Authors: Laura Pedersen
“Neither did I.” I stare down at Louise's shoes. “Sorry. I thought to call, but by that time it was already late and I didn't want to wake you.” It's an old excuse and a lousy one, but nothing else comes to mind.
“So long as you weren't in an accident.”
More like a group shampoo.
Surprisingly, Mom hugs me close. “Mmmm. Your hair smells wonderful. And it's so soft!”
I show her the bottle of conditioner.
Mom glances at the label, though I think she's more interested in what kind of night out involves getting your hair done.
“A friend was going back to school and we went to Cleveland and then slept at their house.” I'm extremely careful with the pronouns.
“You should consider going back to school, too,” says Mom. “We'll manage to get by.”
Only it's not just about money. Mom is interactive and user-friendly these days, but she doesn't run the house and keep track of all the kids’ schedules. However, I don't want to say anything that makes it sound as if she's not fully recovered or can't handle the family the same way that she used to.
“Pastor Costello thinks he can get you a church scholarship,” adds Mom.
“Please, Mom, I'm not going to study to be a minister or a missionary.”
“You can stay with your graphic design. No strings attached!”
“That's very nice, but you know that I wouldn't even be
going
to church if I wasn't taking the kids.”
Mom nods her head as if this is where she figured the conversation would end up. “I've been meaning to ask you if you want any counseling,” says Mom, heading in a slightly different direction.
“What?”
“Counseling. You know, the kids have it available to them at school and Eric at college and I …”
We both realize there's no need for a review of Mom's period of intensive therapy.
“Thanks, but I'm going to be fine,” I say. I don't mean one hundred percent, but as of this morning, for the first time I actually believe that at some point I might just be okay after all.
W
HERE HAVE ALL THE WINTER SWEATERS GONE?” MY MOTHER
asks from inside Francie and Lillian's closet.
I'm going through their drawers to inventory socks and underwear. “Maybe they never made it back up from the laundry room last spring.”
“I used to keep them all in a box up here,” says my mother. “I don't know what happened.”
What happened is that Dad died and you had a nervous breakdown. However, I don't say this. “I'm sure I can find some inexpensive ones at the factory outlet store in Timpany.”
The first few days of September pass in a flurry of organizing the kids to start school. Lillian has another year to go before kindergarten and so a popular refrain for things that don't meet Darlene's style standards or Francie's tomboy requirements are, “Save it for Lillian.” The boys tend to ruin most of their clothes, and even with Mom's constant patching there's not much to pass on. Their discards are mostly slated to become cleaning rags, and when those get enough holes Mom turns them into rag rugs.
Louise has given up cheerleading for good, lost her fascination
with science, and now wants to become a social studies teacher. Mom is happy to see that Louise has college applications scattered about.
As for me, my nineteenth birthday turns out to be very much like my ninth, with the family gathered around the table eating mom's homemade lasagna. Pink-and-white streamers running from the wall clock to the light fixture are up and the
HAPPY BIRTHDAY
sign is strung in its usual spot just below the black metal plaque with
GRACE
etched onto it in gold letters.
The only difference is that Dad isn't here to place his hand over mine and guide the knife while making the first good-luck slice into the chocolate birthday cake. And Pastor Costello adds a round of “May the Good Lord Bless You,” to the usual “Happy Birthday,” which causes the candles to burn down extremely close to the cake. As always, Mom instructs me to “make a wish” before finally blowing them out.
But I don't wish for anything. Life appears to have plenty of its own ideas, and at this point I'm just clinging to my little raft. My own loneliness seems necessary somehow, like the tiny knots on a necklace that keep the pearls in place.
B
ERNARD IS PLOTTING A GARDEN FOR NEXT SPRING WITH
A Moulin Rouge theme and the bulbs have to be planted before the ground freezes. He's discovered a tulip called Carnaval de Nice that has white petals flamed with dark red, which is serving as his inspiration. This is welcome news as it signals he's wearing down on the Chinese culture program. Because I know that the rest of us are. Particularly the CD of the Beijing Opera. For one thing, the word
shrill
comes to mind. Bernard insists that it's an acquired taste, much like chiffon.
Rose has started preschool, but Gigi still has another year at home, and so she and Lillian and Rocky play together while Bernard works on his Web site and newsletter. My mom says she doesn't believe in preschool, though what I think she actually means is that she doesn't believe in
paying
for preschool.
I must say that I'm not surprised to pull up one October morning and see a glint of blue move behind the bushes, peacock blue to be exact. Sure enough, a closer inspection reveals four peacocks strutting about, with Rocky and Gigi following at a safe distance to observe the exotic creatures.
Inside the house Olivia, Bernard, Gil, and Ottavio are all gathered around the dining room table. Gil explains that he's
taken the day off to prepare for his new play. Stacked in front of him are a dozen books open to various pages. Bernard is working over some plans to convert the basement into a playroom. Ottavio talks about building a shelter for the peacocks near the rabbit hutch.
“Are the peacocks supposed to save on fertilizer?” I ask.
“You'll never believe where they came from!” Bernard sounds like he's on his tenth cup of coffee. “Your friend Cappy called me the other day to see if I wanted to buy a crèche. Anyway, as I was leaving I heard the most unusual sound, like a cry for help. And Cappy said, ‘Those are peacocks. They bring me a tremendous amount of good luck, but my fiancée doesn't like them. I suppose I don't have to tell you that peacocks are considered to be sacred in China.’ ”
“Of course I'm aware of that!” Bernard is positively self-congratulatory as he says, “I told Cappy they were an emblem of the Ming Dynasty and the peacock feather was awarded to show imperial favor and high rank. I immediately offered to buy them and said that we have a Chinese tea garden so the peacocks would be incredibly contented living here.”
It's apparent that Bernard believes
he
talked Cappy into parting with his unbeloved birds. Cappy says that no one appreciates a gift nearly as much as they welcome paying for the pleasure of being swindled. I can't help but smile as I picture Cappy playing Bernard like a violin while Bernard considers himself to be the master wheeler-dealer.
One of the peacocks lets out its signature
help
and Gil says, “If they're so happy here, then how come they keep screeching like that?”
“They're adjusting,” says Bernard.
Gil looks doubtful. “I think you got flimflammed by a bird trader,” says the man who grew up on a famous horse farm.
“Why don't you do something by Samuel Beckett?” suggests
Olivia, who has been paging through one of Gil's books of plays.
“I think a few more people were counting on landing parts,” says Gil. “I never thought anyone cared about these little community theater productions, but when there wasn't a play this past spring everyone called wanting to know what happened.”
“Didn't the Moose Lodge put on a variety show?” asks Olivia.
“Hardly anyone went,” reports Gil.
Bernard pretends to be aghast. “You mean they missed old Mr. Exner playing the washtub and Brenda Kolatch clog dancing?” Bernard places his hand on his chest and dramatically exclaims, “My heart be still!”
“Luigi Pirandello,” suggests Ottavio. He's like having a representative of the Italian tourist board on hand, always promoting things from his home country.
“Not if they're recovering from a variety show, darling.” Olivia gently places her hand on his arm. “I don't think Gil is after
more
realism so much as an escape from reality altogether.”
“What about
The Sound of Music,”
Bernard says enthusiastically. “We can use all the children. Rose would be adorable as Gretl.”
“And you'll star in the role of stage mother?” asks Gil.
“Then how about
Mame
?” Bernard begins singing the title song.
“ ‘You coax the blues right out of the horn, Mame
“Are you auditioning for the lead?” asks Gil.
“Of course not,” says Bernard. “I'll just be the understudy.”
“Try again,” says Gil.
“You've never done Tennessee Williams's
Cat on a Hot Tin Roof”
Gil rolls his eyes because the play involves alcoholism and homosexuality.
“We can do a double feature with
The Roman Spring of Mrs. Stone,”
suggests Bernard.
“Isn't that the one where the old actress moves to Italy and dates young gigolos?” I ask.
“Yes,” says Bernard. “Mother would be perfect for the lead. Don't you think?”
Olivia ignores him and says, “How about
Rutherford and Son?”
“Never heard of it,” says Gil.
“It's by a British woman named Githa Sowerby. The play premiered to excellent notices back in 1912 and was never heard from again. It's not included in anthologies because women's work was ignored until recently. The story revolves around a family business and the patriarch's ruthless attempts to sustain it. This leads to the psychic and moral destruction of everyone involved.”
Gil doesn't appear very keen, but he's always polite, and says, “If you have a copy, I'll take a look.”
Bernard sniffs. “It sounds more like some socialist tract written back in the days when British industry was buckling as a result of competition from the United States.”
“It doesn't hurt for people to be reminded that capitalism comes at some expense,” admonishes Olivia.
Gil stops in the middle of one book and says, “What about
Our Town?”
Bernard uses a nearby linen napkin to strangle himself.
“Our Town?”
he chokes out, as if Gil has just suggested featuring a beheading on the stage rather than a show. “There are no accents, no tragic southern belles, no nervous disorders, and worst of all—no big tap number!”
“We
never
have a big tap number,” interjects Gil. “The stage is too small.”
“There isn't so much as a feather boa!” Bernard is now lying prostrate on the dining room floor waving his napkin in the air like a distress flag.
Olivia appears enthusiastic. “A good production should provide a sense of the rhythm of our own life as it touches those around us.”
“Life?”
moans Bernard. “It's about
death!”
I
T'S TWO IN THE AFTERNOON AND I'M PREPARING A SNACK FOR THE
kids while my mother sips her tea at the kitchen table.
“We received the most unusual postcard,” she says, and hands me the piece of mail in question.
There's a picture of a woman in a bikini on the front and at the bottom of the reverse side are the initials U.L.
“Uncle Lenny!” The postmark reads St. Lucia, wherever that is. “Remember, I told you how he stayed with us while you were away?” Though I certainly didn't tell Mom
all
the details.
“Oh, right—one of your dad's crazy twin sailor uncles,” she says. “He's the one who got the cat.”
“That's Uncle Lenny,” I say.
“What do you think it
means?”
she says.
I study Uncle Lenny's scrawl on the back of the postcard: “50 miles out and down with high fever. Coma. Left for dead in deep freeze with 80-pound blue fin tuna. Awoke cold but cured. How the mates were surprised when Charley the Tuna started pounding on the hatch!”
“I'm sure it's just another one of his wild stories,” I say. On the other hand, you could never be sure with Uncle Lenny.
“Do you know what the leading cause of death is for women aged twenty-five through forty?” Mom asks.
“Stroke?” I guess as I stack peanut-butter-and-jelly triangles onto a plate.
“No. Halloween.”
I can't believe that Mom actually told a joke. On the other hand, the dire look on her face doesn't indicate that she means it as a joke.
Admittedly, organizing the kids and all their costumes for school this morning was a bit hectic. Especially because Davy's lion tail kept falling off, though I haven't ruled out that Francie was yanking on it. That would have been when she wasn't whacking us all over the head with her plastic machete, which was not as light a grade of plastic as it could have been. And Darlene's tiara wouldn't stay on no matter how many bobby pins I jammed into her hair.
Then there's the candy corn that's stuck in all their pockets, and melted onto the clothes in the dryer. The kids love the stuff, especially making fangs on their teeth and sticking it up their nostrils. Sorry, but give me chocolate anytime. As far as I'm concerned, candy corn is the fruitcake of Halloween—it tastes disgusting, lasts forever, and the best thing you can do is find someone to give it to.
Pastor Costello is off visiting a church member in the hospital, Louise is at her SAT prep course, and so it's just Mom and me in charge of preparing the troops for trick-or-treating.
“It won't be that bad,” I assure her. “I'll take them around the neighborhood while you stay here and give out the candy.”
“The temperature is dropping fast. They're going to have to wear coats,” she says ominously.
“I'll put their coats on,” I say like a cockeyed optimist.
My mother gives me a look that indicates I obviously have
no memory of what it's like to put a coat on a child wearing a Halloween costume.