And I realize that this is the happiest New Year's Eve of my life. It's a night out of time and a time out of place.
Chapter 46
Observing the Play ♦
Between painting the bookcases, studying, and working on the collage when it's not snowing out, the final two weeks in January fly by. Mr. Bernard stays late in his shop to do inventory and prepare for a sale, while Mr. Gil frantically makes the schedule and budget for all of his upcoming training programs. The dining room table and chairs are covered in receipts, folders, and big calendar pages that he's brought home from the office.
Most mornings Ms. Olivia busies herself with the poem she's writing in memory of the Judge, and in our afternoon tutorials she's dragged me up through the 1800s in history, art, and English literature. Unfortunately writers back then were paid by the word, which makes for some pretty gluey reading. But as if to compensate for that, wars were breaking out all across Europe and the Americas, so there are plenty of bloody revolutions, traitors, duels, and beheadings to enjoy.
The Judge's absence is still deeply felt, especially since the daily rhythms of life until so recently revolved around him, like planets circling the sun. And yet somehow the household manages to reconfigure itself, and the business of living carries on. After a few weeks the twenty or so pill bottles disappear from the countertop. One evening the TV tray in the Florida Room is returned to the closet. And early one Saturday morning the hospital supply equipment people arrive to collect the bed rails and bathroom shower seat and other items that had become part of the furnishings.
At the beginning of February, The Glass Menagerie opens at the Playhouse. The show receives a good review in the local paper, but Mr. Gil doesn't take much pride in it because his largest benefactor, the one whose son stars in the play, is also a golf buddy of the editor. However, the theater is filled every night and this pleases Mr. Gil, since he says that a director's validation must come from his public and not the critics.
After finishing the sets I'm drafted into being the assistant stage manager and assigned my very own walkie-talkie. During intermission it's my job to set the table, switch on the chandelier, put out the flower centerpiece, turn on the streetlamp, and drop down the neon sign for the girlie parlor that's supposedly across the street. Mr. Gil talks Craig into working as an usher, passing out programs beforehand and then selling popcorn and soda between acts.
Following the last performance there's a cast party back at the Stocktons' and all the actors and crew and even the members of the five-piece orchestra get terrifically drunk. Mr. Bernard takes three big antique coffee urns he bought at an ecclesiastical going-out-of-business sale and converts them into fondue pots. We set out big trays of crudités, a fruit basket in a watermelon shell, and bread cubes for the guests to dip into chocolate, cheese, or raspberry sauce.
At around one in the morning Terry, the lighting guy, sits down at the piano and starts playing songs like "Yankee Doodle Dandy" and "Meet Me in St. Louis" and everyone gathers around the old Chickering upright and merrily sings along in liquor-enhanced voices. Eventually a few people begin chanting "Judy! Judy! Judy!" And Danielle, who had the part of Laura in the play, goes to the piano and sings "Over the Rainbow." Mr. Gil switches off all the lights except for a halogen reading lamp, which he turns upward, covers with pink cellophane, and converts into a jerry-rigged spotlight.
At the opposite end of the room Rocky and I work as bartenders. Ms. Olivia decided that the best way to keep Rocky from getting into the booze was to put him in charge of it. Nowadays he enjoys mixing cocktails more than drinking them. And the guests are really amazed to watch him work. Granted, they can't order exactly what they'd like, but if they point to a particular bottle Rocky will make them something good.
While I'm serving drinks, Joey, the set designer, comes over and tells me that I should consider becoming a graphic artist. Only I don't know what one does. What I do know is that I especially enjoy it when Craig comes running over as soon as he spots me talking to Joey. As if I would be interested in Joey; he's like thirty years old and always trying to get me out to his place to see these deluxe chicken coops that he builds. Furthermore, even though his last name is Chimera he tells everyone to call him Joey Chickens.
Mr. Bernard eventually relieves me at the bar, and this gives Craig and me the opportunity to sneak off to my room to fool around. With the lively music and the laughter rising from downstairs, there's a feeling of romance in the air almost as pungent as the perfume from the six dozen fresh gardenias that Mr. Bernard specially ordered for the party.
At least it's romantic until Craig wants to go all the way and I tell him I'm not ready and he gets all mopey-assed. Oh well. It was a nice evening up until then.
Chapter 47
Good Fortune ♣
Over breakfast the following morning I casually mention that Joey Chickens said I should become a graphic artist.
"I think that's an interesting suggestion," replies Mr. Gil. "Computers are where all the action is these days." He shoots a glance at Mr. Bernard as he emphasizes the word computers.
"What exactly do graphic artists do?" I ask.
"They create visual presentations," explains Mr. Gil. "Everything from detergent boxes and album covers to gravestone markers, coupons, and dog food cans. All companies employ them. And the people who work in the profession can earn darn good money."
"You'd make an excellent graphic designer," says Mr. Bernard. "One needs an eye for object arrangement and a flair for color. Though Gil is right." He glances over at Mr. Gil as if to confirm that it just about kills him to admit it. "Imaging is mostly done electronically now. One would have to attend college to become a graphic designer in this day and age."
So much for on-the-job training.
"Bertie," says Mr. Gil, "I believe you always had to go to college to become a graphic designer. The days of the artisan apprenticeship went out with Johnny Tremain." Then he tells me to call the Cleveland Institute of Art for information. "It's one of the best schools in the country. And practically right here in our own backyard."
"I'm sure they have a Web site," says Ms. Olivia. "Pull it up on the computer."
"Maybe," I reply. I haven't really considered going to college. It'll be a big step just to graduate from high school in the spring and get this mob of people off my back.
That evening we celebrate Ms. Olivia's birthday, which falls on the fifteenth of March. Over dinner she takes pride in pointing out to us that her birth month is the only one that also serves as a verb, as in to march into battle, from the Old French marchier. And Mr. Bernard is quick to add that in Latin it is the month of Mars, the God of War.
Mr. Gil and Mr. Bernard split the cost of a membership for her in the Hemlock Society as a present. At first I think it's a gardening club, until I see the pamphlet about making an up-to-date will. It turns out that the organization provides all the latest information on death and dying-—committing suicide, in particular. Mr. Bernard says it's the first gift membership they ever sold and that an administrator had to create a new form because people generally sign themselves up.
Ms. Olivia explains that normally she doesn't care to receive presents, just like at Christmas. However, she seems thrilled with her death kit.
By now I've finished painting everything inside the house that can possibly be coated with premium interior latex paint, including the basement, kitchen cabinets, bookshelves, baseboard, and radiator covers. So when old man winter finally blinks at the end of the month, it's a relief to spend time outside scraping the shutters and also finishing my garage door mural. And Mr. Bernard announces that it's time to convert the summerhouse into a temporary greenhouse and start the annuals along with some tomato plants, green peppers, squash, and romaine lettuce.
As the days grow longer Ms. Olivia's school sessions also seem to be casting a lengthier shadow. However I don't mind since she keeps the lessons lively. And we're finally reading some fun authors, such as Jane Auste
n and Katherine Mansfield. Though I'm certain that I've disappointed her with my stabs at poetry.
Ms. Olivia seems to agree that I'm not destined to become a sonneteer, especially after I rhyme "turkey gobbler" with "blackberry cobbler." But she is nonetheless optimistic and insists that everyone has within himself an epic poem, only some people are destined to live theirs as opposed to just write it out on paper. And that this can present an even greater challenge.
Craig often stops by after lacrosse practice and we hang out in the living room and watch a movie or listen to music while playing the board game Clue. Mr. Bernard is fond of coming in and with great acclaim pronouncing: "I know! It's the Duchess of Uranus in the vomitorium." Then he'll raise the back of his hand to his forehead, pretend to concentrate incredibly hard, and announce, "With the macramé plant hanger!"
Sometimes we just laugh. Other times we tell him he got part of it right, that it was the Duchess of Uranus with a wire coat hanger and the murder took place in the sanitarium. And then he'll say, "Curses, foiled again!" just like Daffy Duck.
The hanging-out part of my relationship with Craig is terrific. Especially at the Stocktons', because they all appear to enjoy his company and we feel comfortable eating out of the fridge and lying around the living room floor doing homework. It's when we go up to my room that things become problematical. Craig hasn't let up on wanting to get more serious, and I'm afraid that if I don't relent soon he's going to give me an ultimatum.
One rainy Saturday afternoon Ms. Olivia brings out a set of worn but large and colorful cards she'd acquired in Paris and proceeds to tell our fortunes. Mr. Bernard implies that she once worked as a psychic in a carnival. Ms. Olivia refuses to confirm or deny this rumor, but she is nonetheless convincing. My fortune, at least according to Ms. Olivia, is that I am to be a "keeper of the flame."
But when I ask what flame I am to keep and where and how am I to keep it, Ms. Olivia cannot answer, or if she can, she chooses not to. Instead she speaks of roses. Ms. Olivia says that the Romans were extravagant in their love for roses; rose wreaths were awarded for great military achievements; Nero showered rose petals on his dinner guests, and the poet Horace wrote that too many roses were grown in Rome and not enough corn. But then during the rise of Christianity roses fell out of favor because of their close association with pagan Rome and almost vanished completely. In fact, it was only because a few monks in monasteries kept some, mainly for medicinal purposes, that roses were able to once again flourish throughout Europe after the medieval period.
However I still don't understand what flame keeping has to do with roses, or what I have to do with either one. Maybe I'm supposed to tend Ms. Olivia's rose garden after she's gone. Or better yet, Ms. Olivia is probably just using this whole fortune business as a way to sneak in an extra history lesson. All I know for sure is that it's a lucky thing Ms. Olivia wasn't one of those monastery monks, because under her watch all the roses would have checked out for good.
"But Ms. Olivia," I ask, "how can you believe in fortunes if you're an atheist?"
"They fill a need, just like religion. Besides, people often come unglued if they realize that life is random. And you'll notice that there are far more working astrologers than astronomers in this country."
"You mean you believe in astrology?" I ask. Pinning Ms. Olivia down on her beliefs is like trying to catch a fish with your bare hands.
"Of course not. But the unknown is an intimidating destination, and so a reading helps us to focus, like looking at a road map. Fortunes of great wealth and renowned artistic accomplishment don't just occur on their own, you know, out of thin air, as if by magic. You have to work at it. Luck favors the prepared mind. And thus when I tell your fortune it makes you consider what you really want to do with your life as you compare it to my prediction."
To me it sounded more like she was saying that life is a stacked deck and all you can hope to do is play the odds as best you know how.
"Livvy is really an agnostic," Mr. Gil offers by way of further explanation.
"No, I'm not," she retorts. "Agnostics don't know what they believe in."
"Yes, that's never been a problem with Mother," agrees Mr. Bernard. "She'd be classified as more of an antagonist, I would imagine."
"I despise spiritual indecision," Ms. Olivia states as she systematically lays down her tarot cards. "Personally, I'd rather someone be a devout nu-merologist or a serious gymnosophist and thereby at least have the courage of their convictions."
"You can't possibly mean that," Mr. Gil scoffs at her.
"She's a heretic," says Mr. Bernard.
"Of course I'm a heretic! The word hairesis in Greek means choice, from the Greek verb hairein, to take. A heretic is one who is able to choose."
"Then if you don't believe in Christmas or in heaven or God, do you worship anything?" I ask her.
"The weather."
"The weather?" I ask incredulously.
"Certainly. The weather provides us with everything we need to live— food, light, heat, water, even flowers."
"Mother adores nature," Mr. Bernard interjects. And then in his best stage voice he adds, "Despite what it's done to her."
"Bertie thinks the four seasons are salt, pepper, oregano, and saffron," jokes Mr. Gil.
"But what about when we die?" I ask.
"People squander their time concocting postmortem scenarios because they're uncomfortable or unfulfilled in their current lives," says Ms. Olivia. "Forget about the afterlife and make the current one a success and death will take care of itself. Say what you will, but unlike your gods, the weather will never let you down. And though you may not always like what you get, you'll always get something."
Mr. Bernard glances up at the grandfather clock and I can tell he's thinking that it's time to start preparing dinner. "You're going to hell, Mother," he proclaims and then rises from the table.
"Well, Bertie, which do you think came first, Christianity or the elements?"
"God," Mr. Bernard firmly replies.
"Sorry to disappoint, darling, but weather worship predates your Protestant version of heaven and hell. In fact, long before the Christians co-opted December 25 for themselves it was a Roman pagan holiday marking the winter solstice for the sun-worshiping Mithraists. But if it gives you comfort to believe in heaven and hell, then don't let me stop you. At least there will be interesting people in the fiery core with whom I can converse, and we'll have nice books and good light to read them by. Thomas Edison thought God was bunk. So did George Bernard Shaw."
Mr. Bernard interrupts her. "... and Clarence Darrow and George San-tayana and Bertrand Russell. Yes, Mother, I know your list of skeptic scholars and heathen helpers by heart."
"Then why do you have a Druid Circle in the backyard?" I ask.
"Oh, the pagans had some good ideas, but that's really just to ward off undesirables—lonely men from the seniors center and women wanting me to join their bridge and book clubs. You know, I just take them on a tour of the yard and they immediately think Waco, Texas, or Salem witch trials and I never hear from them again. It's really quite wonderful. And in my den I have a lovely majolica urn containing the incinerated ashes of my older brother Charles—he died in the Korean War—that serves to scare away most Catholics, except for Rocky."
Oh my God, I'd thought that urn was filled with potpourri!
"You see, I'm the keeper of my brother's flame—his life, his stories. They're all in here." She lifts a delicate hand to her heart.
And the keeper of the remains of his dead body, I want to add. It's then that I wonder if maybe Ms. Olivia is appointing me to be the keeper of her flame. Oh shit. What if she is getting ready to commit suicide after all, just as Mr. Bernard had said? Only now she has a book explaining exactly how to do it!
Chapter 48
An Ace in the Hole ♥
Around the middle of April Craig stops coming by, but I don't mention anything about it to the Stocktons or Mr. Gil. When Mr. Bernard suggests i
nviting him for dinner, I just say he's too busy with lacrosse and preparing for final exams. So of course Mr. Bernard immediately begins making it his mission in life to find out what happened.
One night at the dinner table he starts in on me with a fresh line of questioning. "Now, aren't you going to invite Craig to the flea market this weekend? It's the first Saturday that the outdoor stalls will be open. And he loves to collect those old postcards ..."
"Football cards," Mr. Gil corrects him.
"Leave her alone," warns Ms. Olivia. "It's none of your business."
"But I approve of him. He's good for her," complains Mr. Bernard, as if I'm not even in the room.
"Good heavens, are you planning an August wedding in the gazebo?" Ms. Olivia replies. "She's only sixteen."
"I just thought he'd look marvelous in the prom pictures. A black Armani tux with a teal cummerbund, matching bow tie, powder blue carnation boutonniere, shiny black wing tips. And perhaps we could have a little punch party here beforehand." But then he turns to his mother. "Since when do we have a gazebo?"
"Craig's eighteen," Ms. Olivia says, again as if I'm not there. "He's probably pressuring her about sex. You know, blue balls, and needs and all that testosterone."
I am astounded that Ms. Olivia knows what happened. It's as if she'd overheard our conversation from a week ago. But I know she couldn't have, because we had it outside the boys' locker room at school and no one else was around. It wasn't exactly the ultimatum I'd been anticipating, but Craig more or less said that he has "needs" and he is eventually going to have to fill them "one way or another."
Beginner's Luck Page 27
