Ashley strolled by the maître de’s
lectern as though she was in a garden instead of the Manhattan restaurant that
had just earned its third Michelin star. Carlo, the waiter assigned to
their table, arched his eyebrows at the teenager, sighed over his some private
thoughts and bit his lip until she passed.
“Darling,” her mother said, standing
up. “How was the flight? Tell me all about Geneva. You’re
forty minutes late. Did the car service delay you?”
“Mama.” Ashley tossed her black
messenger bag on a chair, air-kissed her mother and flopped into the adjoining
seat. “Tiresome, tiresome and Customs is so tedious.”
“Home for the holidays,” her mother
said in a voice that trilled like a pigeon’s coo. “There’s something so —
I don’t know — deliciously Bing Crosby-like about Christmas. Was school…?
“Also tedious,” she sighed.
“Daddy?”
Her mother snapped, “Don’t be
awkward. He’s moved out. Phoenix or someplace where he can regain
his testosterone.”
“Oh!” Ashley brightened. “I
want to tell you I’m getting married! This wonderful fellow at the école,
Mohammed al-Fasi. He’s Moroccan.”
“Ashley,” her mother said, inhaling
sharply, “what the hell are you talking about?”
“Is that a rhetorical question or are
you hard of hearing?”
“Are you out of your goddamned
mind? You’re sixteen years old! I was 18 the first time I married,
and only because I was carrying you.”
“Lucinda,” the girl pointedly
emphasized her mother’s name, “we don’t plan to breed children. There are
people now — surrogates — who do that for you if you feel some atavistic
urge. Mohammed’s richer than Daddy, and marriage will give him a green
card to become an American. You can call our arrangement a humanitarian
gesture instead of you having to write checks to starving people in Darfur.”
Carlo approached their table and
struggled to keep from touching the teen’s mountain of tousled blonde
hair. She and her mother, both devoid of any physical flaws, were like
twins separated by twenty years. To Lucinda, he asked, “Something from
the bar?”
The older woman shuddered, still
digesting her daughter’s words. “Vodka gimlet, rocks, Grey Goose.
Make it a double."
“Two,” Ashley said. Carlo opened
his mouth to request age identification when the girl continued, “Don’t even
say it. My father has a 15 percent interest in this joint.” She
gave Carlo her tiger smile.
“I can just see it,” Lucinda snarled,
“you marching down the aisle in a burqa with Spandex and sequins.
“Ah, remind me to invite you and Daddy
— if you can find his address.”
“Are you insane?” she asked, too
loudly. Heads turned at neighboring tables, hearing heresy in their
dining sanctuary. “Your Mohammed will be collecting extra wives like
camels.”
Ashley said, “Don’t forget your grandpa
was a Mormon. He fled to Mexico with a wagon full of wives and the Army
hot on his heels.”
Their voices rose, enunciating each
syllable as though snapping off bread sticks.
“Your father and I simply won’t have this!
We’ll drag you back to school in America!”
“I am in America, so live with
it, Mother Dear. I divorce thee, I divorce thee, I divorce thee.
That’s how they do it in Rabat.”
Carlo hovered nearby and began shaking
as their voices rose and patrons stared. A kaleidoscope of memories
crossed his face.— of Europe, death, slanderous accusations, and more recent
events.
“Stop it!” he shouted at Ashley.
“If you were my child I would turn you over my knee and spank you.”
Glaring at Lucinda, he said, “If you were my wife I would lock you in the
bedroom. You are both rich, stupid people, ungrateful for what you
have. And, you make my ears burn, my eyes weep salty tears!”
Ashley spoke first. “Watch it,
you immigrant. Next thing you know you’ll be serving food at a homeless
shelter.”
Carlo’s back arched. “I would
gladly go where I am appreciated, and I appreciate the few things that I have.”
Patrons erupted in applause
simultaneously. “We’ve got you covered, Carlo,” a man with a deep tan
shouted. “Go for the goal, Carlo,” called a woman with silvered
hair. “Kick them out.”
Lucinda rose as though lifted by
invisible strings from some heavenly institution. “Come, Ashley.
We’ll go where we’re appreciated.”
The two paraded across the dining room
floor the way saints might demonstrate their faith by walking on water.
Lucinda turned at the door and screamed, “And don’t you forget it!”
At that moment, a woman in bluejeans
and a black coat pushed Lucinda aside and elbowed past Ashley. Lucinda
huffed with a “Well, I never…,” but fell silent as she saw the woman raise a
small silver pistol.
The woman’s first shot shattered a
crystal wall sconce. In a voice pitched high with tension, she cried,
“Carlo, you emptied my bank account.” The second shot drilled a
planter. “You abused my niece! She killed herself!” Her third
shot punctured the menu Carlo was holding to his chest for protection.
“And, you left the freezer door wide open.”
“There, you bastard,” she said as he
fell forward. “I got the last word in!” Then, she turned the gun to
her temple and fired a final shot.
Silence fell over the room before
Ashley wailed, “Mommy, take me home.” Her last word was drawn out in the
howl of a wounded animal.
“My baby,” Lucinda whispered wrapping
her arms around her daughter. “What kind of world are we living in?”
