Brett McCarthy

by Maria Padian

  “Hey, honey, what do we have here?”

  A bird of paradise seated in an osprey’s nest would have looked less incongruous at the Super-Sized than the woman who asked this question.

  In Maine, where one is most likely to find a woman who can dismantle, clean, and reassemble a chain saw, this small, highly blond female person was clearly “from away.”

  Her “Hey, honey” placed her below the Mason-Dixon line. Her full-facial makeup glowed slightly orange, and her shiny, smooth coif was pulled back with a black velvet bow. She wore a fuzzy white sweater (she obviously had no intention of hauling rusty pipes back to her car), stretchy black slacks, and black leather boots with sharp heels that made little holes in the lawn. She placed one hand gently on the blond boy’s shoulder and slid a slim, fuzzy arm around Mr. Pelletier’s waist. It was not a sisterly embrace.

  Holy crow, I thought. Mr. Pelletier’s got a girlfriend.

  Before I could fully absorb this information, Nonna arrived and blew me away entirely.

  “Well, hello. We meet again,” Nonna said. She was talking to the girlfriend, whose enormous, heavily mascaraed eyes widened in surprise.

  “Mrs. McCarthy! Whatever are you doing here?”

  “Well, I live here. We do this sale every year. I see you’ve met my granddaughter, Brett.” Girlfriend locked her gaze on me.

  “We haven’t been properly introduced yet,” she said. “Hello, Brett. I’m Pamela Warren. And this here’s my son, Brock. And my friend, Larry Pelletier, and his little boy, Merrill.”

  “Actually, we know the Pelletiers,” Nonna said. “Brett and Diane are practically sisters. Where is she today, Larry? I can’t remember her ever missing a garage sale.”

  Mr. Pelletier grinned nervously and hesitated. I could see he wasn’t sure what to say.

  I could have answered for him. Diane wouldn’t have been caught dead walking around and smiling at neighbors who would stare at Pamela Warren and whisper, “Who’s that?”

  Merrill confirmed this.

  “She didn’t want to come with us,” he said softly. Un-Merrill-like.

  “Oh, that’s too bad,” said Nonna soothingly. She directed her comment to Merrill. “You tell her we missed her, okay? Tell her we saved a Super-Sized brownie just for her.”

  Merrill stared miserably back at Nonna. His lower lip quivered. His big brown eyes glazed over with tears.

  “I don’t think she’ll come,” he whispered. “Can I bring it to her?”

  This was blowing my mind. Merrill, the Dark Lord. The child most likely to have Damien’s 666 tattooed on his scalp. Trying to do something nice for his sister? Unbelievable.

  “Of course!” Nonna said. “And I’ll get some for you and Brock too. Be right back.” She hurried off to the bake-sale table, leaving me with Mr. Pelletier, the boys, and Southern Belle Barbie.

  “Oh, isn’t she just precious!” cooed Pamela Warren. “I tell you,” she said to me, “I’ve only recently met your grandmother, but I absolutely love her. Look at her. And you know she doesn’t feel well! But does she let that stop her? No, not her. I tell you, I admire her.”

  “How do you know my Nonna?” I asked, stupefied. How would you know she doesn’t feel well? I wanted to ask.

  “We met the other day at the hospital,” she said. “I’m a hospice volunteer. We wanted to let your grandmother know what we’re all about, what options are available to her. When she’s ready.” Pamela Warren smiled knowingly at me. My stomach did a one-eighty. Ready for what?

  Nonna came back with the treats. They really were huge. One brownie looked almost as big as Brock’s head.

  “Now, why don’t you take these around back and go see the bazooka blasting?” Nonna told them. “I think they’re firing off old sneakers stuffed with styrofoam peanuts.”

  “’Bye!” said Pamela Warren gaily. “Mrs. McCarthy, you take care now. Don’t overdo. I can see what you’re like!” Nonna waved them on but said nothing. She pursed her lips tightly, ignoring my pointed stare.

  “Later,” Nonna said, not meeting my eyes. “Right now we have the sale to think about. But we’ll discuss this later.”

  She headed over to the driveway, where more cars had just pulled in, and greeted the eager families who piled out. The Pelletier-Warrens were walking toward the bazookas. Brock had already unwrapped his brownie and was polishing it off in super-sized bites. Merrill held his treats to his chest and walked with his head down, kicking little dry scuffs of dirt along the way.

  That’s when I surprised myself. I grabbed two of the smaller catapults and a half dozen Ping-Pong balls off the table, stuffed them into a plastic shopping bag, and sprinted after Merrill.

  “Here,” I said, thrusting the bag into his hands when I caught up with him. “You guys can shoot these at each other when you get home.” Merrill peeked inside. His head shot up and he grinned at me. A flash of the old destructive Merrill. “Thanks!” he said, and bounded off toward the bazookas, his dad, and his own redefined life.

  neu•tral

  “He’s got nerve. I’ll say that much for him.”

  Mom, Dad, and I were breaking down the last remnants of the garage sale. As usual, the Super-Sized had been a smashing success. We’d unloaded everything—even the Ped-o-Sled—and made more than $400 for the Domestic Violence Prevention Center. Michael and Mr. Beady had sold five Build Your Own Bazooka kits, and the Gnome Home garage was completely clean. Not a rusty pipe or moldy tire in sight.

  Nonna had gone inside for a nap. She was exhausted. She didn’t even have the energy to argue with Mr. Beady, who had insisted on scrubbing the brownie pans stacked in the sink. Nonna hated the way Mr. Beady only half washed dishes. He was in there right now, and I couldn’t believe she was able to sleep over all his clattering.

  I had been waiting for someone to bring up the Mr. Pelletier thing. It was like an eight-hundred-pound gorilla in the living room: Everyone knew it was there, but no one wanted to mention it. I knew if it had been just Nonna and me, there’d be plenty to say. Instead, my parents were doing their usual job “talking” to me without really telling me anything.

  “So,” I’d finally said, “did you check out Mr. Pelletier’s girlfriend?” I let that one hang in the air for a few seconds.

  That’s when Dad made the comment about nerve. Mom frowned at him and shook her head slightly, sending him one of those telepathic parental signals I supposedly didn’t notice.

  “What makes you think she was a girlfriend?” Mom asked neutrally. “Maybe she was just a friend.”

  Neutral: neither one thing nor the other; indifferent, disengaged.

  “The way she had her hands all over him kind of screamed ‘girlfriend’ at me,” I commented, equally neutral. “She was also really dressed up, like it was a date or something. You know, the fuzzy sweater and the high-heeled boots? The average mom at a garage sale usually isn’t stylin’ like that.”

  “She aerated Nonna’s lawn for us,” Dad said matter-of-factly. “You know, those stiletto boots? I’m thinking about buying a pair for you, hon.” He winked at Mom.

  “Yeah, you know, Mom, you could also use some fuzzy sweaters,” I said.

  “Oh, I don’t know,” Dad said. “Fiber artists don’t do fuzzy, Brett. Your mom’s more the Wearable Art crowd. I like her handmade quilted vests.”

  “She could be a fuzzy fiber artist,” I suggested.

  That’s where Mom drew the line. “Okay, you two, enough,” she said. “This is not a laughing matter.”

  She was right. And I wanted some answers.

  “How long have you known about this, Mom?”

  “You know, I’m not going to get into this with you, Brett,” she said. “Frankly, it’s none of your business. Just suffice it to say Marie is my friend, and she’s confided in me. And those sorts of jokes are the last thing the Pelletiers need. They need friends who sympathize, not gossip.”

  “I’m not gossiping; I’m just asking,” I said, throwing my hands up. “Is
that a crime?”

  No one bothered to respond, so I decided to plunge on ahead.

  “Did you know she knows Nonna?”

  “Who?” they both asked at once.

  “The fuzzy girlfriend,” I replied patiently. “Pamela What’s-Her-Face. She knows Nonna from the hospital.” My parents looked surprised.

  “How do you know this?” Dad asked.

  “I was right there—they were talking,” I said. “She said she met Nonna at the hospital the other day. She’s a…hospice volunteer. What’s that?”

  “I don’t remember meeting someone from hospice,” Mom said. “Then again, it was such a stressful day….” Dad shrugged. His face had clouded over.

  Answer my questions! I wanted to scream. A tidal wave of frustration swept over me. Then: Mr. Beady.

  He was upstairs. He had just wrenched open the second-floor bedroom window and stuck his head out. We turned toward the sound, and there was his worried face looking down at us.

  “Something’s wrong,” he said. “I can’t wake her.”

  “Why are you trying to wake her?” Mom replied, clearly annoyed. “Let her sleep.”

  “No, you don’t understand,” he continued. “I was downstairs and heard a thump. She’s fallen out of bed, and I can’t wake her.”

  Dad was running before Mr. Beady’s words fully registered with me. Mom dashed into the Gnome Home at full speed. I stood frozen, stupid, brain operating in slow motion. Move! it finally directed me, and I ran too.

  I practically crashed into Mom in the kitchen. She was hanging up the phone.

  “I just called 911,” she said. Her face was dead pale, and she spoke deliberately. Like English wasn’t my first language. “I need you to wait outside for the ambulance. Don’t let them go to the wrong house.” Upstairs, Dad was calling Nonna over and over, loudly.

  When the paramedics wheeled her out and into the red-light-flashing ambulance, her eyes were closed. She wore an oxygen mask over her face, and they had secured her to the stretcher with wide orange straps. I suddenly felt very cold and had my arms wrapped tight around my chest.

  It was like watching a train wreck, or an accident on the highway. Except this time it was happening to us.

  mensch

  At the beginning of every school year I bring home a pile of papers for Mom to fill out and sign. There’s one we discuss together before she sends it back in: the Emergency Contact Card.

  Basically, this lists the names and phone numbers of two adults they can call in case I start running a fever or vomiting during the day and they can’t reach Mom or Dad to take me home. Although this might seem like a pretty straightforward thing to decide, it gets complicated.

  For starters, you’ve got to pick someone who’s home, so that eliminates all the working parents. It also eliminates Nonna, who lives at the Gnome Home only from late October to Memorial Day. Then you’ve got to pick someone who’s a close family friend and wouldn’t mind having me breathing germs or throwing up all over their house. Finally, you have to pick someone I like. And there’s where the complication starts.

  Emergency Adult #1 is always easy: Aunt Lorena, a.k.a. Michael’s mother. A family friend who’s known us since forever.

  Emergency Adult #2 is always the problem. Most of my friends’ moms work, or don’t pass the “willing to clean up Brett’s barf” test. Miss Kathy and Co. might have been a good choice, since they were right next door, but sick kids and day-care toddlers aren’t a good combination.

  So every year, after much argument, we reluctantly pencil in Mr. Beady as #2.

  This is a serious bummer. Even on a good day—like when I score the winning goal in soccer and Mom makes tacos for dinner—Mr. Beady annoys me to distraction. He’s a tease. He cracks dumb jokes. He’s constantly hanging around Nonna. And he’s a slob. I mean, you’d be more likely to get sick at his house, which is so dirty that even cats and dogs refuse to sit on the furniture.

  Well. Dogs probably wouldn’t mind. But cats are particular.

  But as Nonna always said, and Mom and Dad agreed, “Beady is a mensch.”

  I remember the first time Nonna told me that. I was complaining about some stupid thing he had said to me, and she laughed.

  “I don’t get it,” I said. “You see what a pain he is. Why is he your friend?”

  “Because I’ve known him for years and he’s the most loyal, caring person I’ve ever met,” she said. “He’s a mensch.”

  “A what?” I said.

  “Mensch,” she repeated. “A decent, responsible person with admirable characteristics. It’s a wonderful Yiddish word that perfectly describes Beady.”

  “Yeah, like, I really admire the way he keeps his house,” I groused.

  “That’s not important,” Nonna said.

  “Food poisoning is important!” I argued. “Fleas in the couch, sour milk in the fridge, broken glass on the floor…that’s important!”

  Nonna chuckled. “You always exaggerate for effect,” she replied. “Now be honest. You know what’s important. Compassion. Kindness. Generosity. And that’s what Beady is all about. True, he’ll never earn the Good Housekeeping Seal of Approval. And his jokes are painfully bad. But in a pinch Beady always comes through.”

  That conversation kept playing in my head as we sat in the hospital’s waiting room the day of the Super-Sized. The Emergency Contacts had assembled: Aunt Lorena and Uncle Jack were seated in vinyl chairs near my parents, making reassuring sounds. Mr. Beady had driven over with us, behind the ambulance. He was making me insane with his pacing.

  Not back and forth, but in and out. Out of the waiting room, his glance darting, birdlike, looking for the doctor who would give us news. Then, breathing heavily, impatiently, pacing back inside. A Mensch in a Pinch, I thought, and smiled in spite of everything. When Nonna woke up, I would make her laugh with this description of Mr. Beady. If I didn’t strangle him first. If she woke up.

  That thought had slipped unwillingly into my head while we waited. No one had said it, but there it was, this horrible idea that made my hands tremble. Made me want to throw up. Big Bad News was stubbornly knocking at the door, and I didn’t want to answer.

  Finally, the doctor came in.

  “Okay,” he said, smiling but serious. “We’ve had a little scare today, but we’ve stabilized her and she’s doing fine.”

  He said some other things, but I only took in bits and pieces. “Keep her for observation tonight…dehydrated…talking about a garage sale?…” Then he told Mom and Dad that they could see her now, and they started walking out to the hallway.

  “Wait!” I sounded loud after the low, hushed hospital voices we had been using. “I’m coming too.”

  “Hon, let us go in first,” Mom said.

  “No, I want to see her now,” I insisted.

  “Brett, wait with us,” Aunt Lorena said. “Don’t worry—you’ll get a chance to see her.”

  “What’s wrong? What aren’t you telling me?” I demanded. I could hear the panic in my own voice.

  “Mrs. McCarthy can have two visitors at a time,” the doctor said briskly. He turned, and my parents followed him down the hall. I was about to dash after them, but someone held my arm. Mr. Beady.

  “Wait,” he whispered in my ear. “Let them get a little ahead of us.” He held me like I was a puppy pulling on a leash. We watched the three of them disappear around a corner of the long corridor. Mr. Beady cleared his throat and, turning to Aunt Lorena and Uncle Jack, said, “I’m going to take Brett to the cafeteria for a cola. We’ll be right back.” He led me from the waiting room by the elbow.

  “Now be quick and be quiet,” he muttered as we power-walked in the direction my parents had taken. “We don’t want them to see us…yet.”

  We tracked the doctor and my parents down several long hallways and finally to an area with a sign that read INTENSIVE CARE UNIT. Ahead was a large, open room, guarded by a nurses’ station. Two women in aqua-colored uniforms stood between us and t
hat open room. Mr. Beady frowned.

  “I believe,” he whispered, “that diversionary tactics are called for, Miss Brett.”

  I could have kissed him. Instead, I simply nodded.

  Mr. Beady strode purposefully to the nurses’ station counter. “Hello!” he exclaimed cheerfully. Thunderously, it seemed, in that subdued place. The women in aqua jumped, both scurrying quickly toward the loud man who didn’t seem to realize there were sick people trying to sleep. A window of opportunity opened before Brett McCarthy.

  I crouched low and crab-scuttled to the base of the counter. Only Mr. Beady could see me as I inched closer to the open room ahead.

  “I hope you ladies can help me,” he boomed. “I’m looking for a friend who was recently admitted.”

  “Certainly, but could you lower your voice, please, sir?” one nurse replied politely. “This is the Intensive Care Unit.”

  “I’m sorry…what did you say?!” Mr. Beady shouted. He cupped a hand to one ear. “I’m a bit deaf, deah!”

  The sight of Mr. Beady playing the old deaf man was almost too good to miss…but I had a mission. Darting from the cover of the counter just as Nurse #2 joined in the attempt to shush him, I took refuge behind a row of wheelchairs in the open room.

  I saw six beds arranged in a semicircle. An amazing configuration of monitors, tubes, and electronic IV setups surrounded each bed and dwarfed the patient in it. I spotted my mom, my dad, and the doctor hovering over one of them.

  I unfolded from my crab position, stood upright, and tiptoed quietly toward them. The doctor was the first to see me and started to frown. That’s when I realized Mr. Beady was right behind me.

  “This is Mrs. McCarthy’s granddaughter,” he said firmly. “Give her one minute.” The doctor stepped back.