The Wilson Mooney Box Set

by Gretchen de La O

  “Ah, there you are, where’s your worse half?” Frank teased. His eyes glistened like Max’s, his smile warm.

  “Come on, Dad, we all know he couldn’t compete, so he sent Wilson in here to surrender.” Camille swung her hand in the air with her invisible white flag.

  “Actually, I sent Wilson here to finish the game.” Max came strutting from the kitchen. “Right, sweetheart? It’s time for some new blood to rule the pool table.” He snatched his cue from the holder on the wall before swooping in for a winning kiss.

  “Ahhh…sure,” I answered.

  “Well then, whose turn was it before we stopped?” Frank humbled himself.

  “That would be Wilson. She knocked the nine-ball into the right corner pocket before the Lemon Fizzies fiasco,” Camille piped up.

  “Yeah, I bonked the yellow ball into that pocket.” I pointed to the corner where the ball dropped in.

  “Okay, Wilson, so it’s your turn. And no help this time, Bucko.” Frank turned to Max.

  “Hey, I showed her how to hold the cue stick; that’s all,” Max answered with his hands in the air.

  I held the long, smooth stick straight against my chest. I remembered to bend, relax, and rest my aiming hand on the felt. I slid the wood against my fingers, my grip tight; I aimed to get the solid green ball into the center basket, right side, affording myself one look at Max before I hit the white ball. I watched it knock into the green ball, creating a chain reaction of all the other solid and striped balls huddled in a clump around it, causing them to scatter across the table. Crappily enough, my green ball didn’t drop into the basket; but I was excited to see the black eight ball fall right in. I turned to Max, proud that I knocked a solid into the side basket thingy. Frank and Camille cheered while Max scrunched up his nose.

  “That was good, right? The solid black ball was one of ours, right?” I was confused by Frank and Camille’s celebration.

  “No, sweetie, you want the eight ball to be the last ball you knock in after all the other solids. But hey, on the bright side, you are really getting the feel of using the cue stick.” He came over and kissed the top of my head.

  “Great, I just lost the game for you,” I pouted. I looked over at Camille; she was assembling all the balls in the triangle and Frank was running the blue chalk square over the tip of his pool stick.

  “Okay, another game? This time, Wilson, you’re on my team, Camille, you’re with Max. You gotta win one game on your birthday,” Frank winked before he smiled at me.

  My heart swelled and fluttered. He liked me. Maybe Camille had to deal with the dinner inquisition when she’d brought Dan home, but for me, maybe this was my big test. If I could pass being Frank’s partner, then maybe I’m in with the Goldstein family.

  “Ah, come on Dad. you and Camille won fair and square. You two are still the champs. Let’s call it a game and see if Mom needs help with dinner,” Max said.

  “Are you kidding me? The last time I was Max’s partner, he cost me two hundred and fifty bucks. Remember that? When we played the Vaughns? It was you and me against Emily and Jeff,” Camille whined.

  “Well, we aren’t playing for money. Unless you want to,” Frank interjected.

  “Yeah, but that isn’t the point. I don’t feel like playing another game. And besides, Wilson might be tired.” Max looked at me.

  Suddenly I was on the spot. What should I say? Frank wanted me to play pool. Maybe if I get in good with him I can avoid the anxiety of the dinner inquisition. But then Camille didn’t want to partner with Max, and Max didn’t want to play any longer, and all the while, here I was filling in for Calvin. So what was I supposed to do? I’d never been in a situation like that before. A family divided, pressured by a game that was supposed to be a tradition.

  Standing around the pool table waiting for someone to make the first move was as torturous as watching Cindy fake her friendship with Jacky Burlington. Worse yet, the people around the pool table were waiting on my decision to play pool as Frank’s partner or not.

  God, if only the phone would ring for Frank. Or Dan would call for Camille. Or, better yet, maybe a meteor will crash into the earth. I needed something to break the bitter standoff.

  Max pulled his iPhone from his pocket. I didn’t hear it chime or ring so when he started texting, I assumed it must be a ritual he used when he wanted to avoid arguing with his father.

  “Frank, could you come here please?” Nancy called from the kitchen. Thank God!

  “Sure, honey,” Frank sang back to his wife before he gave Camille and Max a disappointed look.

  Camille, bent out of shape, tromped off upstairs.

  “Geez, that was beyond awkward,” I whispered to Max.

  “Yeah, my dad and sister both have a pretty competitive streak.”

  “Well, what about you? You don’t seem to be that competitive.”

  “No, I’m more like my mom. That’s why I couldn’t work with my dad. I’m not cut-throat; it’s just not in my character,” Max said plainly.

  “Is Calvin more like your mom or your dad?”

  “Oh, man, Calvin is a perfect mix of both of them. In business, he is like my mom—not competitive at all; but when it comes to family, he’s super protective. I think he and my dad fight so much because they are both are very stubborn. He’s punishing my dad, you see. That’s, why he isn’t here.”

  “Well, doesn’t he know it’s only punishing your mom?” I asked.

  “He knows. I’ve told him it hurts Mom. It’s just not in him to let my dad win, and in turn, my dad can’t let him win.”

  “Wow, that totally sucks. I feel bad for your mom—having to deal with being torn between them.”

  “I’ll give him another day or two, then I’ll call,” he mumbled.

  I could tell Calvin’s actions had affected him. His energy tanked when we talked about his brother. I could almost see the muscles in his shoulders tighten and his demeanor become hopeless.

  “Wilson, Maxi...dinner is just about ready,” Nancy sang from the kitchen.

  “Okay, Ma,” Max answered. He grabbed my hand and pulled me up against his chest. “You ready for dinner?”

  I felt my gut twist and a chill flash across my skin. I wasn’t ready for Frank’s inquisition. What if I failed?

  “Sure,” I answered reluctantly. “But didn’t we just eat lunch?”

  “That was just a sandwich a couple of hours ago—besides, my family likes to eat dinner early.”

  Max suddenly became giddy then, like he was in on something I wasn’t privy to. He pulled me along, taking care not to go too fast, as he led me into the dining room. We sat down at the colossal table for twelve. The velvety, brown chairs were plush enough to sit in for hours and listen to stories of his childhood. The table was so beautiful—five large, gold chargers framed glistening, white dishes with etched silver lines on the edges. Crystal goblet-style wine glasses were paired with each setting; the larger one held perfectly folded, black cloth napkins. Silver candles sprouted from crystal candle holders, the flickering flame casting shadows that danced and toiled across the deep red walls. The gorgeous crystal chandelier hung low and shone dimly with a slight glow, just enough to make everything elegant.

  “Here, sweetheart,” Max whispered as he pulled out my chair; he was such a gentleman. I loved how he was always so thoughtful. He bent down to kiss the top of my head.

  “Thank you. Wow, this is so beautiful.” I could feel the excitement bubble in my throat as he tucked his body into the chair next to mine.

  “Well, you deserve the best eighteenth birthday. It only happens once, you know,” he whispered and teased me.

  Frank came shuffling in with a hand-woven basket filled with sourdough rolls and a bottle of sparkling apple cider. Camille carried in a hickory bowl with an amazing salad, overflowing with walnuts, chunks of feta, red onions, tomatoes, and croutons. I couldn’t stop my mouth from watering. Finally, when Nancy walked in with the main dish, I knew Max must have told he
r my favorite foods. She maneuvered through the dining room, carrying the giant bowl, and adjusted her grip before placing it on the table. She had made spinach and cheese ravioli in marinara sauce. I was overwhelmed.

  “Happy Birthday, Wilson,” Nancy sang the words before everyone else chimed in with their birthday wishes.

  “Thank you so much; wow, this is an amazing dinner,” I said.

  “Oh, well, it is my pleasure, sweetie, I hope you like it,” Nancy answered.

  The ravioli were so ginormous, I had to cut them into four pieces. The filling melting past the cut edges was thick with the perfect mixture of ricotta, parmesan, and spinach. And the sourdough rolls just dissolved in my mouth. When I looked at Max he smiled a wide, toothy smile, and I knew he had more planned.

  “Wow, Nancy, where did you find such huge ravioli?” I asked.

  “Well, I fell in love with these ravioli when we were in Venice. When Maxi told me you loved Italian food—particularly spinach and cheese ravioli, my personal favorite too—I knew I had to find them for you.”

  “Wow, I’ve never been to Venice Beach; I’ve always wanted to go.” I shoved another fork full of ravioli in my mouth.

  “Oh, not Venice Beach in California; my mom’s talking about Venice, Italy,” Camille corrected me as she filled her mouth with ravioli.

  I choked and coughed up the food I struggled to swallow. Did I just hear her right? Venice, Italy? Did they really order them from Italy?

  “Oh, sweetie, you okay? I don’t want you choking on your birthday.” Nancy pointed at my glass.

  Camille kept stuffing her face while Frank stood up, ready to save me if I didn’t get a handle on the situation.

  “You okay?” Max asked as he rubbed his hand across my back.

  “I’m okay, too big of a bite,” I said with a raspy voice. My eyes were watering, and I could feel my face flush red.

  It was beyond me that she went and ordered food from Italy. How do you even go about doing that? I took several gulps of my water before I could speak clearly.

  “You ordered the ravioli from another country?” I asked, breathless.

  “Oh no, sweetie, I actually ordered them from Il Mulino, downtown,” Nancy said.

  “These aren’t even available on their regular menu. But that’s Mom—able to charm anyone into doing what she wants,” Camille said.

  Max leaned over and whispered in my ear, “I thought it was a bit of overkill myself, specially ordering them from the head chef at Il Mulino, but she was insistent on doing this for you. How was I going to argue?” He pressed his forehead against the side of my temple. I waited for his lips to meet my cheek, and of course, they did.

  “Helicopter rides, limos, and custom-ordered ravioli—you would think it’s someone’s birthday today,” Frank teased. “Now if we could just get you to win a game of pool…”

  “Oh, Frank. Wilson, you don’t have to play pool ever again with these hooligans,” Nancy smiled.

  I forced a smile back. What could I say? I wanted to play pool with these hooligans again. I wanted the limo ride and specially ordered ravioli. I wanted everything the Goldsteins were willing to give me. Because everything I experienced with them meant I was that much more woven into the fabric of their family. Sure, the extravagance was over the top. But come on, who wouldn’t love the attention they were lavishing over me?

  “Nancy, Frank—thank you for making this birthday so amazing, I will never forget this day.” I felt a bubble rise in my chest, making its way to the base of my windpipe.

  “You are more than welcome, sweetheart.” Nancy puckered her lips as her eyes became misty.

  “For Pete’s sake, Nancy. Come on now. You’re making the kid all teary-eyed. You’re not supposed to cry at birthdays. Funerals and weddings—now those are legitimate tear-fests.” Frank coughed intentionally before continuing, “Remember Camille and Dan’s wedding? Not a dry eye in the place. Of course, I cried at the price tag that hung from that shin-dig.”

  “Yeah right, Dad. You were a bawling like a baby.” Camille flung a glance his way before turning to her mom. “Remember when Daddy and I had our dance? The shoulder of my dress was drenched and—”

  “Well, that’s because I had something in my eye.” Frank swung his hands in the air at her as he chimed in with an excuse to her story. “Now stop all this mushy stuff. Wilson, whereabouts in California did you grow up?” Frank strategically changed the subject.

  My heart pounded recklessly in my chest. Here it comes. I could feel my body answer before my mind had time to comprehend his question. Suddenly, the room became stiflingly hot as sweat pushed through every hair follicle on my body. My throat tightened and I couldn’t formulate a coherent pair of words to save my life.

  “Dad,” Max snapped. I felt him grab my hand under the table and squeeze before he continued. “Don’t put Wilson on the spot.” He stared at his father, but it was too late. At that moment, six pairs of eyes burned through my skin, searching to discover what made me tick. Max slowly turned and looked at me, his electric green eyes meeting mine, apologizing for what was about to happen. And I knew right then the Frank Goldstein Inquisition had begun.

  “I’m not putting her on the spot, Max. I want to learn more about this sweet girl who’s stealing our hearts. Are you uncomfortable with telling me about yourself, Wilson?” Frank spoke with authority.

  Where did I put that hole? The one I could curl up in and disappear? If there’s one topic I hate talking about, it’s how I got dumped on my grandparents’ doorstep by my druggy mom and how my grandparents had to sacrifice their golden years to raise me.

  I glanced at Max and shook my head; I didn’t want him to change his relationship with his father to protect my feelings. I looked at Frank, then Nancy, Camille, and back to Frank.

  “I was born in Northern California,” I responded, trying to clear the words that got stuck somewhere between my dignity and my tongue. Frank’s eyes widened, asking for more details. I swallowed and continued, “Fort Bragg, California—on the Northern California coast.”

  “I know where Fort Bragg is. Cute little town. How long did you live there?” Camille fueled the quest to get me to talk.

  I dropped my hands to my lap and clenched my napkin. It took everything I had not to wipe the sweat beads that had formed across my forehead. I don’t like this—I don’t want them to see this side of me.

  “Well, I didn’t. I was born there, but my mother, Candi. and I lived in Willits—a tiny town about thirty-five miles inland.” I could see the questions begin to brew in their heads.

  Why? What is so interesting about my life that they would want to know? Do they really want to hear about how messed up my life has been? How my mother chose to get high instead of being with me? How I didn’t really ever know my father? Maybe they just wanted to know what my grandparents were like. That’s it—I gotta talk about my grandparents.

  “I was only in Willits for a little over seven years. When I was eight years old, I went to live with my grandparents in Mendocino,” I rambled.

  “Oh, did you and…Candi move in with your grandparents?” Nancy asked automatically. I could see her heart peeling from her sleeve.

  “No. She went back to Willits,” I said intentionally. I didn’t want to cry. I wanted to get past this inquisition as quickly as possible.

  “So your father wasn’t in the picture during the first eight years of your life?” Frank asked in a practical tone.

  “Dad!” Max blurted out as he pushed his hand forward.

  “It’s okay.” I grabbed Max’s hand and pulled it under the table. I didn’t let go as I began to tell the story of my abnormal life. “I never knew my biological father. When Candi got pregnant she was a freshman high school. When his parents found out, they picked up and moved away. Candi was rebellious so, when my grandparents were at their wits’ end, they sent her to live in a home for pregnant teenagers. Once I was born, she and I lived at a home for unwed mothers until she wore out
her welcome there too. Then, one day, I guess I became too much to handle. She had used up the last of her friends’ help, so she decided to drive to Mendocino and dropped me off at my grandparents’ house. I never saw her again. I was seven and a half.”

  Surprisingly, I didn’t have that heartbeat that thrashed in my ears or the pressure that built in my esophagus telling me I wanted to throw up. My eyes didn’t burn with scorching or searing tears. I was okay. Max, on the other hand, was fuming. He knew my story—the whole dirty, crappy thing. He knew how painful it was for me, not knowing my father and being abandoned by my mother. He knew opening that part of my life was like inviting Satan to sit next to me in church. Some things are better left in the past. I could hear him breathing deeply. I could feel his energy pulsing to protect me.

  I remember the day I summoned up the guts to ask my grandma about my mother abandoning me on her doorstep. I had just turned sixteen, and felt I could handle anything she would tell me. She filled all the hollow spots in my limited little girl memories of that day. We sat at the worn, dark brown drop-leaf table off the kitchen. Grandma pushed a cream-colored coffee mug toward me, chipped around the rim and spider webbed with black lines. It was filled with peppermint tea. She sat down, took a sip, and told me what she knew. I remember the smell of peppermint as it clung to the air, and the feeling of desperate hope that it would settle my stomach. I remember the scalding hot mug. I had pressed my fingers against it, wanting to feel something other than hate. I will never forget the look she gave me as she told me about the desperate phone call she’d gotten from my mother and the heart wrenching decision she had to make that day. The devastating beliefs my grandma had about raising her daughter, the guilt she had for sending her away, and all the mistakes she didn’t want to make with me explained every lonely moment I’d spent away from home at Wesley.