One Big Happy Family (standard:drama, 4816 words)
Author: Bobby Zaman	Added: Nov 29 2002	Views/Reads: 3563/2458	Story vote: 0.00 (0 votes)
It's good to be real.

Click here to read the first 75 lines of the story


“I thought you were attracted to me.” 

“I’m very attracted to you.  You’re the best looking woman I’ve ever
gone out with.” 

It was dialogue like that that added to her confusion.  We went inside
(my apartment) sat on the couch, watched TV for a few minutes, and 
began kissing. 

“Are you going to kick me out again?” she asked pushing me away and
holding on to my shirt at the same time.  I answered in the negative.  
“So, it’ll be me on one end of the bed and you as far away as possible 
on the other?” I conjured a mix of a shrug and a nod. 

She’d told me she lost her virginity at twenty-five to a guy that made
her feel thin.  She didn’t delve into details.  He said things and she 
believed him.  She admitted she would’ve believed the KKK stood for 
affirmative action in her younger, more vulnerable days.  I imagined 
this guy to be a slick, pompous prick of a pretty boy, pretty much 
getting his way with any girl, fat or thin, tall or short.  And girls 
went for him like mice to the Pied Piper. 

It was also Catholic dogma.  She’d had a bout with religion.  She told
me of a time in college she got involved in a religious group or club, 
roamed the campus for prospective members, and found out a month later 
that the only reason the group was formed was to give minority 
organizations a fight for federal funds and grants, often going to 
vicious and slanderous lengths. She quit the club, and any further 
pursuit of religious fervor.  Then there was the loathsome weight 
problem that never got her a second ­ or first ­ look from men. 

So this guy’s words came to her like salvation from self-deprecation. 
He was it for a while.  Two years later, at twenty-seven ­ slugging her 
way through a detrimental crash diet ­ Madeline found the reflection in 
the mirror that made her smile.  Experience kept her humility in check. 
 Now, at thirty, Madeline had the confidence-building backlog of a 
sufficient number of dates plus a long-term romance that had lasted 
over a year. 

“Do I smell bad?” she asked. 

“No,” I said. 

She thought for a moment and I admired a wisp of hair that had coiled
down her forehead.  She drew me in and held me firmly.  With puffs of 
breath molded into words she said in my ear, “It’s been the best two 
months of my life.  I love you.” 

With sweaty ear and dry mouth I replied, “Me too.” 

I wanted to say “Don’t be such a goody-two-shoes all the time.” I hadn’t
said the words in over two years ­ I love you - and I still hadn’t 
really said them.  She began kissing my neck and chin.  I let her go on 
for a few moments.  When I didn’t respond or reciprocate she retreated 
and scanned me with sad eyes. 

“I do love you,” she said standing at the threshold of the bedroom door.
 I didn’t follow her in and stayed on the couch for the next two hours 
flipping through channels and catching the tail end of an A&E biography 
of Dashiell Hammet. 

Madeline’s bare back was the last thing I saw before falling asleep. 

The following weekend we went up to her parents’ place in McHenry
County. Friends had unsuccessfully filled my ears with factors to fear, 
namely meeting the family after such a short lapse of time, what 
Madeline was planning for the future, and moving faster than my limbs 
(and heart) could keep up.  I liked her, a lot, agreed with her 
declaration of love, and saw it only fitting to accept an invitation to 
spend a Saturday drinking beers with her father and two brothers. 

Rain lashed at the city the night before our trip to Madeline’s parents’
and it made the morning air breathable.  The roads were slick, which 
made Madeline yield the driving to me.  We kept the windows rolled down 
the entire time and the damp breeze felt refreshing to the skin.  
Madeline kept my right hand on her lap, covered by both of hers, the 
entire drive. 

Her parents’ home was the only vertical structure on endless miles of
barren fields.  I didn’t need to drive through the Panhandle to see the 
sun meet the horizon; the view was right there, in McHenry County, 
Illinois.  I’ m from the city, lived, studied, and worked in Chicago 
all my life, and outside of that feeling of quietness, could care less 
for small towns. Before Madeline, the other parents I had met belonged 
to Kate Graff, the woman to whom I’d proposed marriage. 

At the risk of piping clichés, I’ll admit that Kate left a sour taste in
my mouth.  For months after she “quit me” ­ a proverbial coinage that 
had worked it’s way into my way of phrasing her dumping me without a 
second thought ­ I was that ogre at the end of the bar; griping about 
the world and professing to live in a realm where women would be 
nothing but figments of imagination; symbols of resurrected agony; 
waste of time.  Love? Never heard of it. 

Kate quit me because I was too wrapped up in things that weren’t her. 
She had her reasons.  I daydream a whole lot and treat them not like 
daydreams but actual moments in the scheme of everyday life.  Most of 
my daydreaming is about money.  Making lots of it.  Being rich.  Having 
a home in Key West, and a ranch in Montana.  I wasn’t getting anywhere. 
Stanley McCormick at least had a claim to a healthy fortune. 

But Kate was real.  She could be, and was, raw.  She’d curse and belch
and bad mouth her parents if the need arose, like real people.  She 
woke up in the morning, drank her coffee, rode the bus to work, hated 
her job, and bitched about it at night.  She was real.  And I could 
handle that. Madeline was hopelessly in love with her people.  Her 
father was the ultimate man, her mother could tackle June Cleaver to 
the ground, and her brothers ­ one a cop, the other a fireman ­ were 
apostles.  It was all a little disorienting at first, all the picture 
perfect sweetness was a) too good to be true, and b) boring.  The good 
thing was that Madeline had covered the family stories by the end of 
the first date, and brought it up sporadically ever since, only if it 
had relevance to an ongoing tale.  My people were pretty ordinary.  My 
father retired ­ quit teaching history at the University of Chicago - 
at forty and became a professional gardener in the backyard of our 
home.  Mother’s life’s mission became calling him a loser round the 
clock.  They were decent people with their hearts in the wrong places.  
I, their only offspring, left them alone. 

“Carl, darling?” said Madeline as we completed the mile long stretch
from the entrance and mailbox to her parents’ house.  “I love you.” 

Byron and Emily Carter were small people with big smiles. 

I felt a knot tighten in my stomach as I heard the doorbell jingle,
invoking images of tree-lined streets and white fences on a soft and 
lifeless fall afternoon, and saw the two revealed behind the white door 
of their humble abode, the quintessence of parental affection, homely 
welcome, and bad jokes punctuated with forced laughter. Byron stayed in 
the background when Emily opened the door and pulled Madeline in for 
hug and shower of kisses.  I got one on each side of my face and a 
hearty handshake from Byron.  The brothers Joshua (the cop) and Martin 
(the fireman) hadn’t arrived yet. They were a good looking couple.  
Madeline resembled Emily in mannerisms and Byron in looks. 

There were pictures everywhere.  An annotated chronicle of the Carter
family ’s life and times decking every inch of available wall.  It 
started with the great grandparents on both sides and went down through 
sprinklings of siblings, cousins, and in-laws.  They hung like 
testaments, the odyssey of a clan, the mark of a people on the American 
landscape.  One wall, the first one in view, as we were ushered in to 
the living room, only boasted pictures of Joshua, Martin, and Madeline. 
 In the first row were baby pictures ­ Joshua, confused, silent, almost 
brooding; Martin, smiling, vibrant, rebellious, and Madeline, in awe of 
the world around her, most of all, of her family. 

I looked through them while Byron tinkered around at the liquor cabinet
arranging drink bottles in some mysterious order that made sense only 
to him.  I looked attentively at each and every picture that had 
Madeline in it.  I found nothing extraordinary about her in them.  She 
was overweight, as she had mentioned, in most of them, her expressions 
perpetually struggling between contentment and dismay.  The one thing 
that struck me was that she was never looking at the camera.  It was 
though right before the photographer pressed the button her attention 
was taken away by something done by her companions in the frame.  The 
companions, in every shot, were Byron, Emily, Joshua, or Martin.  Even 
in the shots where she was alone, posing in some form, her eyes were 
diverted, looking at ­ admiring ­ something removed from the moment, 
from herself ­ needing attention, and at the same time in search of 
something. 

Byron finally reached a satisfactory point in his little game of liquor
bottle arrangement.  He looked proudly at the cabinet.  I realized I’d 
been as preoccupied with the pictures as he had been with the haute 
couture of alcohol containers, and turned to give him attention. 

“Those are all Em’s doings,” said Byron pointing with an empty scotch
glass, “She used to do a heck of a job with a camera back in the days.  
But when the kids grew up and took off she sort of retired.  I’m not 
pretty enough to picture.” 

“They look great,” I said. 

“Yeah, we all have our moments. >From his array of bottles that were
standing like soldiers waiting for orders Byron plucked a brand new J&B 
and looked at it like he was seeing it for the first time. 

“Are you a scotch man, Carter?” Byron asked as I took a seat in an easy
chair, one of two in the room. 

“Sure.  Thanks,” I replied. 

He poured it into a scotch glass and gave it to me.  It was the first
time I was having it straight.    Cheers, we toasted, and drank.  It 
seared down my throat, curled my nose hairs, and filled my eyes with 
tears.  Byron saw this but out of courtesy kept his mouth shut. 

For the first time it occurred to me that the women were not with us,
hadn’ t been since we came in to the living room, and Nature had made 
its separation for the sexes to go through bonding rituals. 

“Madeline tells me you work in insurance,” said Byron sitting across
from me in what I guessed was “his chair.”  It was next to a window and 
the partial light cut his face perfectly down the middle keeping one 
side dark and one lit. 

“It’s a small company in the city,” I said.  “I’ve only been with them a
little over two years.  It’s all sales for me.” 

“That’s gotta be hard.  You like sales?” 

“Had a tough time in the beginning.  I’m not the most aggressive person
to begin with.  But, I’d gone through so many jobs that I sort of made 
it a personal challenge to stick to this one.  I did get written up a 
whole bunch of times for not reaching my quota.  I was lucky though.  
My first boss was a great guy.  He died last year, but from the get go 
he became like a mentor and walked me through things and gave me more 
breaks than I needed.  Since him it’s been the owner’s son.  He’s a 
twenty-something kid with a chip on his shoulder and some hack degree 
from Harvard.  His staple is the power trip the job allows him.  I keep 
out of his way and make sure he stays out of my business.” 

Byron leaned forward and propped the weight of his upper body on one
arm. 

“That’s the problem with this country,” he said circling the scotch in
his glass, “Sissies and pansies are taking over and nobody’s doing a 
damn thing about it.  Hard work and integrity have gone to the dogs.  
Become lost causes.  There was a time when work had value and rising in 
a profession meant something.  Now it’s all about who’s whose cousin 
and goddamn son. Pack of idiots from the corner gas station to the 
White House is taking everything in hell’s handbasket and flushing it 
down a toilet.  Not a thing we can do about it.” 

We were skimming around topics that made me as comfortable as laying
down naked doused in blood in the midst of a pack of hungry bears.  I 
could tell Byron had more than an earful to impart on the matter we had 
touched.  In the silence I fished desperately for a different topic. 

“What do your folks do?” Byron asked switching from the concerned
patriot back to amiable host. 

Not the topic I would have picked, but I went along. 

“Not much of anything,” I said.  Byron’s eyebrow went up.  “At the
moment, that is,” I went on.  “My father is sort of on a hiatus from 
teaching and my mother stopped working after I was born and never went 
back.” 

Byron smiled and said, “Good for them.  Better to live life on your own
terms than waste away slaving for a bunch of ignoramuses.  You know, 
there’s no such thing as The American Dream.  It’s the American 
Nightmare.  You know why? Because to get the dream you have to steep 
yourself in debt, the real American way of life.  All that laughing and 
celebrating because you bought your first home, all that’s temporary.  
You wake up in the morning and realize your life sneaked out of your 
hands and now everyone, except you, has your fate by the balls.  Is 
that a dream? If your idea of a dream is a lifetime of torture.” 

He tilted his head and poured the scotch into his mouth as if it were a
soft punctuation of the point of this mini sermon.  He felt like he had 
made a point.  For a man that was the patriarch of this model American 
family, Byron Carter had a morbid perception.  I enjoyed cynicism, had 
been accused of fostering some myself, and couldn’t help but agree with 
the things Papa Carter said. 

The doorbell rang. 

“There they are,” said Byron, “Now we can eat.  I’m starving.” The
scotch was working its way through my system and I felt relaxed. Things 
weren’t as bad as I thought they could be. I heard Byron out in the 
hallway saying, “What the hell took you so long?” and “We were about to 
start without you.” The ensuing conversation became a series of muffled 
exchanges interrupted here and there by laughter.  Quick observation: 
for a family oozing goodness and model citizens there was a heck of a 
lot of cursing at the slightest opportunity. 

Joshua and Martin could be identical twins.  My eyes darted to the baby
pictures.  Joshua still reserved that underlying seriousness the camera 
lens had captured.  Martin was prone to laughter at the slightest 
prompt. Madeline’s eyes forevermore went bouncing from one family 
member to the next. Joshua was the eldest, Martin fell in the middle, 
and Madeline trailed in the baby’s spot.  The brothers were all smiles 
upon seeing me and clutched my hand in handshakes that were an 
extension of their protecting professions.  The girls heard the new 
voices and came downstairs.  I was in the middle of that rare American 
phenomenon: one big happy family. 

Byron and his two boys talked with each other like they were at a black
tie affair.  Emily’s distribution of affection was diplomatic.  All 
three children received equal amounts.  There was no of telling of she 
had a favorite. Madeline was without a doubt the quintessential baby 
sister.  Each brother scooped her up in their arms like they must have 
since she was a toddler. 

“I see Dad’s got you started already,” Martin said to me and headed for
the liquor cabinet.  “Nothing like a good appetizer before one of mom’s 
meals. Who else can I oblige?” 

“Pour me one will you” Joshua said. 

“Me too,” chimed Emily. 

“Maddy?” Martin looked at Madeline.  In two months I’d seen Madeline
drink nothing but red wine, and that too when we went to restaurants. 

“I’ll have one,” she said, “On the rocks though.” 

By the time we sat down for lunch we had gone through a few rounds of
scotch.  I usually stuck to wine and beer myself, outside of an 
occasional shot of cognac in the winter. 

With plates amply stacked with culinary specialties, courtesy of Emily
Carter, lunch progressed in the languid pace of a holiday weekend.  
Byron and his boys had us beat like John Barleycorn’s list of rejects 
in scotch consumption. 

“Ever seen a cop and a fireman drink like these two?” Byron elbowed me
and snickered. 

“Hey, this my week off,” said Joshua.  “Besides, I pull over enough
idiots for drunk driving, may as well have a drink in their honor.”  He 
suspended his glass in air and waited for a cohort.  Byron and Martin 
joined.  Emily giggled like someone tickled her.  Madeline looked 
uncomfortable. 

“Imagine me driving a truck when I’m tanked,” Martin quipped.  “Imagine
that.  I show up to put out a fire and I’m the most flammable 
sonofabitch in there.” 

Joshua toasted his brother. 

Emily leaned over with a gleam in her eyes and confided in me like I was
a beloved and rejected cousin, but whom everyone believed had a good 
heart underneath a quintessentially loser exterior.  “You’d never think 
they did what they do for a living, right?” she said.  She sounded like 
those parents who think their spoiled child is the most adorable little 
nymph, frolicking through life, their tantrums merely show of some 
arcane form of affection, while everyone around them knows well enough 
that the kid is a snot-nosed brat that they’d pay money to squish like 
a zit. 

I grinned and put a fork dripping with mashed potatoes in my mouth. 

“I damn near had a heart attack when Josh told us he took the cop test,”
said Byron.  “He was a scrawny little kid.  They’d pound him to the 
ground at the academy if not the streets.” 

“Aw, come on, Pop.  I’m not a sissy.  I can take abuse.  Besides,
McHenry County is hardly Chicago.  Right, like some geriatric bastard 
will club me with his garden hose.” 

Martin burst out in a horselike guffaw.  He’d just taken a swig of
scotch and a thread of liquid trickled down the side of his mouth.  
Emily and Byron meshed in like accompanying instruments.  Madeline 
threw me a helpless glance. 

“Carl works in insurance,” she said.  Her valiant effort to dignify the
conversation with my menial livelihood stunned the air of the room like 
a bad punch line.  I felt my face heat up and stopped working the piece 
of chicken tender glazed in honey and barbeque sauce into consumable 
pulp in my mouth.  Madeline went on.  “He’s been doing it for two years 
and he likes it a lot.  Don’t you.”  I had no answer for her quivering 
eyes.  I shrugged and cleared my mouth in one painful swallow.  Byron 
Carter lent his voice like a ventriloquist. 

“It’s a freakin’ job, Maddy,” he said.  “Guy probably gets more than his
share of crap, don’t you Carl? You know what Woody Allen’s version of 
hell is, right? Being buried next to an insurance salesman.” 

Madeline’s face turned Crimson and she shut her eyes. 

“I don’t remember ever hearing that,” said Emily.  “I love Woody Allen. 
I don’t care what he does behind closed doors.  It’s his business.  
Just because the man is a celebrity doesn’t mean he can’t have a life.  
I doubt our neighbors around here are pristine little saints behind 
their closed doors.” 

“Ma, they guy slept with his step daughter,” said Martin.  “That’s
pretty disgusting, even behind closed doors.” 

“So is your love life, honey, but you don’t see us picking on you about
it. You have more women in a week than I have hair.” 

“I don’t.”  Scotch-voiced, Martin pouted like a defensive child. 

“No reason to lie just because we have a guest,” said Emily.  “Carl’s as
good as family.” 

“Ma’s got you on that one,” said Joshua.  “You are a tomcat.” 

“Can it, will you?” Martin yelped.  “You’re not a saint either.” 

“Didn’t say I was.  I got a girl I’ve been with for two years.” 

Martin thumped his hands together in an exaggerated, facetious applause.


“Enough,” Byron snapped.  “Cut it out, both of you.” 

Martin went back to his scotch with a droopy, affected slouch.  Joshua
picked at a sliver of spinach. 

Lunch went onward and ended in silence. 

The backyard of the Carter home was a vast expanse of grass and dirt. 
It lay like a reminder of all the gardening endeavors Byron must have 
begun and left unfinished.  A white wooden fence created a partition 
with the neighbors yard.  On one end the fence was missing boards, 
either for passage or another Byron project that didn’t get past 
conception. 

Joshua was passed out in Byron’s easy chair and Martin was sipping black
coffee in the kitchen while Emily tinkered with the washing machine and 
continued bashing his love life. 

Madeline had eaten little, and, since lunch, hadn’t said a word.  In
spite of Emily’s welcome, I felt awkward, like an interloper. 

I picked out a beach chair from a rubble of lawn furniture in the garage
and laid it in the middle of the yard.  The sun was sinking down a 
cloudless western sky.  I heard the sliding door graze behind me.  
Madeline came out with two glasses of iced tea and sat at the edge of 
my chair. 

“How’re you doing?” I asked. 

“Okay.  You?” she said. 

“Good.  Still buzzing from the scotch, but I’ll live.” 

“You’re not mad at me, are you?” 

“Of course not.” 

Her eyes dropped to the glass in her hand.  Suddenly she was
heartbreakingly beautiful.  Hurt, vulnerable, quiet, and yet all the 
other things I’d known her to be so far.  All the reasons I ­ loved 
her.  I wanted to say the words to her right here.  But I held my 
tongue. 

Madeline’s family had failed her.  They failed to be the picture of
perfection she so earnestly wanted them to be.  Emptiness danced in her 
eyes and weakened her movements.  Her limp hand landed on my arm like a 
wind-torn leaf. 

I wanted to tell her there was no need for her to make excuses for them,
but at the time, short of calling her foul names and hitting her, it 
seemed like the worst thing I could offer.  I pulled her in.  She 
wedged between the armrest and my body and sank her head on my chest. 

“Mom wants us to stay the night,” she said.  “I told her it was up to
you.” 

“What do you want,” I asked. 

“Whatever makes you comfortable.” 

“Being with you makes me feel good.” 

A smile broke through disappointment.  She pressed her face against
mine. 

“We haven’t been together yet,” she said. 

“We’re always together,” I said. 

“You don’t want to make love to me.” 

“Well, I definitely won’t feel comfortable making love to you at your
parents’ house.  It’s awkward and too high school.” 

Madeline giggled and kissed me. 

Her parents’ probably would give a fig, I thought.  The house was large
enough and we could take up a fraction of a corner somewhere in the 
basement.  Still, awkward.  And if the brothers stayed back as well, 
definitely, infinitely uncomfortable. 

Her mind had veered a little from family qualms.  Of late, anytime we
talked about us, it stirred a paradox in her.  It excited her and 
puzzled her.  It did the same to me. 

I was suddenly gripped with a fiendish surge of attraction for Madeline.
 I tightened my arm around her waist and felt her form against me.  I 
turned and kissed her, clasped her with both arms, and kissed her 
harder.  My glass of iced tea tipped off my lap.  Madeline chuckled.  I 
couldn’t get enough of her. 

“I’m ready to go,” I said, every part of me afire with hot blood. 

“My place?” said Madeline. 

“Your place.” 


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