David Sedaris - Barrel Fever and Other Stories

I laughed when I heard the news that my father had died. I celebrate his death every time his name is spoken. In my opinion, the driver of the Mayflower van deserves the keys to the city. The hero responsible for Margery's eventual death should have a national holiday named in his or her honor. They should have their head placed on stamps.

I return to the basement apartment and, entering the kitchen, I pretend to trip. My aunt covers her hair with one hand and her coat with the other unconcerned for my safety but frightened that I might shower her with the stinking beer.

"I swear," she says, recovering herself. "I shouldn't but I do." She settles back into her chair and takes a greedy sip. A golden stream dribbles out of her mouth and falls upon her coat. Margery removes a Kleenex from her purse and, frowning, mops at the stain. "My coat," she whispers.

"You're looking very pretty tonight," my mother says. Margery has spruced herself up since marrying Chet Wallace. She has stopped bleaching her hair and currently wears it cut short and heavily gelled, brushed toward her face. She's wearing heavy red blush, which, combined with her hairstyle, makes her look as though she has just come up for a quick breath while bobbing for apples. She studies her reflection in the dark window and then looks down into her beer.

"So, how is my big old baby sister doing today?" she asks. "I worry about you here all by yourself."

"I've got Dale," my mother says. "He's with me."

Margery pulls her coat close to her neck and says, "I worry about you, I can't help myself. Chet wanted me to go with him to the Angus Barn for dinner, him and his sponsor and a few other people, marvelous people, but I said, 'No, thank you, I've got to check in on that baby sister of mine because I worry about her.' " She takes another sip of her beer and beams.

This is standard Margery, to tell my mother stories of all the sacrifices she's made to be here.

"They all said, 'Margery, come on! Come out and have some fun for a change.' They said, 'What is it with this sister of yours?' Then Chet's sponsor, Bobby, said, 'Sister, hell, I believe she's got a man tucked away somewhere on the sly,' and everyone laughed. They simply would not leave me alone." Margery paused, shaking her head at the thought of them. "Those people, bless their hearts. They've saved my husband's life and I love them for it, but still I worry about you and that's why I'm here."

"The Angus Barn," my mother says. "Isn't that the place out on Highway 70 where they wheel around the raw steaks and let you choose the one you want? I believe I went there once with Les when Dale was a baby."

"Les this, Les that," Margery says. "Let it go! You're a fool to even speak that man's name. You're allowing him to live rent-free in your head. Now's the time to let go of the past and move on! Look at me, I've moved ahead like you wouldn't believe. If you want my opinion, you're lucky that the man is dead and buried. Divorce is a lot worse than death, trust me. In death you get a lot more money. In divorce you get nothing but the same old promises that coupled with the chance of running into the fat creep every time you leave the house. Look at me, I ran into my ex-husband just this afternoon, at Clawsons."

"Which one?" I ask.

"The one on Glenwood Avenue," she answers, mocking my voice, high-pitched and acidic.

I meant which ex-husband, and she knows it.

"I ran into Terry Berringer and hardly recognized him. He looks like a snowman except, you know, made out of flesh. That man must have gained himself a good one hundred and fifty pounds since I left him. There he was pushing a cart like a death wish all of the food was fatty and cancerous. God, that man can shovel it in. Even his eyes have gotten fat." She crosses her legs and dents her empty beer can. "I hope I never get fat eyes like that," she whispers, squinting at her reflection in the dark window.

"I don't think you have anything to worry about, Margery," my mother says. "You've got very slim eyes."

"Everyone tells me I've got pretty eyes," Margery says. "Everyone. They start in with my eyes and work their way down. Eyes are the mirror of your soul; they reflect what's there, that's their job." She places her hands to the side of her face and leans into them, removing the creases. That's the oldest trick in the book, that attempt to appear both young and pensive. You see it all the time in magazines. "Eyes," she says. "I don't know why I even brought them up. Here I am carrying on and on when my problems are nothing compared to yours. Here you are without a pot to pee in, pardon my French, while I'm speaking philosophy."

My mother rubs a washrag into the palm of her hand.

"Dale, run upstairs and get me another beer," Aunt Margery says.

"Another what?"

"Beer," she says. "Can't you understand English BEER."

"Go upstairs and get you an ear?" I am hoping to break my record.

"Dale," my mother says, "go upstairs and bring your aunt a beer before you drive me to distraction."

So I head upstairs thinking that something is definitely wrong in this world when my aunt can order me to fetch the drinks for her. It should be the other way around! "You there," I'd say, "bring me a Pepsi in a tall glass with five ice cubes. Now."

"But Master," she'd say, kneeling, "there is no Pepsi left and the nearest store is closed for the evening."

"Then run to the store that is open," I would command. "Don't bother me with the logistics run, woman, run." She should be my slave, and yet I am hers.

There is one beer left in the refrigerator. I take it in my hand and dance about the kitchen. I dance the way I see them dance on television, as if I'm on fire. I shake that can and on my way downstairs I toss it from one landing to the next. Standing at the door to the basement apartment I notice that it has begun to snow, the first snowfall of the season. Snow is great that way, the first snowfall of the season and you look at the world as though you'd never seen it before, as if you had forgotten such a thing was possible.

I dart into the apartment, hand Margery the beer, and leave, saying, "Time for my program. I've got to go." Outside, on the landing, I hear Margery say, "That boy watches too much TV if you ask me. He should be involved in sports or homework or something. It's not good for him, all this television. Ivey Ingers's son watched too much television and look what happened to him! He'll be in prison for the rest of his life."

"Dale's not that way," my mother says.

"That's what Ivey Ingers thought before the trial," Margery says. "Here she is, her only son ties naked ten-year-old girls to trees and she's on TV saying, 'He's not so bad.' "

I am waiting for the explosion. Margery rarely opens a beer while she is preaching. During her lectures she taps the can with her fingers as if the beer is her brain and she is prodding it for wisdom. Both of them are silent and it is getting late. In a moment or two my mother will say, "Stay for dinner, Margery. I'll cook something nice."

Then Margery will say thanks, but no thanks. She'll say that Chet is feeding her leftovers from the Angus Barn. She just popped in, she'll say. Just a quick yoohoo! She's sorry but she'll have to leave right after this beer.

Standing outside the door I press my head against the mailbox and wish that she might stay, knowing that, following her beer bomb departure, my mother and I will make certain phone calls. She'll listen in on the other line as I dial and soften my voice, identifying myself as the son of a man named Les Poppins. I will hear my mother's measured breath from the next room as these women, sleepy and innocent, whisper, "What? Who? Why do you keep calling me? Why can't you leave me alone?"