Confusion Is Nothing New

by Paul Acampora

  “Pretty much,” I admit.

  “But then you changed your mind once I was okay with it.”

  “Yes, but I still didn’t want to tell you we were going to see CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD!”

  Dad grabs a towel to dry his hands. “I always hated that name. The only band that should have Cyndi Lauper’s name in it is Cyndi Lauper’s band.” He returns the towel to a hook. “Don’t lie to me again, okay?”

  I nod. “Can I ask you a question?”

  Dad takes a seat beside me at the table. “Of course.”

  “Why didn’t you give me the shoe box right away?”

  Dad shakes his head. “When that box arrived, I knew something wasn’t right. If Korky wanted you to have that stuff, she would have come here and handed it to you herself. I figured I’d put it away and save it and see what happened next.” Dad pauses for a moment, then adds, “She never came.”

  “Because she died,” I point out.

  “Yes,” Dad says. “She died. She died without ever getting in touch with her own daughter.”

  I recall what Betty Boop said after the concert. “She didn’t think she had enough time to do it right.”

  “So what?” Dad’s voice rises. “So what if she’d done a rotten job of it? At least she would have tried. That would have been better than doing nothing.”

  “That’s almost the same thing Mr. DeGroot said.”

  Dad shrugs. “Even an idiot gets it right sometimes.”

  “I’m not sure he’s an idiot,” I tell my father.

  “Ellie,” says Dad, “the man made my ex-wife so angry that she basically excommunicated him from her life. After that, he got my daughter so upset that she tried to turn a glockenspiel into a harpoon.”

  “Well, there’s that,” I admit.

  Dad pushes his chair away from the table. “I reserve the right to think that he’s an idiot.”

  “Can I ask one more question?”

  “It’s way past my bedtime,” Dad points out.

  “This is an easy one,” I promise.

  Dad sighs. “Okay.”

  “Are you still mad at me?” I ask.

  Dad looks up at the ceiling. “I don’t think I was ever really mad at you, Ellie.”

  “I thought we weren’t go to lie to each other,” I tell my father.

  “Maybe I was a little mad at you,” he admits. “Mostly, I was mad at your mother.” Dad shakes his head. “I thought I was done being angry at Korky, but apparently that woman can still wind me up after all these years, and even from beyond the grave.”

  “You must have loved her a lot.”

  “In the end, that’s why I gave you the box,” Dad tells me. “I wanted her to be part of your life.” He pauses before adding, “I really wanted her to be part of our life together.”

  “But that didn’t happen,” I say.

  “No,” Dad says. “It didn’t.”

  Dad shakes his head. And that’s when I know for sure that this isn’t going to be one of those stories where I discover some deep and meaningful connection with the long-lost mother I never had. Wilma Korkenderfer gave me life, big feet, frizzy hair, and not much else. And that’s just how it’s going to be.

  Dad reaches across the table and takes my hand. “Her loss,” he says.

  In late November, Seamus Brady calls to ask if Dad and I would like to be with him when he places Korky’s ashes in the cemetery plot where my grandparents are buried. “We’ll be there,” I promise.

  “So they cremated her after all?” Daniel says when I call to let him know about the plans.

  “That’s not what matters,” I tell him. “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “You know that you can count on me.”

  Daniel’s right. I do know.

  Just after Thanksgiving, Seamus, Dad, and I meet at the cast-iron cemetery gate at the end of our street. Together we follow the winding path past the laughing Buddha. We stop a few yards away in front of the marble stones etched with the names of my grandparents, Rex and Constance Korkenderfer.

  “Did Korky like her parents?” I ask.

  “She did,” says Seamus, who I’ve discovered is not a particularly talkative man. “But they didn’t always see eye to eye.”

  “I hope they work things out,” I tell him. “They’re going to be together for a long time.”

  I hand Dad a garden spade we borrowed from Daniel’s garage. He pushes it into the dry grass between the two Korkenderfer headstones. Using the flat blade, he cuts a medium-size square into the sod, which we roll back like a piece of old carpet. While Dad continues to remove dirt from the exposed patch of soil, Seamus takes a plastic bag filled with gray ash out of the big cardboard box he’s been carrying close to his chest.

  “Hi, Mom,” I say to the bag.

  Both Seamus and Dad shoot me dirty looks.

  “Sorry,” I say.

  Dad turns back and deepens the hole a bit more.

  “Where have you been keeping her?” I ask Seamus.

  “On the kitchen counter,” he confesses.

  He must notice the shocked look on my face.

  “Korky always liked to watch me cook,” he explains. “She said she married me for my cooking.”

  At that, Dad gives the earth an especially hard stab with the spade. Seamus and I exchange a quick glace and decide to end that conversation for now. Dad straightens and gestures at the ground. “That should do it.”

  Without speaking, Seamus opens the bag and pours its contents into the hole. Dad hands him the shovel so he can complete the work. Unexpectedly, Seamus turns the spade over to me.

  “Are you sure?” I ask.

  “I’m sorry she never met you,” Seamus says. “Now go ahead and put her to rest.”

  I take the spade, move dirt on top of Korky Korkenderfer’s ashes, then roll the sod back into place. The entire operation takes less than five minutes. Now almost no evidence exists that anything’s happened here at all, which is probably for the best since, technically, I think that adding an extra dead person to an existing gravesite is not allowed.

  I hand the shovel to Dad and turn to Seamus. “If you don’t mind, there’s something I’d like to leave here.”

  Seamus nods, so I take the backpack I’ve been carrying over my shoulders and place it at my feet. Inside the bag, I’ve got the Our Lady of Guadalupe statue that used to live just a few feet away. I remove the ceramic figure and place it on the piece of grass that covers Korky’s remains.

  “That’s good,” says Seamus.

  “There should be something to mark the spot,” Dad agrees.

  I have to move some spare dirt against the base to prevent Mary from falling on her face, but finally she stands without my help. The statue’s earned several new chips and scuff marks since Halloween. So have I. And I’ll survive.

  Seamus Brady reaches into his cardboard box once more. This time he takes out an old, black portable stereo. It’s got a long handle across its top and a cassette player built into its middle. “For you,” he tells me. “You can use it to play those tapes that Richard gave you.”

  The cassettes from Mr. DeGroot are stacked neatly on a shelf in my room. I still haven’t listened to them yet. I’d planned to be by myself when I played them for the first time. But now that I think about it, it will be better if I am surrounded by people I love. I really hope Dad will be part of it, but I’m pretty sure he’s not ready yet.

  “Thank you,” I say.

  Seamus nods, then turns back toward Korky’s simple grave.

  “There’s one more thing,” I say.

  “Oh?” says Seamus.

  “It didn’t seem right to do this without music, so I asked my friends to help me put something together.”

  Seamus gives a small nod. “Korky used to say that everything is better with a soundtrack.”

  I glance at Dad, who looks a little confused. “You better cover your ears,” I say.

  “Why?” he asks.

  I t
ake a silver drum major whistle out of my pocket, put it to my lips, and blow till my own ears ring. “That’s why.”

  A moment later, the St. Francis of Assisi Marching Band, including every member of CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD!, appears from behind Mr. Leary’s barn, which is just a few yards away. Mr. Leary himself is marching a snare drum today. Hannah Shupe, Sister Stephanie, and a very enthusiastic drum line lead the Howling Wolves around the cemetery like a New Orleans funeral parade. “Hey!” I yell at Mr. Leary when he marches past. “Are you going to be our teacher for the rest of the year?”

  “If my sister lets me!” he calls back.

  Finally, when the band’s got me, Dad, and Seamus surrounded, Hannah raises one hand, makes a fist, and draws it down, signaling a full stop. The instruments fall silent. That’s when the CYNDI LAUPER’S NOT DEAD! horn section moves to the front of the line.

  I grab my father’s shoulder and whisper into his ear. “Give me a hand.”

  With Dad’s assistance, I struggle to the top of my grandparents’ gravestones. I place one foot on Rex and the other on Constance. I cup both hands around my mouth and yell to the band. “Ready!”

  “Ready!” they respond.

  I count off. “ONE! TWO! THREE! FOUR!”

  The horn section rips into a massive chord. I knew it would be good, but I didn’t know it could be this good. Seamus Brady’s eyes go wide. I nearly tumble off my grandparents and onto the top of Our Lady of Guadalupe, but my father saves me. While I’m finding my feet, the band launches into the familiar opening of Cyndi Lauper’s “Girls Just Want to Have Fun.”

  “Did you do this?” yells Seamus, who seems awestruck by the whole thing.

  I grin and nod. “My father said Korky didn’t appreciate subtle.”

  “She really would have liked you, Ellie.”

  “It’s nice to hear that,” I tell him.

  It’s true. I really am happy that the people who knew my mother best think she would have liked me. I hope they’re right. I hope she might have even loved me. And who knows? Maybe she already did. But for better or worse, she never told me. She never did a thing about it.

  Her loss.

  Turn the page to read the first chapter on Paul Acampora’s How to Avoid Extinction!

  IT’S EARLY SATURDAY evening when I step inside the Good Eats 24/7 Donut Shop. The owner, Mr. Kruller, sits alone at the empty counter. He’s a tall, gray-haired man who says that donuts have always been his destiny. Because Kruller.

  Right now, Mr. K.’s got a white paper hat balanced on his head and a pine-green apron wrapped around his waist. He’s staring at a fat paperback propped open with a half-full glass of water. “Leo Henderson,” Mr. Kruller says to me without looking up from his book. “I hope you want a jelly donut.”

  “I—”

  “Because that’s all I’ve got. If you’re looking for something different, I can’t help you.”

  As a matter of fact, I am looking for something different. “I want—”

  I’m interrupted by a familiar voice that comes from a high-backed booth in the corner. “I recommend the jelly-filleds, Leo. They’re the best thing on the menu.”

  I peek over the top of the booth. It’s my grandmother.

  “They’re also the only thing on the menu,” she adds.

  “I’ve heard.”

  Gram grins and shrugs.

  I turn to Mr. Kruller. “I found what I was looking for.”

  He lifts the water glass, his book snaps shut, and he heads to a rack behind the counter. “I’ll send your donuts over.”

  I move to the corner booth and slide into the seat across from Gram. She’s got an old notebook, a couple National Geographic magazines, plus a big, unfolded road map spread in front of her. She pulls a pair of black-rimmed reading glasses off her nose and lets them dangle from a silver chain. “It took you long enough to find me.”

  “I wasn’t looking that hard.”

  Gram raises an eyebrow.

  “Because I knew you were here.”

  “What if I wasn’t?” she asks.

  “Then I would have looked harder.”

  Gram likes to wander. Finding her—at least according to my mother—is my number one chore. Generally, it’s not that hard a task. My grandmother is usually walking at the park or by the river. Sometimes I find her tasting free samples at the grocery store or browsing around the Allentown Public Library. Oftentimes she just hangs out in the Good Eats 24/7 Donut Shop, where she reads or jots down her thoughts.

  “How long have you been here?” I ask.

  Gram glances toward the front door. Nighttime in downtown Allentown is cool and quiet and dark, but the sidewalk still holds the day’s late summer heat. “It was light out when I got here.”

  Just then, Abbey Jones appears at our table with two fat jelly donuts on a white paper plate. She’s also got a cup filled with steaming black coffee. “Hi, Leo,” she says.

  “Hey,” I say.

  When people ask, I say that Abbey is my cousin, though technically that’s not true. She’s actually my mother’s third cousin twice removed or something like that. To me, Abbey’s like a cross between a big sister, an after-school tutor, an occasional houseguest, and a slightly wacky babysitter. In any case, she works part-time for Mr. Kruller. She’s seventeen, which is a few years older than me, and she’s got a wide, round face and dark brown eyes. She’s also got a quick temper, and wild, wavy hair that’s usually twisted into a thick brown braid. Abbey’s parents are divorced, so she bounces back and forth between her mom and dad. Sometimes, just because she and Mom get along more like sisters than anything else, Abbey stays at our house for a few days too. Like I said, it’s easier to just say she’s my cousin.

  Gram accepts the coffee and cradles the cup in her hands. When she leans forward to take a sip, a few wisps of gray hair fall around her face. For a moment, Gram looks like a tiny old elf warrior, which assumes that tiny elf warriors wear drawstring pants, black high-tops, and giant fabric purses big enough to hold a potbellied pig. If all those things are true—and I hope they are—then my grandmother is the spitting image.

  “This is not good coffee,” Gram announces.

  “It can’t be that bad,” says Abbey. “It’s about your hundredth cup.”

  “No wonder you don’t sleep,” I say.

  Gram takes another sip. “It’s not the coffee that keeps me up. It’s the crazy people in my house.”

  Abbey laughs because she knows the crazy people that Gram is talking about. It’s me and my mother and, as I mentioned before, sometimes Abbey. My own parents split up right after I was born. I’ve never even met my dad, so Mom and I have lived in my grandparents’ house for my entire life. During that time, the craziest person in the house was always my grandfather. He died about a year ago. Since then, I think we’re more nuts than ever.

  “Are you ready to come home?” I ask my grandmother.

  “Not till I get a chocolate-sprinkled,” she tells me.

  “You’ll have to come back tomorrow!” hollers Mr. Kruller.

  Gram laughs. “Be careful what you wish for, old man!”

  I point at the papers spread across the table. “What’s all this?”

  “Your grandmother is planning a trip,” says Abbey.

  Gram shakes her head. “I am not planning a trip.”

  “Your grandmother should be planning a trip,” says Abbey, who turns and heads back to the kitchen.

  My grandparents used to travel a lot. Mostly they took long drives to places around the U.S.A., but there haven’t been any trips lately. Since Pop died, Gram hasn’t gone anywhere beyond her around-town walkabouts and wanderings. “You haven’t traveled in a while,” I say now.

  “I’ve been busy,” says Gram.

  “Doing what?”

  “Missing your grandfather. Being depressed. It takes a lot of time if you want to do it right.”

  My grandfather was a retired high school chemistry teacher, a crossword-puzzle ma
ster, an amazing gardener, and the ultimate math and science geek. Really, there wasn’t much he didn’t study or fix or figure out. Pop was constantly tinkering with everything from toaster ovens and washing machines to electrical outlets and old cars. He showed me how to build model volcanoes that actually erupt (use hydrogen peroxide, dish soap, and potassium iodide). He taught me to pick out planets from the stars (stars twinkle while planets give off a steady glow). He shared his secret for helping hot peppers grow hotter (bury a pack of matches below the seedlings, then fertilize monthly with Epsom salt), and he made me memorize multiplication tables past thirty. (There’s no trick. You just have to practice.)

  “I miss him too,” I tell my grandmother.

  Gram pushes a worn National Geographic my way. The magazine’s cover features a small, swift-looking dinosaur racing away from an open-jawed T. rex that’s just burst out of the woods. “He and I were going to drive to Utah this summer.”

  “What’s in Utah?”

  “Dinosaurs,” Gram says, as if this is obvious.

  “I thought they were extinct.”

  Gram ignores my joke. “Your grandfather wanted to visit the Cleveland-Lloyd Dinosaur Quarry. It’s near a town called Price. They’ve found over fifteen thousand bones there, and over half of them come from allosaurs. Do you know what the word allosaur means, Leo?”

  I shake my head.

  “It means ‘different lizard.’ It was your grandfather’s favorite dinosaur. He loved to be different.”

  Just then, Abbey returns with the coffeepot. “Abbey,” I ask, “do you know what allosaur means?”

  “It means ‘different lizard.’ It was your grandfather’s favorite dinosaur.” Abbey turns to Gram, then points at my grandmother’s maps and magazines. “You really should go, Francine.”

  Abbey and Gram have been on a first-name basis since forever.

  “I don’t know,” says Gram.

  “I know,” says Abbey.

  “To Utah?” I say.

  Abbey rolls her eyes. “That’s where the allosaurs are, Leo.”

  “There are plenty of dinosaurs closer than that.”