enough to overcome a bellow from behind a closed door off the lobby. It was a sound I had hoped to never, ever, hear again.
Curses, screeches, and the thuds of some serious door kicking echoed throughout the terminal.
I turned to the head fed, held out my arms, and begged, "Please, sir, arrest me. I cut off a man's head last week, so you have to take me away."
For the first time he cracked a smile. "I do not think so, Miss Coffey."
It took an hour of talking through the door, and several hits of brandy from the airport bar, for Aunt Lillian to allow me into the room with her, and even then I wasn't so sure she wasn't going to physically attack me. And no, I didn't share the brandy.
With her steely gray hair standing on end, and mean black eyes lasering everything in sight, she would have resembled an angry eagle, had it not been for streaking mascara, and bright red lipstick smeared pretty much all over the bottom half of her face. What she did look like, however, was my worst nightmare: a drunken old hag. Jan and I had discussed at length this possible fate for ourselves, and vowed to kill each other should we ever reach such a state.
Lil was totally out of control, crying one minute and threatening me the next if I didn't get her a drink. I finally did what I knew would work to calm her down: I called Mother and handed the phone to Lil. The minute she heard my mom's voice my aunt morphed from Godzilla to all sugar sweet in a split second. "Hi, baby sister," she cooed. "Yes, I'm here with Hetta. After losing my dear Fred, I decided to come visit family. Why, I'll never know. She had me arrested!"
I jerked the phone from her claw. "Not true, Mom. Best I can figure she got drunk on the plane from Mazatlan and then went bonkers on crew when they wouldn't serve her any more booze. The federales locked her in a room until I could get here. They tell me they will release her to me, but I sure as hell don't want her."
"Hetta Honey, she is your aunt."
"Yeah, well come get her."
Silence.
"I mean it. Two days, that's it. If you don't come down here I'm throwing her overboard. Tied to an anchor."
"Can't you just send her home?"
"Nope. They won't allow her back on a plane without an escort, and it ain't gonna be me."
"I'll talk to your father and call you back."
I hung up and Lil hissed, "How dare you tell my sister I was drunk. I had a, uh, TIA. That's what must have happened."
"No, you had an FUI: flying under the influence. What the hell is a TIA?"
My aunt is a retired nurse who mixes a goodly amount of prescription drugs and booze, but can always come up with some obscure medical reason to explain away her drunken fits. I think I'd heard this TIA story once before, but it was lost in a long history of her crap.
"Transient ischemic attack, it's like a mini-stroke." Then she went pouty. "I'm lucky to be alive."
Now she was entering the sulky, poor me stage. I'd seen it all before. "You're lucky they didn't search your purse. What do you have in there?"
"Only my mood elevators and, of course, all the other meds I need to stay on this earth. I'm old, you know. And," the expected blubbering commenced, "recently widowed."
I opened the door and the officers jumped back like I was releasing the lions. "Everything's okay now. I'll take her back to the boat with me. Uh, can I borrow those handcuffs?"
Lil has a pattern.
Hungover grouch, then, after a drink, gaily entertaining, at least in her own mind.
Since I wouldn't give her any booze, she went straight into raging at past slights. And, boy, can she hold a grudge. She lambasted me for a time I embarrassed her when I was eight years old, for crying out loud, by not using proper eating etiquette when she took me to some women's club breakfast. "I told you, Hetta, one must tear toast into four equal pieces, then butter each quarter daintily, but only before eating it."
Right after that she wailed, got maudlin, pitiful, and finally, thank the Lord, passed
Curses, screeches, and the thuds of some serious door kicking echoed throughout the terminal.
I turned to the head fed, held out my arms, and begged, "Please, sir, arrest me. I cut off a man's head last week, so you have to take me away."
For the first time he cracked a smile. "I do not think so, Miss Coffey."
It took an hour of talking through the door, and several hits of brandy from the airport bar, for Aunt Lillian to allow me into the room with her, and even then I wasn't so sure she wasn't going to physically attack me. And no, I didn't share the brandy.
With her steely gray hair standing on end, and mean black eyes lasering everything in sight, she would have resembled an angry eagle, had it not been for streaking mascara, and bright red lipstick smeared pretty much all over the bottom half of her face. What she did look like, however, was my worst nightmare: a drunken old hag. Jan and I had discussed at length this possible fate for ourselves, and vowed to kill each other should we ever reach such a state.
Lil was totally out of control, crying one minute and threatening me the next if I didn't get her a drink. I finally did what I knew would work to calm her down: I called Mother and handed the phone to Lil. The minute she heard my mom's voice my aunt morphed from Godzilla to all sugar sweet in a split second. "Hi, baby sister," she cooed. "Yes, I'm here with Hetta. After losing my dear Fred, I decided to come visit family. Why, I'll never know. She had me arrested!"
I jerked the phone from her claw. "Not true, Mom. Best I can figure she got drunk on the plane from Mazatlan and then went bonkers on crew when they wouldn't serve her any more booze. The federales locked her in a room until I could get here. They tell me they will release her to me, but I sure as hell don't want her."
"Hetta Honey, she is your aunt."
"Yeah, well come get her."
Silence.
"I mean it. Two days, that's it. If you don't come down here I'm throwing her overboard. Tied to an anchor."
"Can't you just send her home?"
"Nope. They won't allow her back on a plane without an escort, and it ain't gonna be me."
"I'll talk to your father and call you back."
I hung up and Lil hissed, "How dare you tell my sister I was drunk. I had a, uh, TIA. That's what must have happened."
"No, you had an FUI: flying under the influence. What the hell is a TIA?"
My aunt is a retired nurse who mixes a goodly amount of prescription drugs and booze, but can always come up with some obscure medical reason to explain away her drunken fits. I think I'd heard this TIA story once before, but it was lost in a long history of her crap.
"Transient ischemic attack, it's like a mini-stroke." Then she went pouty. "I'm lucky to be alive."
Now she was entering the sulky, poor me stage. I'd seen it all before. "You're lucky they didn't search your purse. What do you have in there?"
"Only my mood elevators and, of course, all the other meds I need to stay on this earth. I'm old, you know. And," the expected blubbering commenced, "recently widowed."
I opened the door and the officers jumped back like I was releasing the lions. "Everything's okay now. I'll take her back to the boat with me. Uh, can I borrow those handcuffs?"
Lil has a pattern.
Hungover grouch, then, after a drink, gaily entertaining, at least in her own mind.
Since I wouldn't give her any booze, she went straight into raging at past slights. And, boy, can she hold a grudge. She lambasted me for a time I embarrassed her when I was eight years old, for crying out loud, by not using proper eating etiquette when she took me to some women's club breakfast. "I told you, Hetta, one must tear toast into four equal pieces, then butter each quarter daintily, but only before eating it."
Right after that she wailed, got maudlin, pitiful, and finally, thank the Lord, passed
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