Now

For our winter holiday from school, I stayed in one of the guest rooms at the fifteen-bedroom mansion owned by my friend Alison’s parents. I guess it was less of a guest room and more of a cot set up in a cheap basement library. I say cheap, because the main floor library of faded hardbacks was fitted out by a carpenter who loved curlicues, and the library I slept in was filled with particle board and paperbacks. I preferred it that way. Hardback books all smelled like madness. You know, that odor of sweat-tarnished costume jewelry and invisible mold. 

Later, I learned that each room had a theme. The books in my room were food-themed. The Grapes of Wrath. The Golden Apples. Fried Green Tomatoes. On Christmas Eve, I picked up a book called The Butter Did It, the first in a series called Mashed Potato Mysteries. I fell asleep when I got to the part where a rich woman fell down her marble stairs. My hosts also had a marble stairway leading from the dark paneled foyer to the upstairs bedrooms. 

“Good morning!” Alison’s mother said every time she opened the front door, even if the timing was entirely inappropriate, in the evening and afternoon. I asked Alison why her mother did this, but Alison didn’t know. She’d been adopted as a freshman in high school, the child of a different set of rich parents who had died tragically.

Rich people have so many tragedies! I never would have guessed before I was invited to stay that Christmas. Never mind why I was invited. Alison knew, but otherwise, only her uncle was nosy enough to ask. I lied and told him my family was traveling to France, but I wanted an American Christmas. Families of all classes have tragedies.

No one was murdered in that holiday house until just after Christmas, on the 26th. 

I don’t want to talk about the previous festivities. I’d only tip my hand, and I like to be direct. I murdered Alison’s mother the day after Christmas. In the attic. A broken bottle. A spontaneous act.

I could say I did it because she was abusive to Alison. I saw her snap at Alison only once, though, and I’ve snapped at Alison lots of times. She’s a great girl, but she gets on your nerves. 

I could say I was abused. But I was never abused. No one’s even been all that rude to me. It is the nature of tragedy to strike senselessly.

For Christmas, Alison’s mother gave me two large bottles of Grand Marnier. She gave them to all the guests who arrived by surprise and without clear family ties. I had nothing to give her that day, so I looked through the bookshelf in my basement bedroom. Someone with so many books probably couldn’t remember everything on their shelves. I considered but rejected a number of them, a food diary by Fred Rogers and a religious book called Bread of Life. Was she religious? Maybe she was at one time, but no manger littered hay among the glitter of her decorative displays. 

I didn’t care about Christmas anyway. It was those bottles of Grand Marnier that caused me so much trouble. Fine orange liquor. After Christmas dinner, I went to my room and drank a few shots with Alison.  

“This isn’t bad,” I said, and Alison agreed.

The next day, when the stores were open, I bought her mom a bottle of cheap champagne. I gave it to her where I found her, in the attic, putting away Christmas candles.

“For New Year’s Eve,” I said as I gave her the champagne bottle which resembled a dirty aquarium. I’d also been invited to celebrate the New Year with their family.

“Good morning!” she said. 

“Why do you say good morning all the time? Even when it’s not the right time?” I said.

“Say what?”

“Good morning.” 

“Good morning!”

I didn’t kill her then and didn’t even want to.

It was later that night, after the cocktails, after the bonfire and the dog parade. I was hiding in the attic, reading. The attic bookshelves had the theme of outer space. 

I would never see my mother again. My father fished for constellations, you might say, and we hadn’t crossed paths. I wanted to know about the kinds of outer space. I was crying when she found me. I’d had a good bit to drink, but I hadn’t brought any bottles upstairs with me.

“Good morning!” she said. “I hope you had a good holiday.”

When she saw I was crying, she said, “oh dear.”

“Memory lane,” I said. 

That was all the prompting she needed. She led me to a safe on the far side of the attic and clicked the combination into place. What was inside? More bottles of Grand Marnier. 

I had no intention of killing her. 

“What is outer space?” I said as we passed a bottle of the orange stuff back and forth between us.  

She shrugged. “These books belong to Alison.”

“Alison never told me she was interested in science. Are the food books yours?” I said. “The Butter Did It?”

She smiled modestly. “A good one.”

“I wish I had a bookshelf filled with books about birds,” I said. “I wish I had a home.” I took another swig.

Alison’s mother smiled at me. For a minute, she looked like an angel with real feathers. “If you set me free, you’ll find what you need.” 

She broke our bottle and handed it to me. I didn’t ask why. I only asked if she was sure, and she said tragedy had struck her so unevenly, it would be merciful to strike her down entirely.

Alison didn’t blame me; she’d been asked to do the same but had refused. She said she couldn’t stand the waste. 

It’s hard to be a good guest. Who will read those books now? Who will say good morning to everything?

__________

Ivy Grimes is originally from Birmingham, Alabama and currently lives in Virginia. Her stories have appeared in The Baffler, hex, Maudlin House, ergot., and elsewhere. She is the author of the collection Glass Stories (Grimscribe Press), the novel The Ghosts of Blaubart Mansion (CemeteryGates), and the novella The Cellar Below the Cellar (Violet Lichen). To learn more, please visit www.ivyivyivyivy.com.