Passing On Tradition

This story was included in the #NFFD2014 Flash Flood:

 http://flashfloodjournal.blogspot.co.uk/2014/06/passing-on-tradition-by-kymm-coveney.html

November

       “Katie’s nine now,” Blanche said into the phone. She picked up the envelope, straightened it. “Shall I get tickets to the Nutcracker while you’re in town?”

      “The Nutcracker,” Jenny said. “Who’d be going?”

      Blanche tucked the envelope behind the fruit bowl. “Just us girls,” she said. “Won’t that be fun?” She closed her eyes to the silence, remembered Jenny and Sarah in matching winter coats. Her mother-in-law herding them into the theater, cigarette hand waving Blanche off.

      “Just you, Katie and me?” Jenny finally said. “That would be fun. A real treat.”

      “It’s settled, then.” Blanche pulled the envelope towards her and shook out the four tickets.

December

      Blanche hummed as she prepared the tree-trimming dips to go with the spiked eggnog. She paused over the photograph she kept on the fridge of Jenny and Sarah draped in tinsel, arms across shoulders like college roommates. She listened for the sound of banter, laughter. When she joined them, the eggnog was mostly rum and their voices were not full of cheer or even camaraderie, but were clipped and strained.

      “Let me hang your ornament, Mommy.” Katie was excited, demanding.

      “Remember which one is Mommy’s?”

      Katie dug her hand in the box, then held it behind her back. Not the silver sled, thought Blanche. Sarah turned from the tree, sloshing her drink.

      “Hey! My silver sled!” She lunged towards Katie. “Give it here, Katie-Poo.”

      “I think it’s time for bed, Katie,” said Blanche. She took the child by the shoulders. “Let me see?” She dug the sled out of the girl’s hand. “This was Great-Grandma Ida’s when she was a girl.” Katie shrugged out of her grasp. “Here, Sarah, hang it by the glass ballerina.”

      Jenny led Katie out of the room. “Have another drink,” she called back. “Eggnog with a dash of silver sled.”

January

      Blanche found them brushing Katie’s hair. “Look what Aunt Sarah got for you.” She held up ruby red ballet slippers.

      “It’s below zero,” Jenny said. “You really don’t expect”

      “Mom, look!” Katie stood and plied.                               

      Jenny clipped Katie’s hair back. “You’re gonna freeze. Go get your coat.”

      “Why are there four tickets?” Jenny asked the mirror.

      “I think,” said Blanche from the doorway, “that’s Sarah I hear.

      “Mom.” Jenny followed her mother to the kitchen, where Katie modeled the shoes. Sarah stood in their grandmother’s fur coat.

      “Where are you going?” asked Jenny.

      “We’re going to the ballet,” said Katie.

      “But Aunt Sarah isn’t.” Jenny looked at Blanche, then back at the fur coat. “It’s just us three, right, Mom?”

      Blanche jiggled the car keys as she pushed her arms through her coat. “Come, come, girls, we’ll be late.”

      Katie petted the fur coat. “Are you going to see the game with Daddy and Gramps?” she asked. “Cause they left already.”

      Blanche sat Katie between her and Jenny. Little girls in tutus and tiaras skipped down the aisles. She watched them, studiously ignoring the sold-out theater's one empty seat on the other side of Jenny.

A dream has power to poison sleep

- Mutability, Percy Bysshe Shelley

The above quote was the inspiration for this entry to the inaugural Light and Shade Challenge.

Beta Gal

Donald insisted. Taking two cars would be silly; he knew where the restaurant was. Candace thought of protesting, had protested on other occasions, but she knew it would be futile. She had acquired a docile sense of laissez-faire over the years, in stark contrast to the raving one-upmanship common to her blood relations. Acquired like a prison slouch or scars.

“Fine,” she said, hoping Donald’s third wife would offer to sit in back. (Another woman who didn’t drive. It was his first wife, though, who had insisted on never giving up the copilot spot. Until death did her part.) Candace’s stepson George -he of the full leg cast- had agreed to the lunch for practical, gastronomical reasons, although his apparent vote of silence did not bode well for the meal. Her teenaged daughter, well. A vote of silence would not be a bad thing.

“How the hell do I get out of here,” Donald said, pulling away from the curb and into stalled traffic. Candace, her daughter, and Donald’s third wife twitched at their hips, trying to fold into themselves.

“To the end of the road, turn right, then left at the light.” Candace had offered to drive, would have killed to be driving, but Donald would have none of it. Ever the alpha male, he reached the end of his patience and turned left around the right-turning car ahead of him, peeled rubber through the yellow light.

“What are you doing?” Donald’s third wife shrieked into Candace’s ear. “Why didn’t you turn right? Now you’ve done it. Now we’re going farther and farther away, aren’t we, Candie?”

“Whatever,” Candace said. “All roads lead to Rome.”

But there was not to be even a semblance of conviviality left now. Not in the endless detour Donald took to get back to their starting point, not in the overpriced, overabundant meal no one enjoyed, not in the belligerent passing of the fancy olive oil. Candace raised the blessed wine glass.

“Happy New Year!” she mouthed.

333 words for  , who want us to include this "new" word for the New Year:

WHATEVER 3. (adverb) Used to show that something is not important