11. Poor Becky

“I don’t want to have to bring stuffing again! He hates my stuffing!” The answering machine message from my sister Becky rang out. “Why does Mom make me bring it? She knows that he will hate it! I can just buy some, but then she will complain that it’s dry or something. Can’t you make it?” she paused to sigh. “But I guess you two are already making three or four fabulous things to bring…”

Deciding to ignore the obvious gay stab with the word ‘fabulous’ so critically placed, I prayed Thad had not heard it, as he would not overlook it.    

The message continued: “So can you just bring stuffing too? Please!”

The machine was silent for a second and then there was the noise of a great sucking in of air, as if a drowning man had just risen to the surface of the water to gasp his last breath, and then the message ended with a loud beep.

“It sounded like she just swallowed her tongue,” Thad said walking by the room with a laundry basket. “All over stuffing.”  

“Yeah,” I jumped; glad he had not heard her jibe. I hoped she was okay.

I was two when Rebecca was born, apparently under a bad star. I had always loved her, loved having a baby sister to take care of, to talk to when she was sad, to make laugh when she was happy, and to listen to when she was mad. But in the last few years our relationship had become somewhat strained as her life had become... complicated.    

Becky had never much succeeded at work, life, love or any combination thereof. I sympathized with her plight because we were both misfits of a crappy childhood dominated by an evil stepfather, both unprepared for the ugly actuality of the real world. But whereas I had gone to therapy and learned to take my childhood pain and roll it appropriately away so that I could have a semblance of an adult life, Becky had not. Becky refused to see a shrink and thus had more folded her pain up and tucked it into a drawer, but brought it out each weekend for a good airing. And at 39, Becky was now beginning to stand apart from me in the most astoundingly particular ways.

And with Thanksgiving in just four days, I assumed the current fit would only continue to amass.

I called her back and she did not answer, so I left a message, knowing she was standing in her apartment, arms crossed, frowning at the machine.

 “Yes, we can bring the stuffing,” I said. “Smith likes Thad’s stuffing, if you can believe it. You can just bring a pumpkin pie from the store. Call me. It’ll be fine. And calm down.”

I sat and cradled the phone, waiting for her to digest that, calm down, and call me back. It was a game you had to play with her if you wanted to talk to her when she was upset. I was fine with it, as it was who she was.  

Becky had never really fit in. She had been a somewhat popular and rather pretty girl, but not popular and pretty enough to be a cheerleader, a fact for which she had never forgiven God. Like myself, her weight had always gotten the better of her and she likewise had always had to fight it. This was another thing she had never forgiven the Almighty for. And, like me, she dieted and struggled and purged and binged, and basically still stayed heavy no matter what she did.

She married her one true love, Ray Phillips, five years ago, after two years of dating. He had finally proposed to her in Red Lobster with a cheap Sears ring, but she was thrilled. We all knew from her that he had cheated on her once, maybe twice, but we faked complete enthusiasm. They were married for one good month, and then had a series of fights that led them to separate last Valentine’s Day, after four years. He had moved to Oklahoma City to ‘think about things.’

The first few months she saw him every week or so, but that tapered off and now it had been three months since she had seen him. They still talked on the phone, but he said he was just ‘too damn busy’ to make it down, and she said she believed him. And now his phone calls were coming less and less frequently. Yet they were still officially married, and she still kept his name and wore the cheap Sears ring. Becky handled this by not speaking of the separation to us, and we did the same in her presence.  

I dialed her again and let it ring, but did not leave a second message. I assumed she was real tore-up by this as one follow-up call usually got her.  

Becky lived in her and Ray’s old apartment across town with her two white Persian cats, Fred and Ginger, who she combed obsessively. It was a fastidious place she kept bone cold at all times. Through whatever internal mechanics had wound me tight as a Swiss clock, Becky had been wound even tighter, God love her. Her OCD was so impressive it should be the spokeswoman for its own line of cleaning products. For this I felt much sympathy for her: OCD was a cruelly calculatingly and rigorous mistress, especially on the spouse, as my dear Thaddeus countlessly liked to remind me.

She worked as a receptionist at the Happy Daze Travel Agency on Campus Corner. It was a hack job but it paid her bills, although you could tell she wanted more. She carried herself with a certain haughtiness that Thad said “must run in the family.” She always wanted things to be pretty and expensive and exact; which were traits I respected in her. On a good day Thad thought her a prima donna task master who made Martha Stewart look like a homeless mess.  On a bad day he just called her a witch.   

Becky was smart, with a vorpal tongue, but had never finished college. She had said she would go back and finish once Ray made an honest women out of her, but she never had. For the first few years after they were married she spoke of going back and finishing, especially whenever Smith would make fun of her about it, but now recently despondent, she never spoke of it anymore. You could tell she was ashamed by this, so we never brought it up. 

Thad walked into the Den to gather some laundry from the closet, “Did you get a hold of Poor Becky?” That is what he called her.  

“No. But I left her a message.”

“I’m surprised she hasn’t trained Fred and Ginger to answer the phone yet, she’s such a Nazi. ‘Answer it!’” He barked in a mockery in her voice, then in the voice of the cats, “’No, please Master Becky! No!’” and then back in his voice, “You know she takes a switch to them when they’re bad. No wonder they’re so well behaved. I can’t imagine doing that to Charlotte. Those poor cats have got to just be terrified of her. I know I am.”

Thad left the room with a laugh.

Becky and Thad did not get along, even though they had known each other since high school. They had never been friends, but were in the same graduating class, back before I ever knew who Thad was. Becky was in band and played the flute while Thad stood outside with the punk rock kids and smoked cigarettes and failed classes.

Thad said the reason Becky didn’t like him was because she was jealous that she didn’t have the life we had. She was usually cold and condescending to him, but he was just pissy and snide back. Becky told me she had never trusted Thad since he had made out with her at an 11^th grade pool party and then tried to sell her weed. At school the next week, apparently with a little crush, she tried to talk to him, but he didn’t remember her and laughed about being blackout drunk at the party. And then he tried to sell her weed again, there in the smoking section outside the High School Cafeteria. Let me tell you how fast Becky related that story to Mom as soon as I brought Thad home a few years ago and introduced him to everyone. To this day, Mother still holds onto her purse whenever Thad walks by, even though I’ve told her he’s clean and sober now.   

Thad stuck his head back in the Den, “Did you tell her I would just make my stuffing?”

“Yes, and told her to just go buy a pie.”

“Good.” Thad said coming into the room with his laundry basket, “You know she’s a good cook-I mean not as good as me, but passable- if she would just try less complicated recipes. She always wants to do something with goat head cheese or rutabaga or the zest of anise. She should just cut to the chase, add a lot of butter and salt and just call it good like I do.”

“You are excellent cook.”

“Thank you,” Thad smiled.

I continued, “Becky just wants everything grand and brought in a royal plate, so she makes aspic with walnuts and camembert fruit frittatas…”

“Oh God,” Thad interrupted, “Do you remember that raisin rum cake she made that was so full of alcohol I was afraid it was going to catch fire?”

“Yes!” I laughed, “That was last Christmases. She was so proud of that, but once it came out of the pan it just ran everywhere.”

“Oh, and she cried and cried that day,” Thad sighed sarcastically. “And now here we are looking down the barrel of another holiday.” He paused. “Has she heard from Ray yet?” 

“No. Not in weeks,” I sighed.

“That’s too bad.” He said.

“Yup.”

The phone rang and I reached for it, “Hello?”

“Michael, it’s me” Becky said quietly into the phone. “So you two can make the stuffing too?”

“Yeah. No problem.”

“And Thad’s not going to rile me about it?”

“No, no. It’ll be fine,” Without thinking I waved Thad away, which I should not have done, as it always infuriated him. He instead frowned, sat down the laundry basket, and put his hands petulantly on his hips.

“You’re sure?” She continued, “I just don’t want a repeat of Mom’s birthday, where he snapped at me because I brought a store bought cake instead of making a homemade one…”

“No, no,” I said quietly, turning completely away from him, “It’ll be fine…”

Thad apparently figured out what I was doing and walked over to snatch the phone away from me.

“Oh, hi Becky. Yeah, hi. It’s Thad.” He gave me a smiley fake grimace and turned away with the phone. “So I will go ahead and just make the stuffing. It’s okay. We’re already doing my mashed potatoes, candied yams, green bean casserole, and cornbread, but I can just add it in….And make it…Um, hum….Yes…Not  a problem….Oh, probably just Stove Top and then I add some stuff…No, I haven’t had it with oysters…” he looked at me and made a gagging motion, then back to her, “I’ll put apples in it, maybe some almonds….Yes...No... It’s fine, I can take care of it…Yes, that’s okay…”

He stared walking back and forth quickly and I could tell he was just about to lose it.    

“Yeah…” he continued, his voice getting pitchy, “Well, lookit, here’s Mike back….yeah…gotta go!” and he just thrust the phone back at me and stomped out of the room, with a dramatic wave of his hands and a muttered “Jesus H. Christ…”  

“Hey, Beck, so it sounds like you two got it covered.”

“I don’t appreciate it when Thad treats me like that,” she growled into the phone.

“What?” I said, hoping to God he didn’t come back.

“When he treats me like a complete fool,” she continued, “Like I have no idea how to make stuffing. I know he’s a good cook and all, but I thought he’d just like to hear some of my ideas, but I could totally tell he didn’t care one bit…”

In my quietest voice I said, “Ignore him. He’s just in one of his moods…”

And from the other room Thad burst out, “What did you just say?”

“Look, I have to go Becky.” I said rising, as I was more intimidating to Thad at my full height, rather than splayed out on the couch.

“Oh, did Le petite prince hear?” She said smugly.

Thad came running into the room, “Get off the phone!”
          “Becky, I have to go…” I screamed into the receiver.

“Whatever Michael! I’m not one to tell you how to run your relationship…” was all I heard before I hung up on her.  

“What do you mean, ‘In one of my moods’? That’s just you taking her side like you always do!” Thad spat.

“Well, were you snarky to her? She said you were, about the stuffing. You know how sensitive she is.” I could tell he was not really upset, just bored and in need of my attention. He hated Becky for the affection I showed her, as if that somehow took away some of my affection towards him. They both were like big eight year olds, with me the toy they fought over for no particular reason.

“No!” He screamed. “Well she is just crazy! This is about stuffing! She needs to be committed!”

And as we got into it I wondered if maybe Becky had the better deal, what with a misplaced spouse, a sterilized cold house and the ever over-combed, but silent, Fred and Ginger.