Authors: Laura Pedersen
“Parade halt!” booms Uncle Lenny.
Parade? It's more like a six-ring circus. All we need are some dancing bears and a poodle act.
“All children will be washed, dressed, booted, and spurred with hair combed in exactly one-five minutes and report to the galley for breakfast vittles!”
The kids quickly disperse, even Teddy. Uncle Lenny comes up the stairs and I nod toward the fish in the toilet while applying a Band-Aid to Darlene's foot.
“I'll work the top deck while you deal with the guppies.” That's how Uncle Lenny refers to the twins.
Twenty minutes later Uncle Lenny is lining the kids up in the kitchen according to height and issuing bowls of cereal and slices of banana. There's none of the usual nonsense of complaining about this or that.
When they've finished breakfast, Lenny marches them off to learn how to tie knots, and he says if they're good he'll teach them how to play pirates and coast guard. Normally Teddy won't do anything that involves the little kids, but even he follows along.
This gives me a chance to finally do some laundry and open the huge stack of mail that's piled up over the last week. It's mostly condolence letters and hospital bills. One large flat envelope looks as if it might contain an 8-by-10 photograph and says
DO NOT BEND
in bright red letters on the outside. It turns out to be Dad's death certificate. The cause of death is listed as a
“major cardiovascular event.” They make it sound as if he died while competing in the Olympics. On the bright side, Dad always loved sports.
When I open the bill from the gas company, it's my turn to have a heart attack. Whoa—$396.43 just for heat! I race to the thermostat and twist the dial to the left at least ten degrees. Apparently there was a good reason that Mom used to tell anyone who complained of being cold to “put on a sweater.”
Near the bottom of the pile is a paycheck for Dad. I should probably be thinking how creepy that is, but I'm more concerned with wondering if it's possible to deposit a dead person's check.
There's a lengthy note from my great-aunt Vi saying how sorry she is they weren't able to attend the funeral. The note takes up every available inch of the sympathy card plus both sides of an inserted piece of notebook paper. Aunt Vi can write almost as much as she talks. And suddenly I get an idea.
I look up Aunt Vi's number in Mom's address book and call her in Oklahoma City. She rambles on for at least twenty minutes about everything from “what a terrible tragedy” Dad's death is to how Uncle Russ has taken to shredding paper. It was fine when he used a pair of scissors and just worked on newspapers and old phone books, but now he has a shredding machine and any piece of paper is fair game. She's had to put the deed to the house and other important documents in a safety deposit box down at the bank.
Finally Aunt Vi takes a breath and I jump in. “Aunt Vi, the insurance company might cut us off because Mom's birth certificate doesn't match her age.” It's an out-and-out lie, but how is she going to know that?
“Oh dear.” There's a pause into which you could fit the entire town. “Can't you ask Lala to help sort it out?”
“She went back to London.”
“Oh dear, oh dear, what to do?” Aunt Vi says again, and there's a long silence, which makes me think she may have passed out since I can't remember a time when Aunt Vi permitted an actual lapse in any conversation.
“Hallie, this is something none of us ever talk about. You're old enough to understand that every family has its little secrets and they're a private matter that no one else needs to know about.”
There's another long silence and clearly she's hesitating about whether or not to proceed.
“I promise not to tell anyone,” I say.
“Your mom became pregnant with Eric when she was only seventeen, in her final year of high school. And your dad was nineteen. He was a freshman in college. Your mom dropped out of school, they married, and then of course she had the baby.”
My mouth hangs open as I think to myself about Mom pregnant out of wedlock—my mom who won't even talk about sex. Talk—she won't even say the word. If absolutely forced to use the word
sex
Mom actually
spells
it! And now it turns out that she was married with a baby when she was younger than I am now!
Aunt Vi audibly exhales and then lets out a little laugh, as if to say we all do foolish things when we're young, and if that's the least of it then it's not so bad. And I guess she's right in view of the fact that everything more or less worked out in the end. I mean, they were happily married and Eric became their pride and joy with his good grades, good work ethic, and good forward pass. Dad somehow managed to finish college. Though I think he switched to night classes and that explains why the sports trophies suddenly stopped. I always assumed it was because of his bad knees.
After hanging up with Aunt Vi I quickly dial Bernard's number.
“What are you up to these days?” he asks, as if I'm part of his ladies-who-lunch clientele.
“Taking over a medium-sized country,” I retort. “What do you think I'm doing other than changing diapers, cleaning spit-up, and heating bottles?”
“How about some sterling silver picture frames so you can have all those adorable little faces right next to your bedside?”
I relate to him my conversation with Aunt Vi and how my mother has been hiding becoming pregnant at seventeen and dropping out of high school by telling us she's two years older than she really is.
“You know what I always say—every one mother equals a one-hundred-step program for the offspring.”
I want to talk more about this, but Bernard is obsessing about the fact that a Girl Scout troop is coming to his store the next day. “When they first made the inquiry, I was thrilled by the prospect of doing a little presentation on the finer things in life, surmising that today's girls are tomorrow's brides—the future givers and getters of crystal and hand-painted vases. But now I'm not so sure about keeping the attention of a dozen or so twelve-year-old girls.”
“You'll be fine,” I say. “Tell them the story about that heiress woman Louise Stotesbury who played poker against President Warren Harding in the White House, and how if he won she had to sleep with him, and if she won he had to give her a set of White House china.”
“Hallie, I don't think that's a story appropriate for young ladies.”
“Why not? She beat him! You're so boring since becoming a father,” I say. “Then tell them how Lady Astor's dinner guests had to keep a careful eye on her while eating because when she switched from talking to the person on her left side to the person
on her right side, they all had to switch, too, and so three hundred heads would all turn at once.”
“I suppose there's no canceling at this late date,” frets Bernard. “And someone must deliver a little culture to this wasteland. It's not as if Christo is attempting to swath Main Street in fabric.”
“We could hang a quilt by Jane's mom,” I offer. “Jane called last night and said that ever since the divorce her mother has become a mad quilter. Last week she sent one to Jane for her dorm room that says, ‘If Life Were a Bouquet of Flowers I'd Pick You!’ ”
“There's no accounting for taste,” says Bernard. “Edgar Degas was obsessed with painting ballet dancers and washerwomen. Why does your voice sound so far away? Are you on a cell phone?”
“No. I'm wearing Eric's old hockey mask while I change the twins. They keep peeing on me.”
We hang up and I start preparing lunch. Outside the kitchen window a shower of ice crystals comes down from the trees and shatters across the frozen ground like broken glass. It looks as if a whole world disappeared overnight and a new one sprang up in its place.
W
HEN UNCLE LENNY APPEARS IN THE KITCHEN EARLY MONDAY
morning, I hastily explain that Davy is claiming to be ill with a stomachache. Only I don't really believe him.
“I think Davy is faking sick,” I tell Uncle Lenny. “Should I call the school psychiatrist?”
“Psychiatrist?” asks Uncle Lenny. “And if my aunt had been a man she'd have been my uncle.”
I take that as a no and follow Uncle Lenny, who is marching toward the stairs.
“Did I hear that someone is dragging anchor up here?” he bellows as he enters the bedroom that Davy shares with Teddy.
Davy is huddled on the top bunk holding his stomach and moaning. Uncle Lenny leans in close so that his expansive whiskers are almost touching Davy's forehead. “What we've got here is a bad case of Cape Horn fever,” he loudly proclaims.
Davy squirms in his bed while Uncle Lenny turns and secretly winks at me.
“Oh, that sounds very serious.” I play along.
Uncle Lenny peers at Davy while Darlene and Francie peek in the doorway. “We're going to have to cut a hole in your big
toe and remove a couple gallons of blood every hour or so,” Uncle Lenny states with authority, and the little girls behind me gasp. “If that doesn't do the trick then I suppose the legs will have to come off.”
Davy leaps out of the bed. “I'm fine, I'm fine!”
“Not surprising,” replies Uncle Lenny. “The Cape Horn fever is a very mysterious illness and has been known to come and go inside of a minute.”
With everyone now out of bed I'm able to continue mobilizing the troops so they'll be on time for the bus. And the kids’ new haircuts have helped take at least ten minutes off the morning routine.
Uncle Lenny has come up with a few other morning time-savers. Davy, Darlene, and Francie—all three reluctant bathers under the best of circumstances—now put on swimsuits and he basically hoses them down in the shower. Then there's a military-style inspection of ears and nails. The reason the kids put up with the regimen is because Uncle Lenny tells amazing bedtime stories, involving plenty of blood and guts, and that's their reward for getting into bed quickly and efficiently. Plus they're assigned pirate names such as Skull Splitter, Fang Flasher, and Scurvy Dog.
Of course they also love that at least once a day Uncle Lenny releases a thunderous fart and hollers, “Fire in the engine room!” When he's not around, the kids imitate him by making armpit farts while yelling his now-infamous expression. My complaints fall upon deaf ears, or else they're met with even louder fart sounds.
Fortunately they don't quite understand when Uncle Lenny comes out of the bathroom and proclaims, “Twice the man, but half the weight!” However, it doesn't stop them from repeating this expression as well.
Francie is convinced that Uncle Lenny is Santa Claus and whenever he naps she tugs on his beard to see if it's real. It's become a game between the two of them because sometimes Uncle Lenny only pretends to be sleeping and then he roars to life and scares the heck out of her. Francie screams and runs, but at the same time she loves it and can't wait to do it again.
The kids get off to school on time this morning, and so I'm surprised when a woman from the main office at the high school calls. She's very pleasant and I can tell she assumes that I'm Mom—either because I'm home at nine o'clock on a Monday morning or because I sound harried enough to have ten kids.
“I understand you've experienced a tragedy, Mrs. Palmer, but I'm phoning to find out when we can expect Louise. A psychiatrist comes every Thursday if you think we should make an appointment.”
I can't help but wonder if it's the same headshrinker they had chasing me around town after I left school, moved out of our house, and went to live with the Stocktons.
“She relocated to Boston over the weekend,” I explain.
“Well, Mrs. Palmer, Louise is still a minor and has to be enrolled in school, so if you can give us the new address I'll make sure that her records are transferred.”
“This is Hallie Palmer,” I confess. “My mother's in the hospital.”
Silence. Apparently there's no prepared script for this one.
“Oh, I see,” she finally says. “Why don't I have someone call you back?”
“Fine.” We both hang up.
Only call me back about what? In two weeks Louise will turn sixteen and can drop out or do whatever she wants. Having recently gone a similar route, I'm fairly up-to-date on the government's
educational requirements. I go to find Louise's birth certificate because they'll surely want proof. Or else she'll need me to mail it to her in Boston. While searching through the files I notice an envelope I hadn't seen before that's labeled
HOUSE.
Inside it are the rough architectural drawings for a house. Only it's definitely not ours. This house has a huge kitchen, a master bedroom with a skylight, six more big bedrooms, and
four
bathrooms. I can't believe what I'm seeing—these sketches were made by Dad. Our names are written across the different bedrooms in his neat blocklike draftsman printing. There are items with Mom's initials next to them, such as a porch swing and a laundry room that's not in a dark corner of the basement but on the main floor with a big bay window overlooking the garden. A workshop running along the side has Dad's name written on it. Surely a lot of people imagine their dream house, but I'm just so stunned that Dad actually sketched his. I mean, we kids were always complaining about needing a bigger house, especially me. And Dad was always the one saying that this house is plenty big enough, and a larger one would just be more to clean, heat, and fix.
Turning the papers over, I search for a date but there isn't one. Lillian and the twins aren't included in the names at the bottom of each bedroom, and so I assume they weren't born yet. There's only one room with two names etched at the bottom of it, Darlene and Francie. Then I see it, up the staircase, down the hallway and off to the left, a corner room with two windows and a big closet. Etched in small but neat block letters at the bottom is
HALLIE.
T
HE SCHOOL DOESN T CALL BACK FOR THREE DAYS. JUST WHEN I
assume we're safe from the Education Police, the phone rings.
“This is Martha Davis calling on behalf of Dr. Collier at Patrick Henry High School,” a crisp, businesslike voice announces. “Am I speaking with Hallie Palmer?”