Brett McCarthy (13 page)

ag•i•tat•ed

Until Diane told me
she’d
been invited, I had no idea how far the Bazooka Birthday invitation list extended. Neither did my parents. They had grudgingly agreed to the party and had even been helpful and not-grouchy about the whole thing. Until they got a sense of the size. Super-sized.

“Did you know Nonna invited the Pelletiers?” I asked them the evening Diane and I spoke. Right after Michael had finished trouncing me in three successive games of chess. Mom frowned.

“I had no idea,” she said. “She doesn’t really know Marie that well, does she?”

“Makes you wonder whom else she invited,” Dad mused. He and Mom exchanged the Significant Look. I knew nothing of interest would be said in my presence once Significant Looks began, so I excused myself and went to bed. I figured we’d know soon enough how many people were descending on the Gnome Home.

As I poured about a pint of syrup over two Eggo waffles the next morning, watching lazy white flakes float to the ground outside the kitchen window, Mom slammed through the door. Her cheeks bright red from the cold, she stamped snow from her boots, yanked off her coat, and tossed it on a chair.

“We have a problem,” she declared. “She’s even invited the nurses from oncology. There’s no way all those people will fit in that little house. And we’re due for a foot of snow.” She strode into Dad’s office, where I heard muffled, agitated words exchanged behind the closed door.

Agitated:
excited and troubled in mind or feeling.
Stressed.

Nonna’s guest list totaled 123 and included the Kathies, Fifth Period
plus
Mrs. Augmentino, five oncology nurses, all the neighbors, Nonna’s book group, hiking club, and Elders United for Peace and Social Justice group, Mr. Beady’s bird-watchers, Dad’s entire department plus their spouses and kids, Mom’s quilting group, the Emergency Contacts, and every random friend within a fifty-mile radius. Even I could appreciate what a logistical nightmare this posed.

The solution: bonfires. Once Mom and Dad finished panicking, they got on the phone and called everyone they knew who owned backyard bonfire dishes. Before lunchtime, six had been delivered to our door, and Dad arranged them along Nonna’s driveway and throughout her yard. Meanwhile, Mom went to Wal-Mart and purchased a few miles of outdoor Christmas lights, which she set me to stringing between the Gnome Home garage, the house, and the trees. Inside the garage she arranged Coleman stoves on a few long tables, with huge pots that would contain hot chocolate, warm cider, and mulled wine. If guests couldn’t fit
in
the house, then the party would have to spill
out
of the house.

Nonna was thrilled.

“It’ll be like winter carnival,” she enthused, watching from her window as Mom and Dad worked frantically to get everything into place. I had taken a break from light stringing to help her arrange sweets on platters.

“Nonna, where did you think all these people were going to sit?” I asked her.

“I honestly never thought about it,” she replied. “But you see…everything works out, doesn’t it?”

As Mom and Dad worked outside, I shoveled the last of the brownies onto a serving tray. Nonna had opted for brownies instead of cake. When it came time to sing “Happy Birthday,” she wanted everyone to have his or her own treat with a candle, so each of us could blow it out and make a personal wish. Those were the sorts of details she’d planned ahead; not how to accommodate one-hundred-plus guests.

By late afternoon Team Bazooka arrived, a.k.a. Mr. Beady and Michael. They positioned the bazooka, along with a table where they could stack blastable items, just outside the Gnome Home living room windows. Nonna would watch from there, in a comfy seat next to the fireplace. The weeks of chemo had robbed her of “insulating blubber,” as she called it, and now she was always cold. No number of bonfires would keep her warm enough to view the blasting from outside.

I went outside to inspect Team Bazooka’s progress. One little wrapped gift was already on the blasting table.

“What’s this?” I asked, picking it up. It weighed next to nothing.

“My present,” said Michael.

“An empty box?”

“No,” he laughed. “There’s a photo inside.”

“Of?” I persisted. Michael blushed.

“C’mon!” I said, nudging him with my shoulder. “Tell Brett. What’s inside the itty bitty boxie?” Deeper blush. This had to be good. I leaned toward Michael and spoke quietly into his ear.

“I’ll tell you mine if you tell me yours.” I couldn’t believe I was teasing him this way, but I couldn’t make myself stop.

“Hands!” he burst out, surprising us both.

“Huh?” I asked.

“A picture of my hands. I want to get rid of my nail biting, so I’m blasting a picture of my hands.”

“Oh. Cool,” I replied, somehow disappointed. I don’t know what I expected. It was actually a fine intention. Michael’s worst, not-so-gifted talent is chewing his nails down to painful stubs.

“So tell me yours,” he said. I hesitated.

“Actually…I haven’t decided yet what to blast.”

“Cheater!” he exclaimed. “You know. Spill it.”

“Come inside for a minute,” I sighed. “I still haven’t wrapped it.” Michael followed me upstairs to where I had hidden my gift in Nonna’s spare bedroom.

“Guess,” I said, pulling it from a brown paper bag and holding it up.

Considering how good my mom is with her hands, it’s amazing how utterly hopeless I am with crafty projects. My gift was a monumental flop. I had started with a wire coat hanger, bent it to the shape I wanted, packed it with paper, then wrapped strips of glue-soaked newsprint over it. When it dried, I painted it bright red. Unfortunately, it didn’t hold its shape, and the paint cracked and flaked.

Michael narrowed his eyes. I could hear the gears in his brain creak under the weight of this impossible question.

“A bloody snake eating its own tail? Harry, it’s the Dark Mark!” he squealed in a girlish British accent.

I sighed, tossing the papier-mâché mess on the bed.

“Skip the Hermione Granger imitation, okay? It’s supposed to be a mouth. See, these are red lips.”

Michael picked it up. “A mouth,” he repeated thoughtfully, turning it over in his hands.

“A big mouth,” I explained. “My big fat uncontrollable mouth. I came up with the idea after…after you got mad at me. You know?” Michael continued to turn my mouth over in his hands.

“It’s like, stuff just comes out of my mouth. And lately it seems like everything I say is wrong and makes people mad. Or hurts people’s feelings. And that day—with you—I realized how much better off I’d be without my stupid mouth. Saying stupid things.”

Michael placed the mouth gently on the bed. “It’s okay,” he said quietly.

“I’m really sorry, Michael.”

“It’s okay,” he repeated, and smiled. I felt like one-ton weights had been cut from my legs and I could soar heaven-ward, like a hot-air balloon.

Just then we heard a car pulling into the drive and heard my father call to Nonna.

“Mother! Someone’s here. What time did you tell everyone to arrive?”

“I didn’t, actually,” she called from inside the house. In the garage, where she was screwing cans of propane onto the Coleman stoves, my mother said something I would have gotten punished for repeating. Michael and I exchanged shocked grins.

“Time to party,” I said.

ma•ca•bre

I don’t know what came faster: snow or guests. As it turns out, the McCarthys were ready for neither.

But as that turns out, it didn’t matter.

Five members of Elders United for Peace and Social Justice arrived in that first car. “Hope we’re not too early!” they called out to Nonna, who waited for them at the front door. Locking elbows and stepping carefully along the unshoveled walkway, they all spoke at once.

“None of us drives at night, so we figured we’d come now!” “How about this snow! We’re supposed to get eight inches.” “Put us to work, Eileen!”

Here’s the thing about Nonna’s friends: They’re the dig-in types.
What
they dig into varies. Some garden, so they dig. Literally. Others are really political, so they argue. Constantly. The Elders are emphatically peaceful, social, and just. The hikers have trekked thousands of miles, the book groupies read so voraciously that local librarians complain that they don’t know what to recommend for them anymore. Whatever the group, whatever the cause, they do it with gusto.

Mom’s extremely annoyed expression changed to relief as more of Nonna’s busy-bee friends pulled up in their cars and rolled up their sleeves. And before all 123 guests had arrived, the bonfires blazed, hot drinks steamed on the outdoor stoves, lights twinkled throughout the yard, and the bazooka blasted.

The Gnome Home filled to bursting. I overheard a friend of Dad’s remark he hadn’t attended such a loud, crowded event since his last college frat party. Outside, packs of children in snowsuits frisked like puppies in the snow. Wired on chocolate desserts, they screamed and ran in aimless circles. Blasts from the bazooka only served to rev them up even more.

Here’s how it worked.

Arriving guests would make their way through the packed house to where Nonna sat in the living room. They’d hug, say the usual Happy Birthday thing, then present her with their blasting item.

The range of gifts varied. For example, the Lighthearted: “Here are a gazillion plastic McDonald’s Happy Meal toys I keep meaning to throw out!”

The Serious: “Here are my cigarettes. I’m finally going to quit!”

The Revealing: “Here are two tickets to the racetrack. I’m going to stop betting on the horses!”

The Just Plain Stupid: “Here’s a picture of Usher. He thinks he’s so cool, but he’s not!”

Nonna loved them all, thanked everyone enthusiastically, and handed each item to me: the Runner. I’d dart outside to where Michael and Mr. Beady manned the bazooka and pass whatever it was to them. Mr. Beady had gotten hold of an air horn for the evening, and before stuffing each gift into the PVC pipe, he’d make an announcement.

“Attention! Now firing Mrs. Blakely’s check register! She says she hasn’t balanced the checkbook in ten months and has decided to give up altogether!” Everyone stopped what they were doing for a moment to observe the blast, cheered as Michael fired the bazooka, and applauded wildly when bits of burned paper floated to the ground. Everyone except Mr. Blakely, now that I think of it.

It went on like this all evening: lots of eating, socializing, playing. Intermittently interrupted by a blast.

I was having a good time, despite my obsessive need to keep checking the front door. Finally, there was a ring I could hear over all the loud laughter and chatter, and when I answered it, she was there. She’d come with her mother and Merrill.

“Hey,” I said, smiling. “You made it.”

“Hello, Brett! Of course we made it! We wouldn’t have missed it for the world!” Mrs. Pelletier exclaimed, throwing her arms around my neck and startling me with a big happy hug. She seemed electrically enthusiastic.

“Where is your grandmother? Oh…never mind! I see her. Oh…she looks wonderful! Doesn’t she? Isn’t she wonderful? I have to say hello.” Mrs. Pelletier released her hold on me and pushed through the crowd toward Nonna.

“My mother doesn’t get out much these days,” Diane said, a trace of apology in her voice. “She works practically all the time.”

“She takes Paxil,” Merrill piped up.

“What?” I said.

“Merrill…shut up,” Diane snapped.

“Happy pills,” he continued, undeterred by the menace in his sister’s voice. “She used to cry all the time, but now she takes Paxil and she’s happy again.” I looked at Diane.

“I’m sorry,” she said, shaking her head. “I’m sure you’re not interested in hearing the sad story of the Pelletier family. And Merrill…” She directed her gaze at her little brother. “That’s Mommy’s private business. Don’t go telling people Mommy’s business.”

Merrill looked puzzled. “But it’s
Brett,
” he said. Brett isn’t “people” is what he meant. Brett’s your best friend. Right?

“Do you want to say hi to Nonna?” I asked him, trying to change the subject. “She’ll be really glad you came.”

“Yes, I want to show her what I brought,” he said seriously.

“What did you bring?” I asked, a few ideas floating through my head. Those waxy fake vampire teeth he kept popping in and out of his mouth one Halloween? Samples from his dead-bug collection? I hadn’t stepped foot inside the Pelletiers’ for months, but I could still picture Merrill’s messy room and its little-boy contents.

“Blankie,” he said.

This stopped me in my tracks. “Did you say ‘blankie’?” I asked. He nodded.

The only thing Merrill Pelletier cared about more than television was his blankie. His intense attachment to his horrible, nappy rag of a blanket rivaled that of Linus, from the Peanuts gang. I had often suspected Merrill loved blankie more than he loved his own mother.

“Merrill, do you realize what Nonna’s going to do with blankie?” I asked him.

“She’s going to fire it from the bazooka,” he said. “That’s okay. Remember, I saw the bazooka at the garage sale?”

“I know, but Merrill, blankie won’t survive. The bazooka will ruin it.” Torch it, I thought.

“That’s okay,” he said again, a bit insistently.

“We’ve tried talking to him, but it’s pointless,” Diane said, shrugging. She seemed indifferent.

“Okay,” I sighed. If his own sister would let him do this, who was I to interfere?

We found Mrs. Pelletier with Nonna. She was remarking, loudly, how gorgeous Nonna’s cap looked.

From the beginning, Nonna had refused wigs. “It’s one thing to look bald, another to look macabre. I won’t do it,” she’d said.

Macabre:
tending to produce horror in a beholder.
Scary.

At first, when she still had a bit of hair, Nonna just went with it. But now that the cold weather had set in, she covered up. Sometimes with soft scarves but more often with cotton caps. The one she wore this night was a Brett McCarthy special, knit on circular needles. I’d called it an island cap and chosen colors that reminded us of Spruce Island: light blue, like the sky on a clear day; balsam green, for the trees; and purple, for the eggplants Nonna always tried—and failed—to grow in her garden. The cap came out hopelessly lumpy, but Nonna loved it anyway.

“I can’t believe you
made
it, Brett! It’s just wonderful! I didn’t know you could knit! But of course, your mother is so creative. All of you McCarthys…so creative! Diane, did you see this? Look what Brett made!” Mrs. Pelletier enthused.

“Cool,” Diane said politely.

I could feel myself missing the old Brett-banning Mrs. Pelletier. Paxil Pelletier was making me nervous.

“Honey, it’s great to see you.” Nonna had taken Diane’s hand and smiled warmly at her. I watched Diane to see if she registered any surprise. Nonna had changed dramatically over the past months. Gone from wrinkly and robust to pale and birdlike thin. It shocked people who hadn’t seen her much.

Diane didn’t miss a beat.

“I’m really happy you invited us, Nonna,” she said sincerely. “Happy birthday.”

“Happy birthday!” Merrill exclaimed, pushing a brown paper bag into Nonna’s lap.

“Oh, thank you, Merrill,” Nonna laughed. “Let’s see what’s in here.” She reached in and pulled out a gray, tattered cloth.

“Hmm,” Nonna said. “You know…I think I know what this is.” She frowned.

“Can you believe it?” Mrs. Pelletier laughed. Not quite hysterically, but close. “He says
this
is what he wants to get rid of!”

“I’m a big boy,” Merrill said quietly.

“Excuse me?” Nonna asked.

“I said I’m a big boy now,” Merrill repeated, louder. “Big boys don’t have blankies.”

Nonna looked carefully at Merrill. Peering at him with her X-ray vision, straight into his heart. I’d seen that look a zillion times before, aimed at me.

“I have to,” he whispered to her. “I have to be big.”

Nonna nodded at him, patted his arm, and stuffed blankie back into the bag. She handed it to me.

“You’re absolutely right,” she said. “Do you want to go outside and help Beady blast blankie?”

“And Diane’s too,” Merrill said.

“Diane’s blasting a blankie?” Nonna said.

“Oh, no,” Diane said, handing Nonna a white, folded cloth she’d been holding since they’d arrived. “I want to get rid of this old T-shirt. My drawers are full of clothes I’ve outgrown.”

“You know…I saw you walk in that door and thought you looked taller!” Nonna said.

“Can you believe it?” Mrs. Pelletier gushed. “She’s grown an inch and gained five pounds since the fall! Pretty soon my little girl is going to be taller than me! They grow up so fast. Where does the time go?”

A little twitch at the corner of Diane’s mouth was my first indication that she’d finally had it with her mother. I think the five pounds did it. As opposed to me—I gain or lose five pounds any given weekend depending on how much chocolate I can get my hands on—Diane keeps tight control on her eating.

“Ready to go outside and blast?” I offered. Clearly relieved, Diane nodded. We headed out, with Merrill close behind.

The night air was perfectly cold. Perfect, because it was cold enough to keep the snow powdery, but not so cold that your fingers ached or your toes grew numb. Merrill dashed ahead of us toward Mr. Beady and Michael, toting the paper bag with blankie and the T-shirt. Diane and I followed, awkwardly silent. Suddenly she stopped.

“Do you know what this is?” she asked, looking all around.

“What?” I said.

“Angel snow,” she said. “Look.”

About a dozen feet away from us glittered smooth, untrammeled snow the kids had missed. Upon its surface the moon reflected crystals, diamonds, and bright points of light. When we were little girls, we would go out at night in search of such snow. We’d stand at the edge of a patch, arms outspread, and fall back flat. Then, with legs and arms madly brushing up and down, we’d make Diane and Brett angels. The trick was getting up without sticking your hand through a wing or your boot through a gown.

I held my arms out, sideways, and grinned at her.

“Do it!” I cried, falling back. Diane giggled, and within seconds the two of us were on our backs in the snow. I could feel icy crystals on my neck and snow in my hair. We flapped our arms and legs in horizontal jumping jacks, creating long choir-robe sleeves and flowing dresses. When we’d flapped enough, we lay still. It was oddly peaceful. The commotion from the party seemed miles away, and Mr. Beady appeared to have taken a break from the bazooka blasting. We stared silently together at the winter stars overhead.

“I’m sorry about my mom,” I heard Diane say. “She’s hard to take these days.”

“You don’t have to apologize,” I said to the moon overhead. “She probably can’t help it.”

“It sure beats the way she was right after Dad moved out,” Diane continued. “She was a mess. If she wasn’t crying, she was yelling. Finally she got her doctor to prescribe something. But it’s made her…almost
too
happy, you know?”

“Maniacally happy?” I suggested.

“Exactly.” Diane laughed. “You always come up with just the right word, Brett.”

There was a pause as we both absorbed the effect of this compliment.

“Actually, I don’t,” I finally said.

“What do you mean?”

I took a deep breath.

“I didn’t have the right words when your Dad moved out. I blew you off even though Kit told me what had happened. That was bad.”

“Yeah, it was,” Diane said quietly.

“I was mad that you didn’t tell me about the cheerleading, you know?”

Silence.

“I was also mad when I saw you with Jeanne Anne. You know, that day after we made the phone call?”

“The day you hit her,” Diane added.

“It was like—she wrecked my life, and there you were talking to her. About me.”

“We were talking about
Bob,
” Diane said. “We were talking about the whole thing at the water fountain.”

“
And
me,” I added.

“Of course,” Diane replied. “But we weren’t being mean.”

“Maybe
you
weren’t, but she can’t help herself,” I said.

Diane sighed. “Okay, sometimes she’s mean. But she’s also really funny, you know? You never cut her any slack.”

“All right…you know…I don’t want to talk about Jeanne Anne. It gets my adrenaline going. I’m sorry I brought it up.”

We didn’t speak for a few minutes.

“You know why I didn’t tell you about the cheerleading?” Diane whispered.

“Why?”

“I knew it would make you mad.”

“No, it made me mad when I thought you were keeping secrets from me. You could have told me.”

“Brett…please.” Diane had a give-me-a-break tone in her voice. “You hate cheerleading and you are a very opinionated person and you would have made me feel terrible for trying out. And you know what? I
wanted
to try out. I’m
glad
I made it. It’s loads of fun, and if I were still your friend, I wouldn’t have even tried.”

Still your friend. Those words hung in the air. Like icicles suspended from a branch. Diane had said it so matter-of-factly.

“So…we’re not friends anymore?” Even I could tell how pathetic the question sounded.

“Well, what do you think?” Diane replied. “I mean, no offense, but I’ve moved on.”

“Moved on. Like, with Bob?”

“No, not just with
Bob.
With everything. With different interests, different people. I mean, I think we’ve outgrown each other, don’t you?”