Authors: Laura Pedersen
“Those are just nice ways of saying he died,” says Bernard. “Like
passed away.”
My nose is running so ferociously that I have to blow it on a scarf that's dangling from a hook above. “But it sounds as if he's suddenly going to turn up somewhere—in a corner of the garage or down at the bus depot!” I raise my arms to gesture and a wool pom-pom scrapes my eyeball. “I can't take it anymore— the funeral, the graveyard, and now all these people!”
“We'll go and sit together on the couch and I'll help you. They shouldn't be here much longer. Worst case, you'll go upstairs and I'll simply say that you're exhausted.”
“I look terrible.”
“It's a funeral, you're supposed to look terrible,” Bernard says emphatically. “Why do you think women wear hats and veils and dark sunglasses?”
We exit the closet and go into the kitchen, where Bernard hands me a tissue and a glass of ice water. Then he sits down next to me on the couch in the living room. With his arm resting on my back, Bernard does the talking while I just nod as if I'm his tongue-tied dummy.
Cheap old Mr. Exner, the owner of the sporting goods store, stands in front of us and says, “Your dad was one heck of a ballplayer. I remember him pitching a perfect game when he was knee-high to a grasshopper, and I said to myself, That boy is going places.”
“Yes, indeed,” replies Bernard. “He was so many things to so many people.”
Others take turns coming over and saying how sorry they are, and Bernard nods with understanding and says how much the family appreciates their condolences and thanks them for attending the service. He's actually very good at this and no one stays for more than a few minutes. It's as if Bernard is a priest handing out absolution. Each person walks away looking very much relieved. And no one seems to mind that they're actually talking to him and not me.
It's going pretty well until one woman who worked for Dad starts in about my being “a poor lamb,” and asking “Whatever will you do?” before bursting into tears. Bernard places his arm around the woman's shoulders and ends up comforting
her.
“There, there, Hallie is a lot like her father—very strong. She is our
legionnaire
!” He switches to French for a bit of dramatic flair and then he hugs her with all the subtlety of a silent film star. Finally the woman ratchets the waterworks down to a sniffle and scuttles away.
Bernard leans over and whispers, “If you can't be a winner, then at least be a martyr.”
We survive this receiving line of mourners and eventually they head out, passing Eric at the front door; he shakes all the men's hands and politely hugs the women. Louise must have gone straight up to her room. I haven't seen her since we arrived back from the graveyard. And knowing her aversion to providing unpaid child care, it's doubtful she went to the basement with all the kids.
Bernard and Gil not only help clean up and rinse all the glasses, but also put the kids to bed. We decide that even though tomorrow is Friday, they should probably go back to school. Sitting at home for another day isn't going to do any good, and it will be easier for me to get organized with them out of my hair for a few hours. As Bernard keeps reminding me, all these flowers
and fruit baskets will require thank-you notes. It's too bad there's no way to exchange them for diapers and lunch meat. I'd definitely be more enthusiastic about the thank-you notes.
By the time I lie down on the couch it must be very late. Yet I don't bother to look at the grandfather clock directly across from me. Time no longer matters. It's as if all the hours on the clock have been painted over, leaving it blank, with the hands going round and round, indicating nothing.
Eventually I drift off from sheer exhaustion, only to be awakened by a nightmare in which I can't remember what Dad looks like. I turn on the light and locate the photo of Mom and Dad from the mantel and put it next to me on the end table. Staring intently at Dad's face, I try to recall everything about him—what he wore, how he smelled, his favorite foods, the way he picked us up and carried us over his big strong shoulders when we were tired. I burn these images into my mind so that I won't ever forget.
T
HE FOLLOWING MORNING I WAKE UP AT EXACTLY HALF PAST
five. This is amazing because in school at least two alarm clocks were necessary if I had to rise before seven. My grand plan is to get Davy, Darlene, and Francie ready before the twins wake up. Lillian is almost two and I have no idea what Mom does with her all day long, aside from try to prevent her from ruining the house and ingesting small pieces of plastic along the way. She is into absolutely everything!
First I go to the kitchen and make the lunches. Then I put cereal and milk on the table. The days of everyone having what they like for breakfast are over. Anyway, Dad always said it was ridiculous for Mom to make four different things and that kids should eat what's put in front of them or not eat at all.
By the time I head upstairs to wake those children targeted for the school bus, Eric emerges from the basement, where he and Uncle Lenny are sleeping on couches. I can hear Aunt Lala running water in the downstairs bathroom. Eric is driving Aunt Lala and Uncle Lenny over to visit Mom at Dalewood, and then I'm supposed to go in the afternoon.
In the small room at the end of the upstairs hallway, Teddy
and Davy share bunk beds. On the top bunk Teddy is still sound asleep, completely wrapped up in a tan velour blanket and looking remarkably like a giant caterpillar.
Shaking Davy awake, I can't tell if his red hair has paint or glue clumping it together, and there are some new freckles on his face that could be dirt or possibly Magic Marker.
“Hey, mister, when was the last time you had a bath?”
His eyelids flip open just as I notice the unusual map on the wall next to his place in the lower bunk bed. “What is
this
on your wall?”
“A map,” he says.
“I can see that. What is it made out of?”
“Gummy bears,” he replies, as if only an idiot wouldn't know this.
“But they're stuck directly onto the wall—has Mom seen this?”
Davy blinks his bright green eyes at me several times as if any and all knowledge of the English language has suddenly escaped him.
“Never mind,” I say. “Take a shower and get dressed for school.”
As I give this order the water across the hall goes on and someone else has grabbed the shower.
I change the order. “Go eat breakfast and then come back up and take a shower. You're filthy!”
“Hallie,” says Davy.
Uh-oh, I think. Here it comes—the stomachache, sore throat, whatever. Davy will use any excuse not to be on that bus.
“What, sweetie?”
“My throat hurts,” comes the faint reply.
“I'll write your teacher a note saying that you should sit out recess.” I'd learned this one from Mom.
Next on my list is Francie, who shares a room with Lillian. With the birth of the twins Lillian was transitioned slightly early to a “big girl” bed, much to her delight. Francie's already up and sprawled out on the floor playing with her dolls. Though she treats them more like stunt dolls than babies or playmates. Instead of having tea parties or playing house, they have to jump off the bed into a bucket full of water or else leap through orange-colored paper rings of imaginary fire. At least the fire is supposed to be imaginary. Most of them don't have hair because of the one day it wasn't.
“When was the last time you had a bath?” I ask.
“Yesterday before we got all dressed up.”
She looks clean enough. “Okay, then put some clothes on and go downstairs for breakfast.”
“Don't want to go to school,” she announces while placing her dolls all in row, facing forward, which could either be to receive Olympic medals or face a firing squad.
“Why not?” I decide to take a stab at being a child psychologist. If she's still upset from the funeral, then I guess it won't hurt to stay home another day.
“Because I hate Randy Perkins,” says Francie. “He stoled my Black Beauty.”
I don't know if she's talking about a book or a plastic horse. It's definitely not a lunch box. The Palmers are strictly a brown paper bag family.
“Tell him to give it back and if that doesn't work then ask the teacher to talk to him.” I pull open a drawer and dig around for pants and a sweater, but all that's in there are a bunch of T-shirts and mismatched pajama tops and bottoms.
“I'm going to beat him up!” declares Francie.
“No, you're not,”
I say in my best Mom voice while checking the closet for something wearable. When I was home for Christmas,
Mom told me that Francie has already been in two fights with boys this year. “Francie, where are your school clothes?”
“Dunno.”
I'd better check the laundry room. As soon as I'm out in the hallway the twins start the dawn chorus from down below. I quickly poke my head into Darlene and Louise's room. Louise is lying in bed facing the wall with the cordless phone pressed to her ear.
“Who
are you talking to at six-thirty in the morning?” I ask. As if I don't know.
Louise turns her head enough to give me a none-of-your-business scowl before returning to her conversation.
I gently shake Darlene, who will probably go down in history as the obedient Palmer child. “Hey, Super Girl, it's time to get ready for school.”
She rubs her eyes with her fists and sits up on the edge of the bed. Another set of yowls come up the staircase and both of the twins are now in full voice.
“Check and see if you have any clean clothes to wear,” I instruct Darlene. “If not, go down and have breakfast in your pajamas while I get stuff from the laundry room.”
Just then the doorbell rings.
“Louise, could you please bring some clothes up from the laundry room while I answer the door and change the twins?”
Louise covers the mouthpiece of the phone and angrily hisses back, “You're not my mother, you know. You can't tell me what to do!”
The doorbell rings again. Eric yells from the bathroom, “Somebody's at the door!”
“I'm not trying to tell you what to do,” I say to Louise, though my voice is also rising and developing an edge to it. “I'm
simply asking for a little help here. If
you'd
rather answer the door and change the twins, then
fine.”
Louise turns away from me to face the wall and resumes her phone chat.
The twins are now bawling as if nobody has fed them for a week.
W
ITHOUT LOOKING THROUGH THE SIDE WINDOW TO SEE WHO IT
is, I throw open the front door. A guy in a suit is standing there with an envelope in his hand. He looks like a salesman.
“Hi, I'm Burt.” The man shifts his weight from one foot to the other while fixing his gaze squarely on the welcome mat. “I work for your dad—I mean, I worked for your dad….” He becomes flustered and the sentence trails off.
“I'm Hallie.” I usher him into the front hall. “You were at the funeral yesterday, right—in the back?”
“Yep. Sure was a big crowd!” Burt says this as if it speaks well for the family.
In the background only one of the twins is yowling, which means Aunt Lala must have picked up the other one. However, the sound of a shrieking child appears to discombobulate Burt, and he recognizes that it's not really a convenient time to be having a chat.
“Sorry to come by so early, but I was on my way to work and saw the lights on,” he explains abruptly and then shoves the envelope toward me. “Uh, we took up a collection at work. I wish it was more, but … well …”
“Oh!” I take the envelope from him only because I have no choice—he's abandoning it in midair. My head is telling me to say thanks, but we don't need any charity. Burt appears even more uncomfortable as the one assigned to bestow the gift. He's halfway down the steps by the time I've lowered my hand back down to my side. “Okay then,” he yells over his shoulder. “Call if you need anything, absolutely anything at all.” He practically runs back to a car that is idling by the curb.
Tossing the envelope onto the sideboard, I hurry to fetch the twins.
Uncle Lenny appears all dressed and ready to go. “Help yourself to anything in the fridge,” I offer.
“A couple of apples are just fine if you have them.”
“In the dining room,” I say. Lord knows, we have enough fruit to feed the entire monkey house at the Cleveland Zoo. The little kids continue to be somewhat wary of Uncle Lenny, as if he's the dark at the bottom of the stairs. I can't exactly blame them. His deep bass voice rumbles up from the bottom of his barrel chest and emerges through a froth of white whiskers like a cannon going off. When I was having a hard time getting the kids into bed last night, Uncle Lenny loudly declared that he'd kick them in the backsides so hard that their spines would come out through the tops of their heads. They scooted off to bed lickety-split.
At long last Darlene, Davy, and Francie are on their way to school, and Eric leaves to see Mom with Aunt Lala and Uncle Lenny. After lunch Eric will watch the kids while I visit Mom. He has to catch a bus at four o'clock so he can play in a championship football game tomorrow.
Teddy races through the living room and out the front door to catch up with Eric. I grab a coat out of the front hall that looks to be about the right size and dash out after him.
“I'm not sure they're going to let you in, Teddy.” I toss the coat into the backseat where he's sitting next to Aunt Lala.
Eric rolls down the front window. “Then he'll have to stay in the waiting room. On the way home I'll drop him at school.”
Back inside Lillian is chewing on green cellophane from one of the fruit baskets. I haul the old playpen up from the basement. Then I run a bath for the twins. It's when we're finished that I spot the little blue ribbon that had been tied around Roddy's ankle lying near the drain. I quickly look over at the naked babies crawling on the big towel spread out on the floor. Oh no! They look
exactly
alike.
Louise opens the bathroom door. She's wearing a coat and scarf. “Just thought I'd say good-bye.”