The woman who lost the plot
The Karen-haired matriarch across from me shot unfurtive glances here and there. “This doesn’t feel like Christmas,” she said.
All around the table, faces froze in guarded pleasantness. Mine made a frown.
Our eyes met. Ding!
It seems clear to me now that she was after dominance of a sort, to be matriarch of this patch-quilt family brought together by holiday happenstance — my (latterly European) self, my two shy but polite (UK) children, my mother (South African), my two sisters, one’s two boys, whose plot of land this and the next one were, their wives, and finally the Karen-haired matriarch, her fey husband and evidently gay son, traditionally (that is to say, heterosexually) married, plus the newly, prematurely born but now roly-poly-legged first and only son of one of my nephews.
I didn’t get it. Earlier I’d exchanged pleasantries with her and her husband on arriving there. I made what passed for banter in my imagination. “What a beautiful plot,” I said. “Out here in the subtropics. Such peace and quiet, etcetera. The boys must really love it with their wives. Great place for a family, etcetera. Wow, would you look at the time, excuse me, I think I’ve left something in the car; see you in a bit. Bye. bye-bye. Bye. Bye. Byeee.
