“Well for one, you don’t like Italian food and secondly, it’s dirty.”
“How do you know it’s dirty?” I asked.
“Oh, you can just tell about those kinds of places.” My mother shuddered.
“For the record,” I said, “the Bertoli’s house reeks of Lysol. So much so that you can taste it in your mouth. So I know for a fact that the restaurant would be the same.”
“Lysol linguine,” my mother said. “Now that sounds tasty.”
She knew she wouldn’t win because it was my birthday and she had to respect my choice. The same went for Nancy and Christine.
“Of all the restaurants in Sarnia, you pick that one?” That was from Nancy.
“I won’t order anything.” That was from Christine. “Just so you know.”
I grabbed the telephone book and dialled the phone number. It rang twice before Mr. Bertoli picked up.
“Allo?”
“Is this Mr. Bertoli?”
“Yes.”
“Hello, Mr. Bertoli. This is Peter Paddington.”
“Who?”
“From across the street. Peter the paperboy. I’m calling to make reservations,” I said proudly.
“You calla for what?”
“Reservations,” I said, more loudly. “To make a reservation. For six people. Do you have a table available for Friday night? Say 5:30?”
There was silence on the other end. I wondered if he was too choked up to say anything.
“Hello?”
“Daniela?”
“Yeah. Who’s this?”
“Peter.”
“Why the fuck are you calling here?”
“To make a reservation at your dad’s restaurant.”
“A what?”
I rolled my eyes. “Look, my family will be coming there Friday night for 5:30. There’ll be six of us.”
“Why?”
“Because it’s my birthday and I thought it would be nice.”
“Oh. Well, if you want.” Then she hung up.
With service like that, it’s no wonder the restaurant wasn’t doing too well.
By the time Friday night rolled around, I wasn’t sure if I still wanted to go to Papa Bertoli or not. I’d forgotten about that new Chinese restaurant on Maxwell Street. But it was too late to change plans.
“I still don’t think this is funny,” my mother said as we pulled up in front of the restaurant. Nancy, Christine, and I were squished in the back seat. Uncle Ed was meeting us there.
“It’s not a joke,” I said as we piled out of the car. Mr. Bertoli was holding the door open for us. He looked so happy.
“Atsa nice, atsa nice!” he called as each of us walked by him.
“Hello, Mr. Bertoli!” my mother yelled. “Nice to see you!”
Daniela was standing behind the counter, wearing an apron and her hairnet. I smiled at her as we sat down at the table, but she didn’t even look at me, not even when she came to fill up our water glasses.
“We’re expecting another person,” my mother yelled at Mr. Bertoli. “My brother. He’s always late, though, Mr. Bertoli.” She laughed her company laugh and Mr. Bertoli said, “Atsa nice!”
Nancy gave Christine a nudge and pointed at the “Map of Italy” paper placemat.
“How are you doing tonight, Daniela?” my mother asked.
“Okay,” Daniela said. “Specials are chicken parmigiana with pasta for $7.95 and meatloaf with potatoes for $6.95. Includes pie, too.”
“What’s in the news?” Uncle Ed came through the door. His face was as red as a tomato. “It’s freezing out there. Say,” he said, pulling off his gloves. “This isn’t a bad place.” He turned to Mr. Bertoli. “How long you been here again?”
Mr. Bertoli smiled and nodded.
“Who’s this pretty young lady?” Uncle Ed pointed towards Daniela.
“That’s Daniela, Ed,” my mother said. “Now leave her alone and decide what you want to eat. She’s just about to take our order. My goodness. I don’t know where to begin.” She did another fake laugh. “Everything just looks so tasty! Is the fish fresh, Daniela?”
“Fresh out of the freezer,” Daniela said. “I’ll be back in a couple of minutes.”
In the end, everyone ordered the meatloaf except for Nancy and Christine, who both ordered garden salads.
“It’s quite moist, actually,” my mom whispered halfway through the meal. “I didn’t think Eye-talians could make meatloaf.”
I couldn’t figure out what was up with Daniela. She barely spoke two words to me the whole night. And here I thought I was doing her a favour. We could’ve spent our money someplace else. Now, she might have a chance of going to college, thanks to me.
When we came back home, my mom brought out my birthday cake.
“Peter is a man today!” my mom said, putting the cake down on the table in front of me. It was chocolate and covered with shredded coconut. My mom puts shredded coconut on all her cakes because she’s not very good with icing.
“You’re just growing like a bad weed, Peter. Your first birthday seems like yesterday. Now look at you!”
Then she pinched me really hard.
“Henry, take a picture before the candles set the house on fire.”
Uncle Ed got his camera, too.
“Over here, Peter. That’s it, smile nicely now.”
“Ed, make sure you’re centred before you take the photo,” my mom said. “Honestly, you take the worst pictures.”
After I blew out the candles, Uncle Ed asked me what I wished for.
“Nothing special,” I said.
“Oh, I doubt that,” Uncle Ed said as he shoved a forkful of cake into his mouth. He winked at me, like he knew about the secret birthday wish list I’d tucked between my mattresses last week. It was very disturbing.
I got the usual stuff for my birthday. My parents gave me a sweater, which wasn’t too ugly. Christine gave me a cookie cookbook, Nancy gave me a clock-radio, and Uncle Ed gave me the Olivia Newton-John Greatest Hits Vol. 2 album.
The next day while we were sitting around watching TV, my mom said that since tomorrow was Sunday, we had to go to London and visit Great Aunt Vivienne.
“It’s the first Sunday of the month,” she said.
“Do I have to go?” I asked. “She won’t mind if I miss one visit.”
I know it’s not nice to say, but I hate visiting Great Aunt Vivienne in the hospital. The air smells like pee and butterscotch and everywhere you look, there are old people, just sitting around in the halls. They stare at me when I walk by. I usually try to smile at them, because who knows? Maybe they think I’m an Angel of Mercy. One time, though, I walked past this old woman on my way to the bathroom.
“Good day,” I said, because that’s how old people talk.
“Hello,” the woman said. “Fatty.”
I gasped. I couldn’t understand why she would say something like that. I mean, old people are supposed to call you “dear” and serve Mint Melt-a-Ways and chocolate buttons. I tried to put it out of my mind over a cheeseburger platter in the hospital cafeteria, but the more I thought about it, the angrier I got. What gave her the right to go and call me “Fatty” when I didn’t have to be nice to her in the first place? So every time I see her now, I walk by very slowly and make low moaning noises and hope she thinks I’m the Grim Reaper.
“Peter, you’re not staying home,” my mom said. “Aunt Vivienne lies in that bed seven days a week, three hundred and sixty-five days a year. Seeing you kids is the only joy she gets.”
“Well, maybe it wouldn’t be that big a deal if Peter stayed home tomorrow,” my dad said. “It’s his birthday, after all.”
“Really?” I asked.
“Then I’m not going,” Christine said.
“Count me out, too,” Nancy said. “If he gets to stay home, I can, too. Besides, I’m supposed to go over to Bubbles’ house.”
“Peter can stay behind, but you girls are both going to London tomorrow,” my dad
said. “I seem to remember two young ladies who didn’t come with us the last time, either. I don’t think it would kill you to spend the afternoon with your aunt.”
“Henry, Peter can’t stay home by himself all day,” my mom said.
“Why not? He’s a man now, after all. You said so yourself.”
“Oh, I don’t know,” my mom said, “something could happen.”
“Nothing will happen, Beth,” my dad said. “We’ll have to leave him alone sooner or later. And I think he’s responsible enough.”
“You can trust me,” I said. I couldn’t believe my dad was letting me stay home. Maybe he felt bad about bringing up the idea of me going to The Sound of Music with my mother.
“I’m still not sure,” my mom said. She was twisting her hands. But I knew my dad would win. He seemed pretty determined.
I was so excited, I could hardly sleep that night. I kept thinking about what I would do the next day. I could snoop through Nancy and Christine’s dresser drawers. I could play my new Olivia Newton-John Greatest Hits Vol. 2 album as loud as I wanted to. I could make cookies from my new cookbook. I could even walk around the house naked, though I knew I wouldn’t. But one thing was for sure — the day was all mine and that was the best birthday present ever.
Everyone left the next day at noon. My mom handed me a list of phone numbers to call in case of an emergency.
“If worse comes to worst, you can always phone Uncle Ed,” she said. “Although I don’t know if he’d be much good for anything. Whatever you do, don’t answer the door for strangers. Perverts are out there.”
“Don’t tell him that,” Nancy said. “Or else he’ll put a big sign in the front yard, saying ‘My parents aren’t home. Perverts welcome.’”
“That’s not funny, Nancy,” my mom said. “I had an encounter with a pervert when I was Peter’s age and let me tell you, it wasn’t funny in the least.”
My mom got flashed one day when she was walking home from school. She tells us the story about once a year. “That was the day my innocence died,” she always says, shaking her head.
When the Granada finally pulled out of the driveway, the first thing I did was lock the door. Then I sat at the kitchen table, trying to figure out what to do next. The house was so quiet! I could even hear the clock ticking in the next room. I got up and scooped myself a bowl of Neapolitan ice cream. I squirted some chocolate sauce on top and thought about calling Andrew Sinclair. But what would I say? Then I thought about Debbie Andover. I wondered if she had plans for the day. Maybe she’d like to come over for dinner. I could make teriyaki chicken for her. We’d just learned the recipe in home ec.
“Just a little something I whipped up,” I’d say to her. But I didn’t have her phone number. Besides, she had no idea who I was or that I was in love with her.
Then I started to panic — what if Great Aunt Vivienne was dead when my family got to London? Then they’d have to turn around and come home. My whole day would be ruined! I had to act fast, so I finished off my ice cream and headed straight for the shower.
While I had the showerhead on my dink, I thought about Debbie Andover. I closed my eyes and tried to think about what her boobs looked like under her nun’s dress. Were her nipples soft and puffy like mine? Or did they look like little pink berets? But every time I got close to seeing them, Billy Archer would pop up in my head, wearing his red parachute pants and asking me to touch his dink.
“You’re very persistent, Billy,” I said. “I’ll let you do what you want, but then you’ll have to let me get back to Debbie.”
When I got to the point where my hand was over his dink, I got the tingly feeling in my crotch.
“Rock it, Billy! Rock it all night long!” I called as my dink made sperm.
I lay there for a bit, watching the water roll off my big belly. I was disappointed that I never got to see Debbie’s nipples. I know I should’ve been thinking about them instead of Billy Archer. And I kept hearing Debbie’s voice, saying, “I thought you loved me, Peter.”
As I dried myself off, I thought about a way I could make it up to her — to prove that I still loved her. But how? Then it hit me. I went to my parent’s bedroom and sat down at my mom’s vanity table. I started with her beige CoverGirl foundation and rubbed it into my cheeks and forehead, making sure I didn’t leave any lines around my neck. Then, I took some blush and brushed it onto my cheeks to highlight my bone structure.
“You have wonderful cheekbones,” someone said.
“Thank you,” I whispered.
The blue shadow I put on my eyelids made me look mysterious and the mascara darkened and curled my lashes. For the final touch, I picked the reddest lipstick I could find and carefully painted my mouth, making sure I stayed in the lines. Then I took a Kleenex and kissed it like my mom does and checked my teeth for lipstick.
After I was finished, I gave myself a good look in the mirror. “Not a bad job, Peter Paddington,” I thought. “Or is that Ms. Andover?”
But I wasn’t finished. I put on one of my mom’s bras and stuffed a pair of socks into each of the cups.
“Stop staring at my boobs,” I said to the mirror. “I have a brain, too.”
Suddenly, there was a knock at the door. “Ten minutes until show time!” a voice called.
“All right!” I muttered. “Just give me a minute of peace, would you?”
I hurried to my mom’s closet to find a dress, since Christine’s clothes would be too small. So would Nancy’s, I thought. But I didn’t want to wreck the moment thinking about that. I found my mom’s black dress. It was a little tight around the waist and it was tricky getting the zipper done up in the back, but I managed to do it halfway. Then I squeezed my feet into a pair of her black shoes and found a pair of pearl clip-on earrings. The final touch was the long, black wig that Christine had in her closet. Mrs. LaFlamme had given it to her to use for a witch costume one Halloween.
Once everything was in place, I stood in front of the full-length mirror. I tossed my long black hair from side to side and laughed.
“Dark angel,” a man said.
“Beware!” another said. “She’ll break your heart.”
But it isn’t true! I don’t break hearts. People just think that because I’m so beautiful. Inside, I’m sad and lonely and bored of all this attention.
I walked out to the kitchen, listening to the sharp clickety-click of my heels on the linoleum. I almost wiped out, so to be on the safe side, I tiptoed to the living room and sat down on the sofa. I crossed my legs, making sure to pull my dress up a bit to show off my long legs.
But I couldn’t sit for long. The audience was waiting.
“I don’t want to go on,” I said to my manager. “I’m not up for it.”
“The whole country is out there tonight!” Jameson said. “The public wants you. You don’t have a choice. Now get out there and give them what they want.”
I had almost reached the stage downstairs when I realized I didn’t have The Sound of Music album. What would I perform? And then I remembered my new Olivia Newton-John album, so I went to my room, grabbed it, and headed back downstairs. I put on my favourite song, “A Little More Love,” and turned up the volume. Suddenly, Olivia’s voice, my voice, filled the auditorium. The spotlight was on me as I danced and twirled around the stage. The audience was listening to my every word. Some people were even crying because my emotions were so real and so true.
I knew that Mr. Hanlan was in the audience watching me and he’d send me flowers and maybe I’d have a drink with him if he asked me. But maybe I wouldn’t. And Andrew. Poor Andrew. Sitting by himself. Billy, too. All of them watching me, loving me, wanting me to be close to them, but knowing that I was a Dark Angel. If they got too close to me, I’d only break their hearts again.
And my voice was hitting all the right notes, even the high ones, and I kept twirling so fast that you’d think I’d be dizzy, except I knew the trick and that’s to keep your eyes focused on one spot. So I w
as looking at the basement window each time I twirled. My dress and hair were flying through the air, my high heels clicking on the tiles. I could hear the people in the audience calling, “Bravo! Bravo!” and I knew that I’d be on the front page of the Observer the next morning. “Sensational!” the headline would read. And when I returned to my dressing room, there would be a million red roses waiting for me from my fans around the world. I’d say things like “Oh, you shouldn’t have” and “For little ol’ me?” And just when I was at the point where I could actually smell the roses, I twirled and saw Uncle Ed’s face staring at me through the window.
I froze with my back to the window. Was it really him? Somehow, I managed to turn my head around. He was gone. I ran to the window and closed the curtains and turned off the stereo and then I raced up the stairs, slid through the kitchen and into the bathroom. I slammed the door behind me and locked it.
Was I hallucinating? I yanked off the dress and the wig and the earrings. Maybe he wasn’t really there. I kicked off the shoes. Maybe it was just my imagination. But I saw him so clearly. He was wearing a yellow baseball hat and a green jacket.
I stopped and listened. There was nothing but silence. If that was him, he would’ve knocked, I said to myself. But why would he come over? He knew my parents were going to London.
Unless my mom asked him to check up on me.
And then it all made sense, that Uncle Ed really had seen me. My mom must’ve called him before she left and asked him to drop by the house to make sure everything was okay. How could she do that to me? Especially after I went with her to that stupid play.
I turned to wash my make-up off and saw my reflection in the medicine cabinet mirror. I was still wearing my mom’s bra. My red lipstick had smudged and my mascara was running down my face. I looked like my mom in the Conch Shell, the day she fell on her butt and cried. I heard her voice in my head.
You spend all your time up in the clouds, until, one day, reality decides to pull you back down.
I finished washing my face and put back my mom’s shoes and her bra and dress. I put Christine’s wig back in her closet. Then I jumped into the shower and rinsed myself clean. I didn’t even look at the showerhead.
Fruit Page 15
