time. The proper word hasn't been invented to describe these
predators when we would spend yet another torturous Christmas Eve at one their
homes, straddling the tangled, barbed wire of their malicious gossip,
innuendos, suggestions, put-downs, cut-downs, and manipulations.
Aunt
Dutch was the oldest, a cold, near-psychotic spinster with an oversized bank
account amassed by her dead (luckily for him) husband, who spent her free time
hatching attitudes with her submissive shrew of a little sister, Aunt Melody,
an alcoholic fool whose singular life achievement had been to bear two children
with her oblivious bartender husband, Dad's Uncle Albert. Julia was the
oldest. She was an over-educated, fast-talking slut, who bounced from
companion to companion {always accruing something tangible from the split, like
condos, cars, that sort of thing} and career to career {stock broker,
photographer, tennis pro, teacher, consultant, and who the hell knows what
else}, while little Matt was an untalented ex-college jock and failed National
Hockey League forward, who trailed along behind his sister, landing jobs and
insider scams in her peripatetic wake.)
Which
brings us to the baby hydra, dear Aunt Hilly, a brittle, ruthless personality
with a good intellect and a better mean streak, two qualities she used to
dominate the emotionally-trodden lives of her husband, George, an inept
tradesman, and her once-handsome son, Lawrence, the big fish mayor of the
little upscale suburban pond we all fled to from our old neighborhood in the
city.
Ah,
Christmas Eve. Wake me when it's over.
Our
entire day had been strung like piano wire. Dad stayed in his room and
continued to pack his clothes and belongings, Mom stayed downstairs and
decorated our huge artificial tree, and I entertained the household with a
particularly bombastic collection of orchestral greats, carefully selected from
my Thanksgiving buying spree. We all ignored the fact that the sun would
eventually go down, our vampire relatives would rise from their graves, and we
would be off to Aunt Hilly's lair, an oversized, faux-antebellum home for our
family's Christmas Eve masque.
I
was glad Aunt Hilly drew the short stick that year, though. She was the
only good cook I was related to, and had a stern, unyielding air about her that
I kind of liked. Oh, she was a vile bitch, through and through, but Aunt
Hilly always let me get away with murder when I was a younger brat (something
she never did for the rest of her nieces and nephews), while I enjoyed watching
the rest of the family scatter like pigeons when she came into a room.
(I
think it was my tenth birthday, when I eavesdropped and heard Aunt Hilly tell
Uncle George she thought Dad was a bully and a shyster, Mom was a horseshit
cook and housekeeper, Uncle Alex was a pretentious, flaky wannabe artist, and I
was the only good thing left out of her dead sister's family. Well, Dad
still was, Mom always had been, but Uncle Alex wasn't a wannabe anything.
That was his problem. I think the real reason Aunt Hilly liked me because
I wasn't afraid of her.)
I
hadn't seen my Uncle since last year. I wondered if he had hooked up with
another wife?
The
volume on my stereo was so loud, I could hear it through my bedroom wall, the
shower curtain, and the running water. It was kind of like taking a bath
offstage at the Concertgebouw, with their Orchestra in full swing. Every
time I heard Prelude to Act Three of Lohengrin , I pictured Stukas
sweeping out of the sky and panzers bursting across the plain. Wow.
I pondered those real-life images in terms of my family's blood and couldn't
keep from smirking.
Oh,
I forgot, Mom, you don't like Wagner.
I
dried off in my locked bedroom. Why I locked the door was anyone's guess.
I don't remember the last time either of them tried to come in once my music
started playing. The record moved on to the Liebestod from Tristan und
Isolde . Its passion and devastation
predators when we would spend yet another torturous Christmas Eve at one their
homes, straddling the tangled, barbed wire of their malicious gossip,
innuendos, suggestions, put-downs, cut-downs, and manipulations.
Aunt
Dutch was the oldest, a cold, near-psychotic spinster with an oversized bank
account amassed by her dead (luckily for him) husband, who spent her free time
hatching attitudes with her submissive shrew of a little sister, Aunt Melody,
an alcoholic fool whose singular life achievement had been to bear two children
with her oblivious bartender husband, Dad's Uncle Albert. Julia was the
oldest. She was an over-educated, fast-talking slut, who bounced from
companion to companion {always accruing something tangible from the split, like
condos, cars, that sort of thing} and career to career {stock broker,
photographer, tennis pro, teacher, consultant, and who the hell knows what
else}, while little Matt was an untalented ex-college jock and failed National
Hockey League forward, who trailed along behind his sister, landing jobs and
insider scams in her peripatetic wake.)
Which
brings us to the baby hydra, dear Aunt Hilly, a brittle, ruthless personality
with a good intellect and a better mean streak, two qualities she used to
dominate the emotionally-trodden lives of her husband, George, an inept
tradesman, and her once-handsome son, Lawrence, the big fish mayor of the
little upscale suburban pond we all fled to from our old neighborhood in the
city.
Ah,
Christmas Eve. Wake me when it's over.
Our
entire day had been strung like piano wire. Dad stayed in his room and
continued to pack his clothes and belongings, Mom stayed downstairs and
decorated our huge artificial tree, and I entertained the household with a
particularly bombastic collection of orchestral greats, carefully selected from
my Thanksgiving buying spree. We all ignored the fact that the sun would
eventually go down, our vampire relatives would rise from their graves, and we
would be off to Aunt Hilly's lair, an oversized, faux-antebellum home for our
family's Christmas Eve masque.
I
was glad Aunt Hilly drew the short stick that year, though. She was the
only good cook I was related to, and had a stern, unyielding air about her that
I kind of liked. Oh, she was a vile bitch, through and through, but Aunt
Hilly always let me get away with murder when I was a younger brat (something
she never did for the rest of her nieces and nephews), while I enjoyed watching
the rest of the family scatter like pigeons when she came into a room.
(I
think it was my tenth birthday, when I eavesdropped and heard Aunt Hilly tell
Uncle George she thought Dad was a bully and a shyster, Mom was a horseshit
cook and housekeeper, Uncle Alex was a pretentious, flaky wannabe artist, and I
was the only good thing left out of her dead sister's family. Well, Dad
still was, Mom always had been, but Uncle Alex wasn't a wannabe anything.
That was his problem. I think the real reason Aunt Hilly liked me because
I wasn't afraid of her.)
I
hadn't seen my Uncle since last year. I wondered if he had hooked up with
another wife?
The
volume on my stereo was so loud, I could hear it through my bedroom wall, the
shower curtain, and the running water. It was kind of like taking a bath
offstage at the Concertgebouw, with their Orchestra in full swing. Every
time I heard Prelude to Act Three of Lohengrin , I pictured Stukas
sweeping out of the sky and panzers bursting across the plain. Wow.
I pondered those real-life images in terms of my family's blood and couldn't
keep from smirking.
Oh,
I forgot, Mom, you don't like Wagner.
I
dried off in my locked bedroom. Why I locked the door was anyone's guess.
I don't remember the last time either of them tried to come in once my music
started playing. The record moved on to the Liebestod from Tristan und
Isolde . Its passion and devastation
Similar Books
