Large Animals in Everyday Life by Wendy Brenner Page B
Authors: Wendy Brenner
Tags: General Fiction
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her breath. The child was crying alone, her small sobs lost to the dark Chicago winter. The child was blindfolded and tied to a cot with Marshall Fieldâs gold Christmas package string, letting a young man with glasses and a mustache tickle her most private parts!
The passionate grandmother had not asked to receive these telegraphic messages, but she was definitely receiving them. Her son, the childâs father, was no help; he only told her she was being irrational. And her daughter-in-lawâforget it! The passionate grandmother had once, nine years earlier, called her daughter-in-law a bad word, and that word had never been forgotten. The daughter-in-law carried the word around like an invisible helium balloon fastened to her wrist. The passionate grandmother sat there sniffing a fragrant yellow guest soap in the shape of a bunny, trying to calm her senses.
âWhen Iâm done I want to show you something else,â the child was saying to the blasé grandmother in the living room. The blasé grandmother sat solidly on her sofa, her hands folded in her lap, watching the powder room door and shaking her head. She wished for a cigarette, but she would have had to go outside to smoke it, a new rule made by the childâs parents, even though it was the middle of winter, and what was one cigarette going to do to the child? On the other hand, knowing what was now known, she supposed that this was only being rational.
The blasé grandmother was the mother of the childâs mother and was divorced. Not once but twice. Sheâd had her fill, she often declared these days. Her husbands were the least of her problems, really. She had come over on a boat from Hungary at the age of three, worked odd jobs for pay at the age of nine, and while raising her daughter, in between husbands, had never oncepaid for a single grocery item without using a coupon. Now, thanks to the divorces, she had plenty of money, not to mention a Senior Citizen card that made her eligible for fabulous bargains on almost everything. What was life for, if not to enjoy the nicer things? She owned so many floral-patterned silk scarves that she had lost count. She wore them draped and pinned artfully over her shoulders, and she enjoyed without guilt the sundry and not-so-sundry comforts and privileges now afforded her. She wanted the best for her grandchild, but she did not understand the problem. She personally had never flown off the handle in her life.
The passionate grandmother was the mother of the childâs father and was widowed. Her husband had been a sober podiatrist who tried always to set aside his petty desires and work for the greater good, but in private he was a different kind of man, and she had enjoyed him terribly, at a time when this was considered unusual, even unnatural. They were especially fond of playing shocking practical jokes on each other at sacred moments, although many people who knew them well would have found this hard to believe. If anyone ever found out what sheâd hidden in his can of foot powder on their honeymoon! She was a worrier even then, however, and when her son was a baby she bought for him a plastic amulet embossed with the message DONâT KISS ME in large ornate letters and strung on a white ribbon so it could hang enchantingly around his neck, protecting him from the germs of well-meaning strangers in public places. Then, after the baby was safely grown and away at college, her husband had one afternoon popped his handsome head up out of the crawl space and said, âI am a goblin of the deep,â and she had laughed at him from the kitchen, where she was chopping carrots, and then heâd gone back down and had a cerebral hemorrhage and died.
Surprisingly, that event had not changed her personality much. During all those years she was enthusiastically loving her husband, she had in fact been living for her childâa guilty secret which had, she suspected, helped or even
The passionate grandmother had not asked to receive these telegraphic messages, but she was definitely receiving them. Her son, the childâs father, was no help; he only told her she was being irrational. And her daughter-in-lawâforget it! The passionate grandmother had once, nine years earlier, called her daughter-in-law a bad word, and that word had never been forgotten. The daughter-in-law carried the word around like an invisible helium balloon fastened to her wrist. The passionate grandmother sat there sniffing a fragrant yellow guest soap in the shape of a bunny, trying to calm her senses.
âWhen Iâm done I want to show you something else,â the child was saying to the blasé grandmother in the living room. The blasé grandmother sat solidly on her sofa, her hands folded in her lap, watching the powder room door and shaking her head. She wished for a cigarette, but she would have had to go outside to smoke it, a new rule made by the childâs parents, even though it was the middle of winter, and what was one cigarette going to do to the child? On the other hand, knowing what was now known, she supposed that this was only being rational.
The blasé grandmother was the mother of the childâs mother and was divorced. Not once but twice. Sheâd had her fill, she often declared these days. Her husbands were the least of her problems, really. She had come over on a boat from Hungary at the age of three, worked odd jobs for pay at the age of nine, and while raising her daughter, in between husbands, had never oncepaid for a single grocery item without using a coupon. Now, thanks to the divorces, she had plenty of money, not to mention a Senior Citizen card that made her eligible for fabulous bargains on almost everything. What was life for, if not to enjoy the nicer things? She owned so many floral-patterned silk scarves that she had lost count. She wore them draped and pinned artfully over her shoulders, and she enjoyed without guilt the sundry and not-so-sundry comforts and privileges now afforded her. She wanted the best for her grandchild, but she did not understand the problem. She personally had never flown off the handle in her life.
The passionate grandmother was the mother of the childâs father and was widowed. Her husband had been a sober podiatrist who tried always to set aside his petty desires and work for the greater good, but in private he was a different kind of man, and she had enjoyed him terribly, at a time when this was considered unusual, even unnatural. They were especially fond of playing shocking practical jokes on each other at sacred moments, although many people who knew them well would have found this hard to believe. If anyone ever found out what sheâd hidden in his can of foot powder on their honeymoon! She was a worrier even then, however, and when her son was a baby she bought for him a plastic amulet embossed with the message DONâT KISS ME in large ornate letters and strung on a white ribbon so it could hang enchantingly around his neck, protecting him from the germs of well-meaning strangers in public places. Then, after the baby was safely grown and away at college, her husband had one afternoon popped his handsome head up out of the crawl space and said, âI am a goblin of the deep,â and she had laughed at him from the kitchen, where she was chopping carrots, and then heâd gone back down and had a cerebral hemorrhage and died.
Surprisingly, that event had not changed her personality much. During all those years she was enthusiastically loving her husband, she had in fact been living for her childâa guilty secret which had, she suspected, helped or even