Authors: Laura Pedersen
Lillian races into the room half in and half out of her witch costume, following a nap that lasted all of five minutes. Not having experienced the thrill of a school party, she's raring to go.
When the kids arrive home, it's obvious that they've already had
way
too much sugar—their voices are shrill and they run helter-skelter through the house searching for their buckets. Francie's machete was taken away at school and apparently the teacher “forgot” to give it back. Darlene's tiara is in two pieces and the bottom of her dress is torn from tripping over it in high-heeled plastic slippers.
Davy's the real winner. His lion got in a fight with a bear and is torn from top to bottom. The costume is ruined, and I have to go down to the basement to look for something left over from last year. After much searching I find a suit for Batman's crime-fighting partner Robin.
When I come back upstairs, Teddy is making scorch marks on the walls as he burns a cork to blacken his face for his hobo costume.
“Aren't you a little old for trick-or-treating?”
He scowls at me. “I'm going to a party.”
“Sounds like a kissing party,” I say in a teasing voice.
“Shut up!”
I make kissing sounds in his ear and he ducks to get away from me.
Darlene starts wailing in the other room. When I go into the living room her coat is on the floor and she's stomping on it while screeching that her costume will be ruined.
“No it won't, sweetie.” I pick up the coat. “Everyone will know you're a princess because you're carrying a magic wand.” I don't mention the tiara because it's being held together with
tinfoil and ready to fall off again. Or the fairy princess slippers that have to be replaced with boots now that a light snow is beginning to fall.
Davy begins yelling when he sees the Robin costume I brought up from the basement.
Mom looks as if she's about to start sobbing and sits down on the couch with a faraway look in her eyes.
I go into the kitchen and grab Teddy, who is now dressed in oversized clothes, carrying a bandanna on a stick, and exiting through the back door.
“Help me!” I plead with him. “Or else Mom is going to have another nervous breakdown.”
That gets his attention. Teddy goes in and looks at the mess—kids crying, fur and fairy dust everywhere. Fortunately Teddy, who has recently become an official teenager, is now viewed as a God by the little kids, whereas I am an official grown-up pain in the neck, someone to be avoided at all costs, being that I cause misery in their young lives by serving vegetables and insisting on baths and bedtimes.
They gaze up worshipfully at Teddy in his hobo outfit, which looks pretty good.
“Why do you guys want to go in those stupid little-kid costumes?” he asks. “If you want I'll make you into bums like me.”
The kids are very enthusiastic. Mom appears relieved.
“Great, what do we do?” I ask.
“I'm afraid we'll have to raid Dad's closet,” says Teddy.
“Mom, can we use some of Dad's things?” I ask.
“Sure,” she says. “I was just going to box it up for the church after Eric takes whatever he can use.”
I put a few layers of regular clothes on the kids and then we add one of Dad's jackets with the sleeves rolled up. For the bottoms we cut the legs short on his pants and tie the waists with
twine. Teddy makes hobo sacks out of red-and-white dish towels and darkens their faces with cork. The overall effect is superb and Mom even gets out the camera to take a photo, the first one since she's been home.
Bernard arrives at half past five with his girls. There are only eight houses in their neighborhood, so I told them to come trick-or-treating over here after they finished. Gigi is dressed as a hippie and Rose is a little bumblebee. I think they're adorable, but Bernard is still recovering from the fact that his idea for their going as Joan and Jackie Collins was firmly rejected.
O
N SUNDAY MORNING I DRIVE OVER TO THE COMMUNITY THEATER
in order to work on the scenery for
Our Town.
The Palace was built as a movie house back in the 1920s. The façade is covered with large black and white tiles arranged to form an elaborate diamond pattern around three sets of chrome double doors that look as if they were ripped off an airplane. A triangular marquee juts out over the pavement above the ticket booth, a pillar on each side, and backlit silver stars encased in bricks of glass make up the lobby floor. In the early 1980s, after people started driving to the multiplex cinemas at the mall in Timpany, the movie theater slowly went bankrupt. Finally the Town Council took over the property and had it refurbished as a venue for special events.
The theater was still empty most of the time, so Gil worked out a deal where he doesn't pay rent but gives half the ticket sales toward upkeep. And thus were born the Cosgrove Community Players.
Louise has offered to help me with the scenery and shows up at exactly ten o'clock. She'll do anything to get out of church. However, I'm pleased to have another painter, at least until I
discover that Louise has been working on the same six inches of soda shop background for the past hour.
“Impressionism was created to save set designers a lot of work.” I take the brush and demonstrate.
Louise sits back and appears happy to let me continue.
“So what's going on with you and Brandt?” I ask.
“I don't know,” says Louise.
“Are you still going out with him?”
“I guess so,” says Louise.
“You don't sound very enthusiastic about it,” I say.
“It's just kind of boring,” she says.
“You mean the abstinence thing?” I ask.
Louise looks up sharply.
“Brandt told me about it when he declared that you were his soul mate.”
“He works and studies most of the time, and what they call a party is a bunch of guys making organic chemistry jokes and talking about what happened in the lab. We're supposed to do this for the next five years and then get married and, I don't know, have kids, I guess.”
“Wow. You've got it all planned out.”
“Yeah. I'm sixteen and it feels as if my life is already over.”
It's quiet in the back except for the sound of the narrator speaking a few hundred feet away on the stage.
“Think you'll get back together with Craig?” asks Louise.
“He's with Megan now.”
My name is being called from the auditorium, and suddenly Gil is standing above us, rather harried and with his script flapping around. “Hallie, please fill in for Paula—she's out sick
again.”
“And stay up until midnight painting your backdrops?” I reply. “No thanks. Get Bernard. He loves to read.”
I turn to Louise and say, “Bernard was doing the lighting for a college production of
Guys and Dolls
, and after he performed “Adelaide's Lament” while the pianist was warming up, the director shouted, “Put Bernard in the dress and let
him
do the part.”
“Bernard is working on the costumes and in quite a
mood,”
says Gil. “Apparently a few of the cast members were overly conservative when e-mailing their measurements.”
Gil's eyes fall on Louise. “Let me borrow you for Emily. In fact, you're exactly the right age.”
“I don't know anything about acting,” says Louise.
Gil guides her off and a moment later I hear, “Okay everybody, Act One, page thirty, Mrs. Webb and Emily are on stage next to the trellis. Emily, please begin with ‘Mama, will you answer me a question.’ ”
Normally I block out whatever is happening on stage, because they end up repeating the lines a million times and it drives me crazy. But I listen now because it's funny to hear Louise's familiar voice.
“Mama, will you answer me a question, serious?” asks Louise as Emily.
A woman replies, “Seriously, dear—not serious.”
“Mama, am I good-looking?” asks Emily.
“Yes, of course you are,” says the woman.
I stop what I'm doing and walk around to the back of the auditorium. Bernard and Gil are obviously having a similar epiphany as their eyes are fixed upon Louise, dressed in acid-washed jeans and a fitted T-shirt, but nonetheless poised, glamorous, and exuding star quality.
Heading back to my scenery I have a sneaking suspicion that we won't be hearing the name Paula Malone again anytime soon.
B
Y THE FIRST OF NOVEMBER I'M FINISHING UP WITH THE YARD.
After a solid week of raking, the house and garage are no longer engulfed by a tidal wave of dead leaves. It's not so pleasant to be outside anymore with sharp gusts of wind from the east and low, slate-gray skies that are nature's version of a hangover.
With not much left to do, I decide to set up the little greenhouse, which we've basically ignored for the past two years. Only when I go into the shed to see if that stack of small clay pots is still tucked away in the back corner I discover that the lawn mower is gone.
I can tell from all the cars with their engines waiting out front that Bernard is finishing up one of his Girl Scout meetings, and so I go inside to see if he knows anything about the missing mower.
Troop Bernard is gathered in the living room, and he's announcing that the next three meetings will be dedicated to holiday meals, music, and traditions. “Everyone wear skirts next week in order to practice sitting down properly.”
Bernard points to his one boy participant and says, “Andrew, you'll of course wear a suit.” This comes out not so much
as reminder than a polite note of caution. The girls giggle and Bernard chastises them, “Wait and see, you'll all be fighting over Andrew soon enough.” Though if it will be as best friend, emergency date, extra man, or future interior decorator, Bernard doesn't make clear. “And on Saturday night everyone is welcome to come over and learn how to make cranapple pie and watch Grace Kelly in
High Society.”
The kids pack their bags and put on their coats. However, Bernard suddenly claps his hands as if he's forgotten something important. “And ladies, how long should our skirts be?”
“Knee length,” one girl offers, though there's a note of uncertainty in her voice.
“Anyone else?” asks Bernard.
Andrew raises his hand.
“Please proceed to enlighten us, Andrew,” says Bernard.
“Long enough to cover the parts but short enough to keep it interesting,” the boy states with conviction.
“Well done,” says Bernard. “Forget what all the magazines are showing and work
with
your natural figure, not
against
it.”
Following Bernard into the kitchen I ask him, “What's the story with Andrew? Is he an F.O.B.?” That's our code for Friend of Bernard.
“I'd hazard to say more of a B.I.T—Bernard in Training. With the way the world is these days, a little more gaiety might be just the thing.”
“You didn't by any chance borrow the lawn mower to use it as a centerpiece or something?” I ask. “I'd hate to think that I misplaced it.”
“Ottavio must have taken it into town,” says Bernard. “He has so many speeding tickets that they finally suspended his license.”
I guess I'm not surprised by this news. The only driving laws that Ottavio seems to follow are the laws of physics.
“So these girls don't mind that you've hijacked their Girl Scout troop and turned it into some sort 1950s cooking and etiquette class?”
“There's now a waiting list to get in. Although one child's grandmother pays her twenty dollars for every meeting she attends.
Grand-mère
feels it's a bargain for finishing school.”
“But aren't they supposed to learn how to tie knots and survive in the woods?”
“I think flower arranging comes in handy considerably more than
knot tying.
Why, when I took the poor creatures under my wing, they couldn't tell the difference between silver and silver plate! And I hardly think they'll need to know how to find what side of a tree moss is growing on so much as when to use oregano versus paprika.”
Olivia enters the kitchen from her den and says, “I see that Bernard is describing some of the new badges he's added to the scouting curriculum.”
“But aren't there existing guidelines?” I ask.
“Scouting is very much up for interpretation,” says Bernard. “Just look at Robert Baden-Powell, the founder of the Boy Scouts. He specialized in putting on Gilbert and Sullivan operettas, loved playing women's roles on the stage, for which he made his own dresses, and designed embroidery patterns for the wives of army officers.”
“You've forgotten the most important thing, Bernard,” says Olivia.
“That he was an early fan of scented soap and enjoyed choosing fabrics and furnishings?”
“No, silly.” Olivia places her hand on Bernard's arm. “He gave his mother the credit for all of his success!”
“Very funny, Mother,” says Bernard and carefully lifts her hand off his arm. “Now if you'll excuse me, I have to work on the Thanksgiving menu.”
“Oh Bernard, please don't have a turkey this year,” says Olivia. “Poultry animals are excluded from the humane slaughter laws.”
“Not to worry, Mother,” says Bernard. “We'll have plenty of vegetarian dishes for you and
your kind.”
“That's not the point,” Olivia states firmly. “Massive animal factories produce those turkeys. Thousands of them are crammed together in a single shed with less than three square feet of space apiece.”
Bernard flees toward the basement with Olivia shouting after him, “Gandhi said a nation's progress can be judged by how they treat their animals!”
“Well, I say that if you eat too many natural foods, then you'll soon die of natural causes!” he calls up the stairs.
T
HE THIRD WEEK IN NOVEMBER ERIC ARRIVES HOME WITH HIS
girlfriend, Elizabeth, for Thanksgiving. After great hesitation, Mom has finally accepted the invitation to dinner at the Stocktons’. Now that the basement playroom is finished, Bernard is planning to have a separate table for the children down there.
When all twelve of us pour through the Stocktons’ front door, the scene is not unlike opening day at a Six Flags amusement park. Because dinner isn't until half past five, Pastor Costello joins us after he finishes presiding over the church supper in the early afternoon. Bernard has organized it so that my mother and Pastor Costello will sit in the dining room with the grown-ups while he and I take charge of the basement.