“‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY TO YOU . . .’”
Poisoning Richard was a possibility. Unfortunately, my education in chemistry had ended with a C plus in high school science, and while I could slip bleach into Richard’s pinot noir, I had no clue how to create a formula that was subtle in taste and lethal in effect.
“‘Happy birthday to you . . .’”
Slitting his throat was also an option. Though this would require a great deal of courage, a sense of determination I feared would vanish the minute I climbed into Richard’s bed clutching one of his Williams-Sonoma butcher knives. Plus, there was the mess to consider. I hate blood.
“‘Happy birthday, dear Patricia . . .’”
And then there was the problem of escape. None of the waiters knew the code to the gate; even if I did manage to successfully poison or stab or strangle Richard, I would be unable to flee.
“‘Happy birthday to you.’” The diners wrapped up their flat serenade. Richard’s mother frowned slightly before she blew out her candles, as if it were her birthday wish to discover us all dead when the lights came up.
Michael switched on the pendant lamp that hovered over Richard’s dining table as Seb stepped forward to slice the cake. Patricia recoiled.
“Is this coconut?” she spat.
“Yes,” Richard murmured. He was a completely different person in the presence of his mother, a mere shadow of the monster I knew. A fearful, petulant child.
“I’m allergic to coconut.”
“Mother, you’ve had coconut cake every year for the past ten years.”
“Yes, ten awful years when I was unaware of my coconut allergy, and now, when Dr. Rosenblatt has finally found the source of my debilitating gastrointestinal issues, you serve me coconut cake on my birthday.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know,” Richard whined.
“You did know. I told you a month ago. I called you immediately after Dr. Rosenblatt diagnosed me, so relieved was I to have solved the terrible mystery of my chronic indigestion.”
“I don’t think you did . . .”
“Oh, I most certainly did. Which means you forgot. Your own mother experiences a major medical victory and you just forget.”
“I’m sorry.”
“No, I’m sorry that everyone else has to sit through this.”
Patricia motioned to the stricken faces of her fellow diners. Everyone had been summoned for Richard’s mother’s birthday—“She’s turning seventy-five, I need serious backup,” he’d told each compound-mate he called that afternoon as I knelt on the floor below him, scrubbing red wine out of the concrete with a steel brush and a bucket of Clorox—and Patricia’s disappointment had been the recurring theme of the meal. First it was the table settings (“Oh, Richard, you know I abhor this china”), then the Caesar salad (“Far too much lemon in this dressing, dear, I can’t take another bite”), then her cocktail (“I’m impressed—there are a mere two ingredients in a gin and tonic, and your sensationally inept waitstaff still managed to ruin mine”), then her steak (“Like sawing into a leather wallet”), and now the mountain of coconut frosting that towered before her. Ironically, of all the insulting aspects of her dinner, the lack of the 2003 Beaujolais was the least important to Patricia. When Richard preemptively apologized for its absence, throwing me under the bus for breaking a bottle that was of such great sentimental value, she merely sniffed and said to Richard’s crestfallen face, “Oh, that’s quite all right. Truth be told, I’d completely forgotten about it.”
As dinner stretched on, it became clear that Patricia was the type of woman who derived great joy from being disappointed; each of Richard’s failures gave her greater power. Even though some of her comments were directed at the private chef Richard had hired or the waitstaff, it was clear that all of the barbs were meant for her son.
“Should I still serve the cake to everyone else?” Seb ventured warily.
“No,” Richard snapped.
A tense silence descended as Seb swiftly removed the cake from the table. I stood in the corner of the room holding an open bottle of dessert wine, unsure if I should pour it now that dessert had been banished from the room.
It was at this juncture that you stepped in, Mace, attempting to save the evening in its final hour. “So, Richard. Sandro tells me that Meryl Streep is interested in starring in a film adaptation of Flesh and Blood,” you said, steering the conversation into cheerier territory. “You must be very proud, Patricia.”
Patricia ignored you and instead turned to Richard with a furious grimace, the same contorted expression that I’d seen on Richard’s face so many times before. So that’s where he got it from, I thought.
“Is this true?”
“Well, nothing’s been solidified yet, but—”
“Answer my question, Richard. Is this true?”
“Yes.”
“I suppose she’s interested in playing the mother.” Patricia spat the final word like it was one of the pieces of too-tough steak she’d coughed onto her plate earlier this evening. Richard said nothing. “Well, is she?”
“Yes,” he admitted.
“I don’t see why anyone would want to produce such a vulgar work, let alone play that dreadful role.”
“Surely you don’t mean that,” you said, attempting to play peacekeeper but only digging yourself deeper. Patricia swiveled toward you.
“Oh, I most definitely mean it. That play is disgusting and”—she turned back to Richard—“I have made you more than aware of my opinions on the matter.” Her eyes burned with rage although her tone remained staid and condescending. “I am shocked that even after hearing my perspective, you would pursue a film adaptation of such vile trash.”
“Mother, I . . . I’m sorry. I don’t have to do it—”
“Oh, but you will, won’t you? You’ll do exactly as you please, as always. With little consideration of how it might affect your mother—”
“But how does it affect you, Mother?” Richard fired back, finally trading meekness for anger.
“Don’t press me on this subject.”
“No, really. I’d like to know how it affects the great Mrs. Shriver.”
“Richard, stop.”
“Please, tell me, Mumsy. How has my little vulgar piece-of-shit play affected someone so superior?”
“Richard, you know very well—”
“How does it affect you, Mother?”
“Because it’s about me!”
Her final outburst echoed through the room. No one moved. Even Charles, an expert at filling awful silences with dreadful jokes, remained tight-lipped. No one wished to fuck with Patricia.
“Well, I think we’d better retire for the evening,” Ethel said finally, practically pulling Ira from his seat. “A pleasure as always, Patricia.”
“Same here,” Charles said, uncharacteristically sober.
“I would like to go home as well,” Patricia announced, her voice wavering for the first time this evening. Ethel, Ira, and Charles all stopped in surprise.
“But Mother, it’s too late to go back to the city. Just stay in the guesthouse like we planned and—”
“I said, I’m going home.”
“Fine. I’ll call Carlo and have him bring your car around.”
There was something about Richard’s devastated expression as he called Patricia’s driver that brought vengeful joy to my heart. A taste of his ruin. I wanted more.
“Carlo will be here in ten minutes,” Richard said after a hushed and tense phone conversation in the far corner of the room.
“Good,” Patricia said.
“And it isn’t about you,” Richard whimpered. “My play.”
“Good,” Patricia repeated flatly.
“On the contrary, Mrs. Shriver,” I interrupted, a giddy, vindictive thrill burning my spine. I wasn’t sure what I was doing—my words gained a momentum that outpaced my thoughts. But the fog of fear and helplessness had finally lifted. Rage, my long-lost friend, emerged. “Richard once told me that his play was all about you.”
A violent glare lit Richard’s face. He looked like he wanted to kill me.
That’s it, I thought, solving the problem of Richard’s murder. I’ll say it was self-defense.
“Mace, let’s play my favorite game,” Richard slurred.
“I don’t know if I’m in the mood,” you mumbled nervously.
“Oh, come on. You’re an actor. You’re always in the mood for more attention.” Richard’s drunkenness converted his attempt at flirtation into something that sounded like an accusation. He sidled up to you on the couch and licked your ear. Sandro, four martinis deep and completely passed out, snored with his head in your lap. Charles, Ira, and Ethel were long gone, all back at their respective homes, safe from the blotto aftermath of Patricia’s birthday.
“C’mon, it’s Daddy’s favorite game,” Richard cooed.
In the kitchen, tense looks passed between the waitstaff. Each waiter focused on his individual task with exaggerated attention to avoid being drawn into the scene. Michael wiped down the already sparkling table for a second time, Chase scraped the remains of leftover fillets into the trash with the slowness of a sloth, and Seb scrubbed a saucepan like his life depended on it. Perhaps it did. Clearly, my fellow servants were aware of what this game entailed and did not wish to play. I, however, was completely in the dark. It must have been a game developed before my tenure. The fear in their expressions filled me with hope. I needed a trigger, something to set Richard off. Then, with a roomful of sympathetic witnesses, I would defend myself until Richard’s face was merely a stain on the concrete, something to be scoured from the floor in the morning after the coroner came to his conclusion. Self-defense. Jonah killed Richard, but who could blame him?
“No,” you said, forceful this time.
“My least favorite word in the English language,” Richard growled.
“I want to play,” I said. You shot me a warning look. I ignored it.
“But you don’t know how,” Richard whined, his eyelids drooping, the irises underneath drifting upward.
“Well, wake the fuck up and teach me,” I shouted and slapped him across the face. That brought his fire back. Challenge accepted. You looked at me in horror. The boys in the kitchen stopped their busywork, jolted by my outburst.
“Okay, let’s play, then,” Richard slurred once his shock subsided. He waddled into his bedroom like a giddy, drunken child.
“Are you crazy,” you hissed once Richard was gone.
But before I could answer, Richard was back, carrying a white-blond wig, a short, tangled bob. It looked strangely familiar, and I struggled to remember where I’d seen it before.
“Put it on,” Richard barked as he threw the mess of hair at me.
I caught the wig in my fist. That’s when I remembered: Richard’s play. This was the wig that Richard’s fictional matriarch wore in Flesh and Blood, the wig that bore a striking resemblance to his actual mother’s hairstyle.
“Now play Mommy,” Richard demanded.
“What do I—”
“He wants you to do an impression of his mother,” you snapped. Your tone implied that you thought I should do the opposite—put the wig down and end this portion of the evening. But you didn’t know my plan.
“Oh, I see.” My body tensed. Richard stepped closer.
“Play Mommy.” His sour whisper stung my nostrils.
I put the wig on. The coarse lining made my scalp itch. Beads of sweat bloomed on my forehead.
“Oh, Richard. There’s far too much lemon in this dressing, dear, I can’t take another bite,” I cooed, imitating Patricia.
“You’re very good at the game!” Richard laughed and clapped his hands. You and the boys looked on in terror. “Another, another!”
“I said medium rare, darling. Cutting this steak is like sawing into a leather wallet.”
“That is perfect.” Richard was laughing violently now, tears dripping from his chin.
“And you know I simply abhor this china.”
“Yes, yes, good!” Richard clapped again. “Now tell me that you love me, Mommy.”
“Oh, darling, but I don’t love you.”
His face darkened. “I said, tell me you love me.”
“But then I’d be lying.”
Richard barreled at me, grabbed my face.
“Richard, stop,” Chase shouted from the kitchen.
“Tell me . . .” Richard growled, forcing a kiss on me mid-phrase. He pushed his tongue into my mouth, white strands from the wig mixing with spit. “That you love me.”
“I’m afraid you just made a common mistake, son.”
“Tell me you love me.”
“I just fucked you, dear. Not the same thing.”
And that’s when Richard punched me.
I dropped to the ground, hitting my head on the coffee table.
Black.