Concrete Angel Read Online Free PDF Page B

who lived so frugally. Shouldn’t their daughter be tithing or helping missionaries in Africa like they did? Shouldn’t we be saving for my college costs or their own old age? Shouldn’t Mother put something away in case Daddy got disgusted enough to leave her? What was our bank account like with so many expensive items filling our shelves? Later I wondered why Mother had left such items on display—knowing how they’d react. But house-pride trumped any good sense. And she probably thought she was being prudent given the number of things she’d stashed away.
    Yes, there were many things to examine in my mother’s house, and occasionally my grandparents recognized one.
    “Isn’t that the cut-glass bowl your Aunt Lillian kept on her buffet?” Grandmother asked one day, her hand going at once to her mouth as if covering an imminent scream. I could tell right away she’d said it without thinking and already regretted her words—especially given the presence of my grandfather. She had a higher level of tolerance for my mother’s ways than he did.
    All eight eyes shot to the item in question. Grandfather began to shake his head in despair. “I tell you, Dell…”
    Mother ‘s eyes darted around, searching for inspiration. “It’s slightly different from hers, Mother.” I could see her brain clicking from across the room, the swift invention of a cover story. “When I spotted the bowl in an antiques’ store in New Hope, I had to have it—remembering hers so fondly.” Her eyes flashed back and forth between her parents. “Dear Aunt Lillian. What good taste she has. She’s famous for it. Right, Mother?”
    My mother was gaining confidence as her story took shape. I could see a fulsome reminiscence on the horizon. I nodded, trying to provide any support I could.
    My grandmother, eyes darting fearfully from her husband, to her daughter, to the bowl in question, voiced her agreement.
    “Lillian did the altar at church on Sundays. People remarked on it all the time. Lovely taste—in flowers especially.”
    My grandfather sighed, pulling out a handkerchief to pat his damp forehead. A low hum began. It was unclear which grandparent used this device as a balm until my grandfather died and with him the hum.
    Mother, ignoring the hum, grew more convincing as she began to believe her own lie. “I paid the moon for it too. Probably too much but…” Her voice was strong now and she looked them straight in the eye. “Had to have it once I saw the likeness—almost a tribute to her.”
    She proceeded to spin the story of her purchase of the cut-glass bowl into something as fragile as the bowl itself, embellishing it with stories of trips to get its worth assessed, the insurance paid bi-monthly, a mention of registered mail orders to Dublin for special cleaning fluid.
    I was on pins and needles—waiting to see what came next and wondering when she’d stolen it. We rarely visited Aunt Lillian so it might’ve been hidden away for years, perhaps for as much as a decade—long before I was born probably. Why did she decide to display it now? Had she forgotten where it came from or did she like to torment her parents with stories like this one? Did she relish displaying her abilities as both a thief and a liar? Although a regular circulation of Mother’s booty took place in our house, she had a pretty good memory about which items were taboo. Was there a part of her wanting to be caught, confronted, and shamed?
    As the details about the purchase of the bowl mounted, I was faint with anxiety. Certainly she’d go too far and they’d know the truth. They’d feel obliged to bundle the bowl under their arm and take it to Hackensack, New Jersey where Aunt Lillian lived, admitting to the elderly woman, in some stage of dementia now, that her great-niece was a thief.
    What I didn’t understand for a long time was my grandparents didn’t want to know the truth. They were neck-deep in Mother’s lies, and there was no way out.