Funny

Funny

By

Vincent E. Monroe

 

Green, speckled white, the hummingbird partaking of the trellis roses bountiful in their yellow; and, at last, the cardinals arrived and were poking about the hydrangeas. How odd, the hydrangeas were not quite the same blue they were last year.

“Beverly, stop ignoring me.”

Another silly squirrel bounced on the branches of a struggling elm. The tree needed to be cut down. And the grass, the green grass yesterday had enticed her to take a shoeless stroll.

“Damn you. Stop ignoring me!”

Slowly, Beverly turned her head.

“All right, Mom. You have my attention. Now, what?”

Her mother ran, sobbing, down the deck steps and across the yard and through the gate to the driveway. Beverly waited a moment, and went after her.

“Mom.”

“I hate you! I wish you had never been born!”

“Hate me all you want to, but that’s my car you’re sitting in.”

“See? This is what being around you does to me!”

“I didn’t ask you to come here!”

Her mother got out of the car, and stared, blankly, as if she were watching all her thoughts stumble blindly into a plate glass window.

Beverly shrugged, with a sigh, and discarded mockery. Instead, she chose to endure the dull ache of being charitable.

“Mom. Let’s go in the house.”

* * *

Beverly’s mother could not help herself; she glanced around the kitchen, dismissively. Beverly took note of this, but not as meticulously as she might have.

“I’ll make us coffee. Mom, would you like to have a cup of coffee?”

“Yes, Beverly, that would be nice, if you can remember to make it the way I like it.”

“I know how to remember.”

“I know you do. But you forget.”

They had their coffee at the counter, looking out the window.

“It felt warmer than normal when we were sitting outside.”

“I know, Mom. I saw bumblebees in February, and I thought, Why are you so early?”

“Beverly, I cannot go home.”

“Why not?”

“I cannot go home to your father.”

“Why not?”

“Your father now tells jokes.”

“Dad is telling jokes?”

“Yes, the most despicable kind, aimed particularly, exclusively at me. I asked him why and he said, ‘I have come to realize it’s my only means of survival.’ He said it with a straight face.”

“Hmmm. Mom, you’re tired. Why don’t you lie down in the guest room and take a long nap?”

“Yes. You’re right. I ought to.”

* * *

Beverly strode the three blocks to her parents’ house. Her father came to the door. He stood there, perturbed by her presence. For the first time ever in her life, she shoved her way past him inside. He followed her into the living room. She turned and faced him.

“Dad, I want to know what it is you think you’re trying to accomplish.”

“You’ve been talking to your mother.”

“Of course I have. She’s in my house. Besides, why wouldn’t I? Well?”

“You don’t come here making demands, young lady. I’ll smack you!”

“You do, and I will rip your eyes out.”

He saw crouched in her eyes a hitherto unknown quality baring sharp teeth, ready to pounce. He sat down on a chair, unsteadily. She exhaled, serenely, and she sat down on the sofa just so and crossed her legs just so and lighted and held a cigarette just so and she spoke to him as if she were engaged in delightful cocktail party chatter.

“Well, Dad, the thing is, you simply have never bothered to notice that things have changed since I was seventeen. Now, then. You are going to knock it off. She has been good to you. Maybe not in the ways you would have preferred and maybe not often enough. Nevertheless, she’s been good to you, much to my detriment, in fact, which, in order for me to keep my sanity I keep telling myself, Well, it couldn’t all have been on purpose, and remember the good things, remember the good things. Sort of puts a damper on a person’s sense of life.  Anyway, knock it off. And lose some weight. You look like a hippo.”

She left, shutting the door quietly.

*  * *

Beverly’s mother awoke, and she looked out the bedroom window. The world appeared not to have come to an end. She wished it had, for now she was still stuck with having to think about things. She went downstairs and looked for her daughter. Beverly was in the backyard on her knees pulling weeds.

“Beverly, would you like my help?”

“Okay. Don’t go over there, though, that’s where all the poison ivy is. Stay near me.”

They worked silently, neither believing that they would ever again kid around with each other like they sometimes used to.

THE END