Tiger Lillie (5 page)

Pleasance claims otherwise. She says I overdo everything. And the fact that I love classic rock doesn’t help matters either. “Plus, you have no groove. None whatsoever. Not even the littlest bit.”

To which I said nothing. Daddy tried to teach me how to dance, and even he, blind as you please, calmer than an early morning lake, rippled with frustration.

Oh well, what can you do, right?

I reach for my planner to see just how much time remains to find out about those blasted balloons! Oh, Lord, please, please,
please
let them be inauthentic, or just make Jaime change her mind back.

To be honest, though, I never really saw Jaime as the Victorian type to begin with.

Tacy

The day I confessed to Rawlins my true age should have been an indication of things to come. Up until that point, I’d never been sick with fear, but I deserved it. I lied, didn’t I?

Lillie

I lead Daddy down the path in the woods behind the rectory like thousands of times before. He tells me what he’s read, I tell him what I’ve read, and we both get so excited at times you’d think we were running from roller coaster to roller coaster at Cedar Point. My father does love a good ride on an impossibly complicated coaster. The higher the drop the better. I believe I inherited from him my sense of daring, which he never discarded upon growing up. At one time, we actually belonged to a roller-coaster club and have been all over the country. People ask him, “Why do you like coasters so much, with your blindness and all?”

He answers, “Well, do you keep your eyes open or close them?”

Most say, “I close them.”

“Well, I don’t.”

And he gets that mischievous glint in his eyes that has never left him either. He really doesn’t seem at all priestly, but no one that I know loves God more than my dad. It’s earthy and real and devoted and extremely unmonklike. Teddy, a Presbyterian, told me that the first question in the
Westminster Catechism
goes like this:

Q: What is man’s chief end?

A: Man’s chief end is to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.

That’s Daddy to a
T.
He enjoys God and knowing Him. I mean, a lot of people know
about
God, but Daddy knows Him well. I hope that describes me someday.

So we stroll along in the womb of autumn leaves, and I describe the colors, thanking God that Dad remembers red, that he’s seen the might of orange, the strength of yellow, and the promise of green.

“Is the sky that fantastic blue, Lil?”

“Oh yes, that kind you just want to roll around in. There’s a very low humidity today.”

“Oh yeah. Good breathing. Real good breathing.”

“Five p.m. and no puffs on the inhaler.”

“Great.”

“Big root. Twelve o’clock.”

“I thought so.” He steps over it easily, as he’s done for years now. “Before you tell me about the Hildegarde book, Lillie, let’s talk about Tacy. I haven’t heard from her in three weeks. You think she’s all right?”

We obey an unwritten code. We don’t talk much about my sister Tacy’s husband Rawlins outright—he’s such a thorn—but we always know such questions about Tacy have a deeper meaning.

“I do. And in any case, she’s coming to Liberation Day at my house this week.”

“Good. Maybe we can steal some time away with her.”

To try and deprogram her?

“So tell me about your latest author, Dad.”

He chuckles. “I’ve discovered an author that’s not my normal fare, but, well, if you want to know the other side of life…this is it.”

“And who is it?”

“Andrew Vachss.”

“I’ve read him. I love that Burke character!”

“Who wouldn’t?”

“And his dog. How cool is that?”

“It’s the old saying, Lillie: Dogs and children are the key to a good story.”

“I like the way he slobbers all over everything.”

Dad laughs.

And we begin to discuss the redemptive themes of Vachss’s gritty novels, how abused children are saved by an unsavory character and his giant mastiff, how warrior women are always around to lend a hand.

“Do you think there’s some sort of Messiah theme, Daddy? Burke as a form of Savior?”

“Well, he’s an antihero, Lillie, somewhat of a criminal. So the analogy can’t be carried all the way through, I’d say.”

Mom always said the most alluring part of Daddy is his mind.

“Can’t it? Christ was seen as a criminal by many.”

“Hmm. Good point.”

Oh man, I love my dad. I love holding his hand. I love knowing that before he found God or Mom he was a ladies’ man, that before he went blind he saw more of the world than most people see their entire lives. It’s what makes him a good priest now. He’s been extended more than one man’s share of grace, and so he’s got a lot to give away.

I know we’re Episcopalian, but I’d have to say that my dad is just plain charismatic. My mom is still nutso about him. The fact that he can’t see anything himself sure doesn’t make him any less charming in her eyes. But Daddy sees. Oh yes, Daddy sees everything.

As we enter the house after our walk, Mom tucks her arm around his waist and leads him to the dining room for dessert. He slants his arm down across her back to curl around her spare waist. I watch her, small and European next to his baseball American height, his light hair contrasting with her inky tresses. “I made apple crisp, Carl.”

Which, since it’s his favorite dessert, means: You sexy man, take me tonight.

He leans his head down sideways, touching the top of hers and I see his thumb caress the side of her breast. This is beauty. This is so Godgiven I want to cry.

“I’m going to the powder room. I’ll be right there,” I say.

But I watch from the shadows and I see him kiss her mouth and they kiss deeply, like lovers, and at once I am comforted and jealous.

It should be me, I think. Me and Teddy.

3

Lillie

Liberation Day.

It isn’t a U.S. national holiday, although the Falkland Islands celebrate Liberation Day on June 14, the holiday birthed in 1982. The Falklands’ flag sports a coat of arms depicting a white ram hovering over a sailing ship named
Desire.
Chalk this knowledge up to one too many late nights on the Internet. The crew of the
Desire
discovered the island.
Desire the Right
is the motto. I like that. Especially in this day and age when people feel they automatically have the right to just about anything. I used to think that way, until I lost Teddy. Maybe someone has a right to something, but that doesn’t mean it’s gonna happen.

But Liberation Day, Bajnok family style, falls on the anniversary of the late Grandma Erzsèbet’s birthday. Every fifteenth of September the entire family congregates at my row house to celebrate. We also remember the day in 1956 my mother, neomatriarch of the clan, escaped communism in her native Hungary with nothing but a knapsack, her best friend, and one bicycle.

My younger sister, Tacy, born Anastasia Maria, and her husband, Rawlins McGovern III (God save the king) arrive around ten a.m., bearing a barrel of homemade red-onion sauerkraut. I suspect it isn’t really Hungarian because I saw it in an issue of
Gourmet
at Tacy’s house at least four years ago. But everyone loves it and now it’s part of the tradition.

“Hi, guys!” I let them in through the front door, careful to stand to the side. According to the sizable mound of her stomach and her obstetrician’s calculations, Tacy will deliver their first child any day. Maybe the sauerkraut will help get things going.

I kiss the beautiful curve of her cheek, her long, soft blond hair brushing against my forehead. Tacy inherited all the looks and talent, while I received all the athletic ability and business sense. Genetics just aren’t fair. We both possess Daddy’s love for books and God though. She’s an artist. Her framed artwork hangs on all the walls of my house. She hasn’t done much since she married Rawlins though. And he ushered her right up the aisle the day after she graduated from high school. My parents wanted them to wait, but Rawlins, being Rawlins, gets whatever the heck he wants, pardon my French. He always claims that what he wants is God’s will too, which really bugs me. I mean, does he have a direct line we mere mortals don’t? Does God walk with him in the cool of the day? Do the stars align themselves into words that tell him what God is thinking?

Obviously, Rawlins isn’t Episcopalian the way he throws around the name of God with nary so much as a thought. It’s like God’s there to suit him and not the other way around. Tacy isn’t Episcopalian anymore either. It’s another subject we Bauers don’t discuss.

I’m very proud of my baby sister though. At twenty-five she blooms with a womanhood I guess I’ll never know myself. A very small part of me relishes in her water-logged ankles.

“You look ready to explode!”

“I know. But Rawlins says the Lord will see fit to let me go on time and not late like Mom did with me.”

“Well, you’re the sweetest pregnant lady I’ve ever seen.”

“I waited long enough.” She tucks wisps of blond hair behind her ear and looks back through the door. “Rawlins, honey, you got that barrel okay?”

“Of course I do, Anastasia. Stop worrying. You know how it affects the child.”

Oh please.

Seven years ago, when Tacy married Rawlins, she would have rolled her eyes at that.

Rawlins McGovern is easily one of the best-looking men I’ve ever seen. He keeps fit after he arrives home from his father’s advertising agency by caring for the horses on their small horse farm in Phoenix, Maryland. So he possesses those natural muscles developed by raking hay and baling it and slinging those bales around, by golly. He mostly works without machines because Rawlins is Rawlins.

I watch as he hoists the barrel on one shoulder and scoops the strap of Tacy’s “big bag” onto his other shoulder. Until I met Pleasance, I thought Tacy carried the biggest purse in the world.

“You sure you got that okay, Rolly?” I ask.

He hates being called that. I try to say it as much as possible.

He bestows a closed-mouthed smile and nods his thanks as I hold the door. “You want this in the kitchen, Lillian?”

I nod, returning the tight smile, remembering my sister in the tenth grade, before she met Rawlins McGovern. Tacy made honor roll every year, headed up the school newspaper, won writing contests year after year, even that
Teen Talk
magazine one. She entered the Towson Art Festival and won second place against a lot of teachers and college students from Towson State and Maryland Institute. Her shirts flowed and fluttered above either army boots or gladiator sandals. She wanted to be an artist and a writer and a movie star and a chef. Tacy wanted it all.

But I can’t blame everything on Rawlins and his hypnotic charm. Tacy chose. And with the McGoverns’ wealth, at least her cage glimmers golden.

My heart breaks every time she comes to mind, and sometimes I wonder if my criticism of the entire matter stems from the fact that my plans for a young marriage and a fresh life disappeared with Teddy. Tacy even said as much once.

I trek back to the kitchen, following Mr. Control Freak. I’m telling you, Teddy or no Teddy, this guy stands up as a creep all on his own. “So, have you done the tour of the hospital yet?” I ask Tacy.

“Oh no! Didn’t I tell you? We’ve switched to a midwife now. She goes to our church. Rawlins researched the home-birth route and we’re going to go that way.”

Rawlins sets the barrel on the glittery pink countertop and washes his hands at the stainless steel sink that’s been here since before Grandma Erzsèbet bought the house in ’62. “We installed a big whirlpool bath in the master suite. We’re planning on a water birth,” he says.

What do you say to that?

“Is it safe?”

“Perfectly!” Tacy jumps in. “Right, baby?” She hands Rawlins a paper towel she pulled from her purse.

Rawlins dries his hands, comes up behind my sister and circles his arms around her waist. “Now you know I wouldn’t dream of it if it wasn’t.”

Nauseating.

I retrieve a box of tea for Tacy. “But isn’t the whole theory behind that evolutionary in nature? We came out of the water billions of years ago and all that?”

Of course it isn’t, but why not have a little fun?

“I’ve never heard that,” he says with a decided shake of his head. “No, Lillian, it’s because it makes the transition from watery womb to this world a little less traumatic.”

“Must be a big tub then.”

Tacy rolls her eyes. Good girl. “It’s huge. Almost like a small pool. I don’t know how Philly’s going to clean it!” Then she blows a weak, guilty laugh that apologizes for being rich and thin—not counting the pregnant belly—and having a full-time housekeeper, while tubby me lives here in dead Grandma Erzsèbet’s little row house, working eighty hours a week, trying to get a business going, trying to ease my loneliness and the hanging-on grief and mystery of Teddy with a string of unsatisfactory dates, wishing somehow the blessings I have would be enough.

I’d sure settle for some closure, as they call it these days.

Not that I’d trade places with Tacy for a nanosecond.

I mean, I long to find Teddy himself, or even another Teddy, get married, and have babies so badly sometimes I imagine kicking inside my abdomen. But married and pregnant matter little if Rawlins “
Sleeping with the Enemy
” McGovern is part of the deal.

Honesty, Rawlins scares me. Ever since Tacy became pregnant, he’s made her keep a journal of every bite she puts into her mouth, and for several years he’s kept track of the mileage on her Range Rover and okayed her visits from the family. “He’s just protective, Lillie,” Tacy has always insisted.

“So are parole officers,” I remember saying. Boy, she sure took offense at that! She clammed up about her marriage after that as well. Not that she offered up juicy morsels to begin with. I guess it really is none of my business, but she’s my sister, and aren’t we supposed to share those things we wouldn’t ever tell another soul?

But she is here with me now and I’m thankful.

Rawlins tells me “a situation” came up in the church and he needs to go help Pastor Cole for a couple of hours, which surprises me. He never lets Tacy out of his sight when we’re around, but I guess he figures if he’s doing God’s work, He’ll protect her from the slimy likes of us.

So we putter around the kitchen, Tacy spurning my Lipton and drinking raspberry tea because it’s supposed to lessen the severity of the birth pangs. Pangs. She said pangs. We have until four o’clock together when the horde will descend.

“Cool earrings, Lillie.”

I touch them to remind myself of what I chose this morning. Oh yes, miniature masks, the New Orleans kind. “Thanks.” Pleasance calls them my Pia Zadora jewelry.

Together we prepare
csirke paprikas
for forty. Tacy chops up the onions, carrots, and potatoes because, “Rawlins won’t let me touch raw meat since I’ve been expecting.” So I skin and cut up the chickens, all eight of them. Where is good old Peach Hagerty when I need him? He’d do this in a quarter of the time. But I can’t afford the “pick of the chix” these days.

As the onions caramelize and the chicken pieces brown, we enjoy the aroma and chat about car seats and the kind Rawlins chose. The smell of paprika causes me to rejoice. Being a Strong Hungarian Woman does have its advantages. And to be honest, since I so identify with my father, it’s good to have times like this when my love for Mom refreshes itself. Tacy and Mom have always been close.

While the stew bubbles at a low simmer, I begin the stuffed cabbage rolls, again browning the ground pork and beef because King Rawlins declared it should be thus and so, even from henceforth and forevermore, amen.

Then Tacy and I talk about cribs. Then we talk about strollers. Then we talk about baby pouches and should the baby face out from the mother or cuddle into her warmth?

“What does Rawlins say?” I mix the filling and begin to stuff it into the cabbage leaves as Tacy cuts them from the head after it boils in salted water.

“He’s not sure.”

“What? Well, hold on a minute while I write this into my planner for posterity! It’s something I’ll want to remember for years to come—the day Rawlins McGovern wasn’t sure of something!”

Tacy drops her chin and peers up at me between her lashes, perfectly mascaraed, of course. “Come on, Lil, he’s not that bad. You don’t know him the way I do.”

“Thank God, Tace!”

“Oh please. How can I complain? He’s never even so much as raised his voice to me, Lillie. He’s a wonderful provider, and he’s so loving and caring.”

“He controls every move you make.”

She crosses her arms and lays them on her belly, the knife resting on her breast. “You can call it control if you like. I just call it concern.”

“What would happen if you told him you’ll eat what you please, go where you please, and wear what you please?”

She continues slicing. “It just so happens I think he’s right about the food, and I can go wherever I like as long as I tell him. I mean, I don’t want him to worry when I’m gone, do I?”

“Whatever, Tace. As long as you’re happy.”

Her innocent face brightens. “Oh, I am, Lil, really. And with this baby coming—”

“If it doesn’t drown on the way out.”

She laughs, sets down the knife and pulls me as close as she can, considering her belly. “Everything will be fine.” Her fine gold jewelry presses into the flesh of my cheek and I pull back sooner than I want.

Teddy fought for me to be on the boys’ soccer team. We were twelve. I’d begun to mature, and he was still taller than the other boys and still more handsome.

“Look, Coach,” he said that day at the rec field in Churchville. “She can outplay all of us. The girls’ team is hardly challenging. And we can use a wing like her.”

I may be chubby, but I can run.

For some reason, everybody found it hard to say no to Teddy, and so I found myself having the best autumn ever, traveling to games, sharing Slurpees with him and Mrs. Gillie afterward. Everyone at school and in the neighborhood teased us and called us girlfriend and boyfriend, but we didn’t pay them any mind. Until one day as we walked home from the practice field together, Teddy, carrying both of our shoes, said, “Are we too young to be boyfriend/girlfriend?”

“No.”

I’d loved him for years. There could be no other answer.

“We’re only twelve, Lillie.”

“That’s okay.”

And that day, Teddy took my hand and I smiled the entire way home.

Tacy

When I was almost sixteen and anticipating my relationship with Rawlins finally being legal after two years of sneaking around, I could almost taste the relief in my mouth. Sweet sixteen. That was me back then and Rawlins said so too. He would kiss me deeply and mutter, “Ah, you’re so sweet.” I used to love it when he’d explore my mouth like that, like I was something precious to him. Many times I begged him to do more.