Page 36 - WTP VOl. X #3

Bitter Water (continued from preceding page) IV.
“Miriam, cider!”
“Shit!” said Jason’s mother, dropping a bag of pista- chios and running to the stove as cider crashed hiss- ing to the stovetop. “Pardon my French,” she called over her shoulder. She turned off the gas and plunked a ladle in the pot as several roiling cinnamon sticks settled on the calmed surface. She took up a sponge and tried to wedge it through the grille. She worked the corner down, and it touched and drank a measure of the puddle; but then thin, acrid smoke began to rise from the sponge, and alarmed, she threw it in the sink. Turning to the mug cabinet she hesitated: the puddle crept into the small, dabbed patch. Grimac- ing, she picked up the sponge again, wrung it with one hand, cried out in pain, and threw it down with an oath that she did not try to pass off as French. She rinsed her hand with lukewarm water for three sec- onds, turned to the mug cabinet again, and gathered mugs under her arms and on her ten fingers. Moving back to the cider pot, she bent like a praying mantis to place them on the counter.
“Cider’s ready,” she called, breaking open the pista- chio bag. Suddenly she remembered the rice pud- ding was overdue for a stir. Cursing a third time, she fought her way back through the crowd. The men looked on, bemused.
“She must really want cider,” Andy said. Someone chuckled. She ignored them and took her time to scrape the burnt milk from the bottom of the pudding pot. Then she turned and faced the relatives, who, equipped with mugs, were waiting for her to get out of their way.
Miriam hated Christmas. Of course, she loved Christ- mas. But each year the whole fan-damnily arrived
a little earlier and benignly positioned themselves around the house, like spectators at a long-distance race: bang! from the cider pot to the pistachios, then to table, back to cider, to the basement for wine, pistachios again, coffee, oven, tag the table, snatch of conversation, dish for the butter, (Jason, could you please just go next door and cut some holly), salt & pepper.... And they watched her, amused at her frenzy, as a massive dinner miraculously produced itself around them, every year. Must really want cider! She didn’t even like cider.
Jason’s father had always been under Andy’s spell. On their earliest dates, she had been embarrassed for
him, for his awe at Andy’s minor feats and posturing quips. But she had also loved his naiveté, and as her love for him grew, so did her free and happy con- tempt for his old idol.
Then during a fight over housework—before they were married or even engaged—he had told her that Andy went by tribal divisions of labor and thought she asked too much of him. The audacity. That she had been measured to Andy’s standard, and worse, that her boyfriend had been relaying their conversa- tions to him, to this, this old flame. She had gathered her things, left for her friend’s house, and not re- turned till late that night.
They made up. She admitted she had overreacted. They even had Andy over a couple of times, and she said she wouldn’t mind seeing more of him.
Getting to know Andy did not improve her opinion of him. He would come for dinner and launch into absurd lectures, studded with declarations like
the Einstein/Buddhism one. She learned to let his speeches run their course; Olivia’s indignation only encouraged him. Once it occurred to Miriam that his proclamations gave him a thrill. His face would light up when he found one, and then darken again as he rambled on in search of another.
He grew redder, and at forty that moustache showed up. For years it lived like a pet beneath his nose,
and he stroked and tickled it, fawned over it with
a father’s delight. Then, one day, it was no longer a creature separate from his face, but molded from the same material. And Miriam could not figure out what had changed, until she realized that he had stopped playing with it.
Carol left him. Olivia said that the police had been involved. Miriam didn’t know where Olivia came
up with that sort of thing. The less she knew about something, the more she talked about it. But it went the other way, too: years before, Carol and Olivia had found themselves alone together in a far room, both knitting by the fire. Olivia was in a tall, cushioned chair with armrests that rose gracefully up its sides like blinders. Carol had stopped knitting. A minute later, perhaps newly aware of the room’s stillness, Olivia looked up: Carol was quietly sobbing. Olivia asked what was wrong, but Carol only swallowed, shook her head, and averted her face. They sat like that for some time. Presently, Olivia continued knit- ting. Then Carol got up, hugged her tightly, and left.
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