Just a Little Peace and Quiet

It would take him a while to find the body; by then, she would be long gone.

 

“Dammit! I don’t have anything to wear!” A pair of hand-tinted Christina Velati jeans flew over the railing and hit the floor in a crumpled heap. Angie yanked open her dresser drawer and threw it on the floor.

Charlotte cringed at the drawer’s high-pitched, grating squeal of protest—just before the loud thump overhead shook the ceiling light fixtures. “Angie, just find something to put on and let’s go! You’ll be late for school!”

“I don’t care. I’m not going. I have nothing to wear.” Angie stood in the doorway wearing nothing but a flimsy, nylon kimono to which she’d helped herself from her mother’s closet. The sullen teen threw herself melodramatically across Charlotte’s bed and sighed.

“You are going. Now get dressed. You have a closet full of clean clothes; go find some and put them on. Now. You have five minutes.” Charlotte bit her lower lip hard to rein in her temper. This little scene was merely another encore in a year-long run of bad performances by her daughter. Charlotte massaged the back of her neck and pressed her fingertips to her temples. “Christ,” she muttered, half curse, half prayer.

“Fine. Why don’t I just go in this?” Angie stood in front of her mother, feet planted defiantly apart, hands on her hips, and let the kimono fall open to reveal last summer’s barely-faded tan lines.

“Why don’t you, Ange?” Charlotte shrugged and grabbed her car keys. Angie would not have the satisfaction of shocking her mother or hearing one smidgeon of outrage or indignation in her voice. “If that’s the look you want to be remembered for in the yearbook, let’s go.”

“God, you are such a bitch. Mother.” Angie practically spat the word “mother” and added to it under her breath. She snatched up the discarded jeans and tugged them on, hopping first on one foot, then the other, as she struggled to pull them over her hips. Charlotte noticed that her daughter hadn’t bothered with underwear, but she said nothing. She just closed her eyes and counted slowly to ten. When she opened them again, Angie was dressed. The girl’s eyes were like smoldering coals burning into her mother’s heart, searing her at the very core of her being. This child she had loved so completely, so unconditionally, so fiercely from birth now seemed, more often than not, her bitterest enemy. Charlotte craved a respite from the neverending war their relationship had become. She felt sure that Angie craved it just as desperately, but neither of them knew how to bring about a truce.

The two of them rode in silence to the high school. Angie got out of the car as quickly as she could, slamming the door hard on her way out, just for good measure. Charlotte burned rubber in the school parking lot; it had been hard to hold the anger in check, and she felt an immature need to make a statement.

Angie looked over her shoulder and rolled her eyes, then linked arms with a lanky, sloe-eyed boy and headed to class. “She’s insane,” the girl confided in her friend.

~=*=~

Charlotte had an idea. It seemed a brilliant idea, but she knew that she could never share it with another living soul. She drove to the hardware store, smiling to herself as she tuned the car radio to the Oldies station and started to hum along with the Beach Boys.

~=*=~

After several productive hours spent in the dim light of the old cellar, Charlotte emerged in the kitchen covered in sweat and light gray powder. She had never imagined she had any talent for remodeling, beyond choosing trendy wallpapers and countertops for others to install. She definitely had a talent for spending Peter’s money, but for the first time in her life, she had built something substantial with her own two hands. Thinking back on the transformation she’d wrought in the cellar, Charlotte grinned with pride. She would have to finish the job later, of course, but the hardest part was done.

The thought of ending a life brought her nothing but a sense of peace.

~=*=~

“Hi, honey, I’m home!” Peter’s voice carried up the stairs, clear as a bell. “Charlotte? Angie?”

“Up here,” called Charlotte, straightening up from what felt like a permanent crouch after spending the last thirty minutes cleaning junk out of the hall closet. Charlotte massaged her lower back, kneading tension knots with her fingers as she flexed her spine. Aches and pains in muscles and joints Charlotte didn’t know existed were the fruits of her day’s labor.

Peter met her at the top of the stairs and gave her a perfunctory little peck on the lips. “I invited Joe Johnson and his wife over for dinner tomorrow night – you don’t mind, do you, Char?” Peter surveyed the mess on the landing - the unsorted odds and ends that spilled out of the closet and defied explanation as to how they fit in there in the first place.

“Oh, no, of course not,” snapped Charlotte sarcastically. She was hot, sweaty, and aggravated. The thought of entertaining the Johnsons tomorrow night on short notice was just icing on the cake. “Shall I cook a standing rib? Whip up a little crème brulée?”

“We could do burgers on the grill...”

“Oh, that’s sure to impress your boss, Peter.”

“I’ll call and postpone.” Disappointment was evident in his tone. “I’ll tell them Angie’s sick, or something. Where is Angie, anyway?”

“I don’t know, Peter. Out. Wherever it is teenage girls go to defy their embarrassingly horrid mothers.”

“Isn’t it a little late for her to be out?” asked Peter. He was concerned for his daughter’s safety, but something in Charlotte’s voice set off alarms in the back of his mind.

Charlotte gave Peter a look guaranteed to wilt lettuce. Imitating her daughter’s all-too-familiar, scornful expression, she rolled her eyes and said, “Duhhhh.”

“I’ll go look for her.”

“You do that.”

Peter frowned, started to say something, then shut his mouth quickly as he thought better of it. He hurried downstairs, grabbed his keys, and went to comb the neighborhood for Angie.

~=*=~

Charlotte stepped back and gave a small nod of satisfaction, pleased with the work she had done. The stones fit together perfectly. The mortar was smooth and even; it dried quickly, and the wall was good and solid.

It would take Peter a while to find the body; by then, Charlotte would be long gone. Charlotte smiled.

~=*=~

One by one, Charlotte lit the fat candles she had brought with her. Their soft radiance cast dancing tongues of light and shadows upon the walls. The silence was so complete that Charlotte could hear the sputtering of the wax as it was sucked up the wick and drawn into the flame.

Charlotte opened a bottle of Satterfield Chardonnay. It was the bottle Peter had given her for Mother’s Day. Feeling decadent, she swigged it straight from the bottle. There was no one around to care, or to be grossed out about the backwash. She cracked open the new Sharalyn Feltzer novel she’d been saving for—for what? Six months? Waiting for a quiet afternoon, when she could read for a few hours, uninterrupted?

Ahhh, thought Charlotte. This was better than a hot bubble bath. She stretched and turned, cradling the book comfortably on her forearm, losing herself in the story. There was no one to disturb her, now. Charlotte read until her eyelids grew heavy. Her arms felt like they were made of lead, and she let sleep overtake her. The book fell to the floor with a heavy thud. Charlotte, who had never known an uneventful night’s sleep, slept the dreamless sleep of exhaustion. A smile curled the corners of her lips. One by one, the candles hissed and died for lack of the oxygen needed to burn. Charlotte could not hear the voices on the other side; she could not hear the soft, fleshy fists pounding on the unyielding stone fortress that she had built around herself. She could not hear her daughter, who had been hanging out and smoking pot with friends – could not hear her apologize. Charlotte could not hear Peter’s desperate attempts to smash through solid rock and well-made mortar. She would have told them, if she could, that her walls were built to last.

"Just a Little Peace and Quiet"
Copyright 2002 H. Jahangiri.

~=*=~

If you enjoyed this story, you might enjoy these, as well:

 

Hidden Lies and Other Stories

Vivian Gilbert Zabel and Holly Jahangiri

Comments

[PantheistMom]

Awesome. You're a very talented writer.
Thanks for sharing - I enjoyed it.

Jen

[Lokii]

One of the best things I've read in a long time, mind if I send that excerpt to a couple friends?

As someone who has to hear girls bitching about their "cruel" and "uncaring" mothers every day (and often nights) I've often wondered about the mother's side of the story.

[Holly]

Thanks!

@Pantheistmom: I thought you'd read that before! ;)

@Mr. Lokii: I don't mind, provided it retains the copyright notice and your friends don't forward further without permission. Or you can just send them a link; the story's not limited to my "neighborhood." (Thank you for asking, first!)

 

[Holly]

Oh, yes - the irony is, those girls will, one day, become "cruel" and "uncaring" mothers in their own right. Despite all their protestations to the contrary. They will also grow to be old, forgetful, and hopelessly behind the times. It'll be a rude awakening, assuming they even recognize it as such. ;)

[PantheistMom]

It's very possible that I've read it before. Actually, it's probable.
But you know what? When your memory is swiss cheese from being "MOM" and "WIFE" and "EMPLOYEE" and "DAUGHTER" and "PTA OFFICER" and "UU VOLUNTEER" and a multitude of other things, you get the wonderful pleasure of enjoying things all over again and again and again. Life is grand. :-)

(I probably had the exact same comments last time too, didn't I?)
LOL

[Holly]

That makes a lot of sense, actually. And no - I think this comment's new. If not, well, all that stuff ate my brain, too! LOL!