Saturdays with Hitchcock

by Ellen Wittlinger

  “Oh, Maisie, I don’t know,” Mom says. “Maybe you should stay here and work on your project.”

  But I’m already at the front door. There’s no way I’m staying here. I wouldn’t be able to think about anything else anyway. As we hurry out to the car, I can feel Cyrus’s eyes on me from across the street, but I don’t look over at him. Because everything is different now, and I can’t pretend like it isn’t. And I don’t trust my eyes not to say the wrong thing.

  When we run into Grandma’s place, she’s sitting on the couch real close to Mr. Schmitz, and he’s holding a bag of frozen peas against her cheek. Mary Jane is sitting in a chair across from them, her hands folded in her lap, her mouth all puckered up like she just ate a lemon.

  Grandma looks pale and a little shaky, but as soon as she sees Uncle Walt, a smile breaks across her face. “Walter, you’re home! I didn’t know you were coming! When did you get here? Come give me a hug, sweetheart!”

  Uncle Walt’s face twitches, but he goes over and leans down to hug her. “Hi, Ma. Did you forget I was staying with Cindy for a while? I hurt myself, remember?” He points to the bandage beneath his shirt.

  “Oh, no! How did that happen?” Grandma asks.

  Mom interrupts her. “Walt is fine, Ma. It’s you we’re worried about. Let me see your cheek.”

  Mr. Schmitz lifts the bag of peas, and we see a red gash about an inch long under Grandma’s right eye. The eye itself is swollen almost shut and turning an ugly purple color. It makes me dizzy to think how hard she must have hit the table to do that much damage.

  “I cleaned it up as well as I could,” Mr. Schmitz says. “There was antibiotic cream in the medicine cabinet, but I think she probably needs a couple of stitches.”

  “Oh, let’s not make a big fuss,” Grandma says. “Why don’t we have some tea?”

  “Do you want me to make it?” We all turn to look at Mary Jane, who we’d forgotten about.

  Mom walks over and puts a hand on her shoulder. “Mary Jane,” she says, “I’m not blaming you. I know you’ve had a hard time here, but—”

  “I don’t know how I could have fallen asleep,” Mary Jane says. “I just lay down for a minute, and that foldout couch is like sleeping on rocks. Normally I’m a very light sleeper—”

  “I’m sure you are,” Mom says. “But I’m afraid this just isn’t working out. You and my mother don’t seem to be—”

  “Oh, we’ll figure it out,” Mary Jane says. “Me and Evelyn will get to be great friends, won’t we, Evelyn?” She winks at Grandma, but Grandma won’t even look at her.

  All of a sudden Uncle Walt’s face knots up, and it looks like he’s going to spit at Mary Jane. “Do you even realize what’s happened here? You were hired to make sure my mother didn’t hurt herself, and yet she was frying bacon while you were fast asleep. We’re lucky she only slipped in the grease. She could have burned herself, or caught the whole house on fire while you were snoring in the back room!”

  I’m kind of shocked. Uncle Walt hardly ever raises his voice. It’s hard to get him upset, but he’s furious now.

  Mary Jane sits up straight in her chair and glares back at him. “And just who are you?”

  Mom steps between them. “This is my brother, Walter. I think what he’s trying to say is—”

  But Uncle Walt isn’t going to let Mom soften the blow. “I’m not trying to say anything. I’m telling you, Mary Jane, you’re out.” He points his thumb at the front door. “You blew it. This job is over.”

  Mary Jane gets up. “Well, I’m not sorry to leave a work environment like this. I can find a better job than working for people like you.” She heads for the back room, to get her stuff, I guess.

  But Uncle Walt has the last word. “And don’t ask us for any references!” he calls after her.

  Mom looks kind of shocked. “Well, thank you, Walter. I guess that had to be done.”

  “It sure did,” Hank says, with a grumbly laugh.

  “I guess you told her, didn’t you, Walter?” Grandma says. “I’m not the least bit sorry to see the back of that silly woman. I don’t know why you hired her anyway, Cindy.”

  Mom slumps into the chair Mary Jane just got out of. While we wait for Mary Jane to throw her things into a bag and scuttle out the door, Grandma reaches out for Uncle Walt’s hand and pulls him to her side.

  “Hank, I don’t think you’ve met my son yet,” she says. “Isn’t he a wonderful boy? And he’s a very famous actor too!”

  Hank reaches over and shakes Uncle Walt’s hand. “Quite a family you’ve got here, Evie.”

  “Yes, it is,” Grandma says. She looks up at Hank adoringly. “And I’m so glad you’re a part of it now!”

  Mom doesn’t want me to sit around the emergency room with them while she and Uncle Walt wait for Grandma to get her stitches, so Mr. Schmitz offers to drive me home. Mom isn’t sure about that either, but I pull her aside and whisper, “Don’t worry. He doesn’t even like me that much.”

  “Is that supposed to make me worry less?” she asks.

  But in the end, I climb into Mr. Schmitz’s old rust bucket. He doesn’t drive fast, but every time he hits the brakes, they scream like they’re in agony, and when he turns a corner, it sounds like the engine is going to fall out onto the street. He doesn’t seem to notice, though. He doesn’t seem to notice anything, including me.

  “You need a new car,” I say, just to remind him I’m sitting here.

  “You need to mind your own business,” he says. But then he gives this little laugh and shakes his head. “You’re a pistol, you know that? Kind of like she used to be.”

  A pistol? Like in gun? What does that mean?

  “Grandma used to be a pistol too?” I ask him.

  “Oh, yeah. She didn’t let you get away with anything. Always had an answer for everything. Just like you.”

  “I’m doing a history project about her,” I say. “I interviewed her, and now I’m cutting the video into a short film.”

  “Oh, yeah?” He actually looks at me. “That’s nice. Evie deserves a movie.”

  We’re quiet for a minute, and then Mr. Schmitz says, “So that was your famous actor uncle, huh? Good-looking guy. Reminds me of your grandpa.”

  I’m kind of surprised by that and try to think back to what my grandpa looked like. I mostly remember the years he was sick with cancer and got very thin. But was he good-looking before that? It’s hard to tell with people you’re related to. A kid doesn’t think about how her grandparents look, just whether they’re nice to her. And he was, mostly, unless I made noise while he was watching a baseball game. Then he’d scoot me outside and slam the door.

  “Did you know my grandpa?” I ask him.

  He grunts. “Not really. I met him a few times. He loved Evie. I was glad to see that.”

  He could tell that just by looking? I sneak a sideways glance at Mr. Schmitz. Was he good-looking when he was young? Who knows? He’s taller than Grandpa was, and he’s still got all his hair, although it’s white as flour now. He definitely looks better when he’s not acting so grumpy, but the only times I’ve seen him look anything close to happy were when Grandma was around.

  “She told me you danced with her once,” I say. I don’t intend to mention the kiss.

  Mr. Schmitz nods. “Just one time,” he says.

  “She remembers it, though,” I say.

  “Me too.” He takes a deep breath. “This is your street, isn’t it? I turn right here?”

  “Yeah. We’re the white house at the end.”

  He cruises down the street and pulls into our driveway. “Okay,” he says. “Go finish up that project. Do your grandma proud.”

  I want to answer him, but my eyes get stuck on Cyrus and Gary, straddling their bikes in Cy’s driveway. For the first time in my life, I wish Cy didn’t live across the street from me.

  “Okay,” I say. “Thanks for the ride.”

  I’m out the door and about to slam it shut when Mr. Schmitz says,
“I always hoped I’d get another chance to dance with her.” I don’t know what to say, but then I decide he’s not talking to me anyway, so I just close the door. He backs out of the driveway and leaves me standing there trying to figure out how to avoid Gary and Cy.

  But there’s no escape. Gary waves at me like a policeman directing traffic through an intersection. “Hey, Maisie, come over! Are you done with your project? You want to ride bikes with us?”

  I can’t just ignore him. Slowly I plod across the street. Cyrus gets busy adjusting something on his handlebars so he doesn’t have to make eye contact with me. I admit I’m grateful.

  “Sorry,” I say. “There was an emergency with my grandma this afternoon, so I’m not finished with my project yet.”

  Cy looks up, his eyes big and round, but he doesn’t say anything.

  “What happened?” Gary asks.

  “She fell and hit her head and had to go to the emergency room,” I say.

  Cyrus looks as sad as if it was his grandmother who hurt herself. That’s just how he is. Still, he doesn’t say anything. Maybe we aren’t speaking to each other anymore. Or maybe he isn’t talking to me until I talk to him first. But we can’t talk now anyway, not in front of Gary.

  “Oh, man!” Gary says. “That’s terrible. Is she okay?”

  “Yeah, she’s fine. I think she’s going to have to move in with us, though. Mom says she’s not safe alone at her place anymore.”

  Gary nods and looks very serious. “Who was that old guy who drove you home?” he asks. “He looked familiar.”

  “Mr. Schmitz,” Cyrus says. “From the Lincoln Theater.” His voice sounds different—thin, older—or maybe I’m just surprised to hear it.

  “Yeah,” I say. “He’s an old friend of my grandma’s. He’s…helping us.”

  “Did he talk to you in the car?” Cy asks quietly. I guess the weirdness of me getting out of Mr. Schmitz’s car is overriding the weirdness of our last conversation.

  “A little. It’s kind of strange. I think he likes Grandma. I mean like likes her.”

  As soon as I say that, contagious embarrassment strikes again. Apparently all you have to do is mention that anybody likes anybody else—even if they’re seventy years old—and all three of us get red-faced and flustered.

  Once we start to look normal again, Gary says, “We ought to work on the screenplay, Maisie. Couldn’t you do that for a little while and finish up your project later?”

  “I thought you wanted to ride bikes,” Cy says to Gary. He’s back to pretending I’m not there.

  “I do,” Gary says. “I was just thinking if Maisie could stay, we could do some writing now and go for a bike ride later, when she goes home to work on her project.”

  I look at Cyrus to see what he thinks of this idea. It’s not hard to tell. His eyes have turned into dark, muddy sinkholes in which he’d obviously like to drown me. Just a minute ago he seemed like the old Cyrus, my best friend worried about my grandma, but now his look says, Get out of here, Maisie. You’re ruining everything.

  “I can’t,” I blurt out. “Besides, I don’t want to work on the screenplay anymore. You guys should write it by yourselves.”

  “What? No!” Gary looks like I’ve hit him in the jaw with a punch he didn’t see coming. “Come on, Maisie, we should all do it together. That’s the fun of it!”

  There’s a lump in my throat so big I can’t swallow. “I changed my mind,” I say. “I want to write a script by myself. It’s too hard with three people.” I back up and get ready to run. “Anyway, I have to go now.”

  “Maisie!” Gary yells, but he doesn’t seem to know what to say after that. Or maybe he’s self-conscious about saying anything else in front of Cyrus. I don’t know. We’ve all obviously fallen into deep, sloppy puddles of humiliation and don’t know how to pull ourselves out. The last thing I notice is that Cyrus’s face has gotten softer, like he’s not as mad as he was before. Then I dash home so I can get inside the house before I start crying like I just watched the end of Toy Story 3.

  By the time Mom and Uncle Walt get back with Grandma, my project is finished. The hardest part was writing the essay because I tried to make Grandma sound like the fun person she was a couple of months ago when I started filming it, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the helpless, confused person Mom just took to the hospital. Did things really change that fast, or did I just start noticing?

  Everybody is too exhausted to make dinner, so we order pizza, and Dad goes to pick it up.

  “I’m not even hungry,” Grandma says, leaning her head back in our most comfortable chair. There’s a big bandage beneath her eye, and half her face is covered with an ugly bruise.

  “As soon as we eat, I’m going back home,” she says. “I need a good night’s sleep.”

  “Um, Mom, we were thinking…,” Uncle Walt says, and then looks at my mom for help.

  “You’re going to stay here tonight,” Mom says. “You can sleep in the den. Maisie doesn’t mind bringing her sleeping bag out here in the living room for a night…or two. Do you, Maze?”

  “It’ll be sort of like camping,” I say, even though our lumpy couch is about as comfortable as a bag of bricks.

  Grandma shakes her head. “Don’t be ridiculous! Just because I got a little shiner? I’d rather sleep in my own bed.”

  “I know you would, but…” Mom looks at Uncle Walt.

  It takes him a minute, but then he sits up straight and says, “I haven’t gotten to see that much of you, Mom. Why don’t you stay over here tonight? I’ll make us all pancakes in the morning.”

  Grandma brightens. “You do make the best pancakes, honey. With strawberries?”

  “Sure,” Mom says, even though strawberries are a luxury we probably won’t have very often now that she’s out of work. “I’ll call Dennis, and he can stop and pick some up after he gets the pizza.”

  “Maisie’ll flip ’em for me, won’t you, Hitchcock? So I don’t toss flapjacks on the floor with my left hand.” Uncle Walt winks at me, and I smile as though we’re all having a great time making plans.

  “Well, then,” Grandma says. “Maybe I will stay over. I’m so tired.”

  When Dad gets back, we eat pizza in silence. Nobody says a word. It’s really bizarre. As soon as we’re done, Mom goes off with Grandma to help her get ready for bed, and Uncle Walt goes outside to answer a phone call.

  I bring the plates and glasses in from the dining room, and Dad stacks them in the dishwasher.

  “Been quite a day,” he says.

  I nod. “You didn’t buy the truck, did you?”

  “No. I just wanted to look at it.” He grins at me. “Someday I’ll get one.”

  I don’t think he should count on that. With Mom not working and Grandma needing so much care, we probably won’t be getting much new stuff for a while.

  “I’m sorry you’re being shuffled around so much, Maisie. It won’t be forever.”

  “It’s okay.” I know Uncle Walt will leave when his collarbone is healed, but if Dad also means Grandma won’t be around forever, I don’t want to think about it.

  “You’re a good kid, Maze,” he says. Then he lowers his voice and asks, “Want some ice cream?”

  “You got ice cream?” That is definitely not on the out-of-work grocery list.

  “When I stopped to get the strawberries, I saw there was a sale on this.” He opens the freezer and pulls out a tub of mint chocolate chip. “I know it’s extravagant, but I thought, under the circumstances, we all needed a little treat. It’s not like I bought a truck, right?”

  Mom comes in and flops in a kitchen chair. She watches Dad ladling out the ice cream, and I wait for her to start yelling at him. But all she says is, “Any chocolate sauce in the house?”

  We squirt on chocolate sauce until the bottle is empty, and then stuff ourselves with ice cream like we’re starving. We’re half done with our big bowls by the time Uncle Walt comes back inside.

  “Talking to your age
nt again?” Mom asks him.

  Uncle Walt nods. “I called her this afternoon. There’s been a change of plans, Cindy.”

  Mom looks at him, suspicious. “What do you mean ‘a change of plans’?”

  He walks in back of me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “I couldn’t get the Skype audition, but Francine got me one in person. On Thursday. She said the casting agent sounded very positive about my chances.”

  “What are you talking about?” Mom says.

  He sighs. “I’m leaving Wednesday.”

  “No!” I yell as I push my ice-cream dish away. What’s left in the bowl isn’t cold and delicious anymore. Now it’s just lukewarm, melted soup, because obviously nothing good lasts forever.

  Uncle Walt squeezes my shoulders, but he’s looking at Mom, waiting for her to react.

  Mom’s eyes narrow into slits. Her hand grips the edge of the table, and for a minute I think she’s going to throw her ice-cream bowl at him.

  “You’re leaving. Now. Just when I need you the most.” A smile that looks like a storm warning lifts up one side of her mouth. “I don’t know why I’m surprised. You’ve always run away from responsibility. Why should this be any different?”

  Dad shakes his head, disgusted.

  “Cindy, Dennis, just listen to me a minute. I knew you’d think that, but that’s not what I’m doing. How much help am I being to you here, anyway? If I’m gone, Ma can move in here and Maisie won’t have to sleep on the couch. And besides, what we really need is money. You won’t be able to keep her here forever—that’s not fair to you, or to Maisie either. Sooner or later, when this gets worse, she’ll probably have to go into some kind of a home.”

  “Maybe not. You don’t know that.” Tears are running down Mom’s face now. “I can take care of her! She’s my mother, even if she likes you better!”

  Dad scoots his chair over and pulls her head onto his shoulder. “Honey, let’s just hear what Walt has to say, okay?”

  Uncle Walt takes a deep breath. “Francine thinks I have a good chance of getting the part on this pilot, and she thinks the pilot has a good chance of being picked up. The showrunner has a great track record. I know nothing in Hollywood is a sure thing, but it’s the best shot I’ve had in a long time. And if I get it, I can contribute real money. I’ll put it aside for Ma’s care. I swear to you, Cindy, I will.”