“I took it,” she always said, “for
“Thanks, Ma!” Beet-red, I peered around,
hoping nobody saw.
Steak knives from restaurants, ashtrays from hotels.
And I didn’t
even smoke! She never got caught, but
still . . .
“Everyone does it!” Ma said defiantly. “The
prices they charge!”
Wrong, Ma, I thought. Not me.
Back in the 70s, my teen years were hell. Bad enough
I was fat. And
the mean kids knew Pop drank. “Vicky’s mom’s a thief!” they’d say, next.
That . . . tiki glass! From the Polynesian buffet. “Nice
model!” I said. A totem pole, it looked like, with leering faces. “Ma, what’s
wrong with you?”
How proud she’d looked. Giggling, opening the tiny
When she held it over her head, I smacked her hand.
“’Miserable Bastard,’” she said.
Meaning Pop, vs. the cocktail. No
wonder he drank. Married to that klepto bitch.
“You,” my shrink said, “need to distance
yourself. When she calls,
don’t answer the phone.”
That was the 80s, before caller IDs. No cell phones with
ring tones. If so, “Gypsies, Tramps, and Thieves” would’ve been hers.
Still, somehow, I knew it was her. But I always picked
“Victoria?” she said. Never “Vicky.”
“Got something for you.”
Got, meaning stole….
“She can’t . . . help it,” Pop said.
“It’s that . . . change she’s
Hot flashes, mood swings, maybe. But grabbing anything
“Or,” Pop said, “maybe it was ‘zat
He paused, so that would sink in.
In Atlantic City, it’d happened, in the late 70s.
When that first casino
opened. The one with the swirly brown-and-orange rug.
Before “The Klepto,” she was the Slot Machine
Queen. In her jeweled
turban, she looked like that fortune-telling guy.
“Hey Zoltan,” some jerk yelled. “Where’s
The fever was raging. Eyes wild, she lost quarter after
lemons, Lucky 7s lined up, but never for the big payoff.
“Ma,” I kept saying, “Let’s go!”
“When I hit,” she said, “We’ll
take a cruise! Leave ‘Miserable Bastard’
in his own puke!”
I snuck off to a bar.
When I came back, she was out cold, on
that swirly rug. Like maggots, people hovered over her. “Ma!” I yelled, shoving
She lay there, turban askew, mouse-gray hair showing,
her face the
same color. Without seeing, she stared, a quarter still clenched in her fist.
But the EMTs made it there, in time.
“Nah,” I told Pop. “It wasn’t
the heart attack.”
She’s just a dirty thief.
But the last time she called, I was caught off-guard.
Home sick from work, I stared anxiously at the phone,
scared it was
my boss. Had he heard how trashed I’d been, last night? Had a coworker ratted
With a shaky hand, I picked up.
“Vic-, Vic-toria?” Ma was crying.
“Where are you?”
“K-Mart.” Her favorite place since I’d
moved out. “The-the
My head ached all over again.
“This lady cop,” she whispered loudly, “wants
to arrest me!”
“Be right there,” I said.
In the K-Mart office, the bitchy manager and lady cop
In a plastic interrogation chair sat Ma, all cried out.
hair pointed in all directions. In her lap was her shabbiest turban.
“What happened?” I said.
In my mind, the cop snatched off the turban, searched
it for dope,
or a diamond necklace.
“We’ve been following her for weeks,”
the manager said. “Always
returning things…with no receipt.”
“Who saves receipts?” Ma said. “I only
buy things I plan to keep.
Like that lipstick.”
The cop held it up.
“I bought that . . . for you,” Ma told me.
Even hung over, my lips were bright red. The cop uncapped
lipstick to reveal the palest pink, ever.
“What am I, a corpse?”
“Certainly not,” Ma said. With the turban,
she wiped her sweaty forehead.
“That’s why I’m returning it.”
“With no receipt,” said the manager. “As
“It’s ‘the change’,” I
said. “You know, that women go through . . .
women older than us . . .” The cop smiled.
“No . . . change,” Ma said. But suddenly
she did seem to change.
She didn’t sound like herself. Her face looked as gray as her hair.
Only one other time had she looked that way.
Slot Machine Queen, I thought.
When she slumped over, I gasped. But the manager and
cop smirked at
each other. “Call 9-1-1!” I yelled. Before I reached the manager’s phone, the cop
The manager turned Ma’s purse upside down, but
nothing fell out. She
kept shaking it, like she didn’t believe it.
“Ma!” I cried, already sorry for stuff I’d
said to her. For being
an ungrateful, selfish brat my whole life. My guilt was just starting.
That corpse-pink lipstick she’d “bought”
for me . . .
Matched the dress Pop picked out for the wake.
Cindy is a Jersey girl who looks like a Mob Wife & talks
like Anybody’s from West Side Story. She works out 5-6 days a week, so
needs no excuse to drink or do whatever the hell she wants. She’s been
published in the usual places, such as Shotgun Honey, Hardboiled, A
Twist of Noir, Megazine, Beat to a Pulp, Out of the Gutter, Mysterical-E,
Dark Dossier, and Rock and a Hard
Place. She is the editor/art director of the ezine, Yellow Mama.
She’s a Gemini, a Christian, and an animal rights advocate.
Lyon is an illustrator for horror/sci-fi and pulp fiction websites and magazines.
She is also founder and senior editor for the independent poetry publisher, Subsynchronous
Press. An SFPA Rhysling Award nominated poet, her poems have appeared in journals
such as Eternal Haunted Summer, Jellyfish Whispers, Scfifaikuest, Illya’s
Honey, and Red River Review, as well as numerous
anthologies. Her short stories have appeared recently in Night to
Dawn, Yellow Mama, Black Petals, Sirens Call, and Tales from
the Moonlit Path, among others, as well as in numerous horror anthologies such
as Night in New Orleans: Bizarre Beats from the Big Easy, Thuggish
Itch: Viva Las Vegas, and White Noise & Ouija Boards. She
appeared, briefly, as the uncredited "all-American Mom with baby" in Purple Cactus
Media’s 2007 Arizona indie-film, "Vote for Zombie." Having lived in France,
Brazil, Canada, and several states in the US, she now resides in southern