Brett McCarthy (7 page)

re•con•sti•tute

Frugality is practically a religion in Maine. Even those who can afford full price at the mall brag that they bought it for peanuts at Goodwill. And yard sales…the Promised Land of the Thrifty…are a pretty big deal and fairly competitive.

Even by Maine standards Nonna’s Super-Sized was wildly popular. An annual Mescataqua event, actually. More like a wacky block party, or a science fair on steroids, than a garage sale.

For starters, she didn’t sell anything useful. The pros always stayed away. That’s because they knew they wouldn’t find a single item that anyone in their right mind would want. No treasures or bargains, no practically new bicycles, no vases, bookcases, or ski boots. Still, most of Mescataqua came.

That’s because Nonna specialized in what she called “reconstituted” items. My dad says when he was a boy, “reconstituted” orange juice was a big thing.

Reconstitute:
to restore to a former condition by adding water.
Like powdered milk.

With Nonna’s items water played a minor role. But duct tape was key. Superglue. Nails, screws, soldering equipment. Anything it took to stick egg cartons onto wooden dowels, or join lengths of rusty pipe, or attach bedsprings to the bottoms of old boots. A little tape here, a little hinge there, and presto! A Ping-Pong catapult. Or pogo boots. Or a hamster hotel. Reconstituted from promising pieces of cast-off stuff she’d collected all year, and irresistible to your average child.

I loved the annual Super-Sized. Mr. Beady, Michael, and I would stay up late the night before, hard at it in the garage, arguing over things like why the Teddy Bear Carousel powered by the NordicTrack ski machine flywheel kept getting stuck. Diane, who always worked it with us, would help with the bake-sale component. She was hopeless at construction (she couldn’t even
unwind
duct tape, let alone attach it to anything), so she always ended up in the kitchen, where she and Nonna turned out pan after pan of fudge brownies and choco-coconut dream bars.

Diane would also make her signature treat: madeleines, little French cakes baked in a specially molded pan. Nonna loved them but, true to form, was hopeless at making them. That’s because madeleines don’t contain one bit of chocolate, and Nonna could work her magic only if chocolate was involved. Diane, however, was a madeleine whiz.

On Super Sized mornings my parents would appear with hot chocolate, coffee, and Dunkin’ Donuts. They never really got involved in the Super-Sized. Just spectated from afar. I think they appreciated that it was one of Nonna’s special things.

But not this year. You’d think they were flies on sticky paper, the way they hung around. They’d shut the whole operation down early the night before, just when Michael and I were trying to put the final touches on the Ped-o-Sled (an old Flexible Flyer that we’d rigged up with fat tires, a seat, and pedals, perfect for pedaling over a snow-covered frozen lake).

“Let’s wrap it up,” Mom had said. “Nonna needs a good night’s sleep.”

There was an edge to her voice, and I got the impression that she didn’t approve of the Super-Sized this year. She kept making comments to Dad about “overdoing it” and “not necessary.” I could tell she was getting on Nonna’s nerves.

When I arrived at the Gnome Home kitchen the morning of the sale, Nonna was slicing brownies into Super Sizes and wrapping them in plastic.

“There you are,” she said. “Another minute and I was going to eat that last Boston kreme myself.” She nodded toward a pink-and-yellow donut box on the table. I am mad for Boston kreme donuts. I flopped into a kitchen chair and helped myself.

“Is Michael here yet?” I asked.

“He and Beady are finishing up your Ped-o thing in the garage,” she said. “It’s hard to get it to move on the grass, but they think it’ll work fine on ice or snow.”

“Awesome,” I said, taking a huge bite. The pastry-chocolate-custard combo was eavenly.

“You know, I’ve been trying to figure out what’s different this year, and it finally occurred to me last night,” said Nonna. “Diane hasn’t come by to help. I can scarcely remember a Super-Sized without her.”

“Umm,” I replied, filling my mouth with donut.

“What’s she up to these days?”

“No clue.” I shrugged. “Her mother won’t let her talk to me, and I’ve been kicked out of school, remember?” The truth, the half truth, and nothing but…the half truth? I could imagine Michael’s expression if he heard this exchange.

“Well, I miss her,” said Nonna. “I needed her in the kitchen last night. Speaking of which, start slicing dream bars. And make ’em huge.”

The weather was perfect, and cars by the dozen started cruising up the driveway or parking along the side of the road earlier than we’d expected. Like I said, the Super-Sized was an annual Mescataqua event.

We all had our “positions.” Nonna worked the bake-sale table, making a point of telling everyone that there was no charge for the goodies but contributions to the Domestic Violence Prevention Center could go in the glass mayonnaise jar. Two of the Kathies (who turned out to be volunteers at the Domestic Violence Prevention Center…go figure) helped people carry stuff to their cars. Michael and Mr. Beady were out back, blasting the bazooka. They’d put together “Build Your Own Bazooka” kits, complete with PVC pipe and instructions, and were trying to drum up business with exciting demonstrations. From the squeals and applause I heard, I could tell it was a big hit. But I didn’t actually see anything. I’d gotten stuck at the Ping-Pong catapult table.

Ping-Pong balls really get on my nerves. I don’t know, there’s something about that irritating little sound they make when they bounce that crawls right up my spine. Stationing me at the catapult table, which turned out to be a seven-year-old-boy magnet, was torture.

To amuse myself I started firing balls at little kids. Families would stroll past my table, and I’d take aim at an unsuspecting childish leg and—
ping!
—bounce a ball off someone’s socks at ten feet. Ironically, they all thought it was a big game and would come running over for more. Great.

I was squaring off with a pretty aggressive five-year-old (he’d already nailed me twice between the eyes) when I heard a familiar voice.

“Wow, that sure looks like fun. Maybe Brett can let you boys give it a try.”

It was Mr. Pelletier. Merrill was with him, and another little boy I didn’t recognize. My eyes darted, looking for Diane, but I didn’t see her.

“So what do you call this?” Mr. Pelletier said cheerfully. Heartily, like someone who’s trying to convince himself…and others…that he’s having a good time.

“It’s a Ping-Pong catapult,” I answered, looking at Merrill and the boy. “Want to give it a try?”

The Merrill I used to know and despise would have knocked me over for a turn with the catapults. This sort of semiviolent plaything was right up his hyperactive alley. When he wasn’t zoned out in front of the television, Merrill was whacking, bashing, tossing…you get the picture.

Not this Merrill. He stared down at the Velcro closures on his dusty Spider-Man sneakers and shrugged at my invitation. His companion, a slightly smaller blond boy with large, owleye glasses, did no better. He looked nervously at the catapults, biting his lower lip. He didn’t seem at all like the usual juvenile delinquents Merrill associated with. Then a fourth person arrived on the scene and made everything clear.

“Hey, honey, what do we have here?”

A bird of paradise seated in an osprey’s nest would have looked less incongruous at the Super-Sized than the woman who asked this question.

In Maine, where one is most likely to find a woman who can dismantle, clean, and reassemble a chain saw, this small, highly blond female person was clearly “from away.”

Her “Hey, honey” placed her below the Mason-Dixon line. Her full-facial makeup glowed slightly orange, and her shiny, smooth coif was pulled back with a black velvet bow. She wore a fuzzy white sweater (
she
obviously had no intention of hauling rusty pipes back to her car), stretchy black slacks, and black leather boots with sharp heels that made little holes in the lawn. She placed one hand gently on the blond boy’s shoulder and slid a slim, fuzzy arm around Mr. Pelletier’s waist. It was not a sisterly embrace.

Holy crow, I thought. Mr. Pelletier’s got a girlfriend.

Before I could fully absorb this information, Nonna arrived and blew me away entirely.

“Well, hello. We meet again,” Nonna said. She was talking to the girlfriend, whose enormous, heavily mascaraed eyes widened in surprise.

“Mrs. McCarthy! Whatever are you doing here?”

“Well, I live here. We do this sale every year. I see you’ve met my granddaughter, Brett.” Girlfriend locked her gaze on me.

“We haven’t been properly introduced yet,” she said. “Hello, Brett. I’m Pamela Warren. And this here’s my son, Brock. And my friend, Larry Pelletier, and his little boy, Merrill.”

“Actually, we know the Pelletiers,” Nonna said. “Brett and Diane are practically sisters. Where is she today, Larry? I can’t remember her ever missing a garage sale.”

Mr. Pelletier grinned nervously and hesitated. I could see he wasn’t sure what to say.

I could have answered for him. Diane wouldn’t have been caught dead walking around and smiling at neighbors who would stare at Pamela Warren and whisper, “Who’s that?”

Merrill confirmed this.

“She didn’t want to come with us,” he said softly. Un-Merrill-like.

“Oh, that’s too bad,” said Nonna soothingly. She directed her comment to Merrill. “You tell her we missed her, okay? Tell her we saved a Super-Sized brownie just for her.”

Merrill stared miserably back at Nonna. His lower lip quivered. His big brown eyes glazed over with tears.

“I don’t think she’ll come,” he whispered. “Can I bring it to her?”

This was blowing my mind. Merrill, the Dark Lord. The child most likely to have Damien’s 666 tattooed on his scalp. Trying to do something nice for his sister? Unbelievable.

“Of course!” Nonna said. “And I’ll get some for you and Brock too. Be right back.” She hurried off to the bake-sale table, leaving me with Mr. Pelletier, the boys, and Southern Belle Barbie.

“Oh, isn’t she just
precious
!” cooed Pamela Warren. “I tell you,” she said to me, “I’ve only recently met your grandmother, but I absolutely love her. Look at her. And you know she doesn’t feel well! But does she let that stop her? No, not her. I tell you, I
admire
her.”

“How do you know my Nonna?” I asked, stupefied. How would you know she doesn’t feel well? I wanted to ask.

“We met the other day at the hospital,” she said. “I’m a hospice volunteer. We wanted to let your grandmother know what we’re all about, what options are available to her. When she’s ready.” Pamela Warren smiled knowingly at me. My stomach did a one-eighty. Ready for what?

Nonna came back with the treats. They really were huge. One brownie looked almost as big as Brock’s head.

“Now, why don’t you take these around back and go see the bazooka blasting?” Nonna told them. “I think they’re firing off old sneakers stuffed with styrofoam peanuts.”

“’Bye!” said Pamela Warren gaily. “Mrs. McCarthy, you take care now. Don’t overdo. I can see what you’re like!” Nonna waved them on but said nothing. She pursed her lips tightly, ignoring my pointed stare.

“Later,” Nonna said, not meeting my eyes. “Right now we have the sale to think about. But we’ll discuss this later.”

She headed over to the driveway, where more cars had just pulled in, and greeted the eager families who piled out. The Pelletier-Warrens were walking toward the bazookas. Brock had already unwrapped his brownie and was polishing it off in super-sized bites. Merrill held his treats to his chest and walked with his head down, kicking little dry scuffs of dirt along the way.

That’s when I surprised myself. I grabbed two of the smaller catapults and a half dozen Ping-Pong balls off the table, stuffed them into a plastic shopping bag, and sprinted after Merrill.

“Here,” I said, thrusting the bag into his hands when I caught up with him. “You guys can shoot these at each other when you get home.” Merrill peeked inside. His head shot up and he grinned at me. A flash of the old destructive Merrill. “Thanks!” he said, and bounded off toward the bazookas, his dad, and his own redefined life.

neu•tral

“He’s got nerve. I’ll say that much for him.”

Mom, Dad, and I were breaking down the last remnants of the garage sale. As usual, the Super-Sized had been a smashing success. We’d unloaded everything—even the Ped-o-Sled—and made more than $400 for the Domestic Violence Prevention Center. Michael and Mr. Beady had sold five Build Your Own Bazooka kits, and the Gnome Home garage was completely clean. Not a rusty pipe or moldy tire in sight.

Nonna had gone inside for a nap. She was exhausted. She didn’t even have the energy to argue with Mr. Beady, who had insisted on scrubbing the brownie pans stacked in the sink. Nonna hated the way Mr. Beady only half washed dishes. He was in there right now, and I couldn’t believe she was able to sleep over all his clattering.

I had been waiting for someone to bring up the Mr. Pelletier thing. It was like an eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the living room: Everyone knew it was there, but no one wanted to mention it. I knew if it had been just Nonna and me, there’d be plenty to say. Instead, my parents were doing their usual job “talking” to me without really telling me anything.

“So,” I’d finally said, “did you check out Mr. Pelletier’s girlfriend?” I let that one hang in the air for a few seconds.

That’s when Dad made the comment about nerve. Mom frowned at him and shook her head slightly, sending him one of those telepathic parental signals I supposedly didn’t notice.

“What makes you think she was a girlfriend?” Mom asked neutrally. “Maybe she was just a friend.”

Neutral:
neither one thing nor the other; indifferent, disengaged.

“The way she had her hands all over him kind of screamed ‘girlfriend’ at me,” I commented, equally neutral. “She was also really dressed up, like it was a date or something. You know, the fuzzy sweater and the high-heeled boots? The average mom at a garage sale usually isn’t stylin’ like that.”

“She aerated Nonna’s lawn for us,” Dad said matter-of-factly. “You know, those stiletto boots? I’m thinking about buying a pair for you, hon.” He winked at Mom.

“Yeah, you know, Mom, you could also use some fuzzy sweaters,” I said.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Dad said. “Fiber artists don’t do fuzzy, Brett. Your mom’s more the Wearable Art crowd. I like her handmade quilted vests.”

“She could be a fuzzy fiber artist,” I suggested.

That’s where Mom drew the line. “Okay, you two, enough,” she said. “This is not a laughing matter.”

She was right. And I wanted some answers.

“How long have you known about this, Mom?”

“You know, I’m not going to get into this with you, Brett,” she said. “Frankly, it’s none of your business. Just suffice it to say Marie is my friend, and she’s confided in me. And those sorts of jokes are the last thing the Pelletiers need. They need friends who sympathize, not gossip.”

“I’m not gossiping; I’m just asking,” I said, throwing my hands up. “Is that a crime?”

No one bothered to respond, so I decided to plunge on ahead.

“Did you know she knows Nonna?”

“Who?” they both asked at once.

“The fuzzy girlfriend,” I replied patiently. “Pamela What’s-Her-Face. She knows Nonna from the hospital.” My parents looked surprised.

“How do you know this?” Dad asked.

“I was right there—they were talking,” I said. “She said she met Nonna at the hospital the other day. She’s a…hospice volunteer. What’s that?”

“I don’t remember meeting someone from hospice,” Mom said. “Then again, it was such a stressful day….” Dad shrugged. His face had clouded over.

Answer my questions! I wanted to scream. A tidal wave of frustration swept over me. Then: Mr. Beady.

He was upstairs. He had just wrenched open the second-floor bedroom window and stuck his head out. We turned toward the sound, and there was his worried face looking down at us.

“Something’s wrong,” he said. “I can’t wake her.”

“Why are you trying to wake her?” Mom replied, clearly annoyed. “Let her sleep.”

“No, you don’t understand,” he continued. “I was downstairs and heard a thump. She’s fallen out of bed, and I can’t wake her.”

Dad was running before Mr. Beady’s words fully registered with me. Mom dashed into the Gnome Home at full speed. I stood frozen, stupid, brain operating in slow motion. Move! it finally directed me, and I ran too.

I practically crashed into Mom in the kitchen. She was hanging up the phone.

“I just called 911,” she said. Her face was dead pale, and she spoke deliberately. Like English wasn’t my first language. “I need you to wait outside for the ambulance. Don’t let them go to the wrong house.” Upstairs, Dad was calling Nonna over and over, loudly.

When the paramedics wheeled her out and into the red-light-flashing ambulance, her eyes were closed. She wore an oxygen mask over her face, and they had secured her to the stretcher with wide orange straps. I suddenly felt very cold and had my arms wrapped tight around my chest.

It was like watching a train wreck, or an accident on the highway. Except this time it was happening to us.