Shaken and Stirred by Joan Opyr

Author:Joan Opyr
Language: eng
Format: mobi, epub
Tags: ! Yes
ISBN: 9781932859799
Publisher: Bywater Books
Published: 0101-01-01T06:00:00+00:00

“I can’t believe you’ll let an Avon lady into this house,” I said.

“It’s only Jean,” my mother said. “I like Avon. The company’s not tainted. And I never blamed what’s-her-face for what your father did.”

“Avon’s not tainted? What about Glenda Norris?”

Glenda Norris had been my grandmother’s Avon lady for years. She claimed to be forty-five, but she looked like she’d spent twice that many years as a warden in a women’s prison. Glenda was rough. She chain-smoked filterless Pall Malls and told stories about her husband Jimmy which made me feel grateful to be living with Hunter. Jimmy hadn’t worked since 1975. He had a bad back, a bad temper, and a sebaceous gland problem that made him smell like dead dog. Avon wasn’t a sideline for Glenda. It paid all the bills not covered by social services. On my more generous days, I felt sorry for her. I imagined going door to door, peddling cologne in bottles shaped like eagles or Betsy Ross, all so a stinking mean drunk could lie on a sofa in his underwear and call you a bitch.

Of course, Glenda gave as good as she got. The last time she came over, she had six stitches in her forehead marking the spot where Jimmy had beaned her with a beer bottle. Jimmy had a broken arm because she’d taken her revenge with a two-by-four. Nana, who would’ve bought cutlery from Jack the Ripper, ordered at least forty dollars’worth that day.

Glenda could outmaneuver Jimmy, but there was no escape from the Pall Malls. She’d gone coughing and gasping to her final reward, the heavenly version of World Wide Wrestling, and now Jean was taking her place. It was part of Jean’s occupational therapy—her therapist said she had to find an occupation. Her work history was spotty at best. She showed up at a job, worked like a charm for a month or two, stopped showing up or showed up drunk, and got fired. Sales was the best she could hope for. She was cheerful about it, cheerful and enthusiastic. She’d chosen Avon and Cutco Knives in order to maximize her options. I gave it two weeks.

“Jean is such a sweet woman,” Nana said. “You wouldn’t believe she could act like she does. I’ve heard tell that alcoholism might be an allergy.”

“An allergy to not being the center of attention,” my mother said.

Jean rang the doorbell, and Nana let her in with a flurry of offers—a chair, a glass of iced tea, a Little Debbie’s snack cake. Jean waved away all but the chair.

There was a resemblance between Susan and her mother. Jean, however, was naturally blonde. Her hair was pale yellow, shot through with streaks of silver gray. She and Susan shared the same slender build, and there was something about the way they carried themselves—they both vibrated with energy, Susan’s quiet and self-contained; Jean’s nervous and bursting. Jean’s hands shook when she talked, and she talked a lot. She aggravated my mother, who said Jean reminded her of a parakeet she’d had as a child.

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