Authors: Laura Pedersen
A
FTER TWO MORE WEEKS OF DIVIDING MY TIME BETWEEN THE
bed and the couch, I'm finally ready to tackle a full day. The first thing on my list is to recover the twins from Mrs. Muldoon. Only when I go next door to fetch them, she actually appears heartbroken. It doesn't take much for her to convince me to let her watch them every afternoon. That way she can do her cleaning, shopping, and errands in the morning and I'll do mine later in the day. It's easy to see why in ancient times village women gathered at a central location with all their tools and kids in order to get anything accomplished.
“I'm sorry that I can't pay you for all of this baby-sitting,” I say. And I mean it, because Mrs. Muldoon should probably be receiving a hundred dollars a day for taking care of not one, but two, babies.
Mrs. Muldoon looks horrified. “Don't be ridiculous, Hallie. I should be paying
you.
My daughter Barbara wants me to move out to Scottsdale and live with her. She made a ton of money with those computer things. I tell her, ‘Barbara, I may not be as good in the kitchen as I once was, but I can still manage.’ You should have heard Barbara when I told her about taking care of
twins! I finally said, ‘Barbara, they're just babies, like you were once, and I'm not dead yet!’ ”
“Arizona is supposed to be nice,” I say. Honestly, it wouldn't take much to interest me in a trip to someplace warm and sunny right about now.
“It's not for me,” scoffs Mrs. Muldoon. “This is my home, right here.” She points to the living room with the plastic covers over the couches (probably a good thing with the twins around). “And now I have the perfect excuse for not going without hurting her feelings. Barbara knows how I just adore children.”
“Where's George these days?” Mrs. Muldoon's younger brother had lived with her most of the time I was growing up.
“Somewhere in New Hampshire,” says Mrs. Muldoon. “George is still finding himself.”
I'm tempted to say that if a guy in his late seventies has not yet found himself, then he may not be looking in the right places.
Taking a twin under each arm I walk back across the lawn, through the garage door, and into the kitchen.
“Surprise!” None other than Craig is sitting at the kitchen table.
I'm so surprised that I almost drop both the boys onto the linoleum floor.
“I thought you weren't coming until next week! I'm a wreck!” I hold one of the boys up to cover my face and attempt to smooth my wild hair. “You can't see me like this!”
“I finished early.” Craig rises and kisses me on the forehead, right between the two boys. Taking one of them into his arms, he says, “You look terrific. I expected to find you in bed.”
Craig's yellow hair is wavy now that he's let it grow out of the crew cut he had while playing football in high school. And
he's not as built up as when he went to the weight room several times a week. But his restless green eyes are the same, and you could probably cut glass on those cheekbones.
He helps me settle the boys into their portable car seats on the kitchen table. “It's just so great to finally see you!”
We both feel how much has happened since we were together over the holidays. It was only three months ago but seems more like several years.
“How come I didn't see your car pull up?”
“I parked down the street in order to surprise you. I haven't even been home yet. Why don't I go unpack and then pick you up later this evening?”
“Pick me up?” I want to laugh, but it's so
not
funny that I can't.
“Uh, Craig, my brothers and sisters will be arriving home from school starting at three, and they have to do homework, eat dinner, get ready for bed, you know … I mean, Pastor Costello comes by every day to help, but I can't just leave him here to do everything. He's already been incredibly generous with his time while I was sick.”
“Of course,” Craig enthuses, and his eyes give out a lively light. “I'll come over and help.”
“Okay, that would be great.”
Suddenly things are looking up. And the prospect of doing six loads of laundry doesn't seem nearly so bad.
W
HEN CRAIG RETURNS AT FIVE O'CLOCK, I DON'T HEAR HIM
come through the front door because of all the noise. Darlene, Davy, and Francie are playing some game that involves screaming as loud as they can. In fact, that's all it seems to involve. Lillian has found a kazoo, and the twins have turned into sheep, going “Bah!” every few seconds. Meantime Teddy is accusing Francie and Darlene of leaving the caps off of his Magic Markers
again.
The twins are loudly proclaiming their innocence as Teddy threatens to wallop them. One might well ask, “Where are the parents?”
Pastor Costello removes the chipped-beef casserole from the oven while I set the table. When I poke my head into the living room to tell Lillian to quit it with the kazoo, Craig is standing in the front hall like a deer caught in headlights, unable to take a step without landing on top of toy soldiers set up for battle, scattered checkers, various pieces of Mr. Potato Head, and an abandoned game of Candyland. Francie's favorite Raffi CD is blasting from a boom box, and the kitten is happily tearing apart a mitten under the coffee table. Craig has never spent any time at the Palmer household, aside from the day we stopped by before the prom, and apparently wasn't expecting this level of critical mass.
“Come on in,” I shout over Raffi singing “Willoughby Wallaby Woo” accompanied by Lillian's kazoo. “We're in the kitchen.” To the kids, I say, “Clean up this stuff, wash your hands for dinner, and turn that CD off or Willoughby Wallaby Woo the elephant is going to sit on you, too!” A county fair couldn't make more commotion.
Craig makes his way through the mess. “Wow. These are all your brothers and sisters?”
“No, I've taken hostages.” Granted, when they're gathered in one room and not spread out in the backyard it does look like a much larger group.
At dinner Pastor Costello leads the prayer. In the past few weeks he's Jesused us all up with a full-length grace at each meal, complete with special intentions from
everyone.
Then during dinner each child must tell one good thing and one bad thing about his or her day. Francie goes last because she harbors grudges against almost every boy in her class and it takes at least ten minutes to work through them all. Pastor Costello feels the need to invest a substantial amount of time deconstructing her anger, with a focus on forgiveness. Meantime, I, the less charitable among us, think we should pursue a different line of inquiry: What is Francie doing to make these boys so angry in the first place?
After dinner Craig and I clear the table and start in on the stacks of dishes.
“Wow, it's sort of like working in a restaurant, isn't it?” Craig asks good-naturedly.
“Welcome to my world,” I say. “The best part is that you don't have to worry about quality since everyone is a repeat customer. The bad news is that the tips are lousy and the floor needs mopping after each meal.”
Pastor Costello comes over to the sink with his trademark white dish towel slung over his shoulder and says, “Why don't
you kids go and get some fresh air while I keep watch over the flock? According to St. Thérèse of Lisieux, God is in the pots and pans.”
Despite the fact that I feel like anything but a kid these days, I'm thrilled to have the chance to escape. Pastor Costello is the one who should be sainted.
Craig and I attempt to look guilty as we quickly relinquish our places in front of the sink. We head toward the door, eager to spend time alone together.
“Be careful,” he says.
I take this to mean that we're supposed to remember that sex is for procreation and not recreation. However, no actual abstinence pledges are called for, and so we mumble “Okay.”
T
HE EVENING SKY IS WATERCOLOR GRAY AND THE CLOUDS ARE
full of rain. As the gravel crushes softly under our tires in the old familiar driveway, I realize that several months have passed since I've been at the Stocktons’. The white Victorian house with its black shutters and gingerbread trim appears welcoming. And the row of silver poplar trees practically glows in the cool stillness of the shadows.
The prospect of being alone with Craig is thrilling. Just the sight of him sitting next to me in the car causes a rush of delight throughout my entire body. Our plan is to sneak into the sum-merhouse. In a small town, trying to have sex with someone you're not married to is a lot like trying to sneak hot-fudge sundaes into diet camp.
“It's only a quarter past seven,” says Craig. “They're probably finishing dinner.”
“I guess we'd better go in and say hello first.”
I knock on the heavy front door before opening it and call out, “Hello there, it's Hallie.”
Gil comes around the corner carrying a storybook and is the first to greet us. “Welcome to bedtime! I'm offering a bounty of
a hundred dollars for every child captured.” Gil stretches his hand out toward Craig. “Hey, big guy! It's great to see you.”
Craig is only an inch or two taller than Gil, but he's much broader, especially since playing football in high school and lacrosse in college. Gil has more of a baseball player's lanky grace and the sinuous build of a long-distance runner.
“I've got one!” Bernard announces as he enters the front hall swinging Rose in his arms. “Welcome home, Craig. How's school going?”
Craig appears caught off guard by the question. “Oh … you know, school. Same as ever, I guess.”
“Where's your little sister?” Gil waves a finger at the giggling and writhing pajama-clad Rose.
Rose wriggles free and manages to make her escape. She's growing up tall and athletic—any developmental issues she had when she first arrived nine months ago have entirely disappeared.
“That's what happens when you capture one in a half stock-ton instead of a full stockton,” says Gil.
“She's adorable,” says Craig, and smiles.
“And fast,” Gil adds as Rose practically flies up the stairs.
“Those pajamas are gorgeous,” I say of the pink silk brocaded with ivory flowers.
“They're imported from China,” says Bernard. “It's part of their cultural heritage.”
Gil rolls his eyes.
Only Bernard catches him. “If you would stop showing them music videos, they might actually absorb some of it rather than dancing around like David Byrne!”
“Stop Making Sense
is not a music video but a landmark film made by a world-class director. And an important part of
American
culture. If I leave everything to you, the girls will be laughed
out of school for having lunch boxes stuffed with chopsticks, General Tso's chicken, and green tea.”
“Is Olivia around?” asks Craig. “I was hoping to ask her something.”
He was? This is news to me. Then suddenly I understand— Craig is providing an excuse for our coming over. This way it won't look as if our only intention was to shack up in the sum-merhouse.
“She went out,” says Gil.
“Church?” I ask.
“Don't get me started!” says Bernard.
“Darius,” says Gil.
“Who's Darius?” asks Craig.
“Some con-artist gigolo she met in the Greek Islands who is using Mother to get citizenship and then start a business with her money.”
Gil lets out a sigh to indicate this may not exactly be the story, as Bernard is prone not only to dramatization, but also exaggeration.
“He hasn't asked Livvy for anything,” says Gil.
“That we know of,” Bernard shoots back.
Rose comes zooming by and Gil makes an unsuccessful grab for her. “And stop straight-bashing in front of the children.”
“Gay or straight, he's an
opportunist,”
says Bernard.
“May I remind you that
she's
the one who convinced him to stay here? Darius had already checked into a motel. You just don't like him because he's handsome and looks young for his age,” says Gil. “Which is not much more than
your
age.”
Bernard responds with a look that indicates Gil has no idea what he's talking about and will probably be committed by morning.
Rose comes around again and this time Gil manages to catch her. “Let's find your sister so we can read a story.”
“I've looked everywhere,” says Bernard. “Rocky must have taken her to the summerhouse.” Bernard removes a coat from the front hall closet while explaining, “With the space heater it's more or less become a playroom, especially since
you know who
has been staying rent-free in the den.”
Craig and I follow Bernard out to the summerhouse. Dark clouds scuttle toward us, sheeting the sky with an eerie greenish-gray I can't help but notice that the gardens are ready to be turned, and how little green buds dot the branches of the rosebushes that haven't been pruned.
“The swimming pool will go back there.” Bernard points to an area near the front of the woods marked off by wooden stakes with red flags on top. “A Neptune pool like William Randolph Hearst had at San Simeon, complete with colonnades, statues of nymphs, and of course a slide for the children.”
“Better go easy on the nymphs if you want my brothers and sisters to be allowed to swim in it.”
“The Chinese tea garden will go over there.” He indicates a spot to the right of the summerhouse where it used to be just grass, but now there are several mounds of dirt and a large wooden platform.
We stop to check on the pond that Craig built last summer, which seems to have survived the harsh winter in good shape, complete with the majority of fish alive and swimming. As Bernard opens the door to the summerhouse the wind picks up and rustles the branches above. I shiver not with cold so much as enthusiasm.
“Rocky and Gigi are inseparable,” explains Bernard. “I don't know what he's going to do when she eventually starts preschool.”
The summerhouse is the same as I left it, except for some toys scattered about. And sure enough, Rocky and Gigi are snuggled up together asleep on one of the couches. It's probably a good thing the adoption agency doesn't know that the girls’ nanny is a recovering alcoholic chimpanzee, even if he was trained to assist paraplegics.