Just Like Suicide pt. 12

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[cont.]
“Amazing, isn’t it, how all those childhood slights still sting.”
“Oh,” he said, “not really. When you’re a child, your world is so small that any little slight becomes life altering.”
“All small worlds operate the same. What would Jane Austen’s novels have been like if she had operated in a bigger world than a purely domestic one?”
“Pain and frustrations exist in every world, don’t you think? We are not a nice species. But it’s the gift of the artist to translate those into triumphs of beauty and perception.”
“And here I thought you were the one artist I knew without an oversized ego.”
“News flash: all artists have big egos, my dear. Everyone who strives to be more needs one. But that’s kind of self evident; it’s a non-statement statement, you know, like saying that alcoholism runs in families and thinking that actually means something. Seriously, do you know anyone who doesn’t have an addict in the family? At least a cousin? Egos and addictions are as critically important as our thumbs. Hondo always insisted that without our addictions we aren’t fully human.”
“I didn’t realize he was so cynical. His work seems remarkably naïve, debauched but innocent somehow.”
“It’s not cynical at all. It was his way of saying that we all need something in our lives to focus on, to assuage our fears. For my family, the addiction is religion. For Hondo’s, it was making money.”
“How about Tommy’s?”
“His father drank like a fish and his mother believes in the power of positive thinking and,” he paused, “vitamins.”
“I was sure you were going to say acupuncture. You’re from LA so you know positive thinking and acupuncture are peas in a pod in these parts. I think vitamins are much better. Needles have always given me the creeps. You should text me the address of your storage unit and I’ll keep an eye out for the key. You have my number, don’t you? And I promise we’ll try not to disrupt your system.”
“You can’t mess it up more than Tommy did every time he went in there. Such a twirling dervish. Oh, Tommy, what a silly fool he was,” he sighed, “and I miss him. Every mild mannered obsessive-compulsive needs a loving force of chaos to keep them on their toes.”
“Yeah.”
It was a quiet day. The middle of the week often was. She smiled about the word Magpie as she inputted new addresses into the database. Her great aunt was a force of chaos in their family. Spending ten minutes with her would send Maggie’s father into a rage, like that Sunday afternoon when he raked Miss Tillie over the coals in her own house in front of her guests for failing to go to church that morning. She never attended church services unless the subject was of interest to her, unless the minister was inspired. “I’ve read the book,” she told Maggie later, “why would I waste a perfectly good morning on a bad synopsis?” When she didn’t apologize for her failure, he stood up and shook his finger at her over the dinner table. Miss Tillie looked him straight in the eye and, without blinking, asked him ever so politely if he’d like a cup of tea. One sugar or two? Or would he rather have iced tea? She had lemon if he wanted it. It was a good contrast in manners, one not missed by anyone in the room. Only once, when Maggie was staying with her and she had been tippling more than usual, did she show any animosity toward him. She called him “that little Napoleon.” He was a good two heads shorter than Miss Tillie, but Maggie always thought the comment had less to do with height than that Miss Tillie considered him to be like the plaster cast of Napoleon and other great men in the library, something hollow, like the Plato quote she liked so much, “The empty vessel makes the loudest sound.” Except for that one time, she was always unfailingly courteous toward him, never once raising her voice to him in response to his usual barrage of loud accusations, and never once backing down from her standards or opinions. “Never apologize for what you believe in,” Miss Tillie told her, “just change the subject to something pleasant.”
Her father hated that Miss Tillie had any influence over his daughter but everyone thought Maggie would inherit her fortune so he permitted the “exposure.” Miss Tillie left thirteen year old Maggie a gorgeous cut glass vase and enough money for college with extra for her to buy a nice house when she turned 25 “so you can finally have roots.” The rest of the fortune went into a trust to fund the arts in the region and care for her cats. Her father was so furious the blood vessels in his neck turned bright red. That wasn’t unusual, though. He was often furious.
Maybe that’s why Momma married him and stayed married. Momma’s parents were always furious too. Grandpa Billy would yell and scream and Grandma Beulah would mutter under her breath and burn the biscuits just enough to irritate him but not enough to have to throw them out. That’s how they were with each other. No neighbors ever had to call the police to break up their arguments, no cast iron skillets sailed across the yard, they never made threats to shoot each other with the shotgun, at least not so the neighbors could hear. Nothing like that. Grandpa Billy simply did as his father had done before him, using a switch or a belt for discipline, not his fists, nothing that would leave permanent scars. He thought it was his duty to discipline his wife and any children in reach. It was his Christian duty. It sounds completely brutal now, but even into the 1970s, most of this country thought a man hitting his wife with a belt or stick was acceptable under some circumstances. Rule of thumb, it was called in English common law. A husband could legally strike his wife if the rod was the size of his thumb or smaller.

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