Twelve Stories

J.R. Angelella

TRUSTED

My meeting ends and I exit into the shade of a crabapple tree outside the church. Tiny red and green crabapples explode under my steps. Mother meets me beyond the wrought-iron gate. She uses her umbrella as a cane. “Mother,” I say. Mother says, “My sexaholic son.” She allows me to hug her, but doesn’t hug back. We walk in the empty street. I tell her I can’t stay long because I’m on deadline. Mother says, “I don’t want to hear about it.” Mother says, “I don’t want to know what that means.” I say, “It’s a speechwriting gig.” I say, “I’m writing on deadline.” As if I had forgotten, Mother reminds me we are going to Becca’s birthday. Mother says, “We need not spend time talking about ourselves.” I say, “In case you were wondering, I’m thirty days clean.” She questions the word clean. I tell her clean means I haven’t engaged in that kind of activity in the past thirty days. She says, “Addicts cannot be trusted.”

BIRTHDAY

The sky is blank but ready for a change. Blue balloons twist from a knot tied to a mailbox. Mother says, “I notice you’re wearing hobo clothes.” I look to my jeans and see a hole that jags around my knee. White strings dangle from the edges. I tell her I must’ve grabbed the wrong pair. Mother says, “If you weren’t an addict, you might’ve taken more care.” I tell her it was dark in my apartment. I tell her I thought they were a different pair. Mother says, “Fine way to start your niece’s birthday.”

SENSITIVE

My cell phone buzzes. Mother asks, “A vibrator?” She steps back. I tell her it’s a cell phone. To the phone I say, “This is Sammy.” It’s Miranda and Miranda likes to swear. She says, “Sammy, where the fuck is my fucking speech?” Mother points at me and says, “Watch yourself.” I cover the phone with my hand. “Please,” I whisper to Mother. “I mean it,” Mother says. Miranda asks, “Where the fuck is my fucking speech?” Mother asks, “Are you having phone sex?” I hang up on Miranda. Mother says, “Addicts are so predictable.” I say, “That was the woman who hired me to write the speech.” Mother says, “Aren’t we being sensitive?”

HANDS

I run my hand through the curl in my hair. It leans to the left. I lick my palm and pull it to the right. Mother raps the doorknocker. It’s a silver lion’s head. Becca answers the door. “Uncle Sammy,” Becca says. I say, “Happy birthday, kiddo.” I kiss the top of Becca’s head and smell an aggressive perfume. It smells of urinal cakes—an ammonia punch. I pinch my nose, a surgeon twisting off blood from a leaky vein. The scent knifes its way up my nose. I say, “That’s an aggressive perfume.” Becca says, “I’m not wearing any.” Becca ties her hair into a ponytail, tighter than a tourniquet. Gold hamburger-bun-sized earrings hang from her earlobes. Matching bracelets jangle at her wrists. Mother says, “Samuel, watch your hands.”

STEPS

Becca grabs Mother’s hand and escorts her up the steps and inside the house. I lean Mother’s umbrella next to the door. Chrissy exits the kitchen, carrying a platter of tiny sandwiches and tiny plates. Chrissy says, “Thought you had your class.” I say, “Not a class.” Chrissy points to the hole in my jeans. She says, “Don’t let Mother see that.” I ask, “Chrissy, you smell something?” She asks, “Do your meetings have steps like drunks do?” I say, “Yes, we have steps.”

MISTAKE

Chrissy sets tiny plates on the table to serve the tiny sandwiches. The urinal-cake smell spikes the air in the living room. Becca sits on the couch with her feet under her butt. She holds her plate under her chin as she eats the sandwiches. I sit in the wicker chair next to Mother, my exposed knee nearest to her. She pokes a fork at the rip. The rip spreads. I ask, “Does anyone smell that?” Becca says, “Nope.” Mother says, “Don’t be a bully.” I tell Mother I am not a bully, and she says, “Well then, my mistake.”

DIAMONDS

Becca decides to open her gifts. She shreds the white wrapping paper and tosses a bow to the floor. A tiny jewelry box. It opens with a soft snap. Becca squeals and slides a diamond ring over her finger. “Is it real? Or a Trojan Horse?” Becca asks. “Trojan Horse?” I ask. “A Trojan Horse is a fake,” Becca says, rolling her eyes. “A lady never asks such a thing,” Mother says. Then she says, “If you are asking about the diamond, the diamond is, of course, real.” “Princess cut, too,” Becca says. I taste ammonia in my throat. Becca asks, “What’s the clarity? VVS1? VVS2?” Mother says, “It’s of the highest of quality. My jeweler hand-picked it himself.” I say, “Please tell me they don’t teach you about diamonds in school?” Becca says she learned it from one of her mom’s boyfriends. “Gil?” I ask. “Richard, the concert pianist, taught me about diamonds,” Becca says. Then, “Gil was the high school counselor.” Becca asks, “Carats?” She turns the ring under the lamp. “One full carat,” Mother says. I say, “Chrissy, you never got a diamond from Mother, did you?” Mother says, “Samuel, never joke about diamonds.”

DRAFT

“How does it feel to finally be a teenager?” I ask. “Like I should have a later curfew,” Becca says. Chrissy says, “We’ll talk when you’re sixteen.” I hand Becca a white envelope from my back pocket. She tears along the top and slides out the card, which is a folded page of the speech I was working on. She reads the first line out loud: “What’s the difference between a Republican and a cat? A cat covers its shit.” I say, “Sorry. That’s an old draft of a speech I’m writing. Read the back.” Becca reads: “Happy B-Day. Love, Uncle Sammy.” Becca plucks the ten-dollar bill from her lap that slid out from the card. She holds it like a wet sock. Mother says, “Isn’t there something called making amends? Are you at that step yet?” “Step nine,” I say. I say, “I’m not there yet.” “That’s your card—a copy of your speech?” Chrissy asks. I say, “Not a copy. A draft.”

BATHROOM

Mother stands and walks to the kitchen, sighing the whole way. Chrissy follows. Becca thanks me for the ten. “You sure you don’t smell anything?” I ask. Becca chugs her soda and burps. She says, “I think I smell pizza.” I know there is no pizza and excuse myself to the bathroom.

APARTMENT

The bathroom is larger than my apartment. I redial Miranda. I say, “Miranda, sorry we got disconnected.” Miranda calls me names. I pick apart the rip in my jeans and run my thumb around my knee. I tell her I am working on a draft as we speak. She says that she stopped by my apartment, but I wasn’t there. I tell her I’m at my niece’s birthday party but will finish the speech tonight. She tells me I have one hour or will be terminated. I sigh and Miranda asks, “What did you call me?” “I didn’t call you anything,” I say. From outside the bathroom, Mother says, “Samuel, come out this instant.” I say to myself, “Fuck.” “What did you say to me?” Mother asks. “Fuck you,” Miranda says. Mother says, “I don’t understand your choices.” Miranda says, “Terminated.” I open the door and say, “Why does it smell like urinal cakes in this apartment?”

SPEECH

Mother slaps my cheek and exits the house without her umbrella. Becca asks, “What happened to Grandma?” I say, “Grandmothers cannot be trusted.” Chrissy enters the kitchen, her knees smudged black with soot. I say, “You got some shmootz,” and point to her knees. She knocks at the dirt with her hands. I grab a sponge from the sink and wipe her knees clean. I finish and she holds my face in her hands. I say, “Glad I could come.” She says, “Sammy, what did you do?” I say, “Do you want me to go after Mother?” She says, “My apartment didn’t smell until you arrived.”

ME

I wait on the subway platform, the rotten stench of urinal cakes still on me. A nanny pushes a little girl in a stroller. The nanny points to the hole in my jeans. I say, “I know.” The hole hangs open, exposing my hairy knee. A train moans and lurches in the distance, approaching. The little girl in the stroller asks, “Why does it smell like a bathroom in here?” I say, “It’s not me.”

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J.R. Angelella was born in Baltimore and lives in Brooklyn, New York. He has published fiction in Boston Literary Magazine and The Literary Review. He is a graduate of the Bennington Writing Seminars and is currently at work on his first novel.