My mother’s tits live on. I demanded them at her deathbed.
“Tits be mine,” I said.
The nurses pitied me. I’m an only child, and the whole death thing, well, it wasn't pretty. They made one last cut at my request (two, actually), slipped those silicone bubbles out and handed them to me in a sealed tupperware container affixed with a biohazard label. I scrubbed the label off but I kept the tupperware as the girls’ last resting place. The long, low rectangle was the perfect size for the two of them. When I got home, I took the top off, so they could breathe. And breathe they did. They breathed long and slow at first. And then the rate of their breath changed depending on how excited they were and then, on top of that, it turned out the girls liked to talk! They could gab away for hours.
I named them Deloris and Imelda. They were happy to have their own names, excited to no longer be appendages.
We've been sex objects for too long, said Imelda.
Deloris said: Time to get a life.
Life. They were hungry for it.
Little did I know what kind of busybodies they’d turn out to be.
Look, before we get too far, I need to tell you: I understand these flim-flams are not my mother. Truth be told, I’m not sure they have much to do with her at all. They weren’t biologically a part of her; they contain zero percent of her DNA. However, they were her favorite feature. She was so proud of them. Maybe she was even more proud of them than she was proud of me! And maybe a bit of her rubbed off on them; I mean, they were swimming around in there for so long. So now they sit on my mantle, two haunted orbs, jelly aglow. Like talismans—oracles, really—my mother’s immortal, talking tits.
Unlike my mother, I am not in need of augmentation. As they say, I have generous breasts. Which makes me imagine them, I don’t know, greeting folks and giving away canned goods. Or something. In any case, my one-hundred percent natural breasts have the unusual combination of being both large and perky. They stand up grandly on salute.
Imelda says so, anyway. Deloris thinks I need to lose weight.
I’m applying eyeliner, getting ready for a first date. I could use some privacy, but my best mirror is nailed to the wall above the mantel, so it’s prime time for the girls. They’re especially chatty when they sense I’m getting ready to go out. I think they can smell my perfume, or maybe the stench of my dread.
I’ve been dating a lot since Mom died, by way of the apps.
Gotta keep busy. I like to outrun my grief, as well as various other feelings.
Look at that beautiful face, says Imelda. I’d love a kiss. Come closer, sweetie.
She does have a pretty face, Deloris says. But listen dear, you need to lose a little weight, around the waist at least. Maybe some sit-ups would do the trick. I keep trying to tell you about love handles. It’s a misnomer, sweetheart. Men don’t love them.
Deloris is the mean one. Just like my mother, she has no tact.
That’s why they don’t call you back after the first date, she says. They don’t like the extra pounds. Men like big ones, she goes on. You know, big melons. Like us two. They always liked us. Problem is, if you lose the weight, your boobs will start to deflate. So you gotta be careful. Come to think of it, this might not be a worthwhile trade-off. No one likes a flat pancake.
Deflate? says Imelda. Her ladies would deflate?
Here it comes, the bickering. Always the bickering.
Yes, bird brain, says Deloris. You know, when the weight starts to come off they’re the first thing to go. That’s the irony. And hers aren’t syntho, you know. They’re inferior quality. Flesh.
Maybe she could exercise her pectorals, says Imelda. I’ve heard that would keep them perky.
“I have no intention of losing weight, ladies,” I say. “Nor do I plan to do anything with or about my pectorals. I’m perfectly happy with this.” I run my hands down my body with a flourish. For good measure, I lift my shirt and jiggle my stomach at them.
Life isn’t fair, says Imelda. Why should you have to trade one for the other? Nice body, nice boobs, that’s what your poor mother had.
Only because of us, says Deloris. It was thanks to us she had it all. But of course life isn’t fair. News flash, if life were fair, you and I would still be attached to a body. Our Linda-girl got the physical goods but she sure paid the price for it.
I tell Deloris she’s lucky she got a second life on my mantel. She could be languishing in a landfill. “And it wouldn’t smell very good there, would it?” I say.
Oh I doubt we would have gone to a landfill, honey, says Imelda. They would have reused us. I think they would have stuck us in someone else’s body.
Deloris would roll her eyes if she had eyes to roll.
No, actually, Deloris says, let me correct both of you. We’d be goo. That’s what we’d be. Melted, disintegrated along with the ashes.
Deloris is the smart one too. Smart and mean go hand in hand.
Whatever happened to the ashes, anyway? says Imelda. They should be up here on the mantel with us.
I never picked up the ashes. The last thing I need is my mother joining the little chorus. As far as I know, she’s still waiting around for me at the funeral home. I mean, what happens when you don’t pick up the ashes? Do they dump them somewhere, eventually? Some kind of massive ash-heap for the neglected dead? Is there a time limit on these things? I suppose I could call the funeral home and ask.
You’re wearing too much eye make-up, says Deloris. You need to tone it down. Go get yourself a little make-up remover. Just dab it on a cotton ball.
“Did I ask you?” I say, maneuvering my mascara wand in and out of its tube like a toilet plunger. If I had my way, the girls wouldn’t talk unless spoken to first. But they’re cheeky. Sometimes I have to haul the kitchen garbage into the room and wave it around in front of them. Is that where you want to go? I say. Huh? Huh? Is it? That usually shuts them up, at least for a little while.
I’m meeting a man at a brewery that also specializes in fried chicken. All kinds of fried chicken. Spicy. Not spicy. Southern style. Korean style. Nigerian style. You name it. Global fried chicken. Everything but Kentucky.
My date’s name is Knick, yes, for some reason, with a “K.” Yes, it does concern me that this could be an alias. You never know with the apps. This is why I always meet them in public, the men, and I tell the girls where I am going with strict instructions that they should call 911 if I’m not home by midnight.
I used to share my location with my mother, but she always forgot to check it.
I never have to worry about you. You’re like Teflon, you can survive anything, said my mother. And then she would pat me on the stomach for good measure.
I’m the one who could’ve ended up in a landfill. No one’s looking out for me.
Knick looks surprisingly similar to the picture in his dating profile. Smooth face, brown hair, baseball cap. Very generic. Except his hair’s too long. It curls a bit over his collar. He needs a haircut. He could easily be a serial killer, that’s how bland he is. He has a face no one would remember.
I’m surprised he’s still available. The generic ones—any of them, really, who land on the right side of inoffensive—usually get snapped right up. Maybe he’s not really available, that’s what Deloris would say. Maybe he’s a liar, a cheater. Or maybe he’s not that smart, that’s another thing that happens sometimes. Or he could be unemployed. He’s chosen a table that’s smack-dab in the center of the room. Like we’re on stage. Or maybe the hostess put him there. The blind date. Exhibit A. Entertainment for the masses.
“Knick with a ‘K’?” I say.
“Yes ma’am,” he says. “You Geri?” He has that abbreviated way of talking, like a man in a hurry. His shirt is untucked under his Carhartt jacket. A little sloppy, if I’m going to be honest. But that’s okay, I don’t want a well-manicured man. I go for the opposite of the type my mother used to bring home. They never worked out anyway. Just traumatized the teenage version of me with the noises that came out of her bedroom.
None of them stuck. Not even for Linda. Even the girls couldn’t work that kind of magic.
Your dates don’t work out either, says Deloris. Think about that before you get all high and mighty.
My mother always wanted me to date the type of man she called a professional. She had a not-so-secret fantasy of me not having to work at all. She wanted me to be supported. Taken care of. You get stressed out too easily, she said. You’re not meant for the working life. You need to find a man to take care of you. You should be a princess. She used to show me pictures of her friends’ sons on social media, but all of them already had girlfriends or wives or even kids! They were all taken. My mother just pinched her lips when I pointed this out to her. Once she even said: So? Then she batted her eyes like she was innocent. The perennial innocent, my mother.
Knick already has two pint glasses in front of him and he pushes one over to my side of the table.
“Treat you,” he says.
But the whole point of going to a brewery is choosing what you want. Reading the cheesy little descriptions with their stupid words like hoppy and fruity and notes of raspberry and cilantro. Sometimes I’ll splurge and order a flight, five tiny beers lined up like a muted, yellow-toned rainbow.
Maybe I should get a flight of fried chicken. I think I will.
“Thanks for stealing my joy,” I say.
“Natch,” he says.
Who says that? He smiles and slurps the froth of his beer like he thinks I have a good sense of humor.
My mother used to say that men love to talk about themselves. All you have to do, she said, is get them started. Plus, if you let them do all the talking, then you get to stay the queen of their imagination.
What does that even mean?
It means you can be whatever they want you to be.
Why would I want to be what they want me to be?
Because that’s how you keep them interested.
Knick rubs his hands together. They make a sandpaper sound.
“So how was your day?” he says. His voice is kind of reedy. Maybe I’m frowning. Two little pitchforks between my eyebrows.
Get that ugly look off your face. You look prettier when you smile.
I squint at Knick.
“You know,” I say. “My day was fine.” It’s already there, the little mean tone that slides into my voice. I call it The Nutcracker. There it is again, whether I like it or not. My guardian.
“Gotta love the weekend,” Knick says, then he laughs nervously. “Happy Saturday!”
I realize I’m only here because I want to pull someone else down into my misery. Could be Knick, could be anyone.
“Let’s get some chicken,” I say.
I come home stuffed to the gills. There’s no need to talk so much when you’re chewing. I take my shoes off, lie down, and stretch my legs out on the couch, right under the mantel.
How’d it go? says Imelda. She sounds hopeful.
“Shitty as always,” I say.
What was wrong with this one?
Deloris is quiet, her jelly slightly quivering, like it does when she’s sleeping.
Instead of answering Imelda, I chew the inside of my cheek until it bleeds. Before I know it, I’m crying. Not loudly or dramatically, of course. Just tears, leaking, against my will and better judgment.
You’re not ready to date, dearest, says Imelda.
“When am I gonna be ready?” I say.
It takes time.
“She died three months ago.”
That’s not a lot of time.
I close my eyes and my eyelids burn.
What was he like? asks Imelda.
I ignore her. I’m quivering like Deloris. And I’m cold. But I’m too lazy to get up and go get a blanket, so I just sit there, shaking.
Oh honey, says Imelda. Oh sweetheart. I promise, everything is going to be just fine.
Surprise, surprise, Knick messages me.
It really is a surprise. That first date devolved into a mess of awkward silence and grease. There was some finger licking involved. In his car, after. Yes, he wanted to lick the grease off my fingers. His car was very clean, that’s what I noticed. What kind of man has a clean car like that? Did he vacuum it for me? I let him take my hand, brush his lips with the tips of my fingers. One lick. Then I kicked the door open. Well, I didn’t actually kick it. That’s just what it felt like. It felt dramatic like that. I burst out into the darkness. There was a fine mist in the air. Cars rushing by on the highway next to the brewery parking lot. A cluster of people on the patio, smoking cigarettes and laughing, wearing jean shorts. I braced myself against Knick’s car, wondering if I was going to actually vomit. He got out carefully, like he was worried he would scare me away.
“Hey,” he said.
“No,” I said. “It’s whatever. I’m fine.” (Or something like that. Whatever I said didn’t make a lot of sense. You know what it’s like when you hear your own mouth spouting nonsense?)
So it was quite a shock when he messaged me. Quite a surprise.
Try again? he said.
Second date? asks Deloris.
I guess she can tell because I’m putting in some effort. Bringing out the big guns. Lip liner and a curling iron.
You gonna bring him home?
Oh no, says Imelda. Not on the second date, right sweetheart? They have to get to know each other first.
The second date is at a major league hockey game, which is fine, I mean whatever. Knick has season tickets so I let him pay. Because he’s already paid, technically. I buy popcorn to share, a giant icy diet cola for me. Big mistake. Even though I’m wearing a sweater I’m shivering less than ten minutes in. Also, I’m freaked out because of how high up we are. Who knew that people watch hockey from the top of a cliff? That’s what it feels like, the way these seats are angled. I can’t follow the game. I’ve never been to one of these things before.
Down on the ice, the players are so tiny. Whizzing around like they’re in a pinball machine. In and around the goal, the puck, just a tiny speck, almost invisible. I make an effort, though. I ask a few questions. He answers me from the side of his mouth, elbows on knees, hunched over, filled with enraptured attention for whatever’s going on below. I get the feeling he wants to shush me. Finally someone scores and the whole stadium blows up in sound like a cannonball! Flashing lights too. I jump out of my seat like I’m about to topple over. Knick laughs, grabs me by the waist, pulls me down beside him.
“Sorry,” he says. “I should have warned you.”
For the rest of the game, he keeps his arm around me. Just like that. Like a seatbelt. I’m still not sure how I feel about the whole thing. But that part, the part with his arm around me, I find kind of comforting.
Love handles? I think to myself. Take that, Deloris.
After the game I decided to bring him home. Why not? I’ve brought home worse before.
Knick heads for the couch at first but I pull him away. I can tell that the girls are awake, watching, spying. What happens now is none of your business, is what I want to say to them, but I keep my mouth shut. Talking to the mantel is a turn off for most guys.
Knick raises his eyebrows. I wrap my arms around him. He runs his arms up and down my back and we kiss. He slides one hand under the back of my shirt. Already, he’s fumbling with my bra.
(Like I said, they stand up at attention. There’s something to be said for the real thing. How about that, ladies?)
Knick smells good. Warm. Faintly chemical, like buttered popcorn. His arms and chest are comfortingly hairy. I hold his hand and lead him upstairs. I forgot to make my bed but he doesn’t give a shit about an unmade bed, not at this point. He practically throws me down.
The outcome of all this isn’t too shabby.
Weeks pass. In my free time, I study up on hockey. It’s worth it, because Knick likes to bring me to games. I’m starting to become a real fan! Afterwards, we usually wind up at my apartment. On work days, he always texts me goodnight. All things considered, it’s going good!
We have what you could call a routine. Alone with the girls, I talk freely. I tell them I’m starting to feel something close to hope. Imelda is supportive. Deloris is mostly quiet. She doesn’t believe in me.
Then hockey season ends.
A week passes without a word from Knick. I text him twice but when he leaves me on read I decide to cut my losses.
I think you should try one more time, says Imelda. Three times for good measure.
Deloris would cross her eyes if she had them. Instead, she just deflates. No worries though, she’ll blow herself back up again. It’s less of a death rattle and more of a sigh.
Hold your tongue, sister, Deloris says. We don’t need the likes of him around here.
“The likes of what?” I say. “He was a nice guy.”
If he was so nice, he would call you, says Deloris.
She’s not wrong, says Imelda.
I go into my bedroom and close the door. I pull up Netflix on my phone, and watch a cartoon movie about singing princesses that I’ve watched a thousand times.
A week later, Knick does text after all. He apologizes. He’s on a new contract, he says. He’s been busy.
He invites me out for all-you-can-eat sushi. The place is packed when we get there. The only table available is outside. The restaurant is in a mini-mall, a little gated patio just off the parking lot. A few feet away, folks haul their shopping carts in and out of a grocery store. A woman smokes a cigarette one table over. A shaggy German Shepherd sits at her feet with his tongue hanging out. He licks my ankle when I walk by. The woman apologizes, but I don’t mind. Poor dog. It’s really too hot to be sitting outside. But this is spring in the South, so what can you expect? A cool bead of sweat runs down my neck into my cleavage. Knick sees it. I know he does. He makes no comment but he follows it with his eyes.
We check little boxes next to the names of fish without talking. When we do talk, our conversation is stilted. I get the feeling Knick is looking over my shoulder, between my eyebrows, at my cleavage, anywhere but my face.
“You called me,” I say, after the waitress walks away, leaving a platter of defrosted fish between us.
I don’t have the stomach for it. Everything looks like a tongue.
“What?” says Knick. He puts a California Roll in his mouth and chews.
“You called me,” I say. “But it seems like you don’t have much to say.”
He shrugs like I caught him. It’s very confusing. I feel a little choking sensation at the base of my throat. Why did he call me if he didn’t want to be here after all?
“It feels like maybe you don’t want to be here,” I say. “You’re quiet.”
“No babe,” he says. “I’m just tired.”
I choke down a cucumber roll. The raw fish gleams in the sun. Just beyond the little gate, a woman slams her trunk and turns the engine on. The air smells like exhaust and dog.
“Okay,” I say, and wash down the rice with the rest of my water.
I invite Knick home, and even upstairs, despite my misgivings. The girls can feel it too, the fact that something is off, something is wrong. I just know it when we walk through the door. They have the sense to keep quiet but I feel the energy of dark concern rattling off of them. Because they love me.
Upstairs, Knick undresses and climbs into my bed. He pushes my head down his belly to his you-know-where. When it’s over, I start to lay my head on his chest, but he gets up and goes to the bathroom where he pisses loudly and neglects to flush. I squeeze my eyes shut. I won’t open them again, not until he’s gone.
He stands next to the bed, puts his clothes on, zips his pants.
“You’re going home?” I ask.
“Yup,” he says. “I’ve got an early morning.”
“An early morning doing what?” I ask. It’s Friday, I think, but I don’t say it.
He doesn’t answer.
“Are you going to answer my texts this week?” I ask him.
“Of course!” he says. “What are you talking about?”
But I know how this goes. I know he’s lying. Get on the apps enough, and you get a sense of how these things go.
“Hey,” I say, still without opening my eyes, “before you go, would you mind going downstairs and bringing me a glass of water?”
“Sure thing,” he says.
It’s the least he can do.
The first time I brought a guy home after my mom died, I made the mistake of watching a movie with him, right underneath Deloris and Imelda. I can’t really blame myself for that. Who could imagine they wouldn’t know well enough to keep their mouths shut? But they didn’t. There was a running commentary, a lot of whispering. The guy—his name was Brandon—could hear them too. This proves I’m not crazy. (I know what you’ve been thinking.) In the middle of the movie Brandon turned to me and asked: “Did you hear that?” and I held my breath and said, “no.” He turned the volume down and that shut them up. But then he turned the volume up and they picked back up right where they left off. Whispering, whispering, whispering.
Oh, they had a lot to talk about that night, but they kept it just quiet enough that neither Brandon nor I could quite make out what they were saying. You know that annoying feeling you get when there’s faint music or voices coming from somewhere, and your brains or your ears are just trying to grasp at it but you can’t quite make it out, and you can’t drown it out or ignore it either? Yeah. That feeling. Finally Brandon had enough. He turned off the movie before it ended and stood.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just feeling a bit off tonight.”
He really did look sorry. I think he had intended to be good to me. He was a nice one, as far as I could tell from one night, that Brandon.
But the girls aren’t as discerning as I am. All they care about is whether a guy leaves or whether he stays.
Your mother died with one regret, says Imelda. She wanted so much to see you married.
That night, the girls went to town right in front of me. After that I learned to leave the room.
Knick doesn’t leave as much of a mess as some of them. It looks like he must have fallen asleep first, or maybe it’s just that he didn’t put up a fight. Deloris says not all of them do.
It’s alright, honey, she likes to say. It wasn’t so bad for him. He was a boob man.
That is to say, when the girls first approach, apparently some of the guys don’t even resist them! I guess they like the idea of cozying up to the ladies, even when they aren’t attached to a body.
Imelda takes the nostrils but Deloris likes to take the mouth. She enjoys the process of shutting a man up. She likes to make them breathless.
Brandon put up a fight, and truth be told, I did too. I tried to pull Imelda off of him, I thought she’d be the one to give in, you know, out of the two of them. She has a soft side to her.
Needless to say, I wasn’t strong enough. I failed.
I’ll never forget the look in his eyes. That’s why I stay in my bedroom now. I even put a pillow over my head to shut out the noise.
I peel the girls off of Knick’s face and gently lay them in their container. They always go limp and even sleep for a while after they finish. I sit down on the couch, put Knick’s feet on my lap. His head hangs slightly to the left. I stroke his ankles and sigh. This is how it could be. The two of us, together on a couch. Life could actually be good. But now I have about an hour or two before he starts to stiffen up. Pretty soon, the illusion will be over.
“You guys really leave me with a lot of mess to clean up,” I say, but nobody answers. The girls have exhausted themselves. It will be a few hours before I hear from them. For now, they gently quake in their sleep. Which means I’ll be alone when I drag Knick out to the garage and drive him to his new home.
The landfill is peaceful at sunrise. Sometimes, after I do what I have to, I like to sit there for a while. If I keep the windows rolled up, I can keep out the smell. If I squint, the heaps of the discarded take the shape of rolling hills. The sky pinks up with promise, the sun just below the horizon. I tell myself that if I keep trying, things will work out for me in the end. Everything will be okay. I truly believe that I am deserving of love. I am enough. I know I am enough. I accept myself, just as I am. I sit in my car until above the stench of it all, the gleaming morning rises.
When I get home, I’ll strap an eye mask over my face and catch up on sleep on the couch beneath the mantel. I want to be there when Deloris and Imelda wake up. The girls are always in a great mood after a kill. When they finally wake, even Deloris will sing.
END
Melissa Benton Barker’s flash fiction chapbook, Beauty Queen, is available at Bottlecap Press. Her writing appears in Pithead Chapel, Milk Candy Review, Best Small Fictions, and other publications. She lives in Ohio with her family.
Photo by: Pavel Danilyuk on Pexels