INTERLOCUTOR

THE INTERLOCUTOR
by Michael Kroetch

My sister moves through the world with a toaster bundled under her arm. Always the toaster is there with her; attentive, cordial, and decent in a way not often seen in mechanisms of its ilk. My family was at first, of course, quite put out by the matter. Us being from the upstanding East Hampton side of the clan lineage and such, this was not behavior that could be taken lightly. Of our lot, my mother was particularly voiciferous in her verbal blandishments against the “interlocutor.” This was her ill-chosen euphemism for the toaster. Clearly she intended a different term (possibly “interloper”). However, once she’d said the word, that was it. End of story. She’s not the sort who can back down from anything.
“Don’t you dare try and tell me how to talk, young man! If I want vocabulary lessons, I’ll go and visit the governor.” To understand this statement you must know that many years ago the governor and my mother had once been on the same airplane, and that, ever since, my mother has staunchly clung to the unfounded belief that she and the governor are somehow the best of friends. Such being the case, she will often and quite randomly invoke his title to substantiate one or more of her viewpoints. “Shall I call the governor? Shall I trouble him about this issue? I could. Give me the phone.”
That’s how my mother’s misnomer became as irrefutable and ordinary a part of our lives as the toaster itself. Not that my mother was ever happy about the interlocutor’s presence. Far from it. In fact, if ever my sister left the room without taking the toaster along, my mother would stare over at it with her eyebrows squinched tight together and her knitting needles held up sharp and glinting from where she sat on the couch, ready to stab the toaster’s soft underbelly if it made even the slightest move toward her.
We never did learn why my sister started in with the interlocutor. Before their relationship began, she’d had other boyfriends. A couple of these even seemed like they might be husband material. But for one reason or another, none had displayed the same fortitude and staying power as the toaster. I suspect, in part, my mother’s vibrant and unrelenting hatred of the device was itself a large part of what kept it such a shining apple in my sister’s eye. But whatever the case, she was devout about including it in every aspect of her life. At even our most formal of events, my sister did not neglect her tin friend. I teased her once at our cousin Nancy’s wedding in saying that my sister should possibly consider getting the interlocutor a black tie. Unfortunately, she did not laugh like I expected. Instead, a tear came to her eye. Not a big one; it didn’t even leave its perch there at the edge of her iris, yet, nonetheless, it was a clear and visible testament to how much my irreverence had affected her. After that, I did not jest again about her new lover.
“Well,” said my mother, “I don’t care if she does love the damn thing! It’s an interlocutor, that’s all there is to it. And I’m damn tired of everyone ogling her and us like we’re Swedish cheeseballs. Besides which, this interlocutor does not have the best intentions at heart. If it really cared about Sally—if it saw the shame it’s bringing on my girl—it would find the strength and courage of conviction to break things off. And pronto. Cold turkey. You know it’s true. You know I’m right. Matter of fact, I have half a mind to bring the governor in on this. And if he weren’t such a busy man, I would!”
But she doesn’t.
Instead she goes back to knitting and doesn’t even look up when my sister comes in the front door with the toaster and a box of chocolates.
“They’re for you,” she says to my mother.
My mother’s needles keep moving, but her eyes don’t. She will not look up.
“He wants you to have them, Mom.”
The knitting needles increase their speed.
“Try one,” Sally says to my mother.
Because nothing’s happening, I decide to reach for the box. But my sister quickly yanks it back.
“Not you!”
“Oh.”
“Don’t say ‘oh’ like that. You know they’re for Mom. Don’t pretend you don’t.”
The knitting needles continue clacking away at their amazing pace.
“Mom,” Sally says, “Please. He picked them out special.”
The needles stop at this. After a long pause my mother speaks, her voice low and thick as a ladle full of gravy. “Sally, it’s an ‘it.’ Do you understand this? It’s not a ‘he.’ It can’t be. It’s a hunk of metal.”
Then my mother looks up. It seems like she expects my sister to respond, but Sally isn’t. My sister is stepping backwards and shivering. Then the box of chocolates tumbles out from between her fingers, hits the edge of the coffee table, breaking open while also continuing to fall to the floor and spilling out its carefully swaddled contents.
I stand up at this point and step toward my sister with my arms out, saying over and over that Mom didn’t mean what she said. But it’s too late because my sister is already turning toward the door and saying how she hates us. That we’re just like everybody else, and that when the interlocutor and her are married we will see what true love is. We will see then. We will all see.