The Full Cleveland (4 page)

When Clarine served the Baked Alaska, I asked how you could cook ice cream in the oven and it would still come out like ice cream, and not like a pond.

At first, nobody was interested. I looked up at Mother. But she was helping Lucy so she wouldn't slop meringue all over the white damask tablecloth. So I looked down at Dad. “How, Dad?”

When he answered me, he was really looking at Mother. “Because it's insulated.”

“What's
insulated?

But it was one of those things, like conscience, I guess, that even though you might ask, you sort of know what it is in your heart all along. Anyway, nobody answered.

So I looked down at Mother. Then back to Dad. And when he winked at me, I guess I got what the game really was. Rubies weren't the only treasures he'd been hiding from Mother. He had gone and hidden his conscience from her.

Mother called a meeting
for Catholics. It was held in the sitting room, and we all had to sit next to one another on the couch. Mother stood.

She said the purpose of the meeting was to tell us we would start having meetings that were called Breakfast Meetings. She said she wanted a family that prayed together, and on Friday mornings, we should be prepared. And she set the time and the date for the first one. It was all very official. Then the meeting was over.

All I'm saying is, we had a meeting just to be told about more meetings. But Cabot said that's how it was done in the business world. After I heard that, I got pretty excited about it. I had to admit, it sounded good, to be able to have a Breakfast Meeting. I was pretty impressed with them, I guess.

The Friday of the first meeting, Cabot and I were almost late, because of our skating lesson.

Mother was late today too. She arrived in the dining room in a flowing red robe, which was a little unusual, because she was usually dressed up and everything, even at breakfast.

Dad stood up, she sat down, he went to the end of the table to get his kiss, getting a quick tap on the face this time instead. He went out to find the gray felt hat, Clarine came in, flung Mother her eggs sort of short-order style, and swung back through the swinging dining room door.

Except for the red robe, the quick tap, and no kiss, so far, business as usual.

Hat in hand, Dad made his traditional reappearance in the doorway. “So long, now,” he said tentatively, surveying us cautiously, unsure why we were all still sitting there, hands folded on the table, lined up like a board meeting. “You won't be late for school?”

Mother blew a kiss and waved. “Bye, now.”

He still stood there, on this day of all days, reluctant to go. So we all pitched in and cried “Bye, Daddy!!!” over and over, so it trilled in the halls like church bells and he was out the door and on his way to the four-car garage. Mother hadn't come right out and said so, but clearly the family that prayed together was to be kept secret from Dad.

When she heard a blue Buick leave the driveway, Mother flicked her fingernail on her crystal water glass. And called our first Breakfast Meeting to order.

My appointed seat at the table was to my father's left.

Mother had told me that this was the “guest of honor” position, but later I found out she had told Cabot hers was the guest-of-honor position, and Luke his was the guest-of-honor position, and when I finally consulted
Emily Post
, I learned that the official guest-of-honor position is to the head-of-the-table's right. And that seat, next to Dad, belonged to Matt. Naturally. He was a boy.

“I look like a boy. That should count for something,” I'd complained to Cabot. But of course she was upset I'd just informed her she wasn't any guest of honor herself.

Anyway, that's how it had always been at the table, each of us having an appointed seat, each of us believing we were the guest of honor, and bound to our best decorum because of the big compliment.

But after Dad left for work that Friday of the first Breakfast Meeting, I slipped out of my chair and into his. From here, I had the best view of Mother. With her shoulder-length hair and flowing red robe, with my brothers and sisters lining the table like tiny apostles, she looked like one of those Last Supper paintings of Jesus, which sometimes make the Son of God look like a girl.

Mother flicked her fingernail on her crystal water glass. “Listen up, angels. The purpose of these meetings will be to organize our souls and learn to pray together to achieve our spiritual goals.”

In other words, no more lapsing. She was planning to run a much tighter spiritual ship. You could tell. We were Catholic and she wanted to keep it that way. Plus she was probably making it up to God for sending us to private schools.

She stood up and went to the buffet table, where, from under the soft gray felt silverware cases there, she slipped something out. I sat up, trying to see. But whatever it was, it was tucked under her sleeve until she stood back at the end of the table.

Then she held up a stack of pamphlets. “These are for you to keep, and you must take care of them. Each of you gets six. Cabbie, count six for yourself and pass the rest down.”

Cabot said, “What about Lucy?”

In the high chair next to Cabot sat Lucy, another former guest of honor.

Mother nodded. “She'll like the pictures.”

So Cabot counted six pamphlets for herself, then six more for Lucy, and passed the rest down. Lucy set them out on the tray of her high chair, then launched them one by one to the floor.

When I got mine, I saw they were prayer pamphlets. On the covers, they had pictures of saints, all with halos on their heads. Some had things like lions and eagles riding on their shoulders, or falcons in the palms of their hands. They were very unusual. I looked up at Mother. She must have bought a religion store.

She nodded at me to hurry the process along. I quickly counted six and passed the rest to Matt. He gave me a look, but I didn't look back.

Mother flicked her water glass. “I don't want you reading these now. But I'd like you to study them later, in your rooms. We're going to be deciding on something to pray for, as a unit.”

Matt said, “You mean like a family unit? Something like that?”

“Yes, like a family unit.”

“Oh. Just asking.”

“Straighten up, Matt.”

Cabot said, “No slouching,” which was completely unnecessary, since Mother had already said straighten up. Besides, it just made Matt sink farther down.

Mother flicked her water glass. “Now, you all know what a novena is, don't you?”

We looked around at each other, unsure.

Cabot said, “They do.”

“Would you like to refresh their memories, Cab?”

In a snooty, singsong voice, Cabot said, “A novena is a series of prayers recited to a single saint every day for nine straight days in a row.

Matt and I looked at each other. Jesus.

Mother said, “Each of your six pamphlets represents a novena to one special saint. I'd like you to read them all privately in your rooms, then we'll meet again next Friday and pick a saint together, and pray for something together, as a happy family.”

Matt said, “A happy family
unit
, right?” He looked around at the rest of us, “Remember, not just a happy family, you guys. A happy family
unit.”

Cabot said, “Could someone please get him to stop saying family unit like that?”

Mother flicked her water glass, which now sounded like: Children. “All right. Now, before we adjourn for school, let's start thinking of something to pray for together, as a family.” Faster than Matt could say family unit, she added, “Any ideas?”

Luke said, “You mean we're giving up on Dad?” For some time now we'd been told to pray to St. Anthony, Patron Saint of Lost Things, to ask God to help Dad and Clarine “find” the Catholic Church.

Mother said, “No, no dear. I just thought it might be nice to think of something new, something fresh, to pray for.”

We all looked around at one another. The fact is, I think we liked praying to St. Anthony that Dad and Clarine find a church. It was familiar territory. This new happy family thing sounded hard.

Mother said, “So now let's take a minute, be devout, and search our souls.”

After looking around to see how to do it, everybody took a minute and pretended they were doing it.

“Okay. Let's hear some suggestions.”

Luke raised his hand. “How about bowling balls? We don't have any of those.”

Cabot and I glanced at each other. But Mother seemed to consider it. She pursed her lips and frowned, which was her way of showing Luke it had been a real tough choice, about the bowling balls, but … no. “Honey, God can easily grant us a bowling ball. But wouldn't it be better to pray for something a little more holy than a bowling ball?”

Cabot giggled. “That's funny. More
holey
than a bowling ball.” She looked around. “Get it?”

It took a while. Then I said, “Get it everybody? Much more
holy
than a bowling ball.” I looked at Luke. “A bowling ball's not holy, Luke.”

Cabot said, “A bowling ball has
holes
, Luke.”

Luke's face suddenly lit up like Christmas.

Matt whispered, “God.”

“Girls.” Mother tapped her water glass.

I raised my hand. “How about a blue Buick?” Not too original, no, but tried and true. Plus, she'd probably go for it, and then we could go to school.

Matt snorted, “I'm not praying for any Buick.” He was fifteen now, and probably hoping we'd pray for Porsches. But he didn't say so, instead he straightened up and said, very maturely, as if he were suddenly wearing a three-piece suit and a silk tie, “I'd like everyone to do it for boxing gloves.”

Cabot said, “That sure sounds more holy than a bowling ball.”

Mother's mouth was suddenly all pressed together. “Matt, and when did you develop this desire for boxing gloves?”

“I've always had it! I've said it a million times! I think I'll go crazy if I don't get some soon!”

First I'd heard of it. But I believed him. He looked a little on the edge right now.

“Ask Dad! He
listens!”

Mother narrowed her eyes. A lot, so he'd know. “Well, Matt, I've told you. I don't want you boxing. Under no circumstances do I want you to box. Ever. Never. Period.”

Matt crossed his arms and sank down so far he almost slid right under the table.

It had been a while since the last Easter drive with Dad. We hadn't gone this past year because of spring skiing. But I still remembered certain things that I'd seen. I raised my hand. “Poor people?”

Mother looked genuinely impressed. “Praying for poor people. Well, that idea has some merit. Let's all think about that for next week. And everyone think up his own idea too. Then we'll decide together, as a family. Any questions?”

Matt raised his hand.

Cabot said, “He's going to say family unit again.”

Mother immediately flicked her water glass. “Okay, angels. Meeting adjourned.”

Clarine barged in to clear the dishes. You could tell. She thought our Breakfast Meeting was for the birds.

But I didn't. I thought they were good. Cabot complained they were a bureaucratic nightmare, not unlike the Catholic Church itself, she said, but I was more inclined to look at the bright side, because they were Breakfast Meetings and all. Maybe I wasn't so lapsed as I thought I was. Or maybe I was relapsing, from my lapse. Either way, I was pleased about my idea to pray for poor people. That way, maybe God would do something, so Dad wouldn't have to. In fact, if we kept these meetings up, maybe we wouldn't have to give houses away for a dollar and such, and then we'd never have to be poor ourselves.

That night, I did as instructed and studied my prayer pamphlets in my room. Then I laid them all out on my bed, with the picture sides up, so I could see all the interesting things saints carried around. “Hello, angel.”

I looked up. Mother had quietly arrived in my doorway to watch. “Aren't they special?”

You would have to say, they were special. I knew for a fact I was the only kid on the block with prayer pamphlets. I picked up Saint Anthony. “These are good pictures,” I said.

Tall, slim, and balding, Saint Anthony was depicted holding the Christ Child, his eyes rolled way up to heaven, as if he were either really drunk or incredibly bored. I put Saint Anthony down, and lifted Saint Francis. Of them all, Francis was easily the sweetest saint, pictured smilingly surrounded by smiling little birds, smiling little flowers, smiling little clouds, and smiling little, floating lambs. I put Saint Francis down and considered Saint Jude. He was portrayed as macho-saint, with his hair slicked back and one eyebrow raised and one finger cocked toward heaven like a pistol.

Mother said, “He's the Patron Saint of Hopeless Cases.”