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Smolive Garden, Chapter 19: Phone Home
🕑 Added 2023-08-03 22:35:55 +0000 UTC14 hour shifts + downtime + caffeine pills = time to write. There's time now, paradoxically.
It's also compiled at 3AM, so we right back on my bullshit, lmao
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The ring that pierced the silence of the foyer was a bright mechanical one, an iron clapper ramming against a small aluminum bell housed within the base of the telephone the source of the cacophany. The telephone itself would have been considered an antique model before The Great Clusterfuck - at least, it was made after an older model. Its mother of pearl, gold-trimmed handset rested on two golden arms, providing all the cutting edge ergonomics that the 1910s could offer. The turquoise keypad flashed slightly, the small LEDs embedded in the number dial hinting that this was a recreation of something from the old countries, something to tie the diaspora to the times before. As it was a reminder of where they came from, the family that owned this particular machine placed it alone, on a stand, in a place of honor, with it’s back up against the wall.
However, if you were to point out to Josette Mignon Fleur de Boudreaux-Beaumont that her genuine reproduction voice-messenger only device was, gaudy, gauche and anything but genuine, why, that would be a scandal, and she wasn’t sure her aged heart could take such a thing.
Long, crimson acrylic nails spread a smoky-hued bead curtain apart, like some grand dame moses splitting the red sea in twain. Faded autumn curls mixed with the gray snow of age cascading down the woman’s shoulders, a lone turtle hairpin holding back enough of the tangles so she could see. Josette frowned, slightly, her gentle laugh lines wrinkling a bit deeper as she sucked on a butterscotch hard candy, the beads gently rolling back against her sun-tanned shoulders and back as she moved forward in purposeful thought.
There were many ways to send messages in the Boudreaux-Beaumont clan, and some were more important methods than others. To use the mother of pearlphone, why…
Someone wanted a direct line. Someone wanted attention.
The phone continued to ring as Josette stepped forward, crossing her arms partly to close her lounging robe, and partly in deepening thought. It was a Tuesday, so the poker ring she was part of couldn’t be calling to settle debts - it was too early in the week and they were most likely still too hung over to remember she palmed a couple chips. She also most definitely had a permit for her improv jazz band’s performance tomorrow, unless someone had filed yet another preemptive noise and/or indecency complaint. On a lark she leaned back, gripping the doorframe for support, as she scanned the livingroom for her husband.
No dice; her children had long since flown the coocoo’s nest, so silence didn’t necessarily mean something catastrophic was unfolding without her knowledge. But nothing was on fire, and the cars were still in the garage - and in one piece - so most likely he was puttering about somewhere in the house.
“That means,” Josette drawled, her accent putting her somewhere between the delta and the bayou, “it must be one of the cher bebes.”
Josette closed her robe, making herself presentable; even though it was a phone call, you were still entertaining someone in your household, and there’s decorum when it comes to such things that you don’t ignore. Crossing the foyer with quick, purposeful steps, she picked up the receiver and cradled it in her neck with one swift, fluid motion.
“Comment ca va, bon ami?” Josette cooed into the phone, her voice sounding like a warm hug from long distance.
“Comme ci, comme ca” Came the uncharacteristically sweet and gentle voice over the line. Josette knew enough about her children and grandchildren to know when someone was ok, truly ok, and pretending to be ok. For Anne-Marie, inheritor of the family’s firecracker soul, to respond with a de rien?
“Qui ci parlez? I know that’s not my Marie - did someone break your heart again, mon ami?” Josette replied, a little more ice in her voice as she put away the gentle old lady persona and clothed herself as the matriarch.
“No, mon vielle, grandmere. You know I’m working at that restaurant, yea?” Anne-Marie started, her voice soft and sweet, but with a slight sadness to it. Josette placed herself on a slight guard; either something was really wrong, or the little imp was going to ask for some more “book money”.
“I do, I do. M’ still proud of you for sharin’ the trinity with your cochon coq, mon ami. If your boss ever wants to jump in a pot herself, let me know - I got some good seasonin’ for them.” Josette replied, teasing slightly. “But what’s wrong? Why are you calling me on the turquoise?”
Anne-Marie sighed, cupping her hand around her phone slightly to muffle the background noise that had started to filter into their conversation. “We have some competition, grandmere. They’re a bit aggressive, to say the least, and I could use help.”
Josette laughed, not unkindly. “Cho! If you think I’m gonna get yo tantes and oncles to pick your cooking over mine, you are a couillion! Though, some men are into cute idiots, mon ami.”
“Bon Dieu, Grandmere! No - I would never live that down! No, these boo doo jerks have come over and roughed up our store! Telling us yats to get out and close shop. Gave us a dallas handshake just a lil while ago!”
Anne-Marie paused on the line, and heard only a light muffling noise as Josette pressed the receiver to her bosom and let loose an unladylike string of words that started to peel the varnish off of the pecan wood telephone stand.
“Ahem.” Josette responded after a few moments of composing herself. “My old ears must have misheard you, cher. You’re telling me some fonchock tried to impress upon you, my darling grandchild, that you should leave your job? One of ourfonchocks?”
“Yes, mema. Four, maybe five men?” Anne-Marie replied. “Swooped into the parking lot and peppered our front. Nothing that would have killed, but enough to make a statement.”
“Were they-“
“No, grandmere, they were not the Dauterive boys, and according to mama they haven’t been within a parsec of you for 75 years.” Anne-Marie interrupted.
“You never know with that family of bon-de-riens.” Josette said sharply, examining her nails as she rested her hip against the blistered table. “Everyone worth knowing knows you’re a hardpoint restaurant, and those tete de cabri idiots would still try to pull off something like this. You know Bill left your grand-auntie at the altar?”
“Grandmere-“
“Ah! You know I’ll take care of you, my pauvre bete.” Josette said, smiling, as within her mind the Boudreaux-Beaumont family tree was quickly mapped and pruned down to a need-to-know size. “I’ll make a few calls and let the kin know. But speaking of kin, it’s good for you to know your history, and it’s been so long since we last spoke. Don’t tell me you were calling only because you were in trouble!”
“No, mema, not at all!” Anne-Marie replied, backpedaling slightly. “I was going to call you this weekend but this came up, so I thought I’d call and visit early, that’s all!”
Josette responded with a noncommittal murmur, her grin widening as she continued to examine her perfect nails. Grandchildren were a blessing, of course, but there’s nothing in the Good Book or otherwise that says you can’t mess with ‘em from time to time. Josette had something that was rare enough to exploit in Anne-Marie’s call: a captive audience.
“Well, then let me tell you about your cousin, Anthony. You know, the freckled boy on your auntie Belle’s side? The one with the off-center face?”
“It’s not off-center, mema. That’s not a nice thing to say.” Anne-Marie replied.
Josette clicked her tongue. “Oh you look at him and tell me Belle didn’t slide him down facefirst on a metal slide in July. Poor boy looks over your shoulder every time you talk to him, and Belle always did get distracted when her kids were young. Anyway.”
Brian smelled blood, as it was in his nature to do so.
It was a quirk of human societies that different scenarios played out in different ways depending on the cultures of the people present. More collectivist societies would read the energy in a room and do their best to mellow out with it. Other, more individualistic societies would - in some cases - do the exact opposite, creating a cacophany of energy and competing ideals. However, in all such things, there are outliers, and for mankind those outliers happened to be from the upside-down.
Certainly, the British accelerated the process of societal drift by shipping over only criminals, ne’er-do-wells, and other misfits and vagabonds; the shitposters of the Victorian era needed somewhere to go, after all. Combine that with a desolate wilderness, years-long delay in connecting with your home cultures, strange and quirky wildlife and you end up with something that can only be described as an “Australian.” This, of course, was no excuse, and leading human sociologists were almost utterly convinced that there must be something about the visage of a kangaroo that drives men mad.
Brian was a shitposter, like his father, and his father before him, and it was by and large the main reason why he squatted in front of Anne-Marie with a wide, shit-eating grin on his face. Anne-Marie was still in Tomtom’s clutches, that hadn’t changed: the Karnakian made for a very soft prison. The real prize was whomever was on the other line, as they were making Anne-Marie discuss, with increasing clarity, points of familial interest.
“No, Grandmere, that’s not the boy that I’m dating! No! Yes, his eyes are just like that, but that’s not the point!” Anne-Marie said, blushing furiously as she glanced at Brian with barely concealed rage. “No, I haven’t had that problem in years - yes, I’m very sure. No Grandmere, I’m not raising my voice at you.” Anne-Marie continued, very much increasing her volume as Brian tilted his head, doing his best to eavesdrop on the conversation. “Yes, mema. Yes. I didn’t know the whole place was mothfields as far as the eye could see.” Anne-Marie said, doing her best to both humor her Grandmother and also get off the phone as fast as possible. “Yes. Yes I’m still feeding that wild one, yes - Buckeye is a good moth!”
Brian looked up at Tomtom, who was way out of her depth. “So.”
Tomtom had tilted her head flatly, staring down at Anne-Marie with the right side of her head, her left set of eyes looking up at the ceiling as she studied the human with great interest. Brian’s interjection snapped Tomtom out of her examination, and with a twist of her neck she became a much more level headed individual. “[Yes?]”
“Whatcha thinkin’ bout?” Brian replied in a sing-song voice, his grin growing ever wider.
Tomtom shifted slightly, her underfluffies shrouding Anne-Marie’s legs and lower torso. She paused for only a moment before taking the bait. “[Well. For one, I’ve never seen her turn this shade of crimson. Do you think she’ll be alright?]”
“Alright? Yes. Will she ever recover?” Brian said, standing up. “Probably not. So, how’s that andouille sausage that Anne-Marie definitely told you how to make?”
“[Sausage?]” Tomtom answered, slightly confused as Anne-Marie became a little more excitable. “[I don’t remember her Andouille recipe-]”
“Sure you do!” Brian interrupted, far too loudly, his voice carrying out from the kitchen to the crew cleaning up the dining room. “You know, her creole family recipe from the panhandle of Florida.”
There was a skip in the phone conversation as Brian continued. “Yeah! You start off with some good catfish, add in some thyme, bell peppers - doesn’t this ring a bell?”
“[I… think so? I’m sorry, I don’t remember.]” Tomtom foolishly replied, her best attempt to placate one human causing a squirming fury in the other.
“Don’t lie about that, Tomtom!” Brian said, leaning in close as he continued to be just-a-bit-too-loud. “After she shared her hushpuppy recipe with Tictac, you asked for more, nah, yeah? And ever since you learned you could do a crayfish etouffe in olive oil-“
“No! No! Arete-ca, Grandmere!” Anne-Marie held the phone away from her face as a barrage of cajun french assaulted her through the speaker. She placed the phone against her chest, immediately receiving heartburn as with her free hand she pointed two fingers at her eyes, and then directly at Brian.
“I will kill you for this.” Anne-Marie growled, as over the phone her Grandmother conferenced in Anne-Marie’s mother, sisters, and ALL her aunties.
Comments
Conrad Wong
Oh mai! Food blasphemy!
