Brian Herbert, page 2
Her grandparents had been in a hotel fire in Honolulu the year before, where twenty people died. Ever since he had suffered nightmares, although the incident didn't seem to affect Granmere. It occurred to Michelle now that the fog billowing in toward him around the pond might have re-minded him of smoke. Conceivably he felt trapped there, and maybe even now, as if he were inside a burning building. Uncertain, she decided not to mention this. It was a wound she didn't want to disturb.
Granpere switched on the radio, but couldn't get reception on any station—only disconcerting and annoying buzzes and crackles of static. Once inside the house he tried a radio in his bedroom and the television set in the parlor, both with the same result. He went to the dinner table muttering and scratch-ing his chin, a worried expression on his face.
"Fastest appearing fog I've ever seen," he said. "And we can't get a lick of news about it."
He found his place at one head of the table, farthest from the kitchen. Michelle sat to one side of him where she always did, opposite the empty place of her brother, Joseph, who was on a date. Everyone had his or her established place at the table, and even Rachel, who defied virtually all tradition, seemed content to sit in the same place two down from Joseph's—on those rare occasions when she came to Gran-mere's.
The crystal-chandeliered dining room was off to one side of the kitchen, and as always Granmere had out her finest dinner settings. The long cherry wood table was covered in an exqui-site handmade white lace cloth, topped by silver, crystal, and Rouenware. There were ornate carved candles at each end, and glasses of red wine all around, even at the places set for Michelle and Renney. Children received diluted wine, an old country practice according to Granpere.
Henry and Rachel had argued in the car on the way over. As usual, she didn't want to come. He had the temerity to ask Rachel to promise that she would go out of her way to avoid incurring Granmere's wrath.
"You're talking impossibility," Rachel had said. "My mere presence agitates the old lady. She'll start it, you watch, and I won't take her guff."
Michelle agreed with her mother. Invariably it went that way.
Nine-year-old Renney sat between Joseph's place and the chair occupied by their mother. Renney was Rachel's favor-ite. Michelle reached to her right, helped Coley onto a booster seat atop a chair.
Noticing the angry red eruptions of fleabites on her little sister's arms, Michelle thought, /'// have to spray her room again. Did Granmere notice?
No indication that she had.
Henry was busy helping Granmere, bringing food and uten-sils to the table. She ordered him about, using the French pronunciation of his name, much as it must have been when he was a little boy. With a pockmarked round face and only a fringe of gray-brown hair around his pate, Henry looked like an aging weightlifter. His tree-trunk arms were as big around as the legs of most men.
"What were you saying, Pere?" Henry asked, addressing his father. This form followed one of Granmere's many rules, along with the use of certain common French terms in her presence, usually for salutation and departure. Henry set a tray of small crystal glasses, each containing apricot juice, on the table.
Those already seated took glasses for themselves or passed them to others.
Granpere repeated his comment about the fog and the lack of television or radio reception, adding, "It came on like gangbusters while Michelle and I were out."
Henry looked out the lace-curtained window, whistled in a low tone. He squinted, said he could barely make out details of neighboring nouses.
Coley wasted no time in spilling her juice. This produced a squeal of disapproval from Granmere, who ran in from the kitchen with a wet dish towel and wiped Coley's dress, the tablecloth, the chair, and the carpet.
During this commotion, Rachel sipped from a glass of red table wine, seemingly unconcerned about her daughter's gaffe. Michelle saw her grandmother fire a disdainful look at Rachel but didn't think Rachel noticed.
Michelle helped her father and grandmother bring out salad and dressing, sourdough French rolls, and butter.
When all were seated and the salads were served on gold-edged glass plates, Granmere drank her apricot juice, the aperitif. This was the signal for everyone to eat, without any prayer.
While partaking of her salad in the most proper manner, Granmere stopped suddenly and closed her eyes.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I'm not feeling at all well. My stomach ..." She lifted her eyelids, blinked. "Strange whatever it was seems to have passed."
"I felt it too," Henry said.
"So did I!" Michelle exclaimed. "I felt it before dinner too. Like being in an airplane taking off."
"What do you know about airplanes?" Henry asked. "You've never been in one."
Michelle couldn't reveal the secret flight Granpere had taken her on, and picked at her salad.
"The child's right, anyway," Granmere said. "It was like a takeoff."
Everyone except Coley and Rachel said they had felt briefly queasy and dizzy, both before dinner and moments earlier, when Granmere spoke.
"Earth tremors?" Renney offered.
"Not like any I've ever felt," Granpere said.
"The ground around here can roll in funny ways," Granmere said, breaking open a dinner roll. She glared at Henry as he sliced his roll in half with a steak knife.
Behind Granmere on the wall by the kitchen doorway an antique gold-framed photograph depicted Henry as a boy, his blond hair cut pageboy short. He wore a feminine white lace blouse with elbow-length sleeves, white shorts, and white, tightly laced boots. Granmere had raised her only son in the "proper" manner, teaching him daily how polite people spoke, how they broke open their rolls, how they selected suitable mates, even how they looked at one another. As Michelle thought about it, she realized that Granmere's gaze of disap-proval had been precipitated by more than Henry's faux pas with a dinner roll. He must have seemed a complete failure to her. This time, however, the old woman said nothing.
"Maybe it was like flying," Henry said, speaking with his
mouth full. "I remember when I was in the National Air Service, and we'd pitch, roll, or yaw and everyone felt like dumpin' their cookies."
"Henri!" Granmere exclaimed, in her most severe tone.
But Henry, with his eyes bulging comically, tightened his lips over his upper and lower teeth and said, with intentional exaggeration: "Mebbe dish housh ish flyin', huh?"
Michelle and Renney laughed.
Henry was a fairly well educated man, having attended a fine university for three years and done well there. He knew how to speak correctly, and frequently when he didn't do so his eyes would twinkle in Michelle's direction, as they did now.
Henry's mispronunciations occurred for the most part beyond the hearing range of his mother, although he enjoyed drop-ping occasional mangled phrases to agitate her. Often his words and phrases suggested tangential, intriguing concepts, and many of them came so close to correct pronunciation that gems could go right by a listener who wasn't paying close attention.
Some of Michelle's favorites, from this very table: at a Little League baseball game, a player made a "head face slide"; a person with Alzheimer's disease had instead "oldtimer's disease"; cardiac arrest became "hardiac arrest"; pronunciation was "pronounciation"; altitude shifted to "altitoad"—and whenever Michelle heard this one she envi-sioned toads flying through the air, as she had heard they did at times during violent storms.
As Michelle reminisced fondly and smiled at these (which .the children called "Henryisms"), she noticed suddenly that her grandmother was staring directly at her with those dark, penetrating old eyes. Michelle felt blood rush to her face, and she straightened her mouth.
"You should get a decent haircut, Michelle," Granmere said. "Then you wouldn't have to tie it in a ponytail."
/'// keep it forever! Michelle thought, staring at her plate.
Soon this incident passed in Michelle's mind, like so many similar ones before. She, her siblings, and their father ate voraciously, while Granmere and Granpere proceeded more deliberately, the way gentry behaved in fine restaurants.
Ra-chel seemed to have little interest in her food, but by Mi-
chelle's count she consumed two glasses of burgundy by the time everyone else finished the salad.
Michelle loved Granmere's food. The green salad included generous portions of fresh tuna, avocado, and hardboiled egg, all doused in as much tangy vinaigrette dressing as a person wanted. Granmere served real butter with the sourdough rolls too, not the whipped, watery margarine that the children sometimes had at home, when Mom allowed them into the food.
Between bites, Michelle sneaked glances at her grand-mother. The old woman's bespectacled face had a weathered hardness to it (despite the plethora of moisture creams she employed), and heavy creases on her forehead and neck ran horizontally, almost in parallel. Vertical parallel lines that ran down her cheeks and the bridge of her nose made Michelle fantasize about what her grandmother would look like if the vertical lines ever extended themselves and crisscrossed with the horizontal ones, making her a walking tic-tac-toe board.
There were no laugh or smile notches around Granmere's eyes or mouth, for she rarely displayed happiness. The eyes behind the brown-framed glasses were cold and black, like those of a predatory bird. Her political opponents referred to her as "French Steel," but with considerable admiration and respect. Michelle experienced such emotions for her grand-mother herself, for at times the aged battler seemed capable of carrying the entire problem-riddled Fouquet family on her shoulders. Mostly, though, Michelle feared and hated her grandmother.
Love also entered the complicated equation of emotions Michelle felt for her grandmother, and the girl, despite her youth, recognized this. As Michelle looked around the table she realized that, as callous as it sounded, she loved everyone at the table with varying degrees of intensity. Her feelings for each person were different, individual and special. Perhaps she loved her mother most, even more than Granpere Gilbert, despite the myriad shortcomings in that woman.
Rachel was thirty-four years younger than Granmere but looked nearly as old. Once a beautiful redheaded Irish col-leen, Rachel's features had been creased and seared by alco-hol, by Granmere, and by the ravages of mental illness with all of its concomitant mind-deadening drugs. This woman
lived much of her life in deep, shadowy regions, unrevealed for the most part to anyone. She emerged for brief flurries, making guerrilla attacks on the world orally or with sensitive, tormented poems that she wrote on slips of paper.
She was subject to sudden bursts of rage if she failed to take her medications. Michelle witnessed one occasion when her mother screamed obscenities at Henry and hurled a small table at him after ripping it from its floor mountings.
Michelle didn't know the proper terminology for Rachel's ailment, and wondered if that (nattered much anyway. She understood her mother, knew her in ways no doctor could.
There were many facets to Rachel's personality, and she kept people who opposed her off guard by her unpredictabil-ity. One moment she could be insipid and stupid (faking, Michelle thought), flaring in the next instant to a rapier edge of devastating wit. The unfortunate woman had a loving side too, one she revealed on occasion to Michelle and always reserved for her favorite, Renney.
Granmere's third course was squash soup, with croutons served on the side that were supposed to be dropped in a few at a time to keep them from getting soggy.
This was followed by leg of lamb, mixed peas and carrots, and mashed potatoes that had carrots mixed into them.
Granmere had prepared a rich and delicious gravy from lamb drippings, and Michelle poured it generously on her plate from the gravy boat, covering even her vegetables.
Rachel and Granmere were avoiding one another thus far, listening instead to Henry and Granpere as they speculated on the causes of the fog and of the interference with radio and television communication.
As Michelle and Renney heaped more lamb on their plates, Granmere exclaimed, "Goodness! You children eat as if it has to last you a week!"
By the silence and abashed expressions that resulted, she must have sensed how true these words were. Granmere knew something of the way her son's family lived. Too much, Rachel always said. Those piles of garbage and dirty laundry at Henry's house, along with the chronic overflow of food-scabbed dishes and clutter around the place distressed the old woman no end. But no one, not even Henry with all of his grievances, complained to Granmere about Rachel. This left
Granmere to draw her own conclusions, which she was quick to do.
By the time Camembert cheese and pdte defoie gras were served, Michelle was cautiously optimistic that Granmere and Rachel would avoid crossing swords. The natural grouchiness brought on by hunger had passed, and while Rachel had consumed four glasses of wine she had eaten a good portion of her food as well.
Then Granmere, while slicing a piece of soft cheese for herself, said in her most precise tone, "I have something very important to discuss with all of you. The children especially should hear this." She stared at Coley and Renney, who weren't paying attention.
"Colette! Rene"!" Granmere said, her nose twitching angrily.
All eyes shifted toward Granmere.
"Never sleep with your head under the covers," she said, "for that restricts the oxygen you breathe, cutting down the necessary flow of oxygen to your brain. This causes brain damage."
"Is that a personal testimonial, Liliane?" Rachel asked, coming out of her stupor and projecting her voice nasally.
"Don't do as I did?"
Renney suppressed a snicker, but Michelle closed her eyes, waiting for the explosion.
"Certainly not!" Granmere said. "I read it in one of my magazines!" She tapped the center post of her com-puterized glasses, where a tiny magazine disk could be attached, enabling her to read printed words on the inside surfaces of her lenses if surrounding illumination wasn't too bright.
"I suppose you connected the magazine disk to your word processor too," Rachel said, "and we can look forward to receiving our usual copies of the article."
"I find your tone offensive," Granmere said, haughtily. "You didn't stay on the plastic runners either when you came to the table. I watched every step you took."
"I stepped in some birdshit outside," Rachel said. "Just for you." She took a gulp of wine, betraying little emotion in her expression.
Granmere gasped.
nownoo ur akiuhn i /
"Don't send us any mote newspaper or magazine articles, Liliane," Rachel said, working at her wine.
The table was hushed, with onlookers either staring mo-tionlessly at their plates or sneaking furtive glances at the combatants. Then Coley threw a hard piece of roll at Granmere. It bounced off Granmere's shoulder, to the floor.
Granm&re shot her angriest glance at the toddler, who was readying another missile.
"We don't want to be like the plastic people in your goddam articles," Rachel said. "We want to be human, not perfect."
"When I spoke of oxygen starvation," Granmere said, her words flowing with the practiced diction of an experienced city councilwoman, "I wasn't addressing you, Rachel. Your brain is too far gone to worry about."
Michelle felt sick to her stomach. She pushed her cheese plate away.
Coley's subsequent toss left butter on Granmere's chin.
"Isn't there someone here who can control this child?" Granmere raged, using her napkin.
"Coley, stop that!" Michelle said, moving the food arsenal out of her sister's reach.
"I don't like Granmere," Coley said, pouting.
Someone clinked a piece of silverware against a plate, and the sound seemed to echo around the room.
Michelle stared across the table at her mother, who ap-peared to have withdrawn from the skirmish. Rachel was humming, and the soft melody escaping her lips carried her . off to another dimension, making her smile in the sweetest fashion that Michelle could imagine. Hypnotically, Rachel poured more burgundy from the carafe near her, then took a sip from her glass. She seemed totally unaware of anyone other than herself.
"You'd better get some help for her, Henri," Granmere said, in a low, hostile tone. "Is she taking her medication?"
"I think so," Henry said.
Abruptly Granmere rose and stalked into the living room, where she retrieved Rachel's big, worn purse from the floor by the couch. Granmere rummaged inside and withdrew three prescription bottles, shaking each as she brought it out.
"Empty," she reported, tossing them back in the handbag.
Michelle noticed that her mother, still humming, was watch-ing Granmere dully out of the corners of her eyes without smiling.
Granmere withdrew a half-liter sized clear glass bottle from the purse and held it aloft. The bottle, which had a red label, was half full of the clear alcoholic beverage called Snowfly Extract, or "Bug Juice" as it was more commonly known.
Michelle had seen empties secreted at home in the clutter of back porch trash. Rachel couldn't resist the stuff. Cheap and popular among skid row alcoholics, it was extracted from the antifreezelike bloodstreams of Arctic insects and then fla-vored with lemon squeezings.
Granmere tossed the purse on a side chair, and without another word took the bottle into the kitchen. By the sink, she touched a wall button. A large round lid on the floor by her feet yawned open, into which she dropped the bottle. This was the public garbage system, connected to every house in the city, including Michelle's. Something had partially blocked their line though, preventing the disposal of anything but the smallest items. Like other mechanical devices around the Henry Fouquet household, in all probability it would never be repaired because of inattention and lack of money.
"Snowfly don't bother me," Rachel sang, staring all the while at Granmere. "Snowfly don't bother me." The tune sounded vaguely familiar to Michelle, but the words weren't right.
"I'll get her to the hospital right now," Henry announced.
He went to Rachel and with firm gentleness helped her to her feet. She didn't resist, but repeated the words of her song, in a voice that alternated between harsh nasal tones and the softness of lullaby. By the time she was being escorted out the door, Rachel had internalized the melody. Her lips contin-ued to move with no sounds issuing forth.
Granpere switched on the radio, but couldn't get reception on any station—only disconcerting and annoying buzzes and crackles of static. Once inside the house he tried a radio in his bedroom and the television set in the parlor, both with the same result. He went to the dinner table muttering and scratch-ing his chin, a worried expression on his face.
"Fastest appearing fog I've ever seen," he said. "And we can't get a lick of news about it."
He found his place at one head of the table, farthest from the kitchen. Michelle sat to one side of him where she always did, opposite the empty place of her brother, Joseph, who was on a date. Everyone had his or her established place at the table, and even Rachel, who defied virtually all tradition, seemed content to sit in the same place two down from Joseph's—on those rare occasions when she came to Gran-mere's.
The crystal-chandeliered dining room was off to one side of the kitchen, and as always Granmere had out her finest dinner settings. The long cherry wood table was covered in an exqui-site handmade white lace cloth, topped by silver, crystal, and Rouenware. There were ornate carved candles at each end, and glasses of red wine all around, even at the places set for Michelle and Renney. Children received diluted wine, an old country practice according to Granpere.
Henry and Rachel had argued in the car on the way over. As usual, she didn't want to come. He had the temerity to ask Rachel to promise that she would go out of her way to avoid incurring Granmere's wrath.
"You're talking impossibility," Rachel had said. "My mere presence agitates the old lady. She'll start it, you watch, and I won't take her guff."
Michelle agreed with her mother. Invariably it went that way.
Nine-year-old Renney sat between Joseph's place and the chair occupied by their mother. Renney was Rachel's favor-ite. Michelle reached to her right, helped Coley onto a booster seat atop a chair.
Noticing the angry red eruptions of fleabites on her little sister's arms, Michelle thought, /'// have to spray her room again. Did Granmere notice?
No indication that she had.
Henry was busy helping Granmere, bringing food and uten-sils to the table. She ordered him about, using the French pronunciation of his name, much as it must have been when he was a little boy. With a pockmarked round face and only a fringe of gray-brown hair around his pate, Henry looked like an aging weightlifter. His tree-trunk arms were as big around as the legs of most men.
"What were you saying, Pere?" Henry asked, addressing his father. This form followed one of Granmere's many rules, along with the use of certain common French terms in her presence, usually for salutation and departure. Henry set a tray of small crystal glasses, each containing apricot juice, on the table.
Those already seated took glasses for themselves or passed them to others.
Granpere repeated his comment about the fog and the lack of television or radio reception, adding, "It came on like gangbusters while Michelle and I were out."
Henry looked out the lace-curtained window, whistled in a low tone. He squinted, said he could barely make out details of neighboring nouses.
Coley wasted no time in spilling her juice. This produced a squeal of disapproval from Granmere, who ran in from the kitchen with a wet dish towel and wiped Coley's dress, the tablecloth, the chair, and the carpet.
During this commotion, Rachel sipped from a glass of red table wine, seemingly unconcerned about her daughter's gaffe. Michelle saw her grandmother fire a disdainful look at Rachel but didn't think Rachel noticed.
Michelle helped her father and grandmother bring out salad and dressing, sourdough French rolls, and butter.
When all were seated and the salads were served on gold-edged glass plates, Granmere drank her apricot juice, the aperitif. This was the signal for everyone to eat, without any prayer.
While partaking of her salad in the most proper manner, Granmere stopped suddenly and closed her eyes.
"Oh!" she exclaimed. "I'm not feeling at all well. My stomach ..." She lifted her eyelids, blinked. "Strange whatever it was seems to have passed."
"I felt it too," Henry said.
"So did I!" Michelle exclaimed. "I felt it before dinner too. Like being in an airplane taking off."
"What do you know about airplanes?" Henry asked. "You've never been in one."
Michelle couldn't reveal the secret flight Granpere had taken her on, and picked at her salad.
"The child's right, anyway," Granmere said. "It was like a takeoff."
Everyone except Coley and Rachel said they had felt briefly queasy and dizzy, both before dinner and moments earlier, when Granmere spoke.
"Earth tremors?" Renney offered.
"Not like any I've ever felt," Granpere said.
"The ground around here can roll in funny ways," Granmere said, breaking open a dinner roll. She glared at Henry as he sliced his roll in half with a steak knife.
Behind Granmere on the wall by the kitchen doorway an antique gold-framed photograph depicted Henry as a boy, his blond hair cut pageboy short. He wore a feminine white lace blouse with elbow-length sleeves, white shorts, and white, tightly laced boots. Granmere had raised her only son in the "proper" manner, teaching him daily how polite people spoke, how they broke open their rolls, how they selected suitable mates, even how they looked at one another. As Michelle thought about it, she realized that Granmere's gaze of disap-proval had been precipitated by more than Henry's faux pas with a dinner roll. He must have seemed a complete failure to her. This time, however, the old woman said nothing.
"Maybe it was like flying," Henry said, speaking with his
mouth full. "I remember when I was in the National Air Service, and we'd pitch, roll, or yaw and everyone felt like dumpin' their cookies."
"Henri!" Granmere exclaimed, in her most severe tone.
But Henry, with his eyes bulging comically, tightened his lips over his upper and lower teeth and said, with intentional exaggeration: "Mebbe dish housh ish flyin', huh?"
Michelle and Renney laughed.
Henry was a fairly well educated man, having attended a fine university for three years and done well there. He knew how to speak correctly, and frequently when he didn't do so his eyes would twinkle in Michelle's direction, as they did now.
Henry's mispronunciations occurred for the most part beyond the hearing range of his mother, although he enjoyed drop-ping occasional mangled phrases to agitate her. Often his words and phrases suggested tangential, intriguing concepts, and many of them came so close to correct pronunciation that gems could go right by a listener who wasn't paying close attention.
Some of Michelle's favorites, from this very table: at a Little League baseball game, a player made a "head face slide"; a person with Alzheimer's disease had instead "oldtimer's disease"; cardiac arrest became "hardiac arrest"; pronunciation was "pronounciation"; altitude shifted to "altitoad"—and whenever Michelle heard this one she envi-sioned toads flying through the air, as she had heard they did at times during violent storms.
As Michelle reminisced fondly and smiled at these (which .the children called "Henryisms"), she noticed suddenly that her grandmother was staring directly at her with those dark, penetrating old eyes. Michelle felt blood rush to her face, and she straightened her mouth.
"You should get a decent haircut, Michelle," Granmere said. "Then you wouldn't have to tie it in a ponytail."
/'// keep it forever! Michelle thought, staring at her plate.
Soon this incident passed in Michelle's mind, like so many similar ones before. She, her siblings, and their father ate voraciously, while Granmere and Granpere proceeded more deliberately, the way gentry behaved in fine restaurants.
Ra-chel seemed to have little interest in her food, but by Mi-
chelle's count she consumed two glasses of burgundy by the time everyone else finished the salad.
Michelle loved Granmere's food. The green salad included generous portions of fresh tuna, avocado, and hardboiled egg, all doused in as much tangy vinaigrette dressing as a person wanted. Granmere served real butter with the sourdough rolls too, not the whipped, watery margarine that the children sometimes had at home, when Mom allowed them into the food.
Between bites, Michelle sneaked glances at her grand-mother. The old woman's bespectacled face had a weathered hardness to it (despite the plethora of moisture creams she employed), and heavy creases on her forehead and neck ran horizontally, almost in parallel. Vertical parallel lines that ran down her cheeks and the bridge of her nose made Michelle fantasize about what her grandmother would look like if the vertical lines ever extended themselves and crisscrossed with the horizontal ones, making her a walking tic-tac-toe board.
There were no laugh or smile notches around Granmere's eyes or mouth, for she rarely displayed happiness. The eyes behind the brown-framed glasses were cold and black, like those of a predatory bird. Her political opponents referred to her as "French Steel," but with considerable admiration and respect. Michelle experienced such emotions for her grand-mother herself, for at times the aged battler seemed capable of carrying the entire problem-riddled Fouquet family on her shoulders. Mostly, though, Michelle feared and hated her grandmother.
Love also entered the complicated equation of emotions Michelle felt for her grandmother, and the girl, despite her youth, recognized this. As Michelle looked around the table she realized that, as callous as it sounded, she loved everyone at the table with varying degrees of intensity. Her feelings for each person were different, individual and special. Perhaps she loved her mother most, even more than Granpere Gilbert, despite the myriad shortcomings in that woman.
Rachel was thirty-four years younger than Granmere but looked nearly as old. Once a beautiful redheaded Irish col-leen, Rachel's features had been creased and seared by alco-hol, by Granmere, and by the ravages of mental illness with all of its concomitant mind-deadening drugs. This woman
lived much of her life in deep, shadowy regions, unrevealed for the most part to anyone. She emerged for brief flurries, making guerrilla attacks on the world orally or with sensitive, tormented poems that she wrote on slips of paper.
She was subject to sudden bursts of rage if she failed to take her medications. Michelle witnessed one occasion when her mother screamed obscenities at Henry and hurled a small table at him after ripping it from its floor mountings.
Michelle didn't know the proper terminology for Rachel's ailment, and wondered if that (nattered much anyway. She understood her mother, knew her in ways no doctor could.
There were many facets to Rachel's personality, and she kept people who opposed her off guard by her unpredictabil-ity. One moment she could be insipid and stupid (faking, Michelle thought), flaring in the next instant to a rapier edge of devastating wit. The unfortunate woman had a loving side too, one she revealed on occasion to Michelle and always reserved for her favorite, Renney.
Granmere's third course was squash soup, with croutons served on the side that were supposed to be dropped in a few at a time to keep them from getting soggy.
This was followed by leg of lamb, mixed peas and carrots, and mashed potatoes that had carrots mixed into them.
Granmere had prepared a rich and delicious gravy from lamb drippings, and Michelle poured it generously on her plate from the gravy boat, covering even her vegetables.
Rachel and Granmere were avoiding one another thus far, listening instead to Henry and Granpere as they speculated on the causes of the fog and of the interference with radio and television communication.
As Michelle and Renney heaped more lamb on their plates, Granmere exclaimed, "Goodness! You children eat as if it has to last you a week!"
By the silence and abashed expressions that resulted, she must have sensed how true these words were. Granmere knew something of the way her son's family lived. Too much, Rachel always said. Those piles of garbage and dirty laundry at Henry's house, along with the chronic overflow of food-scabbed dishes and clutter around the place distressed the old woman no end. But no one, not even Henry with all of his grievances, complained to Granmere about Rachel. This left
Granmere to draw her own conclusions, which she was quick to do.
By the time Camembert cheese and pdte defoie gras were served, Michelle was cautiously optimistic that Granmere and Rachel would avoid crossing swords. The natural grouchiness brought on by hunger had passed, and while Rachel had consumed four glasses of wine she had eaten a good portion of her food as well.
Then Granmere, while slicing a piece of soft cheese for herself, said in her most precise tone, "I have something very important to discuss with all of you. The children especially should hear this." She stared at Coley and Renney, who weren't paying attention.
"Colette! Rene"!" Granmere said, her nose twitching angrily.
All eyes shifted toward Granmere.
"Never sleep with your head under the covers," she said, "for that restricts the oxygen you breathe, cutting down the necessary flow of oxygen to your brain. This causes brain damage."
"Is that a personal testimonial, Liliane?" Rachel asked, coming out of her stupor and projecting her voice nasally.
"Don't do as I did?"
Renney suppressed a snicker, but Michelle closed her eyes, waiting for the explosion.
"Certainly not!" Granmere said. "I read it in one of my magazines!" She tapped the center post of her com-puterized glasses, where a tiny magazine disk could be attached, enabling her to read printed words on the inside surfaces of her lenses if surrounding illumination wasn't too bright.
"I suppose you connected the magazine disk to your word processor too," Rachel said, "and we can look forward to receiving our usual copies of the article."
"I find your tone offensive," Granmere said, haughtily. "You didn't stay on the plastic runners either when you came to the table. I watched every step you took."
"I stepped in some birdshit outside," Rachel said. "Just for you." She took a gulp of wine, betraying little emotion in her expression.
Granmere gasped.
nownoo ur akiuhn i /
"Don't send us any mote newspaper or magazine articles, Liliane," Rachel said, working at her wine.
The table was hushed, with onlookers either staring mo-tionlessly at their plates or sneaking furtive glances at the combatants. Then Coley threw a hard piece of roll at Granmere. It bounced off Granmere's shoulder, to the floor.
Granm&re shot her angriest glance at the toddler, who was readying another missile.
"We don't want to be like the plastic people in your goddam articles," Rachel said. "We want to be human, not perfect."
"When I spoke of oxygen starvation," Granmere said, her words flowing with the practiced diction of an experienced city councilwoman, "I wasn't addressing you, Rachel. Your brain is too far gone to worry about."
Michelle felt sick to her stomach. She pushed her cheese plate away.
Coley's subsequent toss left butter on Granmere's chin.
"Isn't there someone here who can control this child?" Granmere raged, using her napkin.
"Coley, stop that!" Michelle said, moving the food arsenal out of her sister's reach.
"I don't like Granmere," Coley said, pouting.
Someone clinked a piece of silverware against a plate, and the sound seemed to echo around the room.
Michelle stared across the table at her mother, who ap-peared to have withdrawn from the skirmish. Rachel was humming, and the soft melody escaping her lips carried her . off to another dimension, making her smile in the sweetest fashion that Michelle could imagine. Hypnotically, Rachel poured more burgundy from the carafe near her, then took a sip from her glass. She seemed totally unaware of anyone other than herself.
"You'd better get some help for her, Henri," Granmere said, in a low, hostile tone. "Is she taking her medication?"
"I think so," Henry said.
Abruptly Granmere rose and stalked into the living room, where she retrieved Rachel's big, worn purse from the floor by the couch. Granmere rummaged inside and withdrew three prescription bottles, shaking each as she brought it out.
"Empty," she reported, tossing them back in the handbag.
Michelle noticed that her mother, still humming, was watch-ing Granmere dully out of the corners of her eyes without smiling.
Granmere withdrew a half-liter sized clear glass bottle from the purse and held it aloft. The bottle, which had a red label, was half full of the clear alcoholic beverage called Snowfly Extract, or "Bug Juice" as it was more commonly known.
Michelle had seen empties secreted at home in the clutter of back porch trash. Rachel couldn't resist the stuff. Cheap and popular among skid row alcoholics, it was extracted from the antifreezelike bloodstreams of Arctic insects and then fla-vored with lemon squeezings.
Granmere tossed the purse on a side chair, and without another word took the bottle into the kitchen. By the sink, she touched a wall button. A large round lid on the floor by her feet yawned open, into which she dropped the bottle. This was the public garbage system, connected to every house in the city, including Michelle's. Something had partially blocked their line though, preventing the disposal of anything but the smallest items. Like other mechanical devices around the Henry Fouquet household, in all probability it would never be repaired because of inattention and lack of money.
"Snowfly don't bother me," Rachel sang, staring all the while at Granmere. "Snowfly don't bother me." The tune sounded vaguely familiar to Michelle, but the words weren't right.
"I'll get her to the hospital right now," Henry announced.
He went to Rachel and with firm gentleness helped her to her feet. She didn't resist, but repeated the words of her song, in a voice that alternated between harsh nasal tones and the softness of lullaby. By the time she was being escorted out the door, Rachel had internalized the melody. Her lips contin-ued to move with no sounds issuing forth.
