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HOW THE SWAN QUEEN CELEBRATED MOTHER'S DAY
by Kiel Stuart
Then she was in the
basement, sorting through the things the mother had left behind.
The Mother. The
Daughter. It was how they had referred to each other, as if they were
actors in a play and not real.
But the daughter
prayed that here in this familiar sanctuary, among the alchemy of
laundry supplies, she would uncover some other form of identity, if
only to move on with her life. First she must rid herself of the jumble
of old clothes and papers.
It was Mother’s Day,
and it seemed appropriate to be boxing up all that remained of The
Mother. Milky light touched the daughter’s hands; hints of warm-laundry
smell filled her nose—these things and not siblings had kept her
company through the years.
I must begin
somewhere, she told herself, picked up an old leather purse, opened it.
The stairs creaked.
A voice spoke behind her: “What are you doing rummaging through my
things?”
She whirled.
“Mother! But the hospital said—” She had to draw a
startled gasp. “They said you were, you had—”
“Me? Of course not.”
The mother wafted forward, not angry, not sad, just insistent and
ever-present.
The daughter
stiffened. The mother’s mood could change in an eyeblink from effusive
gaiety to shrieking rage.
Not Father. His
hands always patted air, conjured soothing atmospheres. Everyone had
liked him, except those he owed money.
The daughter cleared
her throat. “How are you?”
“Oh, lovely, lovely,
fine.” The mother wore a glassy blonde wig and a jewel-neck dress of
black crepe. Looking fit and pink, she inspected the small, neat
basement, touching everything, laying claim to all. Her smile glittered
like a hunting knife.
“Come,” said the
mother. “Show me around the rooms.”
Lowering her head,
the daughter obliged. She led the way up the basement stairs, slipping
into her old part like a pair of worn shoes.
It was an oddly
constructed house, neither Colonial nor ranch nor bungalow. The
daughter had heard the term Post Modern. Maybe that explained the odd
way in which the house behaved, which had been problematical all along.
One bedroom would
swell and enlarge, like a lung expanding to a deep breath, and she
would step inside. Her soft footfall on the Berber carpet then caused
it to exhale and become smaller than a broom closet.
Or it was like an
octopus, this house, squirming to fit itself through impossibly small
crevices, then swelling to jet away through the sea. Only the basement
remained constant and unchanging.
Shivering against
the ever-present damp, the daughter took the mother upstairs to the
strange topography of the second floor. Today, one bedroom was wrapped
around another: it was difficult to tell, as each time she moved,
aspects shifted, and the bedrooms in turn both encompassed and fit into
a bathroom. She was dizzy with change.
“I see,” the mother
kept saying, “Yes, yes.” Nodding all the time. Placing her hand against
a wall, a dresser, a shelf, which inched itself away from her.
“The basement is—”
“You must tell me
what it’s like some day.” Now the mother bustled, as in the old days,
the days before Father had vanished. Mouth greasy with fuchsia
lipstick, skin reeking of perfume, the mother cluck-clucked, like
someone busying herself for an important party, with a million things
left to do.
Cold and unhappy,
the daughter shut her eyes. When she opened them only the perfume
remained, cloying.
And then she was in
the street, walking until she left the house far behind. And that made
her happy.
The air was warm and
tender. She wore soft canvas shoes that would take her for miles.
Perhaps she need never return.
She came to a
winding avenue jammed with shops, kiosks, booths. A man in a gray
morning coat wheeled a cart sizzling with the smells of sausage and
peppers and fried dough. Among strangers, she felt safe.
One shop caught her
eye—a bright glass-fronted edifice: House of Slippers. A girl was
seated outside the shop, a girl with long dark curling hair and smooth
bronze skin, a girl wearing the same ugly fuchsia lipstick as the
mother.
The daughter wanted
to say it was the wrong shade, that a clear red or a sunlit gold would
be more becoming, but years of experience with the mother had taught
her the value of keeping her mouth shut.
Besides, she liked
the girl, liked the offhand way she wore her white cotton blouse with
its little puffed sleeves, and the patent-leather pumps in the same
fuchsia as her lipstick.
The shopgirl looked
up and smiled. “I am from Puerto Rico,” she said, in Spanish.
“I know.” The
daughter did not speak Spanish, but understood perfectly. “How do you
like it here?”
“I miss San Juan.
Here it’s okay, you understand, but not like home.”
The daughter nodded.
“Maybe I’ll walk there.”
“We have a frog
called the coqui. You should hear it. It sings like a bird—a sound you
would not forget. I miss that sound. And my brothers. They wait for me
back home. They wait until I get enough money to send for them.”
She wondered what it
would feel like, having brothers. “I hope it’s soon.”
“Miss, here we have
shoes, many shoes, all colors, all sizes. Please, come in, try some.”
The long narrow shop
was lined with boxes of shoes—high heels, sandals, running shoes, clogs.
More shoes hung from
the wall like a still-life of satiny flowers. “Ballet slippers,”
whispered the daughter, touching a sleek tip with one finger. “Pointe
shoes.” Taking an armful, she kicked off her sneakers and sat.
“I like the black
ones,” said the shopgirl. “So dramatic.”
The daughter
selected a black shoe with a racy, low vamp and a narrow toe box. She
had taken ballet lessons as a child, and still remembered how to lace
the ribbons, how to knot the satin and tuck the knot away from the
Achilles tendon, how to adjust the front drawstring so the shoe was
secure.
The first black shoe
made her feel light as an angel. Astounding! Even as a child she had
trouble finding a good fit.
Taking the shoe off,
she looked for the brand name. Freed, Gamba, Schachtner? None of
those—a make she had never heard of before, Cygnus. She put the slipper
back on.
“Ah!” said the
shopgirl. “Just like the Black Swan.”
“You know that
story?”
“Of course. She is a
powerful figure, this Black Swan, daughter of a magician.”
“The shoe is
wonderful. Cygnus, it must be new on the market. I’ll take a pair.”
The girl smiled.
“Oh, but there is only the one.”
“Only one?” The
daughter slumped under the weight of her disappointment. “But I’ve
never had a shoe that fit so well.”
“Better one shoe
that fits than none at all.”
“But what will I put
on my right foot?”
“Here.” The girl
grabbed a pair of Captivios. “This is your size, no? Four-and-a-half.”
The daughter
hesitated. The Captivios looked slightly different from the Cygnus
shoe: the color more of a dusty, muddy espresso than the blue-black
sheen of the Cygnus. The vamp was higher, the toe box square and
clumsy. And to take half a pair! “What about the person who wants the
four-and-a-half black Captivios?”
“That will be her
lookout, not yours.” The girl laughed. “I shall wrap them for you?”
“No, don’t bother.”
The Cygnus shoe made the daughter’s left foot feel like it lived in
another dimension. She did not want such joy to end. Tying her sneakers
together, she paid for the slippers, then twirled out of the shop.
“Farewell,” called
the shopgirl.
The daughter had
always found pointe shoes difficult to walk in. And now there was the
odd feeling of different shoes: one half of her mortal woman with
aching feet, the other demi-goddess.
Perhaps she could
not walk to San Juan, but merely the next town. She set off, limping a
bit. It would not be far. She could see the roofs of houses in the
distance.
But as she drew
closer, she stopped, puzzled.
This was her house!
A line of cars was parked in front, stretching in both directions. She
sky had gone dark. Feet throbbing in their mismatched shoes, she ran
the rest of the way and pushed the front door open.
Voices rushed at
her, smells of cooking, liquor, cigarettes. Her breath caught on the
smells; she shrank. All those people, all that food—just like the
post-funeral gathering. Was she doomed to go through it again and again?
She shivered from
the cold. Somewhere, she had dropped her sneakers.
Her drab attire was
shamed by the formal dress, the glint of white and gold dishes, the air
of celebration, perhaps even a coronation. Some of the people were
familiar—friends of her mother’s, distant aunts and uncles, a cousin or
two. Others were strangers in long dark cloaks, and they looked at her
with dangerous, guarded eyes.
She felt like a
stranger herself. “Excuse me,” she said to no one in particular. “Who
are these people? What happened to my—”
“Ah! There you are,
dear!” The mother came surging from the crowd, arms outstretched. “We
are celebrating my return.” She wore a different dress, black satin
with cap sleeves, immensely unflattering, with a Shelley Winters wig
bobbing on her head and jewelry jangling everywhere. Her wide painted
mouth made air-kisses near the daughter’s ear, the reek of her perfume
killing all smells of food and smoke.
“What’s the idea,”
whispered the mother. “Mismatched shoes? Can’t you see I’m having a
dinner party?”
“But you know you’re
not supposed to smoke. Or eat this kind of food. The doctors said—”
“Nonsense, nonsense.
You, over there!” The mother snapped her fingers at a boy standing
behind a buffet table.
He was about
fourteen, short but sturdily built, his brown hair in a Prince-Valiant
cut. His clear gray eyes matched the color of the shabby velvet jerkin
and close-fitting breeches.
And he looked quite
overwhelmed with the whole scenario.
“Chop-chop,” said
the mother. “Can’t you do anything right? You, stop staring and get her
some food.” The mother jerked her head at the daughter. “And when
you’re done, clean out the bathrooms. Then start on the kitchen.” She
went back to her guests.
The boy and the
daughter stood awkwardly, not looking at one another. Then the ballet
shoes gave a little wriggle, and the daughter took the boy’s hand.
The mother might be
able to cow her, to turn her into kitchen wench and frightened mouse,
but she would not let the boy suffer the same humiliation. “Where do
you live?”
“B-but—” stammered the boy.
“I can’t leave! I have to serve food and clean toilets and start on the
kitchen and draw the bath and—”
“It’s all right,”
she soothed, patting the air. “Just tell me where you live.”
“The basement,” he
whispered.
“Good. I’ll take you
home.” With a quick look around to see whether the mother noticed, she
tucked the boy’s hand in hers, found the basement door and descended.
“Except for the
basement,” she apologized, “the house won’t stay still.” Then she
stopped.
Gray stone walls
stretched out into rooms dividing other rooms, enfolding still others.
Torches smoked. The setting was like a story heard in infancy, before
the understanding of words.
“What happened to my
laundry room?” she wailed. “Now I’ll never get you back where you
belong.”
“It’s all right,”
said the boy, and gave her a shy grin. “I’ll show you where I sleep.”
His hand still tucked into hers, he urged her forward. She winced. The
flagstones were brutal to her feet.
“And now the
basement is like the rest of the house,” she said, more to keep her
mind off the pain than anything else.
“But that’s to be
expected,” he said. “Powerful magicians leave evidence of their
handiwork everywhere.”
As they walked, the
boy’s garments shed their dirt. Their frayed edges sealed themselves.
He shone like a prince; he had even grown taller. His voice deepened.
More change! She
thought. Everything around me is shifting; only I remain the same.
“The mother,” she
began. “How did she—”
“Oh, I was tending
the ox and she reached through the slats of the stairs. Grabbed me
right off my feet.”
“Ox?” The daughter
was now thoroughly bewildered.
He threw back his
splendid head and laughed. “Even a prince had to work!”
“But not like that,
not the way she makes me. Kitchen drudge, bathroom scrubber. When the
bathrooms stand still, that is. I was away buying shoes.”
“Ah, yes, the shoes.
How can I hold that against you?”
If only he hadn’t
mentioned them! She wondered whether her feet were bleeding. “At least
it’s still dry,” she said. “You’d think the dungeon would be damp.”
“Because it’s the
one place that doesn’t belong to her.” They rounded a corner lit by
blazing torches. Now he towered over her, a strapping youth whose voice
rang against the shifting stone walls. “When magic creates a place, the
effects always linger. Same as when it creates a thing—or person.”
What was she to say
to that? “But the basement was always so small, so safe.”
“The house is older
than it looks.” He winked at her.
As old as the
enormous flagstones, she wondered, or the smoking torches? From
somewhere far away came the faint scent of roasting meat. Were they
headed back to the party?
Now he tucked her
arm through his. “Did you never wonder as to your father’s whereabouts?”
“She never told me.
But today I met a shopgirl who misses her brothers. It makes me miss
Father all the more.”
He gave a little
shrug. “Powerful opposing forces seldom rest easy in the same space.
Too much confinement.” Now the prince’s long strides had her struggling
to keep up.
“She threw him out,”
the daughter said, surprised at the bitterness in her voice.
“Don’t be too sure
of that.” The young man’s sidewise glance was hard to read. “Nor that
you are alone.”
“At least I might be
able to hide in here again,” she said, stopping for a moment to rub a
swollen ankle. It was the one foot, she realized, the one wearing the
Captivio. That was the source of her pain.
“The time for hiding
is past. Instead—well, for the moment, you may be content with your
reward.”
“Reward?” She
straightened to give him a blank stare.
“You brought me
home,” he said.
“It seemed you were
doing the bringing.”
“Nevertheless,
something good awaits.” They had reached a waist-high partition of
stone. Behind this, a vast hearth blazed, with a juice-dripping ox
turning on a spit.
The prince sat on a
three-legged wooden stool next to the hearth. “I’ve got to tend the ox
now,” he said. “Thank you for rescuing me.”
Wasn’t he going to
offer her some? She had eaten nothing all day. The smell of the
roasting ox made her ravenous, and she longed to rejoin the dinner
party upstairs. “How will I find my way back?”
“Look for the
stairs. And then for your reward.” He made a casual gesture with one
hand, and there was a flash of hot light, and she looked down.
“The shoes match!”
she cried.
“That’s not all.”
“Oh, yes! The pain
is gone. It’s wonderful!”
He gave her another
wink, and sent her on her way.
The return journey
took her through twisting flagstone halls, through cavernous rooms that
suddenly closed in on themselves, and just as suddenly opened up again.
She had been
traveling a long time, yet she must not have gone far, because the
roast-ox smell was so strong it was a weight of meat on her tongue.
She gulped down
saliva. What sort of food would be at the dinner party? Salads,
vegetables, potatoes, perhaps saffron rice. And desserts: big blue
grapes, peaches, melons, pastries.
Was this the reward?
Look for the stairs, the princeling had said. Something good awaits.
Food for the hungry? With the mother, there could never be the love a
daughter longed for, but possibly respect?
Then the smell of
roasting ox vanished. The girl took two steps forward. The checkerboard
floor reappeared under her feet and there was the small, safe, dry
basement, with its comforting scent of warm laundry. There were the
stairs. She climbed.
And she was in the
living room, and it was damp and crowded with guests cloaked and
gowned, and an aura of old liquor left too long in melting ice.
“Oh, there you are.”
The mother trotted over. The liquor stench was her breath; her cheeks
looked too pink, too shiny, like an infection. “Come get some food,
dear.”
“Food?” Was this the
reward? The daughter looked around. But there was none to be had—only
burnt bits in chafing dishes; stale bread curled in baskets; spilled
bottles of wine; salads turning brown.
“Here! Look what I
have for you!” The mother handed her a plate. Upon it lay blackened
scrapings, husks of bread, salads swimming in exhausted vinaigrettes.
Someone had put out a cigarette in the middle of it all.
The daughter lowered
her eyes. She felt herself curling up like the stale dark bread.
The bottom of the
plate pressed cold against her palm. Its vitreous touch seeped through
her skin, ran aching up her arm, and exploded into her throat.
“You call this food?”
The mother shrugged.
“I didn’t realize you disliked boeuf
bourgignon.”
“This isn’t beef
burgundy,” she said, refusing to employ the mother’s foreign
terminology. “It’s garbage.” A spasm of rage jerked her arm forward
like a discus thrower; she flung the plate to shatter against the wall.
The effort drained her of anger.
Guests stopped in
mid-bite, mid-sip, to stare at her.
“Well, you don’t
need to throw a tantrum,” huffed the mother. “If it’s boeuf bourgignon you want I’m sure
we can find some in one of the—”
“I don’t want your
beef burgundy.”
The mother turned
her back and apologized to her guests. “Normally she behaves herself
quite well! You don’t hear a peep from her.” She turned back and
hissed, “This is so unlike you.”
“It is?” She thought
of the shopgirl, who, in spite of her ugly lipstick, at least knew who
she was.
She knew who I was, too. And so did that
boy…. But he said there would be a reward—
Of course. The boy, the princeling, my half-brother.
Whom I brought home, whom I can find again, whenever I wish.
Slowly, a bit
stiffly, she rose en pointe,
not The Daughter, not that frightened creature, but the Swan, regal in
her black feathers, powerful, dangerous and not quite human.
“I don’t want beef
burgundy. I don’t want old scrapings from an abandoned dish, I don’t
want cigarettes in my food.”
“Don’t tell me
you’ve gone vegetarian. But there was salad on your plate, I know there
was. Or I could get you some fish, how would that be?”
The Black Swan shook
her head.
“Well, then, what do
you want?”
I want you to stay dead. I want all these
revelers to leave. I want you to know who I am.
But she said none of
those things. Instead the magician’s daughter spread her wings in a
storm of black feathers.
The mother gasped.
“You really should
have saved me something,” said the Swan Queen, and flew out the door.
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