Last Call (38 page)

However, she’s distracted by an unmistakable sound rising from the far end of the street. The Greyfriars Gang comes somberly marching into view wearing full Scottish regalia; kilts swaying in time to their step and caps perched uniformly on their heads. Alisdair is playing the bagpipes, Duncan is on snare drum, Hugh holds his fife to his lips, his son Andrew at his side with a musket slung over one shoulder, and Paddy Fitzgerald carries the blue-and-white flag of Scotland, lowered so that it’s almost parallel with the ground.

Neighbors appear on their front stoops one by one, as if there’s an unscheduled parade. Some are still in their nightclothes. Mrs. Trummel wipes her hands on her apron before solemnly lowering the billowy American flag that hangs next to her front door, as if to announce that a great man is no longer among them.

A random group of Trinidadians, Irish, Poles, and Pakistanis follow the procession until it ends in front of the MacBride house, where the Greyfriars Gang dutifully concludes their tribute with “Scotland the Brave.” Bobbie Anne stands on her porch, hands clutching the children’s shoulders and eyes clouded with tears. She bows her head as if the funeral cortege of a world leader is passing before them.

Suddenly the loud and insistent quacking of ducks is heard from the direction of the park. The mallards respond to the familiar sound of Alisdair’s bagpipes at this time of the morning. The ducks begin to waddle over the embankment, just a few at first, and then Hayden’s entire herd clumsily joins the throng of mourners. Among the mostly brownish-black females a few emerald green heads and necks rise above silver-feathered bodies and catch the morning light.

Rosamond puts her arm around Joey’s waist as the crowd continues to gather. “Your grandpa wanted you to open this right after he died,” she says and solemnly hands him the white envelope.

“But he
promised
he wasn’t going to die today!” Joey struggles to hold back his sobs because he knows that’s what his grandfather would have wanted.

Rosamond glances up at the fluffy white clouds floating across a sky as blue as the seas of eternity. The filtered rays of the sun cause her cheeks and forehead to glow with fresh yellow light. She places her hand on Joey’s shoulder, wanting to share with him the wisdom of Teresa of Avila, on how God makes space within us and then later fills it. But instead she says, “It always
was
difficult to know when your grandfather was telling the truth.”

Still fighting back tears, Joey tears open the envelope. He removes a crisp hundred-dollar bill, two tickets to the final game before the playoffs and a note in Hayden’s thick scrawl:
You win the bet! Go Mets!

Joey

I
t’s a milky Saturday afternoon in late August with heat rising in shimmering waves, not unlike the day we buried my grandfather almost twenty years ago. And after which Rosamond kept her promise and took me camping in the Adirondacks, just the two of us. They were the most wonderful three days of my life—tracking animals through the forest, fishing in a cool green mountain stream, and at night gazing up at the stars and together remembering Hayden so hard that he became forever preserved in the misty landscape of our souls. And when the dawn came his presence was felt in the warm sunlight that slowly surrounded us. Thus we became eternally connected to each other, even though it was to be the last time I would ever see her.

Hundreds of small white butterflies with black smudges dart and pirouette among the overgrown honeysuckle that clings to the high granite walls of the convent. I am not permitted to attend the service. So I stand outside the iron gates and my mind wanders back to the many funerals Grandpa had taken me to as a boy, cursing the medical establishment all the while.

I’m surprised by how the past has stayed with me throughout the decades, always just beneath the surface, invisible and heartwarming, threaded to the future, the way the end of summer seamlessly stitches itself into the fall.

Goodness, how my grandfather would be pleased to know that Rosamond had eventually become a mother superior, though perhaps she was the first to use a baseball card as a bookmark in her hymnal. I like to think he’d be amused that I’d grown up to be a surgeon. And that he’d be happy to know that just as Rosamond was blessed with the love of her God, I was equally fortunate to have found the love of a good woman. It’s certain he’d be relieved to know that I never watered down my whiskey, and that I would discourage my young son from doing so as well. Of course, the key to teaching my own eight-year-old boy anything worth knowing and truly Hayden-like is not to let his ever-fretful and vigilant grandmother Diana find out about it.

When I left for college, Diana married Hank, who’d been made a partner in his architecture firm. My mother has maintained her extraordinary beauty throughout the years and continues to amaze us with her infinite capacity to worry about our health and safety, calling each morning with warnings about everything from the West Nile virus and dengue fever to black ice on the roads and a potentially contaminated municipal water supply.

Finally the bells in the dilapidated tower begin to toll, signifying the end of the funeral. Raising my bagpipes toward the sun I begin to play “Oh, Love Will Venture In,” to announce her arrival on the other side, just in case Grandpa is off herding ducks, or more likely placing bets at the bar. With his kilt round my waist and his beloved Robbie Burns in the air it’s certain that I appear a solitary lunatic weeping for lost things, pacing the dusty old gravel driveway where we’d first dropped Rosamond off on that June evening so many years ago. It was the year the Mets finally won the pennant.

Denise Winters

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Laura Pedersen grew up near Buffalo, New York, and now lives in Manhattan, where she volunteers at the Booker T. Washington Learning Center in East Harlem.

Visit her Web site at
LauraPedersenBooks.com
.

BY LAURA PEDERSEN

FICTION

Last Call

Beginner’s Luck

Going Away Party

NONFICTION

Play Money

PRAISE FOR LAURA PEDERSEN

Last Call

“Laura Pedersen’s wry, bittersweet story charts the unlikely romance between a dying yet still vibrant man and a nun whose faith has abandoned her. While much is lost in this gentle tale, much is gained too, and by the novel’s end, the characters are granted the kind of wisdom and acceptance for which we all continue to long.”

—Yona Zeldis McDonough, author of
The Four Temperaments

Beginner’s Luck

“Laura Pedersen delivers . . . If this book hasn’t been made into a screenplay already, it should be soon. Throughout, you can’t help but think how hilarious some of the scenes would play on the big screen.”

—The Hartford Courant

“Funny, sweet-natured, and well-crafted . . . Pedersen has created a wonderful assemblage of . . . whimsical characters and charm.”

—Kirkus Reviews

“This novel is funny and just quirky enough to become a word-of-mouth favorite. . . . Pedersen has a knack for capturing tart teenage observations in witty asides, and Hallie’s naÏveté, combined with her gambling and numbers savvy, make her a winning protagonist.”

—Publishers Weekly

“A breezy coming-of-age novel with an appealing cast of characters.”

—Booklist

“A fresh and funny look at not fitting in.”

—
Seventeen
magazine

Please continue reading. . . for
an exciting preview of
Laura Pedersen’s next novel,
the sequel to
Beginner’s Luck

HEART’S DESIRE

CHAPTER
1

Someone is cracking open the bedroom door. “Hallie? Are you in there?”

Upon hearing the familiar voice I wake slightly and assume that I’m having weird dreams due to excessive body heat. Lying next to me is my boyfriend, Ray. And on the other side is Vanessa. I push down the blanket.

“Hallie, are you up?” the voice comes again.

Only now I’m definitely hearing and not dreaming Bernard’s stage whisper. And also smelling the rich aroma of freshly baked bread. Wakefulness and reality strike simultaneously. “Oh my gosh!” I shout and raise my head. “What time is it? I have an exam at eight!”

The only thing that’s not surprising is to find Bernard Stockton in the hallway of my apartment. After all, he’s the one who’d saved me when I was sliding down the slippery slope of adolescent rebellion the previous fall by taking me on as a live-in yard person. And now at least one weekend a month he arrives early and cooks us all a big breakfast. Only this isn’t Saturday or Sunday. It’s Thursday of finals week.

Bernard opens the door the rest of the way and steps inside the room. “It’s just after seven,” he says. But his voice breaks and I can tell immediately that something is terribly wrong. Not only that, he must have gotten up at four in the morning to make the one-hour drive to Cleveland and then bake bread.

“What’s the matter, I mean, I’m coming . . .” In climbing out from my position as pickle in the middle I realize that I’m still in my underwear. “Um, could you wait in the kitchen?”

“Oh, yes, of course. How indelicate of me.” His footsteps become faint and then I hear him tackle the mess of dirty pots and pans.

Meanwhile, I stumble through the minefield of packed duffel bags and piles of dirty clothes and finally pull on the first T-shirt and sweatpants that come into view. The whole place smells like old pizza and even older laundry. As I pass the living room the sound of loud snoring comes from behind stacks of books and model cardboard buildings that rise in the middle of the floor to form a miniature skyline. A closer look reveals Debbie and Todd passed out on the couch, surrounded by notebooks and empty pizza boxes.

In the kitchen Bernard has lined up his numerous shopping bags on the floor since there’s no available space on the countertops or table. Those are all covered in a collagelike mishmash of art supplies, stained coffee mugs, and pizza crusts. Fortunately, he’s accustomed to the mess. With four busy young women sharing three rooms and all the various friends and boyfriends hanging about, housekeeping rarely rises above the minimum required for pest control. Particularly during exam time, when we’re all cramming for finals and working like crazy to finish up papers and projects.

I rub the sleep from my eyes. “What’s wrong? Is it Olivia?” Though I’d called Bernard’s sixty-ish mother the night before to ask her a grammar question for a paper I was writing, or at least attempting to write, and she’d sounded fine.

Bernard stops whipping eggs in the clean metal mixing bowl he brought from home, bows his head, and shuts his eyes as if in pain. “It’s Gil.”

Never before have I seen him so grave when referring to his longtime companion. And so of course I assume the worst. “What? Is he
dying
?”

When my eyes become accustomed to the light I notice how completely wrecked the normally dapper Bernard looks—bags under his eyes, worry lines furrowing his brow, and something I’ve never seen on him before, brown socks with black loafers!

Bernard turns away from me and dabs at his eyes. “I promised myself I wouldn’t cry.” He waits a moment to compose himself, takes a deep breath, looks me straight in the eye, and in a trembly voice blurts out, “Gil left me!”

“You broke up?” I’m truly stunned. I’d have voted my parents more likely to break up than Gil and Bernard, and even the thought of
that
is impossible.

“We didn’t break up.” Bernard starts sniffing again. “Gil
left
me!
Abandonnement
.” He switches to French for greater effect.

I’m not sure that I see the difference between breaking up and one person leaving, but it doesn’t appear to be the right moment to ask. Tears begin to stream down Bernard’s cheeks and I’ve never seen him full out cry like this before, not even when his father died.

As I reach out to put my hand on his arm a hiss comes from the stove and he leaps up to adjust the heat on his beloved Calphalon nonstick crepe pan. Then he starts concentrating on making apple-cinnamon crepes and this seems to calm him slightly, to my great relief. Hopefully Bernard is overreacting and he and Gil just had an argument that will eventually be resolved. Perhaps it was about Bernard’s junk taking up the entire garage. In the spring Gil always gets cross when bucketfuls of pollen land on his car because it has to sit out in the driveway.

“What happened?” I ask. “Did you two have a fight?”

“No. I mean, here he is, always insisting that
he’s
the normal one. Then all of a sudden he goes berserk and announces that he doesn’t want to be part of a committed relationship. Gil hasn’t been the same since his older brother Clifton died unexpectedly last month . . . he became more and more distant and then . . . he said . . . it was over . . .”

Bernard begins crying again and uses the dish towel over his shoulder to wipe away his tears. He always brings his own Marshal Field’s British icon dish towels when he comes to cook for us.

All of my friends love Bernard. He’s like an eccentric uncle who unexpectedly shows up and cooks, helps to decorate, rearranges the furniture, and even organizes theme parties. In fact, one of my professors had even invited him to guest lecture in a pottery class. Having bought and sold ceramics for his shop the past fifteen years, Bernard knows everything about all the different schools and designs, and most of all, exactly how much any lump of painted clay you might have lying around your attic is worth. However, this morning his usual expression of irrepressible lightheartedness is nowhere to be found.

Either the noise from us talking or, more likely, the smell of fresh bread and vanilla-flavored coffee awakens the couple on the couch in the living room and we hear them carefully making their way toward the kitchen. There are design projects in various states of completion all over the apartment, transforming it into an obstacle course.

Bernard quickly pulls himself together and says to me, “I can’t have anyone seeing me so upset. Now don’t say a word to them about this calamity, all right?”

“Mum’s the word,” I say. Bernard does indeed have a reputation for inexhaustible zest and witty remarks to protect.

Debbie and Todd appear bleary-eyed in the archway. Todd is bare-chested, wearing only jeans that hang low on his waist, suggesting an absence of underwear, and Debbie has a mint green sheet wrapped around her, Statue of Liberty style. I’d rather we were all exhausted from partying, like at the beginning of the semester, but everyone is beat as a result of hitting the books hard all week.

“Hey,” they say sleepily, but in unison.

Debbie is used to Bernard arriving early, though usually on weekends rather than school days. And her boyfriend, Todd, is around often enough to have met Bernard a few times as well. They also know that he’s very generous with his cooking. Bernard always claims that he’s trying out new recipes and needs tasters, as if we’re all doing him a huge favor by eating a five-course breakfast.

“Something smells terrific,” says Todd, hungrily eyeing the platter that by now has three crepes smothered in crushed apples on it.

“Come on now, I know that everyone is tired and hungry with all these horrible tests!” With forced cheer Bernard digs into his shopping bags and starts taking out cartons of cream, fruit salad, and powdered sugar.

“Your eyes are all red,” Debbie says to Bernard. “Are you okay?”

Bernard looks at me searchingly.

“He was just chopping onions.” I quickly supply a plausible explanation.

“It’s no use,” says Bernard and begins to weep again. “Gil left me and I’m just a wreck!”

Bluffing was never his great strength. At least not like blanching. Bernard crumples into the nearest chair and cradles his face in his hands.

It so happens that Debbie’s mother is a rapid-cycling bipolar, and as a result she’s excellent at dealing with unexpected mood swings. Debbie calmly pours him a mug of the fresh coffee and pulls a chair up right up next to his. “That’s
terrible
!” She places her arm around him. “Tell us
all
about it.”

“Oh, no. You have enough to worry about with exams.” Bernard takes a breath and begins, “Gil’s older brother died a little over a month ago. They weren’t on speaking terms because of course the family had disowned him when he came out of the closet . . .”

Just then I notice the clock on the microwave says a quarter to eight. My exam in motion graphics starts in exactly fifteen minutes. Leaping up from the table I say to Bernard, “I’ll be back in two hours. Can you stay that long?”

“
Stay?
I
can’t
go home!” He waves the end of the dish towel with the Buckingham Palace guard wearing the big black furry hat at me. “I’ve driven Mother insane the past two weeks with all my keening and wailing. She says that if I can’t let go then I need to see a psychiatrist before she’ll let me back in the house. And to make matters worse, she keeps reminding me that Shaw’s
Pygmalion
didn’t have a happy ending—Hollywood added it when they transformed the play into
My Fair Lady
.”

I leave Bernard at the kitchen table while I take a quick shower. By the time I return, my other roommates, Suzy and Robin, have emerged from their cave in the back and he’s recounting the story to them, starting at the beginning.

As I’m racing out the door Bernard interrupts himself to ask me, “Uh, Hallie, that was Steve in your bed with you, wasn’t it? But I didn’t recognize the woman.”

“Actually that was Ray, my latest boyfriend of two weeks. And on the other side was Vanessa. She stayed over last night.”

“Obviously.” He gives me a curious look. “A ménage à trois. Mother would be so proud!”

“Oh my gosh, no! Vanessa is Ray’s neighbor. She’s planning on going to school here next year. We ran out of beds.”

“Of course. I’ve forgotten how
loose
everything is at college.”