Authors: Laura Pedersen
Ottavio spends his time giving diving lessons in the deep end, and when Olivia comes by to visit her granddaughters, she ignores him. Meantime, Rocky makes delicious blender drinks with fresh peaches, strawberries, and ice cream, topped off with three maraschino cherries.
Gwen and Jane come home for a few weeks, and if Pastor Costello stays at the house after dinner, then I'm actually able to go and hang out with them at the pizza parlor. I know I'm taking advantage of Pastor Costello's generosity, but he insists that he doesn't mind. Besides, it's not going to be for very long. Gwen leaves soon for an internship at a costume shop in Chicago, and Jane is off to try out for the women's Olympic soccer team. And though they're careful not to talk much about these upcoming adventures, it's clear that certain people are moving on while others remain behind.
A
FTER MY SIBLINGS HAVE GONE HOME FOR DINNER OTTAVIO AND
I pull all the toys out of the pool and hang the wet towels over the fence. Tonight is Gil's birthday dinner, and so Bernard called the girls in early. Ottavio and I sit on the bench in the Chinese tea garden commiserating like two jilted lovers, even though the dilemmas we now find ourselves in are basically our own stupid faults. Ottavio's mouth sags at the corner as he stares at the marble and granite statues of the animals that are known as Lucky Beasts in China because they supposedly bring good fortune to a garden. Scattered among the peonies and peach blossoms are snapping turtles, snails, horses, frogs, winged cats, and two pale pink dragons.
We're surrounded by a yard that has exploded into a riot of summer. The birds bathe and splash in the low pool and have melodious arguments, accompanied by the constant thrum of insects. Shadows creep across the lawn and the quiet surface of the pool.
I honestly don't know what Bernard was hoping to accomplish by importing Ottavio. Well, I know what he was aiming for, but the scheme certainly failed—Olivia didn't exactly leap into Ottavio's arms now, did she?
“Itsa no use,” Ottavio finally says and looks up.
“Maybe you can do something to impress Olivia,” I suggest. “You know how she likes those Greek, I mean Roman, myths— something knightly, chivalrous.”
He's not getting it.
“You need to be a hero,” I explain.
“Ah si,
eroe.”
Though I can't really think of any knightly quests appropriate for twenty-first-century Ohio. These days the really useful tasks—hooking up computers, programming cell phones, and downloading music off the Internet—are mostly undertaken by teenagers.
“Bernardo says he has idea,” announces Ottavio.
I'm aware that Olivia has agreed to come to Gil's birthday dinner and wonder if Bernard is planning to lock the two of them in a closet or else sprinkle their food with some sort of aphrodisiac.
I go inside and find Bernard busy chopping vegetables, slaving over steaming pots and sizzling woks while gaily singing “Blame It on My Youth.”
Bernard is smiling and in a wonderful mood. “Two cannibals were cooking dinner in a big pot out in the middle of the jungle and one says to the other, ‘I don't like my mother-in-law.’ The other cannibal replies, ‘So then just eat the vegetable.’ ”
I look around the kitchen for anything strange, but everything appears to be in order. The minute Olivia's cherry-red Buick pulls into the driveway, Bernard announces, “I forgot the bread.”
I offer to run to the bakery but Bernard insists that he'll go, though not before whispering to me, “The center cannot hold.”
“Huh?” I ask. “Can't hold what?”
“It's from William Butler Yeats's poem ‘The Second Coming,’ ” he says, and rushes out the back door.
There's something doubly mysterious about this errand, because in all the years I've known Bernard he's never forgotten anything for a party. The man has more lists for six people to come for dinner than most people make for an entire wedding. Just out of curiosity, I go into the kitchen and peek under the napkin covering the breadbasket. Sure enough—there are a dozen rolls.
When Bernard returns, we begin serving his version of a traditional Chinese dinner. While plating the dim sum he explains to us that in Cantonese these words mean, “To touch your heart.”
With Olivia and Ottavio not speaking to each other, the conversation lags slightly when Gil and Rocky go upstairs to put the girls to bed. Bernard takes the opportunity to regale us with a story about how the French singer Edith Piaf had once been a police suspect for the murder of her manager.
No one else really has a view on the matter so Bernard turns to ridiculing my T-shirt, which happens to be a giveaway from a pool installation company.
“Hallie, didn't you ever play dress-up as a child and put on your mother's clothes, makeup, and jewelry?” asks Bernard.
“Can't say that I did.”
“That was you, Bernard,” Olivia says icily.
We have a delicious German chocolate cake for dessert, which is Gil's favorite. Fortunately he managed to nix the green tea ice cream and honey walnuts that Bernard had originally planned.
I offer everyone coffee, but Olivia rises and announces that she'd better get going, seeing that she has to
drive home.
She and Ottavio exchange a terse farewell.
Just as his mother is leaving, Bernard appears in the front hall with a sheaf of papers in his hand. “Oh Mother, I thought you'd be interested to know that Darius is wanted in Athens for arson.”
“That's a lie!” declares Olivia.
“Scout's honor.” Bernard puts up three fingers on his right hand. “It's all here—the report from the insurance company, an arrest warrant, a prior conviction for a hotel fire. I've even gone to the trouble of having everything translated into English for you.”
Olivia switches the hall light on and looks carefully at the papers, as if it would not surprise her in the slightest if Bernard had hired someone to create all these documents on a computer just for the purpose of chasing Darius off. “And exactly how did these come into your possession?”
It just so happens that Baron Von Boogenhagen is very popular with some prominent antiques dealers in Athens, and they were more than happy to do a little research in exchange for the baron's advice on a few matters.
But rather than thank Bernard for all his hard work, Olivia hurls the papers at him and storms off to her car.
He glances down at his watch and says, “She'll be back.”
“How do you know?” I ask.
Bernard stands in the vestibule staring out at the empty driveway, watching the cloud of dust settle. Suddenly he doesn't look nearly as pleased with himself, but actually rather sad. “Because this is her home.”
B
ERNARD WASN'T KIDDING. I'VE JUST FINISHED DOING THE
dishes and putting away the platters when a car pulls into the driveway.
Olivia tosses a black leather case onto the couch and opens the lid to reveal two antique pistols resting on a lining of plush but worn blue velvet. “What are
these?”
she demands to know.
“Why, they would appear to be pistols,” says Bernard.
“And this?” she waves a piece of paper in Bernard's face.
“I believe that's a note challenging Darius to a duel with Ottavio at sunrise,” he says calmly.
“A
duel
?
”
Olivia repeats incredulously.
“Well, of course,” says Bernard. “That's the way two gentlemen typically resolve their claims on a lady.”
“Bernard, you can't manipulate people's emotions,” Olivia states sternly.
“I'd never do anything of the sort,” insists Bernard. “Wasn't it your beloved Franklin Delano Roosevelt who said, ‘Remember you're just an extra in everyone else's play’?”
Olivia scowls at him the way she does whenever Bernard uses his mother's own favorite quotes against her.
“Please, Mother, you can't make me believe that you're going to stand by a convicted criminal!”
Ottavio enters the room and appears puzzled, though I can't tell if it's a language barrier or the actual drama that he finds confusing.
“Ottavio, did you challenge Darius to a duel?” asks Olivia, rather brusquely.
“Non!”
answers Ottavio, and frantically waves his hands in front of his chest while looking at the pistols.
“I didn't think so,” says Olivia.
“What's the big deal?” asks Bernard. “It was a little joke. I'll call Darius right now and apologize.”
However, I detect a gleam in Bernard's eye.
“Darius is gone!” states Olivia.
“Then when he gets back,” says Bernard, oozing nonchalance.
“He's left for good,” says Olivia.
“Oh my!” Bernard claps his hand to his mouth. “If he's absconded, then you'd better check your valuables.”
“Nothing is missing,” says Olivia. “Only your head is going to be missing, Bernard, you snake in the grass, you …”
“I believe it was Winston Churchill who so famously said, ‘We are all worms. But I do believe I am a glow-worm.’ ”
Olivia, normally the one with a quotable quote for every occasion and situation is speechless.
Ottavio uses the moment of silence to produce out of his pocket the engagement ring that Olivia used to wear.
“Per piacere Oh-leevia!”
Ottavio drops down before her on bended knee.
“Mi dispiace!”
“Oh Ottavio, not
now
!” Olivia turns and heads out the door again.
Ottavio dashes after her.
However, I notice that this time she doesn't immediately get into her car. In fact, they turn at the side of the house and walk in the direction of the gardens. And why not? The night air is warm and fragrant and full of cricket concerts and frog serenades.
T
HE COUNTY FAIR SETS UP SHOP EIGHT MILES NORTH OF TOWN
the last week in August, as it's been doing for over a hundred years. Attending the fair has been a Palmer family tradition as far back as I can remember.
Mom says that she's going, but over breakfast changes her mind. I suppose it's because Dad isn't here and she's afraid that it will only make her sad. Mom has never missed a fair. In fact, the first set of twins, Darlene and Davy, were almost born there when they arrived five weeks early. As Dad liked to tell the story, they went directly from the midway to the maternity ward.
We all clamber into the minivan following a big lunch at home, the thinking being that we'll save money on food and still get to enjoy the fair at night when all the lights are on. I review the troops and decide that between Louise and Teddy and me, we should be able to handle Darlene, Davy, Francie, and Lillian.
As soon as the Ferris wheel comes into sight the kids are squirming and ready to jump out of the car. “Don't unlock the doors until we're parked!” I yell at them at least three times.
Teddy disappears the second I hand him ten dollars, and the moment Louise sees a gang of her friends she begs to go and
join them. The little kids, of course, want to go on all the rides first thing.
After being twirled and flown around in miniature airplanes and rocked and smashed in small boats, they're finally ready for some of the more tranquil pursuits the fair has to offer. We head to where the contests are held for dung throwing, best bread, biggest boar, and longest beard (45 inches). The kids marvel at the 875-pound pumpkin and the chickens with wild hairdos. In the refrigerator gallery a big crowd is gathered around 600 pounds of butter sculpted into a motorcycle on one side and the Last Supper on the other. I can only imagine what kind of remark Bernard would have for that—the things you see when you don't have a blowtorch.
Then it's time for snacks, which consist of everything you can shake a stick at on a stick, as Dad used to say. There are pickles, sausage, pork chops, and caramel apples. The men and women serving grilled corn wear caps and T-shirts that say,
i
’
m so corny.
Then there's the hiss, fizzle, and splatter coming from the enormous vat of oil that produces the kids’ favorites— deep-fried Twinkies and Snickers bars. I'm more of a funnel cake person myself.
Davy orders a blue Slushee and then he can't hold his Twinkie, so while I'm carrying the drink for him, Darlene knocks into my leg and it spills down my shirt. Now it looks as if I have blue vomit all down my front.
We pass by the tent where the gospel choir alternates singing “It's Me, O Lord” and “Give Me the Wings of Faith” with a fiery sermon by one of those hell-and-damnation revival preachers attempting to convert the sinning masses. Oddly enough, it's right next to the beer tent, where men (and a few women) regularly stumble out and appear disoriented for a moment as they shield their eyes from the bright afternoon light.
Next stop is the Mooternity Barn and the Swine Shed, which
is a collection of stalls and pens that house livestock of the bovine and porcine variety. People stand by their animals wearing cowboy boots and work boots—real ones, the kind used for riding and roping, not for creating a fashion statement.
This is where Eric used to hang out, trying to make time with the farm girls. In the first aisle we run into Gwen's younger brother Billy, who won a prize for the steer he raised on their farmette, only now he's miserable because it's going to be slaughtered. Gwen's parents are both trying to console Billy. His grandfather has even offered to buy the beast, but apparently such interventions are against the rules.
“Glad you could all make it,” says Mr. Thompson. “Your dad was always a judge for the heifers.”
“A blessed memory,” says Mrs. Thompson. I assume she's referring to my dad and not all the cows that ended up as hamburger.
“He was a darn good judge, and we miss him,” says Mr. Thompson.
Dad had grown up on a farm and was regularly asked to be a livestock judge because no one in our family entered the competition. And Mom was always invited to judge the baked goods. When people asked why she didn't enter her own delicious pies and cakes, Mom always joked that with so many children underfoot they didn't last long enough to make it to the fairgrounds. Fortunately for us, this was the truth. Mom had surmounted the number one curse of baking—if it looks good then it must taste bad, and vice versa.