Edited and arranged by Robert Friedman
A shorter version of this story originally appeared in Vanity Fair, December 1984, under the title, “Happy.”
She flew home at Christmas, her mother and her mother’s new husband met her at the airport dazzling-bright with Christmas neon in the long mall of shops and restaurants. Her mother hugged her hard and told her she looked pretty, her skin had cleared up hadn’t it?—and her mother’s new husband shook hands with her and looked her eye-to-eye like no bullshit between them telling her Jesus yes, she sure did look pretty, prettier than her pictures where she never seemed to be smiling but frowning and welcome home. He was younger than the girl’s mother by maybe six, seven years. His sideburns grew razor-sharp into his cheeks and were jet-black, not a graying hair visible, not the sideburns and not the thick-tufted hair springing back from his forehead as if shellacked. His cologne or after-shave or hair gel cloying-sweet made her nostrils pinch. On his right hand he wore an onyx signet ring. In his lapel, a sprig of mistletoe. In his handshake her hand felt small and moist, the bones close to cracking. Her mother hugged her again, half-sobbing God, I’m so happy to see you, almost thought I’d lost you. Blue veins in the backs of her hands startling, the skin looking thin, papery, but her mother was happy, that was a relief. You could feel that all about her like a thrumming of the soul. The pancake makeup on her mother’s face was a fragrant peach shade that had been blended skillfully into her raddled throat. On her left hand she wore her new rings: a small glittering diamond set high in spiky white-gold prongs, a white-gold wedding band. The girl tried and failed to recall the old rings like you might try and fail to remember a dream that must not have been important since it faded so quickly upon waking.
The girl was surprised, they stopped so soon for a drink at Easy Sal’s at a Marriott off the Turnpike, she’d gathered that her mother and the new husband had had a drink or two at the airport. In Easy Sal’s there were more dazzling-neon Christmas lights, a ten-foot silver-tinsel tree with glittering ornaments in the shapes of bottles: whiskey, wine. The girl ordered just Perrier with a twist of lime (That’s fancy, her mother said with a kissy purse of her lips), her mother and her mother’s new husband had martinis on the rocks, which were their “celebration” drinks.
For a while amid the festive buzz of the cocktail lounge they talked about what the girl was studying and what her plans were for the summer though the mother and the mother’s new husband didn’t appear to be listening to what the girl said and the girl had the impression that they were clasping hands beneath the wobbly chrome table or possibly the mother’s new husband was clasping the mother’s chubby knee exposed below her tight-fitting gold-lamé skirt, and when that subject trailed off they talked about their own plans, putting the house on the market, that was the first of the chores after the massive clean-up top to bottom as the cleaning service boasted which wasn’t cheap, not an ideal time to sell a luxury property (as it was called) but now that the grand jury was behind them, that was the next step. A year and a half of fucking hell but no indictments which was what their lawyers assured them of course, not a shred of evidence that could constitute beyond a reasonable doubt if there was a trial and why’d there be a trial?—no crime had been committed, that was the bottom line. The insurance company had finally paid, that was the bottom line. There’s a fantastic new condominium village on the river, the girl’s mother said, we’ll show you when we drive past, there’ll be a room for you whenever you want it, reserved for you. Radiant happiness in the mother’s face, the girl could not help but see. The mother smiling so hard you’d think her lower face would crack. Giggling, shivery. It’s like I died and was reborn. Just makes me so happy, the two people I love most in the world right here with me. Right here right now. So if I died, you would both hold me tight. Wouldn’t you? Wouldn’t you both hold me tight if I died right now? The mother’s new husband laughed startled and kissed her saying, Hell nobody’s going to die tonight or any other night. That’s a promise. A waitress in a tight-fitting satin-Santa costume with a Santa hat tilted on her head brought two more martinis and a Perrier though the girl hadn’t finished her first Perrier. And a tiny glass bowl of beer nuts. Thanks, sweetheart! her mother’s new husband said happily squinting up at the waitress the tip of a pert pink tongue between his lips.
The girl had spoken with her mother no more than three times since her father’s funeral in December of the previous year, they’d tried Skype but something went wrong or (maybe) the girl had sabotaged the call, she’d been high, but a bad kind of high, a toxic high, started laughing and then crying and had to shut down the computer and her roommate had to clasp her hands tight to keep them from fluttering like crazed birds saying in a calm voice You’re OK. You’re going to be OK. We’ve decided, you are going to be OK. You’re beautiful, you don’t need them, maybe they are not murderers you can transcend them. You have got to rise above them, you will destroy yourself if you keep on like this and eventually it was OK really, actually she’d been able to speak with her mother in a normal voice a few days later about her mother’s plans to be remarried. Not that this was a surprise, it was not. Not asking is this the one from online. From, what’s it for older people, match.com. Not asking how can you. Just, how can you. Her mother was maybe a little drunk. Or high too. A different kind of high. Saying, trying not to sound accusing, Oh I understand it’s sudden in your eyes but you know, your father is not going to come back, we have to accept that. He is gone, we loved him so much and our hearts are broken but he is gone, it was a totally random tragedy, it always seems soon to the children, you are not a child any longer you know. You have to understand, Jay was there for me during all that ugliness. He was there for me, he was the only one. You were not, I am not blaming you but the fact is, you were not. And all your father’s family—monsters… But that is water under the bridge, that is over with now, we are here now. All the back tuition has been paid, that’s all cleared up now. Your degree—that’s the bottom line. Jay said, we aren’t going to turn our backs on that little girl, she needs us. This is a time of need. Mutual need. But it’s over now, except for selling the house. We love you. Wait and see. Both of us—we are here for you. The girl had fallen silent feeling something nudge her knee, possibly it was the knee of the mother’s new husband beneath the wobbly chrome table. As if unconsciously the girl moved her leg away causing the chrome table to tilt, fortunately they were clutching their drinks which did not topple over. The girl laughed nervously saying Yes, or maybe she was saying no. Or, I guess. Her mother said in a husky voice, He makes me feel like living again, I feel, you know, like a woman again, after twenty-three years, and the girl felt her throat shut up tight too stricken to reply. As long as you’re happy, her mouth tried to say.
Now it was 8:30 PM and had been pitch-black outside for a long time. The girl was light-headed with hunger, she’d had just Diet Cokes and pretzels on the plane but her mother and her mother’s new husband were on their third round of drinks. Easy Sal’s had entertainment, first a piano player with a sad gargoyle face and a red Santa hat drunk-tilted on his head playing background music, old-timey pop songs the girl did not recognize, then a singer, female, ebony-black, V-necked red spangled dress, Santa cap drunk-tilted on her head, then a stand-up, anorexic-looking, of no sex or gender or ethnic identity you could determine, small bony angular face like a wizened monkey-face glittering with piercings, no makeup, punk hairdo, waxed-looking purple-pink, black faux-leather jumpsuit, pelvis thrust forward in mock-Vogue-model stance, delivery fast brash deadpan like rap lyrics: great thing about havin’ your abortion early in the day is uh like y’know the rest of the day’s uh gonna be fuckin’ uphill, right?
There’s these half-dozen people in a uh Jacuzzi, hot new game called musical holes, uh maybe it just ain’t caught on yet in New Jersey’s why nobody’s laughin’, huh? words too machine-gun quick for the girl to catch but her mother and her mother’s new husband seemed to hear, and were laughing though afterward her mother’s new husband confided in disgust he did not approve of dirty language issuing from women’s lips, whether they were dykes or not.
They stopped for dinner off the Turnpike at a brightly lit Hawaiian restaurant surrounded by faux palm trees adorned with winking Christmas lights, on the faux-thatched roof a neon-red Santa with sleigh and reindeer at an alarming tilt. The girl’s mother was explaining that there wasn’t anything to eat at home, also it was getting late, tomorrow she’d be preparing a terrific dinner from Whole Foods, was that OK? She’d wanted to have a welcome-home dinner but ran out of time, then the plane was delayed anyhow, so was it OK? The mother’s new husband interrupted sharply to say it’s OK, no need to repeat yourself like a parrot, then made a joke of it winking at the girl like they were in it together whatever it was.
In Mauri’s Hawaiian Holiday they perused menus so large, the girl could barely see her mother and her mother’s husband over her menu, the two seemed to be quarreling or maybe not, maybe it was a kind of foreplay, or after-play, sipping drinks from halved coconuts, laughing together. In high spirits, this was still their honeymoon as the mother’s father said. Holding hands between courses, sipping from each other’s tropical-hued drink. When the girl’s mother excused herself to use the restroom moving unsteadily on her feet in high-heeled sandals the new husband leaned close to the girl to confide, Jesus I’m crazy about that woman. Your mother is a high-class lady. She was very hurt, he said, very devastated by things said about her. Erroneous charges. Outright lies. Slander. You know, we never met until—until after. It was all news to me. Shifting his cane chair closer, leaned moist and warm, meaty, against her, an arm across her shoulders too heavy for the girl to shake off.
Saying in a lowered confidential voice, there’s nobody in the world precious to me as that lady, I want you to know that. I cannot and will not allow slander to be uttered about that woman, d’you understand? No matter who it is and I think you know who it is—was. But never again, OK? Is that an understanding? You and me, an understanding? The girl who had been sleepy-eyed was wide awake now and tasting cold and very frightened hearing herself say stammering Yes, yes I know it, and her mother’s new husband said in a fierce voice close in her ear, gripping her shoulders with his arm heavy as a hose, Damn right, sweetheart: you better know it.
More! More!
So much meat left on the bone...
(so to speak:)
thank you.
I always enjoy your stories, JCO.
Happy Hanukkah
Merry Christmas
I had to go and read “Happy,” the shorter version in Vanity Fair after reading “Happy Christmas.” The new story suggests very different things than the 1984 version. In “Happy” we see a smarmy sexual predator; in the new version he is most like an accessory to murder. The grand jury investigated, but had insufficient evidence to bring charges (perhaps because the girl couldn’t be made to testify against her mother?). And finally, the insurance paid. The girl’s melt down during and after the Skype call with her mother and her roommate’s words that perhaps they’re not murderers suggest that indeed that is the case. The girl knows it and has evidently said so (but has not told the grand jury what she knows). The new husband threatens the girl, telling her he will not have his wife--the classy lady--slandered by you know who. This new version is much much darker than the first.