A Few Parting Words

Understand that even the most benign topics make for painful conversation with Bill. Even as his pointless stories meander aimlessly from boring factoid to uninteresting event to ho-hum a-ha moment, it is difficult not to get the anxious sense of dread that the story will eventually lead to some supremely uncomfortable topic. And coverage of that topic will inevitably cause his voice to rise, his demeanor to become wildly animated and his word choices to become, well, R-rated. I usually find myself wishing I had secret vanishing powers. Praying for them, actually.

So I can only imagine the way Charlotte's skin was crawling with bugs when Bill went down the rabbit hole that is trashing her sister.

Make no mistake. I do not claim to be an innocent. I have made my wicked comments and have done battle quite voluntarily more times than I can recount for you. (Go back and read this blog from the beginning!) But at least I can say that I make an effort to be direct. Follow the rules of engagement. I may wag my finger in your face but at least it is your face I wag it in.

Bill in his cowardice is fighting like a girl. There are words for men like that. Only I don't generally use them. They were all probably running through Charlotte's mind that morning.

She tried to stop him. Stop him before the point of no return. Bill, she'd said, "Remember who you are talking to." And when that caution flag went unnoticed, she said, "Bill, Liza is my sister." And as he blew through that road block, she said, "Bill, Liza is my best friend. We talk every day. Sometimes more than once. Remember who I am to her."

Oblivious as usual, he continued. I am not clear how many more of my flagrant insults and injuries he recounted for Charlotte as she buzzed nervously around her kitchen hoping for an earthquake, but eventually, Bill moved on to an even more controversial topic. Our mother, his wife, Estelle.

While Estelle was assumed to be teasing, back-combing, spraying and molding her hair into its usual helmet formation, Bill took an ill-advised opportunity to rehash all manner of complaints about her.

Some of the stories were years old. Have been rewarmed and served repeatedly. But all of the comments, every one, touches on the same themes:

Mom is difficult to live with. (Oh right, Bill, like you are a day at the beach.)

That he can not tolerate the attention she gives Joe. (Well, Bill, Mom just hasn't gotten around to running him off just yet, like you've done with everyone else in your lives. Be patient.)

That they are on the road to divorce, whether Estelle knows it or not, and that when their marriage finally disintegrates, all of the money is his. "You know we don't have a pre-nup. All that money she thinks is hers belongs to me, and I'll leave it to my grandchildren. Your brother won't ever get a cent."

Yes, he's that big an idiot.