Sara Gruen - Ape House

There was no rescuing Amanda from Fran, and adding his own presence to the mix could only make things worse, so John parked himself in the living room with Tim and the television and a bottle of Bushmills. After a while Fran came through on hands and knees, scrubbing the wall and baseboard, complaining in equal parts about her creaking knees and Amanda’s housekeeping. Amanda followed, swabbing halfheartedly with a wad of moistened paper towel. Her deficiencies were grievous: what kind of a woman didn’t keep her guest room made up? And why didn’t she have shelf paper in the kitchen? Fran promised to furnish some, since it was clear Amanda didn’t care, and Lord only knew where that came from, since she, herself, was a meticulous housekeeper. Once, when John was absolutely sure Fran’s back was turned, he made a yapping motion with his hand. Amanda responded by holding a finger gun to her own forehead and pulling the trigger.

Through a whiskeyed haze, John endured Velveeta-laced scalloped potatoes, a pile of tasteless green beans, and pork chops dressed in Shake ’n Bake. The Caesar salad, drowning in Kraft dressing, had been carefully denuded of all the crisp white pieces of the romaine, which were John’s favorite. Fran herself consumed three quarters of a basket of heat-and-serve dinner rolls, all while continuing to berate Amanda: she needed to take a good, hard look at her life. She wasn’t getting any younger, you know. Forty was closer than thirty now, and she still didn’t have a career or family to speak of, and while it was fine to have one or the other, Amanda had neither, in case she hadn’t noticed. She’d given the book thing a go but now it was time to think of the future. How could she even think of leaving her husband and moving to L.A.? She’d end up being a waitress, that was what, and she was too old to spend that much time on her feet. She did realize that varicose veins ran in the family, didn’t she?

John watched with amazement as Amanda blandly “Yes, Mothered” her way through the onslaught.

When Fran got up to clear the table, Amanda stood and calmly gathered plates. Tim Matthews patted his stomach, rose, and toddled off toward the room with the television. God bless him, thought John, following in such a hurry he nearly knocked his chair over.

In the privacy of their room, Amanda’s inscrutable veneer dropped like a carton of eggs.

“This is unbelievable,” she said, flopping onto the bed. “They ‘dropped in’ from Fort Myers. Who ‘drops in’ from Fort Myers?”

“Did she say how long they’re staying?”

“No.” Her voice had an edge of panic.

“My flight leaves first thing in the morning. Will you be okay?”

“I don’t know.”

“You were brilliant tonight,” he said. “How did you do that? Not that she didn’t manage to have a fight with you all by herself anyway.”

“I tuned her out. Or at least I tried to. It’s hard to do. I don’t know how long I can keep it up. She-” The strain of whispering was too much. Amanda sat forward with a sudden cough.

John hauled himself up on an elbow and rubbed her back. “You okay?”

“Mm-hmm,” she managed. “Just swallowed the wrong way. I’ll be fine.” She cleared her throat and nestled back against him.

Down the hall, the guest room door creaked open. There were footsteps, moving past the bathroom, and down the stairs, followed by a rattling in the kitchen. It sounded like the cutlery drawer, but that made no sense, unless someone was having a midnight hankering for scalloped potatoes. But no, that could not have been the case, because now, too soon for a plate to have been made, came the unmistakable sound of someone ascending the stairs.

And down the hall.

To their room.

The door crashed open, hitting the wall behind it. John yanked the blankets up to his chin. Amanda let out an “eep” as she struggled to do the same.

Fran stopped at the end of the bed, squinting to make out the figure of her daughter among the shadows. “There you are,” she said, coming around to Amanda’s side of the bed.

In the near-colorless glare of the moonlight, John saw the flash of a spoon. Amanda sat forward obediently, clutching the covers against her naked body with both hands. Her mother poured cough syrup onto the spoon and Amanda opened her mouth like a baby bird.

“That’ll sort you out,” Fran said with a nod. She turned on her heel and left the room, closing the door behind her.

John and Amanda lay in stunned silence.

“Did that just happen?” John said.

“I think it did.”

John stared at the ceiling. A car drove by; the headlights flashed across the length of their bedroom wall and disappeared.

“Come with me tomorrow,” John said. “We’ll get you on standby.”

Amanda flopped back onto him and adjusted the covers so that only their necks and heads were exposed. “Thank you,” she said, clinging to him like a spider monkey and breathing warm eucalyptus across his face. “Because if you leave me here with her, I think I might have to kill her.”

The next morning, John lay perfectly still until he heard the sounds of the television downstairs. It was a reliable indicator of when his in-laws began their day.

Amanda was asleep with her arms thrown over her head. Her hair, corkscrew curly, tumbled over her pillow and beyond her pale wrists. It was what had struck him the first time he laid eyes on her, in a hallway at Columbia, standing between him and the sunlight within a glowing halo of curls. It was always out of control, even when secured in its customary knot. She never used elastics; she used chopsticks, pencils, plastic cutlery, and anything else she could poke through it. Very early in their relationship, John had learned to check just what was in there before letting her lay her head on his shoulder so he wouldn’t lose an eye. But no matter how tight the knot or how recently done, bits of hair always sprang free.

He leaned over and buried his nose in her hair. He breathed deeply, and then nibbled her collarbone, which gave way to soft curves and heartbreaking dips. God, how he loved her. It had always been Amanda. For eighteen years, it had been Amanda. He’d never even been with another woman-unless you counted the unfortunate incident with Ginette Pinegar, which he did not.

“Mmm,” Amanda said, swatting him away.

“It’s time to go,” he whispered.

Her eyes opened wide. She smiled as he pressed a finger to her lips.

With a rerun of The Price Is Right as their soundtrack, Amanda piled folded clothes on the bed while John snuck to the hall closet for a suitcase. Not a word passed between them, but when their eyes met, they stifled giggles. They crept down the stairs and stood by the front door.

“Good-bye! We’re leaving!” John called loudly.

Sounds of muffled confusion floated down the hall, followed by fast footsteps.

Amanda pressed a fist against her mouth to suppress a laugh and zipped her feet into shiny high-heeled black boots that were very much the opposite of mukluks. John gazed admiringly, but not for long-Fran’s solid feet slid into view, encased in Isotoner slippers.

“What do you mean, you’re leaving?” she said. She stood with arms akimbo, eyes flashing. “Where are you going?”

“Kansas,” said Amanda.

“L.A.,” said John at the exact same moment. “House-hunting,” he added. Amanda paused momentarily, then resumed struggling into her pink belted coat. Large sunglasses already hid her eyes.

Tim ambled down the hall toward them.

“Bye, Tim! Thanks for coming,” John called cheerily.

“You’re welcome,” the old man replied in a baffled tone.