Dear George Clooney

by Susin Nielsen

  I shrugged. “It doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate the opposite sex on a purely aesthetic level.”

  He’d spotted us. “Hi, Phoebe. Hi, Violet,” he said.

  “Hi,” Phoebe and I replied in unison. I tried to think of something more to say. “This is Rosie,” I said, pointing at my sister.

  “Hi, Rosie,” he said. Then to me, “Nice shoes.”

  I was wearing my new Converse high tops with the skull and rose motif.

  “Thanks.”

  “I’m just buying some bread for my mother,” he said.

  “Oh,” I replied.

  Silence.

  “Well,” Jean-Paul said eventually, “see you in school.”

  He was about to move past us into the lineup when I blurted, “Parlez-vous français?”

  His face lit up. “Oui, bien sûr, je parle français. Mon père vient de Québec. Et toi?”

  I stared at him blankly. “Pamplemousse,” I replied.

  He looked at me like he was trying to figure out if I was making a joke. He must have decided I was because he gave a halfhearted laugh before he joined the lineup.

  Phoebe, Rosie, and I stepped outside, pulling up the hoods on our rain jackets.

  “Why did you call him a grapefruit?” Phoebe asked.

  I groaned. “I thought I was saying ‘fantastic.’”

  “That’s fantastique.”

  “Great. Now he thinks I’m an idiot. Or a French-hater.”

  “So? What do you care what he thinks of you?”

  “I don’t.”

  “Liar. Besides, I think he likes you. He spoke actual words to you!”

  I rolled my eyes. I appreciated Phoebe’s belief that a guy like Jean-Paul would even look twice at a scrawny and forgettable girl like me. But seriously. As if.

  The three of us turned toward home. We came to Phoebe’s house first. It was new, but designed to look like the other older homes in the neighborhood. Phoebe ran inside to tell her mom that she was heading to my place. A couple of minutes later, she came running out, clutching a Tupperware container.

  “Günter’s apple strudel,” she said. I was pretty sure Phoebe’s parents thought Rosie and I were undernourished because they were always sending Phoebe over to our house with large amounts of homemade food.

  Eight houses down, we arrived at our place. It was painted aubergine, which is a fancy word for eggplant, which is a fancy word for purple. The paint was peeling. The grass was ankle-high. One of the gutters was broken and dangled over the front porch. The railing leading up the front steps wobbled dangerously. An old love seat that we’d meant to bring to the Salvation Army was still sitting on our porch a year later, its insides hanging out, torn up by a family of mice.

  The neighbors were walking to their car. “Hi, Mr. and Mrs. Bright,” I said, even though I was pretty sure they wouldn’t respond. And they didn’t; they just gave me the hairy eyeball.

  The Brights used to talk to us, when my dad was around. They’d even given me a box of musty old books when they found out how much I like to read, and there were a few treasures in there, including an early edition of Stuart Little by E.B. White. But once Dad left, Mom couldn’t keep up with the home repairs. The Brights dropped subtle hints. Then not-so-subtle hints. Then, last year, they called city hall. We knew this because a man came around to our house to follow up on their complaint. He told us that the Brights had called our property “a disgrace to the neighborhood.” Mom lit into the guy, telling him that she’d like to see him try to maintain an older home as a single parent raising two kids on a limited budget. He backed right off.

  Inside, Phoebe, Rosie, and I peeled off our rain jackets and dumped them in a heap on the floor. Mom was still at Costco, so we sat at the kitchen table and devoured our Liberty Bakery treats and Günter’s strudel all in one go. When we were done and I’d made Rosie have two glasses of milk because her bones were growing, I sent her to the basement to watch a video. That’s right, a video. We had a DVD player in the living room, but Mom had bought the VCR at a yard sale for ten bucks, and since then she’d picked up hundreds of videos for as little as twenty-five cents because no one wanted them anymore.

  “Okay,” said Phoebe, belching softly. “Let’s make a list of every single man we know.”

  I grabbed a pen and a pad of paper.

  SINGLE MEN WE KNOW

  by Violet G. and Phoebe S.

  Mr. Patil, our teacher. Rumor has it he still lives in his parents’ basement and spends all his money on his model train set.

  Daryl, the guy who runs the local pet shop. Nice guy, but weighs about three hundred pounds and smells like gerbil poo.

  Mohamed Karami, a student at Mom’s hair design school. Handsome and hilarious; also gay.

  Donald Somebody-or-other. Works with Phoebe’s dad. Nice enough, but pretty ancient and supposedly has had both hips replaced.

  Frank, the homeless guy. Sometimes hangs out on Main Street and writes poems on scraps of paper.

  We both agreed it was a pathetic list. Finding a good man for my mom was clearly going to be a daunting task.

  “Hi, Phoebe. Hi, Violet,” Mom said as she lugged bags of groceries into the house.

  “Hi, Ms. Gustafson,” said Phoebe as she nonchalantly folded the list and slipped it into her pocket.

  “Violet, I need you to help me bring the groceries in from the Rust Bucket.” The Rust Bucket was the name she’d given to our ‘95 Mazda. “Then I need you and your sister to help me clean up the house. Dudley’s supposed to be here in an hour, and I haven’t even showered yet.”

  Phoebe got up. “I should get home, anyway. Cathy and Günter are taking me to a poetry slam tonight.” Phoebe’s parents were always introducing her to new cultural experiences.

  I walked her to the door.

  “Have you got your questions memorized for tonight?” she asked.

  I tapped my head. “It’s all up here.”

  “I wish I could watch.”

  “Me, too. But it’s better if you don’t. I might need you for down the road.”

  “Do you think there’s going to be a down the road?”

  I took a deep breath. “I seriously hope not.”

  — 6 —

  Chew, chew, chew … chew, chew, chew … I could hear The Wiener masticating his food. There was a rhythm to it, like he was eating to a song that played inside his head. From where I sat on his immediate left, I could see right into his ear, which was full of yellow wax and little red hairs. It was enough to make me lose my appetite. To complete the package, he was wearing a white-and-blue striped button-up shirt with a green and red and black plaid sweater-vest on top.

  Ugh.

  The Wiener arrived just as Rosie and I finished cleaning the house. We’d had to hang up our coats and put away our shoes and take all our stray toys, books, homework, dolls, games, sweaters, and socks up to our bedroom. Then we’d thrown out all the granola bar wrappers, snot rags, and strands of dental floss that covered the coffee table in the living room. After that, Mom hauled out the vacuum cleaner and vacuumed the whole main floor – even under the couches, where the really big dust bunnies lived. I told Rosie I could hear them scream as they got sucked up, which made her cry, so Mom made me apologize. Then, while Rosie escaped to the basement, I had to help Mom wash all the dishes that had piled up during the week. Our house hadn’t been this clean since she’d dated Jonathan.

  The Wiener, aka Dudley, remembered to knock this time. And he’d brought a gift for the house. It was in a rectangular box, wrapped in pretty metallic paper. Rosie and I gazed at it hungrily, convinced it was chocolates.

  “Go ahead and open it,” he said, grinning.

  Rosie tore apart the paper and opened the box. “What is it?” she asked, her nose wrinkling like she’d just smelled a bad fart.

  “It’s a soap dish,” I told her.

  “How thoughtful,” Mom said as she appeared from upstairs, wearing too much makeup and a blouse that was too tight. �
�Pretty and practical.”

  I could tell from the look on Rosie’s face that Dudley had just gone down a notch in her estimation. Which wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

  ——

  “What a delicious meal,” Dudley said as he polished off his second helping, smacking his lips. For a moment, I thought he might actually pick up the plate and lick it clean. “You’re an excellent cook, Ingrid.”

  “Thank you,” my mom replied. She’d made her famous roasted lemon chicken. I was tempted to point out that it was her only famous dish; that she rarely made home-cooked meals these days; that our family survived mainly on food of the heat ‘n’ serve variety – like pizza, chicken strips, lasagna, and fish sticks – because Mom was either too tired to cook after standing on her feet all day, or she had a date. But I had important work ahead of me, so I kept my mouth shut.

  “When I cook for myself … well, lettuce just say I make a hash of it … and afterward, you never sausage a mess.” Dudley smiled, waiting for us to laugh.

  We didn’t.

  Well, Mom did a little, but I was pretty sure it was just to be polite.

  “Are you Scottish?” I asked him.

  “Um, twenty-five percent, yes. On my mother’s side. Why?”

  “Your sweater-vest. I thought maybe it was your clan tartan.”

  “Violet,” said Mom in her warning voice.

  “What? Andrew MacDonald, in my class? He did a presentation on his Scottish heritage and came to school wearing a kilt. He told us each clan had its own tartan.”

  “What’s a tartan?” asked Rosie.

  “It’s an ugly plaid pattern,” I told her. “Like that.” I pointed at Dudley’s vest.

  “Violet!” my mom said again.

  “It’s okay.” Dudley laughed. “I don’t have a great deal of fashion sense. In fact, I got this at a yard sale for fifty cents.”

  “What a steal,” Mom said, and she actually sounded impressed.

  “I get a lot of my clothes at yard sales.”

  Gross.

  “I love yard sales,” Mom said.

  “Really?”

  “The plate you’re eating from? Yard sale. The chair you’re sitting on? Yard sale.”

  I couldn’t believe it. My mother was bonding with Dudley over his supreme cheapness.

  “Perhaps when spring rolls around,” The Wiener continued, “we might visit a few sales together.”

  “I’d like that.”

  They beamed at each other.

  “Let me get this straight,” I said. “You get five-dollar haircuts and buy your clothes at yard sales. Are you sure you’re not Scottish?”

  “Violet!”

  “What? Andrew MacDonald told us that while it’s a stereotype, all stereotypes are based on an element of truth.”

  “Actually, I’m more Austrian than anything else,” Dudley explained to me. He didn’t seem remotely offended by my comments. “On my dad’s side. My great-grandparents immigrated to Canada from Vienna. In Austrian, Vienna is spelled W-I-E-N. Hence my last name. It means ‘someone from Vienna.’ Wiener.”

  “That must have sucked growing up,” I said.

  My mom put her head in her hands, but Dudley just laughed again. “It did. I got teased mercilessly. I actually thought about changing my last name, but I’m glad I didn’t. Now I’m proud to be a Wiener.”

  I’d just taken a drink of milk, which sprayed out of my nose.

  “Why don’t we move into the living room for dessert?” Mom said, her voice a little high-pitched. She scraped back her chair so fast, it almost fell over. “Violet, you can help me clear the table.”

  “Actually, Rosie’s volunteered to clear the table,” I said, winking at Rosie, who was in on my plan. She tried to wink back, but since she didn’t know how, it was more of a blink. “I’ll keep Dudley company in the other room.”

  My mom’s eyes narrowed. As I walked past her, she whispered to me, “Be kind.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  I didn’t bother adding that sometimes you have to be cruel to be kind.

  The Wiener settled onto our red couch. I sat across from him on our gold couch. He smiled. I didn’t. I just stared at him without blinking. I was pretty good at it. He looked away after only a few seconds, like I knew he would.

  I always won the stare-down.

  He shifted in his seat, like he was trying to get comfortable. “So,” he began, “you’re in seventh grade, is that right –”

  “Mom says you run a bathroom store,” I said, cutting him off. I picked up a small notebook and pen from the side table, where I’d placed them before supper.

  “A bath shop. That’s right. It’s at Main and Eleventh.”

  “Do you own it? Or do you just work there?”

  “I own it,” he said.

  I wrote that down. “How long have you owned this business?”

  “Four years.”

  “I see. And what did you do before then?”

  He shifted in his seat again. “I was in the insurance business, selling household insurance, car insurance, you name it.”

  “Why did you leave? Were you fired?”

  “No, I chose to leave. I got tired of working for a big faceless company. I decided to go into business for myself.”

  I nodded. “What do you earn in a year?”

  Dudley squirmed again. He took a deep breath. “Let’s put it this way, I do just fine.”

  “And yet you buy previously worn clothes at yard sales.”

  He smiled. “Your mom likes yard sales, too.”

  “My mom is a single parent raising two kids with very little support from my dad. What’s your excuse?”

  He shrugged. “I guess I love a bargain.”

  I wrote the word CHEAP in capital letters.

  “Do you have any debt?” I continued.

  “No.”

  “Mortgage?”

  “No. I rent an apartment. I used to own a house – why am I telling you this?”

  Just then Rosie dashed into the living room and plunked herself beside Dudley. She beamed up at him. “Hello,” she said, adjusting her glasses.

  “Hello,” Dudley replied.

  “Are you married?” I continued.

  Dudley almost choked on his wine. “No, Violet. I am not married. I really think this has gone far enough –”

  “We’re almost finished. Are you an addict of any sort? Alcohol, drugs – illegal or prescription?”

  Dudley took a deep breath. “I see what you’re doing, and I think it’s admirable. But these questions, they’re awfully personal.”

  “So you do have an addiction.”

  “I didn’t say that –”

  “It’s a simple question.”

  “No, I don’t have any addictions. I’m a pretty normal guy, all in all.” He squirmed in his seat again.

  “Then why do you act like a man who’s got something to hide?”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “You keep squirming.”

  Dudley stood up. He lifted the couch cushion and pulled something out. It was one of Rosie’s dolls. “That’s why I’m squirming.”

  Rosie giggled. “I got tired of carrying everything upstairs, so I putted Roxanna under the cushion.”

  Dudley handed Rosie her doll. “Sorry to disappoint you, Violet. But there aren’t any skeletons in my closet.”

  “Skeletons? Closet? What are you guys talking about?” Mom asked as she entered the room with dessert. She looked from me to Dudley, smiling anxiously.

  The Wiener glanced at me. And I have to give the guy a bit of credit because he didn’t rat me out. All he said was “Oh, just this and that. Violet has been keeping me quite entertained.”

  ——

  “What are they doing, what are they doing?” Rosie said, trying to squeeze in beside me. The Wiener had just left, and Mom was walking him to his car, which was pretty stupid since his Corolla was parked right across the street and our neighborhood wa
s not exactly a hotbed of crime.

  “They’re just talking,” I told Rosie. Then, because I was in a generous mood, I shoved over a bit so she could squeeze in beside me. Now we were both crouched down on our knees, peering out the living room window. The curtains were drawn on either side of us, leaving just the tiniest opening for our heads. The windowsill, which hadn’t been a part of our cleaning spree, was thick with a layer of dust, so I wrote my name in it to pass the time.

  After what felt like an eternity’s worth of small talk, Dudley reached into his pocket for his car keys. His car was so old, he actually had to insert the key into the door to unlock it.

  Maybe he got his car at a yard sale too, I thought, making myself laugh.

  Dudley turned back to my mom and held out his arm, like he was about to shake her hand. Then, without warning, he lunged at her, planting his lips over her lips like a toilet plunger and awkwardly pulling her into an embrace.

  I waited for Mom to push him away, maybe even slap him across the face like they did in the movies. But she didn’t. In fact, kind of the opposite. She threw her arms around him, too, and started kissing him back.

  “Ew!” Rosie giggled, her thumb flying into her mouth. “Ew!”

  This wasn’t the first time post-divorce that I’d seen my mother making out with a man she’d practically just met. But as far as I knew, it was the first time the Brights had seen it. I saw them now, coming up the street with their little dog, Benjamin. I could tell they were trying not to look. But it was like passing a car accident. You know you might see something disturbing and gross, and yet you look anyway.

  “Violet, why are you crying?” Rosie said to me, pulling her thumb out of her mouth to pat my hand.

  I took my glasses off and wiped my eyes. “I’m fine,” I said. “It must be allergies. Let’s go to the basement and find a movie.”

  We traipsed downstairs. I found Toy Story 2 among our huge assortment of videos and put it in the machine for Rosie. Then I pulled the rest of the videos off the shelf. Last time, I shelved them alphabetically by title. Tonight I arranged them alphabetically by star. F. Murray Abraham, Ben Affleck, Kirstie Alley. Whenever I came across a star whose last name was in the second half of the alphabet, I placed the video into a separate pile. Bruce Willis, Patrick Swayze, Brad Pitt, Wedding.