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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n
Later, I learned that each room had a theme. The books in my room were food-themed. The Grapes of Wrath<\/em>. The Golden Apples<\/em>. Fried Green Tomatoes<\/em>. On Christmas Eve, I picked up a book called The Butter Did It<\/em>, the first in a series called Mashed Potato Mysteries<\/em>. 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood morning!\u201d Alison\u2019s 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\u2019t know. She\u2019d been adopted as a freshman in high school, the child of a different set of rich parents who had died tragically.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n No one was murdered in that holiday house until just after Christmas, on the 26th. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I don\u2019t want to talk about the previous festivities. I\u2019d only tip my hand, and I like to be direct. I murdered Alison\u2019s mother the day after Christmas. In the attic. A broken bottle. A spontaneous act.<\/p>\n\n\n\n I could say I did it because she was abusive to Alison. I saw her snap at Alison only once, though, and I\u2019ve snapped at Alison lots of times. She\u2019s a great girl, but she gets on your nerves. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I could say I was abused. But I was never abused. No one\u2019s even been all that rude to me. It is the nature of tragedy to strike senselessly.<\/p>\n\n\n\n For Christmas, Alison\u2019s 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\u2019t 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<\/em>. Was she religious? Maybe she was at one time, but no manger littered hay among the glitter of her decorative displays. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cThis isn\u2019t bad,\u201d I said, and Alison agreed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cFor New Year\u2019s Eve,\u201d I said as I gave her the champagne bottle which resembled a dirty aquarium. I\u2019d also been invited to celebrate the New Year with their family.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood morning!\u201d she said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhy do you say good morning all the time? Even when it\u2019s not the right time?\u201d I said.<\/p>\n\n\n\n “Say what?”<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood morning.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n “Good morning!”<\/p>\n\n\n\n I didn\u2019t kill her then and didn\u2019t even want to.<\/p>\n\n\n\n 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. <\/p>\n\n\n\n I would never see my mother again. My father fished for constellations, you might say, and we hadn\u2019t crossed paths. I wanted to know about the kinds of outer space. I was crying when she found me. I\u2019d had a good bit to drink, but I hadn\u2019t brought any bottles upstairs with me.<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cGood morning!\u201d she said. \u201cI hope you had a good holiday.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n When she saw I was crying, she said, \u201coh dear.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cMemory lane,\u201d I said. <\/p>\n\n\n\n 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.\u00a0<\/p>\n\n\n\n I had no intention of killing her. <\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cWhat is outer space?\u201d I said as we passed a bottle of the orange stuff back and forth between us. <\/p>\n\n\n\n She shrugged. \u201cThese books belong to Alison.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cAlison never told me she was interested in science. Are the food books yours?\u201d I said. \u201cThe Butter Did It<\/em>?\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n She smiled modestly. \u201cA good one.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n \u201cI wish I had a bookshelf filled with books about birds,\u201d I said. \u201cI wish I had a home.\u201d I took another swig.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Alison\u2019s mother smiled at me. For a minute, she looked like an angel with real feathers. \u201cIf you set me free, you\u2019ll find what you need.\u201d <\/p>\n\n\n\n She broke our bottle and handed it to me. I didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n\n\n\n Alison didn\u2019t blame me; she\u2019d been asked to do the same but had refused. She said she couldn\u2019t stand the waste. <\/p>\n\n\n\n It\u2019s hard to be a good guest. Who will read those books now? Who will say good morning to everything?<\/p>\n\n\n\n __________<\/p>\n\n\n\n Ivy Grimes is originally from Birmingham, Alabama and currently lives in Virginia. Her stories have appeared in<\/em> The Baffler, hex, Maudlin House, ergot., and elsewhere. She is the author of the collection Glass Stories (<\/em>Grimscribe Press), the novel The Ghosts of Blaubart Mansion (<\/em>CemeteryGates), and the novella The Cellar Below the Cellar (<\/em>Violet Lichen). To learn more, please visit www.ivyivyivyivy.com<\/a>.<\/em><\/p>\n\n\n\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"