The Big Shuffle (19 page)

Bernard takes up his catalogues, this time with pen in hand. “It would be nice to have a spring garden this year—impatiens, petunias, and how about some white rhododendron? Wouldn't they look nice around the pool?”

“The pool! Let me get this straight. I don't have the energy to wash my hair and you're planning a spring garden, Chinese tea garden, vegetable garden, and a swimming pool?”

Bernard raises his teacup high, tilts backs his head as if gazing off at some imaginary mountaintop, and proclaims, “A garden is like a lovely memory—it should grow more glorious over time.”

T
HE HOURS MELT INTO DAYS AND THE DAYS DRIFT INTO ANOTHER
week. The chicken pox flies the Palmer coop, the kids are back in their regular beds, and Pastor Costello now sleeps on the couch in the living room. He sends the multitude off to school in the morning and then serves them dinner and puts them to bed at night. A duty roster now hangs on the fridge, and all the kids check off their chores every morning and every night. It's safe to say there are no more unmade beds around this house.

Mrs. Muldoon has offered to keep the twins until I'm well. She's taking some medicine for her arthritis that seems to have given her a new lease on life and insists that caring for the boys keeps her young.

Since hiring June Hennipen to mind the store, Bernard is free to work from home during the day, and so he picks up Lillian every morning and brings her to play with the girls. She's even learning a little Chinese by sitting in with Rose and Gigi's language tutor.

The doctor wasn't kidding when he said the recovery process would be three steps forward and two back. After the kids leave for school on Thursday morning I head back to bed.

There's no TV in Mom and Dad's room, I'm too tired to read, and so I drift in and out while the bedside clock radio plays a crackly R&B station.

Maybe I should become a blues singer. That way I could make money at night while the kids are asleep and then arrive home just in time to put them on the bus in the morning. I imagine myself wearing a black sequined gown in a smoky night club operating out of a shack by the river. A blind man in coveralls sits on a stool playing his guitar while I sing along:

The blind man takes a solo and everyone in the audience nods their head as if their troubles are bad, too. Then it's back to me.

I imagine the chef announces that the catfish is ready and so my set is over, whereupon I promptly fall back to sleep.

Olivia arrives in the afternoon and does some laundry. She says the basement reminds her of Dante's
Inferno
, only in this case the ninth circle of hell is reserved for color fast sheets.

Then Olivia and Pastor Costello feed the kids their dinner. Every once in a while I can hear Pastor Costello shout “Oh phooey” when he drops or spills something.

While Pastor Costello finishes washing the dishes, Olivia sits
with me and reads out loud. The play is called
Diana of Dobsons
and was written by a woman named Cicely Hamilton. It's mostly about the lack of opportunities for women in the early 1900s, particularly if they didn't marry right away. Despite winning awards and garnering acclaim, the play hasn't been performed much since it first came out. Part of Olivia's current crusade is to revive female dramatists from the early twentieth century.

At the end of Act Two Olivia and I decide that we've had enough of poor but plucky Diana for one night. Putting the book down on the bedside table, Olivia asks, “So, Hallie, who is your favorite fictional character in all of literature?”

“I guess Tom Sawyer or Huck Finn,” I say. “What about you?”

“The Brontë sisters created some wonderful characters. And so did Charles Dickens, of course. But there are so many. I suppose if I had to choose just one, it would be God.”

“So I guess this means you definitely don't believe in God,” I say.

“I don't think it matters whether or not you believe so much as that you care.”

“Care about what?” I ask.

“Whatever your heart can undertake.”

Davy bursts into the room with Darlene in hot pursuit. The kitten is asleep on my bed, and so they can't be trying to kill each other over that.

Darlene shouts at me to tell Davy to give him back a piece from a game they're playing. Davy runs around to the other side of the bed so she can't catch him. Darlene dives across the bed and her left foot jabs my kidney.

Olivia, having raised an only child, doesn't possess the skill set for conflict resolution among rambunctious siblings, aside from to suggest that they “use words and not hands.”

Their screams reverberate throughout the house. Pastor Costello enters the room while wiping his hands on a dish towel. “As the Irish like to say—is this a private fight or can anyone get in it?” Clapping his hands, he announces, “Okay, one cookie apiece and off to bed. Truce is better than friction.” Pastor Costello has a quiet authority and an arsenal of aphorisms that make children instinctively stop hitting each other and want to start hitting him.

“Will you tell us a story?” asks Darlene.

“Yeah, one with a snake in it!” says Davy.

“Why certainly, I know just the one,” says Pastor Costello. “In fact, this story has a
talking snake
.”

The kids race out of the room, their faces glowing with anticipation. Only I'm afraid they might be disappointed when they hear about the snake in the Garden of Eden instead of Uncle Lenny's Burmese python that had to be cut in half with a machete.

After Darlene and Davy scamper off, Olivia straightens out the blankets and says, “Look at the bright side: Rome was founded on the basis of sibling rivalry between twins.”

“So in the end they got along famously and actually accomplished something?” I ask.

“Oh no!” says Olivia. “They continued fighting until Romulus killed Remus and then named the city after himself.”

Eventually the house settles down and it's quiet enough to hear the heat struggling to come up through the vents in the floor. The moon lights the backyard with a blue splendor, and the night sky is pinpricked by thousands of stars.

Olivia's gaze drifts to the window. “There certainly are a lot of stars out tonight. When Bernard was young and he couldn't sleep, we'd play a game called Unitarian constellations. Oh, how he used to make me laugh!”

I'm aware that Olivia attends the Unitarian church, where
they don't seem to worry about religion nearly as much as writing their congressmen, but this is the first I've heard about any deities. “What's a Unitarian constellation?”

“Let me try and remember some of them,” says Olivia as she studies the patch of universe visible through the bedroom window. “See those four stars that form a square—that's an aluminum can belonging to Sunbeam, the Great Recycler.” She points to the left side of the window. “And those six bright dots over there make up the edge of Moonbeam's skirt. She believed world peace could be achieved through interpretive dance.”

“What about that shape to the right of the moon?” I ask.

“That must be the scissors used by Thomas Jefferson to remove references to God and miracles from the Bible.”

“Wrong, wrong, wrong!” Bernard is standing in the doorway. “That's the comfortable shoe of Susan B. Anthony. And above it is the long,
long
belt that went around the enormous waist of Unitarian President William Howard Taft.”

Olivia claps her hands with delight. “I've always felt that Bernard missed his calling as an astronomer.”

“I brought over a big dish of chicken à la king left over from Girl Scouts,” says Bernard. “You should have seen the horrific concoctions they were eating—why, the Red Cross wouldn't serve such fare to disaster victims.”

“When Bernard was a boy, he was so talented and had such a plethora of interests that I often wondered what he'd do as an adult,” says Olivia. “However, Girl Scout troop leader is possibly the one vocation that eluded me.”

“It's only temporary—until Mel's ankle is better,” says Bernard. “Oh, Mother, I almost forgot—a man named Darius came by the house looking for you.”

For a moment Olivia looks completely stunned, but she quickly regains her composure. “Oh, what a surprise!”

The ever-inquisitive Bernard senses a story. “And exactly
who
is Darius?”

“Just a nice young man I met in Greece. He's planning to open a restaurant in the States, and so I gave him our number,” she says offhandedly

“Oh.” Bernard brightens. “He's a chef then?”

“Darius is an excellent cook. His family owns a café overlooking the sea on the Greek island of Folegandros. Why don't you go on ahead and I'll be along in a few minutes.” Olivia looks downcast, her natural gaiety having fled.

Once Bernard is out of earshot, I ask, “Is something wrong?”

“I came home early because Ottavio and I had a fight,” says Olivia. “It was silly, really. We went to the café every morning. They had the best coffee and raki—the Greek equivalent of a hot toddy. Anyway, one day Darius invited us for a sunrise sail on this lovely old wooden boat he owns with his brother. The island of Folegandros is famous for its sunrises the way Santorini is known for its sunsets.”

Olivia pauses and looks dreamy, as if she's momentarily transported back to the breathtaking beauty of it all. Then she apparently recalls that paradise didn't last. “Ottavio tends to feel seasick on small boats, and so he didn't want to come along. When I agreed to go alone, Ottavio became angry.”

Olivia sighs, glances down at her now bare hands, and unconsciously rubs the place her sapphire and diamond ring used to be. I can still see the faint outline of where the skin wasn't exposed to the sun.

“I thought he was being unreasonable,” she continues. “Others were invited. And besides, it was clear to everyone that I was there with Ottavio. Just because we weren't married
doesn't mean that I would ever betray him. Anyway, I went by myself. When I arrived back Ottavio wouldn't speak to me and so after two days I left.”

“Did this Darius guy have a crush on you?” I ask.

“I highly doubt that,” says Olivia. “He flirted with
all
the female customers. Darius is extraordinarily handsome—the tourists called him Adonis. In fact, Ottavio and I used to joke about it, at least before we argued. If Darius was busy talking to a pretty woman, it could take half an hour to get the bill.”

“And you haven't heard from Ottavio since then?” I ask.

Nodding her head to indicate that she hasn't, Olivia rises from her chair by the side of the bed. “I'd better go.” She leans over and kisses my forehead. “Do you want me to close the shade?”

“No thanks,” I say.

Olivia departs and I stare out the window at the bright panoply of stars that make up heaven's floor. The big dipper looks like a kite at the end of its string. But all I can think of is how the brightest star in the Palmer constellation has gone out.

O
NCE THE KIDS ARE OFF TO SCHOOL, PASTOR COSTELLO GENERALLY
heads over to his office. Fund-raising has fallen off since his trip to Cambodia, and the church roof is leaking in more places than usual. This morning he looks particularly hurried and preoccupied, as if he has more important things to do than scrub the oatmeal off the kitchen table.

I sit on the living room floor and try to attach Lillian's sneakers to her body so that Bernard can pick her up to play with Rose and Gigi, whom he happily refers to as his “lunachicks.” Only she's more interested in luring the kitten out of its hiding place underneath the couch than being bogged down with footwear.

“Lillian! Will you please hold still so I can put your shoes on?”

“I don't like those shoes, Mommy,” she retorts. Oh God! I cover my face with my hands. It's like a bad episode of
Little House on the Prairie.

Pastor Costello comes through the room searching for his spectacles.

“I feel bad that you've wasted so much time over here,” I say to him. “I'm fine now and can handle things on my own.” Hell, the kids are even calling me Mommy, I almost add, but don't.

Pastor Costello stops directly in front of me, and his mournful countenance instantly changes to alarm. “Whatever would make you say that? I'm enjoying this challenge and feel very blessed to have the opportunity to be of service.”

“Oh, well, it's just that you look sort of anxious. Obviously we're keeping you from a lot of stuff—your life, for instance. I appreciate all your help, but there's really no reason to spend the night anymore.”

“Now I remember why you're such a good poker player—you read the people instead of the cards.” Pastor Costello sighs and sits down on the couch. “My mother died a year ago today. She was quite ill and suffering, and so I can't say I wish she'd carried on in that condition. But I'm still not used to an empty house.”

The back door opens and Lillian shouts with glee as she runs through the kitchen to meet Bernard and the girls.

“You came home to an empty house and I've arrived home to a full one.” I nod my head in the direction of the noise.

“Yes, I suppose so,” says Pastor Costello. “What we can't cure we must endure. I'll light a candle and say a prayer for her when I get to the church.”

“Do you really believe that prayers help?” I ask. “Olivia says that people change things, not prayer.”

“But prayer changes people.” Pastor Costello rises to leave. “I'll see you this afternoon.”

It's easy to pray for my mom, because I just pray that she'll get better. When it comes to Dad it's not nearly as straightforward. Do I pray that he's happy wherever he is, that his soul is at peace? Although I know what
he
always used to pray for at the beginning of April—a big tax refund. In fact, that's a good idea. I'll pray for the things I'm certain would have made Dad happy—good health, especially for Eric, since if he gets injured we're all in trouble, good grades, and a good refund.