1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (37 page)

"Once more unto the breach, dear friends," squawked Ralph, the
Shakespeare-spouting African Grey parrot I'd inherited when Greataunt Penelope Periwinkle died two years ago. "Henry the Fifth. Act Three,
Scene One." He spread his wings and took flight up the basement stairs
to check out the action. I raced after him, eager to prevent World War
Three from erupting in my living room.

"Muzzle that abominable creature, or I'll have the pound haul him
away," shrieked Mama. "He's traumatizing Catherine the Great."

"So shove some Prozac down her throat," said my mother-in-law Lucille. "What the hell are you doing back here? And don't you ever bother
to knock? Just barge right in like you own the place."

"I have more right to be here than you. This is my daughter's house,
you ... you pinko squatter."

As I hurried through the kitchen, I glanced at the calendar tacked next
to the telephone. Mama wasn't due back from her Caribbean cruise for another three days. Damn it. I needed those three days to steel myself for the
inevitable explosive reaction that occurred whenever Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O'Keefe, my mother and the former social secretary of the Daughters of the American Revolution, locked horns
with Lucille Pollack, my mother-in-law and current president of the Daughters of the October Revolution. I'd been swindled out of seventy-two hours.

By the time I entered the living room, Mama's and Lucille's voices had
reached glass-shattering decibel range.

"Crazy communist!" yelled Mama. She stood in the middle of the room,
cradling Catherine the Great, her corpulent white Persian with an attitude
befitting her namesake.

Manifesto, my mother-in-law's runt of a French bulldog, stood inches
from Mama's Ferrigamos, his bark having switched to growl mode as he
glared up at his nemesis. With a hiss and a yowl, Catherine the Great leaped
from Mama's arms. Showing his true cowardly colors, Mephisto, as we always called him behind his back and often to his snout, scampered to safety
behind my mother-in-law's ample girth.

Lucille barreled across the room, waving her cane at Mama. "Reactionary fascist!"

"How dare you threaten me!" Mama defended herself with a French
manicured backhand that would have done Chris Everett proud. The cane
flew from Lucille's grasp and landed inches from Mephisto's nose. Demon
dog yelped and dove between Lucille's orange polyester clad legs.

My mother-in-law's rage multiplied into Vesuvian proportions. Her
wrinkled face deepened from a spotted scarlet to an apoplectic heliotrope.
"You did that on purpose!"

Mama jutted her chin at Lucille as she rubbed the palm of her hand.
"You started it."

"And I'm stopping it." I stepped between them, spreading my arms to
prevent them from ripping each other's lips off. "Knock it off. Both of you."

"It's her fault," said Mama. She jabbed a finger at Lucille. Her hand
shook with rage, her gold charm bracelet tinkling a dainty minuet totally
incompatible with the situation. "And that vicious mongrel of hers. She sic'd
him on us the moment we walked through the door."

Highly unlikely. "Mephisto's all bark and bluster, Mama. You should
know that by now."

"Manifesto!" shrieked Lucille. "How many times do I have to tell you his
name is Manifesto?"

"Whatever;" Mama and I said in unison. It was an old refrain. Mephisto
better suited demon dog anyway. Besides, who names a dog after a Communist treatise?

Behind me, Ralph squawked. I looked over my shoulder and found him
perched on the lampshade beside one of the overstuffed easy chairs flanking
the bay window. A chair occupied by a cowering stranger, his knees drawn
up to his chest, his arms hugging his head. I glanced at Mama. Glanced back
at the man. "Who's he?"

"Oh dear!" Mama raced across the room, flapping her Chanel-suited
arms. "Shoo, dirty bird!"

Ralph ignored her. He doesn't intimidate easily. Mama was hardly a
challenge for a parrot who had spent years successfully defending himself
against Aunt Penelope's mischievous students. "Anastasia, I told you that
bird's a reincarnation of Ivan the Terrible. Do something. He's attacking my
poor Lou"

Her Poor Lou? Okay, at least the man had a name and someone in the
room knew him. I stretched out my arm and whistled. Ralph took wing, landing in the crook of my elbow. Poor Lou peered through his fingers. Convinced
the coast was clear, he lowered his hands and knees and raised his head.

"Are you all right, dear?" asked Mama, patting his salt and pepper combover. "I'm terribly sorry about all this. My daughter never did have the heart to
turn away a stray." She punctuated her statement with a pointed stare, first in
Lucille's direction and then at Ralph.

Lucille harrumphed.

Ralph squawked.

Mephisto bared his teeth and rumbled a growl from the depths of his belly.

Catherine the Great had lost interest in the family melodrama and dozed
stretched out on the back of the sofa.

Before Mama could explain Poor Lou's presence, the front door burst
open. Fourteen year-old Nick and sixteen year-old Alex bounded into the
living room. "Grandma!" they both exclaimed in unison. They dropped
their baseball gear and backpacks on the floor and encircled Mama in a
group hug.

"Aren't you supposed to be on a cruise?" asked Nick.

"Who's this?" asked Alex, nodding toward Poor Lou.

Poor Lou rose. He wiped his palms on his pinstriped pants legs, cleared
his throat, and straightened his skewed paisley tie. "Maybe I should be going,
Flora. The driver is waiting."

I glanced out the front window. A black limo idled at the curb.

"Yes, of course." She walked him to the door without bothering to make
introductions. Very odd behavior for my socially correct mother.

"I'll call you tomorrow," Poor Lou told Mama.

She raised her head, batted her eyelashes, and sighed. Poor Lou wrapped
his arms around my mother and bent her backwards in a clinch that rivaled
the steamiest of Harlequin romance book covers. His eyes smoldered as he
met her slightly parted lips. Mama melted into his body.

I stared at my etiquette-obsessed mother, my jaw flapping down around
my knees, and wondered if she had eaten any funny mushrooms on her
cruise. Out of the corner of one eye, I saw my two sons gaping with equally
bug-eyed expressions. Behind me, Lucille muttered her disgust. Even Ralph
registered his amazement with a loud squawk.

Over Mama's shoulder, Poor Lou stole an anxious glance toward Ralph,
broke the kiss, and darted out the door.

Mama fluffed her strawberry blonde waves back into place, smoothed
the wrinkles from her suit jacket, and offered us the most innocent of expressions as we continued to ogle her. "Is something wrong?"

"Wrong? Why? Just because my mother was doing the Tonsil Tango with
a total stranger?"

Lucille stooped to retrieve her cane. "I suppose this means that trashy
hussy is moving back into my room."

"Your room?" asked Mama.

"Hey, it's my room!" said Nick.

Poor Nick. He was none too happy about having to give up his bedroom
to his curmudgeon of a grandmother. He didn't mind the occasional upheaval
when Mama came to visit because he knew it was temporary. Besides, the boys
and Mama had a great relationship. Lucille was another story. When she
moved in with us to recuperate after a hit-and-run accident and subsequent
hip surgery, none of us had expected a permanent addition to the household.
Then again, I had suffered from quite a few delusions back then.

Lucille scowled at me. "You should teach those boys some respect. In my
day children knew their place."

"Don't you speak to my daughter like that."

Lucille scoffed. "Look who's talking. A fine example you set."

"What's that supposed to mean?" demanded Mama.

"Strumpet." Lucille pounded her cane once for emphasis, then lumbered
from the living room, Mephisto following at her heels. Lucille habitually
pronounced judgment with a pounding of her cane, then departed.

"At least I'm getting some;' Mama called after her. "Unlike a certain jealous Bolshevik who hasn't experienced an orgasm since Khrushchev ruled
the Kremlin."

"Mama!"

Nick and Alex grabbed their middles and doubled over in hysterics.

Mama brushed my indignation aside with a wave of her hand. "For
heaven's sake, Anastasia, I'm a grown woman."

"Then act like one. Especially in front of your grandsons."

She winked at the boys. "I thought I did. Besides, if they don't know the
facts of life by now, they've got a lot of catching up to do."

I glanced at my sons, not sure how to interpret the sheepish expression
on Alex's face nor the feigned innocence on Nick's. After the initial shock of
seeing their grandmother in the throws of passion, both seemed quite
amused by the drama playing out in our living room. "They know all about
the facts of life. What they don't need is a graphic demonstration from their
grandmother."

The corners of Mama's mouth dipped down. "Honestly, Anastasia, just
because I'm over sixty doesn't mean I'm ready for a hearse. When did you
become such a stick-in-the-mud, dear?"

I suppose right around the time she morphed from Ms. Manners into
Auntie Marne. Other sixty-five year old women might behave this way in
front of their daughter and grandsons, but up until today, Mama wasn't one
of them. Was Poor Lou's last name Svengali?

Alex spared me from defending myself. "So who's the stranger dude,
Grandma?"

"Lou isn't a stranger. He's my fiance:'

"Your what?" Surely I hadn't heard her correctly. Had some of that rafter
dust settled in my ears? "What about Seamus, Mama?"

"Seamus?"

"Yes, Seamus. Remember him?"

Mama heaved one of those sighs reserved for children who need repeated instruction and explanation. "Seamus died, Anastasia. You know
that."

Of course I knew Seamus had died. He'd suffered a cerebral aneurysm
while kissing the Blarney Stone. "But he just died. Three months ago."
Within days of losing my own husband, Mama had lost hers.

"Well, it's not like we were married very long. He died on our six-month
anniversary. Besides, I'm not Merlin. I don't grow younger with each passing
year."

Ample justification for getting herself engaged to a total stranger, no
doubt. "Where did you meet him?"

"On the cruise, of course."

"So you're engaged to a man you've known for all of one week?"

Mama shrugged. "Time is meaningless when soul mates connect."
Soul mates? The now-departed Seamus had been soul mate Number
Five for Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O'Keefe.
When Mama finally met her maker, she'd have a line of soul mates waiting
for her at the Pearly Gates. She'd better hope St. Peter allowed polygamy up
in Heaven.

"Besides," continued Mama, "at my age, I have to grab happiness when it
presents itself. Advice you'd do well to heed." She glanced down the hallway
toward the bedrooms. "Unless you want to wind up like her."

"No, not that!" Nick grabbed his throat and made gagging noises. "Not
my mom!"

Alex fell to his knees in front of Mama, his hands clasped in supplication. "Please, Grandma, save our mom!"

Comedians. I tossed them a mom-scowl. "If the two of you have so
much time on your hands, you can vacuum and do a load of wash before
dinner." Nearly seven and I still had to prepare a meal, finish a project for a
photo shoot tomorrow, and figure out a way to rob Peter to pay Paul before
the bill collectors came knocking. Again.

Alex grabbed his backpack. "Sorry, Mom. Got an economics paper due
tomorrow."

"Bio test," said Nick, retrieving his backpack from the floor.

"Dibs on the computer," called Alex as he sped down the hall to the bedroom they now shared. The boys used to have their own computers, but
Nick's died last month. A replacement would have to wait until I won MegaMillions or Powerball.

Nick raced after Alex. Neither bothered with the baseball gear they'd
dumped on the carpet. Apparently, it had become invisible to all but me.

I stooped to pick up the discarded duffels of sports paraphernalia. "I'm
still in mourning."

Mama snorted as she followed me into the kitchen. "For a no-good gambling addict who left you without two nickels to rub together?"

"Karl and I were married eighteen years," I said softly as I hung the duffels on pegs in the mudroom off the kitchen. "He's only been dead three
months."

Mama regarded me with an expression that hovered somewhere between pity and skepticism. "You don't still have feeling for him, do you?"

I grabbed the leftover chicken and broccoli casserole from the fridge.
There was barely enough left for four, let alone five people. "Not exactly," I
said, reaching for a box of mac and cheese to supplement the casserole. Not
after what Karl Marx Pollack had done to his kids and me. I mourned for my
former life. Before lies and deceit and death shattered the illusion of our perfect middle class world.

I brushed my desperately-in-need-of-a-styling-but-can't-afford-it hair out
of my face and turned to confront Mama. "Besides, I don't have time for romance. I'm too busy paying off Karl's debts."

Three months ago, my husband of eighteen years had permanently
cashed in his chips at a Las Vegas craps table-after cashing in his sizable life
insurance policy and 401(k), maxing out our home equity line of credit and
numerous credit cards, and draining our teenage sons' college accounts.

Besides the mountain of debt, my dearly departed had saddled me with
both Ricardo The Loan Shark and Comrade Lucille, the communist motherin-law from Hell. Karl had also stolen his mother's life savings, thus leaving
Lucille and Mephisto ensconced in Nick's bedroom where they'd remainshort of an act of God. Considering Lucille didn't believe in God and I had
the luck of an excommunicated leprechaun, chances of her leaving any time
soon were slim to none.