Authors: Laura Pedersen
Olivia and I look at each other as if to say, That will be the day!
Ignoring our exchanged glance, Bernard continues, “But I happened to overhear a few of Darius's phone conversations. And this
enfant terrible
is only after what every Hellenic immigrant wants—a green card so he can open a diner.”
“First off, do not stereotype immigrants,” states Olivia. “Half the founders of this country were themselves immigrants, or else the children of immigrants. Thomas Paine had lived in America for only two years when he wrote his famous political pamphlet
Common Sense
—of which you seem to possess precious
little. Second, how
dare
you insinuate that Darius is courting my affections simply to advance his own agenda!” Olivia appears truly hurt that Bernard won't acknowledge that Darius might be in love with her for herself. “It's true that Darius wants to open a restaurant. He's a culinary artiste. But the fact of the matter is that
you
simply don't like having any competition around.”
“Competition, hah!” scoffs Bernard. “The man could be in charge of a salad bar,
maybe.”
“You'll see! Darius is going to open a wonderful vegetarian restaurant serving Mediterranean-style cuisine,” insists Olivia.
“Once he gets his rabbit-food restaurant you'll see how fast he leaves you. And after the salad palace closes he'll be running back to Greece with a gang of creditors chasing him all the way to the dock.”
“I highly doubt that,” says Olivia. “Vegetarianism was invented in Greece. Plato was a vegetarian. Same with Aristotle, Diogenes, Socrates, and Pythagoras. Pythagoras lived to be over a hundred!”
“And Socrates killed himself by drinking hemlock!” interjects Bernard.
Fortunately Gil arrives in the backyard and acts as if he's been looking everywhere for Bernard. “Intervention,” Gil announces as he pulls Bernard away.
“He's half her age!” Bernard now directs his complaints to Gil.
“Not true,” says Gil. “Perhaps twenty years younger. Though your mother's exact age is rather an algebra problem in itself, with her birth year being the variable X.”
“He's a disgrace!” insists Bernard. “Ottavio was age-appropriate, dignified, and respectable.”
“And you didn't like
him
at first either,” Gil reminds him.
Bernard raises his hands above his head. “I'll never understand her no matter how long I live.”
“You don't have to—you
are
her.” Gil steers Bernard toward the house.
“If you want to be young and tacky, why not go all the way and buy some fun fur!” shouts Bernard.
Olivia turns to me and says, “Whereas some are born destined for glory and others to serve, I do believe that Bernard was born to fill the silences.”
O
NCE AGAIN A NEW ROUTINE IS ESTABLISHED AND THE DAYS
quickly mount into weeks. In the mornings I get the kids off to school and then race to start the laundry and do some housekeeping. Then I drop the twins at Mrs. Muldoon's and make any necessary supply runs. Now that Mom has officially identified them, I've placed the blue ribbon back around Roddy's ankle and a green one on Reggie, just to be safe.
At about half past nine I take Lillian with me to the Stocktons’ and leave her inside to play with the girls while Bernard works on his inventory or writes the latest edition of his newsletter. Apparently it's going gangbusters and the Baron Heinrich Von Boogenhagen has been invited to speak at conferences as far away as Hong Kong.
More often than not Bernard piles the kids in the car at around noon to check out an estate sale, because he doesn't like to be around when Olivia and Darius are having their lunch together in the dining room.
Today I arrive at the Stocktons’ just as Darius and Olivia are leaving for an organic food market in Cleveland. Darius has thick sculpted black hair and flashing dark eyes, and he wears
his starched white shirt open to reveal an extremely muscular chest. I know that Olivia has never been one to go by looks alone, but he really is godlike handsome.
“Now do you see what I have to put up with?” Bernard hisses after they go out the front door together chatting and laughing.
“Darius seems nice enough,” I say. “Besides, I thought he was moving to New Jersey to open a restaurant.”
“Supposedly
he's waiting for a cousin in Englewood to finalize a lease,” says Bernard. “Frankly, I don't believe a word of it.”
I escape to the yard and inhale the deep perfume of damp earth, which has the ability to make the past and future fall away in a single moment. The sun hangs like a pink gumball above the trees, and particles of dust dance in the air beneath canopies of bright green leaves. By the time I open the doors to the shed I've never been so thrilled to see a lawn mower in my entire life.
When afternoon comes, I run the program in reverse, shanghaiing Lillian from inside, fetching the twins from Mrs. Mul-doon, and then sorting out the other kids as they clamber off the late bus or pedal home on their bicycles. Pastor Costello picks up Francie from her hyperactive child program when he finishes his hospital rounds.
On Friday morning after the kids have caught the bus, Mom comes into the kitchen in her robe and slippers and says, “Hal-lie, Teddy told me that Louise dropped out of school and moved to Boston. Is this true?”
The good news is that Mom doesn't include how Louise is “living in sin.” The bad news is that the story about Louise being on a trip to look at colleges appears to have worn a bit thin. “Only in a manner of speaking,” I hedge. “Teddy was mistaken in saying
dropped out.
The only thing preventing Louise from taking the equivalency exam is that she has to be eighteen.”
“I want you to call her right this minute and tell her I said to come home.”
“Mom, it's not that simple,” I say. “She has a pretty good job and a car.”
“Hallie,” Mom continues, “please don't think I don't appreciate how hard you've been working, but I'm still the mother and Louise is my daughter.”
Ouch. My first solid scolding in about two years.
I go into the other room and try to reach Louise on her cell phone. There's a lot of clanging and hollering in the background. “Hang on a minute,” she shouts into the receiver.
A door slams and there's silence. “Okay, I'm in the refrigerator.”
“Mom insisted that I call you and tell you to come home immediately,” I say.
“Why?” asks Louise. “Did something happen?”
“Because she's the mother and you're the daughter.”
“Okay,” says Louise.
“Okay what?” I ask.
“Okay, I'll come home.”
What? Louise is coming home just like that. How is this possible?
“But only if I can live in the basement,” Louise quickly adds.
Aha! I knew it couldn't be that simple. Let the negotiations begin. “I can't imagine that Darlene will miss listening to
Bone Machine
by the Pixies all night long.”
“And I want cable TV,” says Louise. But her voice is more hopeful than demanding.
“You're in luck on that score. While the kids had chicken pox and I was sick, Bernard gave us the gift that keeps on giving cartoons twenty-four-seven. And now that Mom is supposed to rest, she's hooked on those cooking shows. All you have to do is put a TV in the basement.”
“Okay,” says Louise.
I suddenly realize that this was way too easy.
“What's wrong?” I ask.
“I'm bored out of my mind. And the customers treat you as if you're going to be a waitress forever. To them I'm just another servant.”
“What about Brandt?”
“Brandt is fine,” says Louise. “But he's busy with school. His scholarship gives him a job in the lab, which he loves, but sometimes he's there all night. Are you mad at me for leaving you in the lurch like that?”
“Of course not,” I say. “Pastor Costello has been helping.”
“Everything at home reminded me that Dad was dead,” says Louise.
There's pounding and yelling on her end of the line.
“I have to get back to work,” says Louise. “See you on Saturday.”
I return to the kitchen and report back to Mom. “Louise will be home on Saturday.”
Mom smiles as if she knew all along.
“She's moving into the basement because she sleeps better down there.” I make it a point not to add, “Away from all the kids.”
The phone rings and I fear that Louise has changed her mind. Maybe her boss offered her a raise. With her double-take good looks, I'm sure that Louise is good for business. There's no shortage of older men swooning over Louise who, with some makeup and heels, can easily pass for twenty-five.
“I'm going to kill him!” comes Bernard's voice. “He doesn't lift a finger unless Mother is watching. Meantime, she claims that his good looks are so natural—well, I found
under-eye cream
in the bathroom! I have a
bad
feeling about this one, Hallie.”
It's safe to assume he's talking about Darius. Mom is standing a few feet away and so I reply, “WWJD?” This is our code for, What Would Judy Do?
“I don't know—I'm so riled up I can't channel Judy Garland
or
Ethel Merman,” says Bernard. “What would you do?”
Pastor Costello's number at the church is next to the phone, and so I recite one of his favorite lines, “Hate the sin but not the sinner.”
“Thanks a lot!” says Bernard and hangs up.
However, Mom looks over at me and appears to be quite pleased, as if her lost sheep has returned to the flock.
T
HE TOWN IS OVERBURDENED WITH SPRING. RAIN HAS LEFT THE
grass bright green and as soft as velvet while the light falls in great sheets through the trees. The dandelions are in full flower, and among the bushes hover orange butterflies trimmed in black.
Mom now has enough energy to deal with Darlene and Davy when they come off the bus, and so I'm able to stay and work in the garden until late afternoon.
On Thursday I plant cucumbers, cauliflower, and green beans. Bernard has decided to start home pickling this summer. At around half past three cars begin pulling up and eleven-year-old girls skip toward the house. I assume that Troop Bernard is assembling for a crash course in braising, blanching, or bread making.
After an hour it begins to rain, and so I head inside to scrub up and collect Lillian. From the dining room I hear Bernard announcing, “Permit me, if you will, to quote that great British lady of screen and stage, Isabel Jeans, in the musical
Gigi
—‘Bad table manners have broken up more households than infidelity.’ ”
Peering through the archway I see ten girls seated around
the table and four more in chairs set off to the sides. They wear white shirts or blouses with khaki pants or jeans, and a few have green sashes containing an array of badges and gold pins. Underneath their seats are thick Scout handbooks and small spiral notepads.
Hunched over a three-ring binder in the corner is a solitary boy hanging on to Bernard's every word. The table is set for a dinner party, complete with individual saltcellars, napkins folded like swans, and beeswax candles in the center. Bernard's hectic cheerfulness is infectious, and the kids lean forward with big smiles on their faces.
Olivia comes up behind me and we both watch as Bernard holds forth on the correct way to lay the silverware.
I whisper, “I thought the Girl Scouts are supposed to go camping and braid leather into key chains.”
“Not Bernard's troop,” says Olivia as we watch him demonstrate how to fold a napkin into a swan. “I think this is the closest they'll get to any actual wildlife. Besides, I'd much rather Bernard be a Girl Scout leader. They're very inclusive compared to the Boy Scouts.”
“What's with the boy in the corner?” I ask. He looks about two years younger than the girls.
“That's Andrew. His sister Gretchen is in the troop and claims that he has to come along because no one is home to watch him.” Olivia gives me a knowing look and then adds, “It would appear that Bernard has awakened Andrew's dinner party gene.”
I go into the kitchen, remove a chocolate Yoo-hoo from the fridge, and relax at the kitchen table for a moment. In the next room I can hear Bernard calling his troop to attention, “Listen up, ladies, gentlemen, undecideds.” He claps his hands. “We're working to create the appropriate
atmosphere
for a dinner party. Who can tell me why we dim the lights?”
“So people can't see the food,” says one girl.
I briefly choke on my Yoo-hoo and a little bit trickles out of my nose.
Bernard quickly retorts, “I hope that's not the case, Samantha, unless something has gone horribly wrong in the kitchen! But every cook knows that you can cover a number of errors and doubts beneath a good sauce.”
Another girlish voice chimes in, “To create the mood?”
“Yes,” Bernard enthuses. “In large part. And what else?”
“So we appear more attractive,” says Andrew.
“Indeed, indeed.” Bernard claps excitedly as if the boy has correctly answered the final question on a quiz show. “Because we often invite people we wish to impress—your future law firm colleagues or the parents of your significant other or—”
“But how do we know if he's the right one to be our husband?” a girl interrupts Bernard. “I mean, significant other.”
I imagine Bernard starting to stutter and turn red in the face. But he sails on effortlessly, without missing a beat. If anything, he becomes even more articulate.
“It's the same way you feel when you experience a piece of great art,” he says. “Giovanni Bellini's
Madonna of the Trees
, Giorgione's
Sleeping Venus
, or Mary Cassatt's
The Mirror.
Sometimes you feel disturbed by it, like Francisco de Goya's
Disasters of War
and Picasso's
Guernica.
And occasionally we desire a painting or piece of sculpture because we know that someone else wants it.”
“My mother says it's best to marry a doctor or a lawyer,” offers one girl.
“The thing to remember is that the
right one
is not necessarily the most expensive, raved about by the critics, or displayed in a gallery or museum. It might be at a local shop or even a garage sale. It doesn't matter if it's new or old, though of course you don't want to look foolish by having a child's toy.”