“What is this?” Florence exploded on the sidewalk, while the poor deliveryman was still getting a signature in the basement stairwell.
“Stocking up on necessities,” Avery said tersely, as the man scuttled to his van.
“Toothpaste is a necessity,” Florence spat. “Not a tart, surprisingly supple Cabernet-Shiraz!”
“We mostly drink white, actually,” Avery said coolly, pushing a last carton inside. “But assuming that’s any of your business, which I doubt, could we not discuss this on the street?”
“You think I haven’t known for months what’s in those boxes beside the paint cans?” Florence called down the steps. “You could hide them better; pulling that old shower curtain over the top insults my intelligence. Think I don’t know why you and Lowell disappear after dinner—the only time you show any interest in spending time downstairs? You don’t even share it! You scurry off and get shit-faced in secret!”
“Obviously not in secret. If you want a glass so badly, you can always knock.”
“I’m not the one who wants a glass so badly. On the contrary, I think it’s important right now to stay sharp. Meanwhile, the mortgage has skyrocketed. The utilities are crucifying us. And you fritter away our meager reserves on a private wine bar!”
In Brooklyn, families shouting in the halo of a streetlamp enjoyed a long tradition, and the neighbors wouldn’t blink. But they would listen. Diversion was scarce.
Closing the basement door behind her, Avery emerged from the stairwell. “Lowell and I contribute to joint expenses. But I wasn’t aware that our money had become everybody’s money—”
“Avery—are you an alcoholic?”
“Oh, please!”
“Are you an alcoholic? Because that’s the only explanation—”
“Our witless presidente having renounced the national debt doesn’t mean we’re on war rations. For me, a glass of wine at the end of the day—”
“Avery, I haven’t seen you drink ‘a’ glass of wine since you were fourteen.”
“Strip away all the joys of life, and it’s not worth living!”
“Strip away the booze and life’s not worth living. That is how alcoholics think. If I’m wrong, prove it, and send the wine back.”
“This is out of order.” Lowell lumbered up from the basement entrance as well. “Your sister and I are over twenty-one. You may not approve of how we spend our funds, but just because we’re guests in your home—”
“I realize you have a lot invested professionally in the notion that this is a temporary ‘downturn,’” Florence said. “But we don’t know how long this spiral is going to last or how deep it’s going to go, and between us we have four children to feed!”
“It’s your son,” Avery said, “who keeps harping on how we have to convert dollars into hard assets that could be used for barter—”
“Oh, don’t be disingenuous!” Florence’s voice had hit its less attractive upper register. “Yes, of course I’ve heard how over in the park alcohol and high-nic e-bacco are used instead of money, but you’re drinking your currency.”
“Listen, this whole communal arrangement only works,” Lowell said, “if we maintain some boundaries—”
“Oh? How am I to maintain any ‘boundaries’ when the primary asset I’m pooling with Nollie, Kurt, and your whole family is my house?”
“That’s what this is really about?” Avery shouted. “You have to have total control over everything we do in your house? You’re now the big momma bear, and we have to ask permission to drink, or use curse words, or eat nonorganic chicken?”
“Any chicken. That’s what this is about! ANY CHICKEN!”
Drawn by the commotion, Esteban slipped out the main front door. “Hey, even in my old neighborhood in North Bellport, this sort of shouting match was considered low-rent. What’s the probelma, amigos?” If the dash of Spanish was meant to inject a note of jocularity, it didn’t work.
“You and I only allow ourselves to have sex every two weeks,” Florence said, “so we can make a tube of spermicide for my diaphragm last for months. You wouldn’t even take ibuprofen for that muscle strain last week, because the bottle’s almost finished. Meanwhile these guys are self-medicating their hearts out! Though their investment in the ‘necessity’ of two bottomless glasses of chardonnay is, I’m informed, ‘none of my business.’”
As Florence rarely lost her temper, Esteban seemed uncertain how to kid-gloves her down to earth. “Mmm,” he said, waggling his hand. “Whether that’s our business is a gray area.”
“It’s our business the moment they exhaust their savings,” Florence said. “At which point, it will retroactively become our business how they wasted that money before they threw themselves on our mercy!”
“Maybe everyone needs a safety valve,” Esteban submitted; he’d been missing his Dos Equis himself. “One small indulgence.”
“Small? We’re not talking an airline miniature here, but cases and cases!”
“Two cases,” Avery said scornfully.
“Indulgence?” Florence fumed. “Think I wouldn’t like to go out to eat with my boyfriend once in a while, or catch a movie like a normal person? Wouldn’t I rather have been able to buy my son a proper fifteenth-birthday present in January, instead of scrawling on a lousy card? Why do you people imagine I’m totally fine going without chocolate, and bacon, and real coffee? Why wouldn’t I miss having wine from time to time? I used to love doing a couple of lines of coke, too, in case you think I’m a party-pooping priss, and I don’t buy that either! Any more than I save up my salary to go on vacation in Italy. My name is Florence, and I’ll never get there, will I, I’ll never go! Because every dime I make goes toward making sure nine other people aren’t starving to death! Don’t you think I’d also like a little whimsy, a little lightness, a little spontaneity in my life? Because I’m sick of everyone acting like I’m tight and stingy and mean and stinting because I choose to be like this, because I’m a killjoy, because I have no sense of fun, and I work in a homeless shelter because I’m grim by nature! I hate my job, you hear me? I would love to quit, and I can’t, because I’m apparently some—earth-mother chump!”
“We should obviously move out,” Avery said. “All this pent-up resentment. I knew you were keeping things in, but—”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Florence said, stamping her foot. “Where do you plan to go, with a husband whose head’s in the clouds and three kids?”
“We’ll think of something,” Avery muttered.
“If you could think of anything, you wouldn’t be here.” Florence’s arms were folded and she was glaring, while Avery’s head was bowed and she’d started to cry. Screaming out in the open having been cathartic, Florence couldn’t sustain the fury; since childhood, she’d always been a sucker for her sister’s tears. Sighing, she crossed the three segments of sidewalk between them, opened her arms, and took Avery to her chest. At length all four effected a rapprochement in the basement over a chenin blanc from upper New York State, one glass of which put Florence off her face after not having had a drink in months. This wasn’t their first fight, and wouldn’t be their last. But they could all reach giddy heights of rage and vituperation, after which the principals simply stood there and were obliged in due course to shuffle off to their assigned mattresses. It was one more luxury the Mandible family could no longer afford: a permanent falling-out.