Authors: Laura Pedersen
Darlene shuffles into the kitchen wearing her footsie pajamas. She starts to say something, but I place my finger to my lips and point to the radio just as the announcer says, “Here it is, folks—Patrick Henry School District is closed!” He says this like a game show host declaring a big winner.
Darlene looks up at me expectantly.
“Yup,” I say. “That's you. No school today.”
She races through the house screeching, “Thcool ith clofed, thchool ith clofed!”
I'm reminded that this means there won't be any speech therapy for Darlene today. The lisp is definitely improving, but there's still a ways to go before she's knocking back, Silly Sally sells seashells by the seashore.
B
Y LUNCHTIME I FEEL AS IF I'M SLEEPWALKING AND THE KIDS’
voices are coming from an echo chamber.
Bernard arrives shortly after one o'clock with a bottle of designer conditioner and a brand-new blow dryer. He hugs and kisses me like we're acting out a tragedy in a movie scene. “Are you surviving?”
“It's really weird.” I grope for the right words to describe the surrealism of the past two days, how it's as if I'm standing at a distance from life. “I keep thinking I'm going to wake up and everything will be back to how it was—but instead it's like being stuck in a science-fiction movie. Only there aren't any killer robots to beat back, no magic ring to get rid of, no time machine to repair, and therefore no way to travel back to yesterday.”
“Courage, mon brave!”
says Bernard, and places his hands on my shoulders while tipping his forehead toward mine as if he's knighting me or transferring some sort of secret powers.
Gazing out the window only adds to the bizarreness of my current situation. It's no longer possible to see the houses across the street, or even the street, for that matter.
“How on earth did you get over here?” I ask.
“It certainly wouldn't have been possible in that fantastically stylish but reliably unreliable vintage Alfa Romeo. Whereas my new Volvo zips right through the snow and ice. It's even moose-proof!”
“Moose-proof?”
“My family will survive hitting a moose,” Bernard states with authority.
“There aren't any moose around here that I'm aware of, aside from the guys who own the lodge up on Route 5.”
“We have plenty of deer,” says the unsinkable Bernard. “Now I hate to turn your attention back to the events at hand, but I've come to measure the children for their outfits. Thank Goddess it's early winter and the stores are still carrying some black and navy.”
“I didn't even think of clothes,” I said. “Try not to spend much.” Bernard is constantly buying expensive dresses for his daughters. Gigi doesn't mind, but Rose tends to start pulling hers apart the minute he's out of sight.
“Don't worry about a thing,” says Bernard. He glances at all the flowers and fruit baskets from Dad's office coworkers pushed off in the corner. “It will be my contribution instead of a fruit basket.” He spots the family photo on the mantel, sighs, and adds, “Life is so laissez unfaire.”
“We haven't told the little kids yet,” I explain. “Only Teddy knows.”
“I see,” says Bernard. “I'll simply eyeball the measurements and hedge on the larger side. If need be, we'll just do a nip and tuck here and there. Can your Aunt Lala sew?”
Aunt Lala has just walked out of the kitchen, teary-eyed after watching Lillian crawl around saying, “Mama, Mama.”
“I wouldn't count on it,” I whisper to Bernard. “If Aunt Lala
manages to get dressed and visit my mom at Dalewood this morning, it will be a minor miracle.” As if on cue the toaster begins to smolder and I discover that Aunt Lala has put two thin slices of bread in there and then switched it on high before exiting.
“If only Mother were here.” From the sigh in Bernard's voice I can tell that he wishes Olivia were back for a lot more than just sewing alterations. The constant bickering aside, they really do depend on each other, and it's obvious that he's been a bit lost with her away for an extended period of time.
“Have you heard anything from Olivia and Ottavio lately?” I ask. “She sent me a postcard from Florence around Christmastime.”
Bernard perks up at the subject. “They finally left Italy after visiting Ottavio's family. And of course they had to go see all of Bernini's fountains and the great piazza in front of St. Peter's in Rome. Now they're on some Greek island, where Mother is immersing herself in poetry. Next stop are the pyramids in Egypt and the library of Alexandria, and then they'll be home in April.
“Wow, it sounds like a great trip.”
“I suppose I'm happy for her,” says Bernard. “Mother always loved to travel, and then Father became ill and she didn't go anywhere for years, except that quick trip to Florida.”
“I suppose it's best to go places whenever you can.” I don't mean to refer to the fact that I might be stuck here in this house raising these kids for the next ten years, but I guess that's how it sounds. And who knows, maybe it is what I mean. I keep telling myself that it's horribly wrong and selfish to be thinking about my own life at a terrible time like this, but it does creep into the back of my mind.
“Yes, one never knows what tomorrow will bring,” Bernard
says philosophically. “Now why don't you fix your hair while I find the children.”
After washing my hair again, only this time with a half bottle of conditioner, I struggle with a brush and the hair dryer to try to bring it under control. Instead I end up looking like the Cowardly Lion from
The Wizard of Oz.
When I finally give up and switch off the dryer, the phone is ringing. I swear the thing starts at seven in the morning and doesn't stop until eleven o'clock at night. We had an answering machine for about a week, until Davy attempted to convert it into a two-way radio. I go to pick up the phone in Mom and Dad's room, but the handset is nowhere in sight, so I hurry downstairs to the kitchen. A disheveled Aunt Lala comes around the corner buttoning up her coat, the belt dragging along the floor behind her. “That must be the taxi company calling.”
A taxi in this weather? I wonder about that. As I grab the telephone the doorbell rings. Perhaps there is a cab out front. Only the dispatcher is telling me he can't get a driver out to us until later this afternoon. And that's when I hear the scream in the front hall followed by the door banging shut.
R
ACING INTO THE LIVING ROOM, I FIND AUNT LALA SHRIEKING
, one hand covering her face, the other pointed at the closed front door. The bell rings again. Assuming that her histrionics are the result of general anxiety, I open the door. I, too, start screaming bloody murder. It's Dad! Only he's a lot older and has a huge mustache and beard covered with icicles like the Abominable Snowman! Chunks of white hair stick out below a stiff white hat with a black visor and a big gold anchor on the front. After slamming the door closed I quickly lock it. Dad's a ghost and has come back to haunt the house!
Bernard arrives on the scene trailed by a bunch of curious kids while Aunt Lala and I babble from hysteria. He intuitively understands that the cause of our consternation lies on the other side of the door. Glancing out a side window, Bernard announces, “Heavens to Häagen-Dazs! It's the Ancient Mariner! He must be lost in the storm.”
Bernard opens the door and speaks the way he does to strangers who enter his antiques shop. “Hello there, and how may I help you this afternoon?”
“Lenny Palmer—Robert's uncle,” says the Abominable Snowman. “There weren't any cabs at the station.” He reports this news
as if he didn't mind the challenge of walking a mile in a blizzard and the two icicles that are his eyebrows rise slightly.
“Oh my goodness, come in!” says Bernard. “You must be frozen half to death.”
The great big bear of a man with a chest like an oil drum makes the room seem to shrink down to the size of a doll's house.
“If I were a case of herring I guess I'd still be pretty fresh,” he says in a gruff voice seasoned by wind and water. Great-Uncle Lenny removes a pair of old-fashioned black wool gloves that look as if they were abandoned by a street musician and takes off his skipper's cap to reveal a wild mane of white hair.
Aunt Lala is the first to recover from the fright. Extending her hand, she introduces herself. “I'm Lorraine, Robert's sister-in-law. I met you and a twin brother at the wedding.”
“Yep, that was us. Only Barnacle Bill departed for Davy Jones's locker shortly after the nuptials—had a heart attack while reeling in a sailfish,” says Lenny. “Apparently it runs in the family. I'm sorry to hear about my nephew. I took a flight from the Virgin Islands and the train from Cleveland. Alan left a message at the bar.”
His address is a bar? My eyes are fixed on this man who looks like an older, shaggy, ice-covered version of my father. So this is Great-Uncle Lenny. I'd come to think of him as a character out of a novel—chasing pirates through the Caribbean and catching fish of mythical proportions. When I was little, my dad brought home a magazine containing a story on his two identical-twin seafaring uncles.
Lenny extends his hand. It's strong, ugly, rough, callused, and scarred. The skin is like leather that's been left outside for a decade, and no longer has the steer attached to keep it hydrated and smooth. He's a man from another world. The world of the
ocean, I have to assume. Living my entire life in Ohio, I've never seen the ocean.
Eric comes up from the basement rubbing his eyes after a short nap. He also does a double take upon seeing Uncle Lenny but doesn't start screaming like a girl.
“This is our great-uncle Lenny,” I fill him in.
“Remember
Dad's father had two younger brothers who were identical twins.”
“Sure,” Eric says and extends his hand. Even though Eric and I aren't twins, we can do a pretty good sibling telepathy when necessary.
“Oh dear,” says Aunt Lala, and peers out the window. “I wonder what happened to my taxi?”
“Sorry,” I say. “That was the cab company on the phone, and they're not coming until later because of the weather.”
“I'll drive you to the hospital,” says Eric. “Let me take a quick shower.”
“Hospital?” inquires Uncle Lenny. “But I thought—”
“Their mother is in shock,” explains Bernard.
“Great Caesar's ghost!” roars Uncle Lenny so that we all jump back a step. “What next?”
Teddy appears from around the corner, where he was listening the entire time. The protruding ears give him an unmistakable silhouette.
“Can I go with them?” asks Teddy.
“Sure,” I say.
“I'm off shopping.” Bernard heads toward the door. He scrutinizes my new hairstyle and grimaces. “I'll be sure to pick up a black hat for you.”
“Your parents have such wonderful friends,” says Aunt Lala.
It's not the time to explain that Bernard is actually my friend a lot more than Mom and Dad's.
Just then there's a horrible crash on the stairs followed by a loud shriek.
“Man overboard!” Uncle Lenny calls out in his booming bass.
Aunt Lala and I dash toward the first-floor landing, where Francie, the family daredevil, is lying curled up at the bottom and Louise is approaching from the top.
“I
told
you to stop sledding on the stairs!” yells an irritated Louise.
There's blood running down Francie's chin, and I can't tell if it's coming from her nose or her mouth or the fingers she's using to cover her face. It's not until we finally manage to get her hair and hands out of the way that it's possible to see the gash below her bottom lip.
Aunt Lala recoils at the sight of the open wound, grabs onto the railing, and looks as if she's going to pass out. “Oh dear Lord!”
By the sound of Francie's howls one would think I was performing a skin graft, but it actually appears not to be that bad. And she doesn't seem to have knocked any more teeth out.
“We'd better go to the emergency room just to be on the safe side,” I say. “She may need a few stitches.”
Francie screams even louder upon hearing my unwelcome diagnosis.
“You and I can take Francie to the emergency room, and Aunt Lala can go with Louise to see Mom,” says Eric.
“Who is going to watch the rest of the kids?” I ask.
The phone starts ringing in the background. Now what? Are we supposed to evacuate the area due to nuclear fallout?
“Louise will have to stay here and watch the kids,” I say.
Louise gives me a look indicating that she's
over
child care.
I put a Band-Aid over Francie's cut and bundle her up.
“Darlene, Davy, and Lillian can go outside, but not for more than an hour. Be sure to put Wonder bread bags over their socks since their boots leak.” I sound like Mom.
Uncle Lenny is standing in the living room. I'd forgotten about the surprise sailor situation. “Make yourself at home,” I say as we hurtle out of the door.
It's cold and the roads to the hospital are still icy. The good news is that the storm has slowed down business at the emergency room. There's just one guy with chest pains whose wife is yelling at him about being too cheap to hire a plow service.
After a quick examination we're given some baby aspirin and a butterfly bandage is applied to Francie's lip. The doctor makes some notations about Francie's various scars, the knocked-out front teeth, and the still-fresh lump on her forehead from the living room fall the other day. I can tell he's wondering whether she's really this accident-prone or if we're throwing her down the stairs on a regular basis. Then he asks me to leave the room for a moment. Great. She'd better not tell one of her crazy stories and land me in jail.
Apparently the doctor is satisfied with their conversation. At least for now. And thus the big surprise turns out not to be what happens at the hospital but the scene awaiting me back at the house.
L
OUISE!” I CALL OUT. THERE'S NO SIGN OF DINNER BEING STARTED
and the table isn't set. Not only that, there are no signs of children. I look out the basement window to the backyard. No one. Racing up the stairs to the second floor, I'm relieved to see light coming from underneath the closed door of Louise and Darlene's room.