She took the stage in her fiery red dress. She liked the center stage. She liked being in front of two hundred people--people with power and money and influence--with the hot lights pulsing down on her. She liked being properly dressed in a formal gown that flattered her figure. She liked wearing makeup and high heels. She enjoyed the idea that all eyes were on her. She liked to hold the room. She was clearly excited, almost agitated, a little like a squirrel spinning in circles. She held the little note cards in her hand. They contained everything that she was going to say.
I think about how much she reminds me of my mother--tall, thin, blonde, and looking younger than she was. Both ladies shared big, fake smiles with lots of large teeth crammed behind thin lips. Beyond the physical qualities, there were similarities in mannerisms too. There was a manic quality that the two ladies held in common My mother often moved frantically and jerkily around the house, trying to please everyone in every moment, tidying up to keep the illusion of a perfect home.
“It gives me great pleasure, “ she began, getting a little to close to the microphone and causing a feedback that reverberated through the large hall like a siren. “Sorry. It gives me great pleasure to introduce this year's winner of the Newton P. Kingness Award for Outstanding Community Service.”
She swayed back and forth, her excitement clearly visible. She waited a moment for the room to quiet down. Forks clinked against china plates as desserts were left half eaten. She looked out over the sea of people, men in their black and white tuxedos and colored ties that gave the room a prismatic look; their wives in a kaleidoscope of colored dresses of various fabrics and textures that matched their husbands' ties. Some of the men dabbed their chins with their serviettes. Some of the ladies did it for them. All of those genteel faces watching the woman read from her cards.
“This year's winner grew up on the west side. His father left him when he was only six. His mother remarried when he was eight, and his step-father was an abusive alcoholic. The abuse was so bad that he even attempted suicide as a way out. By all accounts, our winner should have been a loser--” she giggled at her tasteless joke, “a victim, a number, someone lost to history and time. Instead, he became a survivor. Although he struggled in school, he had visions of someday going to college. After his high school graduation, he applied to college, and was turned down. Undeterred, he attended three semesters of community college, where he worked hard and excelled. Because of his hard work and dedication, he was admitted to Collins College, and graduated cum laude with a degree in psychology.”
The lady in red paused to check her cards. Some people filled the momentary silence by picking at their desserts. One or two people coughed. Silence abhors a vacuum.
“He then attended graduate school, earning his Master's degree in just one and half years. As a practicing counselor, he specializes in helping young people overcome childhood trauma. He has written several influential papers and book chapters on overcoming childhood trauma, helping to develop new therapies and techniques.”
She fumbled with her cards, dropping one on the stage. It was the one she needed, and she tried squatting in her tight red dress to retrieve it. Before she could embarrass herself by ripping her snug fitting formal, I bent down and grabbed the card. Handing it back to her, I escorted her back to the microphone. “Thanks,” she whispered.
“You're doing great,” I told her. That seemed to calm her down a little.
“Four years ago, he founded ChangeUp, an organization dedicated to helping children of abuse find creative outlets for their frustration. ChangeUp focuses on finding one's authentic self, moving out of the darkness and into the light.” She glanced over at me. I smiled. “His efforts have already helped over one hundred children find their voice through art, music, sculpture, poetry, and more. Recently, ChangeUp held its first ever art exhibit featuring work by the talented children in the program.”
She fumbled with her cards again. “His work has turned a lifetime of disadvantage into an organization that has helped many children over the past few years. It is certainly to the advantage of the city to have him here. Please join me in congratulating Jason Morselli as this year's winner of the Newton P. Kingness Award for Outstanding Community Service.”
The woman in red dropped all of her cards on the stage as she led the room in applause. I stepped forward to receive the award, which in her flustered state she had left on the podium. I helped her pick up her cards, noticing the tight script that seemed totally out of place for her flighty personality. In this way she differed from my mother, whose script was water-like and flowing. It betrayed little.
I traded her cards for the award. She laughed nervously and relinquished her space so that I could pass and stand in front of the podium. Our commotion seemed to be contagious, as several of the audience became restless, whispering to their wives, shifting nervously in their seats, or taking a sip of champagne. Some of them cleared their throats, waiting for me to get on with my speaking so that they could go home and sleep off their buzz. One or two even got up to leave.
“Thank you very much,” I said into the microphone. “It has been a long evening, and Ms. Gleason has said everything of relevance about me, so I will keep my remarks very short.” I felt some tension leave the room. “I am deeply grateful to be thought of for this award. If my mother were still alive, I am sure that she would be very proud to see her son--the scared, underfed, and abused little waif--become a respectable citizen. In my worst hours she used to encourage me to find the light in the darkness. I hope that I have made that light shine brightly, for her memory. Thank you.”
There was a relieved round of applause. People began shuffling out of the hall, moving like cattle resigned to their destinies. Their polite tolerance now at an end, they could now relax into the oblivion of their private secrets. I noticed that in most cases, the women preceded the men--color before honor, perhaps, or more likely, that the women lead the men. They are the real powers, the real shapers of lives, and the men subconsciously know it. I wondered how many men wanted to escape, or to dominate. Psychologically, there is no difference.
A few minutes later, Ms. Gleason and I were alone in the big hall. The tables were covered with table cloths damp from condensation, china plates with half eaten desserts, flowers with the petals falling off.
“Congrats on the reward,” Ms. Gleason said.
“Thanks, Ms. Gleason,” I said.
“Call me Ashley. I get so nervous in front of big crowds,” she lied. “I hope I did okay,”
“You did great,” I reassured her.
“Not bad for a last minute fill in, I guess.” We shared a laugh. I helped her with her cards. I tucked my hard won plaque under my arm. The cleaning staff was just starting to come in.
“Let me walk you to your car,” I insisted.
We made small talk through the parking lot. “No, really,” she said, and then continued. I don't remember what else she said, but I know it was fake. It was the same kind of gibberish that my mother would sometimes spew when she was defending my step-father. I put on my charming face. I pretended to believe her, just like I feigned believing my mother. Ashley never caught on. Neither did my mother.
“Hey, do you think, maybe you would like to get a drink with me?” she asked me.
“Sure” I replied. “Can you hold this for a moment?” I asked as I handed her my plaque. With both hands free, I reached in my pocket and pulled out my switchblade. Before she even knew what had happened, I had plunged the knife into her abdomen. Even after that first blow, I don't think she understood exactly what was happening. By the second stab, the reality had set in. I saw her weaken. She dropped to her knees. It was disappointing. I had to stab my mother six times before she succumbed. Escape, domination--it's all the same psychologically. Everyone copes in their own way.
