Chapter 9
Bridget
Miranda Jameson was a severe and stoic-looking woman with Victoria’s height, dark hair and wrinkles that made it clear she got them from frowning more than she did from smiling, and she put on a token smile for me and Victoria, and I could tell she was sizing me up as the unworthy evil gay girlfriend of her daughter who probably had some very unserious and untrustworthy job.
“You must be Bridget,” she said, with all the warmth and delight you might summon to welcome a giant sentient cockroach into your house. To her credit, I think she tried to be nice. Not to her credit, I think she needed to try harder.
“It’s a pleasure to make your acquaintance, Miss Jameson,” I said. “Your house is beautiful. Thank you for having me over.”
She arched an eyebrow. I probably didn’t do a good enough job of putting on a serious face. “You’re too kind,” she said after a pause. “I suppose Victoria is talking to you for a reason, after all.”
“Mom,” Victoria said, stepping out from the next room where she and Kevin had disappeared together, a practiced smile on her face. “Oh—you met Bridget. Thanks for having my friend here for this. It’s good to establish some community here now that I’m back in town.”
“Mm. Your friend,” Miss Jameson said with a stony look between the two of us.
“She’s an interesting one. She was telling me how she thinks it’s a…
beautiful house,” she said, her voice dripping derision.
I withered. Had I said the wrong thing? I did what I did best, which was doubling down and screwing everything up more.
“It is,” I said. “I really enjoy design, aesthetics… I set up aesthetics and visuals for my work.”
Victoria turned away sharply, looking at her mother. “Mom, would it be okay to talk for one second—”
“Oh, is that so?” Miss Jameson said, her gaze steely on me. “What sort of work do you do?”
I didn’t know why I’d said that. Lesbian smut machine. I was assaulted with the visual of what would happen if I actually said that out loud, and it prompted me to break out into nervous giggles. Miss Jameson narrowed her eyes.
“Work? I assume you’re familiar with the concept.”
“Oh, I am. Very familiar. Ah, just… reminded me of an inside joke with Victoria. I have a lot of nonpublic works pending at any given time, so I’m not at liberty to disclose a lot of it, so I’ve been cagey when she asks before, we have all kinds of jokes about it. Isn’t that right?”
Victoria smiled stonily at me. I was gonna die. Miss Jameson didn’t sound pleased. “Nonpublic works pending,” she said.
“Yes, well, I do media marketing, content strategy, but often on a direct-to-consumer level. I specialize in multimedia development and personal brand development, with depth-first distribution.”
“Mm. And thus the aesthetics.”
“Yes, well. I do some of the videography myself, so it involves creating sets and staging visuals. You must have had some professional work done on your home,” I said, speaking faster, desperately trying to change the subject.
“The thematic development on the approach, incorporating the landscaping to create a sensation of opening up, and leveraging the construction with the pond to invoke the concept of the secret oasis, the architectural concepts reimagining classic themes in a contemporary lens. I can tell there was clear inspiration from a variety of different backgrounds, cultures. And then the interior design… whoever was the designer on this is a master of color especially. Muted greens and blues is difficult to pull off, but the hue balancing on the accents makes everything pull together harmoniously.” I was just saying words.
I needed to stop. I didn’t. “And the chandelier!” I rambled.
“A statement piece, but one that’s subtle, ties everything together and immediately livens the space without demanding more attention than the rest of the composition can withstand.
” I needed to shut up. Half of that I pulled out of my ass.
Miss Jameson’s expression hadn’t changed one micrometer.
“I think it’s beautiful. It’s very clean, too. Spacious. Warm. Welcoming. I love it.”
“Hm.” She turned away. “Well, you’re here now, so that’s lovely. Victoria, let’s talk in private.”
“Ah, Mom, we’re not—” Victoria cleared her throat, standing up taller. “I mean… of course.”
I thought things were already bad before the door swung open, and a little old lady with short white curls and a hunch to her shoulders, chin jutting forward, wearing a tacky little floral dress, came in the room and said, “Miranda, your son’s gay.”
Miss Jameson whirled on her with a wild look. “Victoria is my daughter, Grandma.”
“Gay, the whole lot of them,” the great-grandmother said, and she handed me a mug that looked like eggnog and smelled like so much rum you’d get drunk if someone took a sip in the next room. “You’re Victoria’s girlfriend, right? Your girlfriend’s a handful. Drink up.”
“Oh, uh, about that,” I said, but there was something powerful about the woman, and I found I had no choice but to take the drink in my hand.
“What do you mean, my son is gay?” Miss Jameson said, her voice raising too high, and Victoria stepped in front of her.
“Mom, it’s okay, Nan is just talking—”
“What do you mean, what do I mean?” the nan said. “He’s gay, Miranda. Do I have to explain the concept to you? Kids these days are all gay. Good for them. Look how being straight worked out for me, your father, you. His boyfriend’s in the living room bonding with your father over 70s music.”
“Nan, please, just give us one second,” Victoria said, her face marble-white.
“You’re telling me you both brought your… same-sex lovers around without telling me for Christmas.”
“About that,” I said.
“No,” Victoria said. “Mom—”
The door swung open again, and a man who looked like he’d stepped in from a classic novel about sad men and fish came in the room, holding a mug that looked like it had eggnog, and I could assume the other primary component.
“Miranda, get a move on. Your uncle and I are talking to Samuel in the living room. Just when I’d thought there weren’t any young men with good sense in this world anymore. ”
The nan sighed wearily, giving me a conspiratorial look. “Men are all such a crude, simple bunch. You picked well.”
“Oh, uh… here’s to that.” I tapped my mug against hers.
I never did manage to get a word in properly, and neither did Victoria. Miss Jameson stormed off to go confront Samuel, our carefully constructed sting operation crumbling in a heartbeat, and Victoria chased after her, trying to salvage things and, I think, not succeeding.
I got swept along in things, and apparently Miss Jameson did not take well to Sam—there was some shouting, some arguing, and Kevin tried to step up, which just introduced more factions into the shouting.
Victoria’s and Kevin’s cousin Daniel started arguing too, even though he didn’t really seem to have a side—from what I could tell, he just liked to argue—and one of Victoria’s aunts complained her energies weren’t in good alignment if everyone was going to argue, and she fixed the energy alignment issue by drinking a lot of vodka, which wound up with her yelling at people a lot too, and the crisis was only settled by dinner being finished and ready on the table, where we all sat around with tensions simmering even as everyone pretended to be polite.
Miss Jameson made passive-aggressive remarks to Kevin and twice as much to Sam, and she didn’t so much as look at me, which, at least she was with Victoria on that—we went an entire dinner without Victoria looking at me.
And to crown it all, I found out that I was right, and that the holiday tacos were, to put it eloquently, an affront before God.
I wasn’t even religious, but I was spiritually offended by them.
It wasn’t even good holiday food inside—the turkey was overcooked and stringy, the stuffing was so dry it was like chewing a towel, the mashed potatoes were clearly instant and used so much water it was more like an unseasoned potato soup, and the gravy and cranberry sauce had been mixed together to make some kind of congealed menace to society.
Aside from whatever artificial flavorings were in the stuffing mix this abomination had come from, not one herb or spice had crossed paths with this meal, and I explored the depths of Calvinistic self-punishment as moralism as I crunched a taco shell filled with soupy potato that dribbled sticky and wet down my hand and left me with dried turkey meat stuck between my teeth and chewing flavorless pieces of stuffing long after everything else in the taco had gone away, gristle and fat haunting my mouth like a bad memory.
Sam shared looks of horror with me as we both grappled with what was in front of us, and I think he was more offended by the taco than he was by his boyfriend’s mother yelling at him, but at least we were in it together—outsiders in a cult watching the brainwashed attendees go back for second tacos.
I drank rum with a hint of eggnog, and it helped me forget the pain.
I excused myself to go to the bathroom partway through the meal, because I felt like I was about to throw up when I saw Daniel wipe a blob of congealed cranberry turkey fat from his lip and pop it back in his mouth, and the nan caught me on the way back, getting another mug of eggnog. She beamed at me. “Good tacos, right?”
“Oh, uh, yeah… delicious.”
“Sure they’re not the best tacos you’ve eaten.”
“No, no, I think they’re great, they’re, uh…” I frowned. “Wait, are you making a sex joke?”
“Well, am I glad to see somebody in this family can pick up on things. What a relief to know Vicky isn’t going to be deprived.”
Wow. Nan didn’t have a filter. I cleared my throat hard. “Ah, uh, well… you know, the thing is, I, uh, Victoria’s not actually my girlfriend. We’re just roommates, and this is all just a misunderstanding that’s gotten way out of hand…”
She frowned. “Say what? Speak up.”
“We’re not girlfriends. She’s my roommate.”
She frowned further, squinting at me. “So no one’s eating anyone’s tacos?”
“Oh my god. No. I don’t even think she’s gay.”
She scoffed. “Oh, you’re joking. Just when I’d thought Vicky was onto something. You seem interesting, and God knows nobody in this family’s getting into anything interesting. Sammy’s fine enough, but you, I like you.”
“Oh, uh, thanks. Big relief, because honestly, I don’t know why I’m here.” I paused. “You know, I don’t actually know your name.”
“Glenda. Like the good witch. I used to say Glenda the good bitch, but then I found out campy gay men say that, and I don’t want to do any of that… what’cha call it, cultural appropriation. Just call me Nan.”
I blinked. “Nan. Nice to meet you. You’re, uh, a bit different from the rest of the family.”
“Things really went downhill when my son Eugene married that Barbara woman. All oh, things are going to be right and proper and good around here. Don’t tell anyone, but I’m actually the one who poisoned her drink to get rid of her. Statute of limitations is up anyway.”
I stiffened. “Uh… Nan, I don’t think you should be admitting to that.”
“I’m joking. She got a divorce and moved to Florida to be with her creepy culty parish.
She comes around sometimes to lecture us on how we need to be good shepherds of the Lord’s flock.
She uses a lot of words to say everyone should stop having sex.
Some kind of chastity sex cult. You should ask Vicky out.
If she’s not gay, convince her to give it a try.
None of the straight relationships have worked out. Want some more eggnog?”
I blinked slowly, taking in about thirty different things at once. “Yeah, I’d love that. Maybe without the rum this time. I want to be able to drive home.”
“Ah, where’s the fun in that,” she said, but she obliged.