I hurry.
“If there’s nothing pressing, then knock yourself out.”
“I call,” says Sam, surveying his cards with a pleased expression.
“Crap,” says Leo.
“Crap and steaming piss,” Archibald remarks as Sam puts down a full house. “Why don’t you invite Mumsie over for lunch while she’s here?”
“I don’t know. Mumsie will probably be pretty busy,” I reply doubtfully.
“Well, you can ask anyway. I would love to meet the woman who is your primary influence. Anyway, the milieu in here needs a little freshening up.”
Every Dog
We ride the elevator in silence. Mom, I notice, has taken the time to make herself up. She wears a knee-length skirt, a light champagne-coloured blouse, and an elegant set of thin pumps that make her legs go on forever. She is even wearing lipstick. She looks like she has just come from the spa.
And, yet, I can see the blue vein at her temple pulsing as she works her jaw, grinding her teeth without sound. She does this whenever she is deep in thought, routing through a dilemma.
My mom is a woman of solutions, a logical being who believes that most problems are caused by flawed reasoning or flawed people. What problem is she solving now? Is she uptight about the lunch? About meeting Archibald? She has never cared for artists. It’s just a bunch of middle-aged lushes, I want to reassure her. Archibald hadn’t seemed in shit-disturber mode when I left to pick her up. He had been singing along to Bette Midler as he fussed with a flower arrangement and sampled the soup Maria had made for lunch. His latest book, a novel apparently, seemed to be progressing well as far as I could tell.
“This is us,” I say, as the elevator lurches to a stop. The door to Archibald’s apartment opens silent and heavy against my hand. She hesitates momentarily and peers inside, a distasteful expression on her face, as if a miasma akin to rotting sheep intestines has suddenly seeped from the innards of the apartment. All I smell are flowers and incense, slightly overpowering, but not offensive. When I look at her again, her lips are set in a grim, determined line. She exhales and then takes a long stride into the hallway.
Archibald is in the sitting area in his favourite chaise longue. His closest cronies, the Deliahs, Leo, and Rita, are seated beside him in a semicircle facing us. His palms grip the armrests of his chair as he stares regally, a ruler flanked by his obedient subjects. For a second, it feels as though we are facing a tribunal. My mother does not move any closer.
“So, this is Mom.” Archibald offers an indulgent smile and tilts his head inquisitively.
“Call me Susan. Nice to meet you,” my mother replies, not offering her hand.
Archibald gives a lazy smile. “I would get up, but my hip. Please…” He gestures to two empty chairs across from him with a flip of his hand.
“Would you like a drink? Maggie has progressed well under my tutelage … she makes a mean martini.”
“No, I’m fine.” Mom takes her seat, glancing around slightly, back erect.
I wait for drink orders like a page, but Archibald is not thirsty for once. His eyes stay on my mom. The silence drags. I uneasily take a chair. I begin to worry; he has the look of someone taking inventory.
“I don’t see the family resemblance,” he says finally, eyes sliding from Mom to me. “Aside from the hair colour, of course. But even that is subtle.”
“Maggie takes after more distant relatives,” my mom replies tonelessly. I reach up to touch my hair. It is much brassier than her fiery copper.
“Not her father?” he probes.
I swallow. “Uh—”
“A little.” Her face betrays nothing.
“And are you here on business or pleasure?”
“Business.”
“But surely some business can be pleasurable? What business are you in?” he asks as if he doesn’t already know.
“I thought — nursing. I’m here for a nursing conference.”
“Oh dear,” he replies with tsk-tsk. “We will have to do our best to improve your odds, for pleasure I mean.” He raises his eyebrows and grins.
The Deliahs giggle and Leo offers a conciliatory smile. I sigh audibly in relief; things are smoothing out.
Archibald claps his hands. “Where are my manners? You must be starving. How about a little soup?”
“That would be nice,” Mom answers.
I place Archibald’s best china soup bowl on the table with a basket of buns.
“Help yourselves,” Archibald proclaims grandly from the head of the table as the others seat themselves. “We don’t stand on ceremony here. It’s just a simple luncheon. I hope you don’t mind borscht.”
“Not at all,” my mom replies, sliding into a nearby chair. She ladles mauve soup into her bowl efficiently. “It smells delicious.”
Edna passes around the buns. I butter mine.
“You must tell us about Oregon. Is it pretty country?” Archibald holds out his bowl while Dorothy serves.
“Very,” my mom answers, swallowing a mouthful of soup.
I have frequently eaten Maria’s borscht and have never been disappointed. Today, it tastes just as good, but it has a different, richer flavour, as though something has been added.
“I just love the Oregon coast,” Dorothy offers. “The beaches are so lovely.”
“Yes—” her sister echoes. “Lovely.”
“What kind of soup did you say this was?” my mom asks.
“Borscht — beets, onions, garlic … cream — not the best for the waistline, I know, but you don’t seem to have a problem in that department.”
“It’s delicious. Unusually rich.”
“That’s probably the beef.” He shrugs.
“Beef!” My mom drops her spoon suddenly and wipes her mouth with her napkin vigorously. She gulps down the contents of her water glass in three swallows, face turning pink.
“Is anything wrong?” Archibald furrows his brow, looking from Mom to me.
“Archibald. She’s a vegetarian,” I answer curtly.
“Really?”
My mom stands up from the table. “Where’s the bathroom?”
I point her in the direction.
“I told you earlier,” I reprimand. “She doesn’t eat meat.”
“It must have slipped my mind. How … unfortunate.” He continues spooning down his soup, looking less than moved.
“Since when does Maria put beef in borscht?” I add.
“When she thinks I need extra protein,” Archibald replies with a shrug.
“The soup is delicious,” Rita says between mouthfuls.
“Top notch,” contributes Leo, not bothering to look up from his bowl.
My mom returns, looking pale. They all pause uncertainly.
“I am truly sorry.” Archibald half-rises. “I must have forgotten Maggie’s instructions. She is a real carnivore. Please forgive my carelessness.”
“That’s okay,” my mom answers, taking her seat. “No harm done.”
“Would you like dessert? We have a lovely custard,” he offers graciously.
“No, I’m fine,” my mom replies.
“Oh, of course, the salad! Maggie, how could you have forgotten it?”
“Salad?” I ask, drawing a blank. “Where?”
“In the refrigerator, of course. I made it earlier. Bring it for our guest. Now.”
I dutifully retrieve a bowl of salad I hadn’t noticed before. I set the bowl down. Mom dishes some onto a side plate.
She takes a small bite of lettuce and chews as if testing.
“This should be more to your liking. Lettuce is like comfort food for vegetarians,” Archibald quips.
My mom takes another bite and then sets her fork down with a heavy sigh and says through gritted teeth, “I should have known better. But this is low, even for you.”
“Is everything okay?” I ask anxiously. I look down at the salad. It looks okay to me. “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t like your lettuce now?” Archibald asks.
“The lettuce is fine.”
I poke through the salad. It appears to be your average green salad. Then, I pull out a strawberry. “Archibald! Strawberries?!”
“Yes, I believe that is a strawberry.” Archibald stares at it and then at me as if I am deranged.
“My mom is allergic to strawberries!” I explode.
“It’s okay. I don’t think I swallowed any.” My mom puts out her hand to reassure me.
“You are kidding me? Allergic!” Archibald looks appalled. “Good God!”
I narrow my eyes. I’m not buying the performance; something smells way off. In fact, it reeks. “I explicitly told you. Her throat swells up!”
“Really. It’s okay. I didn’t eat any. I’d know by now,” Mom urges.
“I am so sorry. I don’t know who thought of putting strawberries in the salad. That crazy Maria! I did tell her … but her English is so poor and she only hears what she wants to.” Archibald gives a puzzled shake of the head.
“Archibald. You made the salad,” I point out, glaring. “You just said so.” Was he trying to poison my mother? No, I had to be wrong. What could she have possibly done to him? I threw my napkin down.
“It must be all the medication I’m on. I am so sorry.” He gives a flimsy wave of his hand.
“I’ll survive,” my mom replies, no longer bothering to eat. “Though I’m not sure that was your plan.” She places her hands on the table, rising. “I think I should be going. This has been disappointingly predictable.”
What did she mean by “predictable”?
“Mom … I’m sorry—” I stand up and scowl at Archibald. “Please don’t go—” I turn to him, expecting him to say what was necessary for decorum.
“If you insist,” he says, not getting up.
“Thank you for lunch,” Mom says coldly before leaving the room.
I give Archibald a scathing glance. “Did you do this on purpose?” I whisper furiously. “Tell me right now!”
“On purpose?” Archibald tuts. “Spare me the third degree. Why on earth would I try to provoke an allergic reaction in your mother?”
I glare but say nothing.
I find her on the other side of the French doors that separate the dining room. Mom has stopped and stands with a strange expression on her face, as if noticing something for the first time on the wall across from her.
“It’s a lovely painting,” Edna calls from the table, following her gaze.
We all consider it. It is a watercolour I have admired before, of a woman and a girl facing away, holding hands, in a field of long yellow-green grass swaying as if in a breeze. He usually keeps it in his office. Had he moved it today?
“Thank you. My late wife painted it,” Archibald replies.
My mother stands before it, immobile.
I wait for her to move then nudge her arm, attempting to rouse her from her reverie. “Mom?”
She turns, swivelling on her heel. Facing Archibald down the long room, she stares at him with a look of loathing so intense that Dorothy gasps. He seems completely unruffled as he bites into a buttered bun.
“You cocksucker,” my mother whispers.
“Your point is?” he replies cheerfully.
“I think I’ll take that drink now.”
“Edna, get our guest a drink. Scotch and soda, isn’t it? You always liked things plain and simple. Starch in the sheets, ammonia in the toilet bowl, plain old kitchen knife in the back.”
I gasp. “You two know each other?”
Neither acknowledge me. We stand as if suspended in water. Edna rises and bustles around the liquor cabinet. She hands Mom a drink, which she downs in two gulps before slamming it on the table. She stares at Archibald. Everyone waits. “Where did you get it?”
“I’ve always had it.”
“All this time.”
“All this time. As you know, most were destroyed in a tragic fire,” he says lightly, a terrible glint in his eyes.
“You old bitch,” she spits.
He laughs. “Takes one to know one.”
She storms away. I follow her. I can hear chairs sliding and footsteps beside me.
“You know each other,” I say as we reach the living room. I’m trembling, the borscht sloshing in my stomach.
She casts a quick sideways glance at me and then stands, legs planted, stretching her neck the way she does when she is bracing herself for confrontation.
“How long has it been?” Archibald is close behind me, leaning in against the French doors, evidently not ready to let her leave. The others stand behind him.
“Twenty years — but who’s counting?”
“Not nearly long enough.” His voice is sharpened stone. He takes a step towards her.
“I’d kiss you, but that would require touching you,” my mother counters.
