Family Fraud

 

“Quelle surprise!” my Aunt Helen exclaimed, reverting as she often did to French when she was feeling particularly condescending.

Nana and her sister, my Aunt Zelma, had worked most of the day on the birthday cake and produced a masterpiece of a 3 tiered lemon cake, complete with perfectly lathered on pink icing and a discreetly inaccurate number of candles.

“How lovely of everyone to remember,” Helen added with one of her patented superficial smiles, just as if she hadn’t been dropping unsubtle reminders for the past two weeks and insidiously putting the fear of God into us all lest we forget.

“Oh, for pity’s sake, Helen,” my Aunt Zelma said impatiently, “Just cut the damn cake.”

Aunt Zel was a tiny woman but all 4’10 and 90 pounds of her was feisty. She had been born with a club foot and had to wear a specially built up orthopedic shoe but even so she tended to a serious limp and often had to drag her bad foot behind her. It caused her considerable pain and did nothing for her disposition – she wouldn’t tolerate an ounce of pity from anyone – but she could also be demanding about getting her own way and more than a little sarcastic with her tone. She’d never cared much for her brother’s choice of a wife and it was no secret that she and Helen were frequently at odds.

The house slept ten comfortably, twelve if pushed, but we were busting at the seams that particular birthday with nine adults, five kids and to my grandmother’s great distress, an extra dog – my cousins had brought Twinkle, a high strung, nervous, spindly legged chihuahua with the disposition of pirhanna, perpetually underfoot and on all our last nerves.

“His vet says he has separation anxiety,” Aunt Elaine said apologetically, “We didn’t have the heart to board him.”

“I declare, Elaine,” Aunt Zel said sharply, “If I trip over that nasty tempered, little overgrown rat once more, I’ll fall and break my damn hip and then I’ll show you both some real separation anxiety!”

“Mother!” Aunt Elaine protested and promptly burst into tears.

“Here, what’s all this,” Uncle Les said, glancing up from his checkers game with Uncle Herb,

“Damn, I wish you women could get along.”

“Oh, shut up, Lester,” Aunt Zel snapped.

“Zelma!” Uncle Herb said loudly.

Uncle Eddie, normally the most mild mannered of men, rattled his newspaper and peered over it with a frown. “Gettin’ so’s a man can’t read a paper in peace,” he muttered. The remark drew Aunt Zelma’s wrath and she turned on him immediately with a scowl. “Mind your business, Edgecombe,” she said harshly, “Nobody asked for your opinion!”

“Really, Zelma!” Aunt Helen chimed in, “There’s hardly a need to be rude.”

Aunt Zel turned slowly, limped to the doorway of the living room and glared fiercely at the entire room, most especially her pristine sister-in-law. Aunt Helen paled under her perfect makeup and actually took a half step backward, one hand nervously fingering her pearls. I saw surprise, a hint of dread, and for a fraction of a second, she nearly withered. We never did learn what my diminutive aunt planned to say because at that moment, my grandmother laid a hand on her shoulder and pulled gently.

“Bread needs to go in the oven, Zel,” she said firmly. Simple words but enough to bring about a de-escalation of a potentially explosive moment. Aunt Zelma returned to the kitchen and Aunt Helen fled upstairs. The checkers game continued, Elaine dried her eyes, and Uncle Eddie returned to his newspaper. Nana sent me and my cousins out to pick blackberries and Twinkle dutifully trailed after us. Just another day in the life of a family who sometimes got tired of pretending.