To understand the connection between these three unlikely ladies and Archer’s punishment would require a Ph. D. in Feminine Logic. Simply to appreciate the role of Archer’s mother alone in Llona’s Machiavellian scheming might call for a postgraduate course in Advanced Intrigue. Also, one would have to be in possession of certain facts known only to Archer -- and Llona, to whom Archer had confided them in a moment of marital intimacy which the history of the human race from Achilles on down tells us must inevitably be regretted.
Fact number one: Archer loved his mother. Nothing unusual in that; so did Hamlet, not to mention Oedipus. Archer’s love was not dissimilar. Ever-present was the guilt engendered by the sight of his mother’s naked left breast slipping free from her nightgown when he was five years old. The sight stayed with him through puberty and provided the first fantasy pictures inspiring an activity which caused Archer to clench his fists all through adolescence lest he reveal signs of warts on the palms of his sinful hands. By then Archer’s mother had been widowed, which compounded his feelings of guilt and added the suspicion of inadvertent patricide to the crime of incest. Even after he was married, in -his twenties, the sight of his mother crossing her legs was enough to make Archer break out in a cold sweat.
Fact number two: Archer hated his mother.
Lust’s Old Sweet Song, music copyright by Sigmund Freud and the Viennese Sycophancy, orchestration by Philip Roth. First movement -- too-early toilet training with over-extended counterpoint of “Did-You-Move-Your-Bowels-Today-My-Son?" Second movement — notable for repetitive phrasing as follows: “Scrub-Your Teeth . . . Brush-Your-Ears . . . Press-Your-Nails . . . Dry- Your-Pants . . . Cut-Your-Hands-When-You-Go-To-The-Bathroom . . .” Third movement—Nutri-Mania (“Eat-All-Your-Greens-Not-In-Between”) followed by The Celibacy Finale (“Stay-Away-From-Girls-Sex-Marriage") building to the tragic crescendo of “You’re-Killing-Your-Mother-The-Way-You-Live.” Throughout the Archer Hornsby Symphony in G (for Guilt) Major, there is the underlying theme of bittersweet castrati humming their resentment. ’Nuf said.
Fact number three: Mother Hornsby loved Archer. Lest there be doubt, consider this poem she never wrote:
MOTHER’S HOME-BAKED METAPHORS
“As the Ebb-Tide loves the Lemming --
“As the Oven loves the Bun --
"As the Napalm loves the Rice-Stalk —
“That’s how I love you, My Son!”
“As the Buzzard loves the Carrion --
“As the Virus loves the Cure—
“As the Vampire loves the Blood Bank—
“So my Mother-Love is Pure!”
"As the Quicksand loves the Midget—-
“As the Molars love to Chew-—
"As the Grinder loves the Sausage—-
“Ahh! how much your Mom loves YOU!”
Fact number four: Mother Hornsby hated Archer. Why? Firstly, because teething preceded weaning and she still had the scar to prove it. Secondly, because he never picked up his socks, changed his underwear, or let her squeeze his blackheads without howling. Thirdly, because he was just like his father who was the last man in the world Mother Hornsby should have married in the first place. Fourthly, because the time came when Archer obviously preferred younger women, girl-snits, to his self-sacrificing old, mother. Fifthly, because he didn’t take proper care of himself, yet stubbornly remained in the best of health. And sixthly-—worst of all -- he had married over her objections and continued to live contentedly with That Woman.
Fact number five: Mother Hornsby hated That Woman. One manifestation of this was her inability to remember the name of her only son’s wife. Other manifestations ran the gamut from tears at having her advice ignored to snarls of disapproval at Llona’s miniskirts. Included were darts of sarcasm (“What will you do, Llona dear, when bosoms go out of fashion?”), sniper shots of unwanted advice (“If you keep eating candy like that, people will think you’re pregnant”), and blockbusters of hostility (“No woman could have asked for a better son before Archer married you; you’re turning him against me!”) Yes, Mother Hornsby truly loathed Llona—and the feeling was mutual!
Nevertheless, as one of the trio of ladies who might prove useful in getting revenge on Archer, Mrs. Hornsby was looked at by Llona in a new light. Llona knew that one of the biggest things Archer’s mother had against her was that she felt she had been cheated of her right to dictate the choice of her son’s wife. Mrs. Hornsby had several likely candidates in the days before Archer met Llona, and she had been anything but shy in her attempts to foist them on her son. Once, shortly rafter their marriage, Archer had given Llona a rundown of them.
“Euphremia Hossenpfeffer--number one on Mama’s list of eligibles-—was a wealthy meat-packer’s daughter with a cleft palate and hairy arms; she used a perfume that smelled like raw liver. Then there was Brunhilde Blatt, whose major charm accrued from the profits of her daddy’s undertaking parlor; she always had this ghoulish smile -- as if the corners of her mouth had been frozen with formaldehyde. And Prudence Pflugel, a pimply, pasty-faced girl with three chins whom Mom prized for her virtue and who was really putting out for Hershey bars and Oh Henrys. Also Anastasia Gluck, who swapped recipes with Mom, and who had been permanently virginized by a childhood operation in which a drunken surgeon had sewn up the wrong fissure; in fairness, she really turned on when her appendicitis sear was fondled. And there was Gertrude Twombly (moustached) and Hildegarde Horst (I.Q. 68) and Lurlene Finkelstein (breastless) and . . ."
Now Llona wondered if any of Mrs. Hornsby’s candidates were still available. If not, knowing her mother-in-law, Llona was sure she’d gladly provide an updated list. And without Llona around to act as a buffer, there was a good chance that Archer wouldn’t be strong enough to stand up against a second marital assault by his mother. What sweet revenge that would be!
The first step was to motivate Mrs. Hornsby. To take it, Llona drove over to her mother-in-law’s house one weekday morning. Her reception was typical.
“Well, look who’s here.” Mrs. Hornsby answered the doorbell. “It’s what’s-her-name.” Mrs. Hornsby was a small woman, but she blocked the doorway as effectively as a Green Bay lineman. “To what do I owe the honor, uh ...uh...uh...”
“Llona.” Llona smiled sweetly. “Llona, your daughter-in-1aw,” she identified herself. “You remember me. The girl who married your only son.”
“I have no son!” Mrs. Hornsby remained planted in the doorway as firmly as if she was the dedicated wife of a vacuum cleaner manufacturer and Llona a Hoover-peddling rival. “Once I had a son,” she added, “but since he got married I might as well be dead as far as he or his wife is concerned. He’s a good boy and does what he’s told, and she tells him to stay away from me, so now I have no son.”
“Oh, Mother Hornsby, that’s ridiculous! I never --” Llona’s deodorant was melting with anger, but she cut herself short, determined to maintain control. “Aren't you going to ask me in?” She managed another smile.
“Wipe your feet.”
Llona obediently wiped her feet and followed Mrs. Hornsby into the living room. Mrs. Hornsby turned and faced Llona, arms She didn’t ask Llona to sit down. Her attitude was warm and friendly as I an ice-knife in a deep-freeze.
“I don’t suppose you have any of that delicious coffee you make on the fire.” Llona was determined to thaw her out.
“I always have coffee on.” Mrs. Hornsby gave a little and her tone softened imperceptibly. She struggled with it a moment and pride won. “Come in the kitchen. I’ll give you a cup."
“That would be really nice.” Llona followed her again, feeling like a hungry hobo who knows the handout will never be worth all the wood he’ll have to chop.