Beginner's Luck

by Laura Pedersen

  Eventually I turn on my light and pick up boring old Jude the Obscure, which Ms. Olivia is making me read for school. If this doesn't put me to sleep, then nothing short of a lethal injection will. Only I can't concentrate on the words long enough for them to work their anesthetizing magic. I pick up The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn and reread my favorite line, "Then Miss Watson took me in the closet and prayed, but nothing come of it." I put this book down as well. I'm restless, like in the old days, and need to be outside. Over my T-shirt I pull on paint overalls and tiptoe down the stairs. Then out the front door in order to go and work on my garage mural. It's better to view it at night anyway, without the sun causing a glare.

  The air is frosty but refreshing and I take a deep breath. There's a faint hint of smoke, only it's not the kind you get from a chimney or a campfire. Before turning on the garage light I see the dark outline of a figure standing in the garden, right in the middle of the Druid Circle, just like a statue. In fact, I'd think it is a statue if I didn't know that there isn't one in that spot. But perhaps Mr. Bernard recently brought some plaster of paris figures home from an estate sale and ran out of room in the garage. This is entirely possible.

  The moon is low and casts an otherworldly glow across the yard and the gardens look like patches of worn gray corduroy. And it's a good thing I don't believe in ghosts, because the statue slowly moves its right arm and takes a drag off a cigarette, the orange tip pulsing in the darkness like a firefly. Aha! So this is when Ms. Olivia smokes.

  I contemplate joining her, not for a smoke, but just for company. However I don't want to frighten her. She appears lost in thought, with her back to the house and eyes searching the black branches of the trees and beyond.

  The rasp of gravel churning under hesitant tires draws my attention and I quickly move to the side of the garage. Perhaps it's just a car turning around in the driveway. Or maybe Ms. Olivia is meeting someone. I hide behind the bushes as headlights illuminate the driveway but are switched off as soon as they cast a reflection in the front windows.

  A petite woman slowly climbs from the car, gently closes the door, and is met by Ms. Olivia. Together they walk toward the summerhouse. There's no way I can observe what's happening from my current post, blocked by the garage, and so I decide to go back inside the house and peek out the kitchen window that overlooks the yard.

  As I enter the front door I can hear noises coming from the kitchen. Perhaps Mr. Bernard is doing more of his middle-of-the-night therapeutic baking. In this house a person can easily wake up to three key lime pies, pear strudel, and a batch of macadamia nut cookies.

  Pushing on the swinging door to the kitchen, I see the pantry door is ajar and the interior light is on. I expect to find Mr. Bernard searching for flour, but instead I start to scream. A man in a ghostlike nightdress with blood dripping from his hands and face turns toward me and with his right hand raises what appears to be an ax.

  "Mr. Bernard!" I yell and slam the pantry door shut. I run toward the stairs in order to awaken someone or call the police or find an exorcist or I'm not sure what. Because if I didn't believe in ghosts fifteen minutes ago, I sure as heck do now!

  Just as I turn to dash toward the hallway, Mr. Bernard and Mr. Gil come flying into the kitchen. Mr. Bernard is in his boxer shorts, and Mr. Gil is also in his underwear with a maroon robe attached to one arm that's flying behind him like Superman's cape.

  A second later Ms. Olivia darts around the corner, pulling Jemma the twenty-something clerk from Herb's drugstore along behind her like an animal trapped in a snare, eyes wide and cheeks as red as taillights. Even in my panic I manage to note that Jemma is the only person who actually appears more fearful than I, which is quite a feat, under the circumstances. Mr. Bernard and Ms. Olivia both utter "pie filling" simultaneously and reopen the pantry door.

  Inside the small room the Judge is tranquilly eating strawberry pie filling out of a Mason jar, using a large black-handled bread knife as a spoon, blissfully unaware of all the commotion. His white beard and nightshirt are splattered with red goo and fleshy chunks of berry. He looks like Father Time caught in the crossfire.

  Rocky now bounds in from where he sleeps on the couch in the sun-room, wearing his green flannel nightshirt with King Kong on the front, and a terrified Jemma lets out a shriek.

  "Nothing to worry about," Mr. Bernard says, though he sounds as if he's actually becoming more agitated upon learning that a bloodthirsty, ax-wielding maniac is not on the loose. That's when I notice Jemma clutching the small plastic pack containing the pill as if it's her last dollar bill.

  "Oh my God," I say without thinking, "are you a drug addict?" I know Jemma, because she normally checks me out at the drugstore while Herb runs the pharmacy and does back office work. However, my insane remark only terrorizes her further, and she drops the pill on the floor and appears ready to flee.

  "I'm sorry," says Jemma and doesn't close her mouth even after the "y" has been out for almost a full five seconds.

  "No one here is a drug addict," Ms. Olivia says sharply and stiffens with dignity. She wraps her arm around the alarmed and now falsely accused Jemma. "I'm so sorry, dear," she says comfortingly. To me she says, "Hallie, why don't you fetch some washcloths from the bathroom to help clean up the Judge?" She points to the sunroom. "And Rocky, back to bed!"

  Meantime Mr. Gil reaches down and retrieves Jemma's pill and hands it back to her, while Mr. Bernard gently leads his bewildered father over to the sink. Mr. Bernard is awfully quiet. He surely realizes that each one of these incidents, and there have been more and more lately, mean that the Judge is another day closer to being put in a home.

  Ms. Olivia shuttles Jemma into the living room while Mr. Gil and Mr. Bernard get the Judge sorted out and I prepare to clean up the pantry.

  "I'm—I'm sorry," I say. "I just thought..."

  "Don't worry about it," says Mr. Gil. "I'm sorry the Judge gave you a fright."

  "I'm going to allow Mother to explain this one if you don't mind." Mr. Bernard rinses his father's hands and wrists under the kitchen sink the way one washes finger paint off a kindergartner. "I'm just too exhausted."

  A few moments after I crawl back into bed, Ms. Olivia taps lightly on my bedroom door. "Hallie, are you still awake?" she whispers and opens the door slightly.

  "Unfortunately," I say and pull the covers up over my head as she enters. There could be no doubt left in anyone's mind that my life had all the makings of a country-and-western song.

  Ms. Olivia sits on the edge of my bed the way my mother used to in order to read Louise and me a story when we were little.

  "Oh dear," begins Ms. Olivia. "I apologize for giving you the wrong impression."

  Everyone has apologized to everyone else by this point, and I'm still not sure what we're all sorry about.

  "I saw the box in the summerhouse and someone go to the door one night, and I just assumed you were a ..." I start. But now I can't manage to get out the words drug dealer.

  "Hallie, do you know what a morning-after pill is?"

  "A birth control pill?"

  "Not exactly. It prevents implantation of a fertilized ovum and is therefore effective as a contraceptive after sexual intercourse. You do know what a contraceptive is?"

  "Sure," I say. Though coming from a family of seven kids, soon to be eight, I can certainly appreciate why she might ask the question. "But can't you buy that kind of stuff at the drugstore?" At least that's where my brother Eric gets his condoms.

  "It's all very political," Ms. Olivia says, as if the entire system exasperates her. "The pills are legal, but there's pressure not to sell them. And so they can be difficult to obtain in a timely manner, if you know what I mean, especially for a young woman."

  "So you sell them," I surmise.

  "No, no. That would be illegal, since I'm not a pharmacist. I give them away. Just think of it like sex—it's perfectly legal to give it away, one just can't sell it."

  Did she just say what I think
she said? It's not as if I have anything against contraceptives, or even prostitution, for that matter. But why did it all have to be so complicated and tied up in legal mumbo jumbo? Ms. Olivia rises and smoothes my bedcovers and kisses me good night.

  Of course, I think, Ms. Olivia doesn't deal drugs, she only gives them away. Now why hadn't I figured that out? What next? Perhaps they'll all be sitting around the table in the morning speaking Hindustani and explaining that it's perfectly fine to give away an antinuclear defense system, just so long as you don't sell one.

  Well, once again I'd forgotten a page out of the Gambler's Bible and lived to regret it: Believe nothing of what you hear and only a quarter of what you see. And when you assume you make an ass out of u and me.

  Chapter 35

  Life's a Trade-Off♦

  Ms. Olivia may be the Robin Hood of birth control, but she's also the only teacher I've ever had who makes learning fun. Lessons with her are like sailing along the cloudy coastline of a dream. Ms. Olivia can even make science interesting. "Did you learn about Carl Sagan in school?" she asks me.

  "Sure—billions and billions, the astronomy guy."

  "Well, he was a marijuana fiend and did much of his best work under the influence. Now don't get me wrong, I'm not suggesting you get yourself an absinthe habit in order to paint like Toulouse-Lautrec or Van Gogh. However, it's my view that young people are quite capable of absorbing this sort of information and coming to their own conclusions about substance abuse. In fact, Van Gogh is probably a better example of why not to do drugs than all the celebrity public service announcements combined."

  "Did it affect his work?"

  "No one really knows for sure if there would have been one star more or less in Starry Night. However, he became depressive and killed himself at thirty-six. A terrible shame."

  Even though I now know Ms. Olivia isn't dealing drugs, I still can't tell if she's for or against them. What I really want to ask is if she's done any of the drugs she just mentioned and if they'd made her more creative. Only I'm afraid it would come out wrong, like I was just being nosy. And I suppose I would be.

  "Was Maude really modeled after you? She seems a lot like you. I just wondered..."

  "Well, I hardly think so." Ms. Olivia begins closing and stacking the books we've been using. "I only met the writer on a few occasions in New York City. Besides, Maude was a Holocaust survivor, whereas I am merely a Watergate casualty."

  "But you remind me of Maude. Or Maude reminds me of you."

  "Thank you. I'll take that as a compliment. But there are plenty of Maudes out there, Hallie." Ms. Olivia pauses a moment. "Just maybe not right here in Cosgrove County."

  "Ms. Olivia ... I—I've decided ... that I want to become a bohemian."

  Ms. Olivia laughs airily. She's not exactly laughing at me, because she's too kind for that. But sort of.

  Her light voice tinkles like glass chimes. "Oh, Hallie, one doesn't decide to become a bohemian. It's not like joining the Rotary club or signing up for a political party."

  "Oh." I imagine I look disappointed, because Ms. Olivia places her hand on top of mine as if to reassure me that the door isn't completely closed to me. Then she laughs once more. Ms. Olivia has an enchanting musical laugh, one that would make the bells in heaven sound like a tugboat's horn.

  "Hallie dear, you are a bohemian."

  "I am?" For some reason I'd assumed that you had to be at least twenty-one.

  "Of course. A bohemian is simply someone who disregards convention."

  "Is Mr. Bernard a bohemian?"

  "That's a difficult one." She furrows her brow slightly and brushes a wisp of yellowy-white hair behind her ear. "Most children rebel against their parents, so the best bohemians usually come from straitlaced Protestant stock. However, if your parents are already bohemians, then I. suppose you must rebel by joining the Young Republicans or the Moral Majority."

  "Sort of like a Catch-22?" I ask.

  "Exactly right," Ms. Olivia replies, obviously pleased that I've been following her logic. "It's been difficult for Bertie. I'm sure I don't have to tell you that not many people would choose to live an alternative lifestyle in Cosgrove."

  "Do you mean that for Mr. Bernard to be different he has to try and fit in?"

  "Whereas you and I have to work hard to make sure that we don't fall into lockstep with conformity," she says. "It's one thing to feel that people are small-minded, but it's quite another to know that their eyes are boring holes into the back of your tweed sport jacket when you're standing in line at the bank."

  "Was the Judge a bohemian?" I ask. However, it's difficult to imagine a Cosgrove County judge as a bohemian. It would be like discovering that the tub-shaped Officer Rich is a nudist. Or that my mother works nights as a lap dancer.

  A shadow briefly crosses Ms. Olivia's face and I'm sorry I brought up the subject of the Judge, especially since he's been getting on so poorly lately. Yet I can't envision Ms. Olivia allowing him to be put into a nursing home. She'll handcuff herself to his wrist and they'll have to drag her along, too. And we'll all be on the news again.

  "Oh, I wish you could have known the Judge when he was in his prime." Her face brightens as she reminisces. "He was a truly remarkable man. I prefer to think of the Judge as more of... an armchair revolutionary. Some children are raised to lead a particular type of existence, and it's really impossible to alter that course ... for instance kings and queens, and oftentimes the sons of presidents and senators. Businessmen who own companies look forward to their sons succeeding them, and ministers, doctors, and military men often expect their offspring to follow in their vocational footsteps. And that's what was expected of the Judge."

  "My dad doesn't want any of us to do his job. He hates it."

  "Parents who aren't satisfied with their jobs or education can become even more hopeful and determined that their children will fulfill all of the dreams they couldn't."

  "He's convinced my brother Eric is going to be a nuclear physicist just because he won the contest for best science project back in the ninth grade."

  "That's rather how it was for the Judge. Only multiply those expectations by a hundred. Abelard Kendall Stockton the Third, a.k.a. the Judge, was raised right here in Cosgrove County. His great-grandfather was mayor and then started a law firm and the sons were expected to carry on the political and legal tradition."

  "Oh! Kendall Airport!"

  "One and the same."

  Ms. Olivia goes to the bookcase and brings back a photo of the Judge as a young man in a letter sweater holding a pigskin and standing between two serious-looking older men in dark suits who also resemble Colonel Sanders.

  "Didn't he want to become a lawyer?"

  "Yes, he very much enjoyed the law. But there's something slightly stifling about being put in Kenyon College training pants and a Yale Law School sweatshirt when you're eighteen months old, and going with Daddy to the office and being shown where your desk will eventually be. Though I must admit that the Judge, before he was a judge that is, took some civil rights cases that did not make anyone in the firm especially happy."

  "Do you think he would have been a bohemian if the family hadn't had so many plans for him?"

  "Let's just say he always followed his heart and mind when making an opinion, and that he appreciated other open-minded individuals."

  "So he was sort of a closet bohemian?"

  She gaily tosses her head back and chuckles. "That's a good way of wording it. Or as Tennessee Williams once said, 'Bohemia has no banner. It survives by discretion.' You see, we need people like the Judge who can work from the inside. He was instrumental in ensuring that the students in this area had an open forum during the Vietnam War, even though he didn't necessarily agree with what they had to say, especially coming from a long line of distinguished veterans."

  She glances at me, with my shoulders hunched over the table, digesting all this and intently making notations. "He would have enjoyed you, Hallie."


  "I wish my parents would enjoy me," I say sadly.

  "Mr. Emerson said that it's better to be a thorn in the side of your friend than his echo. And that can be true for parents, too, don't you think?"

  I nod yes, though I'm not so certain whether I agree or not. Mostly because I hardly have any friends these days.

  "And Hallie, we mustn't forget that not everyone is designed to run the gauntlet. The poet John Milton said that those who only stand and wait also serve."

  Though from the way she says this I can't tell if she means I'm designed to run the gauntlet or to stand and serve. Being a lawn person seems to fall firmly in the latter category, unless you include the tractor pull at the state fair, which might marginally qualify as an agricultural gauntlet.

  We then turn to English literature. I'd just finished Henry VIII, though Ms. Olivia says it's doubtful that Shakespeare actually wrote that one, or at least all of it. She reads a speech from the play that she claims is written in the style of John Fletcher, another English dramatist, and one who was known to collaborate, and then proceeds to read a similar bit from Fletcher's The Faithful Shepherdess.

  However Ms. Olivia says not to mention this fact on my exams because public schools don't go in for speculation and gray areas, such as Thomas Jefferson fathering children with his slaves. And quite frankly, I don't really give a damn who wrote Henry VIII. I just enjoy all the gory death scenes.

  "Why don't they want to teach the truth?" I ask.

  "Truth and beauty don't necessarily go hand in hand. For instance, Shakespeare's loveliest sonnet, 'Shall I Compare Thee to a Summer's Day?,' was probably written to a man."

  Ms. Olivia goes to the bookcase and removes a slim volume titled A Treasury of the World's Best-Loved Poems and reads the sonnet aloud and then points out the parts that historians believe were later transposed to disguise this fact.

  "But why was it changed?" I ask.

  "Because in this supposedly free country we've elected senators who believe that same-sex desire is on a par with alcoholism and kleptomania."