PROBLEMATIC

Chapter 6

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Mum.

(insert eyeroll)

My mother.

Sigh.

Shaking my head. Upon entering my apartment, I saw the answering machine flashing like crazy. In my bag my phone had been pinging repeatedly since having dinner with the guys, taming the beast. I flopped down on the couch and listened.

"Stephanie Michelle Plum. This is your mother." Well, DUHHH! "How could you?! You got Joseph arrested! He's a detective. It's all your fault. You need to go back and retract your statements. Poor Joseph…"

Delete.

Not gonna happen.

"Stephanie Michelle Plum. This is your mother." Well, DUHHH again! "How could you?! You crashed another vehicle! Four cars! That's a appalling. How can I show my face? Why me! I saw the photos Joseph sent…"

Delete.

The next sixteen messages were in much the same vein, including how "it was high time I settled down."

Yadda, yadda, yadda. Yeah. As if!

Delete.

Poor Joseph my ass! It was all self-inflicted. The usual descriptors of "shame, disgrace, embarrassment and disappointment" were prevalent. Even "scandalous". Wow. Yeah…nah!

Delete.

Oh. Now she's on about me "consorting with those thugs and criminals. What will the neighbours say?" Gone.

Delete!

I wonder if "poor Joseph" sent some photos to the Trenton Times? Obviously, he'd sent them to the TPD and his fan club who were visibly disappointed when I walked in with my skip Marty, the carjacker. Lester had glared at the money exchange and they gulped when Cal did the same, ceasing the exchange immediately. Robin Russell walked over and held her hand out with an aggressive stance. Reluctantly they'd handed over the winnings. "This will be a nice donation to the Women's Refuge and Domestic Violence Support Group." She had winked at me.

I wonder who bailed poor Joseph? Meh. Don't care. No fucks to give there.

As far as problematic goes, I think my mother broke the mould. Growing up was like living daily with censure, always with a side order of disapproval. It seems I have been a disappointment all my life, I have been told often enough. Other favoured words of criticism cast my way from my mother were how much of an embarrassment I was, a disgrace, a disobedient child who always got dirty, who could never stay clean. From her perspective, which I actively try to avoid myself doing, I was the problematic child. I was her cross to bear. Boy oh boy. She certainly made it known to everybody. My mother was a martyr (assume the melodramatic pose here).

Throughout my life, my mother tried to restrict and control my behaviour: what I wore, when I spoke, my playmates, and, as I got older, my work choices, including vetted boyfriends! I resisted. I retaliated. Even my first husband!

That was my life, my life by her standards, for all appearances. What would the neighbours say? She had my future all mapped out. Meet a nice Burg man, get married, live happily ever after, in the Burg, with 2.5 children. But, of course, because we're Catholic, more children, and maybe a dog. It was about her getting more grandchildren. A Stepford existence. Naturally, it was expected that the first baby would pop out exactly nine months after the wedding night. Oh, yeah. But, the clincher was… stop working, so I can be a stay-at-home mum, dutifully clean house, with sparkling clean windows, and cook for said husband, having dinner promptly on the table at 6pm. It was all part of the training.

Nope! Not my vision. Not my plan. Not my idea of a future that I could envisage for myself living. To be honest, my plan was to get away from the Burg, as far as possible, and all its bizarre and dated traditions. I bucked the plan. Valerie on the other hand, embraced it. She wanted to please and do all the right things, while earning her praise and extra rewards. She was the exemplary one, I was the misfit. I have been told so many times. "Why can't you be more like Valerie?"

There's only two years difference between us, with Valerie being the older, more indulged sibling. Miss Prissy comes to mind, but I called her Saint Valerie. I figured that Valerie was needier.

Valerie was also problematic, the supposed role model to which I was supposed to aspire. Clean, quiet, obedient - allegedly – yet I know she lies and tattles all the time. She was learning to cook and clean meticulously. She was Mum's pride and joy. Valerie preened every time she was praised in public, like at the church, or at Giovichinni's Meat Market, and of course, at home too.

Saint Valerie fitted the mould. Valerie was a clone. Valerie complied. Valerie lied to make me look bad so many times. It took me a while to figure it out. Valerie tattled and made up stories to put herself in the good books.

I wasn't an obstructive child at all. Grandma and Daddy called me a "free spirit". Grandpa Mazur said, "I was a child with imagination."

Even though I was two years younger, I was still expected to behave the same as Valerie, according to my mother. Imagine, a four year old expected to be just like a well-behaved six year old. Rather unfair. It's not like we were twins.

When we were kids, Valerie was vanilla pudding, good grades, and clean white sneakers, while I was chocolate cake, the dog ate my homework, and skinned knees. I liked to play outside, climb trees, play ball in the park, and play with the neighbourhood boys. I was the adventurous one, but, by comparison, Valerie was the epitome of boring and unimaginative. Just like my mother, Valerie assumed that pious pose, the one I hated so much, making me want to roll my eyes and barf, or just slap her face.

Between Joyce at school, and Valerie at home, my early years were a constant battle with truths and untruths, for which I was frequently punished. Okay, some were true, but really? I did not wet my pants on the chair in the classroom. That was one of Joyce's pranks. So puerile. So nasty and humiliating. My mother never defended me, preferring to believe those malicious lies and rumours.

For one thing, in hindsight, it unwittingly taught me resilience, learning to cope and deal with those negative reactions and the punishments. I often sought refuge with Grandma and Grandpa Mazur, who lived just around the corner. However, the lack of maternal love and support was heartbreaking for a younger me, but as I became older, I also became shrewder and more aware. Nevertheless, I still felt the need to please her. That was a harsh lesson I learned, which took quite a while to realise how futile it was. No matter what I did, there was no pleasing her. Why? Because I didn't go by her plan, her vision, her rules, which would redeem her standing in the Burg. I am so over it.

Escaping through the bathroom window at night, and shimmying down the drainpipe, using the trellis for support, to meet friends at the milk bar, or rendezvous at someone's house, was fun and risqué. I enjoyed the rush. It was harmless stuff. Often it was a payback, a bit of defiance, for being sent to bed without dinner.

Aah, but I had seen Valerie do the same! Ha! Oh frabjous day, callooh callay! I had her over a barrel, especially when she came home with mussed up hair and kiss-swollen lips. That, and the strong overpowering scent of boy body sprays was another give-away. She would shower quickly, to refresh her girly fragrances. It was kind of funny. I knew. It was unconditional: I kept her secret, so she had to keep mine, which did not involve sucking face with a new boyfriend! We came to an accord on that one.

Truth be told, it was all about my mother's own community standing. It wasn't about me at all, I suddenly realised, one night. I was just a prop, a sometimes useful necessity to make her look good. My mother was a competitive woman, always trying to outdo her friends, or decry her miserable dealings with me.

One evening, I overheard her on the telephone, with one of those bitter Burg bitches, lamenting at my apparent lack of skills at school, and woe forbid, in the kitchen! She used the word disaster to describe my cooking exploits. I was waiting quietly, sitting on the third step from the top, and she had no idea I could hear every word. Stupidly, she was on speaker phone, while polishing her silverware. I had been doing my homework and needed to give her something important, so I waited, patiently. Out of courtesy, which had been drilled into me, I didn't dare interrupt. They were laughing when my mother described a cooking fiasco from yesterday. I didn't enjoy that. It opened my eyes to the malevolence in my mother's tone, as if she was talking about someone else's child. I sniffed, as tears crept out without my permission. My mum was being an utter bitch. When I sniffed again she realised her mistake, but turned her own shame at being caught, into anger while accusing me of eavesdropping.

"Never mind," I sniffed, tossing the letter down the stairs, watching the envelope float down to her feet, a look of disgust on her bitchy face. I was so pleased to have a letter of commendation sent home and was excited to share it with her. I had forgotten earlier, meaning to show my parents at the dinner table. I was so excited but was scolded for not sitting still. Valerie had won a prize for reading the most books in a month. So, I waited until later.

She scoffed sardonically, "Hmph. Another letter of reprimand, I suppose. Where did I go wrong with you, Stephanie?" She rolled her eyes in contempt.

I turned around, back up the last three steps and slammed my bedroom door, crying myself to sleep. I knew where I stood. I did not talk to her for the next week. Despite her chastisements, I could not bring myself to look at her face, her feet yes, or to the side into open space which earned me a slap. It was not a look of shame, it was my defiance shouting silently at her, my arms firmly folded. I went to Grandma's every afternoon.

From the moment I arrived at Grandma's, she instantly knew something had really upset me. The flared red mark on my face was an easy indication along with the bruises on my upper arm. I was made to wear long-sleeved tops despite the heat, to cover up her brutality. I heard Grandma telling mum off on the phone. Mum hadn't even bothered to open the envelope. Grandma drove there and found the envelope, unopened, in the kitchen bin and brought it back to her house before she opened it. Grandma and Grandpa were so proud of me. With magnets in the corners, Grandpa pinned it to the fridge door in pride of place. We made chocolate chip cookies together. I did most of it, and unlike being in Mum's kitchen, I wasn't the "disaster" she laughed about with her friends. Why was it always so much easier cooking with Grandma?

Grandpa made sure Daddy knew. When he found out, he said, "I'm so proud of you Pumpkin. Well done. Why didn't you share it with us?" I explained about Valerie's book prize, and how Mum had scolded me for wriggling excitedly while waiting to share my happy news. I never got the chance. I was shut down for the rest of the meal.

"You know, Stephanie," he said with a loving smile, "This is far better than any of Valerie's awards or prizes. This is special."

I understand that Daddy had some strong words with Mum, especially for having thrown the envelope into the bin. No matter what she said, he growled at her. He took me to Point Pleasant the next day, just the two of us.

High school was much the same, with the bane of my life, Joyce Barnhardt, my arch-nemesis, still causing me grief. She had been a fat kid with an overbite. The overbite was fixed by braces, and by the time she was fifteen she had trimmed down and looked like Barbie on steroids. Boys beware. Boyfriends beware. Open season. Watch out girls. She was a skank, and played that part so well.

Then the horrible saga and fallout of the Tasty Pastry episode of my life. Because of Joseph Morelli waxing lyrical with his "poems" about his conquest all over the bathroom walls, everybody knew. I was punished and grounded for the entire summer.

My father was furious when he realised I was the conquest. Furious with mum. Furious with Joe. But since Joe had joined the navy the next day, he went unpunished. I can't say for sure it was consensual. He was a notorious cherry popper, and admittedly, I was rather easily flattered. He smooth-talked me out of my virginity and left me on the cold bakery floor. I was upset and hurt, and bleeding from his rough treatment. It was not at all like I imagined it would be. I tried to make him stop but he was too far gone, very persuasive and so much stronger.

But, three years later, I made up for all the pain and grief he caused me that summer, as I ran him down with the Buick, hitting him from behind, bouncing him off the right front fender. He must have been on shore leave.

I stopped the car and got out to assess the damage, to the car, and him. "Anything broken?"

He lay sprawled on the footpath, looking up my skirt. Typical. "My leg."

"Good," I said before turning on my heel, got into the Buick, and drove to the mall. Yes, it left me feeling very satisfied and redeemed. Asshole.

In the meantime, the dinner saga had begun with any of the left-over single men my Mum could find. They, these allegedly eligible bachelors, although I prefer to call them creeps, sleazes and lecherous layabouts, were invited to dinner, in the hopes of dating, with marriage outcomes. I was always made to see them out. They assumed I was fast and easy as purported by Joe's writings. I think that was the time when I improved my self-defence skills. They always went for a grope or a sloppy kiss and my knee jerk reaction was involuntary-ish, at first. Yes, I probably refined that skill in those weird days.

Valerie married right out of high school to that sleazy guy, Steve, and soon was pregnant. But, I know she was already pregnant before the wedding. Grandma suspects the hurried wedding was to hide that fact. One problematic issue solved. They moved to California. I survived high school.

At eighteen, I worked the hot dog stand at Point Pleasant, on the Boardwalk. Later, I went to Douglass College, a blessed escape from my mother. Her mind was set on getting me married, not this college stuff. Burg girls did not go to college. Anyway, I often fell asleep in the Library, daydreamed through history lectures and failed maths twice, eventually graduating "in the top ninety-eight percent" of my class. I did better the next semester.

Eventually I got a job as a discount lingerie buyer at EE Martin, in Newark. I had to take a train from Trenton to get there. Sadly, it was not the glamorous lingerie everyone instantly imagines, since EE Martin wasn't exactly Victoria's Secret. Mostly I haggled over the cost of full-fashion nylon underpants. I held a salaried position until we were all laid off when Baldicott Inc. bought out the business. Through no fault of my own, I was caught up in the house-cleaning sweep. There were whispers of money laundering, confirmed when the FBI swooped in to close it down completely. EE Martin had skimped on the palm greasing and as a result their mob affiliations were made public.

When I tried to get an interview for a job at the button factory, there was nothing available. I was offered Karen Slobodsky's personnel office job, since she had just quit. Late on my first day was not a way to make a good impression. Her sleazy pervert of a boss expected extra personal treatment, like lewd acts since I was late, again. I really wanted to rearrange his gonads for him, to save the next girl. Sexual harassment was not a good foundation to start a new job, nor was wearing more revealing clothing to please him. Nope. Sicko! I wasn't that desperate.

Trying to find a new job, especially with EE Martin on my résumé, was not conducive to gaining employment. I survived for six months on my savings, eventually having my prized Miata repossessed because I couldn't maintain the repayments. I was mooching meals from my parents for a while. Not a happy period of my life.

But, then I met Richard Orr again. We'd met at college, where he was studying law. Somehow, after admiring his nice car, Richard, known as Dickie, was invited to dinner. Yes, we dated, but even before I arrived home from our first date, to some forgettable, stupid guy movie, my mother was already making wedding plans. Lordy. Crap more like it. He was the image my mother strived for: young Burg girl marries up and coming lawyer, who had political aspirations.

Daddy said he'd give me away if I was really happy marrying the Dick. But, if I chose to marry Joseph Morelli, or any other Morelli, he would refuse to give me away!

The wedding was a blur. I was just a compliant pawn. Yet the budget was far less than Valerie's Wedding of the Year. It was all about my mother, her choices on everything from the guest list, the wedding cake, the colours of the bridesmaids, to my dress. Everything! My wedding dress was one of those hideously dreadful, frilly affairs. Somehow, I got swept up in the tidal surge of the second Wedding of the Year, sucked into the whole vortex of getting happily married. Ironically, that was a period when I made my mother happy.

What a debacle. It was an ill-fated marriage. Dickie was just like his father, it seems. I still grimace at the memory. Damn Skippy I went crazy. He'd made such a fool of me. My own mother even sent me back, suggesting I should do more to please him in the bedroom while turning a blind eye to his philandering. It was what happened in the Burg. Yeah, right! Not on my watch!

I divorced Dickie Orr, at age 24, after less than a year of "wedded bliss". Much to my mother's chagrin, it was an acrimonious divorce, especially when I discovered him fucking Joyce on the dining room table. Joyce! Again! Much to my surprise, he was a known player, and sadly those wedding vows meant nothing to him, while on his path to greater things. I was just the trophy wife, the nice looking arm candy for those public events, benefits and fundraisers, while behind my back he couldn't keep it in his pants. He was a liar, a cheat and a serial philanderer. He cheated on everything, including his taxes. He did the deed with half the women in the phone book! He had a low opinion of women, and had no problem with lying.

So, yes, I lost control, especially when I found out about his other escapades and side pieces. Like father like son apparently. Losing control was my way of dealing with the rage I felt, being so violated in my own home. Catching him flagrante delicto, with Joyce of all people, was the straw that broke the camel's back. I didn't think he would do that to me. Naïve much? I call it trusting. And gullible. One of us was working towards a happy marriage. He wanted the trimmings of bachelorhood with the benefits of marriage. Or was it the other way around? Discovering that my marriage was a lie, a total sham, was devastating, but worst of all, it was like I was the last one to know. Yes, it was a messy divorce. The upside? His political aspirations disintegrated before he could even get to that.

The Dick was definitely problematic, even later while in my role as a bounty hunter, I had the misfortune of having to deal with him. Although, arriving at his office unannounced, scared the shit out of him, especially asking questions about "Uncle" Moses Bedemier. I did enjoy that. I had the power and it felt good. A later encounter involved Dickie when he represented Stephen Soder in a child custody case. Asshole.

Then later, finding him shacked up with Morelli, under police protection, while I was being threatened, and accused of his murder. This was while being stalked and hunted by a crazy fanatic with a flame thrower! One of his partners in the law firm. When I went to Morelli's house, discovering Dickie there, I rearranged his nuts!

I dodged a bullet in a way. Maybe I should send Joyce a thank you card.

Nah!

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